Betrayal tk-13 Read online

  ‘This is not the way it is, Nicholas,’ Kydd said thickly, ‘and unworthy of you!’

  ‘-therefore most would be hard pressed to find a real difference between this and Drake’s raids on the Spanish Main two centuries past. No strategics but gain and plunder.’

  ‘You’ve the opening of trade and-’

  ‘Do spare me the recitation, old fellow. I’ve said I’ll come,’ Renzi said wearily, and got up. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

  The first draft of planning brought back from Popham was a sobering document. Shifting the objective had brought with it some near insuperable problems, the worst of which was Russell’s emphatic statement – confirmed by boat – that the depth of water was such that not only were the sixty-fours unable to penetrate much further into the River Plate but neither were the frigates.

  This was a severe blow for it meant that their landing far up the river would go in without heavy gunfire support of any kind, the boats at the mercy of any artillery brought to bear from the shore as well as being under the merciless lash of musketry as they tried to group on the landing beach, with no chance to reply.

  Actual forces defending were unknown: the viceroy could be counted on to garrison a battalion or two, but what if a much larger militia force had been mobilised? Perhaps an army in the interior was on forced march to the coast even as they delayed.

  Their own force was frighteningly slight. Eight hundred or so officers and men of the 71st and a handful of light dragoons, together with the reinforcements from St Helena, bringing the total to something over a thousand all told. Against a city of so many tens of thousands.

  ‘If you are determined upon it, then there’s only one rational course,’ Renzi pronounced.

  ‘What, pray?’

  ‘Suspend your immediate ambitions and wait patiently for reinforcements.’

  Kydd gave a grim smile. ‘There’s another.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Our ships are obliged to lie at anchor, idle – if we make levy of every marine and seaman who can carry a musket we’ll have half as many troops again. Remember the sea battalion at Blaauwberg? And we’ve a mighty ally that’ll count for a whole army.’

  ‘I’m intrigued to know what.’

  ‘Surprise! No one will believe we really intend to fall on Buenos Aires with what few we have.’

  ‘True indeed,’ Renzi agreed fervently.

  ‘We tide up in one of these damn fogs and set ashore as close as we can to the city, then go straight in. I’ve heard there’s a pitiful harbour there and now I know why, but we’ll be coming ashore south o’ the city.’

  ‘And the Good Lord have mercy on us all,’ murmured Renzi.

  ‘Damn it all, Nicholas,’ Kydd blazed. ‘If ye can’t think of else to say, clew up y’r jawing tackle an’ stand mumchance f’r once.’

  Renzi started at the return of Kydd’s fo’c’sle lingo. He shuffled awkwardly at the sudden realisation of the depth of his friend’s feelings. ‘My apologies. If there’s aught … ?’

  Kydd subsided, but growled, ‘Then what’s to do with your painting friend? A general rising an’ natives flocking to our colours would be prime at this time, I’d believe.’

  Renzi’s face shadowed. ‘There’s been no signal from Puerto del Ingles these five days. I’m sanguine Vicente will be doing what he can, so it has to be assumed there’s to be no immediate action on the part of the rebels. Whether this is due to him not being able to find or communicate with the leaders, or that he hasn’t been able to secure their agreement to meet us, I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Or he’s been taken by the Spanish before he’s spoken with ’em.’

  ‘Er, just so.’

  The next morning Kydd arrived back from consultations on the flagship with a wry grin. ‘He’s already thought of my idea about landing seamen and takes my bringing it to him as a mark of enthusiasm. Be damned to it, and I’m therefore made chief of the Marine Battalion.’

  ‘My earnest felicitations, brother.’

  ‘I’ve two days to bring ’em up to snuff. So let’s begin – an order on all captains for a return of men trained in muskets, the ship’s company set to stitching up some sort of red coat for each one. We’ll have – let me see – a field mark on the left arm of a stripe o’ white cloth. No harm in taking precautions. Then we have to know what they’ll need in their knapsacks and such.’

  He snorted. ‘But this is all lobsterback territory. I’m to send for our l’tenant o’ marines, I believe.’

