Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil (107 page)

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Authors: Bernard Cornwell

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BOOK: Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe's Revenge, Sharpe's Waterloo, Sharpe's Devil
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CHAPTER 11 
The morning brought clouds and a thin mist through which, in an uncanny silence, Cochrane’s two ships slipped like ghosts into Valdivia Harbor. The wounded
Kitty
was low in the water with a list to starboard and her pumps spitting water. She kept close to the western shore and to the protection of the captured guns of Fort San Carlos, while the
O’Higgins
, larger and more threatening, sailed boldly up the center of the channel. The
O’Higgins
’s gunports were open, but Fort Niebla did not respond to the challenge. Cochrane had ordered the fifty-gun ship to hold her fire, daring to hope that the Spanish would thereby be lulled into quiescence, and now, astonishingly, the harbor’s remaining defenders simply stared as the enemy ships passed through the lethal entrance. It was almost as though the Spanish, stunned by the night’s events, had become mere spectators to their empire’s fall.
It was falling with hardly a shot, collapsing like a rotten tree in a brisk wind. Corral Castle was the first stronghold to surrender. Cochrane ordered one shot fired from Fort Chorocomayo, and within seconds of the roundshot thumping harmlessly into the fort’s earthen glacis, the gates were dragged open, the flag was hurried down, and an artillery Major rode out under a flag of truce. The castle’s commander, the Major told Cochrane, was drunk, the men were mutinous and the castle belonged to the rebellion. The artil
lery Major surrendered his sword with indecent haste. “Just send us home to Spain,” he told Cochrane.
With the fall of Corral Castle every gun on the western side of the harbor was aimed at either Fort Niebla or at the batteries on Manzanera Island. The
Kitty
had been run aground to stop her from sinking, while the
O’Higgins
had anchored so that her formidable broadside was aimed at the guns on Manzanera.
Cochrane had summoned Sharpe to Fort Amargos, the stronghold that was closest to Fort Niebla, where His Lordship was dividing his attention between a tripod-mounted telescope aimed at the enemy fort and Fort Amargos’s drunken commander’s collection of pornographic etchings. “What I plan to do,” he said, “is demand Niebla’s surrender. Do you think it’s possible for two women to do that? I wondered if you would be willing to go to Fort Niebla and talk to the commander? Oh, my word. That would give a man backache, would it not? Look at this, Miller! I’ll bet your mother never did that with your father!”
Miller, who was shaving from a bowl set on a parapet, chuckled at the picture. “Very supple, my Lord. Good morning, Sharpe!”
“The commander’s name is Herrera,” Cochrane said to Sharpe. “I’m assuming he has command of Manzanera Island as well, but you’d better check when you see him. That’s if you’re willing to go.”
“Of course I’ll go,” Sharpe said, “but why me?”
“Because Herrera’s a proud man. Good God! I think I’ll keep these for Kitty. Herrera hates me, and he’d find it demeaning to surrender to a Chilean, but he’ll find nothing dishonorable in receiving an English soldier.” Cochrane reluctantly abandoned the portfolio of pictures to pull an expensive watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Tell Herrera that his troops must leave their fortifications before nine
o’clock this morning. Officers can wear side-arms, but all other weapons must be…” His Lordship’s voice tailed away to nothing. He was no longer looking at his watch, nor even at the salacious pictures, but was instead staring incredulously across the misted harbor. Then, recovering himself, he managed a feeble blasphemy. “Good God.”
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said.
“I don’t believe it!” Major Miller, his chin lathered, stared across the water.
“Good God,” Cochrane said again, for the Spaniards, without waiting for an envoy, or for any kind of attack, were simply abandoning their remaining defenses. Three boats were rowing hard away from Manzanera Island, while the flag had rippled down over Fort Niebla and Sharpe could see its garrison marching to the quay where a whole fleet of longboats waited. The Spanish were withdrawing up the river, going the fourteen miles to the Citadel itself. “Christ on a donkey!” Cochrane blasphemed obscurely. “But it rather looks like complete victory, does it not?”
“Congratulations, my Lord,” Sharpe said.
“I never thanked you for last night, did I? Allow me to, my dear Sharpe.” Cochrane offered Sharpe a hand, but continued to gape in disbelief at the Spanish evacuation. “Good God almighty!”
“We still have to take Valdivia,” Sharpe said cautiously.
“So we do! So we do!” Cochrane turned away. “Boats! I want boats! We’re in a rowing race, my boys! We don’t want those bastards adding their muskets to the town’s defenses! Let’s have some boats here! Mister Almante! Signal the
O’Higgins!
Tell them we need boats! Boats!”
