Burke in the Land of Silver

by Tom Williams

  De Liniers stepped fastidiously away and called the guard.

  ‘Mr Burke appears to have been taken ill,’ he said. ‘Take him to the Old Chapel and put him under guard there. He boards his ship tomorrow at dawn.’

  Burke was half carried, half dragged from the room and cross the courtyard to the cellblock. The Old Chapel was the last room on the corridor. The guards stood supporting him while the door was unlocked and then dragged him to the threshold and let him go. He staggered for an uncertain step and slumped to the floor.

  Lying there, he looked around him. No one had used the room as a chapel for years, though there was still a crucifix high on the wall. The furnishings had been removed but there was a camp bed in one corner and, as the guards stood by watching, he gathered his strength and dragged himself across to it.

  The room was at least bigger than the common cell and he had it to himself, but he did not expect a comfortable night.

  ‘I’ll need my man,’ he said, fighting the urge to throw up again. ‘He will be waiting at the entrance to the fort.’

  The Captain looked at him uncertainly. Burke, for all that he was covered in vomit, was still a gentleman and a diplomat. It might be best if his man was there to attend to him. A guard was sent to find William, and returned with him ten minutes later.

  William was shocked to see the condition that James was in, and insisted that he was provided with water. For a while, the guards were kept busy fetching and heating water and finding cloths for William to clean up. They seemed uncertain whether they should treat James as a dangerous criminal or as a guest. William, issuing orders with the confidence of his new rank, was happy to keep them unsure of themselves.

  Eventually, though, the guards left them alone, and James explained the situation.

  ‘What time is it now?’ he asked, once he had brought William up to date with events.

  ‘Just gone one, I reckon.’

  Despite his bruised face, James managed a grim smile.

  ‘So the guard will change in about three hours.’

  For a moment, William looked puzzled. Then, as he realised James’ plan, he, too, started to smile.

  *

  The new guard came on duty at four.

  Captain Pepe Sampaulo looked smart and fresh, despite the hour, as his men fell in for duty.

  ‘I hear you had some excitement,’ he said to the Captain of the old guard.

  ‘We had that spy brought in. He’s in the Old Chapel with his servant.’

  ‘We’re holding the servant, too?’

  ‘No – just the officer. The servant came in to clean him up. He was a bit of a mess.’

  ‘How long do we hold him?’

  ‘Just until morning. Then there’ll be an escort to take him to his ship.’

  ‘I’ll keep a close eye on him.’

  ‘You do that.’

  The Captain saluted his relief and led his men off duty, glad to be going to his bed.

  Captain Sampaulo walked to the end of the corridor to check on the English officer. The only other prisoners in the gaol were a couple of drunks and a pickpocket. Captain Sampaulo felt safe leaving them to their own devices, but the Englishman should be watched.

  A Judas window had been put into the door of the Old Chapel years ago, just in case it should be used in this way. Captain Sampaulo opened it, and looked in.

  The officer was lying on the camp bed, his uniform showing clear marks of vomit, though it was damp from where the man’s servant had been trying to clean it. The smell carried through the opening in the door. Sampaulo wrinkled his nose in disgust.

  The servant had the officer’s jacket in his hands and was dabbing at it ineffectually while the Englishman berated him for his inefficiency.

  ‘Can you not do better than that? I don’t want to leave here tomorrow looking like the town drunk.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. I need more hot water, and a scrubbing board and some soap would help. There’s only so much I can do with a bucket.’

  Now the Englishman seemed to become aware of the eyes on him and he turned toward the Judas window.

  ‘You’d best send my man out to get my uniform cleaned up.’

  Sampaulo looked at the servant – a wretched looking chap, with ill-fitting clothes and bruises on his face that suggested his master was vicious as well the traitorous spy everyone was saying he was.

  ‘Come on, fellow, you’d best get your master’s coat cleaned up before he finds another excuse to hit you.’

