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

get round Ushant! Sick as a dog, I was!”
    “Goddamn it.” Sharpe turned back to the window. Was it all a misunderstanding? Was this whole benighted expedition merely the result of the time it sometimes took for news to cross between the old and new worlds? Had Don Bias been decently buried all this time? It was more than possible, of course. A ship could easily take two or three months to sail from Chile to Spain, and if Louisa had been in England when the news arrived in Galicia then it was no wonder that Sharpe and Harper had come on a fool's errand. “Don't you bury the dead in this town?” he asked bad-temperedly.
    Blair was understandably bemused by the sudden question, but then saw Sharpe was staring at the dead child in the Citadel's ditch. “We don't bury that sort of rubbish. Lord, no. It's probably just the bastard of some Indian girl who works in the fortress. Indians count for nothing here!” Blair chuckled. “A couple of Indian families won't fetch the price of a decent hunting dog, let alone the cost of a burial!”
    Sharpe sipped the wine, which was surprisingly good. He had been astonished, while on the boat coming from the harbor to the town, to see lavish vineyards terraced across the riverside hills. Somehow, after the grotesque shipboard tales, he had expected a country full of mystery and horror, so the sight of placid vineyards and lavish villas had been unexpected, rather like finding everyday comforts in the pits of hell. “I'll need to go to Puerto Crucero,” he now told Blair.
    “That could be difficult,” Blair sounded guarded, “very difficult.”
    “Why?” Sharpe bristled.
    “Because it's a military area, and because Bautista doesn't like visitors going there, and because it's a port town, and the Spaniards have lost too many good harbors on this coast to let another one go, and because they think all Englishmen are spies. Besides, the Citadel at Puerto Crucero is the place where the Spanish ship their gold home.”
    “Gold?” Harper's interest sparked.
    “There's one or two mines left; not many and they don't produce much, and most of what they do produce Bautista is probably thieving, but what little does go back to Madrid leaves through the wharf of Puerto Crucero's Citadel. It's the nearest harbor to the mines, you see, which is why the dagoes are touchy about it. If you ask to visit Puerto Crucero they might think you're spying for Cochrane. You know who Cochrane is?”
    “I know,” Sharpe said.
    “He's a devil, that one,” chuckled Blair, unable to resist admiration for a fellow Briton, “and they're all scared to hell of him. You want to see a dago piss in his breeches? Just mention Cochrane. They think he's got horns and a tail.”
    Sharpe dragged the conversation back to his purpose. “So how do I get permission to visit Puerto Crucero?”
    “You have to get a travel permit from army headquarters.”
    “Which is where?”
    “In the Citadel, of course.” Blair nodded at the great fort which lay on the river's bend at the very heart of Valdivia.
    “Who do I see there?”
    “A young fellow called Captain Marquinez.”
    “Will Marquinez pay more attention to you than to me?” Sharpe asked.
    “Oh, Christ, no! Marquinez is just an overgroomed puppy. He doesn't make the decision. Bautista's the one who'll say yea or nay.” Blair jerked a thumb toward his padlocked strong room. “I hope there's plenty of money in that box you fetched here, or else you'll be wasting your time in Chile.”
    “My time is my own,” Sharpe said acidly, “which is why I don't want to waste it.” He frowned at Harper who was happily devouring Blair's sugar cakes. “If you can stop feeding yourself, Patrick, we might start work.”
    “Work?” Harper sounded alarmed, but hurriedly swilled down the last of his wine and snatched a final sugar cake before following Sharpe out of Blair's house. “So what work are we doing?” the Irishman asked.
    “We're going to dig up Don Bias's