Bautista called various officers to make their reports. A tall, gray-haired Captain detailed the ammunition reserves in the Perrunque arsenal, then a Medical Officer reported on the number of men who had fallen sick in the previous month. Bautista listened keenly, noting that the Puerto Crucero garrison had shown a marked increase in fever cases. “Is there a contagion there?”
“We’re not sure, Your Excellency.”
“Then find out!” Bautista’s voice was high and sharp. “Are the townspeople affected? Or just the garrison? Surely someone has thought to ask that simple question, have they not?”
“I don’t know, Your Excellency,” the hapless Medical Officer replied.
“Then find out! I want answers! Answers! Is it the food? The garrison’s water supply? The air? Or just morale?” He stabbed a finger at the Medical Officer. “Answers! Get me answers!”
It was an impressive display, yet Sharpe felt unconvinced by it. It was almost as if Bautista was going through the motions of government merely so that no one could accuse him of dereliction when his province vanished from the maps of the Spanish Empire. He was, Sharpe thought, a young man full of self-importance, but so far Sharpe could see no evidence of anything worse—of, say, the cruelty that made Bautista’s name so feared. The Captain-General had resumed pacing up and down before the small and redundant fire, stabbing more questions into his audience as he paced. How many cattle were in Val-divia’s slaughter yards? Had the supply ships arrived from Chiloe? Was there any news of Ruiz’s regiment? None? How many more weeks must they wait for those extra guns? Had the Puerto Crucero garrison test-fired their heated shot, and if so, what was their rate of fire? How long had it taken to heat the furnace from cold to operational heat? General Bautista suddenly whirled on Sharpe and pointed his finger, just as if Sharpe was one of the subservient officers who responded so meekly to each of Bautista’s demands. “You were at Waterloo?” The question was rapped out in the same tone that the General had used to ask about the monthly sick returns.
“Yes, sir.”
“Why did Napoleon lose there?”
The question took Sharpe somewhat by surprise, despite Marquinez having warned him that the Captain-General was fascinated by Napoleon and his battles. Did Bautista see himself as a new Napoleon, Sharpe wondered? It was possible. The Captain-General was still a young man and, like his hero, an artillery officer.
“Well?” Bautista chivied Sharpe.
“He underestimated the British infantry,” Sharpe said.
“And you, of course, were a British infantryman?” Bautista asked in a sarcastic tone, provoking more sycophantic laughter from his audience. Bautista cut the laughter short with a swift chop of his hand. “I heard that he lost the battle because he waited too long before beginning to fight.”
“If he’d have started earlier,” Sharpe said, “we’d have beaten him sooner.” That, Sharpe knew, was not true. If Bonaparte had opened the battle at dawn he would have ridden victorious into Brussels at dusk, but Sharpe would be damned before he gave Bautista the satisfaction of agreeing with him.
The Captain-General had walked close to Sharpe and was staring at the Englishman with what seemed a genuine curiosity. Sharpe was a tall man, but even so he had to look up to meet the dark eyes of the Captain-General. “What was it like?” Bautista asked.
“Waterloo?” Sharpe felt tongue-tied.
“Yes! Of course. What was it like to be there?”
‘Jesus,” Sharpe said helplessly. He did not know if he could describe such a day, certainly he had never done so to anyone except those, like Harper, who had shared the experience and who could therefore see beyond the tale’s incoherence. Sharpe’s fiercest memory of the day was simply one of terror; the terror of standing under the massive concussion of the French bombardment that, hour by hour, had ground down the British line till there were no reserves left. The remainder of the day had faded into unimportance. The opening of the battle had been full of excitement and motion, yet it was not those heart-stirring moments that Sharpe remembered when he woke sweating in the night, but rather that inhuman mincing machine of the French artillery; the lurid flickering of its massive cannon flames in the smoke bank, the pathetic cries of the dying, the thunder of the roundshot in the overheated air, the violence of the soil spewed up by the striking shots and the stomach-emptying terror of standing under the unending cannonade that had punched and crashed and pounded down the bravest man’s endurance. Even the battle’s ending, that astonishing triumph in which tired and seemingly beaten men had risen from the mud to rout the I finest troops of France, had paled in Sharpe’s memory beside the nightmarish flicker of those guns. “It was bad,” Sharpe said at last.