“What was?” Sharpe asked.
“To capture the harbor with just three hundred men! That’s why it worked. They couldn’t believe there were so few of us. My God!” Cochrane pounded the pommel of his saddle in his exuberant enthusiasm, “I’m going to capture the Spanish treasury and those prickless legal bastards in Santiago will have to grovel at my feet to get the money!”
“You have to capture the Citadel first,” Sharpe reminded him.
“Simplicity itself.” In his present mood Cochrane would have attacked the Rock of Gibraltar with just a boat’s crew. He whooped with delirious joy, making his horse prick its ears back. The horses were tired, breathing hard on the slopes and sweating beneath their saddlecloths, but Cochrane ruthlessly pressed them on. What did it matter if he lost horses, so long as he gained a country?
Then, two hours after they had encountered the Mayor’s delegation on the riverbank, the road breasted a low ridge and there, hazed with the smoke of its fires and dominated by the great Citadel within the river’s bend, lay Valdivia.
Sharpe was about to ask just how Cochrane wanted to approach the Citadel, but His Lordship, seeing the prize so close, had already scraped back his heels and was shouting at Harper to hold the flag high. “We’ll go straight for them! Straight for them! The devil take us if we fail! Go! Go! Go!”
“God save Ireland!” Harper shouted the words like a war cry, then he too raked back his heels.
“Jesus wept,” Sharpe said, and followed. This was not war, it was madness, a race, an idiocy. An Admiral, a Dublin publican, an English farmer and sixteen rebels were attacking the biggest fort in Chile, and doing it as though it were a child’s game. Harper, his horse pounding alongside Cochrane, held the flag high so that its fringed symbol streamed in the wind. Cochrane had drawn his sword and Sharpe now struggled to do the same, but pulling a long blade free when trying to stay aboard a galloping horse was not the easiest task. He managed it just as the horsemen funneled into the town itself, clattering onto a narrow street which led to the main square. A woman carrying a tray of bread tripped in her frantic effort to get out of their way. Fresh loaves spilled across the roadway. Sparks chipped off the cobbles from the horses’ hooves. A priest shrank into a doorway, a child screamed, then the horsemen were in the main square and Cochrane was shouting at the fortress to open its gates.
“Open! Open!” he shouted in Spanish, and maybe it was the sight of the flag, or perhaps the urgency of the horsemen that suggested they were fugitives from the disasters that were known to have occurred in the harbor, but magically, just as every other Spanish fortress had opened its gates, so this one threw open its entrance.
The horses crashed across the bridge. Cochrane and Harper were in the lead. Cochrane had a drawn sword, and the sight of the bare blade made the officer in the gateway shout in alarm, but it was too late. Harper dropped the tip of the flag and, at full gallop and with all his huge weight behind the flag’s staff, he drove the tip of the pole into the officer’s chest. There was an explosion of blood, a crunch of bone, then the officer went down with a shattered chest and a blood-soaked flag impaled in his ribs, while Harper, letting the staff go, was through the archway and into the outer courtyard.
“Surrender! Surrender!” Cochrane was screaming the word in a demented voice, flailing at panicked soldiers with the flat of his drawn sword. “Drop your muskets! Surrender!”
A musket fired from an upper window and the bullet flattened itself on the cobbles, but no other resistance was offered. The gate to the inner courtyard, hard by the Angel Tower, was closed. All around Sharpe the Spanish soldiers were throwing down their muskets. Cochrane was already out of his saddle, hurling men aside to reach a door into the main buildings where, he supposed, the treasury of a defeated empire would be found. His sailors followed him, abandoning their horses in the yard and screaming their leader’s name as a war shout. It was the sound of that name that did the most damage. The Spanish soldiers, hearing that the devil Cochrane was among them, dropped to their knees rather than fight.
Sharpe threw himself out of the saddle. He knew the geography of the fort better than Cochrane and, with Harper beside him, he ran into the corridor that led to the inner guardroom. Footsteps thumped on floorboards above as men tried to escape the invaders. A pistol fired somewhere. A woman screamed.
