Betrayal tk-13 Read online

  ‘I do apologise, sir,’ he said, as sailors in pairs got to work with long quant poles in the mud, heaving off the ungainly flat-bottomed vessel. Their departure would obviously not be in crisp naval fashion. Only after reaching open water could they set the gaff main and headsails and later a square fore to begin a workmanlike clawing to seaward in the rattling easterly.

  Standing out of the way on the small after-deck, Kydd glanced back at the receding coastline, utterly flat as far as the eye could see, the buildings of the city the only objects in a vertical dimension, not a single mountain or cliff to relieve the monotonous level.

  However, with the wind in his teeth and the willing surge of motion Kydd’s heart swelled. He was at sea once more.

  Dolores picked up speed. Kydd could see why this workhorse with her exaggerated beam and generous sail area was relied on to ply these waters, but squinting astern at a mark, he noted the dismaying amount of leeway she was making with the wind abeam.

  The seaman at the long tiller, which was comfortably wedged into his thigh, chewed contentedly on his quid of tobacco with the customary glassy stare forward of his tribe when under the gaze of an officer.

  Suddenly restless, Kydd snapped, ‘Put us about quickly, Mr Garrick. I need to see how she handles before we go in.’

  The sails, heavy and tanned ochre with a peculiarly rancid-smelling mixture, were difficult to handle but he could appreciate that they would take substantial squalls without fear. They went about without fuss but there would be no sharp manoeuvring in Dolores: the tiller had needed two men to throw against the pressure of the turn but the tacks and sheets were easily handled by the other three.

  Kydd gave orders to take up on the original course and waited until they had settled to speed, then went across and relieved the startled seaman at his tiller. He adopted the same pose, leaning against it, feeling the thrum and life as they foamed along. It was correctly balanced a little to weather, and he brought the vessel more by the wind, feeling its direction with his cheeks as he experimentally luffed and touched, much as he had as quartermaster in Seaflower long years ago in the Caribbean.

  Kydd found Dolores surprisingly agreeable to close-hauling, probably due to the big headsails, he reasoned. Satisfied, he gave up the tiller and paced forward, an anxious Garrick close behind.

  Her armament, a twelve-pounder carronade on the fore-deck and swivels each side of the after-deck, was enough to dominate in an action between equals but near hopeless if they were ranged against ship-sloops, which could muster a full broadside of six-pounders.

  It was a measure of how close Colonia del Sacramento was that they raised the opposite shore soon after midday. The sharp-eyed Garrick spotted Staunch further in with the coast. ‘We’ll join her, if you please,’ Kydd said.

  His thoughts raced. If these did prove to be sloops, what the devil was he to do? Even concentrating his entire force of seven he could not be expected to prevail against them, but sending to Popham for heavier metal would take time and risk stranding his vessels in this damnable maze of shoals that was the Rio de la Plata.

  Leaving the sloops alone was not in question for in the crossing they had only to lay off each side of the transports to crush with broadsides any foolish enough to contest their passage.

  What was puzzling was that vessels of such size were sailing with impunity among the banks and shoals. It was a mystery demanding close reconnaissance.

  They reached Staunch, which jauntily dipped her ensign on seeing Kydd. ‘We’re taking a look at your ship-sloops,’ he hailed.

  ‘The water’s very shoal hereabouts,’ Selby, her captain, came back anxiously. ‘Must be certain of the channels – those devils damn well know what they’re about.’

  Kydd had made plenty of allowance for leeway in coming over and they were upwind of Colonia by some miles, having only to bear away before the wind and past a few headlands to reach the hooked point that was the port’s shelter. The chart – little more than a crude sketch in Spanish – gave scant help, scrupulous in showing the positions of churches inland and giving names to every one of the scatter of offshore islands but not mentioning the presence of sub-sea reefs or deep-water channels.

  The hook in the coastline gave Kydd his clue. In its lee was Colonia but, more importantly, it then trended sharply away northward. There would be tidal scour around it as the waters scurried past to make the wider bay, and where there was scour there would be deeper water. He looked up. ‘We’ll take it close as we can. Bear away, if you please.’

