Guano Page 11
There were still results. The Apurímac (Peru) was hit repeatedly below its waterline and had to retreat. The América and the Unión (Peru and Peru) were each hit once. Two men died: a recruit and a cook. But the Villa de Madrid and the Reina Blanca (Spain and Spain) were the big winners, receiving eleven and sixteen cannonballs respectively (Peru and Peru).
One thousand five hundred shots were exchanged, and then the two Spanish frigates bowed out of the dance. It was because of the shoals and the fatigue. It had been nice, violent, a satisfying battle in the heart of the bay, a respectable show. Finally a real war was coming together, with the numbers to back it up.
Simón was still alive.
His hands were proof that the battle had indeed taken place: the joints were black and there were scratches on his palms. The blood under his nails would be hard to remove, as everyone knows. It didn’t matter, though, because he thought he had lost the letter. Three times he patted his inside pocket to reassure himself and, at the end, when all of his senses were dazed, he took it out to look at it. Combat had improved it: the sea water added tears, blood added kisses. The letter had lost some of its machismo, and yet, given the causes – the emotion, the war – the effect had remained intact.
Both sides were waiting for reinforcements from home. Both sides tried to intercept the enemy’s reinforcements. The ships floated at a distance, watching. The sailors didn’t do much of anything. Clean the decks, report to the admirals.
Think of Montse, whose face was becoming a mere spectre.
Simón searched his memory, which was increasingly filled with cannons, elephants, skirts – Montse.
Sometimes he saw her between two waves, a sort of apparition floating on the surface of the water with hair of algae. Talk to me, sing. But she moved silently, her image broke apart, disappeared in a waltz of sails.
Sometimes it was just a seagull.
15
Núñez scratched his sideburns with his left hand, then with his right. His pipe moved from his lips to the fingers of each hand in turn. Then a thought came to him that broke the pattern: the pipe was put down.
He was disappointed at having caused so little destruction.
The bombardment of Valparaíso had been an insipid exercise in style, the battle of Abtao a disappointing mazurka. Then he had personally headed toward the archipelago with the Numancia, the Resolución and other ships to force a decisive battle, but the allies had refused him. They feared his panache, to say nothing of his sideburns. Who could blame them?
Then there had been a bit of hide and seek, some skirmishes, an interception here, reinforcements there, a Chilean ship (Pampero ) captured by a Spanish ship (Gerona ), to even the score. And so it went, passing each other on the Pacific, staging ambushes in the inlets, growing flotillas into fleets, with the ultimate goal of forming an armada that would finish off the dance partner for good. After three months of this far-off goal, Núñez was coming to a conclusion: what this conflict lacked was decisive action – action that would result in a laying down of arms and flags captured.
Núñez stared across the room at a chart that could no longer be seen through the smoke and the crude markings. The outlines of the Americas with no national borders, names of oceans without a legend, arrows related to possible operations disappearing behind a grey veil that created a brand new war. That’s it, Núñez said to himself, we have to start over.
Nothing had happened yet: no victory, no defeat, their hulls were still virtually intact, because of the previous admirals’ fear of a misstep that would cost them Isabelle’s favour. They had sidestepped, taken the enemy from behind, studied the situation, tried to preserve their meagre force, not realizing that with every dispatch, it was expanding by a few ships.
It had casually become the largest fleet ever assembled in South American waters: fourteen ships and 250 souls. Assembled might be an overstatement, because the different operations had it scattered along a ridiculously long coast. Spain had been entranced by the Chilean serpent.
Núñez scratched both sideburns at once.
All he had to do was to concentrate this force into a single closed fist and strike the enemy a fatal blow on its largest protuberance. A clout fairly played, however, militarily speaking, so that the European newspapers couldn’t question the legitimacy of the Spanish victory. It was like a fight between rams – did they ever attack from behind?
In a fit of passion, he invoked Corneille.
Once the invocation was over, the smoke dissipated and an omen appeared. Núñez could make out the city of Callao on the chart.
Destroying it would be just the thing:
1. TIt was an adequately defended fortress.
2. It was the largest port in Peru.
3. The location that wasn’t all that ugly – landscape artists could do something with it.
For example:
3a. the city’s ruins; 3b. me posing at the bow of the ship; 3c. the sfumato of the background, and all that. I could be touching a leper. Why not?
Núñez picked up his pipe again.
The next time, he swore, the smoke would be from the cannons.
The weeks trickled by in days of fog, days of overcast skies, the sun coming out occasionally to create the impression of holidays.
Most of the allied fleet waited off the coast of Chile for reinforcements from other places. Then they would track the coast north to engage the enemy.
The Spanish fleet was slowly assembling not far from Callao.
Soon they would head toward the port, where they would start the bombardment and force a confrontation. They would have to pick up the pace, because the Peruvian-Chilean-Ecuadorian fleet, while still unclear as to its official designation, was increasingly a force to be reckoned with.
