Read Online Sharpe 21 - Sharpe's Devil by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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bravado. After all, he had made me sail for a week through waters patroled by the rebel navy, but later I heard rumors that Don Bias had gone ashore to meet those rebels. To talk with them. I don't know if that is true, but on my voyage home with the news of Don Bias's disappearance, we captured a rebel pinnace with a dozen men aboard and two of them told me that the devil Cochrane himself had been waiting to meet Don Bias, but that after two days they decided he was not coming, and so Cochrane went away.”
“You believed them?”
Ardiles shrugged. “Do dying men tell lies or truth? My belief, Englishman, is that they were telling the truth, and I think Don Bias died when he tried to resurrect the meeting with the rebels. But you believe Don Bias to be alive, yes?”
Sharpe hesitated, but Ardiles had favored him with a revelation, and Sharpe's truth was nowhere near so dangerous, so he told it. “No.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because I've been paid to look for him. Maybe I shall find his dead body?” Because even that, Sharpe had decided, would give Louisa some small comfort. It would, at the very least, offer her certainty and if Sharpe could arrange to have the body carried home to Spain then Louisa could bury Don Bias in his family's vault in the great cathedral in Santiago de Compostela.
Ardiles scoffed at Sharpe's mild hopes. He waved northward through the spitting sleet and the spume and the wild waves' turmoil. “That's a whole continent up there! Not an English farmyard! You won't find a single body in a continent, Englishman, not if someone else has decided to hide it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because if my tale of carrying Don Bias to meet the rebels is right, then Don Bias was not just a soldier, but a soldier playing politics, and that's a more dangerous pastime than fighting. Besides, if the Spanish high command decides not to help you, how will you achieve anything?”
“By bribes?” Sharpe suggested.
Ardiles laughed. “I wish you luck, Englishman, but if you're offering money they'll just tell you what you want to hear until you've no money left, then they'll clean their knife blades in your guts. Take my advice! Vivar's dead! Go home!”
Sharpe crouched against a sudden attack of wind-slathered foam that shrieked down the deck and smashed white against the helmsman and his companion. “What I don't understand,” Sharpe shouted when the sea had sucked itself out of the scuppers, “is why the rebels haven't boasted about Don Bias's death! If you're a rebel and you kill or capture your enemy's commander, why keep it a secret? Why not trumpet your success?”
“You expect sense out of Chile?” Ardiles asked cynically.
Sharpe ducked again as the wind flailed more salt foam across the quarterdeck. “Don Bias's widow doesn't believe it was the rebels who attacked her husband. She thinks it was Captain-General Bautista.”
Ardiles looked grimmer than ever. “Then Don Bias's widow had best keep her thoughts to herself. Bautista is not a man to antagonize. He has pride, a memory and a taste for cruelty.”
“And for corruption?” Sharpe asked.
Ardiles paused, as though weighing the good sense of continuing this conversation, then he shrugged. “Miguel Bautista is the prince of thieves, but that doesn't mean he won't one day be the ruler of Spain. How else do men become great, except by extortion and fear? I will give you some advice, Englishman,” Ardiles's voice had become fierce with intensity, “don't make an enemy of Bautista. You hear me?”
“Of course.” The warning seemed extraordinary to Sharpe, a testimony to the real fear that Miguel Bautista, Vivar's erstwhile enemy, inspired.
Ardiles suddenly grinned, as though he wanted to erase the grimness of his last words. “The trouble with Don Bias, Englishman, was that he was very close to being a saint. He was an honorable man, and you know what happens to honorable men—they prove to be an embarrassment.
“You believed them?”
Ardiles shrugged. “Do dying men tell lies or truth? My belief, Englishman, is that they were telling the truth, and I think Don Bias died when he tried to resurrect the meeting with the rebels. But you believe Don Bias to be alive, yes?”
Sharpe hesitated, but Ardiles had favored him with a revelation, and Sharpe's truth was nowhere near so dangerous, so he told it. “No.”
“So why are you here?”
“Because I've been paid to look for him. Maybe I shall find his dead body?” Because even that, Sharpe had decided, would give Louisa some small comfort. It would, at the very least, offer her certainty and if Sharpe could arrange to have the body carried home to Spain then Louisa could bury Don Bias in his family's vault in the great cathedral in Santiago de Compostela.
Ardiles scoffed at Sharpe's mild hopes. He waved northward through the spitting sleet and the spume and the wild waves' turmoil. “That's a whole continent up there! Not an English farmyard! You won't find a single body in a continent, Englishman, not if someone else has decided to hide it.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because if my tale of carrying Don Bias to meet the rebels is right, then Don Bias was not just a soldier, but a soldier playing politics, and that's a more dangerous pastime than fighting. Besides, if the Spanish high command decides not to help you, how will you achieve anything?”
“By bribes?” Sharpe suggested.
Ardiles laughed. “I wish you luck, Englishman, but if you're offering money they'll just tell you what you want to hear until you've no money left, then they'll clean their knife blades in your guts. Take my advice! Vivar's dead! Go home!”
Sharpe crouched against a sudden attack of wind-slathered foam that shrieked down the deck and smashed white against the helmsman and his companion. “What I don't understand,” Sharpe shouted when the sea had sucked itself out of the scuppers, “is why the rebels haven't boasted about Don Bias's death! If you're a rebel and you kill or capture your enemy's commander, why keep it a secret? Why not trumpet your success?”
“You expect sense out of Chile?” Ardiles asked cynically.
Sharpe ducked again as the wind flailed more salt foam across the quarterdeck. “Don Bias's widow doesn't believe it was the rebels who attacked her husband. She thinks it was Captain-General Bautista.”
Ardiles looked grimmer than ever. “Then Don Bias's widow had best keep her thoughts to herself. Bautista is not a man to antagonize. He has pride, a memory and a taste for cruelty.”
“And for corruption?” Sharpe asked.
Ardiles paused, as though weighing the good sense of continuing this conversation, then he shrugged. “Miguel Bautista is the prince of thieves, but that doesn't mean he won't one day be the ruler of Spain. How else do men become great, except by extortion and fear? I will give you some advice, Englishman,” Ardiles's voice had become fierce with intensity, “don't make an enemy of Bautista. You hear me?”
“Of course.” The warning seemed extraordinary to Sharpe, a testimony to the real fear that Miguel Bautista, Vivar's erstwhile enemy, inspired.
Ardiles suddenly grinned, as though he wanted to erase the grimness of his last words. “The trouble with Don Bias, Englishman, was that he was very close to being a saint. He was an honorable man, and you know what happens to honorable men—they prove to be an embarrassment.
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