Flashman and the Emperor

by Robert Brightwell

  Mallee seemed far from convinced. “But we cannot escape while the Portuguese ships are there,” he insisted. “So we are trapped.”

  “We don’t want to move until the Portuguese fleet is back in Salvador,” I explained. “The admiral wants them all there together when he launches his fire ships.” As I spoke, I realised that at that very moment, the Portuguese merchant ships could be streaming safely out of Salvador harbour, now that their navy had us all bottled up in Morro de São Paulo. Mallee must have seen the doubt cross my face, for he gave a grunt of disbelief at my optimism.

  “Don’t give up on our admiral yet,” I warned. “I have seen him achieve many victories when everyone expected him to lose. He has already helped change Chile; he can change Brazil as well.” Mallee glared at me a moment longer by way of response and then stalked off, leaving me with my thoughts. I wondered how much Cochrane really had changed Chile. Certainly he had seen off the Spanish navy and captured their last stronghold on the coast. But when I thought of my trips inland with Maria, and my conversation with the sergeant who had bought Napoleon’s hair, things had not changed that much. Perhaps one lot of corrupt officials had been replaced with another, but the life of farmers and peasants went on as it had for generations. It seemed to me that the earthquake had wreaked far more change than the rebellion.

  Dawn next day brought the revelation that the Portuguese fleet was continuing to sail up and down the coast out of range of our guns. Moreira reported that another dozen marines had deserted in the night. I was pleasantly surprised to learn that Mallee was not among them, although others, plainly, were not waiting for the consequences of capture. But my confidence in Cochrane was rewarded; Portuguese fleet just sailed up and down the coast for the entire day, without showing any sign of wanting to attack. It did the same the next day too. The admiral even tried one or two ranging shots with his longest guns to provoke them, but they showed no inclination to come closer. Even Mallee, when I saw him, gave a grudging nod that we might have been right. As we lost only two more deserters on the second night, it seemed that others shared the same opinion.

  On the third morning, there was a new development. As the dawn light crept over the eastern horizon, a small cutter was revealed a mile offshore heading out to sea. There were only half a dozen men on board, but the sail was raised and it was tacking steadily towards the Portuguese fleet. The first thought was that it was Portuguese sailors up to some kind of mischief, but no damage was found. Instead, it was discovered that a cutter was missing from the shore near the fire ships. Cochrane was furious when he heard this report.

  “It will be our men from the Portuguese camp. They are taking a warning about our fire ships to the enemy.” His suspicions seemed confirmed a few hours later. After the men from the cutter had boarded the flagship, the entire Portuguese fleet was seen tacking north and heading off over the horizon. This final treachery was the last straw for Cochrane. He ordered all the remaining Portuguese crewmen removed from their camp on shore and loaded aboard the three captured merchantmen, which had now been emptied of any useful stores. The Piranga was then detailed to escort these ships all the way to Rio, so that these men would never again interfere with his plans.

  Then he turned his attention back to the preparation of the fire ships, which seemed to me an extraordinarily complicated business. The holds of the coasters had to be loaded with wood so that they would stay afloat and burn for longer. Wooden boxes were built around the remaining cannon on the Real and Guirani so that these weapons would not fire until they were in the midst of the enemy fleet. There were all manner of other measures too. It seemed to take for ever, but Cochrane was insistent that this time everything would be perfect. His previous fire ship attacks had all fallen short of his expectations and he was determined that this one would fulfil its potential.

  Days passed by while the rest of us paced about impatiently, listening to the hammering of carpenters in the little ships hidden in the river mouth and scanning the horizon for sign of the enemy. Eventually, a week had elapsed since the Portuguese had sailed away. On the eighth day a fishing boat with a familiar yellow sail could be seen making its way down the coast. I made my way down to the Emperor to see what we would learn from Señor Costa this time.

  “Do you think the Portuguese have sent him to find out what we’re doing, or is he here because he thinks he can tap us for more funds?” asked Crosbie as we watched the little craft drop anchor beside the flagship.

