“Because he knows the war is lost,” Sharpe said. “It would take an extraordinary soldier to win this war, and Bautista isn’t an extraordinary soldier. Don Bias might have won it, but only if Madrid had sent him the ships to beat Cochrane, which they didn’t. So Bautista knows he’s going to lose, and that means he has to do two things. First, he needs to blame someone else for losing the war, and second, he has to grab as much of Chile’s wealth as possible. Then he can go home rich and blameless, and he can use the money to gain power in Madrid.”
“But why kill us? We’re bugger all to do with his problems.”
“We’re the enemy,” Sharpe said. “The closest Bautista came to losing was when Don Bias was here. Don Bias knew something that would destroy Bautista, and he was on the point of confronting Bautista when he died. We’re on Don Bias’s side, so we’re enemies.” It was the only answer that made sense to Sharpe, and though it was an answer full of gaps, it helped to explain the Captain-General’s enmity.
“So he’ll kill us?” Harper asked indignantly.
Sharpe nodded. “But not in public. If we can reach Puerto Crucero, we’re safe. Bautista needs to blame our disappearance on the rebels. He won’t dare attack us in a public place.”
“I pray to God you’re right,” Harper said feelingly. “I mean there’s no point in dying here, is there now?”
Sharpe felt a pang of guilt for having invited his friend. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“That’s what Isabella said. But, Goddamn it, a man gets tired of children after a time. I’m glad to be away for a wee while, so I am.” Harper had left four children in Dublin: Richard, Liam, Sean and the baby, Michael, whose real name was in a Gaelic form that Sharpe could not pronounce. “But I wouldn’t want never to see the nippers again,” Harper went on, “would I now?”
“There’s not much to do now,” Sharpe tried to reassure him. “We just have to dig up Don Bias, seal him in a tin coffin, then take him home.”
“I still think you should put him in brandy,” Harper said, his fears forgotten.
“Whatever’s quickest,” Sharpe allowed, then he forgot that small problem, for Ferdinand had led them out from the trees and onto what had to be the main road from Valdivia to Puerto Crucero. The road stretched empty and inviting in either direction, and with no sign of any vengeful pursuers. Ferdinand was grinning, then said something in his own language.
“I think he means he’s leaving us here,” Harper said before pointing vigorously to the south.
Ferdinand nodded eagerly, intimating that they should indeed ride in that direction.
Sharpe opened the box, took out a guinea, and gave it to the Indian. Ferdinand tucked the coin into a pocket of his filthy uniform, offered a sharp-toothed grin of thanks, then turned back into the forest. Sharpe and Harper, brought safe to the road and far ahead of their pursuers, were out of danger. Ahead lay Puerto Crucero and a friend’s grave, behind was a thwarted enemy, and Sharpe, almost for the first time since he had reached the New World, felt his hopes rise.
That evening, just before sunset, they reined their tired horses on the rocky crest above the natural harbor of Puerto Crucero. Sharpe, weary to his very bones, turned in his aching saddle and saw no sign of any pursuit. Dregara had been cheated. Sharpe and Harper, thanks to Captain Morillo and his Indian guide, had come safely to their haven where, like a sorcerer’s castle perched on a crag, stood the Citadel of Puerto Crucero.
At the heart of the Citadel, and brilliant white in the day’s last sunlight, stood the garrison church where Bias Vivar lay buried. Beside the church was a castle keep over which, streaming stiff in the sea’s hard wind, the great royal banner of Spain flew colorful and proud. The dark, wild country where murder might have been committed was behind them and in front were witnesses and light. There was also the harbor from which, by God’s grace, they would sail home with the body of a dead hero.