In the first pearly light of dawn Sharpe had seen a Spanish longboat beached beneath the ramparts of Fort San Carlos. He presumed the boat had served to provision the fort from the main Spanish commissary in Fort Niebla, but now it
would help Cochrane complete his victory. Sharpe, knowing it would take time to fetch boats from the
O’Higgins
, ran back to the smaller Fort San Carlos where, shouting at Harper and the seamen to bring their weapons, he scrambled down the steep cliff path which led to a small shingle beach. A dozen startled seals flopped into the water as his hurried progress triggered a score of small avalanches, then his boots grated on the shingle and he began heaving the boat toward the sea.
The first thirty men to reach the shingle gained places in the boat. Sixteen seamen took the oars, the rest crouched between the thwarts. They carried muskets and cutlasses. Sharpe told them their task was to overtake the fleeing Spaniards and stop them from reinforcing Valdivia, then he encouraged the oarsmen by saying that the fugitives were bound to be carrying Fort Niebla’s valuables in their boats.
The boat, fueled by greed, fairly leaped ahead. Cochrane, still waiting at Fort Amargos for his own boats to come from the
O’Higgins
, bellowed at Sharpe to pick him up, but Sharpe just waved, then urged his oarsmen on.
They passed the
O’Higgins
. What was left of the warship’s crew gave a cheer. The coxswain of Sharpe’s boat, a gray-haired Spaniard, was muttering that the sequestered Spanish longboat was a pig, with a buckled keelson and sprung planks, and that Cochrane would soon catch them in his superior boats. “Row, you bastards!” the coxswain shouted at the oarsmen. It was a race now, a race to snatch the plunder from the demoralized enemy.
Far off to Sharpe’s right a warship had raised the Royal Navy’s white ensign. The name
Charybdis
was inscribed in gold at her stern. A nearby merchant ship flew the Stars and Stripes. The two crews watched the odd race and some waved what Sharpe took to be encouragement. “Nice to see
the navy here,” Harper shouted from the bows. “Maybe they can give us a ride home!”
The longboat reached the strait between Manzanera Island and Fort Niebla. The gun barrels that should have kept Valdivia safe now stared emptily from abandoned embrasures. The gates of Fort Niebla hung open, while the remains of a cooking fire dribbled a trickle of smoke from a hut on Manzanera Island. A small, rough-haired dog yelped at the passing boat from the beach beneath the earthworks that protected the island’s guns, but there were no other signs of life. The Spanish had deserted a position as strong as any Sharpe had ever seen. A man could have died of old age before he would have needed to yield Niebla or Manzanera, yet the Spanish had vanished into the morning mist without firing a shot.
The oarsmen grunted as the boat slammed into the turgid current of the outflowing Valdivia River. Harper, in the boat’s bows, was watching for the fugitives, but Sharpe, in the stern, was looking for Cochrane. Some of the men in Sharpe’s boat were bailing with their caps. The old boat had gaping seams and was leaking at an alarming rate, but the men were coping and the oarsmen had found a good, steady rhythm. Sharpe could see Cochrane’s boats striking out from the far shore, but they were still a long way behind.
“What do we do if we catch up with the bastards?” the coxswain asked Sharpe.
“Say boo to them. They’ll surrender.”
The coxswain laughed. They were rowing past the quays at the river’s mouth. A group of bemused families had come from the fishermen’s cottages to stare at the morning’s events. Sharpe wondered what difference any of this would make to such pitiably poor people. Bautista’s rule could not be easy, but would O’Higgins make life better? Sharpe doubted it. He had talked once with an old man in the village
of Seleglise, a man ancient enough to remember the old French king and to remember all the other Paris governments that had come through bloody revolution or
coup d’état
, and the old man had reckoned that not one of those governments had made the slightest difference to his life. His cows had still needed milking, his vegetables had needed weeding, his corn had needed cutting, his cherries needed picking, his taxes needed paying, the church had needed his money and no one, neither priest, politician, taxman nor prefect, had ever given him a penny or a thank-you for any of it. No doubt the Chilean peasantry would feel the same. All this morning’s excitement meant was that a different set of politicians would become rich at the country’s expense.
The boat was in the river valley now. The hills on either side were thick with trees. Two herons flapped lazily down one bank. The oarsmen had slowed, settling to the long haul. A fisherman, casting a hand net from a small leather boat, abandoned his tackle and paddled furiously for the safety of land as the strange boat full of armed men appeared. Harper had cocked a musket in case the Spaniards had set an ambush beyond the river’s first bend.
The coxswain hugged the right bank, cutting the corner and risking the shallows to make the bend swiftly. The oars brushed reeds, then the river straightened and Sharpe, standing to get a clear view ahead, felt a pang, for there were no boats in sight. For a second he thought the Spaniards must have such superior boats that they had somehow converted a two-mile lead into four or five miles, but then he saw that the Spanish longboats had stopped altogether and were huddled on the southern riverbank. There must have been twenty boats there, all crammed with men and none of them moving. “There!” he pointed for Harper.
Then Sharpe saw horsemen on the river’s bank. Cavalry? Had Bautista sent reinforcements upriver? For a second
Sharpe was tempted to turn the boat and seize Fort Niebla before the Spaniards, realizing how hugely they outnumbered Cochrane’s puny forces, made their counterattack, but Harper suddenly shouted that the dagoes on the riverbank were flying a white flag.
“Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, for there was indeed a white flag of truce or surrender.
The oarsmen, sensing Sharpe’s momentary indecision, and needing a rest, had stopped rowing and the boat was beginning to drift back downstream. “A trap?” the coxswain asked.
“God knows,” Sharpe said. Cochrane was forever using flags as a trick to get himself close to the enemy, and were the Spaniards now learning to use the same ruse? “Put me ashore,” he told the coxswain.
The oars dipped again, took the strain, and drove hard for the southern bank. The bow touched, and Sharpe clambered over the thwarts, then jumped up onto tussocky grass. Harper followed him. Sharpe loosened the sword in its scabbard, checked that his pistols were primed, and walked slowly toward the horsemen who were a half mile away.
There were not many horsemen, perhaps twenty, and none was in uniform, suggesting that this was not a cavalry unit. The men carried two flags—one the white flag of truce, and the other a complicated ensign bearing a coat of arms. “They look like civilians,” Harper commented.
The horsemen were cantering toward Sharpe and Harper. One of the leading riders had a large black hat and a scarlet sash. He stood in his stirrups and waved, as if to signify that he meant no harm. Sharpe checked that the longboat with its cargo of armed sailors was close enough to offer him support, then waited.
“There’s that bastard Blair!” Harper exclaimed.
“Where?”
“White horse, six or seven back.”
“So it is,” Sharpe said grimly. The merchant and British Consul was among the horsemen who, like himself, were mostly middle-aged and prosperous-looking men. Their leader, the man wearing the scarlet sash, slowed as he neared Sharpe.
“Are you Cochrane?” he called in Spanish.
“Admiral Cochrane is following. He’ll be here soon,” Sharpe replied.
“We’ve come to surrender the town to you.” The man reined in his horse, took off his hat, and offered Sharpe a bow. “My name is Manuel Ferrara, I have the honor to be the
alcalde
of Valdivia, and these gentlemen are senior and respected citizens of our town. We want no trouble,
senor
. We are merely merchants who struggle to make a poor living. As you know, our sympathies have always been with the Republic, and we beg that you will treat us with the respect due to civilians who have taken no part in the fighting.”
“Shut up,” Sharpe said. He pushed past the offended and astonished Mayor to reach Blair. “You bastard.”
“Mister Sharpe?” Blair touched a nervous hand to his hat.
“You’re supposed to look after British interests, you bugger, not suck Bautista’s tits because you’re frightened of him!”
“Now, Mister Sharpe, be careful what you say!”
“You shit-faced son of a whore.” Sharpe took hold of Blair’s right boot and heaved up, chucking the Consul bodily out of his saddle. Blair gave a yelp of astonishment, then collapsed into the mud on the far side of the horse. Sharpe steadied the beast, then mounted it himself. “You!” he said to the Mayor, who was still protesting his undying loyalty to the ideals of liberty and republicanism.
“Me,
señor?
”
“I told you to shut up. I don’t give a fart for your republics.
I’m a monarchist. And get off your damned horse. My friend needs it.”
“My horse? But this is a valuable beast,
señor
, and—”
“Get off,” Sharpe said, “or I’ll blow you off it.” He drew one of his two pistols and cocked it.
The Mayor hastily slid off his horse. Harper, grinning, heaved himself into the vacated saddle. “Where’s Bautista?” Sharpe asked the Mayor.
“The Captain-General is in the Citadel. But his men don’t want to fight.”
“But Bautista wants to fight?”
“Yes,
señor
. But the men think you are devils. They say you can’t be killed!” The Mayor crossed himself, then turned fearfully as a shout from the river announced the arrival of Lord Cochrane and his boats.
“All of you!” Sharpe shouted at the Mayor’s nervous deputation. “Off your horses! All of you! Now!” He kicked his heels to urge Blair’s white horse forward. “What’s this flag?” He gestured at the ornate coat of arms.
“The flag of the town of Valdivia,
señor
,” the Mayor answered.
“Hold on to it, Patrick!”
Cochrane jumped ashore, roaring with questions. What was happening? Who were these men? Why had Sharpe tried to race ahead?
“Bautista’s holed up in the Citadel,” Sharpe explained. “Everyone else in Valdivia wants to surrender, but Bautista doesn’t. That means he’s waiting for your boats and he’ll fire on you. But if a small group of us go ahead on horseback we might just fool them into opening the gates.”
Cochrane seized a horse and shouted for others of his men to find themselves mounts. The remainder of his piratical force was to row upriver as fast as it could. The Mayor tried to make another speech about liberty and the Republic, but
Cochrane pushed him aside and dragged himself up into his saddle. He grinned at Sharpe. “Christ, but this is joy! What would we do for happiness if peace came?” He turned his horse clumsily, rammed his heels back, and whooped as the horse took off. “Let’s go get the whores!”
