by Tom Williams
The two were horrified. They had no desire to see their master’s window broken.
‘But you break windows.’ William appeared to be having trouble grasping their objections through an alcoholic haze. ‘Why can’t you break my windows?’
Jorge and Gustavo tried to explain. The Englishman was clearly the worse for drink so they had to explain it several times to make sure he understood. They didn’t just break any windows. They weren’t common criminals. They only broke the windows they were told to break and that was for a Cause. They were part of a movement for a free republic.
‘So who tells you what windows to break, then?’
For a wonderful moment, William thought they were going to answer him but, drunk as they were by then, they weren’t quite drunk enough. They couldn’t tell him.
‘We’re supposed to be mates, you and me. Mates don’t keep secrets.’
Jorge looked helplessly at Gustavo. They were mates, he explained, but they’d sworn an oath.
Then Gustavo had an idea. Perhaps William could come with them on their next mission. Then, if Miguel approved, he could join them.
‘That’s a grand idea,’ said William. ‘That’s what mates do.’
Jorge and Gustavo agreed that that was what mates do.
‘Let’s drink to mates,’ said William.
They drank to mates, to women, to the damnation of Spain, and to anything else William could think of. Only when they could think of no one else to toast did he stagger home.
His head ached already.
Tomorrow he would start to track down Miguel.
*
‘There’s definitely some sort of plot, sir. Whether it’s real rebellion or just a few kids letting off steam, I don’t know. But I think it’s worth trying to find out more.’
‘I agree. So far, we’ve got little good news for Pitt and the government. La Plata is a model colony of contented citizens and happy merchants. The town is barely defensible from land but as any enemy might reasonably be expected to come by sea, that’s not necessarily a great consolation to us. If we are to take home useful information we need to find some of these rebels that Pitt is so convinced are ready to rise against Spain.’
‘I’ll be out drinking for England again then, sir.’
James nodded his approval. He was confident that William’s head could survive any amount of wine drunk in a good cause. He would probably even enjoy it. So that night, and every night thereafter, saw William off to get drunk with his new friends with his master’s solid approval. The amount of liquor consumed exhausted any sum that could realistically be obtained by pilfering spoons, but William’s reputation as a reckless knave was now so well established that his drinking companions took it for granted that his affluence was the result of larceny on a magnificent scale. A reputation, once acquired, tends to maintain itself without any need for further evidence, so Burke felt it unnecessary for William’s thieving to continue. William’s drinking money was now dispensed by Burke directly from Colonel Taylor’s funds. Ana welcomed the new arrangement as the continual complaints of her butler, who counted the silverware religiously, were getting harder to deal with. What Colonel Taylor would have thought about it didn’t much worry Burke, as he had no intention of telling him exactly how his money was spent.
For a week, William came no nearer to discovering who Miguel was. Then, on a Tuesday night, Jorge and Gustavo appeared earlier than usual and in high spirits.
‘One drink and then we’ll go out. You can come with us.’
William nodded solemnly and they took their drink as if they were soldiers bracing themselves for battle.
Jorge and Gustavo led the way through the streets to another fine house. They glanced around to make sure that only William was watching them and then each, with a dramatic flourish, produced a lump of charcoal. William sighed. Graffiti! Well, that would bring the Spanish to their knees. He tried to look on the bright side. At least it wasn’t just breaking a window and running away this time.
While William kept guard, Jorge laboriously daubed up the slogan that Gustavo read to him, letter by letter from a piece of paper he held in his hand.
‘DEATH TO SPAIN!’ it finally proclaimed. ‘GLORIOUS VICTORY TO THE FREE PEOPLE OF AMERICA!’
The letters were somewhat uneven but the sentiment, William had to admit, was clear.
Jorge stepped back to admire his handiwork but, at that moment, a well-dressed Spaniard, accompanied by a manservant, appeared around the corner of the block.
‘Hey!’
Judging from the anger in his voice, he seemed to be the owner of the house. Jorge and Gustavo turned to run but, to their horror, William made no attempt to run off. Instead, he started to walk deliberately toward the newcomer.
With his servant beside him and Jorge and Gustavo remaining at a safe distance, the stranger was confident that he was in command of the situation.
‘What do you think you’re doing?’
William gave an amiable grin.
‘Decorating.’
The Spaniard stepped forward and, as he did, William suddenly closed on him. There was a blur of movement, a cry of pain, and then the Spaniard was lying on the ground. The footman, who seemed hardly to have had time to react, now moved to aid his master but, while he was still trying to take in the situation, William grabbed his arm and swung him into the wall. As the servant staggered to balance himself, William hit him hard in the stomach. The man doubled over and fell beside the first victim.
The whole thing had taken less than a minute and already William was kneeling beside the master, removing his cash and his pocket watch. He worked a signet ring from his hand and tossed it to Gustavo.
‘Here,’ he said. ‘This is for you.’
The two youths were staring as if they could not believe their eyes.
William straightened to his feet.
‘Come on then, lads. Best be off, eh?’
He set off the way they had come at an easy walk, whistling through his teeth.
