by Tom Williams
‘You could indeed. You could even pilfer some of the silverware to fund the exercise and improve your bona fides with the rougher element. I suggest that the pilferage is genuine, as word of that sort of thing always gets out among the servants. I’ll smooth it over with O’Gorman. I’ll pay for the mislaid items and explain that it’s his patriotic duty not to hound you out of his home. I doubt the call to patriotism will achieve too much, but his mercantile mind will probably be soothed by the prospect of recompense.’
Having agreed their course of action, William set to his task without delay. The butler would gather the silver carefully at the end of every day and lock it in his pantry. William had only to retrieve a picklock from one of the hidden compartments in James’ chest, though, and three minutes’ work left him with ready access to all of O’Gorman’s cutlery. An hour later, he was hurrying from the house with half a dozen silver spoons concealed about his person.
He made his way to a street a discreet distance away (but close enough that he could expect that the other servants would hear of his transaction). The three balls hanging over the shop’s entrance was the universal symbol of the pawnbroker and something in the shifty air of the proprietor made William confident that this was an establishment where there were no embarrassing questions about the provenance of the items left as pledges. Equally, though, the business made no pretence of honest dealing.
‘One peso is generous, señor.’
‘They are solid silver.’
‘Yes, señor, but the monogram makes them of less value.’ The pawnbroker glanced up at him – a glance that said, ‘You stole these from the O’Gormans, whose monogram I see here.’
‘One and a half pesos.’
‘One peso for these but I give you one and a half if you can find me knives to match.’
William shrugged in acceptance and pocketed the one peso. The money would, he reckoned, hardly cover the drinks he would buy that night but his reputation as a potential desperado was being established.
That night, while James settled down to another domestic evening with his new Spanish companions, William was starting on a night’s serious drinking that was to take him from the more respectable taverns near the marketplace to the lowest dives by the wharves. As the evening wore on, he became increasingly loquacious, damning (in turn) his job, his master, the O’Gormans, the Irish, the British, George III, and, finally, monarchs in general. By the end of the evening, he had several new best friends and a reputation as a devil of a fellow.
The next day, master and man compared notes in William’s room.
Burke was first with his account: ‘Well, my dinner had its entertaining moments. Señor Filiberto has a very beautiful daughter who flirted outrageously throughout the meal. And his wife complained that obscene graffiti – presumably about the same girl, but I didn’t like to ask – had been daubed on their walls only last week. Which is far from bloody revolution but yet again suggests something amiss. And how was your evening?’
William grimaced. ‘I had five pesos when I started and I can hardly believe I drank my way through all that but there seem to be only half a dozen reals in my purse this morning.’
‘I hope your head aches like the devil.’
William grinned. ‘It did, sir, but I had a couple of raw eggs first thing and I’m right as rain now.’
Burke looked disgusted. ‘The workings of your constitution never cease to amaze and appal me. Did you collect anything more useful than a hangover?’
‘Not last night, no. But I remember you teaching me that the first stage of any exercise of this sort is to establish a character. And I have been promised one and a half pesos if I can acquire the knives that match the spoons.’
‘You’re being robbed. I had to promise Mr O’Gorman ten shillings for his missing cutlery.’
The two men sat silent for a moment, pondering the perfidy of Argentine pawnbrokers.
James, for whom ten shillings was a less considerable sum than it was for William, was the first to speak: ‘So tonight I continue my rounds of the Spanish community and you steal some more cutlery and go out drinking again. It’s early days but I think we are on the trail of something.’
‘Something. Yes, sir – but I’m damned if I know what I’m looking for. Begging your pardon, sir.’
‘Don’t worry, William. We’ll know it when we see it. Meanwhile, keep up the good work.’
James rose and opened the door. Pausing on the threshold, he turned to William and, in a voice that echoed through the servants’ quarters, cursed him as a fool and a liar.
‘And I doubt not that you’re a thief as well. If I catch you, you’ll be horsewhipped, damn you!’
He slammed the door and stormed off. William sat himself down on the bed.
‘That’s it,’ he said to himself, ‘keep up the good work.’
*
It was another three nights before Private Brown’s heroic drinking sessions bore fruit.
He was in a bar near the main square. This was a respectable part of town and William did not really expect his visit there to bring any results. But, even though he quietly spilled half of his drink on the ground, his efforts in the three bars he had already visited that night had left him in need of some respite. Near the Plaza Victoria, he reasoned, he could moderate his intake, whilst still appearing a devilish rake.
He found himself sharing a table with a couple of youths who, unlike most of the people he had met previously, were neither Spanish nor French but who had been born in La Plata.
‘Doesn’t that make you Spanish?’ he’d asked, slurring his words in the unfamiliar tongue.
Both men looked disgusted. One said nothing but spat angrily on the floor while the other snarled that he was no Spaniard.
‘I was born here. My father was Spanish but after he raped my mother, he abandoned her. She was half-Indian, working as a servant for the white men. I am her son – a son of the Americas. I am no Spaniard.’ And, like his companion, he spat on the floor.