His men cheered. Hooves thumped mud into the faces of the Mayor’s delegation as Sharpe and Harper raced after Cochrane. The rebellion was down to a spearhead of just twenty men, but with a whole country as their prize.

 

T
hey rode hard, following the river road east toward the town. On the horsemen’s left the river flowed placidly toward the sea, while to their right was a succession of terraced vineyards, tobacco fields and orchards. There were no military posts, no soldiers and nothing untoward in the landscape. Bautista had put no pickets on the harbor road, and had set no ambushes in the trees. Cochrane and his men rode untroubled through two villages and past white-painted churches and plump farmhouses. Cochrane waved at villagers who, terrified of strangers, crouched inside their cottages till the armed horsemen had passed. Cochrane was in understandably high spirits. “It was impossible, you see! Impossible!”

“What was?” Sharpe asked.
“To capture the harbor with just three hundred men! That’s why it worked. They couldn’t believe there were so few of us. My God!” Cochrane pounded the pommel of his saddle in his exuberant enthusiasm, “I’m going to capture the Spanish treasury and those prickless legal bastards in Santiago will have to grovel at my feet to get the money!”
“You have to capture the Citadel first,” Sharpe reminded him.
“Simplicity itself.” In his present mood Cochrane would have attacked the Rock of Gibraltar with just a boat’s crew.
He whooped with delirious joy, making his horse prick its ears back. The horses were tired, breathing hard on the slopes and sweating beneath their saddlecloths, but Cochrane ruthlessly pressed them on. What did it matter if he lost horses, so long as he gained a country?
Then, two hours after they had encountered the Mayor’s delegation on the riverbank, the road breasted a low ridge and there, hazed with the smoke of its fires and dominated by the great Citadel within the river’s bend, lay Valdivia.
Sharpe was about to ask just how Cochrane wanted to approach the Citadel, but His Lordship, seeing the prize so close, had already scraped back his heels and was shouting at Harper to hold the flag high. “We’ll go straight for them! Straight for them! The devil take us if we fail! Go! Go! Go!”
“God save Ireland!” Harper shouted the words like a war cry, then he too raked back his heels.
“Jesus wept,” Sharpe said, and followed. This was not war, it was madness, a race, an idiocy. An Admiral, a Dublin publican, an English farmer and sixteen rebels were attacking the biggest fort in Chile, and doing it as though it were a child’s game. Harper, his horse pounding alongside Cochrane, held the flag high so that its fringed symbol streamed in the wind. Cochrane had drawn his sword and Sharpe now struggled to do the same, but pulling a long blade free when trying to stay aboard a galloping horse was not the easiest task. He managed it just as the horsemen funneled into the town itself, clattering onto a narrow street which led to the main square. A woman carrying a tray of bread tripped in her frantic effort to get out of their way. Fresh loaves spilled across the roadway. Sparks chipped off the cobbles from the horses’ hooves. A priest shrank into a doorway, a child screamed, then the horsemen were in the main square and Cochrane was shouting at the fortress to open its gates.
“Open! Open!” he shouted in Spanish, and maybe it was
the sight of the flag, or perhaps the urgency of the horsemen that suggested they were fugitives from the disasters that were known to have occurred in the harbor, but magically, just as every other Spanish fortress had opened its gates, so this one threw open its entrance.
The horses crashed across the bridge. Cochrane and Harper were in the lead. Cochrane had a drawn sword, and the sight of the bare blade made the officer in the gateway shout in alarm, but it was too late. Harper dropped the tip of the flag and, at full gallop and with all his huge weight behind the flag’s staff, he drove the tip of the pole into the officer’s chest. There was an explosion of blood, a crunch of bone, then the officer went down with a shattered chest and a blood-soaked flag impaled in his ribs, while Harper, letting the staff go, was through the archway and into the outer courtyard.
“Surrender! Surrender!” Cochrane was screaming the word in a demented voice, flailing at panicked soldiers with the flat of his drawn sword. “Drop your muskets! Surrender!”
A musket fired from an upper window and the bullet flattened itself on the cobbles, but no other resistance was offered. The gate to the inner courtyard, hard by the Angel Tower, was closed. All around Sharpe the Spanish soldiers were throwing down their muskets. Cochrane was already out of his saddle, hurling men aside to reach a door into the main buildings where, he supposed, the treasury of a defeated empire would be found. His sailors followed him, abandoning their horses in the yard and screaming their leader’s name as a war shout. It was the sound of that name that did the most damage. The Spanish soldiers, hearing that the devil Cochrane was among them, dropped to their knees rather than fight.
Sharpe threw himself out of the saddle. He knew the geography of the fort better than Cochrane and, with Harper
beside him, he ran into the corridor that led to the inner guardroom. Footsteps thumped on floorboards above as men tried to escape the invaders. A pistol fired somewhere. A woman screamed.