  “He is probably playing both sides for as much as he can get,” suggested Cochrane. “He is certainly an enterprising fellow.” A few minutes later and the man in question was climbing onto the deck of the flagship. This time Cochrane dispensed with the ceremony and invited the man to join him up on the quarterdeck. “Do you have more news for us?” he asked.

  “Of course, señor ,” replied Costa, his eyes already darting about the anchorage from his higher vantage point and missing nothing. He turned back to Cochrane and licked his lips before adding, “But it has been expensive to obtain. I have had to pay bribes to Portuguese officials and if they know I have talked to you, well…” He let the sentence trail off while he looked expectantly at the admiral.

  I could see that Cochrane was suppressing a smile as he considered this naked appeal for funds. “Well, I am sure that if your information turns out to be valuable,” he prompted at last, “we could consider some recompense. What have you heard?”

  Costa studied the anchorage once more as though searching for something and then announced, “The Portuguese admiral has learned that you are preparing fire ships to attack the port. Is that true?”

  Cochrane ignored the question. “What do they plan to do?”

  Costa scratched his belly in agitation as he replied. “They cannot agree, señor. The Portuguese admiral has heard how you have used fire ships in France and in Chile. The harbour is still full of vessels and he swears that he cannot protect them. The merchants are complaining to the governor and he has spoken to the general commanding the army. There is talk of sending regiments of soldiers to burn the ships here. But the admiral says you will attack any transport ships full of soldiers or send fire ships to burn the men alive.” At this Costa looked across at the shore and stared at the now abandoned camp of Portuguese sailors. Then he returned a somewhat doleful glare at Cochrane as though his feelings had been hurt. “They know that the men you told me were Brazilian militia were really Portuguese sailors who refused to fight.”

  I stared at the oily little weasel and did not believe a word of it. For all we knew the merchant shipping had all sailed while our ships were pinned against the coast. The harbour at Salvador could be empty apart perhaps from some trap that this treacherous fellow was sent to tempt us into. On the other hand, from what we had seen of the Portuguese admiral so far, he was certainly a cautious old woman, who was reluctant to press home an attack against Cochrane. But what Costa told us next left us all astonished at the naval commander’s apparent timidity.

  “The merchants are anxious to protect their ships and get their valuable cargos home. The Portuguese government also desperately needs the revenue from the taxes that this trade will generate. The admiral is suggesting that they abandon Salvador and sail back to Lisbon.”

  “But that is ridiculous,” I exclaimed, sure now that the man must be lying. “It would mean abandoning the thousands of troops that are keeping the rebels at bay in Bahia Province. Without supplies and support, they would be cut off and forced to surrender.”

  “No señor,” countered Costa. “You do not understand. The admiral proposes to take with him the army and all the civilians that want to leave.”

  “But he would be giving up Bahia Province, which is one of the biggest and most prosperous,” mused Cochrane doubtfully. “I cannot see the governor of Bahia agreeing to that.”

  “That is why the governor is thinking of sending soldiers to attack you here,” insisted Costa. He managed a weak grin and rubbed his palm against h
is shirt again before adding hopefully, “I trust that you find this information of value, señor?”

  Cochrane did not answer, apparently lost in his own thoughts, and so I spoke up. “The army would march down the coast, then?” I asked. “How many men do you think he would send?”

  Costa turned to me. “Yes, they would come down the coast if the admiral will not provide transport and an escort. The general has been talking about sending two thousand men.”

  “You seem very well informed for a fisherman,” I replied coldly.

  Costa shrugged. “I pay bribes to get information so that I can pass it on to you, trusting that you will value my services.” He shot Cochrane another hopeful glance, but our commander was staring back to the headland that was hiding his fire ships from view. I followed his gaze: two thousand men would easily clear away the marines and any other men in the anchorage. Then, if the infernal fire ships were not ready to use, they would be set afire here and Cochrane’s hopes would be dashed.

