Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  “I have already checked my calculations, twice, and the sailing master has done so as well. I am sorry, Flashman, but according to the charts, that is Valparaíso.”

  “Are you telling me that I have come halfway round the world and risked Cape Horn just to see that squalid little village? Surely people have not fought a war over that? The Spanish would be welcome to it as far as I’m concerned.” I continued to fume in the same vein for quite some time and my feelings weren’t eased when we rounded a headland to find three ships anchored in its lee. That only confirmed beyond all doubt that the little port was indeed Valparaíso, and the place did not improve on closer inspection. There was a fort near the shore and a cluster of houses. Beyond them I could make out a square with a church. There did seem to be a fair few people about on the waterfront and I was forced to conclude that many of them must have their homes behind the hills facing the sea. Erskine did not bother lighting the steam engine to impress the locals this time. Given the number of pack animals moving in the harbour, I suspected that they would have found a wheel impressive, never mind a steam engine. He was disappointed to see that his brother’s flagship, the O’Higgins, was not here. The vessel was named after Chile’s new ruler, Bernardo O’Higgins, who, despite his Irish name, was the son of a former Spanish governor of the country. Clearly Cochrane was away. Erskine suggested that we report to the local governor, who should at least be able to tell us where he was and when he might be back.

  We dropped anchor next to an American whaler and lowered a boat for the shore. The contrast with Rio could not have been greater. Instead of the noisy clamour of humanity we had experienced there, in Valparaíso we excited little interest at all. There were no slaves here and the people were, for the most part, dressed in warm homemade clothes. A few gave us a curious glance, but most went about their business and we had to ask at the customs house for directions. We were guided up a street that had been hewn from rock. It was so steep that there were rope grips on the sides of houses to help people climb. I understood then the use of pack animals, for a wheeled cart coming down would probably have ended up in the quay. In any event, the roads were too narrow for carriages, though the buildings were solidly made, mostly from local brick, with whitewashed walls and tiled roofs.

  At length, we heard a babble of voices and followed it to emerge into a market square. The people there were certainly well fed; the stalls groaned with a burden of fresh fruit and vegetables of every description. Fishermen sold their catch and in a blood-soaked corner, two butchers hacked at carcasses, producing cuts that no English butcher would recognise. From the flag outside the building, we deduced that the governor’s mansion was on the far side of the square and so we made our way across.

  Chapter 5

  José Ignacio Zenteno received us warmly and showed us into a comfortable study. He knew exactly where Cochrane was, which was not surprising when we learned that as well as being Governor of Valparaíso, he was until recently the Secretary for War and the Navy in the O’Higgins government.

  “Admiral Cochrane is at this moment fighting for the liberation of Peru,” he informed us calmly.

  “What!” I gasped. “You mean he has joined a new navy and is fighting a new war of independence?” I cursed my luck. I had only agreed to come to this godforsaken corner of the world because I thought that the fighting was over. Now no doubt Cochrane would try to drag me into this new affair.

  Erskine was alarmed too, but for very different reasons. “But what about our ship? Will the Chilean government still honour its promise to buy it if my brother is fighting elsewhere?”

  Zenteno laughed and held up his hands to forestall our enquiries. “Gentlemen, you do not need to concern yourselves. Admiral Cochrane is still commanding the Chilean navy. It is as part of a Chilean force under General San Martín that he is aiding in the liberation of Peru.”

  I knew that Peru bordered the north of the country and presumably the Spanish had been using it as a base to attack Chile. “Will he be there long, do you think?” I asked. I did not want to be waiting months for his return, but I certainly did not want to join him on some Peruvian battlefield either. I was already regretting my decision to come to this part of the world at all.

  “I am pleased to inform you that the liberation of Peru is nearly complete.” Zenteno beamed at us. “They have been there for quite a while and have already captured the capital city of Lima. It is simply a matter now of installing a new government to represent the free people of Peru.” I felt a sense of relief as he added, “I imagine that the admiral will return in the next few weeks. Now, gentlemen, I trust you will join me in some maté?”