  With Staunch in their wake they closed with the land. It resolved into a partly wooded area with long strips of pale beach and little sign of habitation but he had been right: the seaman forward with the hand lead was reporting steadily deeper soundings. This was how the pair had reached Colonia.

  The town was ahead. Kydd had little information to go on other than that it was yet another ancient Portuguese colony that had passed into Spanish hands. He had no idea how formidable it was, still less of their likely reception so close.

  After more curving beaches and nondescript woods, the first signs of settlement appeared. Caught to seaward of them, wary fishermen stood motionless in their punts while they passed. Dolores was fast coming up to the last foreland before Colonia. Pale buildings and the incongruous end of an avenue were spotted but then came the thud of a gun, and smoke driven downwind from an unnoticed little fort at the water’s edge. Another. The alarm had now been given. Were they small enough targets?

  They barrelled along the last few hundred yards and passed the point. There – two ships at anchor off the small harbour, the red and yellow of Spanish climbing to the mastheads. Their design took after the French corvettes that were causing mayhem in the Channel; these vessels were smaller, but he could see the menacing line of six-pounder gun-ports on each side. A swarm of little craft encircled them.

  Kydd quickly took in other details. An exaggerated beam and turn of bilge meant shallower draught; bald-headed with sail only to topsails, they would not be speedy on a wind but, with low top-hamper, were well suited to these conditions. He looked more sharply at the further one, closer inshore. It had no sails bent on the yards and had a definite heel – it was resting on the mud. Careening: he could see the tell-tale gleam of white among the weed on the hull, the same preservative used in the Royal Navy before the use of copper had become widespread.

  With these two as the nucleus of a crossing force it was all too clear he hadn’t a chance. His ambition for a classic blockade, leaving Liniers and his growing army impotent at the shore, was now in ruins and they could cross with impunity when they were ready.

  Where the devil had they come from? How had they got past Popham’s patrols?

  And what was he proposing to do about it?

  He felt Garrick’s eyes on him while he tried to think. They were completely outclassed, and the reasonable conclusion was that it would be nothing but a waste of lives to throw his little fleet at them. Yet to give up without trying, to run from the scene, was intolerable. If only L’Aurore were here to set about them like a terrier after rats.

  It was a stalemate. The best he could do—

  Sail dropped from the fore-yard in the nearer sloop, then jibs and courses blossomed. It was putting to sea and its quarry had to be the insolent sumacas flaunting the British ensign.

  Kydd hesitated. He’d seen what he’d needed to see and the sensible thing was to return and confess this grave turn of events to General Beresford. Over on the sloop, its fo’c’sle party finished, the anchor cable was buoyed and slipped, and the yards were bracing round for a lunge to sea.

  He hailed Staunch through cupped hands. ‘Return to Buenos Aires independently.

  ‘We go back,’ he told Garrick. Their passage had taken them well past Colonia and on into the bay beyond. Beating back against the easterly the way they had come was unwise under chase in these waters. Over to larboard, a mile or so off, lay one of the islands, low and thickly wooded. ‘Take
us around it and then direct home,’ Kydd ordered. As an afterthought he added, ‘Post a couple of men in the bows for I mean to make it uncomfortable for our friend to follow.’

  After his service around Guernsey he knew what to look for in shoal waters, the arrowed ripples, out of synchrony wavelets, the dark of seaweed beneath the surface. As well, he posted two men to lie flat on deck in the eyes of the craft, staring down into the water for the ghostly shadow of reefs or banks looming.

  He shielded his gaze to take in the lie of the island. It was often possible to note a backbone of rock stretching out into the sea that would later be a jagged underwater spine extending out – and indeed there was one, pointing like an accusing finger back at Colonia. ‘Two points to starboard, leave it well clear.’ He glanced back at the sloop. It was making remarkably good sailing before the wind, its plain, broad sail-plan working well in this north-easterly. North? The wind was backing – what did this mean in these unholy waters? A faster return certainly, and once around the island they’d take advantage of their fore-and-aft rig to cosy up to the wind and leave the ship-sloop standing.