  We had always been concerned about a force marching south from Salvador along the coast. I stared at the wooden beacon, a steadily growing small mountain of gathered driftwood we had built to warn of their approach on the mud bank. It gave me an idea. Costa was lying, I was sure of it. There was no way that the Portuguese would abandon Salvador when we had barely done them any damage at all. But was he lying about the approaching army as well? It seemed to me that the best way to deal with a liar was to give him a taste of his own medicine.

  “Well,” I said trying to sound unconcerned. “If an army is coming, they will have to come down the coast. Only a fool would try to take an army through a mangrove swamp. And if they do that, they will be facing the guns of our fort.”

  “The Portuguese army has its own cannon, señor,” replied Costa. “They will be able to march with them along the coast.”

  “Yes,” I agreed and then I played what I hoped was my ace card. “But I suspect that they do not have shrapnel shells, do they?”

  “Shrapnel shells?” repeated the fisherman, puzzled. He was not the only one to be confused as Crosbie, mercifully standing behind Costa, was gaping at me in astonishment. He knew full well that we did not have any such shells aboard. But Cochrane was a more accomplished deceiver. Without batting an eyelid, he turned to Costa and continued, “Mention them to the Portuguese general, he will have heard of them. They were invented by a British officer called Shrapnel and they explode over enemy troops and send down a hail of lethal fire.” He gestured at me. “Captain Flashman was at Waterloo and he will confirm that it was shrapnel shells that did for Napoleon. They sent his finest troops running in confusion. They will certainly do the same for any men the governor of Bahia sends in our direction.”

  “Waterloo?” repeated Costa and I wondered if a Brazilian fisherman had heard of the battle. But he must have heard of Napoleon as he was the cause of the Portuguese royal family coming to Brazil in the first place.

  “Yes, shrapnel shells destroyed the army of the French emperor,” I confirmed. In fact, while I had been at Waterloo, I did not recall any shrapnel shells being fired at all, although apparently some were. Most exploded too early or too late and were consequently useless, but if the timing was just right then they could be devastating. I turned to Cochrane, “Perhaps we could arrange a demonstration of their effectiveness for Señor Costa?”

  “A demonstration of shrapnel shells?” repeated Cochrane uncertainly. He was clearly wondering how we would achieve this when there probably was not one of them within a thousand miles.

  “Indeed,” I pressed on. “Once Señor Costa has seen their devastating power, perhaps for the sake of common humanity he could be prevailed upon to warn his contacts in the Portuguese army in order to avoid any unnecessary bloodshed.”

  “Well if you are sure, Flashman,” replied Cochrane. “How long will you need to set up this demonstration?”

  “Oh an hour should cover it,” I offered breezily. “Perhaps you could offer Señor Costa some refreshment below while you wait.” Cochrane took the hint and led our visitor down to the main cabin. The poor fisherman looked quite bemused as to what was happening, which meant he had something in common with Crosbie.

  “What on earth are you doing?” the flag captain whispered to me as the hatch door closed. “You know we don’t have any shrapnel shells on board.”

  “Of course I do,” I said grinning. “But if you give the order for a barrel of gunpowder, a couple of shovels and a dozen strong oarsmen to go in the cutter, I will explain what I am about.”

  In the end, it was just over an hour later that I returned. I first had to row to the mud bank. Timing in this endeavour was critical. While I used my watch to measure how long a three-yard trail of gunpowder would take to burn, the oarsmen from the boat dug a deep trench to protect a slightly less than willing volunteer. Then it was back in the boat, taking the remaining marines with us to the opposite shore to arrange things with Lieutenant Moreira at the battery.

  “Are you ready, Flashman?” asked Cochrane as he resumed the deck with Costa.

  “All prepared, sir,” I answered raising a handkerchief over my head and watching the answering response from Moreira up on the battery. “They will aim for that wooden beacon,” I reported, pointing at the mudbank that lay halfway between the Emperor and the battery.

