Flashman and the Emperor

Introduction

This seventh instalment in the memoirs of the Georgian rogue Thomas Flashman reveals that, despite his suffering through the Napoleonic Wars, he did not get to enjoy a quiet retirement. Indeed, middle age finds him acting just as disgracefully as in his youth, as old friends pull him unwittingly back into the fray.

He re-joins his former comrade in arms, Thomas Cochrane, in what is intended to be a peaceful and profitable sojourn in South America. Instead, he finds himself enjoying drug-fuelled orgies in Rio, trying his hand at silver smuggling and escaping earthquakes in Chile before being reluctantly shanghaied into the Brazilian navy.

Sailing with Cochrane again, he joins the admiral in what must be one of the most extraordinary periods of his already legendary career. With a crew more interested in fighting each other than the enemy, they use Cochrane’s courage, Flashman’s cunning and an outrageous bluff to carve out nothing less than an empire which will stand the test of time.

Check out the other books in the series and a gallery of some of the historical characters featured (including a photograph of an elderly Thomas Cochrane) at www.robertbrightwell.com.

As always, if you have not already read them, the tales of Thomas’s nephew, Harry Flashman, edited by George MacDonald Fraser are strongly recommended.

Robert Brightwell

Chapter 1

I almost missed the grave as I walked through the overgrown valley. Only a lightly trodden path gave any clue it was there. There was not even a name on the slab of stone that marked it. Instead, lay just a withered bunch of wild flowers held in place by a rock against the wind. Considering the life of the occupant, it was a miserable end.

There could not have been many visitors as it was one of the hardest to reach places on earth. But on learning that we would be passing close by, I was determined to see it. It was not so much to pay my respects as to apologise, for I had done more than most to bring the man down.

Have you found it? called out my companion. It’s a bloody disgrace planting him out here in the arse end of beyond.

Yes, he is here. The grave is unmarked but the sentry told me that they could not agree what to write on his stone and so they left it blank. I removed my hat and stared down at the smooth surface. The corpse beneath it had once stood astride the world. His abilities had awed and terrified me, but still he had earned my lifelong respect. That might seem strange as the last time I had seen him, he had been shrieking for my arrest and would doubtless have had me executed. Still, in my turn I had poisoned him, incapacitating him before the battle on which his future depended. So, all in all, his animosity was quite reasonable. Without my intervention, he might have been ruling Europe once again, instead of lying in this god-forsaken hole.

My companion came and stood beside me. Did you know my brother was planning to break him out of here and set him up as the ruler of Chile?

I smiled and shook my head in resignation. If anyone else had told me that, I would have dismissed them as a fool or a lunatic. Before he had ended up in this grave, Napoleon, emperor of the French and pariah to the crowned heads of Europe, had been the most guarded man on earth. He had escaped from an earlier captivity and plunged Europe back into war; no one was taking any chances that he could do so again. But if Thomas Cochrane said he would break him out, then I would not have bet against it.

He thought Bonaparte would have made a better ruler than the self-serving, corrupt politicians currently squabbling over the country, claimed William Erskine Cochrane of his brother. It seemed a waste of his talents to leave him in a glorified prison here.

Did he actually contact Napoleon about ruling Chile? I asked.

He sent one of his officers to St Helena to approach him about the plan, but it was clear by then that the emperor was too ill for it to succeed.

Many of his old soldiers would have re-joined him wherever he ruled, I pointed out. With your brother and Napoleon working together, they could have made a new empire covering the whole of South America.

Well it is too late for that now, stated Erskine. There is a new government in Chile and if I know my brother, he will have fallen out with most of their officials.

Cochrane certainly did have an uncanny knack of annoying his superiors. He had scuppered his career in the British navy by effectively accusing his commanding admiral of cowardice. Then he had set about upsetting the political establishment when, as a radical Member of Parliament, he kept highlighting the rampant corruption that benefited most of those in power. In the end, his enemies had got rid of him by framing him in a stock market fraud. He treated the legal system with similar contempt and as a result was sent to prison for a year.