Sharpe pushed open the door that led to the inner courtyard. A nine-pounder cannon stood there, facing the gate, and with it was a crew of four men who clearly had orders to fire the gun as soon as the gate was opened. “Leave it alone!” Sharpe shouted. The gun’s crew turned and Sharpe saw that Captain Marquinez was its commander. Marquinez, as exquisitely uniformed as ever, saw Sharpe and foolishly yelped that his men should slew the gun around to face Sharpe.
There was no time to complete such a clumsy maneuver. Sharpe charged the gun.
A second man turned. It was Dregara. The Sergeant was holding a linstock to fire the cannon, but now dropped the burning match and fumbled to unsling the carbine from his shoulder.
“Stop him!” Marquinez screamed, then fled to the door of the Angel Tower. Sergeant Dregara raised the carbine, but too late, for Sharpe was already on him. The cavalryman backed away, tripped on the gun’s trail, and fell. Sharpe slashed down with the sword, driving the carbine aside. Dregara tried to seize the sword blade, but Sharpe whipped the steel hard away, ripping off two of the cavalryman’s fingers. Dregara hissed with pain, then lashed up with his boot, trying to kick Sharpe’s groin. Sharpe swatted the kick aside with his left hand, then drove the sword with his right. He plunged it into Dregara’s belly, then sliced it upward, using all his strength, so that the blade tore through the muscles and cartilage to pierce the cavalryman’s chest cavity. The ribs stopped the slashing cut so Sharpe rammed the blade down, twisted it, then pulled it free. Dregara gave a weird, almost feminine, scream. Blood welled to fill his belly’s cavity, then
spilled bright onto the cobbles of the yard where so many rebels had been executed. The other two men of the gun’s makeshift crew had tried to flee, but Harper had caught them both. He felled one with a fist, the other with a cutlass stroke.
The dying Dregara twitched like a landed fish. Sharpe stepped across the cannon’s trail, around the puddling blood, then ran at the door of the Angel Tower.
He hit the door with his shoulder, gasped in pain and bounced off. Marquinez, safe inside the tower, had locked its door.
Behind Sharpe, Dregara gave a last gasp and died. The inner courtyard gate scraped open and Cochrane stood there, triumphant. “It’s ours! They’ve surrendered!”
“Bautista?”
“God knows where he is! Come and help yourselves to the plunder!”
“We’ve got business in here.”
Harper had seized a spike and now, with Sharpe’s help, he turned the heavy cannon. It was a British gun, decorated with the British royal cipher, evidently one of the many cannons given by Britain to help Spain defeat Napoleon. The trail scraped on the cobbles and the ungreased axle protested, but finally they succeeded in swiveling the gun around until its bronze barrel, which Sharpe suspected was charged with canister, faced directly at the door of the Angel Tower. The door was only ten paces away. According to Marcos, the soldier who had told Vivar’s story at Puerto Crucero, this door was the only way into the mysterious Angel Tower which, like a castle turret, was a fortress within a fortress. This ancient stone tower had withstood rebellion, war, earthquake and fire. Now it would meet Sharpe.
He plucked the fallen linstock from beside the disembow
eled body of Sergeant Dregara, told Harper to stand aside, then touched the linstock to the quill.
The gun’s sound echoed in the courtyard like the clap of doom. The gun had been double-shotted. A canister had been rammed down on top of a roundshot, and both projectiles now cracked in smoke and flame from the gun’s barrel. The gun recoiled across the yard, crushing Dregara’s body before it smacked brutally hard against the guardroom wall.
The door to the Angel Tower, struck by the exploding load of canister, simply vanished. One moment there had been a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron, and the next there were empty hinges and charred splinters of wood. The cannonball whipped through the smoke and wreckage to ricochet around the downstairs chamber of the tower.
When the noise and smoke subsided Sharpe stepped cautiously through the wreckage. He had the bloody sword blade in his hand. He expected to encounter the fetid stench of ancient dungeons and recent death, but there was only the acrid smell of the cannon’s smoke inside the tower. The lowest story of the tower was a single room that was disappointingly commonplace: no barred cells, no racks or whips or manacles, nothing but a round whitewashed room that held a table, two chairs and a stone staircase that circled around the wall to disappear through a hole in the ceiling. That ceiling was made of thick timber planks that had been laid across huge crossbeams.
Harper had scooped up Dregara’s carbine. He cocked the gun and edged up the stairs, keeping his broad back against the tower’s outer wall. No noise came from the upper floors of the tower.
Sharpe drew a pistol and followed. Halfway to the gaping hole in the ceiling he reached out, held Harper back, and stepped past him. “My bird,” he said softly.
“Careful, now,” Harper whispered unnecessarily.
Sharpe crept up the stair. He carried his sword in his left hand, the heavy pistol in his right. “Marquinez!” he called.
There was no answer. There was no sound at all from the upper floors.
