Sharpe's Devil

by Bernard Cornwell

  “Why not?” Sharpe said, then turned the cannon’s elevating screw until it pointed to a spot just above the far Fort Niebla. Harper had already levered the trail around. Sharpe plucked the portfire from its barrel and blew on its burning tip till the fuse glowed a brilliant red. “Would you like to do the honors?”

  “You do this one,” Harper said, “and I’ll do the next.”

  Sharpe stood to one side, reached over, and touched the glowing match to the quill in the touchhole. The fire flashed down to the charge, the gun crashed back on its carriage and a cloud of smoke billowed to hide the harbor. Men cheered as the ball screamed away across the water. Burning scraps of wad floated down the hillside and started small fires in the grass.

  Harper fired the next gun, and so they went down the embrasures, sending the heavy shots toward the distant fort. Sharpe doubted that the cannonfire would do any damage, for he had no training in aiming such big guns, yet the shots were an expression of relief, even of joy. The defenders at Fort Niebla, doubtless confused by the noises and alarms of the night, did not fire back.

  As the sound of the last shot echoed around the confining hills of the harbor, Sharpe looked south and saw that Cochrane’s men were swarming across the ramparts of Fort Amargos. The fort’s Spanish defenders were a fleeing rabble, the gate gaped open, and its flag was captured. Others of Cochrane’s men, diverted from the newly captured Fort Amargos, were scrambling up the headland’s central ridge to attack the gun emplacements of Fort Chorocomayo. Musket fire splintered the night as the attackers climbed. Cheers sounded from the ridge, a bugle called, and out in the harbor the nervous crews of neutral ships displayed bright lanterns in their rigging, advertizing to any attackers that they had no part in this night’s fighting.

  The fighting was ending. High on the ridge, under the bright sparks of the stars, musket flashes and cannon flames showed where Fort Chorocomayo briefly resisted Cochrane’s assault. Chorocomayo had been constructed to stop an attack from the south, not the north, and the firing flared for only a few minutes before there was a sudden silence and, through the moonlit mist of powder smoke, Sharpe saw the silhouetted flag drop. Chorocomayo, like Amargos and San Carlos and Fort Ingles, had fallen. Three hundred wet and frightened men, coming from the sea, had ripped Valdivia’s outer defenses into tatters. “Bloody amazing, is what it is!” Harper said.

  “It surely is,” Sharpe agreed, though he knew the worst was yet to come, for the most formidable of the Spanish defense works, Corral Castle, Fort Niebla, Manzanera Island and Valdivia’s Citadel, were still in enemy hands, and all those strongholds, save only the gun batteries on Manzanera Island, were stone-walled and properly supplied with glacis, ditches and revetments. Yet those more taxing defenses would have to wait for daylight. Lieutenant Cabral, coming back on his horse, confirmed that Cochrane had called a halt for the night. The attack would continue in the morning, and till then the rebel forces were to stay where they were—to eat, sleep and rejoice.

  Sharpe washed his sword blade clean in a trough of water, then joined Harper by a brazier where they ate Spanish sausages and a great loaf of bread, all washed down by a skin of harsh red wine. Harper had also found a basket of apples, and their smell reminded Sharpe of Normandy, for an instant, the homesickness was acute as a bullet’s strike. He shook it away. The smell of the battle, of powder smoke and blood, was already gone, blown southward by the salty sea wind.

  Major Miller, excited and proud, brought a further message from Cochrane. In the morning, Cochrane said, they would bombard the stone forts while the Kitty and the O’Higgins came into the harbor. Once Fort Niebla had surrendered the rebels would make the fourteen-mile journey upriver to attack Valdivia itself. Cochrane clearly had no doubts that the forts would surrender. “They’re rotten!” Miller spoke of the defenders. “They’ve no heart, Sharpe, no belly for a fight!”

  “They’re badly led.” Sharpe felt sorry for the Spaniards. In the French wars he had seen Spaniards fight with fantastic bravery and enviable skill, yet here, with only a corrupted regime to defend, they had collapsed. “They think we’re devils,” Sharpe said, “and that we can’t be touched by bullets or blades. It isn’t fair to a man to have to fight demons.”

  Miller laughed and touched the spiky tips of his moustache. “I always wanted a forked tail. Sleep well, Sharpe. Tomorrow will bring victory!”

