Burke in the Land of Silver

by Tom Williams

  BURKE IN THE LAND OF SILVER

  Tom Williams

  © Tom Williams 2014

  Tom Williams has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 2014 by Accent Press.

  This edition published in 2020 by Big Red.

  This book is available in e-format (ISBN 978-1-9162635-6-7)

  and paperback (ISBN 978-1-9162635-2-9)

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Afterword

  Dramatis Personae

  Real People

  James Burke: a British spy Boukman: a slave

  Thomas O’Gorman: an Irish merchant in Buenos Aires

  Ana O’Gorman: his wife

  De Liniers: an admiral in the Spanish navy

  His Excellency the Marquis Rafael de Sobremonte: Spanish Viceroy in Buenos Aires

  Commodore Riggs Popham: commander of the British invasion of 1806

  Colonel Beresford: British commander of land forces in the 1806 invasion

  Duke of York: Commander-in-Chief of the British Army

  Sr de Álzaga: mayor of Buenos Aires

  Lieutenant John Thomson: a British naval officer

  Maria Luisa: Queen of Spain

  Princess Carlota: her daughter

  Sir Arthur Wellesley: a British general (later Duke of Wellington)

  Admiral Smith: a British admiral based in Rio de Janeiro

  Lord Strangford: British ambassador in Rio de Janeiro

  Fictional Characters

  William Brown: servant to James Burke

  Molly Simkins: a whore

  Monsieur Goriot: a French merchant in Buenos Aires

  Colonel Calzada Castanio: a Spanish officer

  Jorge and Gustavo: young men who break windows

  Miguel: a slightly older man who encourages them

  Paco Iglesias: a ranch owner

  Pedro: his foreman

  Gomez: a fisherman

  Author’s Note

  James Burke was a real person, as were many of the other characters in this novel.

  His name really was James Burke and he really was a spy.

  Any resemblance to any other spy with the initials J.B. is an unfortunate coincidence.

  Chapter One

  The parakeets burst out of the forest in a flash of emerald. James Burke heard their screeching and looked up to see them arcing through the sky. After a month in Haiti, he still maintained his youthful enthusiasm for the novelty of the place and the strange, noisy birds were part of the adventure of being there. He envied them, too. He envied their freedom, the casual way they flew across the abandoned fields, while he and his men stumbled clumsily along below.

  Burke brought his attention back to the business at hand. His platoon was moving slowly across the ruins of what had once been a plantation field. The walking was not easy, for the field was covered in the stumps of cotton bushes, and the men were weighed down with their packs and the muskets that they carried. He saw one fellow stumble on a stump hidden in the weeds that were already reclaiming the soil. He heard the faint oath as the man’s ankle turned beneath him. It was O’Hanrohan, the youngest in the patrol. Barely more than a boy, he struggled to keep up at the best of times. Burke watched anxiously as he took a tentative step onto his injured ankle and relaxed as O’Hanrohan started forward again with only the faintest of limps.

  They had been about their thankless task for four days now. Four days of apparently endless walking across deserted fields in pursuit of an enemy that many of them were convinced would never be found. They were sweating into the thick red coats issued to them back in France and which they were now expected to wear in the tropical heat. Insects buzzed around them, biting incessantly. The powder in their hair clogged with sweat, leaving them desperate to rid themselves of their wretched shako hats so that they could scratch at their itching scalps. Imagining their discomfort, Burke lifted his own hat and scratched at his head.

  Although he was not weighed down with pack and musket, Lieutenant James Burke was not privileged enough to patrol on horseback, and the days of walking in the heat left him with an occasional light-headedness that increased the sense of unreality that surrounded the whole expedition. Only a few months ago he had been in France, where every street corner seemed home to some would-be revolutionary declaiming on the Rights of Man. Yet before these dangerously democratic slogans had been given time to work their way into his loyalties, he was sent off to the Caribbean to protect the rights of French citizens to keep slaves. King Louis might be showing himself impotent in the face of rebellion at home, but rebellion in the little colony of Saint-Domingue was to be put down with fire and the sword.

  The only problem was, as Burke was becoming painfully aware, that the colony might look small on the map, but it was big enough to conceal a rebel army from any number of French patrols. The slaves would appear from nowhere, burn a settlement, massacre the inhabitants, and vanish away again. Even the most sceptical of the French planters were beginning to mutter about voodoo.

  O’Hanrohan had fallen back again. It would not do, Burke thought. The Regiment of Dillon had a reputation to maintain.

  ‘Sergeant Dunnet! Attend to the line!’

  Dunnet moved toward O’Hanrohan and, seeing him approach, the young soldier hurried forward to his allotted place. Burke relaxed and brushed a speck of dust from his coat. He had bought his uniform second-hand. His regiment might not be fashionable but it was still expensive for a young officer to kit himself out, and Burke’s family didn’t have the money to spend on what his father would have called ‘fripperies’. But, second-hand or not, Burke intended to look good in his uniform. Before he had left France, he had found a tailor who, for a few sous, had fitted the clothes for him and he knew that he looked every inch the smart young officer. And smartness, whether in his person or in the soldiers under his command, was essential. The Regiment of Dillon served under the French crown but it was formed entirely of British troops – most, like him, escaping the provincial limitations of Ireland. They fought under the cross of St George, and their anomalous position meant that there were always those in the French army ready to pour scorn on ‘les rosbifs’ if they fell short in any detail of drill or turnout.

