Ardiles scoffed at Sharpe’s mild hopes. He waved northward through the spitting sleet and the spume and the wild waves’ turmoil. “That’s a whole continent up there! Not an English farmyard! You won’t find a single body in a continent, Englishman, not if someone else has decided to hide it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because if my tale of carrying Don Bias to meet the rebels is right, then Don Bias was not just a soldier, but a soldier playing politics, and that’s a more dangerous pastime than fighting. Besides, if the Spanish high command decides not to help you, how will you achieve anything?”
“By bribes?” Sharpe suggested.
Ardiles laughed. “I wish you luck, Englishman, but if you’re offering money they’ll just tell you what you want to hear until you’ve no money left, then they’ll clean their knife blades in your guts. Take my advice! Vivar’s dead! Go home!”
Sharpe crouched against a sudden attack of wind-slathered foam that shrieked down the deck and smashed white against the helmsman and his companion. “What I don’t understand,” Sharpe shouted when the sea had sucked itself out of the scuppers, “is why the rebels haven’t boasted about Don Bias’s death! If you’re a rebel and you kill or capture your enemy’s commander, why keep it a secret? Why not trumpet your success?”
“You expect sense out of Chile?” Ardiles asked cynically.
Sharpe ducked again as the wind flailed more salt foam across the quarterdeck. “Don Bias’s widow doesn’t believe it was the rebels who attacked her husband. She thinks it was Captain-General Bautista.”
Ardiles looked grimmer than ever. “Then Don Bias’s widow had best keep her thoughts to herself. Bautista is not a man to antagonize. He has pride, a memory and a taste for cruelty.”
“And for corruption?” Sharpe asked.
Ardiles paused, as though weighing the good sense of continuing this conversation, then he shrugged. “Miguel Bautista is the prince of thieves, but that doesn’t mean he won’t one day be the ruler of Spain. How else do men become great, except by extortion and fear? I will give you some advice, Englishman,” Ardiles’s voice had become fierce with intensity, “don’t make an enemy of Bautista. You hear me?”
“Of course.” The warning seemed extraordinary to Sharpe, a testimony to the real fear that Miguel Bautista, Vivar’s erstwhile enemy, inspired.
Ardiles suddenly grinned, as though he wanted to erase the grimness of his last words. “The trouble with Don Bias, Englishman, was that he was very close to being a saint. He was an honorable man, and you know what happens to honorable men—they prove to be an embarrassment. This world isn’t governed by honorable men, but by lawyers and politicians, and whenever such scum come across an honest man they have to kill him.” The ship shuddered as a huge wave smashed ragged down the port gunwale. Ardiles laughed at the weather’s malevolence, then looked again at Sharpe. “Take my advice, Englishman. Go home! I’ll be sailing back to Spain in a week’s time, which gives you just long enough to visit the chingana behind the church in Valdivia, after which you should sail home to your wife.”
“The chingana?” Sharpe asked.
“A chingana is where you go for a chingada,” Ardiles said unhelpfully. “A chingana is either a tavern that sells whores, or a whorehouse that sells liquor, and the chingana behind the church in Valdivia has half-breed girls who give chingadas that leave men gasping for life. It’s the best whorehouse for miles. You know how you can tell which is the best whorehouse in a Spanish town?”
“Tell me.”
“It’s the one where all the priests go, and this one is where the Bishop goes! So visit the mestizo whores, then go home and tell Vivar’s wife that her husband’s body was eaten by wild pigs!”
But Sharpe had not been paid to go home and tell stories. He had taken Dona Louisa’s money, and he was far from home, and he would not go back defeated. He would find Don Bias, no matter how deep the forest or high the hill. If Don Bias still had form, then Sharpe would find it.
He had sworn as much, and he would keep his promise. He would find Don Bias.