Sharpe pushed open the door that led to the inner courtyard. A nine-pounder cannon stood there, facing the gate, and with it was a crew of four men who clearly had orders to fire the gun as soon as the gate was opened. “Leave it alone!” Sharpe shouted. The gun’s crew turned and Sharpe saw that Captain Marquinez was its commander. Marquinez, as exquisitely uniformed as ever, saw Sharpe and foolishly yelped that his men should slew the gun around to face Sharpe.
There was no time to complete such a clumsy maneuver. Sharpe charged the gun.
A second man turned. It was Dregara. The Sergeant was holding a linstock to fire the cannon, but now dropped the burning match and fumbled to unsling the carbine from his shoulder.
“Stop him!” Marquinez screamed, then fled to the door of the Angel Tower. Sergeant Dregara raised the carbine, but too late, for Sharpe was already on him. The cavalryman backed away, tripped on the gun’s trail, and fell. Sharpe slashed down with the sword, driving the carbine aside. Dregara tried to seize the sword blade, but Sharpe whipped the steel hard away, ripping off two of the cavalryman’s fingers. Dregara hissed with pain, then lashed up with his boot, trying to kick Sharpe’s groin. Sharpe swatted the kick aside with his left hand, then drove the sword with his right. He plunged it into Dregara’s belly, then sliced it upward, using all his strength, so that the blade tore through the muscles and cartilage to pierce the cavalryman’s chest cavity. The ribs stopped the slashing cut so Sharpe rammed the blade down, twisted it, then pulled it free. Dregara gave a weird, almost feminine, scream. Blood welled to fill his belly’s cavity, then spilled bright onto the cobbles of the yard where so many rebels had been executed. The other two men of the gun’s makeshift crew had tried to flee, but Harper had caught them both. He felled one with a fist, the other with a cutlass stroke.
The dying Dregara twitched like a landed fish. Sharpe stepped across the cannon’s trail, around the puddling blood, then ran at the door of the Angel Tower.
He hit the door with his shoulder, gasped in pain and bounced off. Marquinez, safe inside the tower, had locked its door.
Behind Sharpe, Dregara gave a last gasp and died. The inner courtyard gate scraped open and Cochrane stood there, triumphant. “It’s ours! They’ve surrendered!”
“Bautista?”
“God knows where he is! Come and help yourselves to the plunder!”
“We’ve got business in here.”
Harper had seized a spike and now, with Sharpe’s help, he turned the heavy cannon. It was a British gun, decorated with the British royal cipher, evidently one of the many cannons given by Britain to help Spain defeat Napoleon. The trail scraped on the cobbles and the ungreased axle protested, but finally they succeeded in swiveling the gun around until its bronze barrel, which Sharpe suspected was charged with canister, faced directly at the door of the Angel Tower. The door was only ten paces away. According to Marcos, the soldier who had told Vivar’s story at Puerto Crucero, this door was the only way into the mysterious Angel Tower which, like a castle turret, was a fortress within a fortress. This ancient stone tower had withstood rebellion, war, earthquake and fire. Now it would meet Sharpe.
He plucked the fallen linstock from beside the disemboweled body of Sergeant Dregara, told Harper to stand aside, then touched the linstock to the quill.
The gun’s sound echoed in the courtyard like the clap of doom. The gun had been double-shotted. A canister had been rammed down on top of a roundshot, and both projectiles now cracked in smoke and flame from the gun’s barrel. The gun recoiled across the yard, crushing Dregara’s body before it smacked brutally hard against the guardroom wall.
The door to the
Angel Tower, struck by the exploding load of canister, simply vanished. One moment there had been a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron, and the next there were empty hinges and charred splinters of wood. The cannonball whipped through the smoke and wreckage to ricochet around the downstairs chamber of the tower.
When the noise and smoke subsided Sharpe stepped cautiously through the wreckage. He had the bloody sword blade in his hand. He expected to encounter the fetid stench of ancient dungeons and recent death, but there was only the acrid smell of the cannon’s smoke inside the tower. The lowest story of the tower was a single room that was disappointingly commonplace: no barred cells, no racks or whips or manacles, nothing but a round whitewashed room that held a table, two chairs and a stone staircase that circled around the wall to disappear through a hole in the ceiling. That ceiling was made of thick timber planks that had been laid across huge crossbeams.
