Burke in the Land of Silver

by Tom Williams

  ‘But aren’t we supposed to be looking at the possibility of annexing the place ourselves?’

  Burke paused to consider the question. Was his mission about painting yet more of the map of the world in pink? When he spoke again, his voice was thoughtful.

  ‘That might be our ideal but I’m not sure that it is necessary. Britain has just lost most of its North American colonies and has no interests in South America south of Guiana – unless you include the wretched Falkland Islands, which are really of no interest to anyone.’

  He took a sip of his wine.

  ‘Britain doesn’t need La Plata. It would tie down thousands of troops in its defence and we need those troops fighting Boney in Europe. And my feeling is that the likes of Sr Iglesias will make this country independent before too long, whichever European power claims title to it. No, the important thing is that we deny the riches of The Plate to the French, which, given that they are the allies of the Spanish, means denying the country to Spain. It doesn’t matter who controls the place, so long as they are not inimical to Britain.’

  ‘So tell all this to Mr Iglesias and your job’s done.’

  Again, Burke paused to consider the idea. It was simple, but not, in the end, that attractive. It was not right that the British plenipotentiary conduct negotiations with a humble rancher, however pleasant a man.

  ‘I think not. Sr Iglesias is clearly an important man in this rebel army but he is not their leader. That is the man I need to talk to.’

  ‘Ask Mr Iglesias who he is, then.’

  Burke gave a humourless grin.

  ‘When Iglesias took the money to this mysterious chief, he drove the wagon himself. He doesn’t even let his own people know who this man is. He’s not going to tell me. He already suspects that I am no cattleman. Were I to tell him that I am not a Yankee he would suspect me a Spanish spy.’ He grimaced again. ‘No, I am confident that the man is in Buenos Aires but we are going to have our work cut out to find him.’

  Burke decided that William would again scour the drinking houses of Buenos Aires in his search for clues, though he should concentrate on The Angel and any others where the criollos drank. Burke would, once again, explore the more salubrious strata of Buenos Aires society.

  Ana appeared delighted when James suggested another trip to the Societé Francaise. She wore her finest gown in honour of the occasion and chattered excitedly as James drove them to M Goriot’s house.

  She was carrying a fan and, as they entered the salon, she tapped James coquettishly on the chest. ‘I know you must have your boring conversations with the merchants here, but don’t you dare neglect me.’

  James smiled and assured her that he would be at her side in only a few minutes, but soon he found himself engaged in one conversation after another about life on the pampas. His intention had only been to confirm his belief that the French merchants knew little and cared less about what was happening outside of Buenos Aires. Indeed, the most superficial discussion demonstrated their ignorance, but he could not resist showing off his own newly acquired knowledge. So engrossed did he become in these conversations that he remembered his promise to Ana only when he cast about the room to see her engaged in an animated discussion with Santiago de Liniers.

  The sight of her flirting so obviously had him abandon the merchants and move toward Ana as fast as politeness would allow. He realised, too, that he had probably been revealing too much awareness of rural life for someone who, as far as the French merchants were aware, had scarcely ever left the town. He was irritated with his carelessness, but allowed the irritation to show by chiding Ana for her behaviour. Ana did not respond well.

  ‘You are away for a fortnight and then you return and neglect me shamefully. You have no right to complain if I spend my time with Admiral de Liniers. He, at least, shows me some appreciation.’

  They returned home in near silence. James had no more idea of where the silver might have gone than he had at the beginning of the evening, and Ana’s ill temper added to his irritation. The day, he decided, had not been a success. He could only hope his efforts to establish links between somebody in Buenos Aires and the rebels in the countryside would be more successful in the days ahead.

  The evening that Captain Witz spent with Colonel Calzada Castanio was more convivial. The colonel was sorry to have to admit that Captain Witz’s purse was lost for good and he produced an especially good bottle of wine to try to drown that unfortunate memory. He had missed the company of his good Prussian friend and, as the two exchanged their news, it was clear that, as far as the Spanish authorities were concerned, nothing of note had happened while Burke had been away.