  “Are you sure they can hit that?” asked Cochrane. “It must be at least half a mile away.” I grinned; in truth it was no more than five hundred yards, but I did not doubt that the half mile distance would be reported to the Portuguese.

  “Why yes, the crews have been practising hard with their gunnery over the last few weeks.” I turned to Crosbie, “Could you run a red flag up the mizzen mast and drop it when I give you the signal.” A few moments later I gave the order, the flag dropped and… nothing happened.

  After a couple of seconds had passed with everyone staring at the fort in silent expectation, Cochrane turned to me. “Is everything all right, Flashman? Have they missed the signal?”

  I knew we had planned for a delay to give the poor wretch on the mud bank time to light his fuse and then jump into his already partly waterlogged trench. Then the powder trails on the bottom tier, the false guns, would be lit as they took longer to ‘fire’ before finally the charges on the real guns would be ignited. I just hoped to God that everything would work as planned otherwise it would be an embarrassing shambles. I hid my concern by replying to Cochrane that it took a moment to light the fuses of the shells. My last words were lost in a thunderous roar of cannon. Probably only I noticed that most of the gun smoke came from the top tier of guns; everyone else was staring at the wooden beacon. A second after the guns fired it disappeared in a huge explosion.

  In hindsight using the whole barrel of powder might have been a mistake. It blew lumps of wood fifty feet in the air. It was far more devastating than a real shrapnel shell, but Costa was not to know that. He stared aghast as wooden splinters rained down into the sea all around the mud bank and then fervently crossed himself while muttering, “My God, my God...”.

  Cochrane could barely hide his delight at the effectiveness of the demonstration. He turned to our visitor and innocently enquired, “So you will tell your contacts in the Portuguese army about our shrapnel shells?”

  “But… but of course, señor,” responded the still-stunned fisherman. “I will inform them without delay.” With that, he could not get off the ship fast enough and having taken his leave he was soon urging his oarsmen back to his own boat.

  We watched him go with mixed feelings. While the fisherman had told us much and been paid for his trouble, we were still little the wiser for his efforts.

  “Well, your demonstration should hopefully deter any soldiers from being sent against us,” said Crosbie. He glanced at his admiral, who was still standing at the stern watching Costa’s receding gig and drumming his fingertips on the rail, once again lost in thought.

  “That is if troops were coming here in the fi
rst place,” I countered, not willing to take anything at face value. “None of this sounds right to me. I know we have been blockading supplies into the port, but why would the Portuguese simply abandon Salvador without even attempting to lift our blockade? Surely their admiral is not that spineless. And Costa claims that the harbour is full of shipping when their fleet has had us pinned to the coast here for days. And as for their army, they know we would see them coming and probably put to sea long before they get here. No,” I insisted, “his whole story does not add up. There is something else going on, but I am damned if I can work out what.”

  “It does seem odd,” agreed Crosbie. “Perhaps they believe we will stay here and wait while we think that they are abandoning the port.”

  Cochrane turned around and thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. “Well, gentlemen, we are not going to find out what is really going on standing here. We will have to go and see for ourselves.” He pulled out his watch and having glanced at it, stared up at the position of the sun: it was well past noon. “We need to be prepared for all eventualities. Pass word to the fleet to ensure that they have stores for three months at sea. If the Portuguese really are leaving then we will need to pursue them. In the meantime, I want the flagship ready to weigh anchor in an hour.” He turned to me. “Flashman, am I right in thinking that one of your marines fired a mine in that beacon?”

  “Yes, but we dug him a good trench to shelter in and as soon as Castro is out of sight Moreira will send a boat for him. But never mind that,” I continued trying to focus on what seemed a far more important matter than a slightly scorched marine. “Where exactly are we sailing to now?”

  “Salvador Harbour, of course. You said yourself we need to know whether it really is still full of shipping or empty and some sort of trap.”