Disgraced, thrown out of the navy and stripped of his knighthood, it would have spelt the end for most people. Cochrane, however, was re-elected – unopposed – back into parliament by his Westminster constituency, who were convinced of his innocence. Released from gaol, he had found peacetime politics a frustrating experience, which was why he had accepted an invitation from the Chilean rebel forces to help them in their fight for independence from Spain.

But don’t imagine that I was sailing to join him in that conflict. Christ no. My very first adventures had been with Cochrane, back in 1800 when I was a naïve innocent of just eighteen. I remembered all too well how close he had come to getting me killed on several occasions. I had declined all of his invitations until I heard that the war in Chile was effectively over; in no small part, due to Cochrane’s use of his sinking flagship to capture the city of Valdivia, the last stronghold held by the Spanish.

As I stood by that graveside I was convinced that my fighting days were finished. The world was still largely at peace. There was little to indicate that, despite my caution, I would soon be plunged into Cochrane’s most audacious adventure yet and then, on another continent, a terror that to this day can still give me nightmares.

I had sworn in the past that I would not leave Britain’s shores again, but you never know what the future will hold. After Waterloo, I was summoned back to France as a witness in the trial of Marshal Ney. I had been his staff officer for a while, but the poor bastard never stood a chance as that devil Fouché, the police minister, was pulling strings in the background to ensure his execution. Still, my old friend Robert Wilson and I got some manner of revenge, but that tale must be for another day. The year after Waterloo, 1816, was notorious for not having any summer at all. Heavy rains and wintry weather ruined harvests across Europe and North America, resulting in widespread famine. Some blamed a volcano on the other side of the world, while others thought it was due to the defeat of the man buried in that grave. Whatever the cause, it damn near bankrupted me as my tenants had nothing to sell to pay their rent. The following year I sailed to India again, in part to raise some cash. Despite renewed fighting with the Mahratta warlords while I was there, it was a lot less dangerous than my previous visit. Perhaps it lulled me into a false sense of security to venture abroad once more.

Cochrane had made Chile sound inviting, extolling the friendly people, the pretty girls and the hint of a fortune from silver mines in the north of the country. But the thing that clinched it for me was the means of getting there. When Cochrane was appointed as the First Admiral and Commander-in-Chief of the Chilean navy, he had arranged for a new ship to be built, the Rising Star. It was a revolutionary design, intended to sweep the Spanish navy from the Pacific. But in typical fashion, Cochrane had not waited for the new vessel and had accomplished the task with more conventional craft.

I cannot believe that the bastards have been burning our coal, Erskine said, interrupting my thoughts. He kicked a stone in irritation, which landed on top of the grave.

You can hardly blame them, I laughed. When the merchant ship delivered it and described the craft that would be following to use it, they probably thought we would not make it out of the Thames Estuary, never mind all the way to the middle of the South Atlantic.

Still, there are only three tons left. That will keep the engines going for barely a few hours.

They have given us firewood to replace some of what they have used and we can stop at Rio on the way to get more.

Erskine was still grumbling about the islanders of St Helena burning his coal in their hearths when we reached the headland overlooking the small harbour. There, at anchor down in the bay, lay his pride and joy. His brother had left him in charge of its construction and he had fussed over every detail. At first glance it appeared like any other naval sloop: a three-masted vessel with ten gun ports painted in black on the white stripe down each side of her hull. Only on closer inspection did you notice the two tall thin funnels between her main and foremast, which gave a clue to her secret.

Remember that this was all happening back in 1822, nearly twenty years before screws and propellers began to appear on ships. All steam craft then were paddle steamers. The first of these to cross the Atlantic had done so only three years earlier and had used its engines for just a few hours on the journey. Cochrane wanted a fighting ship and he could not have his broadsides reduced by huge paddle wheels on either side of the hull, which would also have been vulnerable to enemy fire. With his chosen ship builder, he came up with an ingenious solution. The paddle wheel of the Rising Star was in the middle of the vessel, protruding through the keel. With four boilers and two engines, in her trials she achieved a speed of six knots under steam alone. Erskine was convinced that she topped eight knots when we were becalmed in the Doldrums, that area of sea between the north and south Atlantic trade winds.

