Burke in the Land of Silver

by Tom Williams

  James began to wonder if the Catholics had been right all along. Was this Perdition? Was he to repent his sins in an eternity of heat and thirst?

  On the horizon, the Andes seemed to taunt them. The mountains formed a solid wall to the east and Burke’s expedition had to push on until they reached the next pass, hundreds of miles north of Mendoza.

  Each night, as they camped, James made a note in his journal, detailing the distance they had covered. Without his notes, he was sure he would have lost track of the time they had passed in that terrible place. When they finally left the great bowl of the desert, his notes said they had been walking for a fortnight. Without them, he could easily have believed it had been months.

  Exhausted, and with their supplies almost gone, they were nonetheless relieved to be climbing into the hills again. The mountains here were lower and less rugged than where they had crossed in the south and the climb was relatively easy.

  For the first time since they had entered the desert, they found water flowing in streams fed from the snow that covered the peaks of the Andes. There were oases of green amid the rocks, and, despite the harshness of the climate and the thinness of the soil, they found people eking out an existence on the slopes of the mountains. James delighted in the presence of Indian tribes he had not seen before, the men in brightly coloured woven ponchos, the women staggering under the weight of their multi-layered pleated skirts.

  ‘They never take them off,’ their guide assured Burke. ‘And when they wear out, they just put another one on top.’

  Burke, sniffing as he passed the next group upon the road, decided that he believed him.

  Whenever they came to a village, William would enquire as to the availability of food and forage and James would look for evidence of mining or any mineral wealth. He often came across a craftsman working the local stones into silver mounts but the silver, he was always told, came from Potosí.

  ‘There seems nothing for a European nation here,’ he grumbled to William. ‘The sole importance of this region is that it controls access to the mines and, beyond them, to La Plata.’

  ‘That’s as may be, sir, but I doubt you’ll get an army across here. There’s forage enough for a few animals like ours but nothing like what you would need for an army. Anyone crossing these mountains will have to bring their provisions with them.’

  Their growing caravan (they had added two vicuñas and an alpaca to the llamas) continued eastward into the Andes. The air became thinner and the nights colder but they would still pass villagers, tending what little soil there was.

  Seeing the poverty of the mountain settlements – too small, really, to qualify even as villages – Burke couldn’t help feeling that the grandeur of the Spanish Empire was more apparent viewed on a ruler’s globe than in its raw reality. The silver mined at Potosí, it was said, was enough to have built a bridge across the ocean from South America to Spain. Yet, the practical effect of colonial rule seemed to be that thousands of soldiers were tied down to maintain a hold on people the average Spaniard scarcely knew existed. James thought of the malodorous women, and the men, stolidly chewing the coca leaves that left them in a drugged semi-stupor that allowed them to get through the drudgery of their lives. Were these people worth the effort of colonisation?

  His attitude changed, though, when they reached Potosí.

  They had been climbing for over a week when they arrived at the city. They were now over twelve thousand feet above sea level and the air was so thin that they could move only with difficulty, yet the city of Potosí was huge. It was much bigger than Buenos Aires and laid out in the grand Spanish style, with great plazas surrounded by elegant porticos and well-built houses that would not have looked out of place in Madrid.

  In fact, there was not one city but two – a European metropolis and, adjoining it, but kept entirely separate, a rambling slum where the thousands of Indians employed in the silver mines lived out a meagre existence under the rule of their Spanish masters.

  Dominating the whole place was the Cerro Rico – the Rich Peak, a sacred mountain which, or so the stories said, was almost solid silver.

  Burke’s caravan made its way to the native quarter, where the animals were stabled and shelter was found for the porters before James and William crossed to the European town and found themselves rooms in an inn.

  James slept that night in the first proper bed he had seen since they left Valparaíso and he woke with a renewed vigour only somewhat offset by the exhaustion resulting from any activity in the thin mountain air.

  He spent the day exploring the town, gawking like any yokel at the magnificent buildings and the richly decorated churches.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he suggested to William, ‘they really did come here to save the Indians’ souls.’

  ‘Indians can’t use this church, sir. They’ve got their own on the other side of town.’

  James looked across to the towers and cupolas of the church of San Bernito. The Indian church looked even bigger than this one and, he did not doubt, the interior would be lavishly decorated with silver and gold. He wondered if the Indians appreciated what had been done with the minerals they had dug from the mountains.

  ‘Tomorrow, William,’ he said, ‘we must visit the mines.’

  The next day they made their way toward the peak but, shortly after they left the town, they were politely but firmly turned back by a military picket.

  ‘It’s not safe up there,’ a smartly turned out sergeant had told them. ‘Not really the sort of place a gentleman like yourself would want to visit.’

  James had to content himself with drinking in a nearby tavern from which he could see the traffic on the road – the files of Indians, trotting up the hill, harried along by mounted overseers; the carts carrying ore into the town for processing.

  He left William spinning out another drink and counting the carts while he made his way through the town to the garrison.