  Each morning, James compared notes with William. William was drinking his way round every carter’s tavern in the Buenos Aires – but no one seemed to remember a trail wagon on the day of James’ return.

  They continued their search for weeks, becoming steadily more irritated as the days passed. Burke’s humour was not improved when he learned that Ana was dining with de Liniers while even William’s cast-iron constitution began to suffer from night after night of drinking in the service of his king. After a month of fruitless effort, James called a council of war.

  ‘We need to think out our next step,’ said James, ‘and I think a drink is an essential part of that. And we can’t drink together here – it would shock the other servants. So let’s find ourselves a tavern.’

  James wore his plainest clothes and William his finest so the two could pass as companions. They found themselves a respectable tavern where they could sit over a bottle of wine.

  ‘I’m at a dead end,’ admitted James. ‘This conspiracy is being organised from the city but I can get no clue as to where. The person we’re looking for is intelligent and resourceful. It’s not some merchant with a taste for adventure. It’s a keen military mind and I want to know who it can be.’

  ‘There’s not a word in the taverns. I’ve been to dozens. I’ve been kicked out of a few for getting drunk and talking revolution but if anyone knows anything that matters, they’re saying nothing. Most of ’em will happily join in any jokes at the expense of the Spaniards and there’s a lot will talk about doing something about it, once drink has made them bold, but it’s idle boasting. If there’s any organisation, it’s mighty quiet.’

  ‘As secret conspiracies go, this one works well. It’s organised in layers with people having contact only with the layer immediately above them. My bravado at The Angel may have got past Miguel to Iglesias but it’s going to take more than that to get past Iglesias.’

  The two men sat drinking in silence, thinking about what they knew already and how they could make progress. Finally, Burke spoke again:

  ‘I think that most of those who are ready to strike against Spain are in the countryside. Iglesias’s place is practically an armed camp and the raids we engaged on were in a completely different league from your window breaking. Captain Witz’s friend the colonel was very definite that there had been no serious disorder while I was away, although he was prepared to admit that there was graffiti daubed on the Recova. Was that your doing?’

  ‘I’m working on my letters, sir. You told me I should practise.’

  ‘Well poor Colonel C is quite embarrassed by the incident. The Recova is practically outside his front door.’

  ‘We worked on the far side, sir. In fairness, there’s no reason why the guards in the fort should have seen us.’

  ‘The guards on duty that night were cleaning latrines for a month.’

  William pursed his lips.

  ‘No accounting for the way an officer’s mind works. Begging your pardon, sir.’ There was the briefest of pauses before, changing the subject, he added, ‘Perhaps we need to start looking outside Buenos Aires, sir.’

  James considered William’s comment while he drained his glass.

  ‘I suspect that a peregrination around the estancias of La Plata looking for rebellion might be an unproductive venture. But you are right to
remind me that there is more to Spanish America than Buenos Aires. There’s a revolutionary from Venezuela who has been telling anyone who will listen in London that Spain gets fifty-five million pesos a year from its American colonies. If it’s true, most of it is coming in silver from Peru. Colonel Taylor informs me that Mr Pitt and his government are anxious to know if these estimates have any truth in them. The simplest way to find out could be to go to the Andes and take a look.’

  James’ eyes were no longer focussing on the room. In his mind, the tavern had vanished, replaced by the sweep of the mighty Andes and the legends of the treasures of the Incas. His lips twitch into an unconscious smile.

  ‘I’ll pack then, shall I?’ said William.

  *

  James had seized on the expedition as an alternative to inactivity in Buenos Aires, but it took only a few days to discover that organising an expedition would itself keep him tied down in the town. In the end, it took over a month to organise. It should have taken even longer, for James had no funding for such an adventure. He sent coded messages to England, explaining that a visit to Chile would let him examine the coastal defences on the west of the Americas. British ships were active in the Pacific and even a superficial survey of Spanish defences there could be invaluable. Could Colonel Taylor please ensure that a suitable sum was made available?

