Burke in the Land of Silver

by Tom Williams

  ‘You speak German?’

  ‘And French. And Spanish. It is a necessity in my profession.’

  ‘You speak French. How charming. My grandfather was French and my mother raised me speaking the language. It will be so good to have someone here that I can converse with in that tongue. Mr O’Gorman,’ (she looked archly at her husband) ‘disapproves of the French.’

  Mr O’Gorman broke off from attacking the ham to retort, ‘English is an honest language for honest men.’

  Burke allowed himself a smile: ‘That may be true, sir, but I am afraid I am not at La Plata to play the part of an honest man. And if I am to discover the plans of the French, then I will have to speak their language. And I would be happy to take up your wife’s kind offer to allow me to practise with her.’

  Ana smiled in her turn.

  ‘I would be delighted to assist you, Mr Burke.’

  ‘It is the language of Napoleon,’ complained O’Gorman.

  ‘It is the language of love,’ replied his wife.

  ‘It is also the language of diplomacy,’ said Burke, diplomatically.

  Servants entered and cleared the meat dishes, replacing them with a second course of fish, lobster, crabs, and oysters, all reminding Burke of Buenos Aires’ credentials as a port.

  Ana’s appetite appeared to revive with the appearance of the oysters. She put half a dozen on her plate and raised the first to her lips. Burke, almost without thinking, found himself doing the same. O’Gorman attacked a crab.

  ‘There is quite a French community here,’ Ana remarked.

  ‘So I understood from your husband.’

  ‘And you, no doubt, will be anxious to . . .’ She allowed a tiny furrow to appear on her brow. ‘Is the word “infiltrate”?’

  James smiled.

  ‘That sounds terribly official. But I will certainly be trying to establish the attitudes of the French community.’

  Ana smiled in her turn.

  ‘Then I might again be able to assist you, Mr Burke. My maiden name was Mile Perichon and my name has put me on the best of terms with many of the French community. They will forgive me my English husband . . .’

  ‘Irish!’ interrupted O’Gorman.

  ‘A distinction recognised by no one this far from Hibernia,’ retorted his wife.

  Burke remained tactfully silent. He had not mentioned his Irish birth to O’Gorman and did not intend to do so now. O’Gorman’s natural assumption that Burke was an Englishman (albeit with an Irish name) gave him, he reasoned, an element of advantage over the merchant which he had no desire to squander. In any case, his Irish roots were, as Ana said, a matter of no conceivable interest in Buenos Aires.

  ‘In any event,’ she continued, ‘they will forgive me a husband who owes his allegiance to George III on account of my grandfather, who did not.’

  ‘That’s generous of them, given that your ancestors are unlikely to have offered allegiance to the Republic.’

  Ana allowed herself another oyster before replying.

  ‘You must remember, again, Mr Burke just how far we are from Europe here. For all either of us knows now, Napoleon could be overthrown and there could be a king again upon the throne of France. It would be months before the news reached here. We cannot afford to take such political matters too seriously.’

  So, by the time they reached dessert, it was agreed. Ana would introduce James to the French community, where he would be Victor Bergotte, a cousin from Bordeaux. ‘It is best if you say you have no interest in politics but have come here to see if you can introduce the benefits of your French expertise to the viniculture of the country. Do you know your wines?’

  ‘Well enough, madam.’

  ‘Good. In that case, rather than exiling me while you drink port with my husband, let us drink wine together. We have an excellent claret – 1785, I think.’

  O’Gorman, now replete, appeared in no condition to argue but sat, nodding gently to himself, while his wife and his houseguest discovered their common interest in the plays of Hugh Kelly, the writings of Jonathan Swift, and the paintings of Gainsborough.

  James excused himself early to bed, saying that he was still tired from the voyage. Not as tired, apparently, as his host, who was already snoring in his chair. By contrast, Ana was wide-awake and bid him adieu with eyes sparkling, as if they could have stayed up talking half the night.