  He unlocked the door and sent the poor man on his way, watching sympathetically as he shuffled down the corridor and out into the night.

  *

  Once outside, James set off toward the west of the town, heading for the house where de Liniers had kept his treasure. It was, he thought, a long shot but it was his only hope.

  He arrived at the house with barely an hour to go before dawn.

  The door was of solid wood but the keyhole was large and the lock crude. The knife was still in William’s boot and the lock was large enough for James to work the knifepoint into the mechanism. He did not bother with any careful lock picking but just forced it open. It gave way with a snap that sounded loud in the darkness but no one woke to raise an alarm. He pushed the door ajar and walked in.

  He remembered where de Liniers’ study was and he found it easily enough, even in the dark. There was another lock but the door was flimsier than the one to the street. Forcing it was the work of a moment.

  Inside, James took a flint from his pocket and struck a spark. Soon he had lit the lamp and could look around him.

  He gave a grim smile of satisfaction when he saw the tricolore still on the wall. It was a dangerous symbol now that Napoleon had invaded Spain, and its presence confirmed James’ belief that de Liniers favoured France. But he needed something more if he was to prove that de Liniers was plotting against Spain. He just hoped that he could find the proof here, where the admiral stored his secrets.

  He opened the bureau. There were some letters from Ana, which he pushed impatiently aside, and some others, also in a feminine hand, which he put in his pocket to examine later. There was a book of accounts, showing that the Viceroy was drawing significant amounts of money from the public coffers, but James was sure that would be almost expected of a man in his position. It would hardly bring about his downfall. Beyond that, there was nothing.

  James looked around the room again. It was furnished as simply as he remembered. It was possible, he supposed, that de Liniers still hid things under the stone slabs of the floor, but this seemed an unlikely place for the sort of documents that he was looking for. Besides, without a crowbar there was no way that he could lift them.

  The first glimmerings of day were beginning to show through the shutters as James turned his attention back to the bureau. He pulled the drawers out and checked for anything that de Liniers might have fixed to their undersides but there was nothing. As he discarded the second drawer on the floor alongside the first, his eye registered something wrong. He looked at the drawers again, trying to work out what he had seen that was out of place. Suddenly his conscious mind picked up the detail that his eye had already noticed: one drawer was an inch or so shorter than the other.

  He reached into the gap where he had taken out the drawers and rapped at the back panel of the bureau. On one side, the wood rang hollow.

  It was growing lighter by the minute. He had no time to waste looking for secret catches or sliding panels. He forced his knife into the wood. With a splintering crack, it gave way. He reached into the concealed compartment, his fingers groping blindly until he felt the papers hidden there.

  He drew them out and held them to his lamp. They were in French, sealed with the beehive seal of Napoleon. This, he was sure, was the evidence that would prove de Liniers to be a traitor.

  There was no time to delay. James pushed the papers into his pocket and turned to the door. Even as he reached toward the handle he heard the street door open. He froze
, as the sound of footsteps approached in the hallway. He willed the footsteps to move past the study door but they did not.

  Burke stepped back, ready to face whoever might enter the room. He had little doubt, though, who it would be.

  The door swung open. De Liniers stood there in his admiral’s uniform. James’ first thought was that it was an odd outfit to be wearing in his private house at six in the morning. Then he realised the significance of de Liniers’ choice of dress. The uniform included a sword.

  De Liniers did not advance into the room but stood in the doorway, blocking any possibility of escape.

  ‘You know,’ he said, conversationally, ‘you’re supposed to be locked up in the fort.’

  When James made no reply, the other continued as if they were old friends chatting.

  ‘Somehow I knew you’d be here. I thought, “He’s in a cell. You really don’t have to worry about him.” But then I decided that while James Burke was in Buenos Aires, I wasn’t entirely safe. So I came here.’

  He looked at the drawers on the floor.

  ‘It seems I was right to come.’

  Only then did he draw his sword.

