Betrayal tk-13 Read online

  Kydd found himself a whisky, then settled back in anticipation. The passage of young Jeremy’s staunch defence of a younger in the face of bullying by a master had all the hallmarks of Renzi himself but his ultimate expulsion for whoring in town was not. Or was it? Just how much was this his friend and how much fiction?

  ‘Sir?’ It was the first lieutenant, leaning through the door.

  ‘Er, yes?’

  ‘The master-at-arms reports all lights out, an’ we’re full an’ bye on the larboard tack, course sou’-sou’-west, commodore in sight.’ Kydd realised that he’d not been up to take his accustomed turn about the upper deck before retiring, which must be puzzling the watch-on-deck.

  ‘Oh – er, thank you, Mr Gilbey,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and, um, goodnight to you.’

  He turned back to the tale, spellbound.

  The wasted years following, spent in idleness at the grand family estate under the eye of his noble and irascible father, were set out in unaffected detail; the growing emotional crisis resulting from their differences was temporarily resolved by his unexpected friendship with a certain other-worldly young man, a poet, whose wild and romantic leanings seemed to give so much point to existence.

  The writing darkened, though, as it went on to describe how they set off together on a tour of the continent, vowing to live life to its fullest. The first scenes of debauchery and carnal excess were forthright and clear – Kydd could hardly believe what he was reading, still flowing as it did in the strong hand he knew so well.

  Bemused, then astounded, Kydd read on until, with a pang, he realised that what he had of the manuscript had come to an end. He considered going to Renzi and waking him up, but of course he couldn’t. Instead he leaned back in admiration. Either this would be the wonder of the season or it would be howled off the streets for its wickedness.

  He chortled, hearing the marine sentry outside the door stir uneasily.

  Before a spanking north-east trade wind the little armada made good speed across the South Atlantic, the weather remaining kind if steadily dropping in temperature into the southern late autumn. The continental influence far to starboard was of a quite different quality from Africa at the same latitude. At five hundred miles off, Leda and L’Aurore were detached to range on ahead.

  Kydd complied unhappily, for Justina had still not hauled into sight. His mind shied from the implication and took refuge in his duty, the satisfaction of shaking out sail and quitting the slow progress of the rest of the force.

  They criss-crossed the sullen grey wastes for days without incident until they reached the parallel of the great estuary at which their instructions were to make rendezvous with Narcissus, sent on before to reconnoitre. Shaping course due west, the pair ran down the latitude of the River Plate until, astonishingly, even at seventy-five miles to seaward, discolouring of the monotonous grey-green seas became noticeable, strengthening until the entire character of the sea was changed.

  By nightfall they were within the loom of the land but prudently lay to until morning for there was every possibility that Narcissus would have news of the return of the Spanish warships. At first light they resumed their course, and when a rumpled grey-blue rising on the starboard bow announced their landfall on South America, with it was the distant pale blur of sails – Narcissus on her beat across the wide estuary mouth.

  The three ships lay together in the cross-swell and exchanged news. The captain of Narcissus blared out from his speaking trumpet that, to his knowledge, the Spanish Navy had not yet returned, that all was quiet but that navigation in the estuary was the very devil due to its uncertain and shifting shoals, mud-banks and terrifying squalls.

  Kydd hailed back that the fleet was on its way and that all was well, while Honyman in Leda wanted to know if Ocean had been sighted.

  Narcissus then spread sail for the open sea to find the commodore. She was replaced on station by Leda while Kydd, with the shallowest draught, was dispatched to penetrate deeper into the River Plate to make sure of the reconnaissance.

  It was a fearful task: at nearly 150 miles across at the mouth to a mile or two at its inner end hundreds of miles away, every rutter, pilot and guide they could muster was unanimous in its warnings. The chief peril was the shallow and treacherous trending of the river, which made impossible any approach into the estuary by a sea-going vessel unless by the deeper channels, which wove among the notoriously shifting hard-packed banks. It was said a thousand ships had laid their bones in this bleak place.