  “So it will,” Sharpe said, “so it will,” and he hoped the morrow would bring so much more besides. For tomorrow he would reach Valdivia where his sword and his money and his friend all lay captive. But all that must wait for the morning and the new day’s battle. Until then, Sharpe slept.

  The morning brought clouds and a thin mist through which, in an uncanny silence, Cochrane’s two ships slipped like ghosts into Valdivia Harbor. The wounded Kitty was low in the water with a list to starboard and her pumps spitting water. She kept close to the western shore and to the protection of the captured guns of Fort San Carlos, while the O’Higgins, larger and more threatening, sailed boldly up the center of the channel. The O’Higgins’s gunports were open, but Fort Niebla did not respond to the challenge. Cochrane had ordered the fifty-gun ship to hold her fire, daring to hope that the Spanish would thereby be lulled into quiescence, and now, astonishingly, the harbor’s remaining defenders simply stared as the enemy ships passed through the lethal entrance. It was almost as though the Spanish, stunned by the night’s events, had become mere spectators to their empire’s fall.

  It was falling with hardly a shot, collapsing like a rotten tree in a brisk wind. Corral Castle was the first stronghold to surrender. Cochrane ordered one shot fired from Fort Chorocomayo, and within seconds of the roundshot thumping harmlessly into the fort’s earthen glacis, the gates were dragged open, the flag was hurried down, and an artillery Major rode out under a flag of truce. The castle’s commander, the Major told Cochrane, was drunk, the men were mutinous and the castle belonged to the rebellion. The artillery Major surrendered his sword with indecent haste. “Just send us home to Spain,” he told Cochrane.

  With the fall of Corral Castle every gun on the western side of the harbor was aimed at either Fort Niebla or at the batteries on Manzanera Island. The Kitty had been run aground to stop her from sinking, while the O’Higgins had anchored so that her formidable broadside was aimed at the guns on Manzanera.

  Cochrane had summoned Sharpe to Fort Amargos, the stronghold that was closest to Fort Niebla, where His Lordship was dividing his attention between a tripod-mounted telescope aimed at the enemy fort and Fort Amargos’s drunken commander’s collection of pornographic etchings. “What I plan to do,” he said, “is demand Niebla’s surrender. Do you think it’s possible for two women to do that? I wondered if you would be willing to go to Fort Niebla and talk to the commander? Oh, my word. That would give a man backache, would it not? Look at this, Miller! I’ll bet your mother never did that with your father!”

  Miller, who was shaving from a bowl set on a parapet, chuckled at the picture. “Very supple, my Lord. Good morning, Sharpe!”

  “The commander’s name is Herrera,” Cochrane said to Sharpe. “I’m assuming he has command of Manzanera Island as well, but you’d better check when you see him. That’s if you’re willing to go.”

  “Of course I’ll go,” Sharpe said, “but why me?”

  “Because Herrera’s a proud man. Good God! I think I’ll keep these for Kitty. Herrera hates me, and he’d find it demeaning to surrender to a Chilean, but he’ll find nothing dishonorable in receiving an English soldier.” Cochrane reluctantly abandoned the portfolio of pictures to pull an expensive watch from his waistcoat pocket. “Tell Herrera that his troops must leave their fortifications before nine o’clock this morning. Officers can wear side-arms, but all other weapons must be…” His Lordship’s voice tailed away to nothing. He was no longer looking at his watch, nor even at the salacious pictures, but was instead staring incredulously across the misted harbor. Then, recovering himself, he managed a feeb
le blasphemy. “Good God.”

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said.

  “I don’t believe it!” Major Miller, his chin lathered, stared across the water.

  “Good God,” Cochrane said again, for the Spaniards, without waiting for an envoy, or for any kind of attack, were simply abandoning their remaining defenses. Three boats were rowing hard away from Manzanera Island, while the flag had rippled down over Fort Niebla and Sharpe could see its garrison marching to the quay where a whole fleet of longboats waited. The Spanish were withdrawing up the river, going the fourteen miles to the Citadel itself. “Christ on a donkey!” Cochrane blasphemed obscurely. “But it rather looks like complete victory, does it not?”

  “Congratulations, my Lord,” Sharpe said.

  “I never thanked you for last night, did I? Allow me to, my dear Sharpe.” Cochrane offered Sharpe a hand, but continued to gape in disbelief at the Spanish evacuation. “Good God almighty!”