  Clinton heard Kydd out gravely and promised to bring his recommendations within the hour.

  ‘Now we’ve only to find seats for a thousand and a half men in craft as will swim among the shoals.’

  ‘And more for the running in of stores and ammunition,’ Renzi added.

  ‘And the field guns,’ agreed Kydd. ‘And we’ve horses to get landed. So let’s be moving on it.’

  ‘It’s a miracle, I agree, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd said, waiting for the boat to take him to Encounter, the little craft that was to have the honour of leading the expedition in its thrust into the heart of the enemy. Hollow-eyed and weary beyond feeling, he surveyed the scatter of humble vessels that was now the invasion fleet. Small transports, captured coasters, the largest ship’s boats – anything that could carry men was now crowded with soldiery, on time and ready to sail.

  And, praise be, one of the cold fogs had rolled in right on cue. This was the chance they needed to slip past Montevideo and achieve some measure of surprise, but at the cost of all landmarks obliterated as they closed with their objective among the fearful shallows and reefs. It would take seamanship of the highest order to get through without casualty.

  ‘You’ll take care of her for me,’ Kydd said to Gilbey, as Encounter’s boat approached.

  ‘Sir, I will,’ his first lieutenant replied gravely. ‘An’ good fortune in what must come.’ Kydd shook his hand before he was piped over the side.

  Twisting around he took a last sight of L’Aurore – her trim beauty wrenched at him for he had no illusions about what lay ahead. Service ashore had been inevitable after his experiences with the Army, particularly in the recent capture of Cape Town with these same soldiers, but … A premonition lay on him, one that welled up with memories of his time as a young seaman involved in a royalist rising in Brittany those many years ago when all hopes had dissolved into chaos and blood.

  He tried to shake off the ghosts and looked back again at his lovely frigate, those divinely inspired lines, the rightness of the curves and proud elegance of the lofty spars – and there was Renzi’s white face at the open stern window, his arm lifted in a sad farewell. Unaccountably a lump formed in his throat and he turned resolutely forward.

  Encounter was a gun-brig, one of the plain, stout workhorses of the Navy. That this little inshore gunboat had been expected without hesitation to cross oceans with the fleet was yet another reason why Bonaparte could never prevail against such a navy. But were they now expecting too much of timber and sinew, daring and resolve? Where were the limits?

  He shook off the morbid thoughts as he heaved himself over the modest bulwarks to see Godwin, the youthful lieutenant-in-command, waiting for him. ‘Welcome aboard, sir. It’s said as where Captain Kydd is, there’s always sport to be had,’ he added.

  Kydd couldn’t help an answering grin. ‘L’Aurore will have to bide her time – I’ve a fancy Encounter is to have all the entertainment to herself.’

  ‘Er, my cabin for refreshments, sir?’

  ‘No time,’ Kydd said briskly. ‘And I desire you hang out the “preparative” as soon as you may.’

  The breeze was light but steady, the fog-bank a dank, impenetrable screen of dull white. There was nothing to be gained in waiting longer. ‘The “proceed” Mr Godwin,’ Kydd ordered.

  Three boats closed with Encounter, their task to sound ahead. A white or red warning flag would fly from each; a row-guard of pinnaces armed with swivels accompanied them – a pitiful defence if t
he Spanish had hidden sea forces further in.

  Kydd glanced back at the ghostly grey of the anchored sixty-fours. They looked so insubstantial but he knew Popham was watching their little expedition leave to be quickly swallowed up by the fog with the entire fate of the expedition in their hands. An indistinct but elaborate signal hoist was up in the flagship – there was nothing that could be done now so without a doubt it was a deeply meant farewell.

  Their anchor won and the soldiers crowded on deck, trying to keep to one side, the little ship got under way. The enterprise had begun.

  His heart beat a little faster as he glanced back at the rest following. The broad-beamed Melantho was a reassuring bulk, a light in her bows steady to confirm that her own next astern was safely in sight. And then came Triton, the transport containing General Beresford and elements of the 71st with their two guns.