Indeed, on March 22, 1866, Bolivia joined the ball. At that point it still had access to the sea and could play with its ships elsewhere than on Poopó Lake. It would kick itself for supporting Chile a few years later during the War of the Pacific (1879–1884), when the very same Chile would be its enemy. The stakes would no longer be shit and Spain, but rather saltpetre and British influence. It would lose a province, a good deal of pride, and it would look back with yearning at the no longer existent possibility of an alliance, a few years earlier, with Madrid.
As for Brazil, Argentina and Uruguay, they had given their final refusal to join in on the affair at the end of March. It was because they were already occupied with their own war with Paraguay. The conflict, forged without the help of the Europeans and waged just as independently, was over industrial jealousy and a mad dictator: Francisco Solano López, a fan of both Prussia and Napoleon III.
The embassies offered their excuses: you understand, of course, that there is nothing encouraging happening on the battlefield that would prompt us to get involved. The conflict was in its early days, the enemy forces were well matched, Asunción was harbouring a despot. Still, it was moving to see a continent united against a former colonial power. So they would see what they could do, in a few years, if Spain still hadn’t left.
We’ll keep you in mind.
The Villa de Madrid was still afloat. Its sails had a few scars, and its hull showed signs of a squabble or two. Simón shut himself in his new cabin, which reminded him of his old one, a small closet filled with barrels and rigging. He was not reading, not writing, not eating. He was worrying. Engaging Abtao was no longer in the cards after Núñez’s arrival; they were headed to Callao. There was talk of destroying the city.
A nice little project for Spain, but Simón was worried that his love would be harmed in the process. He thought of Montse sleeping, the bombardments. Montse frightened, the pillaging. Montse under rubble, certain parts of her body crushed, necessarily the most delicate parts under the least delicate rocks.
He checked the condition of the letter and the integrity of its seal once more.
He wondered whether she thought of him – if they were thinking of each other. Will she contact me? Doe
s she want me to contact her? Should I have deserted? Now they might die. Love was becoming less amusing. Once the mystery and the naiveté are gone, all that remains is the torment.
16
On April 25, 1866, Simón and Núñez finally sighted Callao. For a while, fog shrouded the cannons newly decorating the city. Then they gradually appeared, eyes of wildcats lit up by the night around the camp, or in this case the metaphor turned on its head: daylight around the water, the black eyes rather than light. Eyes of creatures that curse you.
Callao awaited. Many pairs of eyes looked on from relatively few windows. They were fixed first on the Spanish fleet, which, in V formation, with the small ships at the back, made for a dramatic approach, but they also looked at the streets below, where troops and militias now fidgeted, galvanized into action by President Prado. They shored up the barricades and hauled additional batteries up into the hills near the strongholds, taking advantage of the tatters of fog to hide their movements.
The mayor was holding forth about past exploits: that time when they had driven back Francis Drake, that other time when John Hawkins had waved the white flag, that time when …
Standing on a case of shells in front of city hall, he explained to the small but courageous crowd that they had Armstrongs and Blakelys, revolutionary cannons that were monuments to the genius of the human mind. They had arranged them in two armoured batteries, Junín and La Merced. Of course, they would do maximum damage to the enemy. They could start whetting their pride.
They also had ships (Colón, Tumbes, Sachaca ), along with confederate-style ships with rams (Loa, Victoria ), all currently in harbour. They were just waiting for Spain to attack to set sail and respond. And of course troops were positioned here, and there, and there. He pointed.
A sergeant and three men came running. The bayonets pointed the way home to the crowd, and then they grabbed the mayor. He was talking too much, there were spies hiding behind the curtains, plants and cases of shells. He was congratulated for his war effort, but that would do. They took him to his beige and brown office at city hall, where he looked at the round portrait, and it moved him. His wife and his son had already left for a safer location. Would he ever see them again?
He smoked.
The Spanish fleet tried to study the Peruvian positions through the fog and the distance. Once the charts were sufficiently filled in, they entered the Bay of Callao. It was May 2. The battle had begun.
Simón had come up with a plan:
1. The Villa de Madrid was approaching the coast to engage the enemy in combat.
2. Simón would reach said coast aboard a second vessel.
3. He would get to Montse and deliver his letter.
4. They would share a sweet kiss.
Of course Simón had first convinced the captain of the Villa to let him mount a sabotage expedition involving sailors as disreputable as in the times of illicit Peruvian-Spanish trade, with camouflages just as discreet, and a few minuscule dinghies. The captain was immediately won over by this strategic fantasy. Admiral Núñez would be impressed later, perhaps there would even be a few decorations – he would encourage Claro. Particularly given that the lieutenant was familiar with the city, its underground networks, its shifty characters, the lady at the bakery.
But keep the raping to a minimum.
The plan may have appeared laughably simple, but the official cover of fearlessness gave it some chance of success. They would have no problem reaching the coast, and since everything had been approved by the captain, they avoided the bother of theft and desertion. Simón would then cleverly get lost in the chaos of combat, for which a heroic ‘leave me here, I’ll catch up’ should suffice.
Only a few of the men accompanying him suspected the true reason for the expedition. Simón had spoken too often of a women in recent days, taking advantage of the camaraderie that had developed between them. This required of them their silent support. They were going along essentially to help Simón in his adventure and maybe to find out how it ended, or how it began. His deception didn’t bother them; they were romantics. They thought of the Spanish women, with their tears and their handkerchiefs, left behind on the docks of Cadix. The rest of the men thought more about Peruvian women, about the rape that didn’t bother them any more than the deception bothered the others, when you came right down to it.