Harper had scooped up Dregara’s carbine. He cocked the gun and edged up the stairs, keeping his broad back against the tower’s outer wall. No noise came from the upper floors of the tower.
Sharpe drew a pistol and followed. Halfway to the gaping hole in the ceiling he reached out, held Harper back, and stepped past him. “My bird,” he said softly.
“Careful, now,” Harper whispered unnecessarily.
Sharpe crept up the stair. He carried his sword in his left hand, the heavy pistol in his right. “Marquinez!” he called.
There was no answer. There was no sound at all from the upper floors.
“Marquinez!” Sharpe called again, but still no answer. Sharpe’s boots grated on the stone stairs. Each step took an immense effort of will. The butt of the pistol was cold in his hand. He could hear himself breathing. Every second he expected to see the blaze of a gun from the trapdoorlike hole that gaped at the stair’s head.
He took another step, then another. “Marquinez!”
A gun fired. The sound was thunderous, like a small cannon.
Sharpe swore and ducked. Harper held his breath. Then, slowly, both men realized that no bullet had come near either of them. It was the sound of the gun, loud and echoing, that had stunned them.
“Marquinez!” Sharpe called.
There was a click, like a gun being cocked.
“For God’s sake,” Sharpe said, “there are hundreds of us! You think you can fight us all?”
“Oh, by Jesus, look at that, will you?” Harper was staring at a patch of the timber ceiling not far from the stairway. Blood was oozing between the planks to form bright droplets which coalesced, quivered, then splashed down to the floor beneath.
Sharpe ran up the stairs, no longer caring what noise he made. He pounded through the open trapdoor to find himself in another, slightly smaller, but perfectly circular room that took up all the rest of the space inside the tower. There had once been another floor, but it had long fallen in and its wreckage removed, and all that was left was a truncated stair which stopped halfway around the wall.
But the rest of the room was an astonishment. It was a sybaritic cell, a celebration of comfort. It was no prison, unless a prison would be warmed with a big stone fireplace and lit by candles mounted in a lantern which hung from the apex of the stone roof. The walls, which should have been of cheerless stone, were draped with rugs and scraps of tapestry to make a soft, warm chamber. The wooden floor was scattered with more rugs, some of them fur pelts, while another pelt was draped on the bed, which stood in the very center of the circular room and on which lay the remains of Captain-General Miguel Bautista. Or rather what Sharpe supposed had been Captain-General Miguel Bautista, for all that was left of the Captain-General was a headless body dressed in the simple black and white uniform that Sharpe remembered well.
Bautista’s head had disappeared. It had been blown away by Harper’s seven-barreled gun with which Bautista had committed suicide. The gun lay on his trunk that had spilled so much blood onto the floorboards. Some blood had matted in the fur of the bed’s coverlet, but most had puddled on the floor and run through the cracks between the ancient boards.
All around the room’s outer edge were boxes. Plain wooden boxes. Between the boxes was a corridor which led to an open door. Sharpe had been told there was only the one entrance to the tower, but he had found a second. The stone around this second door had a raw, new appearance, as though it had only recently been laid. Sharpe, still holding his weapons, walked between the boxes and through the new doorway, and found himself in Captain Marquinez’s quarters—the very same rooms in which the handsome Captain had received them on their first day in Valdivia.
Marquinez was sitting on his bed, holding a pistol to his head. He was shaking with fear.
“Put the gun down,” Sharpe said quietly.
“He made me promise! He said he couldn’t live without me!”
Sharpe opened his mouth, did not know what to say, so closed it again. Harper, who had stepped into the room behind Sharpe, said something under his breath.
“I loved him!” Marquinez wailed the declaration.
“Oh, Jesus,” Sharpe said, then he crossed the room and lifted the pistol from Marquinez’s nerveless fingers. “Where’s Blas Vivar?”
“I don’t know, señor, I don’t know.” Marquinez was in tears now. He had begun to shake, then slid down to his knees so that he was at Sharpe’s feet where he wrapped his arms around Sharpe’s legs like a slave beseeching for life. “I don’t know!”
Sharpe reached down and disengaged the arms, then gestured toward the tower. “What’s in the boxes, Marquinez?”
“Gold, plate, pearls, coin. We were going to take it back to Spain. We were going to live in Madrid and be great men.” He was weeping again. “It was all going to be so wonderful!”