  “We still have to take Valdivia,” Sharpe said cautiously.

  “So we do! So we do!” Cochrane turned away. “Boats! I want boats! We’re in a rowing race, my boys! We don’t want those bastards adding their muskets to the town’s defenses! Let’s have some boats here! Mister Almante! Signal the O’Higgins! Tell them we need boats! Boats!”

  In the first pearly light of dawn Sharpe had seen a Spanish longboat beached beneath the ramparts of Fort San Carlos. He presumed the boat had served to provision the fort from the main Spanish commissary in Fort Niebla, but now it would help Cochrane complete his victory. Sharpe, knowing it would take time to fetch boats from the O’Higgins, ran back to the smaller Fort San Carlos where, shouting at Harper and the seamen to bring their weapons, he scrambled down the steep cliff path which led to a small shingle beach. A dozen startled seals flopped into the water as his hurried progress triggered a score of small avalanches, then his boots grated on the shingle and he began heaving the boat toward the sea.

  The first thirty men to reach the shingle gained places in the boat. Sixteen seamen took the oars, the rest crouched between the thwarts. They carried muskets and cutlasses. Sharpe told them their task was to overtake the fleeing Spaniards and stop them from reinforcing Valdivia, then he encouraged the oarsmen by saying that the fugitives were bound to be carrying Fort Niebla’s valuables in their boats.

  The boat, fueled by greed, fairly leaped ahead. Cochrane, still waiting at Fort Amargos for his own boats to come from the O’Higgins, bellowed at Sharpe to pick him up, but Sharpe just waved, then urged his oarsmen on.

  They passed the O’Higgins. What was left of the warship’s crew gave a cheer. The coxswain of Sharpe’s boat, a gray-haired Spaniard, was muttering that the sequestered Spanish longboat was a pig, with a buckled keelson and sprung planks, and that Cochrane would soon catch them in his superior boats. “Row, you bastards!” the coxswain shouted at the oarsmen. It was a race now, a race to snatch the plunder from the demoralized enemy.

  Far off to Sharpe’s right a warship had raised the Royal Navy’s white ensign. The name Charybdis was inscribed in gold at her stern. A nearby merchant ship flew the Stars and Stripes. The two crews watched the odd race and some waved what Sharpe took to be encouragement. “Nice to see the navy here,” Harper shouted from the bows. “Maybe they can give us a ride home!”

  The longboat reached the strait between Manzanera Island and Fort Niebla. The gun barrels that should have kept Valdivia safe now stared emptily from abandoned embrasures. The gates of Fort Niebla hung open, while the remains of a cooking fire dribbled a trickle of smoke from a hut on Manzanera Island. A small, rough-haired dog yelped at the passing boat from the beach beneath the earthworks that protected the island’s guns, but there were no other signs of life. The Spanish had deserted a position as strong as any Sharpe had ever seen. A man could have died of old age before he would have needed to yield Niebla or Manzanera, yet the Spanish had vanished into the morning mist without firing a shot.

  The oarsmen grunted as the boat slammed into the turgid current of the outflowing Valdivia River. Harper, in the boat’s bows, was watching for the fugitives, but Sharpe, in the stern, was looking for Cochrane. Some of the men in Sharpe’s boat were bailing with their caps. The old boat had gaping seams and was leaking at an alarming rate, but the men were coping and the oarsmen had found a good, steady rhythm. Sharpe could see Cochrane’s boats striking out from the far shore, but they were still a long way behind.

  “What do we do if we catch up with the bastards?” the coxswain asked Sharpe.

  “Say boo to them. They’ll surrender.”

  The coxswain laughed. They were rowing past the quays at the river’s mouth. A group of bemused families had come from the fishermen’s cottages to stare at the morning’s events. Sharpe wondered what difference any of this would make to such pitiably poor people. Bautista’s rule could not be easy, but would O’Higgins make life better? Sharpe doubted it. He had talked once with an old man in the village of Seleglise, a man ancient enough to remember the old French king and to remember all the other Paris governments that had come through bloody revolution or coup d’état, and the old man had reckoned that not one of those governments had made the slightest difference to his life. His cows had still needed milking, his vegetables had needed weeding, his corn had needed cutting, his cherries needed picking, his taxes needed paying, the church had needed his money and no one, neither priest, politician, taxman nor prefect, had ever given him a penny or a thank-you for any of it. No doubt the Chilean peasantry would feel the same. All this morning’s excitement meant was that a different set of politicians would become rich at the country’s expense.