‘No offence intended, I’m sure,’ said William. ‘I’m English myself.’
William saw suspicion in the glance the two men gave each other and hastened to reassure them.
‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘Why don’t I buy you a drink?’
An hour later, he had two more friends in Buenos Aires. They drank toasts to England; they drank toasts to La Plata; they drank several toasts to the damnation of the Spanish, and, at William’s insistence, one to the damnation of the French.
William heard midnight striking before his new friends rose unsteadily to their feet. One draped an arm over his shoulders.
‘Do you really hate the Spanish?’
‘Aye,’ replied William, ‘with a passion.’
‘Then come with us.’
They staggered their way out into the street, still pleasantly warm, despite the hour.
They led William half a dozen blocks east and then north toward the sea. Every so often they stopped, arguing between each other or looking about them, as if uncertain which way to go.
William reckoned it must have been a good fifteen minutes before they stopped outside a house that, with its fine doorway and its walls glowing white in the moonlight, clearly belonged to a man of substance.
‘This is the one.’
A moment later, they had thrown stones through two of the windows and were off running down the street.
‘The thing is,’ explained William the next morning, ‘they weren’t just breaking any old window. They went to that particular house. And it didn’t seem as if they knew the house. It was as if they had been told to go there.’
‘And did you ask them about that?’
William looked sheepishly at his feet.
‘They were off so sharp that I was left behind.’
James raised an eyebrow.
‘I’d been drinking for hours and I don’t know the streets.’
James shrugged.
‘If you go back to the s
ame tavern you’ll probably meet up with them again. You can do that tonight. I, meanwhile, have finally received my invitation to meet His Excellency the Marquis Rafael de Sobremonte. Or, rather, Captain Otto Witz has.’
‘Well, I’d keep my ear to the ground. See if there’s any word about rebellion brewing.’
‘Thank you, William.’ James cast an icy glance toward his man. ‘My brain is not so far rotted that I have forgotten the purpose of this expedition.’
‘Sorry, sir. It’s just that I think there could be something going on that we could turn to our advantage.’
‘You are forgiven. Your enthusiasm never ceases to impress me. Out drinking in the service of the King all night and the perfect manservant in the morning.’
‘I do my best to oblige, sir.’
‘And you do oblige, William. You oblige very well indeed. The day you started as my batman was a good day.’
The two men looked at one another in silence. For that moment, they were not master and man or officer and private but two comrades, united as only those who have fought and risked their lives together can be. Then James spoke and the moment was gone.
‘Onward and upward, William. Things to do, people to see.’
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’
James and William went their separate ways. James was to take a bowl of coffee with Ana, while he regaled her with news of the previous evening. Stimulated by the coffee, he passed the afternoon riding with her (she was, he noted, a fine horsewoman), exercising the horses as far as the Plaza Victoria and back. William, by contrast, had to make do with a short walk before taking to his room where he tried to get some rest ahead of his night’s work.
The two men met again as James dressed for his meeting with the Viceroy. Although this was by way of business, and he would be presented under an assumed name, James found himself seized with the thrill of excitement he always felt when meeting gentlemen of rank. The Viceroy represented the Spanish king in La Plata. Meeting him was, as he explained to William, practically meeting royalty. He certainly intended to look his best for the soirée. There was no question of his dressing alone in Otto Witz’s quarters: he required the benefit of his man’s assistance.
When William had finished with him, he was every inch the Prussian gentleman. He wore an elegantly embroidered waistcoat, a high collar, a rather less elaborate cravat than usual, and a dark green tailcoat. He admired himself in the tall mirror, while William finished brushing a few invisible specks from his clothes and presented him his hat.
‘Will it pass, do you think, William?’
James waited for William’s nod of reassurance.
‘You needn’t worry, sir. You look exactly as you should.’
‘Thank you, William.’
William bowed slightly. He didn’t usually bow to his master but it seemed fitting, somehow.
‘And, William . . .’
‘Sir?’
‘Good hunting.’
*
Burke left for the front door, where one of the servants was ready with his horse. William, in turn, headed to the servants’ quarters to change into a stout pair of boots.
Burke trotted his horse to the palace, deciding that it would benefit from the exercise. The Viceroy’s headquarters were in the fort itself and Burke appreciated the irony of the sentries snapping to the salute as he passed through to reconnoitre the fortifications from the inside.
The palace took up most of the open ground within the fort. The symbolic centre of Spanish power in La Plata was an imposing size but, apart from some decorative towers flanking the main frontage, it was just a single floor. An arcade around it provided shelter from the sun. Beneath its shade, high doors opened directly into the main rooms.
It was an elegant place, reflecting the glory and culture of the Spanish Empire but, Burke couldn’t help feeling, hardly an appropriate building to put into the middle of what was supposed to be a military defensive position.
Ahead of him the doors were open, guards in their dress uniforms at attention either side.