The Rising Star was the first steam vessel to cross the Atlantic from east to west and we did not just cross it, we traversed its length as well, before rounding Cape Horn and going into the Pacific. But now I am anticipating my tale.

The journey was not without incident. We encountered a violent storm in the Bay of Biscay which blew us north and carried away a topmast and a good amount of cordage. Given the distance to travel, Erskine decided to put into Cork for repairs. We steamed towards the harbour and when it came in sight, we were surprised to see a score of large boats set sail in our direction. It was not curiosity or even common humanity at seeing a vessel with broken masts and rigging coming towards them. No, the wily bastards had seen the smoke from the funnels and thought we were afire. They were all intent on securing the salvage rights on the craft and were most indignant to learn we were not in any great jeopardy. We even had to fire one of the cannon as a warning to get them to sheer off.

But once repairs were effected, it was literally plain sailing most of the way. With favourable winds, the sails were faster than the engine and the paddle wheel could be retracted, so that the hull would move smoothly through the sea. Only when we reached the Doldrums did we fire up the boilers again. In the past I have sat on ships there becalmed for days. It is a miserable existence in the baking heat, not knowing when the wind will return. But this time the deck was soon vibrating with the movement of the engines and we pushed our way over the glassy surface until we found favourable winds once more. We had used most of our coal by then, for no ship could carry enough for the whole journey. But Erskine had already arranged for more supplies to be left for us on the island of St Helena.

As we made our way down the hillside, we spotted a young man running up the slope towards us.

Jackson is leaping across those rocks as though he has a wasp down his trousers, chuckled Erskine. God knows where he gets the energy. He can see us walking down, why does he not wait for us down there?

I liked Jackson. He had a boyish enthusiasm about most things and was joining Cochrane in Chile as his secretary. He looked on his new employer with awe and as Erskine was another member of the family and I an old shipmate, we were also treated with due reverence. He must be relishing the opportunity to get away from his books, I replied. He has had his nose stuck in them for most of the trip. When he had not been reading – tomes on accountancy were his current passion – he had been pestering me to teach him Spanish. He wanted to be as fluent as possible by the time we reached Valparaíso, so that he could better serve his chief.

Gentlemen, gentlemen, Jackson called as he got closer. See what I have bought, he gasped, coming to a stop in front of us. He was holding a small metal case on a string, but had to catch his breath before he could explain further.

Is it a watch? asked Erskine.

Far better, it is a piece of history, he enthused as he pressed on the catch and held the little compartment open for our inspection. Inside was a lock of ginger hair, held in place with a blob of sealing wax into which a roughly hewn ‘N’ had been pressed. Behold, a lock of the Emperor Napoleon’s hair!

That is impressive, I declared while suppressing a grin. And how much did you have to pay for this treasure, may I enquire?

Three guineas, he declared before adding proudly, I beat them down from five. The cheap casket did not even look silver and was only worth a shilling, but he was so pleased with his purchase that I did not have the heart to disillusion him.

Well it is certainly a memento to pass on down your family, I agreed. Having forged and sold antiquities myself in the past, I could hardly blame the local man for trying to gull visitors. There was precious little else on this wretched island that people would want to buy.

Erskine shot me a curious glance before asking Jackson, Is the coal and wood loaded aboard?

Yes sir and sailing master asks if you plan to stay here tonight or drift out of the bay on the tide this evening?

There is damn all to do here, stated Erskine. Tell him we will leave this evening, will you?

Yes sir. And with that Jackson was away again, bounding over the rocks, back down the hill.

Erskine turned to me. I did not know that the emperor had ginger hair.

I laughed. He didn’t. It was fine and dark brown when I last saw it. God knows where that tuft came from, but it certainly was not the emperor’s head. If we search carefully on the way down the hill, we may spot a ginger cat with a shaved backside.

Chapter 2

Erskine had something of the showman about him. He liked to make a good entrance and he certainly achieved that in Rio. The winds had been favourable and he had saved the coal so that we could arrive in the huge natural harbour under steam power alone.