“Marquinez!” Sharpe called again, but still no answer. Sharpe’s boots grated on the stone stairs. Each step took an immense effort of will. The butt of the pistol was cold in his hand. He could hear himself breathing. Every second he expected to see the blaze of a gun from the trapdoorlike hole that gaped at the stair’s head.
He took another step, then another. “Marquinez!”
A gun fired. The sound was thunderous, like a small cannon.
Sharpe swore and ducked. Harper held his breath. Then, slowly, both men realized that no bullet had come near either of them. It was the sound of the gun, loud and echoing, that had stunned them.
“Marquinez!” Sharpe called.
There was a click, like a gun being cocked.
“For God’s sake,” Sharpe said, “there are hundreds of us! You think you can fight us all?”
“Oh, by Jesus, look at that, will you?” Harper was staring at a patch of the timber ceiling not far from the stairway. Blood was oozing between the planks to form bright droplets which coalesced, quivered, then splashed down to the floor beneath.
Sharpe ran up the stairs, no longer caring what noise he made. He pounded through the open trapdoor to find himself in another, slightly smaller, but perfectly circular room that took up all the rest of the space inside the tower. There had once been another floor, but it had long fallen in and its wreckage removed, and all that was left was a truncated stair which stopped halfway around the wall.
But the rest of the room was an astonishment. It was a
sybaritic cell, a celebration of comfort. It was no prison, unless a prison would be warmed with a big stone fireplace and lit by candles mounted in a lantern which hung from the apex of the stone roof. The walls, which should have been of cheerless stone, were draped with rugs and scraps of tapestry to make a soft, warm chamber. The wooden floor was scattered with more rugs, some of them fur pelts, while another pelt was draped on the bed, which stood in the very center of the circular room and on which lay the remains of Captain-General Miguel Bautista. Or rather what Sharpe supposed had been Captain-General Miguel Bautista, for all that was left of the Captain-General was a headless body dressed in the simple black and white uniform that Sharpe remembered well.
Bautista’s head had disappeared. It had been blown away by Harper’s seven-barreled gun with which Bautista had committed suicide. The gun lay on his trunk that had spilled so much blood onto the floorboards. Some blood had matted in the fur of the bed’s coverlet, but most had puddled on the floor and run through the cracks between the ancient boards.
All around the room’s outer edge were boxes. Plain wooden boxes. Between the boxes was a corridor which led to an open door. Sharpe had been told there was only the one entrance to the tower, but he had found a second. The stone around this second door had a raw, new appearance, as though it had only recently been laid. Sharpe, still holding his weapons, walked between the boxes and through the new doorway, and found himself in Captain Marquinez’s quarters—the very same rooms in which the handsome Captain had received them on their first day in Valdivia.
Marquinez was sitting on his bed, holding a pistol to his head. He was shaking with fear.
“Put the gun down,” Sharpe said quietly.
“He made me promise! He said he couldn’t live without me!”
Sharpe opened his mouth, did not know what to say, so closed it again. Harper, who had stepped into the room behind Sharpe, said something under his breath.
“I loved him!” Marquinez wailed the declaration.
“Oh, Jesus,” Sharpe said, then he crossed the room and lifted the pistol from Marquinez’s nerveless fingers. “Where’s Blas Vivar?”
“I don’t know,
señor
, I don’t know.” Marquinez was in tears now. He had begun to shake, then slid down to his knees so that he was at Sharpe’s feet where he wrapped his arms around Sharpe’s legs like a slave beseeching for life. “I don’t know!”
Sharpe reached down and disengaged the arms, then gestured toward the tower. “What’s in the boxes, Marquinez?”
“Gold, plate, pearls, coin. We were going to take it back to Spain. We were going to live in Madrid and be great men.” He was weeping again. “It was all going to be so wonderful!”
Sharpe gripped Marquinez’s black hair and tipped the man’s tearful face back. “Is Blas Vivar here?”
“No,
señor
, I swear it!”
“Did your lover ambush Vivar?”
“No,
señor!
”
“So where is he?”
“We don’t know! No one knows!”
Sharpe twisted his grip, tugging Marquinez’s hair painfully. “But you were the one who took the dog to Puerto Crucero and buried it?”
“Yes,
señor
, yes!”
“Why?”
“Because he ordered me to. Because it was embarrassing that we could not find the Captain-General’s body. Because Madrid was demanding to know what had happened to Gen
eral Vivar! We didn’t know, but we thought he must be dead, so I found a dead dog and put that in a box instead. At least the box would smell right!” Marquinez paused. “I don’t know where he is! Please! We would have killed him, if we could, because General Vivar had found out about us, and he was threatening to tell the church of our sin, but then he vanished! Miguel said it had to be the rebels, but we never found out! It wasn’t our doing! It wasn’t!”
Sharpe released Marquinez’s hair. “Bugger,” he said. He released the flint on his pistol and pushed the weapon back into his belt. “Bugger!”
“But look,
señor!