  The army’s quarters at Potosí were built on the same lavish scale as the rest of the town but, even allowing for a degree of architectural extravagance, the building obviously housed a sizeable military force. From the size of the parade ground laid out in front of the barracks, James reckoned they could keep a whole regiment stationed there.

  He strolled back toward the tavern where he had left William. Now he was looking for them, he saw soldiers everywhere. They mounted guard outside the mint, they manned posts along the road the ore took into the town, and they escorted mule trains heading east, their packs giving the occasional metallic tinkle. It was, he thought, like living in a bank – and an exceptionally well-guarded bank at that.

  He decided that it was time for the amateur artist to take the air and so, after lunch at the inn, James could be seen here and there, working at his easel. He painted beautiful landscapes but each view would contain some detail of the approaches to the town or the position of guardhouses or the emplacements that protected the few cannon that Potosí possessed.

  James’ persona as an amateur painter was, by now, so perfected that he almost believed it himself. He was, therefore profoundly shocked, late that afternoon, to find his sketching interrupted by a young ensign accompanied by a sergeant and two private soldiers.

  ‘Your papers please.’

  James reached for his passport, which he carried always about his person.

  ‘M Bergotte.’

  ‘Oui. C’est moi.’

  The officer switched from Spanish to a passable French.

  ‘You have been observed at various points around the town, monsieur. I have been ordered to hold you on suspicion that you may be a spy.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, man, I’m French. The French are your allies. Why would we be spying on you?’

  The ensign was polite but firm: ‘That may well be the case, sir, but I am to bring you before my captain. And I believe you have a servant travelling with you.’

  Burke agreed that he had.

  ‘We had best collect him on our way.’


  That, Burke thought, was bad news. William was again ensconced in a tavern, this time keeping a record of the traffic to and from the mint. It was not a location designed to reduce suspicion. Nonetheless, he had no choice but to lead his captors there.

  William seemed intent on his drink as they entered the tavern, though James noticed him pocketing the penknife with which he had been scratching a tally on the bench where he sat.

  ‘Your papers.’

  James stepped forward, ignoring the restraining hand of the Sergeant.

  ‘If you read my documents, monsieur, you will see that he is included as being in my party.’

  ‘And is he French?’

  ‘He is from Corsica, monsieur. So, disreputable as he is, he is accounted French.’

  The officer looked sceptically at William. His lips curled a little at the sorry specimen before him.

  ‘Can you speak for yourself, man?’

  There was a pause, before William stumbled out with: ‘Oui. Je suis Francais aussi. Le valet de M Bergotte.’

  William’s French, though passable, was not fluent and his accent was poor, but the Spaniard, who had never come across an uneducated Corsican before, had no basis on which to judge him. He looked at Burke’s documents and at the two men before him. Without warning, he switched to English.

  ‘You’re lying. You are English spies.’

  Burke cursed inwardly that he had had the misfortune to meet up with one of the more intelligent junior officers in the Spanish army. None of this showed on his face, though, as he replied in French that he could not understand what the man was saying. But William’s expression had, for an instant, betrayed his alarm and the ensign allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction.

  ‘You are both under arrest. You will follow me.’

  The Privates closed in either side of the two supposed Frenchmen with the Sergeant close behind as they followed the officer at a brisk march to the barracks. William was promptly thrown into the cells but James, in accordance with his presumed status as a gentleman, was left under guard in a comfortable room while men were sent to collect his baggage for searching.

  It was late by the time the search was finished. It revealed nothing more than the sketches and landscapes that a gentleman travelling in strange parts might reasonably be expected to produce. There was also a journal of the journey in French. An officer with a good command of the language was brought in to read it but it would have taken a native French speaker to find the coded references to troop numbers and artillery emplacements that had been concealed in the most florid descriptive passages.

  ‘What were you doing in Potosí?’

  The question came again and again and always the answer was the same: M Bergotte was a gentleman visiting Buenos Aires. As a French citizen, he was a friend of Spain. He was innocently taking the opportunity of his business in La Plata to explore the Andes and to visit the famed city of Potosí.

  After hours of this, Burke’s interrogators were beginning to tire of the game and their prisoner’s unfailing charm and good humour were beginning to win them over.

  Burke explained again why he was in the town. ‘I had thought it was a legend – like El Dorado. But the city really does produce that much wealth?’

  ‘It does, monsieur.’

  ‘But there is just one mine here. Surely the wealth of Spain cannot depend on just this one mountain.’

  ‘One mine, monsieur but with a hundred shafts. The mountain is hollowed out with our digging. It is by no means trivial.’

  ‘Of course not, señor. Forgive me. I had no intention of being insulting. I am sure that guarding this post is a most significant task.’

  Something in M Bergotte’s tone suggested that he was merely being polite and the officer, stung, could not resist sly indications of how important the place was.

  The interrogations continued for two days and, at the end of them, the Spanish knew no more than they had when they started. James Burke, on the other hand, knew a lot more about the value of the mine and the disposition of the forces stationed to protect it.

