Free Sharpe 21 - Sharpe's Devil by Bernard Cornwell Page A

funeral, Blair?” Sharpe turned back from the window. “You're an important man here, aren't you? Or doesn't the British Consul carry any weight in these parts?”
    Blair shrugged. “The Spanish in Valdivia don't much like the British, Colonel. They're losing this fight, and they're blaming us. They reckon most of the rebellion's money comes from London, and they aren't far wrong in thinking that. But it's their own damned fault if they're losing. They're too bloody fond of lining their own pockets, and if it comes to a choice between fighting and profiteering, they'll take the money every time. Things were better when Vivar was in charge, but that's exactly why they couldn't stomach him. The bugger was too honest, you see, which is why I didn't see too many tears shed when they heard he'd been killed.”
    “The bugger,” Sharpe said coldly, “was a friend of mine.” He turned to stare again at the ditch where a flock of carrion birds edged close to the two dogs, hoping for a share of the child's corpse.
    “Vivar was a friend of yours?” Blair sounded shocked.
    “Yes.”
    The confirmation checked Blair, who suddenly had to reassess the importance of his visitors, or at least of Sharpe. Blair had already dismissed Harper as a genial Irishman who carried no political weight, but Sharpe, despite his rustic clothes and weathered face, was suddenly proving a much more difficult man to place. Sharpe had introduced himself as Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe, but the wars had left as many Colonels as they had bastards, so the rank hardly impressed Consul Blair, but if Lieutenant Colonel Sharpe had been a friend of Don Bias Vivar, who had been Count of Mouromorto and Captain-General of Spain's Chilean Dominion, then such a friendship could also imply that Sharpe was a friend of the high London lords who, ultimately, gave Blair the privileges and honors that eased his existence in Valdivia. “A bad business,” Blair muttered, vainly trying to make amends for his flippancy.
    “Where was the body found?” Sharpe asked.
    “Some miles northeast of Puerto Crucero. It's a wild area, nothing but woods and rocks.” Blair was speaking in a much more respectful tone now. “The place isn't a usual haunt of the rebels, but once in a while they'll appear that far south. Government troops searched the valley after the ambush, of course, but no one thought to look in the actual ravine till a hunting party of Indians brought news that a white god was lying there. That's one of their names for us, you see. The white god, of course, turned out be Don Bias. They reckon that he and his horse must have fallen into the ravine while fleeing from his attackers.”
    “You're sure it was rebels?” Sharpe turned from the window to ask the question. “I've heard it might have been Bautista's doing.”
    Blair shook his head. “I've not heard those rumors. I'm not saying Bautista's not capable of murder, because he is. He's a cruel son of a whore, that one, but I never heard any tales of his having killed Captain-General Vivar, and believe me, Chile breeds rumor the way a nunnery breeds the pox.”
    Sharpe was unwilling to let the theory slip. “I heard Vivar had found out about Bautista's corruption, and was going to arrest him.”
    Blair mocked Sharpe's naivete. “You don't arrest a man for breathing, do you? Everyone's corrupt here! If Vivar was going to arrest Bautista then it would have been for something far more serious than corruption. No, Colonel, that dog won't hunt.”
    Sharpe thumped a fist in angry protest. “But to be buried three months ago! That's long enough for someone to tell the authorities in Europe! Why the hell did no one think to tell his wife?”
    It was hardly Blair's responsibility, though he tried to answer as best he could. “Maybe the ship carrying the news was captured? Or shipwrecked? Sometimes ships do take a God-horrible time to make the voyage. The last time I went home we spent over three weeks just trying to