After a pause, while they seemed to struggle to come to terms with what they had just seen, his companions followed.
*
Captain Witz enjoyed his dinner with Colonel Calzada Castanio. He had again ridden over to the fort, passing through the remarkable colonnade across the Plaza Victoria. He had learned that it was called the Recova and it seemed to demarcate the boundary of ‘official’ Buenos Aires, with the military and the Viceroy’s household holding sway to the east while the general population dominated the western (and larger) part of the square.
He clattered across the bridge into the fort but this time he was stopped just inside the gate and directed to the quarters of the colonel. These were in a separate block from the palace – a more workmanlike building from the days when the fort was a real defensive position. The rooms, though, were pleasant enough and the colonel’s servants had laid an impressive meal out for their commander and his guest.
The colonel was joined by two of his captains, and conversation over dinner was the typical talk of soldiers from different armies discussing their profession. After some introductory remarks about their respective military careers and the superiority of Prussian troops over French, the conversation had moved on to the experience of garrison life in Buenos Aires. The food was good, the Spaniards conceded, and the climate pleasant – not unlike that of their native country. The absence of women was an irritation and the consequently limited social life left them with too much time on their hands.
‘The men gamble,’ said one captain.
‘So do we,’ acknowledged the other.
‘But the men can’t afford to pay their losses and then there is violence. We have to stamp down on gambling all the time.’
‘Which is a bore,’ conceded his friend, ‘as every so often it is suggested that we set an example.’
The colonel shook his head exasperatedly. It was clear that any suggestion that the officers might lead by example had come from him and
that his subordinates were gently teasing their commander.
‘As for myself,’ he said, ‘I find the study of military history passes the time more than adequately.’
‘So there is gambling or a study of Caesar’s Gallic Wars,’ summarised one of the captains. ‘What else is one to do in this backwater? There’s no theatre, no opera. We have no bull-ring and there is no game for us to hunt.’
‘What do the locals do?’
‘Most of the decent people in the city are in the same position. The English gamble, the French seduce any women whose husbands are stupid enough to bring them here. We Spanish fawn on the Viceroy and pray for a posting back to Europe.’
‘But there must be people who have made their lives here.’
‘Oh, the criollos.’ His tone was dismissive. ‘They gamble money they haven’t got and kill each other for not paying their debts. They sentimentalise at the least opportunity, frequent whores, and fight. And they plot revolution.’
‘Revolution?’
The colonel coughed meaningfully. Soon after that, the meal was finished and the two junior officers made their farewells.
The colonel poured more wine for himself and his guest.
‘You do not like to hear talk of revolution, I observe,’ remarked Captain Witz.
‘That’s because, officially, there is nothing to talk of. But ever since the English allowed the Yankees their independence, every man jack with a grievance plots against Spanish rule.’
Captain Otto Witz feigned astonishment.
‘How can such sedition be plotted here? I heard no word of it at the Viceroy’s soirée.’
Calzada Castanio grimaced.
‘No, you wouldn’t. His Excellency is an intelligent and amusing man but a complete fool when it comes to matters military. His concerns are improving the commercial return on Spain’s interests in this area and improving the personal career of His Excellency – and not in that order. He has no interest in the views of the criollos and assumes that, because we have an army and they do not, their seditious views are of no account.’
‘And is that not true?’
The colonel drained his glass and reached again for the bottle.
‘It’s true that there is not much danger of a revolutionary uprising such as the English faced in their American colonies. The criollos are scattered and have no organisation. But they can make a nuisance of themselves. In the town, it is window breaking and slogans daubed on walls. Sometimes people are attacked. Only last night, for example, Don Fernando – a most respected citizen – was attacked and robbed by three ruffians. There is no doubt that it was political: his home was daubed with revolutionary slogans.’
Otto Witz was duly shocked at the news.
‘It’s worse in the country. The criollos there have more Indian blood and cannot be trusted. They strike from nowhere and vanish away. A government post is burned here; a tax collector is murdered there. We send out patrols but La Plata is a big place. Wherever we are, the enemy is somewhere else.’
‘And this is organised?’ The Captain’s voice trembled with Prussian outrage.
‘The rebels are well organised and worryingly well informed, but we have no idea who is responsible.’
Witz tutted in sympathy and diplomatically changed the subject. He told a very long and complicated joke involving a bear and a woman of easy virtue. It was a Prussian joke and not very funny but the colonel had by then drunk enough to be easily amused. By the end of the evening, James was confident that the Spaniard would have forgotten just how indiscreet he had been in his conversation with his charming new friend. James, by contrast, remembered every detail and recounted them all to William the following day.
‘You need to win the confidence of the rebels. If we can find their leaders, we can work with them to further England’s cause at the expense of Spain’s.’
‘I’m doing my very best, sir. I’m hoping that last night’s adventure may mean that I rate an introduction to Sr Miguel.’
William’s hopes were to be fulfilled that very night. Jorge and Gustavo appeared later than usual and explained that they had been summoned to Miguel. News of the attack on Don Fernando had spread across the town and Miguel wanted their account of what had happened.