  It would almost certainly be satisfied with seeing them off and let them go. For the moment it was half a mile or so in their wake, but when they began passing the island it gave no sign of breaking off the chase. It made no difference because—

  The double yell from forward came too late. With a sharp wooden thump and squeal of outraged timbers, the sumaca reared up and ceased forward motion. Sent sprawling, Kydd picked himself up. ‘Get sail off her – move yourselves!’ he bellowed hoarsely.

  The craft had mercifully slewed round, spilling the wind; if it had gone the other way they would have been a dismasted wreck by now. Kydd looked over the side – in the turbid water he saw the line of a ledge below the surface, at right-angles and as abrupt as if it had been built that way. No wonder the sloop had let them crowd on sail.

  Garrick scrabbled up the canted deck, nursing an arm. ‘Tide’s on the make, sir. If we could …’

  Kydd looked sourly at the oncoming enemy. ‘There’s no time. If you’ve any signals, papers, get ’em ditched now.’

  Their nemesis hove to well clear and quickly had two boats in the water, pulling strongly towards them. When they found that not only had they a prize but also made prisoner a senior officer of the Royal Navy, there would be no end to the crowing. It was hard to take.

  ‘Be damned to it! I’m not f’r a Spanish chokey!’ one of the seamen shouted, and leaped into the sea forward, quickly followed by another. It was foolish for they would soon be picked up by the boats and—

  Then Kydd saw they had found firm ground under them and were now standing in water no more than chest deep. Kydd looked at Garrick. ‘To the island, I think!’

  They scrambled for the bow and lowered themselves in. Trying to ignore the cold and wet, Kydd waved them forward. ‘To the island!’

  He thrust ahead, feeling iron-hard sand beneath, powering towards the island a good three hundred yards off. The others followed in a straggling line. Snatching a glance behind, he saw both boats making straight for them and redoubled his efforts, panting hard, stumbling at occasional hidden rocks.

  The seabed began rising and the last hundred yards were done in a stumbling run. Suddenly they were among a scatter of light-grey rocks in the sand and then into low woods, spiky branches whipping across their faces until they stood gulping and wheezing together in a clearing.

  ‘They’s more interested in the Dollars,’ one seaman said. Originally the sailors had called Nuestra Senora de Dolores ‘Our Lady of the Dollars’, but the Spanish now swarming over her would find little to plunder. And then they would come after her crew.

  ‘I c’n see Staunch!’ a sailor shouted, pointing through a gap in the trees to the sea the other side of the island. Spontaneously they broke into a stumbling run, crashing through the undergrowth and low branches until they emerged on to a rock-studded beach where they waved and shouted.

  She sailed on and their hopes faded. ‘They’re not keepin’ a lookout, the shonky bastards!’ But then the two masts started to come together as she began to put back – they were returning to pick them up.

  ‘God bless ’em, every one!’

  ‘See if the Dons are after us yet,’ Kydd told a seaman, pointing back the way they’d come.

  The man loped off, but returned quickly. ‘Boat on its way,’ he panted. ‘Too many on ’em.’

  They were completely unarmed and must surrender to any with a weapon. And Staunch was still some way off.

  ‘Into the water!’ Kydd barked urgently, and waded into the sea. On the weather side the waves were several feet high, slamming and jostling against him. The seabed under his feet was much less even, with rocks and crevices that twice nearly had him sprawling full-length. From the splashes and cursing behind him he knew it was slowing the others, too.

  The sea bottom grew steeper and before they had gone out a hundred yards the water was to his armpits and he was being carried off his feet by the surging waves. They could go no further. Ahead, Staunch was cautiously slowing, but she was way out of reach.

  Suddenly, to the right, there was the smack and plume of a bullet. Another whipped over to strike between Kydd and Staunch. He swung around – on the beach, the Spanish were running down to take aim at the water’s edge. He turned back to Staunch – and saw that a boat had been launched, but with only one aboard. Then he understood: they were streaming the boat downwind to them at the end of a long line.