  The boat was in the river valley now. The hills on either side were thick with trees. Two herons flapped lazily down one bank. The oarsmen had slowed, settling to the long haul. A fisherman, casting a hand net from a small leather boat, abandoned his tackle and paddled furiously for the safety of land as the strange boat full of armed men appeared. Harper had cocked a musket in case the Spaniards had set an ambush beyond the river’s first bend.

  The coxswain hugged the right bank, cutting the corner and risking the shallows to make the bend swiftly. The oars brushed reeds, then the river straightened and Sharpe, standing to get a clear view ahead, felt a pang, for there were no boats in sight. For a second he thought the Spaniards must have such superior boats that they had somehow converted a two-mile lead into four or five miles, but then he saw that the Spanish longboats had stopped altogether and were huddled on the southern riverbank. There must have been twenty boats there, all crammed with men and none of them moving. “There!” he pointed for Harper.

  Then Sharpe saw horsemen on the river’s bank. Cavalry? Had Bautista sent reinforcements upriver? For a second Sharpe was tempted to turn the boat and seize Fort Niebla before the Spaniards, realizing how hugely they outnumbered Cochrane’s puny forces, made their counterattack, but Harper suddenly shouted that the dagoes on the riverbank were flying a white flag.

  “Bloody hell,” Sharpe said, for there was indeed a white flag of truce or surrender.

  The oarsmen, sensing Sharpe’s momentary indecision, and needing a rest, had stopped rowing and the boat was beginning to drift back downstream. “A trap?” the coxswain asked.

  “God knows,” Sharpe said. Cochrane was forever using flags as a trick to get himself close to the enemy, and were the Spaniards now learning to use the same ruse? “Put me ashore,” he told the coxswain.

  The oars dipped again, took the strain, and drove hard for the southern bank. The bow touched, and Sharpe clambered over the thwarts, then jumped up onto tussocky grass. Harper followed him. Sharpe loosened the sword in its scabbard, checked that his pistols were primed, and walked slowly toward the horsemen who were a half mile away.

  There were not many horsemen, perhaps twenty, and none was in uniform, suggesting that this was not a cavalry unit. The men carried two flags—one the white flag of truce, and the other a complicated ensign bearing a coat of arms. “Th
ey look like civilians,” Harper commented.

  The horsemen were cantering toward Sharpe and Harper. One of the leading riders had a large black hat and a scarlet sash. He stood in his stirrups and waved, as if to signify that he meant no harm. Sharpe checked that the longboat with its cargo of armed sailors was close enough to offer him support, then waited.

  “There’s that bastard Blair!” Harper exclaimed.

  “Where?”

  “White horse, six or seven back.”

  “So it is,” Sharpe said grimly. The merchant and British Consul was among the horsemen who, like himself, were mostly middle-aged and prosperous-looking men. Their leader, the man wearing the scarlet sash, slowed as he neared Sharpe.

  “Are you Cochrane?” he called in Spanish.

  “Admiral Cochrane is following. He’ll be here soon,” Sharpe replied.

  “We’ve come to surrender the town to you.” The man reined in his horse, took off his hat, and offered Sharpe a bow. “My name is Manuel Ferrara, I have the honor to be the alcalde of Valdivia, and these gentlemen are senior and respected citizens of our town. We want no trouble, senor. We are merely merchants who struggle to make a poor living. As you know, our sympathies have always been with the Republic, and we beg that you will treat us with the respect due to civilians who have taken no part in the fighting.”

  “Shut up,” Sharpe said. He pushed past the offended and astonished Mayor to reach Blair. “You bastard.”

  “Mister Sharpe?” Blair touched a nervous hand to his hat.

  “You’re supposed to look after British interests, you bugger, not suck Bautista’s tits because you’re frightened of him!”

  “Now, Mister Sharpe, be careful what you say!”

  “You shit-faced son of a whore.” Sharpe took hold of Blair’s right boot and heaved up, chucking the Consul bodily out of his saddle. Blair gave a yelp of astonishment, then collapsed into the mud on the far side of the horse. Sharpe steadied the beast, then mounted it himself. “You!” he said to the Mayor, who was still protesting his undying loyalty to the ideals of liberty and republicanism.