A Sergeant accosted Sharpe and Harper on the bridge, then reluctantly allowed them into the fort itself. They walked through the entrance tunnel, across a wide parade ground, then through a second gateway into a cramped and shadowed inner courtyard. One wall of the yard was made by the ancient lime-washed tower which was pockmarked by bullet holes. There were smears of dried blood near some of the bullet marks, suggesting that this cheerless place was where Valdivia’s prisoners met their firing squads.
They enquired at the inner guardroom for Captain Marquinez who, arriving five minutes later, proved to be a tall, strikingly handsome and extraordinarily fashionable young man. His uniform seemed more appropriate for the jeweled halls of Madrid than for this far, squalid colony. He wore a Hussar jacket so frogged with gold braid that it was impossible to see the cloth beneath, a white kid-skin pelisse edged with black fur, and skin-tight sky-blue cavalry breeches decorated with gold embroidery and silver side-buttons. His epaulette chains, sword sling, spurs and scabbard furnishings were all of shining gold. His manners matched his uniform’s tailoring. He apologized to have kept his visitors waiting, welcomed them to Chile on behalf of Captain-General Bautista, then invited Sharpe and Harper to his quarters where, in a wide, comfortable room, his servant brought cups of steaming chocolate, small gold beakers of a clear Chilean brandy and a plate of sugared grapes. Marquinez paused in front of a gilt-framed mirror to check that his wavy black hair was in place, then crossed to his wide-arched window to show off the view. “It really is a most beautiful country,” the Captain spoke wistfully, as though he knew it was being lost.
The view was indeed spectacular. The window looked eastward across the town’s thatched roofs, then beyond the shadowy foothills to the far snow-topped mountains. One of those distant peaks was pluming a stream of brown smoke to the south wind. “A volcano,” Marquinez explained. “Chile has a number of them. It’s a tumultuous place, I fear, with frequent earthquakes, but fascinating despite its dangers.” Marquinez’s servant brought cigars, and Marquinez hospitably offered a burning spill to Harper. “So you’re staying with Mister Blair?” he asked when the cigars were well lit. “Poor Blair! His wife refused to travel here, thinking the place too full of dangers! Still, if you keep Blair filled with gin or brandy he’s a happy enough man. Your Spanish is excellent, permit me to congratulate you. So few of your countrymen speak our language.”
“We both served in Spain,” Sharpe explained.
“You did! Then our debt to you is incalculable. Please, seat yourselves. You said you had a letter of introduction?”
Marquinez took and read Doña Louisa’s letter which did not specifically describe Sharpe’s errand, but merely asked any Spanish official to offer whatever help was possible. “Which of course we will offer gladly!” Marquinez spoke with what seemed to be a genuine warmth. “I never had the pleasure of meeting Don Blas’s wife. He died, of course, before she could join him here. So very tragic, and such a waste. He was a good man, even perhaps a great man! There was something saintly about him, I always thought.” The last compliment, uttered in a very bland voice, somehow suggested what an infernal nuisance saints could be. Marquinez carefully folded the letter’s pendant seal into the paper, then handed it back to Sharpe with a courtly flourish. “And how, sir, might we help you?”
“We need a permit to visit Puerto Crucero where we want to exhume Don Blas’s body, then ship it home.” Sharpe, encouraged by Marquinez’s friendliness, saw no need to be delicate about his needs.
Marquinez smiled, revealing teeth as white and regular as a small child’s. “I see no extraordinary difficulties there. You will, of course, need a permit to travel to Puerto Crucero.” He went to his table and riffled through his papers. “Did you sail out here on the Espiritu Santo?”
“Yes.”
“She’s due to sail back to Spain in a few days and I see that she’s ordered to call at Puerto Crucero on her way. There’s a gold shipment ready, and Ardiles’s ship is the safest transport we have. I see no reason why you shouldn’t travel down the coast in the Espiritu Santo and, if we’re fortunate, you might even take the body back to Europe in her hold.”
Sharpe, who had been prepared by Blair for every kind of official obstructiveness, dared not believe his good fortune. The Espiritu Santo could indeed solve all his problems, but Marquinez had qualified his optimism with one cautious word that Sharpe now echoed as a tentative query. “Fortunate?”