Little of the city could be seen from the sea, but the huge rock that they call the Sugar Loaf was unmistakable. It stuck up in the air like the Rock of Gibraltar, just to the left of the harbour entrance. The chart showed sandbars around the neck of the bay and so we waited until the tide was high before engaging the engines. If the paddlewheel had smashed itself to pieces against the bottom, it would have rather ruined the effect we wanted to achieve.

With sails tightly furled to the yardarms, we slowly made our way into the bay. It was probably the smoke from the funnels that attracted attention first. As we came into the harbour, we imagined dozens of telescopes being aimed in our direction. By then we were moving forward against both the wind and the tide, with no apparent means of propulsion. To further add to the confusion, we were flying the British flag over that of Chile. At least with gun ports closed, it was hopefully clear we had no hostile intent.

I watched as several of the vessels anchored nearby started to lower boats so that their crews could take a closer inspection of our ship, but one launch was already well on the way towards us, flying the Portuguese flag. A dozen blacks were bent over its oars, slaves from the look of them, while three officers stood unsteadily in the stern, to study us over the heads of the rowers. I assumed that it was a boat from the port admiral, with a pilot aboard who would guide us to an anchorage. But instead of hooking onto our chains and coming aboard, they made to go about our stern.

Erskine and I watched curiously, in no way displeased at the consternation we were causing. As they crossed our wake one of the officers pointed to the disturbed water that was thrown back from the paddle wheel and absolutely crossed himself as though our movement was due to some divine influence. The others seemed more surprised to find that there was no paddle wheel on the far side of the hull. They set to jabbering amongst themselves and pointing at the wake and the funnels, while showing no intention of coming closer.

Ahoy, Erskine yelled to interrupt them. Where should we anchor?

At this intrusion to their deliberations, they seemed to collect themselves and one of them shouted back the question that was patently uppermost in their minds, "Señor, what powers your ship?"

British engineering, replied Erskine with a grin, clearly pleased with himself. "We are the Rising Star, bound for Valparaíso to deliver this vessel to the navy commanded by my brother, Admiral Thomas Cochrane."

The mere mention of Cochrane’s name was enough to have all three officers crossing themselves and I distinctly heard one of them mention something about the Devil. Even bearing in mind Cochrane’s well-earned reputation for annoying people, it seemed an extreme reaction. Nothing we said would persuade the officers to board the ship after that. Even when Erskine tried to explain through pidgin Portuguese and mime where the paddle wheel was situated, they still seemed convinced that witchcraft played a part in our propulsion. In the end, we just found a place to anchor ourselves, between an American and a British merchant ship. Their officers did come aboard and were soon exclaiming over the engines and the distance we had travelled. It was through them that we learned of the strange political events that had recently been happening in Rio.

Portugal was unique during the Napoleonic Wars in that its royal family left the country to take up residence in one of its colonies: Brazil. In fact, not just the royal family, but the court and government and most of its wealthiest citizens fled across the Atlantic. I remembered visiting Lisbon in ’09 and finding the place virtually deserted by all but the poor and dispossessed. Until then, the Portuguese government had insisted that Brazilian merchants trade only with the Portuguese, so that the profits ended up in Lisbon. But with the French invasion of Portugal, the Brazilian ports were opened to all and many local merchants had got rich. It seemed that the royal family had also become comfortable in Brazil, for they were in no hurry to go back after Napoleon had been defeated. The Portuguese king had returned just the previous year, 1821, six years after Waterloo. He only went then as Portugal was threatening to declare itself a republic. He had left his son and heir, Pedro, to rule Brazil as his regent.

In recent months King John’s government in Lisbon had been trying to re-impose the old restrictions in trade on Brazilian ports, which had not gone down well. There had been riots in the streets and Portuguese troops had been used to restore order, which had only built further resentment. In the end Prince Pedro, had persuaded the soldiers to withdraw from the city. The officers from the merchant ships told us that things were now much calmer in Rio, but that the population was still deeply divided between those whose first loyalty was to Portugal and others who felt an allegiance to Brazil.

