“Oh, Christ,” Sharpe said wearily.
“We know now why Vivar’s body was never found,” Cochrane said, “because plainly there is no body, and never was. Bautista had to pretend to make a search, for he dared not let anyone suspect Vivar was alive, but he must have been laughing every time he sent out another search party. And there’s something else,” Cochrane added with relish.
“Which is?”
“The Angel Tower is in Valdivia!” Cochrane chuckled, “So perhaps you had better come with me after all?”
“Oh, shit.” Sharpe said, for he was tired of war, and he wanted to go home. He felt a sudden overwhelming need to be in Normandy, to smell woollen clothes drying before the fire, to listen to the day’s small change of news and gossip, to doze before the kitchen fire while the cauldron bubbled. He had lost his taste for battle, and could find no relish for the kind of suicidal horror that Cochrane risked at Valdivia.
But Valdivia it would have to be, for Sharpe’s word was given, and so a last battle must be fought. To pluck a friend from madness.
PART THREE
VIVAR
The embers were gathering. Reinforcements arrived from the northern provinces. They were not many, and none was officially despatched by the republic’s government in Santiago, yet still they came. A few owed Lord Cochrane for past favors, but most were adventurers who smelled plunder in Chile. They arrived at Puerto Crucero in small groups; the largest were brought back on Cochrane’s pinnace, but others came by land, all daring the forests and the savages as they skirted the Spanish-held territory to gather at Puerto Crucero. After two weeks the newcomers had added just over two hundred volunteers to Cochrane’s meager forces, but Cochrane was convinced that his war would be won by just such small increments. At least half of the newcomers had fought in the European wars, and more than a few recognized Sharpe and hoped he would remember them. “I was in the breach at Badajoz with you,” a Welshman told Sharpe. “Bloody terrible, that was. But I’m glad you’re here, sir, it means we’re going to win again, does it not?”
Sharpe did not have the heart to tell the Welshman that he believed the attack on Valdivia to be suicidal. Instead he asked what had brought the man to this backside of the world. “Money, sir, money! What else?” The Welshman was confident that the royalists, having been defeated in Peru, Chile, and in the wide grasslands beyond the Andes, must have carried the spoils of all that empire back to Valdivia. “It’s their last great stronghold in South America!” the Welshman said, “so if we capture it, sir, we’ll all be rich. I shall buy a house and a farm in the border country, and I’ll find a fat wife, and I shall never want for a thing again. All it takes is money, sir, and all we need for money is this battle. Life is not for the weak or timid, sir, but for the brave!”
The Spaniards were making no effort to recapture Puerto Crucero. Instead they had pulled all their forces back into the Valdivia region, abandoning a score of towns and outlying forts. Cochrane’s volunteers arrived at Puerto Crucero with tales of burning stockades, deserted customs posts and empty guardhouses. “Maybe,” Sharpe suggested, “they’re planning a complete withdrawal?”
“Back to Spain, you mean?” Cochrane scorned the suggestion. “They’re waiting for reinforcements. Madrid won’t abandon Chile. They believe God gave them this empire as a reward for slaughtering all those Muslims in the fifteenth century, and what God gives, kings keep. No, they’re not withdrawing, Sharpe, they’re just planning more wickedness. They know we’re going to attack them, so they’re drawing in their horns and getting their guns ready.” He rubbed his hands with glee. “All those guns and men in one place, just waiting to be captured!”
“That’s just what Bautista wants,” Sharpe warned Cochrane. “He believes his guns will pound you into mincemeat.”
Cochrane spat. “The man’s useless. His guns couldn’t kill a spavined chicken. Besides, we’ll be taking him by surprise.”
The surprise depended entirely on the Spaniards being deceived by the two disguised warships. The O’Higgins, brought into the inner harbor, was being disguised with tar so that her gunports were indistinguishable from any distance. She looked, by the time Cochrane’s men had done with her, as drab and ugly a ship as had ever sailed the ocean. The fine gilrwork at her bow and stern had been ruthlessly stripped away so that she resembled some unloved transport ship. The Kitty, the erstwhile Espiritu Santo, was being similarly disfigured. She was also being made seaworthy, and Cochrane chivied his carpenters unmercifully, because every day that the Kitty spent careened on the sand shoal was a day lost, a day in which Lord Cochrane worried that the two real Spanish transport ships might reach Valdivia, or that some Spanish spy might report back to Valdivia just what preparations the rebels were making.