“Besides the permit to travel to Puerto Crucero,” Marquinez explained, “you will need a permit to exhume Don Blas’s body. That permit is issued by the church, of course, but I’m sure the Bishop will be eager to satisfy the Dowager Countess of Mouromorto. However, you should understand that sometimes the church is, how shall I say? Dilatory?”
“We came prepared for such difficulties,” Sharpe said.
“How so?” The question was swift.
“The church must have charities dear to its heart?”
“How very thoughtful of you.” Marquinez, relieved that Sharpe had so swiftly understood the obstacle, offered his guests a dazzling smile and Sharpe wondered how a man kept his teeth so white. Marquinez then held up a warning hand. “We mustn’t forget the necessary license to export a body. There is a disease risk, you understand, and we have to satisfy ourselves that every precaution has been taken.”
“We came well prepared,” Sharpe said dourly. The requirements, so far as he could see, were two massive bribes. One to the church which, in Sharpe’s experience, was always greedy for cash, and the other to the army authorities to secure the travel permit and for the license to export a body, which license, Sharpe suspected, had just been dreamed up by the inventive Marquinez. Doña Louisa, Sharpe thought, had understood Chile perfectly when she insisted on sending him with the big chest of coins. Sharpe smiled at the charming Marquinez. “So when, señor, may we expect a travel permit? Today?”
“Oh, dear me, no!” Marquinez frowned, as though Sharpe’s suggestion of such haste was somehow unseemly.
“Soon?” Sharpe pressed.
“The decision is not mine,” Marquinez said happily.
“Our affairs will surely not be of interest to Captain-General Bautista?” Sharpe said with what he hoped was a convincing innocence.
“The Captain-General is interested in all our visitors, especially those who have been notable soldiers,” Marquinez bowed to Sharpe, whose fame had been described in Louisa’s letter of introduction. “Tell me,” Marquinez went on, “were you at Waterloo?”
“Yes.”
“Then I am sure the Captain-General will want to meet you. General Bautista is an afficionado of the Emperor. He would, I think, be delighted to hear of your experiences.” Marquinez beamed delightedly, as if a mutual treat awaited his master and Sharpe. “Such a pleasure to meet you both!” Marquinez said, then ushered them back to the guardroom. “Such a pleasure,” he said again.
“So how did it go?” Blair asked when they returned.
“Very well,” Sharpe said. “All things considered, it couldn’t have gone much better.”
“That means you’re in trouble,” Blair said happily, “that means you’re in trouble.”
That night it rained so heavily that the town ditch flooded with earth-reddened water which, in the moonlight, looked like blood. Blair became drunk. He bemoaned that his wife was still in Liverpool and commiserated with Sharpe and Harper that their wives were, respectively, in France and Ireland. “You live in bloody France?” Blair kept asking the question as though to dilute the astonishment he evidently felt for Sharpe’s choice of a home. “Bloody funny place to live, I mean if you’ve been fighting the buggers. It must be like a fox moving in with the rabbits!”
Sharpe tried to talk of more immediate matters, like Captain-General Bautista and his fascination for Napoleon, but Blair did not want to talk about the Spanish commander. “He’s a bastard. A son-of-a-whore bastard, and that’s all there is to say about him.” It was clear that Blair,
despite his privileged status as a diplomat, feared the Spanish commander.
“Are you saying he’s illegitimate?” Sharpe asked disingenuously.
“Oh, Christ, no.” Blair glanced at the servants as though fearing they had suddenly learned English and would report this conversation to Bautista’s spies. “Bautista’s a younger son, so he needs to make his own fortune. He got his posting here because his father is a Minister in Ferdinand VII’s government, and he greased his son a commission in the artillery and an appointment in Chile, because this is where the money is. But the rest Bautista did for himself. He’s capable! He’s efficient and a hard worker. He’s probably no soldier, but he’s no weakling. And he’s making himself rich.”
“So he’s corrupt?”