After weeks at sea, I was keen to spend some time ashore. The merchant seamen told us that foreigners were not in any danger from either faction. One wily old American even boasted to me that the fleshpots were ‘the best he had dropped his hook in’. Judging from the tattoos on his arm, he was a well-travelled man and he particularly recommended an establishment called Madame Sousa’s. Erskine had higher principled ambitions than I; he wanted to go ashore and meet the British envoy. He thought that a steam-powered trip around the bay in the Rising Star for selected dignitaries would impress them with the might of British commerce, while also allowing him to show off the ingenuity of the ship’s design. He was hoping that the Brazilians might order a ship of their own, no doubt with a suitable commission paid to him.

So, it was with very mixed desires that we scrambled down the side of the ship into the waiting cutter. As I settled onto the stern thwart in the boat I patted my coat pocket to check that my own investment in new engineering was to hand. For with all this talk of riot and rebellion, I was taking no chances. The city might seem peaceable from the sea, but if tensions were high it would only take an over-zealous official to spark some new conflagration. I had learnt from long and bitter experience that such things invariably happened when I was stuck in the middle of them and so this time I had come prepared. In my pocket was an invention from an American gunsmith called Collier, who was working in London. It was a pistol with five revolving chambers. The weapon was being trialled with the British army and while it took an age to reload, it quickly fired off five shots, which would be invaluable in making an escape from a howling mob.

We were just about to cast off when Jackson came tumbling down the side of the ship to join us.

I thought I would come along and do some sketching, he announced as he stepped down on the gunwale of the boat, causing it to rock violently. He patted a satchel hanging over his shoulder, which presumably contained his drawing materials and would have fallen in if an oarsman had not grabbed hold of him.

For God’s sake, man, sit down before you have us all over, barked Erskine.

Sorry sir, apologised the secretary as he was pushed and pulled by several of the crew to a vacant seat. But he did not seem unduly perturbed as he looked about, grinning with excitement. It is my first visit to the New World, he announced to no one’s great surprise. The conquistadors were told that there were lost cities of gold in the jungles of South America, but they never found them. They say that there are fabulous creatures here, birds of every colour, maybe unicorns, and one account I read spoke of tribes of murderous midgets. Do you think that is true?

The crew grinned at his enthusiasm as they leant back on their oars. I met a murderous midget back in Spain, I told Jackson. Vicious little bastard he was, but I doubt that there are tribes of them in Rio. Noticing the locket he had bought of Napoleon’s hair hanging round his neck, I added, If anyone tries to sell you the horn of a unicorn I would ask to see the skull it came from first.

And don’t waste coin on maps to El Dorado either, grunted Erskine. We will be leaving in a few days.

Jackson looked a little crestfallen, but brightened up as he added, At least I will be able to practise my Spanish ashore.

Not really, I told him. They speak Portuguese here, which is quite different. But there certainly seem to be some colourful people you can draw. I gestured towards a boat that was crossing our bows. Like most of the local boats in the harbour, it had slaves manning the oars, but a black man at the tiller was giving orders and was almost certainly not a slave. He was dressed in shirt and breeches, but wore a top hat of purple silk over which he held a large parasol of a yellow material. On seeing our incredulous faces watching him, he roared with laughter and swept off his topper to give us a most regal bow.

Welcome to Rio, gentlemen, he shouted in perfect English. If you need spare ropes and new spars, ask at the jetty for Lord Jim’s and I will see you right.

If we thought the self-proclaimed ‘Lord Jim’s’ dress was eccentric, it was nothing to the variety of colours and drapery we found as we climbed up the jetty steps. There seemed to be fashion from every continent and era in history, all mixing together as though it were perfectly normal, which for Rio it was.

By far the most numerous were the black slaves. Brazil had its own slave colonies in West Africa and it seemed that they were the only ones doing any manual labour. Supervising them were officers from the merchant ships, but mingling amongst them was the most bizarre mixture of characters I ever saw. There were men from Portugal’s colonies in the Far East, dressed in Chinese robes and with their long hair in pigtails. Squat, half-naked Indians, with their faces covered in tattoos, sat by piles of fruit and vegetables. Harbour officials seemed to be dressed in the clothes of the last century, with some still sporting wigs despite the heat. Meanwhile freed slaves took care to dress as ostentatiously as they could, no doubt to emphasise their liberty and differentiate themselves from their bonded brethren. Some were figged up as French dandies of Louis XIV’s time, while others wore richly embroidered medieval tunics and one cove seemed to be dressed as an Elizabethan gentleman, complete with ruff.