  *

  The next morning Burke accompanied O’Gorman to the warehouses where hides were stored ready for shipping to Cadiz and onward throughout Europe. James looked at the crates stacked throughout the vast shed and was impressed. O’Gorman’s business was clearly substantial.

  The Irishman was reaching for the corner of a hide, pulling it into the light.

  ‘You see this,’ he said. ‘It’s cow-hide. Flexible, but tough.’

  Burke dutifully admired it and O’Gorman moved on to another crate.

  ‘This one’s calf. You feel the difference. Glove leather, that is.’

  The calf was, indeed, softer and more delicate. Burke could easily imagine it made up into a pair of lady’s riding gloves. He wondered if Ana rode. He must ask her.

  ‘There’s some kid here somewhere.’ O’Gorman was moving from crate to crate.

  ‘Please do not exert yourself on my account,’ Burke said. ‘I can see that this is an impressive business and I am sure your skins are of the highest quality. But tell me, do you ship only hides or do you also deal in leather goods?’

  ‘Mainly hides. They’re easier to transport, being flat. Though we do sometimes ship small items that are made here. Labour’s cheap.’

  ‘If I were to buy a saddle, could it be shipped with your goods?’

  ‘If you want to do that, it can be arranged. You’ll have to be quick if you want anything to accompany this cargo. The Rochester returns to Spain tomorrow and my goods must be loaded before then.’

  ‘I will attend to it immediately. If you will excuse me.’

  Leaving O’Gorman to his business, Burke set off for the main square of the town. This was directly in front of the fort, allowing him his first view of the Spaniards’ landward defences. These, to his military eye, were wholly inadequate. The grandly named Castillo de San Miguel (the locals just called it ‘the Fort’) had an impressive gate and even a small drawbridge, but the walls were low. There was a token six-pounder beside the gate, but nothing like the artillery cover that James had observed from the Rochester. Worse still, the square was no longer the open space that it must have been when the citadel was first built. A strange colonnade had been constructed directly across it, providing a shelter for the hundreds of peddlers who set up their stalls there. This peculiar structure made a useful focus for the marketplace that occupied much of the square but Burke was quick to notice that it blocked off the field of fire from the walls of the fort.

  He shrugged. It was clear that no one ever expected to have to defend Buenos Aires against attack from the land. Given that any invaders would almost certainly travel from Europe by ship, the Spanish logic was clear enough.

  He turned his attention from matters military to the necessity of negotiating the purchase of a saddle. Several saddlers were plying their wares in the shelter of the colonnade. Their saddles were in the American style, with high pommels and backs and a broad seat so that you could ride in comfort all day. Burke had never ridden in such a saddle and had no need to own one, but he bought an elaborate example and hurried back to the house with it.

  As soon as he was indoors, he rang for William, who took one look at the saddle and nodded, knowingly.

  ‘Is it just for papers?’

  ‘Yes. About twenty sheets. There’s the fortifications here and at Monte Video and I was up half the night transcribing my notes on the channel into some sort of order. It should be easy enough.’

  ‘Give me an hour, sir. I’ll need to resew a seam and that must be done with care if it is not to show.’

  ‘Good man. I’ll send a message to Taylor
to let him know where to look.’

  While the servant worked on the saddle, carefully opening a seam, inserting the papers, and sewing the saddle together again, the master was writing two letters. The first, elegantly phrased, was an account of the voyage, the pleasure he had taken in O’Gorman’s company, the splendour of his host’s house, and more inconsequential chatter. The other was written in a faint brown ink that faded almost as the words were produced. It described the saddle and the importance of collecting it from O’Gorman’s warehouse in London.

  An hour later, Burke was back with O’Gorman, followed by William, struggling under the weight of the saddle.