  ‘You’ve done me a kindness really. Thanks to your status as a representative of the British government, I couldn’t have you killed yesterday. But here you are, having broken into my house – and you were thoughtful enough to leave the doors with their smashed locks as proof that you were up to no good. Now I am simply an outraged householder. Fortunately, I am armed. And you are about to end your meddling for ever.’

  He lunged forward. James was only just quick enough to dodge aside. He drew his knife, which elicited a mirthless laugh from de Liniers who lunged again.

  De Liniers had room to move, though he was careful to keep himself between James and the door. James was being forced back, his knife no match for de Liniers’ sword. Desperately he looked around him for a weapon. Even a cloak would help, as he could wrap it over his arm and use it to entangle his opponent’s weapon as the gauchos did when they fought.

  He grabbed the tricolore from the wall and swung it to trap the sword as it curved toward him. The flag, though, was not as thick as a gaucho’s cloak. The sword ripped through the fabric, cutting James across the ribs.

  ‘First blood, I think,’ said de Liniers and moved in closer.

  James pushed forward with his knife, hoping to take the Frenchman by surprise, but de Liniers brought the pommel of his sword hard down on James’ hand and the knife fell to the floor.

  James retreated to the far side of the room, as de Liniers closed in for the kill.

  That was when he saw the sword mounted on the wall.

  It was a ceremonial sword, given to de Liniers when he was just twelve, at the very start of his career. But de Liniers had been a tall child and the sword was a respectable length. And for all the gilt and the inscribed blade, it was still a serviceable weapon.

  As de Liniers swung his blade to finish the fight, James grabbed the sword from the wall, bringing it down to parry the blow.

  Now James fought back, cutting, parrying, and thrusting for his life. His sword was shorter than de Liniers’, the events of the night had left him tired and weakened, and he was already wounded from his opponent’s first blow. But he was younger than the Viceroy and his sudden counterattack had the advantage of surprise.

  The noise of the fight had finally awakened the servant who stood behind de Liniers in the doorway, clearly terrified by what she was seeing. De Liniers glimpsed her from the corner of his eye.

  ‘Get help, you little fool,’ he called.

  ‘I’ll show them the despatches.’

  ‘Wait!’

  The girl stopped, trembling.

  ‘I don’t need help to finish you.’

  De Liniers moved forward, using his longer sword to carve himself space and pushing James once more toward the far wall of the room.

  As James edged back, his foot caught on one of the drawers he had discarded on the floor. He lost balance and fell. De Liniers raised his sword for the kill and the girl, still standing in the doorway, screamed.

  The scream only distracted him for a second, but it was enough. As the sword came down, James was already rolling to the side. The blade slashed through empty air and into the wood of the drawer.

  Now it was de Liniers who was off balance. James was already on his feet and moving to the attack. The older man had already recovered his balance, but his sword was embedded in the wood and he had to pull it free.

  It only took a moment but it was a moment too long. James stabbed into his forearm. De Liniers had just freed the sword but, as he did so, it dropped from his hand.

  De Liniers stood disarmed, blood pouring from his sleeve.

  He drew himself erect and stared Burke in the eye.

  ‘I will die with honour,’ he said.

  James held him at the point of his sword as he slowly manoeuvred himself toward the door.

  ‘Actually,’ he replied, ‘you aren’t going to die, and you will be left without honour.’

  The next moment, he was through the door and gone.

  *

  James had to hurry. Even if William managed to maintain his masquerade until he was safely aboard ship, de Liniers would raise the town against him as soon as he had bandaged his wound. The traitor’s only hope was that James might be hunted down and killed before he had the chance to pass on the French despatches.

  James headed for Thomas O’Gorman’s house. It was one of the first places that de Liniers would look for him, but he did not intend to stay there long.

  The man who answered the door was new and, seeing a stranger in servant’s dress, blood seeping through his shirt, he tried to shut him out. James blocked the door with a booted foot and shouted for Thomas. O’Gorman was in his bed, but James’ shouts roused the household. One of the servants who came to the door to help eject the troublemaker recognised him and hurried him in.