The Spanish fleet split in two: one assault group headed to the north of the bay, a second to the south. At twelve fifteen, Núñez gave the order to the Numancia, part of the northern group, to fire on the Santa Rosa fortifications. The order was executed, and fire was returned. The ship and the little fort put on a show for ten minutes, and then the entire watch of the Numancia was reduced to silence by an accurately aimed shell. Come about, yelled Núñez, come about!
He scratched his sideburns nervously.
While they tried to manoeuvre, a second projectile hit the Numancia. Núñez was not spared. An itching sensation started in his leg, and then the blood stained his pants.
Look, my shirt too.
The admiral was wounded. One side stopped firing, then the other, out of growing curiosity. The concern lasted fifteen minutes. Núñez made sure that everything was okay – minor scrapes resulting from two or three shards, come on, get up. He mopped a little sweat, and then the cannonfire again, sideburns again, everyone was reassured.
Ordering his men to row harder still, Simón looked on the ceasefire as bad news. The lull could allow for Peruvian vigilance to shift to the south side of the bay. They would spot the Villa de Madrid, and then – what’s that? – an enemy dinghy floating a little beyond it. They would suspect a reconnaissance mission, a landing, a diversion – certainly not a futile desire to reach one’s soulmate. A cannon would be adjusted, a dispatch sent to the coastal patrols, and that’s the way love would end: with weapons.
When the Numancia resumed firing a few minutes later, Simón was relieved that they were getting back to the business of killing each other. They would have other things to do than to adjust cannons by so much as an inch or even to send a dispatch.
And so it was.
A Blakely cannon was silenced. Then a Spanish shell crushed the La Merced battery, killing its entire crew with one strike. Twisted iron created a column of black smoke and a lot of coughing. One of those coughing was the Peruvian Secretary of Defence, José Gálvez. The troops yelled to the heroes, and the clamour shored up the Peruvians’ courage.
The future of the battle was looking bright.
It’s going so well, Simón thought.
The dinghy reached the shore. It was greeted by a bit of gunfire from a villa on a promontory, a sort of advance post shrouded in vines. Fire was returned sporadically; they aimed for the windows, they hit the grapes. A corporal turned poet scribbled an ode to the landing in his notebook. They covered each other as they gradually made their way past the stronghold.
Simón advanced from rock to dune. He watched the villa, spotted the movement of Peruvian gunmen going window to window, spotted the lack of movement from the rattan chairs on the terrace. He dashed toward an overturned fishing boat that offered some cover, then a pile of seaweed, then crab traps.
Callao drew nearer; Simón would soon be able to blend in with its crowds, or its rubble, and make his way to the Ortuño residence. He studied the city once more, the black islands (oh, the windows) between the green rivers (oh, the vines); the changing positions of the Peruvians and the indifference of the parasols. He ran toward the city. He was taken for a target. A bullet rendered the dinghy unseaworthy, another dispatched a seashell … a third the corporal (oh, the humanity).
Simón reached the cover of the streets, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and was surprised by how rough his sweat was. His palms didn’t recognize the sandy skin: temples like sea urchins, rocky lips, pebbly beard leading to tragic questions, worry, anxiety – whose eyebrows of glistening ash are these? He took off his uniform, crept to the fountain near city hall and washed himse
lf off. He looked twenty years younger. Still, in the water’s reflection, he thought he looked old. So this is how it is, he thought. Love makes the heart young but the body old. And my mind is bouncing between sudden confidence and complete exhaustion. I have the fear, no the desire, wait, no, the fear of dying typical of adolescents and the elderly. It’s what having too much time to think, or not enough time to think, can do to you.
Wounded a fifth time, Admiral Núñez gave the signal to continue firing. Carry on, that’s it, or we’ll never be done. He had to suffer through the surgeon’s exam once more: arm up, arm down, lie down, bicycle – what on earth? Come on, the doctor continued: legs up, move them in circles, thank you.
What made him endure the humiliation of the exam and, it occurred to him, of his own ignorance, was the Plaza de Cibeles statue, which every bit of suffering brought him closer to.
He got up, leaning his weight on a barrel, just in time to witness, to the south, the Villa de Madrid being taken out of battle by a Blakely cannon. The shell made the boilers cough, releasing two or three black puffs, a sort of distress signal. Men came up on deck and spit blood before collapsing. Don’t go down there. There was the explosion, and then the rain of crushed coal that sullied the dead, stung the living, attacking sailors like a cloud of bizarrely petrified insects.
There were rumours: thirty-five victims, the ship immobilized, the captain of the Villa de Madrid losing an arm trying to save the leg of a seaman caught under a girder. Núñez feared that the competition could rob him of his statue.
City hall was engulfed in flames. A human chain was passing buckets filled at the fountain. The lobby of the gutted building was wide open to view, along with the rhododendrons shrivelled from the heat, the mayor’s office and the round portrait the smoke was already eating away at.