  Erskine and I exchanged glances; neither of us had heard of this ‘maté’ and I guessed that it was some local alcoholic brew. It was early in the morning for spirits, but it would not do to refuse the governor’s hospitality and so we both readily accepted the offer. But instead of getting out a bottle, he rang a bell and a swarthy woman appeared, who I gathered was the honoured maté-maker. Her equipment was all prepared on a side table and consisted of a small kettle of water kept hot on a bed of charcoal and a wooden gourd-shaped cup with a silver rim. We watched as she half-filled the gourd with several spoonfuls of roughly chopped leaves and topped it up with the hot water. Then she turned and offered the cup on a silver tray to our gathering. Zenteno gestured that as the senior guest Erskine should go first, but he got a whiff of the pungent mown-grass smell coming from the cup and pointed at me.

  “Flashman, I insist that you should have the honour first.” He turned to Zenteno and explained, “As well as a long and distinguished military career, Major Flashman has done extensive service as a diplomat.”

  “You are too kind, sir,” I replied through gritted teeth as the woman advanced on me holding out the gourd on her tray. I picked it up and peered inside. The top was thick with floating vegetation, stalks and leaves, which did not look at all appetising. I glanced up at Zenteno, who nodded encouragingly. There was nothing for it but to drink from the thing.

  I started to raise the cup to my lips, but the woman hissed at me. Zenteno laughed and called out, “No, you must use the bombilla. I am sorry, gentlemen, I did not realise that you had not taken maté before. See, there on the serving tray, you use that to drink from the bottom of the bowl.” It was only then that I saw the thin silver tube on the tray. I picked it up, plunged one end into the gourd and sucked gingerly on the other. It was like drinking a harsh black tea, not entirely unpleasant, and at least the tube kept the roughly chopped leaves and stalks out of my mouth. I tried to hand the cup back, but another hiss from the woman indicated that I had not yet consumed enough and so I sucked again. When I had downed at least an inch of the brew, she relented to present the tray so that I could return the gourd to her. Then she refilled it and presented it to Erskine, who was expected to use the same tube that I had sucked on. He wrinkled his nose in distaste, but he was getting no sympathy from me after he had batted the cup in my direction earlier.

  “Would you be able to recommend a hotel in town while we wait for the admiral?” I asked, but once again this evoked a laugh of amusement from the governor.

  “I am afraid that there are no hotels in Valparaíso. There are only seven thousand people in the city and surrounding area. There are some boarding houses for sailors, but I would not recommend those for gentlemen such as yourselves. You could stay at the fort, but as you will be here for a few weeks I would suggest renting a house. I know of several which are vacant as their owners are working in Santiago. If you wish, I will ask my aide to make the arrangements.” I accepted the offer while Zenteno sucked on the same tube for his share of maté, which he enjoyed with lip-smacking relish.

  In the end, we spent two nights at the fort while accommodation in Valparaíso was being arranged. Santiago was just three days’ ride inland through mountain passes. So many of its prominent citizens had houses in both locations, which could be let out when they were not using them. On th
e first evening Erskine retired early to write a letter to his brother that would be carried on a schooner sailing to Cochrane’s fleet the next day. Left to our own devices, Jackson and I strolled around the town and viewed the church. Like most Catholic churches, it had a plain exterior but was highly decorated inside. By then we had come to realise that virtually all the Chilenos or people of Chile we met, were the descendants of Spanish settlers. Some of the early ones must have had children with native women, but there was little sign of the native Indians and their customs. The religion, design of buildings, language and much of the culture was that of Spain. It seemed the native peoples had played little part in the war and many of those who had chosen the side of Chile had done so through self-interest rather than patriotic duty. One such example we found in the officers’ mess at the fort.