  Rather than wait for a reply, James convinced O’Gorman that the trip was an essential part of his mission and that it would be in the national interest for O’Gorman to advance the money himself.

  ‘His Majesty will be for ever in your debt,’ James assured his host.

  ‘Not for ever, I trust,’ the merchant replied. ‘I was rather hoping to see repayment in a matter of months.’

  James laughed politely and settled down to obtain the proper papers, hire bearers, and buy provisions. With this in hand, he had to find a guide. That brought more delays as several refused, arguing that it was too late in the year for such an expedition and that they should not attempt to cross the Andes until the height of the next summer. Eventually, he found a wiry man, more Indian than Spanish, who looked him up and down and pronounced that he seemed fit enough to survive an autumn crossing. James and Apala (for that was his name) spent hours closeted together, poring over such maps as were available to work out a route while William arranged for mules and muleteers. James would not leave the purchase of horses to William but chose his own from those brought to the city by the gauchos. He found two high-spirited stallions like those he had seen roaming wild on the pampas. For days an enthusiastic James and a nervous William rode into the countryside around the town, familiarising themselves with the horses.

  There were more difficulties in getting the internal passports allowing them to travel around the province and into Chile. There was no chance of the Spanish issuing such permissions to an Englishman but, with Ana’s help, M Goriot was persuaded to request papers for that son of France, M Bergotte.

  It was well into 1805 and summer was turning to autumn when M Bergotte, his valet, Apala the guide, and three porters drove their little mule train from the city and set off toward the Andes.

  They travelled first across the pampas. After his time on the estancia, James felt at home in the vast emptiness of those plains. Indeed, he realised once he was out of the city, that he had missed the open countryside: the brilliant blue of the sky, the endless green of the landscape. He took a deep breath of the air, fresh and pure – free from the smells that filled the city streets. This was the land that Iglesias and his men had been prepared to fight and die for. Indeed, in his short stay with them, he had fought for this land. He had been there when Carlos had paid the ultimate price for the criollo dream of independence. Sometimes, James thought he saw the country through the eyes of the gauchos and had grown to love it.

  For William, on the other hand, this was an alien world and he was not slow in letting James know how he felt about it. ‘It’s not right, sir. There should be hills or somesuch. Downland’s well and good but grass has no business going on like this.’

  James laughed and put his spurs to his horse. Soon William and his master were racing ahead of their mule train, leaving their cares temporarily behind them.

  For two days they rode westward, seeing no one in that vast emptiness. On the third morning, in the distance, a plume of smoke rose against the clear blue of the sky. The next day they came across the skeleton of a horse and some feathers tied in a bundle on the ground, which led them to the conclusion that they had disturbed an Indian camp. Despite the apparent absence of any cover, the Indians seemed to have vanished, but when they woke after that night’s camp, they found their resting place surrounded by the tracks of a party of horses. Here and there, too, were the marks left by the trailing of the chuzos, or long spears, of the natives. James was alarmed that anyone had been able to get so close to them as they slept and yet not disturb them. He was all for setting a guard at night from then on, but Apala assured him that the Indians there were not hostile, and that it was best simply to ignore them.

  By the third week of their journey it seemed as if the plain might be literally, rather than figuratively, endless. They had passed through some small hills but beyond them the land swept onward, as featureless as before. The land grew drier and the grass coarser and thinner, until they were riding across bare earth, with only the occasional scrub to break the monotony. Summer was over, but it remained hot and the plains were devoid of shade.

  They no longer saw herds of cattle in the distance, although here and there they would come across rheas, the ostrich-like, flightless birds that roamed the prairie. Apala would ride them down and shoot them, providing a welcome change of diet.

