Betrayal

They looked downwards on to a stretch of foreshore and saw washerwomen at grassy pits working vigorously with wooden mallets, completely oblivious to the great happenings about them. Further along sea-birds wheeled in noisy clouds, shrieking as pieces of fish offal were thrown into the water, and out in the bay dozens of small ships lay at anchor, waiting for the situation to resolve.

‘A certain fragrance, don’t you think?’ The air was thick with competing odours: the fish, a suggestion of the grasses of the Pampas and the usual exotic cooking smells of a foreign land.

‘Yes, as may be. Did you hear I’m to be port captain?’

‘No, I didn’t. Then we shall be deprived of your presence on our good ship?’

‘The next few weeks or so until the reinforcements arrive, I’m told.’

Something passed across Renzi’s face, and Kydd added, ‘Nicholas, you never thought we’d do it, did you? Doubted that we’d win over such odds as we saw, that Popham’s plan was nonsense – isn’t that so?’

Renzi shook his head and looked at him gravely. ‘Dear fellow. It’s more that I have misgivings, not to say a sense of foreboding. I can’t say it more precisely, but it was all too easy, so like our success at Cape Town – but this continent is strange, ominous in its differences in a way Africa never was.’

‘Ha! You’ve grown qualmish, old trout. We’ve made a conquest and mean to keep it. As simple as that.’

‘Just so. You haven’t heard from our Mr Serrano, at all?’ Renzi asked, with concern.

Chapter 7

Serrano knew it was fearfully dangerous – not to say utter madness – to return to the place he had fled, hunted by the authorities and in peril of recognition. Now, when they were alerted by the British fleet off their shores, it needed only one to betray him and . . .

He fought down his emotions and a flood of patriotism returned as he waved a proud farewell to his English friend Renzi in the boat. He was on a mission to bring about the conjoining of the forces that would result in independence for his country. It might even be that future generations would see his name emblazoned in the history books.

First things first: he must make haste into the anonymous countryside and procure a horse to take him to los patriotas at Las Piedras. Was the venerable and wise Don Baltasar still the leader, or was it now the fiery and impulsive deputy, Manuel Bustamente? He prayed it was so, for he’d been told of the rash actions of the man at the abortive affair at Juanico, which had led to Serrano’s exile.

He had a plan. A fellow student at the university, Martin Miguel de Guemes, as ardent as he himself for freedom, had been placed by his father as an ensign of cavalry and stationed at Montevideo. His family was respected and he was trusted by the patriots.

The next morning his confidence rose after he had successfully bargained for a horse for himself from an estancia. It was a rangy cob, which he soon had galloping towards the garrison town. He was familiar with the place and took modest lodgings not far from the fort. A passing soldier knew Guemes and promised to deliver a note to him.

That evening he heard a discreet knock at the door. There was a whispered exchange and then, after all that had happened, he was looking at the finely drawn features of his friend.

‘Come in, mi querido amigo. It’s been so long!’ The door was shut quickly and they embraced.

‘What are you doing here, Vicente? If they catch you again . . .’

‘Not now, Martin. There’s more at stake this night than you can possibly conceive.’

‘How is this, old friend?’ Guemes asked.

‘We must say my life is in your hands from this moment. I’m on a mission that is of the gravest importance to our future. Tell me – does Don Baltasar still lead?’

‘I believe he does,’ Guemes said guardedly.

‘The Blessed Virgin’s name be praised. I have a chance!’

‘Vicente?’

‘Do you swear to keep what I say in your heart and tell no one?’

‘This is to do with the armada inglesa, is it not?’

‘It may be.’

‘They are here to do a mischief to the viceroyalty, that’s plain, and all are in a fever to know what they intend. Your presence here at the same time is no coincidence, I’d wager.’

‘It is not! I return from exile by their hand . . . but, Martin, I have wonderful and terrible news!’ he burst out. ‘The English are preparing an invasion. They wish to set free the South American colonies as part of their grand war on Spain and invite all those who desire liberation to join with them.’

Guemes stood still, emotion working on his features.

‘I’ve been chosen to make contact with los patriotas to open communications. I’m to bring Don Baltasar to their councils so that a rising might be timed to coincide with their descent on Montevideo, such that nothing the viceroy can do will stop us.’

At first, Guemes did not speak. Then, huskily, he said, ‘You want me to take you to him?’

‘Of course! Who else, amigo?’

Guemes slowly turned away. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking, Vicente.’

‘Yes, that-’

‘Things have changed. You must understand. I’m no longer a student, I’m an officer in the cavalry – I’ve sworn my life to the King. The enemy is massing at the gate and therefore my duty is clear. If the patriots march against His Majesty it is my burden and honour to fight them.’

Serrano caught his breath. ‘Then the oaths we swore in our youth count as nothing. Even as we pledged to do all in our power to bring down the Spanish overlords and raise up a great nation, this is now to be cast aside as inconvenient? That moment of destiny is now upon us. How will history judge you that at this time you hang back, reluctant to seek glory in the tide of war about to break that brings us our liberation?’ he said, with contempt.

Neither spoke. Then Guemes turned back and faced him. ‘I will have no part in any rising.’ He held up his hand at Serrano’s protest. ‘Yet to keep faith with the cause I will take you to Baltasar. But not to join, for I will then return to my post.’

‘To fight the liberator.’

‘To fight the enemy.’ He gave a twisted grin. ‘Which I fancy will not be so arduous. I’m no veteran but five transports speak of no more than one or two thousand under arms – against our five. And more in the capital. It would take a madman to think to challenge El Virreinato del Rio de la Plata with such contemptible force.’

He surveyed Serrano briefly, then said briskly, ‘So. You have a horse? Good. You will not wish to lose a moment so we’ll ride hard through the night. Are you ready?’

Tired and sore but elated, in the early hours of the morning Serrano found himself in the barely furnished room of a country finca, as far as he knew somewhere to the north-east in Paraguay province. Guemes told him to remain there and rode off once more.

Serrano lay on the floor, pulled a small, smelly rug around him for warmth and slept fitfully. He was awakened by the thud of horses, then the massed jingle of harness as they came to a halt. A little later the door was flung open. The larger than life figure of a gaucho stood there with a wicked grin – not the shabby imitations seen on the streets of Buenos Aires but a free spirit of the open Pampas, his moustachioed face burned dark by the sun, a wide flamboyant hat strung around his neck and large rowels on his boots.

‘En pie, compadre,’ he rasped.

Serrano obeyed quickly, scrambling to his feet. A gaucho was not to be crossed – a large knife, the facon, tucked familiarly in the sash was his only eating instrument but was just as easily the means of settling personal differences.

The man crossed to him, spun him around and blindfolded him with a red bandanna.

‘?Muevase!’ He was jerked forward, led stumbling to a horse and helped into the