“Should I complain?” Sharpe had already made an unholy fuss at the customs post, though it had done no good.
“To Captain-General Bautista?” Blair gave another mirthless laugh. “He’s the bastard that pegs up the percentage. You were lucky it wasn’t fifteen percent!” Then, over a plate of sugared cakes and glasses of wine brought by his Indian servants, Blair had welcomed Sharpe to Valdivia with the news that Vivar’s death was no mystery at all. “The bugger was riding way ahead of his escort, was probably ambushed by rebels, and his horse bolted with him when the trap was sprung. Then three months later they found his body in a ravine. Not that there was much left of the poor bugger, but they knew it was him, right enough, because of his uniform. Mind you, it took them a hell of a long time to find his body, but the dagoes are bloody inefficient at everything except levying customs duties, and they can do that faster than anyone in history.”
“Who buried him?” Sharpe asked,
The Consul frowned in irritated puzzlement. “A pack of bloody priests! I told you!”
“But who arranged it? The army?”
“Captain-General Bautista, of course. Nothing happens here without Bautista giving the nod.”
Sharpe turned and stared through Blair’s parlor window which looked onto the Citadel’s outer ditch where two dogs were squabbling over what appeared to be a child’s discarded doll, but then, as the doll’s arm ripped away, Sharpe saw that the dogs’ plaything was the body of an Indian toddler that must have been dumped in the ditch. “Why the hell weren’t you invited to the funeral, Blair?” Sharpe turned back from the window. “You’re an important man here, aren’t you? Or doesn’t the British Consul carry any weight in these parts?”
Blair shrugged. “The Spanish in Valdivia don’t much like the British, Colonel. They’re losing this fight, and they’re blaming us. They reckon most of the rebellion’s money comes from London, and they aren’t far wrong in thinking that. But it’s their own damned fault if they’re losing. They’re too bloody fond of lining their own pockets, and if it comes to a choice between fighting and profiteering, they’ll take the money every time. Things were better when Vivar was in charge, but that’s exactly why they couldn’t stomach him. The bugger was too honest, you see, which is why I didn’t see too many tears shed when they heard he’d been killed.”
“The bugger,” Sharpe said coldly, “was a friend of mine.” He turned to stare again at the ditch where a flock of carrion birds edged close to the two dogs, hoping for a share of the child’s corpse.
“Vivar was a friend of yours?” Blair sounded shocked.
“Yes.”
The confirmation checked Blair, who suddenly had to reassess the importance of his visitors, or at least of Sharpe. Blair had already dismissed Harper as a genial Irishman who carried no political weight, but Sharpe, despite his rustic clothes and weathered face, was suddenly proving a much more difficult man to place. Sharpe had introduced himself as Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe, but the wars had left as many Colonels as they had bastards, so the rank hardly impressed Consul Blair, but if Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe had been a friend of Don Bias Vivar, who had been Count of Mouromorto and Captain-General of Spain’s Chilean Dominion, then such a friendship could also imply that Sharpe was a friend of the high London lords who, ultimately, gave Blair the privileges and honors that eased his existence in Valdivia. “A bad business,” Blair muttered, vainly trying to make amends for his flippancy.
“Where was the body found?” Sharpe asked.
“Some miles northeast of Puerto Crucero. It’s a wild area, nothing but woods and rocks.” Blair was speaking in a much more respectful tone now. “The place isn’t a usual haunt of the rebels, but once in a while they’ll appear that far south. Government troops searched the valley after the ambush, of course, but no one thought to look in the actual ravine till a hunting party of Indians brought news that a white god was lying there. That’s one of their names for us, you see. The white god, of course, turned out be Don Bias. They reckon that he and his horse must have fallen into the ravine while fleeing from his attackers.”