chapter 17

a Short Rest

Topped with a clay tile roof, the hacienda stood in the middle of a field of coffee. Several cows grazed in an adjoining paddock.

William wasn’t sure of the greeting they would receive when they arrived. But at the moment there weren’t any other options. They were too exhausted to continue without a rest. Besides, he desperately needed local information, both on the Spanish military situation and Bolívar’s latest movements. Veeborlay wouldn’t risk losing the stipend he received from the duke by misleading him about the Sheridans. Nevertheless, William ordered his men armed and ready as they approached the homestead.

In a small garden at the side of the house, a woman knelt in a trove of vegetables. The climate varied little in the protected valley, resulting in a year-round growing season. The woman’s silver hair was tied back under her blue broad-brimmed hat. She looked up and brushed a stray lock back into place.

“Lost your way?” she called out to the five disheveled travelers stumbling up the path. She smiled. “It certainly looks like you could use a hot bath.”

“Ma’am.” William removed his hat. “That’s most kind of you. I’m on a botanical mission from England and was guided to you by Abel Veeborlay in Barranquilla.” He paused, still off balance at the sight of this well-preserved English woman tending her garden in the middle of the Andes. “I must ask”—William hesitated, returning his hat to cover his head from the sun—“how is it you’re not afraid of us?”

“Come now,” she chided, “Robert and I have been cheering for you boys since you left Barranquilla.”

Robert and Theresa Sheridan, it turned out, were singular for their hospitality—and this in a city known for its friendliness and generosity.

After breakfast, Sergeant Angus MacPherson and the other recruits lay peacefully in the long, soft grass under the shade of a fruit tree, protected from the midmorning sun. The men were in a pleasant, satisfied stupor, having bathed in clear, hot water and consumed an English breakfast of steak and eggs, fresh fruit and juice, and warm bread with lathers of butter and cream washed down by strong, aromatic black coffee from freshly ground local coffee beans. Jaci sat nearby, having earlier accepted some fruit and bread, but declined the invitation to go inside the house with the others.

William and Robert took their coffee in the study. A landscape painting hung on the wall above a polished oak desk; the large windows opened onto a garden filled with colorful orchids.

Robert Sheridan was tall, thin, and tanned, the streaks of gray in his black hair the only clue to his age. He ran the main assay office in the region, along with a general store that carried an extensive stock of mining and agricultural supplies. He also owned a small hotel adjoining the store and rented rooms to miners and ranchers when they came to town.

He would often join these men for conversation. They came from every corner of the region for supplies and were his sources of information. The other main source was the Spanish commander of the local garrison, who occasionally visited his home for lunch. After a few drinks, the Spanish officer became a regular fountain of gossip.

William said, “Dutch spoke very highly of you, said you were in touch with the goings-on in New Granada.”

Sheridan ignored the opening to provide information. “A word to the wise, Captain. If a playing field had three teams, Abel Veeborlay would find a way to be on all three. After all”—he sipped his coffee—“he is a Dutch businessman. And although he usually relays reliable information, I certainly wouldn’t trust him if my life were on the line.”

Robert added, “I heard there were five men in your group, but now I see only four.”

William rubbed his eyes and realized just how tired he actually was. “Coming up the Magdalena, I lost a man. He was taken at night by a wild animal.”

“I see.” Sheridan scrutinized the English officer a bit more closely. “When you set foot on this continent it’s important to understand that your main enemy is not the Spanish. It’s everything around you.” He waited a moment before adding, “Pay close attention to the Tupi. He’ll help you survive.”

“Hard-learned lesson,” William said, “my first command, first casualty.”

“There’ll be more,” Sheridan said. “This is your first time in the tropics?” It was more of a statement than a question—William’s sunburned face, blistered hands, insect bites, and stained clothing gave him away as a greenhorn. “It’ll take a while, but I expect you’ll pass for one of the duke’s tropical plant hunters before long.”

As if he could read William’s mind, Robert added, “Believe it or not, news reaches us quickly here. After spending twenty-five years in Bucaramanga, you tend to blend into the scenery, particularly if you run the only hotel in town.”

“Moving here must have been difficult,” William said.

“At first,” Sheridan acknowledged, “but once we set straight a few of the rougher characters, we were left pretty much to our own devices.”

William wondered at Robert Sheridan and his wife. They had tamed this wilderness, and then defended themselves against bandits, stray army deserters, and wild animals for years so that now they were as if a drop of old England had fallen on the hillside. Still, William had to be on his guard. He didn’t know the extent of Robert’s relationship with the local Spanish militia.

