“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.