  The day, which had started well, now got even better. His messages for England safely despatched, Burke returned to the house to practise his French with Ana. There being no one else in the house who was fluent in the language, he spent the whole of the afternoon alone with Mrs O’Gorman who flirted gently with him in the language of the enemy. And by the time that her husband returned from his business, it was agreed that Ana would introduce him to Monsieur Goriot, the president of the Societé Francaise, at a meeting to be held in only two days’ time.

  Chapter Three

  Madame Goriot was a good republican. At least, she thought she was. There were rumours that Napoleon was to declare himself Emperor, in which case she would have to shed her republican principles. Really, the whole business of the war was making life difficult, even in Buenos Aires. She had some very elegant centrepieces for her table but they were Staffordshire ware and she wasn’t sure if it was patriotic to put them out. But they made such a good show alongside the buffet and she knew her husband would want them to make as fine a display as they could. He had only just been elected president of the Societé Francaise and was determined to make the most of the opportunities it offered.

  While Madame fussed over the table arrangements, Monsieur Goriot was rejecting his valet’s fifth attempt to produce just the right knot in his cravat. The silk was added to the pile of rejects to be repressed for the following day.

  ‘You’re a clumsy fellow, Henri! Do concentrate.’

  Henri, his face impassive, started on the sixth cravat.

  Five blocks away, at the O’Gormans’, James Burke was already immaculately turned out in tailcoat and breeches. He drew his watch from his waistcoat pocket.

  ‘Half a crown says she’s not ready in thirty minutes, William.’

  William continued to brush over the coat as he replied. ‘If you were to say an hour, sir, it might be worth the wager.’

  Burke laughed: ‘I’m sure you’re right. Take yourself off and get some rest before you start the night’s business.’

  William put down his brush.

  ‘I’ll be off, then, sir. And my money says forty-five minutes.’

  Burke smiled to himself. William would be right. Brown had studied as assiduously to ensure that he never seemed out of place in his servant role as James had studied the manners and accents of a gentleman. William would know exactly how long a lady might be expected to take to dress.

  He strolled down to the sitting room to wait for Ana and, forty-three minutes later, she appeared. It seemed to James that she had been worth the wait. Her dress was of green silk, cut wide and low at the front. The plain – almost severe – appearance of the neckline was offset by elaborate full-length sleeves and a long train that rustled as she advanced toward him. Her dark hair was tied around with a simple ribbon that accentuated the unruly mass of curls – an unruliness that had occupied her maid for most of the preceding forty-three minutes.

  James bowed and kissed her hand, addressing her (in honour of the occasion) by her French family name.

  ‘Madame Perichon, you are beautiful.’

  ‘Monsieur Bergotte, you are a rogue.’

  ‘Like all Frenchmen, Madame.’

  Ana Perichon’s smile was dazzling.

  ‘I do hope so, Monsieur Bergotte.’

  He offered her his arm and led her through the front door to where a servant stood holding the horse that pulled the O’Gormans’ chaise. As this modest carriage held only two, James took the reins while Ana settled in beside him for the short journey to M Goriot’s house. In truth, they could have walked, but Ana’s trail was too long and too beautiful to be dragged along the street and the chaise was too elegant to be kept for ever out of site in the mews where it was stored.

  That they had done the right thing was apparent on their arrival. The street was a mass of carriages with servants hired specially for the evening hurrying hither and yon to hold restive horses or lead them out of the way to make room for later arrivals.

  James Burke took in the show and, for all his foppish air, he was already drawing conclusions about the French community in the city. They were wealthy, that much was obvious, but not too wealthy – there were several chaises like his own, a few landaus, but no coaches such as might be seen at a grand soirée in England. Some of the landaus had coats of arms upon the doors, which had been carelessly painted over. Burke deduced that there were many there who were not committed to republicanism and did not really care who knew it.