After weeks with just our own company at sea, it was almost overwhelming. In the first hundred yards, I was accosted by traders trying to sell me a yellow monkey in a cage, a brightly coloured bird and strange food wrapped in a leaf. Then an old toothless crone had a go at selling either herself or some lumpy vegetable in her hand. Erskine grabbed Jackson, who was showing interest in a strange grinning creature hanging upside down from a pole, and we pushed through the throng.

Did you see that monkey? shouted Jackson above the hubbub of noise around us. It had huge claws like hooks on the end of its limbs that it hung from.

Never mind that, I replied. Look over there, transport. I pushed him on towards a fat man wearing a medieval robe, standing on a block. Beside the block were half a dozen wooden chairs, with long poles lashed to the armrests and slaves sitting between the shafts.

The fat man shouted something to us which I did not understand and then he must have guessed that we were English-speakers and called out, Where to, gentlemen?

Erskine gave the man a coin and stepped over a shaft to sit in the nearest chair. Wherever the British envoy is to be found, he commanded. A moment later two powerful slaves had lifted the shafts up to their shoulders as though Erskine weighed no more than a child and were off bearing him down the street. I stepped into the next chair.

To the British envoy as well? the man enquired.

No, no, I replied. Have them take me to Madame Sousa’s The man grinned knowingly and in a trice my chair lurched up in the air. I gazed back to Jackson, who was staring longingly at the monkey hanging from a stick. Wait, I cried. I could not leave him behind; the bloody fool was bound to buy it and Christ knows what else besides. Get a chair and follow me, I shouted at him and reluctantly he turned to obey.

A few minutes later and we were sitting beside each other, as our chairs swayed along the main street. I did not feel that comfortable being so high above the ground. If I had the first idea where Madame Sousa’s was, I would have preferred to walk. But the slaves were surefooted and gazing about, it seemed that all people of consequence travelled this way. There were dozens of such chairs moving around and so I relaxed and took in the scenery as we wound our way through the city. It was quickly apparent that Britain had been one of the main beneficiaries of the new open trading policy. There were British taverns with names such as The Red Lion offering beer from Burton-on-Trent. Shops advertised cutlery from Sheffield, crockery from Wedgewood and mahogany furniture in the latest English patterns. Presumably, the wood had come originally from Brazil as I saw plenty of lumber piled at the docks. It would be shipped to England for manufacture and then back to where it started for sale. There were English foodstuffs on sale too. Cheshire cheese, I recall, was incredibly popular and on sale at every cheesemonger, although whether this was made locally I could not say. But the British did not have a monopoly on trade; I saw French establishments offering couture dresses, although how they adapted these to the bizarre local tastes was beyond me.

It was only when we reached one of the central squares that we saw any sign of the recent rioting. There was a large ornate theatre with many of its windows smashed and the blackened marks of a fire around one of the lintels. Jackson had prattled on throughout the journey, pointing out curiosities and exclaiming at the unexpectedly familiar sights. He obviously had no idea where we were going and only asked when we were set down outside a sizeable mansion along a narrow street. I did not need the slave to point to the building as our destination, for on the upper floor three decorous ladies were leaning over a railing and watching us with interest. It does not matter where you go in the world, and trust me I have researched this extensively, several beauties on a balcony always signifies a knocking shop. It is as reliable a symbol as a striped pole outside a barber.

I say, what is this place? asked Jackson, goggling up at the three pairs of breasts peeking down at him from low-cut gowns.