  William had been questioned separately but, after that first near-fatal slip, he was careful to give nothing away. He was surly, his accent was execrable and he appeared to his interrogators to be extraordinarily stupid – but then he was a Corsican. The island may have given birth to Bonaparte, but it was otherwise famous for producing fools.

  ‘M Bergotte, you are obviously a man of culture. Why do you tolerate that man as your valet?’

  ‘Jean? Poor man. His mother served my family well and her son is not that bright. I took him on as my valet and he serves well enough. Why, señor, is he troublesome?’

  Not troublesome, it was admitted – just unhelpful. And, presumably, on account of his innate stupidity rather than any deliberate obstructionism.

  By the third day, his interrogators were still uncertain what to do. M Bergotte had behaved suspiciously but his papers were in order and he certainly sounded like a Frenchman. His valet, though, did not sound French and the porters claimed they had heard the two talking in English. But, on the other hand, the porters spoke only Spanish and could well have been mistaken.

  M Bergotte’s papers had been examined by the Captain in charge of his interrogation and now they were scrutinised again by a major. By the time the troublesome Frenchman’s case had been referred to the colonel, all that anyone wanted to do was pass responsibility for him elsewhere. The papers had been issued in Buenos Aires. Buenos Aires could sort it out.

  So, M Bergotte was sent off to Buenos Aires. Technically, he was under arrest but, far from finding this an inconvenience, James found it a considerable benefit. Their escort (two troopers and a sergeant) kept them moving, and the fact that they were on government business meant that they were able to use the post houses set up for military communications. The soldiers were happy to chat and proved pleasant companions, as well as yet another source of information on the disposal of Spanish troops in the region.

  Just over three weeks after leaving Potosí, James, together with his escort, rode up to the offices tucked away in the streets running off the Plaza Victoria. Here the clerks, messengers, copyists, and lawyers carried out the actual business of government and here M Bergotte’s papers were confirmed as being in order.

  ‘Are you sure?’ queried the Sergeant. ‘My Captain said we were to make absolutely certain that he’s French.’

  ‘The paperwork . . .’

  ‘Yes, I know the paperwork is in order.’ The Sergeant was meticulous and wanted more.

  ‘Perhaps there’s someone who could vouch for you?’

  ‘Why not?’ M Bergotte was happy to oblige. He was sure that his countryman, M Goriot, would tell the Sergeant whatever he needed to know.

  M Goriot was sent for and immediately confirmed M Bergotte’s identity and nationality.

  The Sergeant was quite relieved. He had come to like M Bergotte. He shook hands with real enthusiasm and set off to ride to the local garrison for a night’s rest before starting back to Potosí. James made a mental note not to visit Colonel Calzada Castanio until at least the next evening.

  ‘What on earth was all that about?’ asked M Goriot, as they made their way homeward.

  ‘I don’t really know. They seemed to have some fantastical notion that I was an English spy.’

  ‘An English spy!’

  The two men laughed. As M Goriot said to his wife that night: ‘You can never account for the eccentricities of the Iberian mind.’

  ‘But he’s not a spy, is he?’

  ‘Of course not, my dear.’

  ‘Oh.’ Mme Goriot didn’t admit it but a part of her was disappointed. Life in Buenos Aires could be so dull. A spy would have livened things up.

  *

  At the O’Gorman residence, life was proving anything but dull. Three llamas, two vicuñas, and an alpaca had to be stabled alongside the two stallions with which they had started out on their expedition. Trunks full of je
wellery and rock samples were sent to Thomas O’Gorman’s warehouse and James’ notes and drawings littered his room.

  It was hours before some sort of order was restored. Thomas O’Gorman was finally left to his business, and the servants withdrew to their quarters to go about theirs. Only then did Burke finally find himself alone with Ana O’Gorman.

  She was, James thought, rather quieter than usual, but she asked a few polite questions about his journey and then announced that she was feeling very fatigued and would rest a while in her boudoir. James smiled knowingly and, allowing her five minutes for propriety’s sake, he followed to her room. He turned the handle and pushed gently at the door, only to find it locked. Puzzled, he knocked quietly. After a pause, he knocked less quietly. Another pause and he was about to hammer on the door when the sound of servants moving around downstairs reminded him that he had to exercise some discretion, and he had best return to his own room.

  The next day, Ana contrived to ensure that she was never alone with James, so it was not until the day after that he managed to catch her as she was sitting at her household accounts.

  ‘Ana, why are you avoiding me?’

  ‘Avoiding you? Why, Mr Burke, I am here with you now. How can I possibly be avoiding you?’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I mean.’

  Ana looked up from the bills on her bureau and stared angrily at him.

  ‘No, James, I don’t know what you mean. I am here, in Buenos Aires, with you. I have not left you for over half a year to go gallivanting about the countryside.’

  ‘Gallivanting about the countryside! Ana, I have been conducting a survey on behalf of our government. It was my work.’