  ‘Jesus Christ! What in the name of the devil is that?’

  The exclamation came from a fellow to the right of O’Hanrohan and a pace or two ahead of him. For a moment, Burke could not recall his name, but then it came to him. It was Docherty, a solid man and one not given to over-excitement. Now, though, he was pointing at something on the ground and exclaiming so vehemently that the rest of the platoon had broken off their advance and were clustering around him.

  Burke stepped forward as the Sergeants yelled abuse at the men and cuffed them back into order. They moved reluctantly back to their places but remained restless. As he reached them, they settled, coming smartly to attention. The men nearest Docherty moved aside to let him pass.

  The charred remains of the cotton bush were no different from the dozens of others that had survived the fires set by the rebels. Tied against the blackened twigs, though, was the body of a chicken. It was white and the brown cords stood out against the feathers. It had been tied with its wings spread, so that it hung like a macabre crucifix, about a foot from the ground. Its intestines were piled in a careful heap in front of the body.

  The men nearest to him were shuffling forward, craning their necks to see
the source of the excitement. There was some muttering and the men began to fidget, looking nervously around them.

  ‘There’s another over here!’

  Across the ruined field came shouts as the men found more of the dead birds.

  Sergeant Geraghty came and stood alongside Burke. He was the senior of Burke’s two NCOs and had served in Saint-Domingue for six months before the Lieutenant arrived. Burke might be new to army life but he knew the value of men like Geraghty.

  ‘What do you make of it, Sergeant?’

  Geraghty took a long look at the bird while stolidly chewing the quid of tobacco that seemed to be permanently in his mouth. He paused to direct a stream of tobacco juice onto the intestines and turned to Burke.

  ‘It’s voodoo. It’s their religion, like. It’ll be that Boukman, like as not.’

  Just a few minutes earlier, the day had held nothing but the prospect of a sweltering walk to be followed by another night of ration biscuits and sleeping on the hard ground. Now, though, it seemed to Burke full of possibilities. For months, the army had been hunting the rebel leader, the mysterious Boukman. Part priest, part general, Boukman inspired a fanatical loyalty in his followers and fury and dread in the French settlers. The man who tracked him down was made for life. Captain James Burke. Major Burke! General Burke!

  With an effort, he forced himself not to smile.

  ‘Are you sure, Sergeant?’

  ‘I can’t be certain, sir, but I’d stake a guinea on it, if I had a guinea.’

  Now Burke allowed himself the smile and was rewarded with a grin from Geraghty.

  Burke gazed thoughtfully at the feathered corpse at his feet. ‘These chickens were killed recently. If it was him, he’s not that far away.’ Shading his eyes he looked across the field to the forest where the parakeets had flown from minutes earlier. ‘My guess is that they’re hiding in the woods.’

  Burke felt the eyes of the patrol on him, waiting for his orders. If they found the rebels, he would be leading his platoon into action for the first time. It was a sobering prospect. The elation that had filled him just a few moments ago was gone now. The lives of all these men were in his hands. He had to get this right.

  ‘Order the men to load.’

  Sergeant Geraghty barked his orders and musket stocks crashed against the baked earth. Cartridges were bitten off and powder and ball rammed home. Burke felt the thrill of anticipation in his men. They knew the order to load meant their officer thought a fight was imminent. After all their thankless patrolling, they were spoiling for action.

  Orders were shouted and the line broke into three separate groups, each of fifteen men. Burke took the centre with Dunnet on his left and Geraghty on the right.

  Burke had drawn his sword and waved it enthusiastically as he led forward at almost a trot. He squinted in the sunlight, fixing his eyes on the forest, hoping to see the rebels hiding in the trees, but there was no sign of them.

  They carried on, cursing as they stumbled over the uneven ground, but keeping up with the pace, muskets held at high port, slanted across their bodies.

  They were less than a quarter of a mile from the edge of the trees now. The forest stood dark against the brilliant sky but there was no sign of movement there. Burke glanced right and left. His sergeants were in line with him, the men following on.

  He looked back at the trees. Still nothing.

  The cry from his left had him swivel his gaze back to Dunnet. The enemy was there, almost on them.

  Now Geraghty yelled. More rebels had appeared to the right. And now there were black figures running toward him, screaming as they came. How could they have appeared so suddenly? Could he have been so dazzled by the sunlight that he simply had not seen them? For a moment, he almost found himself believing in the stories of Boukman’s magical powers.

  He shook his head, trying to clear his mind. The figures were almost on them. He had to take control of the situation.

  He heard his voice shouting the orders he had practised so often. The words had come out automatically. ‘Form two ranks.’