Sharpe gripped Marquinez’s black hair and tipped the man’s tearful face back. “Is Blas Vivar here?”
“No, señor, I swear it!”
“Did your lover ambush Vivar?”
“No, señor!”
“So where is he?”
“We don’t know! No one knows!”
Sharpe twisted his grip, tugging Marquinez’s hair painfully. “But you were the one who took the dog to Puerto Crucero and buried it?”
“Yes, señor, yes!”
“Why?”
“Because he ordered me to. Because it was embarrassing that we could not find the Captain-General’s body. Because Madrid was demanding to know what had happened to General Vivar! We didn’t know, but we thought he must be dead, so I found a dead dog and put that in a box instead. At least the box would smell right!” Marquinez paused. “I don’t know where he is! Please! We would have killed him, if we could, because General Vivar had found out about us, and he was threatening to tell the church of our sin, but then he vanished! Miguel said it had to be the rebels, but we never found out! It wasn’t our doing! It wasn’t!”
Sharpe released Marquinez’s hair. “Bugger,” he said. He released the flint on his pistol and pushed the weapon back into his belt. “Bugger!”
“But look, señor!” Marquinez had climbed to his feet and, eager as a puppy for approval, edged into the tower room which had been his secret trysting place. “Look, señor, gold! And we have your sword, see?” He ran to a box, opened it, and drew out Sharpe’s sword. Harper was opening other boxes and whistling with astonishment, though he was not so astonished to forget to fill his pockets with coins. “Here, señor.” Marquinez held out Sharpe’s sword.
Sharpe took it, unbuckled the borrowed scabbard, and strapped his own sword in its place. He drew the familiar blade. It looked very dull in the dim lantern light.
“No, señor!” Marquinez thought Sharpe was going to kill him.
“I’m not going to kill you, Marquinez. I might kill someone else, but not you. Tell me where Bautista’s quarters are.”
Sharpe left Harper in his Aladdin’s cave, went through Marquinez’s rooms, across a landing, down a long corridor, and into a stark, severe chamber. The walls were white, the furniture function
al, the bed nothing but a campaign cot covered with thin blankets. This was how Bautista wanted the world to see him, while the tower had been his secret and his fantasy. Now Lord Cochrane sat at Bautista’s plain table with two pieces of paper in front of him. Three of Cochrane’s sailors were searching the room’s cupboards, but were evidently finding nothing of great value. Cochrane grinned as Sharpe came through the door. “You found me! Well done. Any news of Bautista?”
“He’s dead. Blew his own head off.”
“Cowardly way out. Found any treasure?”
“A whole room full of it. Top of the tower.”
“Splendid! Go fetch, lads!” Cochrane snapped his fingers and his three men ran out into the corridor.
Sharpe walked to the table and leaned over Cochrane’s two pieces of paper. One he had never seen before, but he recognized the other as the coded message that had been concealed in Bonaparte’s portrait. Bautista must have kept the coded message, and Cochrane had found it. Sharpe suspected that the message was the most important thing in all the Citadel for Cochrane. The Scotsman talked of whores and gold, but really he had come for this scrap of paper that he was now translating by using the code that was written on the other sheet of paper. “Is there a Colonel Charles?” Sharpe asked.
“Oh, yes, but it wouldn’t have done for anyone to think that Boney was writing to me, would it? So Charles was our go-between.” Cochrane smiled happily, then copied another letter from the code’s key.
“Where’s Vivar?” Sharpe asked.
“He’s safe. He’s not a happy man, but he’s safe.”
“You made a bloody fool of me, didn’t you?”
Cochrane heard the dangerous bite in Sharpe’s voice, and leaned back. “No, I didn’t. I don’t think anyone could make a fool of you, Sharpe. I deceived you, yes, but I had to. I’ve deceived most people here. That doesn’t make them fools.”
“And Marcos? The soldier who told the story of Vivar being a prisoner in the Angel Tower? You put him up to it?”
Cochrane grinned. “Yes. Sorry. But it worked! I rather wanted your help during the assault.”
Sharpe 3-Book Collection 7: Sharpe’s Revenge, Sharpe’s Waterloo, Sharpe’s Devil Page 100