Recalling the flowering orchids he had seen earlier, William took a chance. “Have you ever heard of a black flower of the type growing in your garden?”

Sheridan gave him a strange look. “I have. Humboldt, the plant hunter, stopped here years ago and filled my sons’ heads with stories of a flower that could cure any illness. That flower was the black orchid. My son John was obsessed with it. After his brother came down with an unyielding fever, John left for the Amazon to try to find the plant.”

William waited breathlessly for Robert to continue, but the other man seemed lost in his thoughts. Finally, Robert recovered. “We never saw him again. The last we heard, he was with the Muzo tribe on the upper Magdalena. That was years ago.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Sheridan.”

“Don’t be,” he said, “this can be an unforgiving land.” Sheridan looked directly at William, emphasizing his words. “But the black orchid is just a myth. If it were real, you could spend five lifetimes searching for it and never find it, even if it were under your very nose.”

“I’m bound by my duty as a father to try,” William explained. “My daughter’s life is at stake.”

Robert Sheridan opened a drawer in his desk and withdrew what looked like a silver chain necklace with a gold medallion. He held it out to William, who recognized the pendant as a medal of Saint Christopher, a well-known protector of travelers, soldiers, and mariners. It was beautifully crafted, depicting a man in ancient clothing with a staff in one hand and carrying a small child on his shoulders. The gold was warm and heavy in William’s hand.

“We gave one to each of our sons for their confirmation. John was wearing his medal the day he left. This was his brother’s, and I’d like you to have it. The Spanish say, ‘En San Cristóbal confías’: Place your trust in Saint Christopher.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sheridan.” The British officer hung the chain around his neck. He felt the warmth of the gold medal against his chest. “And if I should come across any information of your son John, I’ll send you word.”

Robert smiled, and produced two long cigars from the top drawer of his desk. He lit William’s and then his own, drawing deeply on the dark-brown roll. They watched the pungent blue smoke rise toward the ceiling.

“If you’re looking for Bolívar, you’re going in the right direction. Against all expectations, Simón Bolívar has crossed the Andes with his army in the middle of winter. The Spanish here are like a hive of disturbed bees, to say the least. My guess is General Bolívar will be in Tunja this time next week, to capture the Royalist armory there. Most of the Spanish soldiers have already left to reinforce General Barreiro. You won’t have much time to rest if you wish to intercept Bolívar.”

William was elated but kept a poker face. “Suppose I’d like to arrive before him, and take Tunja?”

“With only four men? You’re either keen or mad—or both.”

“We’re all veterans, Mr. Sheridan—the Peninsula and Waterloo. That boy out there under the tree”—William nodded in the direction of Paddy—“was at Waterloo, the other at the Sandpit, and the big fellow was in Spain and Portugal before Wellesley ever arrived. The Tupi will put a dart in your eye at fifty paces.”

“Then I’d say any Spaniard left in Tunja is in for one very hot spell. I think I can help you get there in time to impress Simón José Antonio.”

Robert offered William detailed directions and a hand-drawn map just before they left for Tunja. “Although we live here, William, we have stayed English in our hearts. Our loyalty will always be with king, country, and,” Sheridan added, “with the duke.

“But one last note of caution, Captain.” Robert Sheridan’s years were evident in his knitted brow. “If the path to the black orchid leads you to the Amazon, take special care. If you found your journey from the coast a challenge, the Amazon is a much more dangerous place, even for those experienced in the ways of the wild. The perils are countless, from starvation and drowning to the predations of wild animals or the poison darts of headhunters. There, the simple sting from an insect can be deadly, and the most superficial cut can lead to gangrene. Then you must pray there isn’t an earthquake.” He paused to see if his words were having any effect.

William said nothing. The more difficult the test, the more trying the circumstances, William had found, the more resolute he became. He would never allow himself to fail. He did not know where it came from, if it was from experience or the parents he had barely known—but he knew it was not strength or what those who have never fought in battle call “courage.” He was stubborn, that was all. That was enough.

Robert understood him. The agent smiled. “In that case, Officer Gunn, never ever let your wicket down. Good luck and Godspeed.”

William’s company traveled all day and into the night when the weather allowed. On a clear dawn six days after leaving Bucaramanga, they descended toward the city of Tunja. The name of the Great Liberator—Simón Bolívar—was on everyone’s lips. They met a group heading back to Bucaramanga who told them the troops had left Tunja some time ago to join the main Spanish army.