  The other threat was the weather. The southern bank of the River Plate was in effect the edge of the endless flat plains of the Pampas across which the wind could blast without check. The notorious pampero could become so strong as to kick up a sea potent enough to stop the river in its flow – one from the south-east was sufficient, incredibly, even to reverse the tide – and a hard blow coming from the north-west could virtually dry out the estuary.

  Kydd and the master pored over the charts. The funnel-shaped estuary had on the north side the outlying port of Maldonado, with Montevideo fifty miles further in at the true entry to the River Plate. The river narrowed there from sixty miles to thirty, at which point the past Portuguese settlement of Colonia lay opposite Buenos Aires. Twenty miles further on, it ended abruptly in a maze of marshes.

  The south side had, except for the capital, no settlements of note and was very lowlying, with cloying mud-flats that stretched for miles. And in the river there were two main sandbanks: the long Ortiz Bank in the middle, and the sinuous length of the Chico closer inshore towards Buenos Aires. Beyond there was nothing but un-navigable shallows.

  In hostile waters, without local knowledge or a pilot, they stood in as grave danger as anywhere Kydd had known before. Their stowaway, Serrano, was apologetic: he knew nothing of the sea so their track was entirely their own decision.

  ‘We stand towards Montevideo, then keep in with the north,’ Kydd finally decided.

  Narcissus, a heavy frigate with a draught to match, had been unable to look into this port, the most likely to harbour defending Spanish men-o’-war. It was an essential first step, of course, for this was the designated assault point for the expedition.

  With Maldonado safely out of sight, well to the northward, L’Aurore set her prow to the west with doubled lookouts. The lowering grey skies were menacing and the captain and ship’s company were sombre. As they headed in, it was hard to believe they were sailing up a river for there was no land in sight and none expected: it was as if they were in the open ocean, but for the shorter wave-shape and tainted sea.

  The master studied intently his Remarks, a printed booklet produced by a merchant captain of half a century before that persuasively gave sailing instructions for safe entry into the port of Montevideo. ‘Bear west b’ north until we raise the isle o’ Flores,’ Kendall intoned.

  L’Aurore progressed under cautious sail. A shout came from one of the seamen looking over the side: the water had now turned a repellent mud-brown, solid and impenetrable – the great effluvium of a continental river.

  ‘Leadsmen!’ Kydd snapped.

  A monotonous chant began from the forechains. ‘No bottom wi’ this line!’ It would be a wet and cold job but it would last for as long as they were within the estuary.

  Then they reached soundings. ‘By the mark – fifteen!’ So far from land and only ninety feet …

  Barely half an hour later it was by the deep twelve and then eight, shoaling fast – they must be reaching the vast extrusion of sediment extending seaward. At six fathoms Kydd put another man in the opposite forechain to call out of sequence with the first.

  ‘Laaand hooo!’

  Kydd could not see it from the deck. Then came the hail that it was a long, rambling island – Isla de Flores. Montevideo was just fifteen miles further on.

  ‘The island – no nearer’n three mile, sir.’

  They bore away and almost immediately anxious shouts came from the leadsmen. ‘I’ve five fathom! B’ the
mark five!’

  It was incredible but with no land in sight they had less than twelve feet of water under their keel. Any rise or knoll in the invisible seabed and they would touch.

  ‘Heave us to, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd ordered, and turned to the boatswain. ‘I want three boats in the water ahead with a hand lead in each.’

  Spread in a line across their bows, they would give indication of the best passage. ‘Says here, sir, if you brings up mud, you’re in the channel, black sand and ye’ve strayed either side.’ Now the leadsmen would be looking to the base of their leads, smeared with tallow to bring up an indication of the nature of the sea bottom.

  It was agonisingly slow work. The fitful wind fluttered the sides of the sails; it had been mercifully constant until now but if it veered from its south-westerly direction they would be headed, and the reconnaissance would be over.

  After a little more than an hour, the mainland of South America was raised at the masthead: Punta Brava at the outer point of the Bay of Montevideo.