” Marquinez had climbed to his feet and, eager as a puppy for approval, edged into the tower room which had been his secret trysting place. “Look,
señor
, gold! And we have your sword, see?” He ran to a box, opened it, and drew out Sharpe’s sword. Harper was opening other boxes and whistling with astonishment, though he was not so astonished to forget to fill his pockets with coins. “Here,
señor
.” Marquinez held out Sharpe’s sword.
Sharpe took it, unbuckled the borrowed scabbard, and strapped his own sword in its place. He drew the familiar blade. It looked very dull in the dim lantern light.
“No,
señor!
” Marquinez thought Sharpe was going to kill him.
“I’m not going to kill you, Marquinez. I might kill someone else, but not you. Tell me where Bautista’s quarters are.”
Sharpe left Harper in his Aladdin’s cave, went through Marquinez’s rooms, across a landing, down a long corridor, and into a stark, severe chamber. The walls were white, the furniture functional, the bed nothing but a campaign cot covered with thin blankets. This was how Bautista wanted the world to see him, while the tower had been his secret and his fantasy. Now Lord Cochrane sat at Bautista’s plain table with two pieces of paper in front of him. Three of Cochrane’s
sailors were searching the room’s cupboards, but were evidently finding nothing of great value. Cochrane grinned as Sharpe came through the door. “You found me! Well done. Any news of Bautista?”
“He’s dead. Blew his own head off.”
“Cowardly way out. Found any treasure?”
“A whole room full of it. Top of the tower.”
“Splendid! Go fetch, lads!” Cochrane snapped his fingers and his three men ran out into the corridor.
Sharpe walked to the table and leaned over Cochrane’s two pieces of paper. One he had never seen before, but he recognized the other as the coded message that had been concealed in Bonaparte’s portrait. Bautista must have kept the coded message, and Cochrane had found it. Sharpe suspected that the message was the most important thing in all the Citadel for Cochrane. The Scotsman talked of whores and gold, but really he had come for this scrap of paper that he was now translating by using the code that was written on the other sheet of paper. “Is there a Colonel Charles?” Sharpe asked.
“Oh, yes, but it wouldn’t have done for anyone to think that Boney was writing to me, would it? So Charles was our go-between.” Cochrane smiled happily, then copied another letter from the code’s key.
“Where’s Vivar?” Sharpe asked.
“He’s safe. He’s not a happy man, but he’s safe.”
“You made a bloody fool of me, didn’t you?”
Cochrane heard the dangerous bite in Sharpe’s voice, and leaned back. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think anyone could make a fool of you, Sharpe. I deceived you, yes, but I had to. I’ve deceived most people here. That doesn’t make them fools.”
“And Marcos? The soldier who told the story of Vivar being a prisoner in the Angel Tower? You put him up to it?”
Cochrane grinned. “Yes. Sorry. But it worked! I rather wanted your help during the assault.”
Sharpe turned the coded message around so that it faced him. “So this was meant for you, then?”
“Yes.”
Cochrane had only unlocked the first sentence of the Emperor’s message. The words were in French, but Sharpe translated them into English as he read them aloud. “‘I agree to your proposal, and urge haste.’ What proposal?”
Cochrane stood. An excited Major Miller had come to the door, but Cochrane waved him away. His Lordship lit a cigar, then walked to a window that looked down into the main courtyard where two hundred Spaniards had surrendered to a handful of rebels. “It was all the Emperor’s fault,” Cochrane said. “He thought Captain-General Vivar was the same Count of Mouromorto who had fought for him at the war’s beginning. We didn’t know Mouromorto had a brother.”
“‘We’?” Sharpe asked.
Cochrane made a dismissive gesture with the cigar. “A handful of us, Sharpe. Men who believe the world should not be handed over to dull lawyers and avaricious politicians and fat merchants. Men who believe that glory should be undimmed and brilliant!” He smiled. “Men like you!”
“Just go on,” Sharpe shrugged the compliment away, if indeed it was a compliment.
Cochrane smiled. “The Emperor doesn’t like being cooped up on Saint Helena. Why should he? He’s looking for allies, Sharpe, so he ordered me to arrange a meeting with the Count of Mouromorto, which I did, but the weather was shit-terrible, and Mouromorto couldn’t get to Talcahuana. So we made a second rendezvous and, of course, he arrived and he heard me out, and then he told me I was thinking of his brother, not him, and, one way or another, it turned out that I was fumbling up the wrong set of skirts. So,
of course, I had to take him prisoner. Which was a pity, because we’d met under a flag of truce.” Cochrane laughed ruefully. “It would have been easier to kill Vivar, but not under a flag of truce, so I took him to sea, and we stranded him with a score of guards, six pigs and a tribe of goats on one of the Juan Fernandez islands.” Cochrane drew on the cigar and watched its smoke drift out the window. “The islands are three hundred fifty miles off the coast, in the middle of nothing! They’re where Robinson Crusoe was marooned, or rather where Alexander Selkirk, who was the original of Crusoe, spent four not uncomfortable years. I last saw Vivar eight weeks ago, and he was well and as comfortable as a man could be. He tried to escape a couple of times in this last year, but it’s very hard to get off an island if you’re not a seaman.”