The bare outline of the plan conceived at the Sheridans’ developed in William’s mind.

They stopped at the bottom of a hill not far from the town, where they rested under a small copse of trees. Tunja looked like many garrison towns they had taken in Spain or Portugal during the Peninsular War.

William had learned from Wellington never to engage in a battle if you weren’t absolutely certain of winning, even before the first shot was fired. And he had no intention of wasting the lives of his men, nor of jeopardizing his chances of saving his daughter’s life.

“You men stay under cover of these trees. Let’s take a walk, Gus.”

Gus pointed to James. “Corporal Campbell, keep an eye on that road from the north. Keep us covered with that Baker.”

William and the big sergeant walked to the edge of the road, which was deserted at that early hour. The western gate of the walled town of Tunja lay less than a hundred yards directly ahead.

The sky brightened with the coming dawn. William sniffed the air; a familiar scent gave him an idea.

A short way along the deserted road, from around a bend, came the distinct sound of cattle. The two soldiers stopped when they saw a farmer herding his cows toward the milking shed.

“I guessed if anyone was up and about it’d surely be a farmer,” William said.

“Aye, you’d be right there, sir.”

“Let’s say good morning, Gus, and see if perhaps he needs a hand herding.”

A little while later, they returned to the men waiting under the trees.

“Look sharp there, and listen carefully to Captain Gunn’s plan,” Sergeant MacPherson barked.

“We’ve had a nice chat with a nearby farmer,” William said, “who just happens to supply the Royalist garrison with milk and eggs.”

“Hasn’t been paid in months,” interjected MacPherson. “Sorry, Captain,” the big man said, embarrassed he had interrupted an officer.

“Never mind. The farmer has had plenty of opportunity to observe the garrison grounds and—as the sergeant pointed out—plenty of reason to dislike the Royalists. A small door on the outside of the wall leads directly to the parade ground next to the armory. Two armed Royalist soldiers stand guard at all times inside the building; a conscript guards the small door through the city wall.”

William nodded to MacPherson. The sergeant said, “Not to worry, the guard on duty is the farmer’s nephew. The farmer says all the conscripts are itching to join the patriots, including his nephew. The boy will open the door for us at a pre-arranged signal.”

“Gentlemen,” began William, “an opportunity has presented itself for us to impress General Bolívar with the mettle of the British soldier. We are going to secure Tunja for the patriots.” He retrieved his pack and took out a securely wrapped bundle. Releasing the tie, he found a scarlet jacket festooned with ribbons. “It’s time for you to don your uniforms.”

In this light, they might pass for proper troops—William was banking on it. And since the British and Spanish were allies, he was counting on this ploy to confuse the guards just long enough for them to succeed.

“We’ll go along the south road in groups of two, not so fast as to attract attention,” William explained. “Jaci, remain here as the rear guard. Campbell, you watch the barracks door. Should anyone appear, make them wish they’d stayed inside. Any questions?” In that moment, a group of professional soldiers now faced him, grim and poised. He was quite proud of his small troop.

The sergeant ordered, “Prime and ready your weapons.”

William hoped these veterans would perform their best in the next few minutes. He walked across the road to the wall and knocked on the door twice, followed by a single rap. Campbell stood by, Baker rifle trained, the others well positioned. The wooden door swung partially open.

“Gentlemen, king and country.” William moved forward, followed by his men.

The first thing William saw as he stepped through the city walls was the farmer’s young nephew holding the door open, his face split with a wide grin.

“How many men in the barracks?” William asked quietly in Spanish.

“Only four, like myself, from Tunja,” the young man answered in a boy’s voice.

“When we are almost at the armory you will cross to the barracks—not too quickly—and tell the others to stay inside until I order them to come out.”

The young man nodded and the British soldiers formed up.

“Forward, march,” William ordered, and they began to cross the parade ground in perfect formation. Even from a distance he could see the guards squinting into the sun, trying to make sense of the movement coming toward them. William had counted on the element of surprise, knowing that the guards might think they were Royalist messengers returning with news or orders.

One guard raised his hand to shade his eyes as he tried in vain to see who these men were.

“Steady now, double time,” William called out.

Confusion among the guards gave way to agitation as the soldiers in scarlet stepped up their relentless approach.

Then the guards raised their guns.