Captain Otto Witz presented his card, which not only named his regiment in the Garde-zu-Fuss but noted his membership of the Prussian Academy of Sciences. A Prussian in Buenos Aires was a rarity but a member of the Academy of Sciences was a treasure Burke was confident that the Viceroy would be unable to resist.
Captain Witz passed through to the Viceroy’s grand salon. It was a magnificent room, the huge crystal chandelier dominating a perfectly proportioned chamber. Landscape paintings showing the beauties of Spain dominated the walls except opposite the entrance door where French windows opened onto a small internal courtyard. More guards, in their immaculate white coats and breeches, stood by the door, reflecting the Viceroy’s status as representative of the Spanish Crown. Liveried servants passed among the guests with tapas and Spanish wine, while a chamber orchestra struggled to make itself heard over the chatter of the room.
The Viceroy’s soirée was clearly the heart of fashionable life in Buenos Aires. James Burke looked about him at the elegantly dressed men and, here and there, the women in rather grander gowns than those he had seen displayed in the city before. He nodded approvingly. It was right that the guests of the representative of a king – even a Spanish king – should be the most splendid company that Society could offer.
Several of the guests here were wearing uniforms. Most were in the blue and red of the Guards regiments, though he noticed a few sailors, their lapels trimmed in gold braid. He recognised Santiago de Liniers and saw the admiral glance at him, as if uncertain whether he had seen him before. Burke turned away and moved toward the Viceroy. He had no desire to explain to de Liniers why he should have met a Prussian at the Societé Francaise.
His Excellency was standing near the windows, talking (as was only proper) to the prettiest woman in the room but one of his aides detached himself from the group around the Viceroy and approached Burke.
‘Captain Witz?’ He spoke German but with a Spanish accent.
‘I have that honour.’ James bowed. ‘Would you prefer to speak in German or Spanish?’
The Spaniard looked relieved. ‘I would prefer Spanish, if you are comfortable with it. My German, I am afraid, is not as good as it should be.’
‘I am sure that is untrue,’ Burke replied, taking care to infuse his Spanish with a German accent.
The aide returned his smile and started a conversation about Captain Witz’s experiences in the Prussian army and his scientific interests. It was done politely but he was obviously being vetted. Fortunately, Burke had made a study of the Prussian military and his knowledge of their army and his own scientific interests were clearly convincing. Before long, he was one of the group standing with the Viceroy.
In the course of the evening, Captain Witz exchanged only a few pleasantries with his host but he listened carefully to all the conversation around him. The talk was all of improving trade, the absence of good servants, the quality of the horses that you could obtain locally, and the likelihood of a hot summer. One older man did mention a robbery but an aide of the Viceroy stepped in with a remark about Italian opera and the robbery was never returned to.
Otto Witz had the distinct impression that de Sobremonte did not want to hear bad news discussed at his soirées and that if anything were amiss in Buenos Aires, the Viceroy’s palace was the last place to find out about it.
There were, admittedly, one or two remarks about the war in Europe. Indeed, one of Captain Witz’s few contributions was when he expressed the view that Napoleon was likely to over-extend himself and should not be relied on as an ally – but the men around the Viceroy seemed to regard this as an issue of minor interest. Only one of them, wearing the uniform of a colonel, showed a flicker of concern about the likely fate of the French armies. As the party broke up, Captain Witz made sure that he and this officer left the room together. The groom was slow in bringing Witz’s horse to the door and, by the time it arrived, Colonel Calzada Castanio and Captain
Otto Witz were laughing together like old friends and the colonel was insisting that Otto must join him for dinner that very week.
*
As Burke set off home from the fort, William was ensconced in the nearby tavern where he had met Jorge and Gustavo the night before.
It was well past midnight before he saw the two again and called them over to his table.
‘C’mon lads. I’m buying.’ He tapped his nose, knowingly. ‘Came by a bit of extra cash.’
Jorge and Gustavo smiled a little nervously.
‘We’re sorry we left you, William,’ said Jorge.
Gustavo agreed: ‘We thought you’d keep up.’
William beamed and waved a bottle of wine at them.
‘Don’t worry, lads. I’m fine. Drink up and relax.’
The two men sat, still somewhat nervous, while William poured wine for the three of them. They seemed to him to be barely into their twenties and if they were part of some revolutionary movement, they must be a very small part indeed.
At first, William was careful to make no reference to the events of the previous night. They talked about women and the price of wine and William made sure that he passed several comments about the unfairness and unkindness of his master. After an hour of steady drinking, though, he felt it was safe to return to the subject of their nocturnal adventure.
‘Lads,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we go and break another window?’
The response was what he had expected, but he was still surprised by its vehemence. Jorge and Gustavo were nice lads and they were shocked at the suggestion that they go out on a spree of random destruction.
‘You could break my master’s window. I’d go in, so he’d know it couldn’t be me, and you could break the window.’
William hiccupped.
‘It’d be fun,’ he slurred. ‘Then tomorrow night, you could go home and I’d break your master’s window.’