  The meaty thump of a ball in flesh and an agonised cry came from nearby as Kydd pressed on. It had been a lucky shot: it would have been impossible to take accurate aim at this distance after a fast run.

  The boat was coming quicker. Nearer and nearer, and then within reach. He grabbed at the gunwale and hung there, urging others in, seeing them tumbling over each other and roughly heaving in the wounded seaman. The remaining men hung on where they could and, at his signal, the boat was hauled bodily through the water to the waiting Staunch.

  ‘Well done, L’tenant,’ Kydd gasped, gratefully accepting the stout oilskin pressed on him. ‘A pity about Dolores.’ He broke off as Selby bawled orders to get under way.

  Then he stopped as a thought came – and stayed to blossom into a beautiful, glorious possibility.

  The sloop had stopped to take possession of Dolores. It had men away on the island and was otherwise occupied. What if …?

  ‘L’tenant, I desire you to make best speed to the barky. Not ours – the one hove over for careening.’

  A broad grin appeared on the officer’s face. The sloop might be grounded but there would be depth of water for a sumaca. ‘Er, we’ve only the carronade,’ he said apologetically. It would take hours of bombardment to reduce a warship with it but Kydd had other ideas.

  ‘No, not that. Fetch me all the combustibles you can find – we set her afire.’

  By the time they had reached a line of sight from the first sloop they were well on their way but had minutes only to accomplish their mission. As they approached, it must have become obvious what they were about, but Kydd was leaving nothing to chance. They came in on the immovable vessel’s bow where its guns could not bear, then lay off.

  At the first crash from the stumpy carronade the few men left aboard emerged and hastily tumbled into boats for the shore.

  ‘Go!’ Kydd roared, himself taking position at the blunt prow of Staunch with two others. A quick look told him that the other sloop had spotted them and was making to return, but in her square rig she was hard up against the wind – yet it was still only minutes they had.

  Skilfully the two ships were brought at an angle nose to nose and Kydd reached out to clutch the martingale, swinging a leg up and then levering himself atop the naked bowsprit to slither into the plain fore-deck. The bare decks were deserted and awkwardly canted over but he knew where to go – passing hand to hand he found the fore-hatchway and went down, casting about in the gloom.


  Behind him he heard the footsteps of his men. One made salty comment on the alien smell. All ships were much the same between decks and Kydd quickly found what he was looking for: the carpenter’s store-room and workshop. Inside they set to, feverishly heaping into a pile the wood shavings with the oakum and torn cotton ration bags they had brought.

  Flint and steel were nervously produced. Kydd took them and ordered the room cleared before upending glue-pots, jars of spirit and anything else he could find over the mess. He struck some sparks but they went out before they could catch the flammables – he had to get nearer to the dangerous mixture. An eddy of the sharp stink of fumes hung in the air, and when he struck again they caught in a whoomf of searing flame. He staggered back, temporarily blinded, but felt the hands of a man behind plucking him out and steering him for the hatchway.

  His eyes cleared in the open to see the other sloop plunging vengefully towards them but Staunch was there, hauled under the bowsprit, and Kydd thankfully dropped to its deck. Now for the crowning moment – if it came off.

  ‘Back down our track,’ he snapped, when he reached the wheel. It caused frowns – it was the course home, but would take them past the returning sloop, which would not hesitate to salute them with a broadside.

  The two vessels closed. ‘Bear away to leeward, if you please,’ Kydd said tightly, his eyes on the Spanish. This would take them downwind of the bigger ship – which was precisely what he wanted. ‘A trifle more, I think.’ It would not do to appear too brazen.

  It was not long before they met: a fleeing mosquito of a craft, trying to make the open sea in time, and a righteous avenger. And the temptation was too much – with no flames from their work yet outwardly visible on the other sloop the Spaniard put over his helm and lunged for them, probably relishing Kydd’s mistake: at this point of sailing it was going to be the square-rigged ship that had the advantage.

  Kydd watched the sloop gradually close, and set his trap. ‘A little to larboard – that will do.’