Betrayal

‘A glorious day, sir!’ a young officer enthused to Beresford.

‘You think so?’ the general said. ‘What do you see? A conquered army at my feet? No, sir. We have the field, but what are we going to do with it? We have to quit it immediately and return to Buenos Aires, having taught ’em respect, but their force still exists and we must meet them again. This only buys time.’

He called to his aide: ‘Do bring that prisoner before me. The bravest fellow the Spanish had this day.’

The man was led forward. ‘Tell him I shall compliment him on his conduct as his own commanding officer would. What’s his name?’

There was no response from the gunner, who stood defiant and silent. ‘Come, come, sir – you have nothing to be ashamed of. Tell us your name and rank,’ Beresford said.

Colonel Pack stormed up, red-faced. ‘The villain! I know that man, sir! He’s an Irish deserter!’

The general’s expression turned bleak. ‘You see?’ he said, to the young officer. ‘Now I have to hang a good man. A glorious day? I think not.’

There were shouts of men returning – but they were Spanish. Serrano had not heard English spoken for some time. Were the British abandoning the battlefield? Fearfully, he cleared a hole from his hiding place under the mule feed to see a colourful gaucho swaggering past.

He got up to find the camp in ruins. The British had destroyed what they could and had left, taking the guns, and now there was nothing but the desolation of a battlefield and wailing women. He wandered around in shock – they had outnumbered the enemy by four to one yet had been soundly beaten. What had happened – what now of the future?

He saw Pueyrredon with his officers around him and heard him cry out, ‘The glorious sacrifice of our men on the field of battle will not be in vain. We know we’re children in the arts of war compared to the imperialista British – but we have an advantage: a mighty sword in our hand. Our cause is just.’

There was a roar of support, but impatiently he cut through it. ‘And every last bonaerense son would flock to the colours if they could and join us in our time of glory.’

Serrano was spellbound. With leaders like this man, how could they fail to stand against the English, and then in the fullness of time march on to seize the golden crown of liberation and independence?

Pueyrredon went on, ‘I have a plan that will grant them their sacred wish. We cannot prevail in the open field of battle before the forces the British can muster against us. Therefore we shall arm the people and as one we shall rise up against them in numbers they cannot withstand. By stealth and courage we will infiltrate muskets and pikes, guns, swords and powder into the city. When General Liniers crosses to join us at last, a trumpet will sound forth our freedom’s call and the entire city will rise up and humble them.’

Joining in the storm of applause, Serrano pushed forward eagerly. ‘I shall be first to return. I know the British – let me be the one!’

Pueyrredon looked around grandly, then fixed on Serrano. ‘Very well, you shall have your wish. You shall accompany my chief lieutenant and emissary, Charcas, Hidalgo de Sarmiento, to Buenos Aires, there to raise our people’s army.’

Eyes shining, Serrano snapped to attention. ‘Yes, General.’

‘Then go,’ Pueyrredon said, looking pointedly over his shoulder.

Serrano turned round – and met the eyes of the man he had last seen in the home of his lover.

Charcas’s cynical smile sliced through his elation. ‘Do lead on. Be first – and I will follow,’ he added grimly.

They left disguised as farm peons on a cart of donkey hay but under the load lay a dozen muskets. At the reins Serrano led off towards the city in the distance, his apprehension turning to terror as they approached the first sentry. Charcas took over, chewing a straw and spreading his hands in incomprehension. The nervous young soldier let them pass.

The cart wound its way through the meaner streets of the northern suburbs, passing into an enclosed courtyard at the back of an inn. In a dramatic gesture Charcas threw off his poncho to reveal a glittering uniform, then stood on his seat and waited haughtily, his arms folded.

A curious face appeared at a window, then a few customers stepped out to see. Charcas declined to notice them. More came, filling the little courtyard. Then, taking a long and significant look about him, he proclaimed, ‘Citizens of Buenos Aires! I am here at the peril of my life to bring you hope . . .’

His words swept over them, promises of glory and sacrifice, war and patriotism until the space rang with shouts of fire and ardour.

He drew himself up and looked about impressively. ‘Who will then be first to enlist in the glorious Legion de Patricios Voluntarios Urbanos de Buenos Aires? With a purse of dollars each month and freedom to elect your own officers . . .’

A thrusting crowd pressed forward with a roar, and Charcas pointed at one individual. ‘What is your name, sir?’

‘Ah, Manuel Galvis, as it pleases you, sir,’ the man said, whipping off his cap.

‘Then it is now Sergeant Galvis. You shall take the details of all who will serve their country and I will come later to enlist them.’

A priest pushed through, frowning, but was carried along by the excitement and insisted on giving heaven’s blessing to the uprising.

‘We thank you, Father,’ Charcas said, in dignified tones, ‘and crave a further service.’ This was to act as trusted intermediary between various units of the people’s army, the British having issued special passes to priests to go about freely in ministering to their flock.

‘And now as an earnest to the future – Sar’nt Galvis!’

‘Sir!’

With a flourish he swung down and went to the rear of the cart, snatching away the loose hay to reveal the muskets, gleaming and deadly. ‘Take these for your good men – be certain there’s many more to come.’

In the sudden hush Charcas added, ‘In your hands is the destiny of our great city. Guerra al cuchillo! Mueran los ingleses!’

When they met up again that evening, Charcas wore the black cloak Serrano remembered all too well but Serrano himself was still in his shabby and torn clothes. They slipped through the darkened and near deserted streets until, once more, he was before Rafaela.

‘Find me some clothes, mi angel,’ he said importantly, at her wide-eyed apprehension. ‘Tonight I’m about the work of the patriots.’

Looking at the impassive Charcas, she shivered. ‘Mi querido, you know what it is that-’

‘The clothes!’ Serrano demanded.

She returned with them, herself arrayed in a cape and hood.

‘Rafaela – you cannot possibly-’

‘I can go in places denied to a man. Will you stop me playing my part?’

The three hurried down the Calle Victoria to the mansion of Martin de Alzaga where they were hastily admitted.

‘Senor Charcas,’ the silver-haired man said softly. ‘Is it planned?’

‘I have word from Don Baltasar, now in amicable alliance with the royalists. It is . . . that you should proceed as planned.’

‘Ah,’ breathed Alzaga, ‘I shall start hiring tomorrow. And who are these?’ he added carefully.

‘Servants of the fatherland!’ Serrano said loudly, with a bow.

‘I see.’

Charcas allowed a thin smile to show. ‘Senor Alzaga is a rich man but he is dedicating his fortune to the glory of his country.’

‘And to his honour,’ Serrano blurted.

‘He is funding the construction of a secret tunnel, which will begin under the seminary of St Francis – and will end under the barrack rooms of the soldiers. Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder will put an end to them as they sleep.’