Sharpe tried to make sense of all the information. “What did Napoleon want of Don Blas, for God’s sake?”
“Valdivia, of course. But not just Valdivia. Once it was secure we’d have marched north and taken over Chile, but the Emperor insisted that we provide him with a secure fortress before he’d join us, and this place is as fine a stronghold as any in the Americas. The Emperor thought Vivar was his man and would have just handed the fortress over!”
“To Napoleon?”
“Yes,” Cochrane said, as though that was the most normal thing in all the world. “And why not? You think I fought these last months to watch more Goddamned lawyers form a government? For Christ’s sake, Sharpe, the world needs Napoleon! It needs a man with his vision!” Cochrane was suddenly enthusiastic, full of the contagious vigor that made him such a formidable leader of men. “South America is rotten, Sharpe. You’ve seen that for yourself! It’s an old empire, full of decay. But there’s gold here, and silver, and iron, and copper, and fields as rich as any in Scotland’s lowlands, and
orchards and vines, and cattle! There are riches here! If we can make a new country here, a United States of South America, we can make a power like the world has never seen! We just need a place to start! And a genius to make it work. I’m not that genius. I’m a good Admiral, but I don’t have the patience for government, but there is a man who does, and that man’s willing!” Cochrane strode back to the table and snatched up the coded letter. “And Bonaparte can make this whole continent into a magical country, a place of gold and liberty and opportunity! All that the Emperor demanded of us was that we provide him with a secure base, and the beginnings of an army.” Cochrane swept an arm around in a lavish gesture that encompassed all of Valdivia’s Citadel, its town and its far harbor. “And this is it. This is the kernel of Napoleon’s new empire, and it will be a greater and a better empire than any he has ever had before.”
“You’re mad!” Sharpe said without rancor.
“But it’s a glorious madness!” Cochrane laughed. “You want to be dull? You want to live under the rule of pen pushers? You want the world to lose its fire? You want old, jealous men to be cutting off your spurs with a butcher’s axe at midnight just because you dare to live? Napoleon’s only fifty! He’s got twenty years to make this new world great. We’ll bring his Guardsmen from Louisiana and ship volunteers from France! We’ll bring together the best fighters of the European wars, from both sides, and we’ll give them a cause worth the sharpening of any man’s sword.” Cochrane stabbed a finger toward Sharpe. “Join us, Sharpe! My God, you’re the kind of man we need! We’re going to fight our way north. Chile first, then Peru, then up to the Portuguese territories, and right up to Mexico, and God knows why we need to stop there! You’ll be a General! No, a Marshal! Marshal Richard Sharpe, Duke of Valdivia, whatever you want! Name your reward, take whatever title you want, but join us!
If you want your family here, tell me! I’ll send a ship for them. My God, Sharpe, it could be such joy! You and I, one on land, one on sea, making a new country, a new world!”
Sharpe let the madness flow around him. “What about O’Higgins?”
“Bernardo will have to make up his mind.” Cochrane was pacing the room restlessly. “If he doesn’t want to join us, then he’ll go down with his precious lawyers. But you, Sharpe? You’ll join us?”
“I’m going home,” Sharpe said.
“Home?”
“Normandy. To my woman and children. I’ve fought long enough, Cochrane. I don’t want more.”
Cochrane stared at Sharpe, as though testing the words he had just heard, then he abruptly nodded his acceptance of Sharpe’s decision. “I’m sending the
O’Higgins
for Bonaparte. If you won’t join me, then I’ll have to keep you from betraying me, at least till he gets here or until I can find you another ship to take you home. I’ll bring Vivar here, and you and he can sail back to Europe together. There’s nothing you or he can do to stop us now. It’s too late! We have our fortress, and we just have to fetch Bonaparte from his prison, then march to glory!”
“You’ll never get Bonaparte out of Saint Helena,” Sharpe said.
“If I can take Valdivia’s harbor and Citadel with three hundred men,” Cochrane said, “I can get Bonaparte off an island. It won’t be difficult! Colonel Charles has found a man who looks something like the Emperor. He’ll pay a courtesy visit, just like you did, and leave the wrong man inside Longwood. Simple. The simple things always work best.” Lord Cochrane mused for a moment, then barked a joyous yelp of laughter. “What joy you are going to miss,” he said to Sharpe, “what joy you will miss.”
Cochrane was unchaining Bonaparte. The devil, bored with peace, would open the vials of war. The Corsican ogre was to be loosed to mischief, to conquest and to battle without end. Bonaparte, who had drenched Europe in blood, would now soak the Americas, and Sharpe, who was trapped in Valdivia, could do nothing about it.
Except watch as all the horror started again.

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