“Corrupt!” Blair mocked the word. “Of course he’s corrupt. They’re all corrupt. I’m corrupt! Everyone here knows the bloody war is lost. It’s only a question of time before the Spaniards go and the Chileans can bugger up their own country instead of having someone else to do it for them, so what Bautista and his people are doing is making themselves rich before someone takes away the tray of baubles.” Blair paused, sipped, then leaned closer to Sharpe. “Your friend Vivar wasn’t corrupt, which is why he made enemies, but Bautista, he’s a coming man! He’ll make his money, then go home and use that money to buy himself office in Madrid. Mark my words, he’ll be the power in Spain before he’s fifty.”
“How old is he now?”
“He’s a youngster! Thirty, no more.” Blair, clearly deciding he had said enough about the feared Bautista, pushed his glass to the end of the table for a servant girl to fill with a mixture of rum and wine. “If you want a whore, Colonel,” Blair went on, “there’s a chingana behind the church. Ask for the girl they call La Monja!” Blair rolled his eyes heavenward to indicate what exquisite joys awaited Sharpe and Harper if they followed his advice. “She’s a mestizo.”
“What’s a mestizo?” Harper asked.
“Half-breed, and that one’s half woman and half wildcat.”
“I’d rather hear about Bautista,” Sharpe said.
“I’ve told you, there’s nothing to tell. Man’s a bastard. Cross him and you get butchered. He’s judge, jury and executioner here. He’s also horribly efficient. You want some more rum?”
Sharpe glanced at the two Indian girls who, holding their jugs of wine and rum, stood expressionless at the edge of the room. “No.”
“You can have them, too,” Blair said hospitably. “Help yourselves, both of you! I know they look like cows, but they know their way up and down a bed. No point in employing them otherwise. They can’t cook and their idea of cleaning a room is to rearrange the dirt, so what else are they good for? And in the dark you don’t know they’re savages, do you?”
Sharpe again tried to turn the conversation back to his own business. “I need to find the American Consul. Does he live close?”
“What the hell do you want Fielding for?” Blair sounded offended, as though Sharpe’s question suggested that Fielding was a better Consul than Blair.
Sharpe had no intention of revealing that he possessed a signed portrait of Napoleon which the American Consul was supposed to smuggle to a British Colonel now living in the rebel part of the country, so instead he made up a story about doing business for an American expatriate living in Normandy.
“Well, you’re out of luck,” Blair said with evident satisfaction. “Fielding’s away from Valdivia this week. One of his precious whaling boats was impounded by the Spanish Navy, so he’s on Chiloe, trying to have the bribe reduced to something under a King’s ransom.”
“Chiloe?” Sharpe asked.
“Island down south. Long way away. But Fielding will be back in a week or so.”
Sharpe hid his disappointment. He had been hoping to deliver the portrait quickly, then forget about the Emperor’s gift, but now, if he were to keep his promise to Bonaparte, he would have to find some other way of reaching Fielding. “Have you ever heard of a Lieutenant Colonel Charles?” He asked Blair as casually as he could.
“Charles? Of course I’ve heard of Charles. He’s one of O’Higgins’s military advisers.”
“So he’s a rebel?”
“Of course he’s a bloody rebel! Why else would he have come to Chile? He likes to fight, and Europe isn’t providing any proper wars these days, so all the rascals come over here and complicate my life instead. What do you want with Charles?”
“Nothing,” Sharpe said, then let the subject drop. An hour later he and Harper went to their beds and lay listening to the water sluice off the tiles. The mattresses were full of fleas. “Like old times,” Harper grumbled when they woke early the next morning.
Blair was also up at first light. The rain in the night had been so heavy that part of the misted square was flooded, and the inundation had turned the rubbish-choked ditch into a moat in which foul things floated. “A horrid day to travel,” Blair complained when he met them in his parlor where coffee waited on the table. “It’ll be raining again within the hour, mark my words.”
“Where are you going?”
“Downriver. To the port.” Blair groaned and rubbed his temples with his fingertips. “I’ve got to supervise some cargo loading, and probably see the Captain of the Charybdis.”
“What’s the Charybdis?” Harper asked.