  Inside, they were greeted by the hubbub of voices all talking just a little too loud and a little too fast. The rooms faced onto an interior courtyard as at the O’Gormans’ but they were decorated in a fiercely European style and it was easy to imagine yourself for a moment back at home. Yet something seemed odd. Burke surveyed the crowd. There were many more men than women: the merchant class were more likely than the poor to have moved their families to the Río Plate, but the shortage of women was endemic even here. Those there were fluttered like butterflies in their imported silks, doing their best to entertain so many men with their conversation that the imbalance of the sexes would not be noticed.

  It was not the absence of women that had caught his attention, Burke realised, but the absence of uniforms. In any British salon, especially now with the country at war, there would be the red of infantry officers and the blue of the hussars adding to the colour of the room. But here there were no uniforms at all. The French presence was almost exclusively civil. This was a gathering of merchants.

  The one exception was a man who stood somewhat apart and who had a distinctly military bearing despite his civilian dress. Burke asked Ana who it was and she answered immediately.

  ‘That’s Santiago de Liniers. He was born in France but I don’t know why he’s here. He’s Spanish through and through. He’s handsome, isn’t he?’

  ‘He’s too old for you.’

  ‘I like older men. They’re more considerate.’

  James had to admit that M de Liniers was handsome, with a strong, aquiline nose and full lips, but he was about fifty. He had stayed with the fashion of wearing a wig, presumably to conceal his receding hairline.

  ‘He’s practically bald.’

  ‘He’s distinguished.’

  ‘Who is he, anyway?’

  ‘He’s an admiral with the Spanish navy. He’s in charge of the coastal defences here. Would you like me to introduce you?’

  ‘You know him?’

  She smiled at him, coquettishly. ‘I have met him here on occasion.’ And then, at his expression, ‘Why, Monsieur Bergotte, I do believe you’re jealous.’ And she steered him away from the admiral and back toward the civilians.

  As James was introduced to one bland Frenchman after another, his impression that he was at an almost entirely mercantile assembly was reinforced. The ostensible reason for the gathering was to listen to some arias from Rousseau’s opera, The Village Soothsayer, a choice that (it seemed to Burke) was influenced more by the need to honour the philosopher of the Revolution than by any musical merit it might have had. Judging by the constant chatter as musicians and singers struggled their way through the work, most of the company shared his view.

  James found himself alone as Ana joined the women to talk of dresses and bonnets and the impossibility of finding a decent cook in Buenos Aires. He moved to where the me
n were discussing the price of leather and the potential for growing cereal north of the city.

  M Goriot, portly in a green greatcoat, approached him with his hand outstretched.

  ‘A new face in our city. Madame Perichon recommends you to us.’

  ‘I am honoured that she should trouble herself on my account.’

  ‘The honour is mine that you should visit our little society here.’

  It crossed Burke’s mind that the French never ceased to talk about honour, whilst harbouring revolutionary sentiments quite alien to any English conception of that word. He was careful, though, to allow no trace of his distaste to express itself on his features. Indeed, he was at his most charming as he explained that he was newly arrived in Buenos Aires and intended to set up in business there.

  ‘I am hoping that when, as must surely happen, Spain joins with us in declaring open war on the perfidious English, then I will be able to buy some of the properties that will be confiscated from them here.’

  M Goriot responded with an expression of horror.

  ‘I trust that there will be no confiscation of properties here, M Bergotte. The Europeans in this province are thousands of miles from home and we depend on each other far more than on our notional masters in the Old World. The English merchants here are a vital part of our community and, so long as one never dines on their execrable food, they are valued as our friends. I would make no plans that rely on obtaining their assets at a knock-down price.’

  James did his best to look distressed at the idea that the English would not suffer and M Goriot, responding to his expression, sought to reassure him.

  ‘There will be plentiful opportunities for improving your situation if Spain joins fully in Napoleon’s European experiment. At present, all our goods must be shipped through Spain and pay Spanish duties before being moved on to France. I am sure that eventually Spain will become part of a united Europe, allowing the free movement of goods without payment of tariffs, and this will benefit all of us who are engaged in trade.’

  Burke allowed himself a short laugh.