  A skirmish line was fine for carrying the fight to the enemy but not the best way to defend yourself from attack. To right and left, he heard his sergeants giving the same order and the platoon closed up, facing the rebels in two lines. ‘First rank, fire!’

  The first rank’s volley poured into the rebels.

  Burke watched as the shots struck home. Some of the enemy were almost naked and gouts of blood appeared on the black skin of their chests. Others wore their field clothes – European trousers and ragged shirts staining with crimson. Most of the rest had dressed in a mismatched collection of whatever they had stolen from the farms they had destroyed. A tall man stood stock still as he was hit and then buckled at the knees, the fine beaver hat falling from his head to hit the ground just before he did. To his right a one-eyed villain with a machete wore a waistcoat with a fob watch. Incongruously, one or two of the men wore silk shawls pillaged from the boudoirs of their victims’ wives.

  ‘Second rank, fire! First rank, reload!’

  The first rank barely waited for the order before dropping to their knees to reload while their fellows fired over their heads.

  The first two volleys had dropped a dozen or more of the negroes but the rebels outnumbered them by more than two to one. They did not need superiority in weaponry or strategy. Simple weight of numbers could well carry the day for them.

  The first rank had reloaded now and rose to fire, while the second rank bit urgently at their cartridges, but the enemy were already on them, spears thrusting forward, machetes rising and falling. The first rank were firing now, balls ripping into an enemy so close it was impossible to miss, but the rebels showed no fear. Burke had been told that Boukman’s followers believed that his voodoo powers meant that they could not die in battle. He had insisted that no man, white or negro, free or slave, could credit such a thing. Now, he saw men who acted as if they truly believed themselves invincible. Though the musket balls tore through their ranks, cutting down their fellows, still the slaves came on regardless.

  The patrol was closing into a square, each man defending himself and protecting his neighbour. In the centre, a few were free to reload their muskets but most had drawn their bayonets from their scabbards and were using them as swords, stabbing, twisting, and pulling the blades free to stab and twist again. They fought with the ferocity of the Dublin brawlers that so many of them were, but with the scientific viciousness of trained troops. Yet, for all their ferocity, Burke saw one scarlet-coated figure after another fall to the ground and, though more than twenty of the enemy had fallen, still his platoon was outnumbered. Out in the open, they would be overrun. They needed cover.

  The woods were impossible. They would have to fight their way through the rebels and then defend themselves among the trees, where the natives would have the advantage of familiarity. But the only other place to offer them any chance of survival was the village where they had bivouacked the night before. It was a good two miles to the south but its ruins were their only hope.

  ‘Push our southern flank. Get some movement.’

  The attack had come from the north so, though the rebels had encircled them, there were fewer men to the south. As the platoon directed its efforts there, the enemy fell away, leaving yet more of their dead lying on the ruined field.

  ‘Fighting retreat. Back to the village.’

  Burke remembered an afternoon at the French military academy where he had briefly studied the basics of command before being posted off to a ship for the Tropics. Outside, the mob roamed the Paris streets, but in the École des Cadets-gentilshommes the instructors had remained icily efficient. ‘A fighting retreat,’ an old infantry colonel had told his class, ‘is the most difficult manoeuvre you can demand of an infantry unit.’ And then he had told them how it should be managed.

  Geraghty was yelling orders. ‘First section, bayonets. Second section stand and fire. Third section, fall back and load.�
��

  The square had disintegrated but the enemy had given way to the south. Their attacks still came from the north. Every few minutes, the slaves would rush forward. There would be a confused melee of hand-to-hand fighting before a volley of musketry forced the rebels to fall back a few yards, allowing the platoon to move further south until each group re-formed for the next round of fighting.

  Burke saw O’Hanrohan stagger, unable to keep up with his fellows, even as he had struggled earlier. Was it only a few minutes ago that Dunnet had urged him into his place in the line? It seemed like an incident from another life.

  He saw Dunnet reach to pull the young soldier forward but the enemy was already on him. Dunnet, seeing his own danger, abandoned O’Hanrohan and ran forward to join the rest of his men. Shot whistled past him as the redcoats fired and the rebels checked – but Dunnet fell with a crude spear in his back.

  It was two miles to the village. Each mile was marked with the bodies of rebel soldiers and Irish redcoats lying where they had fallen.

  Four hours into that desperate retreat, Burke counted just fourteen of his patrol still standing, while more than fifty rebels continued to harry them as they fled. The village was less than half a mile off but Burke despaired that they would ever reach it.

  Geraghty leaned toward him, speaking softly so that the men would not hear.

  ‘We’ll not fight our way back there,’ he said. ‘Best chance – after the next volley, drop the muskets and run like hell. They’ll get most of us but a few might make it and they can hide out in the ruins.’ He squinted at the buildings, outlined against the light. ‘Best bet is the church. They’re superstitious buggers – they may leave you alone there.’

  Burke gave a grim nod. Geraghty was no fool. It was the best chance they had.

  Only a dozen stood to fire the next volley and just three rebels were hit – but it was enough. For a few seconds the slaves’ attack wavered and Geraghty gave the order to flee. The pathetic remains of the patrol dropped their gear and ran for their lives.