  When the land could be seen from the quarterdeck it was flat and uninteresting, scrub, occasional sand dunes and then the last point before the bay. Would they see a tell-tale forest of masts, a swarm of angry gunboats emerging?

  The water shallowed further and Kydd kept the frigate well offshore as they made the final low headland and the bay opened up. Instantly telescopes trained and searched – and there was no fleet at anchor.

  They were still five miles or more off so Kydd swung into the shrouds and mounted to the tops, taking out his pocket telescope. He could see deep within the bay, nothing hidden from this vantage-point.

  On the right he saw the untidy low sprawl of a large town, which must be Montevideo, and on the left of the bay a conical hill about four hundred feet high, no doubt the ‘mountain’ that could be seen from across the bay and gave the city its name. There were vessels within but not one that answered the description of a man-o’-war.

  In a rush of relief Kydd descended. ‘Nothing,’ he told the group on the quarterdeck.

  ‘Where now, sir?’ Kendall enquired anxiously.

  They had news that would gladden Popham – but would he be satisfied with just that? There had to be deeper channels, perhaps dredged, that would allow large vessels to enter, but these would be known only to pilots and local captains. At the same time this would imply that other channels were available that led deeper into the River Plate. It was his duty therefore to attempt further penetration.

  ‘We stand on.’

  With the boats still leading they hardened in and, close-hauled, stood away. Before they had made more than a few miles the wind failed. Kydd was too much the seaman not to know that this was usually the precursor of a shift in direction and there was only one action that could be contemplated.

  ‘Get the boats in. We’re going back.’

  But in the time it took to heave to, hoist aboard their boats and put about, everything had changed.

  In these strange climes, it seemed, it was not to be a simple change of wind direction: from the south-west spread a wide, glistening white fluffiness, a sea-fog. It reached and enveloped them in a clammy embrace until they were swallowed in its soundless immensity.

  L’Aurore glided on in the eerie whiteness, the only thing to be heard the subdued chuckle of water at her forefoot and the mournful chant of the leadsmen. If this were an English Channel pea-souper they would be surrounded by a bedlam of horns, gongs and drumbeats, Kydd remembered.

  It would be reasonably safe to return to the open sea simply by reversing the plot of compass courses, the wind conveniently on the beam, but he wouldn’t feel secure until—

  From the tops came an agitated, breathy hail: ‘Deck hoooo!’

  Kydd looked up.

  ‘Sail – jus’ a pistol shot t’ loo’ard! I see tops’ls of a schooner!’

  ‘Silence fore ’n’ aft!’ Kydd ordered savagely, in a low voice. This could only be the enemy – at that size never a threat but if they could question the crew …

  ‘Where headed?’ he threw to the lookout.

  ‘’Cross our bows.’

  Their priceless advantage was that in a fore-and-aft-rigged vessel like a schooner there could be no lookout positions aloft, but their own, high up, had been able to see the betraying upper sails of the ship above the fog-bank.

  ‘Get men below. On my order, just open all gun-ports to larboard,’ Kydd hissed at Curzon.

  Gently rippling along, there was ample time to prepare. ‘M’ compliments to Mr Renzi and would he step up here.’

  Judging his moment well, precisely as the grey shape of the other craft materialised out of the fog, he swung L’Aurore parallel and roared out the order for the gun-ports to open while trumpets blared and marine drummers beat out a terrifying tattoo.

  In the schooner it must have been the stuff of nightmares, a towering enemy frigate appearing like magic out of the mists, apparently about to blast them to splinters. The hapless vessel was grappled and boarded before even her colours had been jerked down in terrified surrender.

  ‘Nicholas,’ Kydd said, gratified that Renzi’s coming on deck had coincided with the sudden commotion of the appearance and taking of an enemy, ‘would you kindly accompany Mr Gilbey aboard and invite the captain to join us?’

  When Renzi returned it was not merely with a Spanish captain but a distinctly unamused gentleman of imperious manner and fine dress. ‘Sir, I have the honour to present His Excellency the Governor of Truxillo.’ Bows were exchanged but the smouldering dark eyes barely concealed thunder and the desire for vengeance.