  There was little Kydd could do to occupy himself. He was aboard in the leading ship under sufferance to make decisions should there be trouble and to be among the first to land. While Godwin was amiable and attentive, he had his responsibilities. The quarterdeck was ludicrously small, with no room for pacing about, and before long Kydd found himself picking his way forward through the redcoats on deck.

  Initially they stiffened as he approached but soon Kydd was able to pass among them without fuss, overhearing the age-old military banter of fighting men about to go into battle. He made his way back down the other side to find a chair waiting for him on the quarterdeck.

  Time passed. At a speed of something like three knots it would take several days to cover the hundred and thirty miles to their landing zone. Painstaking work with the hand lead in the boats was needed to establish a safe channel and Russell’s muddled directions were confusing – somehow he had found more drink and now, surly or riotous by turns, he was under personal guard by a relay of midshipmen.

  They had agonised over the conflicting charts and finally settled on Punta Quilmes, a dozen or so miles south of the city, the furthest point where the depth of water was anything like adequate, but first there was the fraught passage to negotiate between the notorious Ortiz and Chico banks.

  The fog held as they left Montevideo invisibly to starboard, the muddy water gurgling, over-loud, in the pale closeness, their ceaseless motion ever onward into the anonymous reaches of the languid river. When the darkness closed in there was no option but to anchor. Rations and grog were distributed to the troops.

  The officers shared the stuffy confines of Godwin’s cabin for their evening meal, humorously making light of their conditions, but as soon as he could, Kydd made his way back to the upper deck. The soldiers lay all about, drawing their blankets around them. ‘They’ll see far worse in the field, believe me,’ a subaltern confided. ‘A few days there and they’ll be yearning for a nice comfortable plank to sleep on.’

  Godwin had offered Kydd his cabin, but at his insistence they had compromised on a hammock aloft and alow in the old way and he tumbled into the ‘’mick’ comfortably, like the foremast jack he had been so long ago.

  He slept little. The sounds of the ship, the anonymous creaks, rumbles and distant slithers as it swung with the current, were foreign, and his thoughts were chaotic and anxious. It felt quite different from the nervous exhilaration before the Cape Town landings: he could not throw off the feeling of foreboding that was clamping in on him.

  The morning dawned with a thinning fog and visibility out to nearly half a mile. As soon as the boats could be seen reliably they were under way once more and, as the day progressed, the fog finally dissolved to reveal a grey desolation of empty sea.

  They had made it past Montevideo, the secret of their departure still safe, and Kydd’s spirits rose.

  Towards evening they were near the tail of the twin banks, allegedly buoyed, but Russell had warned that mud-scouring would continually shift their moorings and they could not be relied on. A few distant sails were sighted, flat fishing craft that ignored them – and always the drab grey-brown water sliding monotonously past.

  As Kydd deliberated about anchoring for the night, Melantho slewed and stopped, nearly bringing Ocean into collision with her. The forced delaying of the fleet settled the question – but had the vessel touched on mud or an outlier of the hard-packed sand of the Chico bank?

  In the last of the light it was established that it had been mud – there would be no damage, but freeing the deep-laden transport from the thick, glutinous ooze would not be easy. Her crew would have a hard night of it, lightening ship and hauling off.

  But Kydd’s mind was on the next day. In a matter of hours they would be in sight of the enemy. Given the general’s strong opposition to their alteration of plans, would he be looking for an excuse to call it off? Kydd knew if that happened he would be caught up in the inevitable bitterness to follow. He must take care to do nothing that could be flourished at a later court-martial.

  Full of dark thoughts he finally drifted off. He awoke early to a cold and cheerless day, rain threatening, a serious matter if they had to land with damp muskets in the teeth of heavy fire. Kydd felt unable to finish his breakfast.

  They got under way as soon as possible, and before midday, a low, monotonously flat coastline was raised to larboard. It continued on as scattered buildings came into sight, and then from the masthead a hail, the city itself.