  “I joined the army in Spain fifteen years ago,” explained Captain Garcia, a battle-scarred veteran of the fort’s garrison. “When the French came, I stayed loyal to my regiment, which fought for King Joseph,” he said referring to Napoleon’s brother who had been installed on the Spanish throne. “I fought with the emperor when he drove you British into the sea at Corunna. Were you there?” he asked, having already ascertained that I had fought in Spain. He grinned at the memory and added, “Napoleon was the best general I ever fought for.”

  “No, I did not go to Spain until the following year,” I replied. Then, as he was still looking smug at his part in a British defeat, I continued, “I imagine that things must have been rough for you when the French were defeated?” I remembered all too well the bitter guerrilla war fought between Spanish partisans and the French, with no mercy shown on either side.

  Garcia shuddered at the memory. “Those bastards killed many from my regiment. Some of them were slowly roasted alive over fires. I retreated with the French, but when they were beaten I knew it would not be safe to go home. I headed for the coast, grew my beard, changed my name and took a ship for Chile.”

  “Were you originally with the Spanish army in Chile?” asked Jackson.

  “Yes, but there was no heart in their army. I could not go home if they were beaten and anyway, the Chilenos paid more for soldiers. So I changed sides and joined their army.”

  “They might offer more, but it is always in arrears,” stated another soldier at our table and there was a general murmur of agreement from others in the room. Staring around I guessed that at least half of those present had formerly been Spanish soldiers and were now more mercenaries than loyal troops.

  “But surely there are other ways to get rich here?” I asked. “I have heard that there are silver mines in the north.”

  Garcia laughed and reached into his pocket. “Here, look at this,” he said unfolding a piece of paper on the table. “This is a share certificate for the Octopus Mine up the coast that I won in a game of cards. It gives me a ton of silver if I present it at the mine, so you would think I am rich, yes?”

  “Yes,” I agreed cautiously. Getting my hands on some Chilean silver was one of the reasons I was here. I was eager to understand the obstacles involved.

  “Well you are wrong. If I used it I would end up owing the government money. I will just gamble it away to some other fool who does not know any better.”

  “I don’t understand. How will you lose money? Will the mine not give you the silver?”

  Garcia laughed again. “No, the mine will give me my silver, less a mining tax. Then when I move it I will have to pay a transportation tax. Any provinces I cross will also want a tax. If I send it by sea I pay an export tax and when I bring it back ashore I pay an import tax. Trust me, my friend, the government will take it all. They tax everything that makes any money.”

  “It is true,” added the second soldier at the table. “A few months ago, some Americans tried to build a whale rendering plant on the coast. It meant their ships would not waste time boiling the fish for oil and could go back out hunting. There was no whale tax then, but when the government saw that the Americans were making money, it created one that took all their profits. The Americans now boil their fish at sea again to save money and the Chileans who worked at the factory are out of work. Every government official searches for ways to line their own pockets through bribes and taxes.”

  “It is the same the world over,” I agreed staring down at the certificate. It occurred to me that as I wanted to take the silver out of Chile, it might still have some value. Once I had the bullion on a ship, the government could whistle for its taxes. But how much would I have to pay to get the silver to a port? I certainly did not want to pay anything for the scrap of paper if it turned out to be worthless. As I looked up at Jackson an idea occurred. “Well if it is worthless, I would not mind having this certificate as a souvenir.”

  Garcia’s eyes glittered with interest. “What would you give me for the certificate?”

  “Well as I say, it is just a souvenir. Perhaps we could trade another memento. You mentioned earlier that you are an admirer of Napoleon. Perhaps you would like a lock of his hair?”

  “No sir!” Jackson jumped to his feet with his hand sweeping up to cover the cheap locket hanging around his neck. “This is mine. It is not yours to give. You said yourself that it was a fine thing to hand down through my family and that is what I intend to do. If you want that certificate you will have to give him something of your own.”