  Kydd nodded to Renzi. It was impressive, the suavity his friend was managing with his new-found Spanish. ‘I shall look forward to entertaining His Excellency in my cabin shortly. As soon as we have concluded our business here.’

  The schooner was a fine one, trim-lined and well appointed, her crew standing disconsolately along the deck. An aviso? If so, this was an official vessel and quite likely to be charged with dispatches. The speed of her capture meant almost certainly that these were still aboard. Gilbey could be trusted to intercept any attempt to get rid of them.

  The governor was surly and abrupt, and nothing could be learned from courtly questioning except that their presence had been utterly unexpected. No matter: the commodore would follow through with his own interrogation.

  The small crew was another matter. When under way once more, the schooner under prize crew and demurely in the frigate’s wake, he had her company examined one by one.

  Renzi came up to see Kydd in his cabin. ‘I think you’ll find one man an interesting fellow,’ he said mysteriously. ‘I’ve had Serrano concealed nearby and he swears he’s an Englishman.’

  The man was under guard in the gunroom, a large, somewhat florid individual in the plain dress of a warrant officer of sorts.

  ‘This is Crujido, sir.’

  ‘And what is his rank?’

  ‘?Cual es su rango, senor?’ There was a flow of mumbled Spanish in reply.

  ‘He’s being evasive about it, sir.’

  ‘Tell him that unless he’s more truthful, he’ll be sent back to Cape Town in irons as a suspected deserter.’

  The nervous start he gave before it was translated was all the evidence Kydd needed. ‘So we understand each other?’

  ‘Aye, Captain. Jed Russell it is, an’ I been here since before the Frenchies started. Emigrated, a new life I has now.’

  ‘Then you’ve sworn allegiance to the Spanish Crown?’

  ‘Had to, o’ course.’

  ‘And now we’re at war with the Spanish – with you,’ Kydd said mildly. ‘What do you say to that?’

  There was a reluctant silence. Then, ‘What do ye here, if I c’n ask it?’

  Kydd gave the man a shrewd look.

  ‘I’m thinking ye’re here to do a mischief agin the Spaniards in Montevideo. Are ye a fleet?’

  Kydd said nothing, letting Russell make the running.

  ‘Aye, well, i
f ye are, then there’s many o’ these here who’ll relish ’em being humbled. What say I give help? What’ll ye do for me?’

  ‘Give help? What’s your situation, sir?’

  A satisfied smile emerged. ‘Why, an’ I’m a senior pilot for the Rio de la Plata under the viceroyalty, is all.’

  Kydd couldn’t suppress an answering grin. ‘Then, Mr Russell, you shall be satisfied in all particulars should you choose service with us. Is there anything else you’d be wanting?’

  ‘There is.’

  ‘And what is that, pray?’

  ‘It’s been all o’ these fifteen years an’ I’ve never tasted a right true drop. If ye can see y’r way clear …’

  ‘What do you mean, the man’s indisposed?’ Popham snapped. ‘I want him here. It’s imperative I get answers, and this instant!’

  Kydd sighed. ‘That is to say, he’s been taken with barrel fever, it being the first grog he’s faced this age. I thought it necessary if we have to use him.’

  ‘For God’s sake, are the Spanish going to-’

  ‘Dasher, the substance of what he told me is this, and it’s the first direct intelligence we’ve had, damn it. He says the people would look kindly on being made free, as we know, and as of this moment it’s a prime time to attack. They’ve no idea we’re here or why. There are no Spanish men-o’-war as they’re all in the north still, engaged with Miranda. In Montevideo the fortress is manned but by a smallish number of regulars and a sad parcel o’ militia who won’t stand against real troops such as ours. In particular, in a few days it’ll be the feast of Corpus Christi in which all will join in drunken riot for a week, a fine time to move against ’em.’

  ‘That’s more like it,’ Popham grunted, in much satisfaction.