“Open it! Go on!” Bautista was enjoying the moment.
At first glance the folded paper might have been taken for a thickening sheet which merely served to stop the glass from rattling in the metal frame, but when Sharpe unfolded the sheet he saw that it bore a coded message. “Oh, Christ,” Sharpe said softly when he realized what it was. The-ink written code was a jumble of letters and numerals and meant nothing to Sharpe, but it was clearly a message from Bonaparte to the mysterious Lieutenant Colonel Charles, and any such message could only mean trouble.
“You are pretending you did not know the message was there?” Bautista challenged Sharpe.
“Of course I didn’t.”
“Who wrote it? Napoleon? Or your English masters?”
The question revealed that Bautista’s men had not succeeded in breaking the code. “Napoleon,” Sharpe said, then tried to construct a feeble defense of the coded message. “It’s nothing important. Charles is an admirer of the Emperor’s.”
“You expect me to believe that an unimportant letter would be written in code?” Bautista asked mockingly, then he calmly walked to Sharpe and held out his hand for the message. Sharpe paused a second, then surrendered the message and the framed portrait. Bautista glanced at the code. “I believe it is a message from your English masters, which you inserted into the portrait. What does the message say?”
“I don’t know.” Sharpe, conscious of all the eyes that watched him, straightened his back. “How could I know? You probably concocted that message yourself.” Sharpe believed no such thing. The moment’he had seen the folded and coded message he had known that he had been duped into being Napoleon’s messenger boy, but he dared not surrender the initiative wholly to Bautista.
But Sharpe’s counteraccusation was a clumsy riposte and Bautista scoffed at it. “If I planned to incriminate you by concocting a message, Mister Sharpe, I would hardly invent one that no one could read.” His audience laughed at the easy parry, and Bautista, like a matador who had just made an elegant pass at his prey, smiled, then walked to one of the high arched windows which, unglazed, offered a view across the harbor and out to the Pacific. Bautista turned in the window and beckoned to his prisoners. “Come here! Both of you!”
Sharpe and Harper obediently walked to the window, which looked down onto a wide stone terrace that formed a gun battery. The guns were thirty-six-pound naval cannons that had been removed from their ship trolleys and placed on heavy garrison mounts. There were twelve of the massive guns, each capable of plunging a vicious fire down onto any ship that dared attack Puerto Crucero’s harbor.
Yet Bautista had not invited Sharpe and Harper to see the guns, but rather the man who was shackled to a wooden post at the very edge of one of the embrasures. That man was Ferdinand, the Indian guide who had brought them through the misted mountains ahead of Dregara’s pursuit. Now, stripped of his tattered uniform and dressed only in a short brown kilt, Ferdinand was manacled just seven or eight feet from the muzzle of one of the giant cannons. Dregara, who was clearly an intimate of Bautista’s, stood holding a smoking linstock beside the loaded gun. Sharpe, understanding what he was about to see, turned in horror on Bautista. “What in Christ’s name are you doing?”
“This is an execution,” Bautista said in a tone of voice he might use to explain something to a small child, “a means of imposing order on an imperfect world.”
“You can’t do this!” Sharpe protested so strongly that one of the infantrymen stepped in front of him with a musket and bayonet.
“Of course I can do this!” Bautista mocked. “I am the King’s plenipotentiary. I can have men killed, I can have them imprisoned, I can even have them broken down to the ranks, like Private Morillo who is being sent to the mines to learn the virtues of loyalty.”
“What has this man done?” Sharpe gestured at Ferdinand.
“He has displeased me, Mister Sharpe,” Bautista said, then he beckoned the other men in the room forward so they could watch the execution from the other windows. Bautista’s eyes were greedy. “Are you watching?” Bautista asked Sharpe.