Gustavo was full of excitement.
‘He said that we had done well and he wanted to meet the Englishman who was with us.’ He grinned. ‘That’s you,’ he added, apparently concerned that William might have forgotten.
William allowed himself to appear to share their exhilaration. In truth, the idea that he might be one step closer to discovering who was behind the unrest was more exciting than any amount of window breaking could ever have been. Jorge and Gustavo led him away from the Plaza Victoria toward the edge of the town, to the taverns where the gauchos drank when they rode in from the country. With their swaggering gait and wide-brimmed hats, these cowmen from the pampas were a different sort of person from any of the men William had drunk with before. They spoke Spanish but quicker than the city folk, swallowing the end of their words as if in too much of a hurry to bother finishing them properly. They all seemed to know each other, jumping to their feet as every new customer entered the place and embracing them with loud cries of greeting.
Toward the back of the room sat a young man whose indoor pallor contrasted with the healthy tans of the gauchos. Even before he leapt up, waving a greeting, William was sure that he was Miguel.
The young man pulled William to him and kissed his cheek. Miguel’s chin was stubbled and he smelt of garlic. William was unimpressed but at least he was working his way up the chain of rebels so he hugged and kissed back with enthusiasm.
‘Hey, inglés. You fight with us for our freedom. But why?’
‘You’re good lads. You’re fighting the masters. Well, I know what it is to serve a master and I’m all in favour of the man who will stand up and fight against him.’
Miguel banged his glass on the table in appreciation of this speech, while William gave an inward sigh of relief. He had been worried that his crude rhetoric would have failed to convince but it seemed that here, where the French liberty bonnet was still an object of admiration, such revolutionary platitudes still carried conviction.
Miguel rose from the table and moved toward a door at the back of the room. Jorge and Gustavo followed him, hustling William with them.
The room beyond was small and tightly shuttered, despite the warmth of the night. A single candle, standing in a pool of its own grease, gave the only light. Two chairs were pushed up against a small table and Miguel took one while William was gestured to the other.
‘Do you truly wish to join us in our struggle?’
There was something in Miguel’s voice that suggested that he was asking the opening questions of a ritual.
Oh Lord, thought William, it’s a bleedin’ initiation ceremony.
He was right: it was indeed an initiation ceremony. Questions were asked and William was prompted to give the correct replies. Solemn pledges were sworn and then, as William had somehow known would happen, his palm was cut so that he could mingle his blood with those of his fellow conspirators.
Finally, the main business dealt with, a bottle of wine was produced and toasts were drunk to their success and to the freedom of their country.
Although many terrible oaths had guaranteed the secrecy of their organisation, it seemed that when they returned to the main bar everyone was aware of what had transpired. There was some ironic cheering and William’s hand was shaken by everyone he passed. At some stage, the cut was reopened and he dripped blood onto his well-wishers, which only added to their good humour.
Jorge and Gustavo seemed embarrassed by the attention and were soon insisting that they must be on their way home. William, though, settled down to drink with Miguel and his new friends and, by the end of the night, it was generally agreed that he was the devil of a good fellow and that he would join them again the following evening.
William s
pent much of the next day sleeping with a damp cloth over his head, but by nightfall he was ready to drink with the gauchos again.
When he reached the tavern, soon after ten, it was already crowded but there were welcoming smiles as he pushed his way into the room.
In one corner, a group were throwing dice in an elaborate gambling game. William joined them and made sure that he lost slowly but steadily throughout the evening.
As on the previous night, the talk among the gauchos was mainly of horses and cattle. They lived in the saddle, working day in, day out with their herds, often sleeping on the ground with just a blanket for shelter. They knew too much of the reality of life on the pampas to share the sentimental attachment to Romanticism that was sweeping England. Yet, when they spoke of the estancias – the great farms where they lived isolated in the eternal plains – they spoke with the passion of those who have discovered their own place on earth and, it seemed to William, those who would fight to defend it. Sometimes he would hear a remark about the Spanish troops who might make an occasional half-hearted patrol around the province or Spanish bureaucrats who would assess the farms for taxes. Then the voices of the gauchos would drip with contempt and, unthinkingly, hands would drop to the hilts of the knives that all of them carried in their belts. For the English, by contrast, they seemed to have some degree of affection and, as long as William kept buying the odd drink, they seemed happy to have him share their night with them.
Miguel arrived at about midnight and made his way to the private room, beckoning William to join him.
After the inevitable embrace and kiss and the no less inevitable bottle of wine, Miguel turned to business.
‘I am glad you are here, William,’ he confided. ‘Jorge and Gustavo are good lads but they are fit only to break windows and frighten old men and girls. They’re not ready for a real fight, like us.’
William looked at Miguel’s narrow chest and the bony wrists that he waved excitedly as he talked. Miguel looked in his early twenties, scarcely older than Jorge and Gustavo. For all that he liked to frequent a gaucho watering hole, he was as much a city kid as the other two and not a particularly striking physical specimen. William doubted if he would last a full minute in a real fight but he said nothing.