  At last, though, the horizon was broken by a line of what James at first took for mountains. It was hours before he realised that what he was looking at was not the mountains themselves, but the clouds that hung about their summits. Only after another day of travelling did he get his first view of the Andes.

  In all his travels, he had never seen anything like it. They rode all day and still the line of mountains, rising apparently sheer from the plain, seemed to draw no nearer. The range stretched from north to south as far as they could see, as if marking the very edge of the world.

  Now, nearer, but dwarfed by the mountains beyond it, they made out the tiny cluster of buildings that marked the township of Mendoza. It was the first landmark on their planned journey. James had been told that the place had been founded from Chile over three hundred years earlier, and he was fired by the romance of this ancient town, between the empty plains and the majestic mountains.

  As they approached, he left the road to look at the vineyards. He had seen wine from Mendoza sold in Buenos Aires and was puzzled how grapes could grow in such a barren land. As he rode past the rows of vines, he learned the secret: an intricate network of channels that carried the water that ran off the distant mountains. Even to his casual eye, it was clear that the system, though clearly recently repaired, pre-dated any European settlement.

  The town itself was mellowed by age, the lines of its buildings softened by three centuries of wind and rain. Mendoza flourished here, in its splendid isolation. Its vineyards supplied both Chile and La Plata and its traders thrived on the travellers who set off from here to cross the Andes at the only pass that linked west and east for hundreds of miles.

  They spent three days relaxing in Mendoza, enjoying the simple pleasures of bathing in warm water and sleeping in real beds. During the day, James suffered the inevitable bureaucracy associated with travelling from one Spanish province to another, for Mendoza marked the border between La Plata and the Captaincy-General of Santiago de Chile. He showed his papers and his passport, all the time maintaining the perfect French of M Bergotte. It was a chore but a necessary duty, and it allowed him time to explore the town. He visited the workshops of the jewellers who mounted Andean stones in local silver and discreetly enquired where the various mines were located. He strolled casually on
the edge of the settlement where the straight roads just petered out into the plain, and he noticed the size of the barracks and the state of the men who guarded this vital pass. He sketched the vineyards, and estimated their value. Then, well rested and spectacularly well informed on the geography, geology, and economy of this strategic key point, James was ready to continue.

  Though the trip across the mountains promised to be an adventure, he still found himself reluctant to leave Mendoza. Magnificent as they were, the Andes were unmistakably hostile. The days remained reasonably warm but there was already a nip in the morning air that reminded James that winter was on its way. He put off their departure for one last day of civilised comforts, and then the expedition left.

  As they left the town, they were hardly aware of making any sort of ascent at all. The ground seemed as flat and featureless as it had for days before, but, as their horses trudged onward, Burke was aware of a slight, but steady, gradient. Nothing, though, prepared him for the sudden change from the plains to the mountains. For hours they had moved across the flat, if gently sloping, countryside and suddenly they were in the hills. The hills, to be fair, were not that high, but the contrast between the plain and the sudden mountainous terrain was dramatic.

  Apala struck out confidently along a valley which twisted and turned until they were surrounded by hills on all sides. There was enough grass for cattle and horses to be grazing but there were cacti too, yellow and red flowers bursting from their green fleshy bodies.

  After only half an hour, they were at the head of the valley, and in front of them they could see the towering heights of the Andes. Now the track that their guide followed rose more steeply, angling up slopes covered with tumbled rock. For a while they followed the course of a stream, carrying meltwater that would feed Mendoza’s irrigation channels, but then they struck off, zigging and zagging up a track that was little more than a dusty trail on the bare rock of the mountain. By now, the Andean peaks blocked off their view all around. Facing back down the track, sheer walls of red rock blocked off their view, while ahead they saw the ominous white of the early snows already covering the mountain peaks. The sense of isolation was reinforced by the sight of the condors, circling in the brilliant blue of the sky.