Betrayal (26 page)

S
errano 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, Martín Miguel de Güemes, 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 Güemes 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, Martín. There’s more at stake this night than you can possibly conceive.’

‘How is this, old friend?’ Güemes 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,’ Güemes 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, Martín, 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.’

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

‘Of course! Who else,
amigo
?’

Güemes 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 Güemes 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 Río 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. Güemes 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 pié, compadre
,’ he rasped.

Serrano obeyed quickly, scrambling to his feet. A gaucho was not to be crossed – a large knife, the
facón
, 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.

‘
¡Muévase!
’ He was jerked forward, led stumbling to a horse and helped into the saddle. They cantered off, the horse picking its way. The ground seemed to get rough, its stride interrupted more than once. At one point it jibbed and he lost his grip, sliding down one side and painfully into a cactus. Harsh laughter broke out at his predicament and he was left to remount by himself.

At length Serrano smelt cooking fires and heard voices. They slowed to a halt.

‘
¡Desmontad!
’

He dismounted and the bandanna was removed. He saw he was in a straggling camp of many horsemen; an imposing figure was coming towards him.

Drawing himself up Serrano asked gravely, ‘Sir, do I find myself addressing Don Baltasar, Hidalgo de Terrada?’

‘You do, sir, and you are?’

‘Vicente Ignacio Serrano de Santiago Vazquez y Colón, at your service.’

‘I don’t know you.’

‘I was a messenger in the Legión de Voluntarios Patricios at Juanico,’ Serrano replied.

‘And Martín Miguel de Güemes has spoken to me on your behalf. You have my ear, sir. Now, what matter is so pressing that I must hear you?’

He became aware that behind Baltasar a thick-set man with a chest-length black beard and extravagant ornamentation had appeared. Bustamente.

‘Sir. I’ve been in exile in South Africa since Juanico and—’

‘Why are you here, then, if Africa is more to your fancy?’ Bustamente snapped, difficult to understand in his hoarse voice.

Serrano tried to ignore him. ‘And a meeting by chance—’

The big man lunged forward, caught him by his shirt and lifted him bodily. ‘I asked a question,
cerdito
,’ he snarled.

‘Leave him, Manuel. Let’s hear what he has to say,’ Baltasar said.

Serrano patted himself down and continued: ‘I became friends with an English officer and learned they planned a strike against the Spanish. I took passage as an interpreter and, once here, I saw my chance.’

‘To act the spy?’ croaked Bustamente, with an evil glint.

‘No, sir.’ He took a deep breath. ‘To offer to them my services to bring the chief of
los patriotas
himself to a council of war to join an army of liberation.’

The two men stared at him – then Bustamente roared with laughter, holding his sides. Suddenly he stopped and fixed Serrano with a cruel expression. ‘So! You are a high delegate from the English fleet.’ He thrust himself into Serrano’s face. ‘There’s only one trouble with that, little man – we already have one.’

He laughed again, then turned and bellowed, ‘Bring Barreda!’

A tall individual, dressed in black breeches and in a plain naval cocked hat, was brought forward.

Baltasar held up a restraining hand at Bustamente and asked quietly, ‘Señor Barreda, do you know this man?’

Looking at Serrano distrustfully, he said, ‘I cannot recollect ever having seen this individual. No, sir.’

Turning back Bustamente said silkily, ‘This gentleman is from your ship-of-the-flag
Diadem
, sent by Comodoro Popham, and he does not know you.’

A cold wash of fear came over Serrano. It was the last thing he had expected, and he knew that if his credentials were doubted, they would assume he was a spy for the hated Spanish authorities. ‘That is because I come from another ship, the
L’Aurore
of Captain Kydd. You may send for confirmation, naturally.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Baltasar said easily. ‘Just be so good as to show us your papers. You have some, of course?’

The cold inside turned into a knot of terror.

‘Do show this gentleman yours, if you please,’ Baltasar told Barreda.

The papers were handed across. They were undoubtedly genuine, from the naval cipher to Popham’s signature.

He had possibly five seconds to save his life.

A way out suggested itself: his very being revolted at the act, but in the longer term, what was the fate of one man against the cause?

He pretended to peruse them, then looked up. ‘Why, these are perfect,’ he declared. ‘So close to the genuine as would fool the commodore himself.’

Barreda goggled at him as Baltasar snapped, ‘Explain!’

‘Very simple. No military commander would put his delegate at risk by having him carry papers on his person – and, even worse, would never compromise his own position to the extent of personally signing an admission of subversion.’ He sighed and handed the papers back to the thunderstruck Barreda, avoiding his eye.

‘And he must explain also why he had the complete confidence to pass through Spanish-held territory so easily, unless . . .’

Baltasar eased into a tight smile.
‘You
are vouched for by Güemes,
this
– by clever papers.’

The smile vanished. ‘Take him away!’ he rapped at Bustamente. ‘And find out what he knows.’

Serrano fought back a tremor as Baltasar asked softly, ‘Now, sir, what is it that you have to tell me?’

A tearing shriek came from the corral, then another.

‘Well?’

‘Sir, the British fleet lies at anchor off Maldonado. It will shortly set sail to fall on Montevideo.’ His voice had become unsteady at the inhuman sounds coming from the corral.

‘This we know.’

‘Er, they are anxious that
los patriotas
are not denied their just share of glory in the wresting of this country from the Spanish.’

‘You mean, they want us to assist them.’

‘They are saying that the Spanish cannot withstand a simultaneous assault by land and sea.’ There was a last ragged squeal from the corral and then silence. ‘They do respectfully request a council-of-war with yourself.’

Baltasar eyed Serrano thoughtfully. ‘The idea has merit, but there’s much to be settled. First, what guarantee have I that this is not a trap?’

‘Sir, I signal with my red flag from the shore and a boat will be sent to convey you to the commodore. You will see this and there can be no Spanish trap aboard a Royal Navy ship.’

The older man gave a tight smile. ‘You have much to learn in wars of the people, Señorito Vicente. For instance, who is to command? What is to stop the
inglés
general placing our glorious cavalry before his to take the casualties in place of his own? And if we suffer reverses and the campaign is long, who will supply us, pay the fighters, arm our men?’

‘These things you may discuss with the commodore, sir.’

‘Not so fast, young man. When we face the English it will be with our demands clear, our decisions made. For instance, what is the status of prisoners taken? If this is a war of liberation then they will be in a very different situation from your usual prisoner-of-war. Do you not wish to be avenged on them for your exile?’

‘Sir, time is short. I heard the officers on board the ship complaining that supplies are limited and the sooner they are landed the better.’

‘Quite. But there are other matters to settle, which, because they bear on the whole, can be agreed upon only by the full council of the Sociedad Patriótica. Be tranquil,
compadre
, I shall summon a meeting.’

A conclave met that very night. From far and near men of legend were called to bring their wisdom and authority to the congress, riding in with wild speed and
élan
as the true gauchos they were. They sat together around the fire, tales of derring-do echoing into the night, until at last they could be prevailed on to debate the matters in hand. They exuberantly entered into discussion – which then turned to argument.

Beside himself with despair, Serrano could only wait for the interminable to-and-fro to end.

There was much to talk about: to ally themselves with an almost unknown foreign power would need careful consideration and they were not about to rush into this. The arguments raged on through the night, into the next day – and the next night. Then, as a cold morning broke, came the grand spectacle of half a thousand gaucho warriors on the move, riding to the sea.