  After signalling the fleet to heave to, Kydd joined the lookout and took out his pocket glass. At this moment the entire expedition was in his hands: if he overlooked any threat, failed to see an enemy column, mistook a distant feature and then set the assault in motion …

  He quartered the terrain with care, cursing at the thrum and judder of the rigging as he braced on it, but could see nothing remotely like a threat. The closer shore was low and featureless, open scrub and flat heath, as far as he could tell, while further to the right there was a modest river, set about with thickets of small trees and with a slight rise on the far side.

  And some miles beyond, at the limit of vision, he saw the spires and domes of a city – Buenos Aires.

  After taking one last sweep of the nearest coastline he returned to the deck.

  ‘I see nothing of the enemy,’ he told the expectant faces. It seemed astonishing, but the Spanish were simply not there.

  He boarded Encounter’s tiny jolly-boat and was taken to Triton to report to the general.

  Beresford greeted him impatiently. ‘Well, now, and what can you tell us, sir?’ Significantly he was wearing his sword, and officers began hurrying up to hear the conversation. At deck level only an anonymous low coastline was in sight.

  ‘From the masthead I could see no sign of the enemy,’ Kydd said carefully.

  ‘Nothing?’ Beresford said incredulously. ‘No camp, no lines being thrown up, troops on column of march?’

  ‘The terrain is flat and open, sir. I should have seen them.’ He spoke firmly, ‘Therefore I counsel the landing takes place.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘We’re some two miles south of Punta Quilmes, with the city a dozen miles north.’ Kydd did not add that this was only if the river they had sighted was indeed the Ria Chuelo – the featureless landscape and sketchy maps made an exact fix impossible.

  Beresford beamed at his officers. ‘I rather think Dame Fortune is smiling upon us today, by Jove.’

  The actual landing had demanded meticulous planning. The order of the troops first ashore and their support required pinpoint timing, with the men in different ships around the fleet coming together, the few horses and guns essential to be landed with them marshalled at the same time before all moved in together. Because of the hours this would take before they could meet the enemy in a protected formation, a dawn assault was expected. ‘Then we move at first light, sir?’ a dragoon officer enquired.

  ‘No offence to our gracious hosts, but the sooner we’re on dry land the better I’d like it,’ Beresford said grimly. ‘And while we’ve an unopposed descent, I’m to dispense with the order of assa
ult.’

  He paused for effect. ‘Gentlemen – we go in today. Now! Just get the men ashore and form ’em up. We’ll take it on from there.’

  A wash of relief swept over Kydd. Despite his worst imaginings, for some reason they were to be granted a landing without fire from the shore. Beresford was a general who was not afraid to take decisions.

  But how long were they to be given before the Spanish woke up to what was happening?

  ‘I’ll get it under way, then, sir,’ the dragoon officer responded smartly.

  It would not take long to send boats around the waiting fleet to order the transports to get their men landed as soon as they had kitted up. Kydd would take the first boat heading inshore.

  Back in Encounter he watched the sudden surge in activity in the ships following the dispatch boat’s visit. They were positioned some three to four miles safely to seaward of the mud shallows; the boats had far to pull, but even the smallest ships could get no nearer in safety in these treacherous waters.

  The sky overhead was louring and dull grey, the dark-ruffled sea fretful and alien. Washed by a fever-pitch of anxiety, Kydd watched as the assault boats began assembling, among them Diadem’s launch.

  ‘Take me to it,’ he demanded quickly. The jolly-boat pulled over strongly and Kydd was heaved into the crowded launch after a disgruntled infantryman had to be exchanged out of it to make room.

  ‘Sir?’ The lieutenant in charge of the boat looked at a loss.

  ‘Never mind me,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Get this boat under way.’

  The men at the oars heaved and grunted; the boat was jammed with soldiers, crammed along the centreline, wedged under thwarts and hunched together in the sternsheets. Nursing their muskets carefully, they gazed on the silent shore.

  Other boats fell in astern and the first wave was on its way. Kydd was distracted by the passing thought that he was seeing history unfolding but it was quickly overtaken with worries for the present.