  “Is it really Napoleon’s hair?” asked Garcia. He was watching Jackson, who had turned to leave, only to find two of Garcia’s men now blocking the door.

  “We stopped at St Helena on the way here,” I answered for Jackson. “My friend here bought the locket from a woman who saw the hair cut from the emperor’s head.” I turned to look at Jackson, who was still holding the locket tightly in his fist. He glanced at Garcia and then at the two thickset fellows leaning against the door behind him. They had their thumbs stuck in their belts and it was clear he was not going to leave without a scrap if he wanted to keep his locket. I could feel the weight of the Collier revolver in my pocket, which gave me some confidence that I could quell things if the mood turned ugly. “Don’t worry,” I continued to Jackson, giving him what I hoped was my most meaningful stare. “I will pay you back the ten guineas you paid for it. Give Captain Garcia the locket and then we can leave, there’s a good fellow.”

  “I paid…” Jackson started and then tailed off. He must have remembered that I knew exactly how much he had paid and was deliberately giving the wrong amount. Perhaps he thought I was inflating its value for Garcia’s benefit, but he finally realised that he would have to hand it over. “I will never forgive you for this, sir, never,” he half whispered as he lifted the string over his head. He pressed the catch one last time to see the contents and then snapped it shut and threw it on the table in front of Garcia. Then he turned towards the door and one of the men who had been guarding it, now held it open for him, grinning broadly at Jackson’s submission.

  “Well it has been a pleasure doing business with you,” I breezed, reaching forward and picking up the certificate. Garcia’s two men were still standing by the door as their officer sat gazing down at the metal bauble in front of him. He did not answer but reached down and unclipped the clasp. If Garcia knew that the emperor was not a carrot top, I thought, this is the moment when things could get ugly. I slowly moved my right hand down into my coat pocket where it found the comforting grip of the Collier. I realised I was holding my breath as the Chilean opened the case and gazed inside.

  “He rode past me once in his carriage,” Garcia spoke in a melancholy tone as he stared at the tuft of hair. Perhaps it was my imagination, but it seemed an even more vivid orange colour than it had been before. The Spaniard continued, “And I saw him on horseback before one of the battles with you British.”

  “Was he close to you?” I asked, half fearing the answer.

  “No, half a mile away.” Garcia looked up and immediately noticed my hand still in my pocket. He grinned, “Do not worry, Major, I am not going
to double cross you. You are a guest of my governor, who was until recently the head of the army.” He turned to the men still standing at the door and told them to go and sit down.

  “Well if you are happy with the exchange, I had better go and make my peace with Mr Jackson,” I said getting to my feet.

  A minute later and I was standing in the courtyard under the stony glare of a very unhappy Englishman.

  “I will take my ten guineas now, if you do not mind,” he insisted stiffly. Several soldiers were sitting in the late afternoon sun, watching us with idle curiosity.

  “Come with me,” I murmured leading the way to some stone stairs that led up to the unmanned ramparts. Once we were alone I turned to Jackson and smiled. “What colour was Napoleon’s hair?”

  “What do you mean? It was red, of course. Are you going to pay me those ten guineas or not?”

  “Are you sure?” I asked again. “Think back, do you recall ever having seen a coloured engraving showing Napoleon with red hair? Marshal Ney, now, he did have red hair, it was often mentioned in the papers during his trial. Do you recall any news sheet describing his emperor as flame-haired?”

  “No but… You are just trying to get out of paying me,” Jackson exploded hotly. “You force me to hand over one of my most precious possessions and now you are trying to trick me. The lady I bought it from told me she saw it come from the emperor’s head herself. Why should I believe you? You have no idea what colour the emperor’s hair was either.”

  “Oh, I have a bit of an idea,” I replied casually. “I was one of his staff officers for three months before Waterloo.” At this Jackson gaped in astonishment. “Ask Erskine or Cochrane when you see them, they will confirm it. Napoleon knew me as Colonel Moreau.”