I shook my head in despair at the ignorance of youth. He had mentioned on the voyage out that he was betrothed to a girl called Penelope and the last thing I needed was him getting a dose of virtuous guilt. I doubted he would share my own liberal approach to marriage. I had a wife back home in England, but she would never discover what I was doing halfway to the other side of the world. Anyway, I suspected that she had been unfaithful to me at least twice, both with future prime ministers, as it turned out. Admittedly, she had thought I was dead for the first one and I could not prove the second, but it eased my conscience for my own dalliances. Looking back at Jackson and taking in the drawing satchel still hanging from his shoulder I replied, It is an artist’s studio. The girls will let you draw them for a few coins. I thought you might enjoy it.

That is very thoughtful, sir. I am much obliged to you. He seemed slightly puzzled as I headed towards the door too. Will you be drawing them as well, sir? Would you like me to lend you a pencil?

I have my own pencil, I replied, grinning, and I am sure that they will give me something to work with.

We stepped inside where we were met by the redoubtable Madame Sousa. Whatever whale had died to provide the bone stays in her corset, it had not been sacrificed in vain. Her generous top hamper resembled the billowing sails on a man o’ war and she bore down on us with similar resolve. How can I help you, gentlemen? she enquired.

Before I could stop him, the clot Jackson spoke up first. I was hoping to do a girl in charcoal, he informed her.

Ah, you would like a black girl, replied the madam, unperturbed. Well we cater for all tastes here. She turned to me and added, And you, sir, what is your preference?

Madame Sousa, I replied as Jackson was looking confused. I think that there is a misunderstanding. My friend here is an artist and he just wants to draw a girl. I on the other hand wish to make full use of your… er... hospitality, with the finest girl you employ.

Of course, gentlemen. Madame Sousa beamed in comprehension as she rang a bell on a nearby desk. She turned back to Jackson with an amused smile and stood close in front of him, filling his gaze with an acreage of bosom that caused beads of sweat to break out on his brow. Are you sure that you would not like to draw me? she asked huskily.

Jackson gave a gulp that could probably have been heard on the balcony above and stared, transfixed by the bounteous flesh before him. He was clearly doubting if he had brought enough charcoal with him and seemed to be casting around for an excuse to refuse the offer. I… I am only an amateur artist, he offered. I, er, work for Thomas Cochrane, the Grand Admiral of Chile.

Really, purred Madame Sousa appreciatively. We have had Spanish officers in here who have talked of Admiral Cochrane. They say that he must be in league with the Devil to have captured so many of their ships and fortresses. One claimed that his sailors swept in on the morning mist like ghosts, so that even if the Spaniards were ready for him and manning their guns, they were still defeated. Are you one of his spirit warriors?

No, no, not at all. I am his secretary. He has had me learn double-entry book-keeping, said Jackson, more confident now he thought he was on safer ground. The Chilean government is charging him taxes on his prize money and I am to ensure that he pays as little tax as possible.

Who would have thought that a double entry would be so useful, murmured Madame Sousa, while arching an eyebrow at the hapless Jackson. She linked her arm through his and started to steer him away to a door at the side of the room. You must explain to me how it works. Jackson shot me a look of silent appeal over his shoulder, but before I could even think of helping him, my attention, and indeed my breath, was stolen as another door opened.

Chapter 3

Her name, at least her professional one, was Aphrodite, after the Greek goddess of love. If the deity was anything like this girl, then Christianity would not have stood a chance. She wore a loose-fitting tunic like the classical statues, but her skin must have been damp for it clung to her, revealing a curvaceous figure. I stood in slack-jawed wonder at her beauty. I guessed that she was at least half Portuguese and as I was half Spanish we had Iberian bloodstock in common. But there were other races there too; the high cheekbones and almond-shaped eyes hinted at the native Indians while the light milky-coffee skin and curly hair suggested that there might even have been a slave or two in her lineage. I did not care, for whatever her makeup, the result was perfection.

Evidently, this first impression was not reciprocated, for as I sprang forward with a growl of desire, her nose wrinkled in distaste. You smell like a Portuguese, she announced. Come with me. She led the way up the nearby staircase and, like a chastened disciple, I followed my goddess. She probably did have a point, as apart from a bucket of seawater on deck every now and then, I had not bathed properly for weeks. It might have been February, but it was summer in Rio, with a damp tropical heat. My clothes were sticking to me. As I watched