“Royal Navy frigate. We keep a squadron on the coast just to make sure the bloody dagoes don’t shoot any of our people. They know that if they upset me, I’ll arrange to have their toy boats blown out of the water.” Blair shivered, then groaned with pain. “Breakfast!” he shouted toward the kitchen, then flinched as a muffled rattle of musketry sounded from the Citadel. “That’s another rebel gone,” Blair said thickly. There was a second ragged volley. “Business is good this morning.”
“Rebels?” Sharpe asked.
“Or some poor bugger caught with a gun and no money to bribe the patrol. They shove them up against the Angel Tower, say a quick Hail Mary, then send the buggers into eternity.”
“The Angel Tower?” Sharpe asked.
“It’s that ancient lump of stone in the middle of the fort. The Spaniards built it when they first came here, way back in the dark ages. Bloody thing has survived earthquake, fire and rebellion. It used to be a prison, but it’s empty now.”
“Why is it called the Angel Tower?” Harper asked.
“Christ knows, but you know what the dagoes are like. Some drunken Spanish whore probably saw an angel on its top and the next thing you know they’re all weeping and praying and the priests are carrying around the collection plate. Where’s my Goddamned bloody breakfast?” he shouted toward the kitchen.
Blair, well breakfasted at last, left for the harbor an hour later. “Don’t expect anything from Marquinez,” he warned Sharpe. “They’ll promise you anything, but deliver nothing. You’ll not hear a word from that macaroni until you offer him a fat bribe.”
Yet no sooner had Blair gone than a message arrived from the Citadel asking Colonel Sharpe and Mister Harper to do the honor of attending on Captain Marquinez at their earliest opportunity. So, moments later, Sharpe and Harper crossed the bridge, walked through the tunnel that pierced the glacis, crossed the outer parade courtyard and into the inner yard where two bodies lay like heaps of soiled rags against the bloodstained wall of the Angel Tower. Marquinez, greeting Sharpe in the courtyard, was embarrassed by the bodies. “A wagon is coming to take them to the cemetery. They were rebels, of course.”
“Why don’t you just dump them in the ditch like the Indian babies?” Sharpe asked Marquinez sourly.
“Because the rebels are Christians, of course,” Marquinez replied, bemused that the question had even been asked.
“None of the Indians are Christian?”
“Some of them are, I suppose,” Marquinez said airily, “though personally I don’t know why the missionaries bother. One might as well offer the sacrament to a jabbering pack of monkeys. And they’re treacherous creatu
res. Turn your back and they’ll stab you. They’ve been rebelling against us for hundreds of years, and they never seem to learn that we always win in the end.” Marquinez ushered Sharpe and Harper into a room with a high arched ceiling. “Will you be happy to wait here? The Captain-General would like to greet you.”
“Bautista?” Sharpe was taken aback.
“Of course! We have only one Captain-General!” Marquinez was suddenly all charm. “The Captain-General would like to welcome you to Chile himself. Captain Ardiles told him how you had a private audience with Bonaparte and, as I mentioned, the Captain-General has a fascination with the Emperor. So, do you mind waiting? I’ll have some coffee sent. Or would you prefer wine?”
“I’d prefer our travel permits,” Sharpe said truculently.
“The matter is being considered, I do assure you. We must do whatever we can to look after the happiness of the Countess of Mouromorto. Now, if you will excuse me?” Marquinez, with a confiding and dazzling smile, left them in the room, which was furnished with a table, four chairs and a crucifix hanging from a bent horseshoe nail. A broken saddle tree was discarded in one corner, while a lizard watched Sharpe from the curved ceiling. The room’s one window looked onto the execution yard. After an hour, during which no one came to fetch Sharpe and Harper, a wagon creaked into the yard and a detail of soldiers swung the two dead rebels onto the wagon’s bed.
Another hour passed, noted by the chiming of a clock somewhere deep in the fort. Neither wine, coffee, nor a summons from the Captain-General arrived. Captain Marquinez had disappeared, and the only clerk in the office behind the guardroom did not know where the Captain might be found. The rain fell miserably, slowly diluting the bloodstains on the lime-washed wall of the Angel Tower.
The rain fell. Still no one came and, as the clock chimed another half hour, Sharpe’s patience finally snapped. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil Page 79