  O’Gorman, unshaven and hair tangled from bed was summoned to the morning room. He immediately ordered bandages and coffee (‘But not in that order,’ James insisted) and demanded an account of what had happened.

  ‘There isn’t time,’ said James. ‘I am pursued and must get out of the city. I need a horse.’

  A servant was despatched to the stables while one maid brought coffee and another took off his shirt and started to wrap a torn sheet around his chest as a makeshift bandage.

  Within minutes, the horse was at the door and James was pulling on his shirt and heading out of the room. He stopped only for long enough to take O’Gorman’s hand.

  ‘I doubt we’ll meet again, Thomas. You’ve been a better friend than I deserved. God bless you.’

  Then he was off.

  He should, he knew, have headed straight from the city. It was his duty to his country to get the proof of de Liniers treachery to those who could stop him betraying La Plata to the French. But there was another duty he had to fulfil first, though it meant riding toward the fort and the risk of discovery.

  Ten minutes after leaving O’Gorman’s house, he pulled his horse up outside Ana’s door. When the footman opened it, James ordered him into the street and gave him the reins to hold.

  The footman protested that it was his duty to remain in the house and announce a visitor, but James was already through the door and heading to Ana’s bedroom.

  Ana was awake and seemed to James to have been awake for some time. Her eyes were red: she had obviously been crying. As James entered, she sat up in the bed, pulling the sheets around her with an uncharacteristic modesty.

  ‘For God’s sake, James, get out! He’ll kill you!’

  ‘I’m going. But listen, Ana, I can prove he is an agent of the French. He knows this and he will pursue me but I can finish him. You need to get out now, while there’s still time.’

  Ana looked at him blankly.

  ‘Make for Monte Video. De Liniers has few friends there. I’ll meet you there in a fortnight.’
>
  Ana nodded dumbly, still clutching the sheets to her bosom. She seemed to James unnaturally stiff.

  He reached forward and pulled the sheets from her. All about her breasts and body were the marks of bruises.

  ‘He beat you.’

  Ana said nothing but started crying silently.

  James took her in his arms.

  ‘Get out. Go to Monte Video. I’ll meet you there and take you to Brazil.’

  ‘You won’t leave me?’

  ‘I have to go now. I have to finish de Liniers. Then we can be together.’

  She reached up and kissed him. It was a long kiss but, at last, she pushed him gently away from her.

  ‘I want him destroyed.’

  James nodded.

  ‘You have my word.’

  Then he turned, running for his horse.

  He had realised as soon as he saw the papers. He held the proof of de Liniers’ treachery and he had to give it to the man who would use it for the best.

  James was a British officer but he had seen the British betray their trust already in La Plata. He knew, however much he tried to pretend that he didn’t, that Princess Carlota was probably mad and certainly dangerous. The French were the enemy, the Spaniards would back de Liniers.

  James rode from the city, heading for the home of Paco Iglesias.

  He kept the horse at the gallop until he was well clear of Buenos Aires. Once he was sure that there was no one in immediate pursuit, he eased to a steady canter, eating up the miles between him and Iglesias’s estancia.

  He arrived, as he had the first time he had ridden there, just as dusk was falling. There was a cry from the lookout as he approached, and Pedro rode out with a couple of the gauchos to see who the stranger was.

  Burke’s wound had reopened with the effort of the ride and the gauchos were greeted by the sight of an exhausted man with his clothes covered in blood.

  At first, Pedro did not recognise him. When he did, he reacted to the friend he had ridden with, not the British officer he had delivered to de Liniers.

  ‘Madre de Dios! Let us get you in and your wounds dressed.’

  Paco Iglesias was summoned. He, too, was concerned for Burke’s welfare but he was also worried about why the Englishman had suddenly returned to his estancia.