Betrayal tk-13

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Sir, is there any service we can perform for you? Even carronades on our smaller vessels might-’

  ‘Thank you, no,’ Beresford muttered. ‘Do you see there?’ He pointed ahead to where the heavily rutted stony road gave way to a puddled quagmire of red mud. ‘After that frightful rain there’s no point in trying to haul guns through that, still less the bogs beyond they’re pleased to call pasture. No, Kydd, I have my own decision to make and that as harsh as the one you faced.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I will teach you something of military affairs: that all strategy fails if the gods decree that nature aligns with the enemy.

  ‘Consider – we defeated the Spanish and their superior cavalry numbers in the field because we deployed in line and square as needs must, and none may stand against us. In going as bad as this – aught but a wretched swampy mire – our infantry will struggle hopelessly in the mud. Not so the enemy, for horses will make light of such. Should I send my columns forward, they will find it impossible to move rapidly when necessary in order to draw up in square. My brave fellows will therefore be cut to pieces by their cavalry.’

  ‘You must fall back.’

  ‘To retreat? My duty as I see it is to play out the game to gain every hour I can for those wretched reinforcements to come. Not to mention what a regrettable effect it would have on morale – on Highlanders not accustomed to retreat and on the city, which sees us cowed by General Liniers and his host.’

  ‘Um, then hold position here, sir, deny the enemy entry to Buenos Aires.’

  ‘Even that will not be possible. In a city of this size any half-competent commander will try to circle around our rear and cut us off while they retake it, and General Liniers is a wily sort. French – did you know that? In the Spanish service these thirty years, fought against us before the Revolution.’

  ‘Sir, I beg you’ll tell me what else is possible,’ Kydd said uncomfortably.

  ‘Nothing. Of these alternatives I must choose the least bad.

  ‘At one extreme I could fall back in the face of impossible odds, leave Buenos Aires to the Spanish and quit the country, but this can never be in consideration. At the other, I could move forward to endeavour to inflict as much damage on Liniers as I can but at grievous cost. This also is not to be contemplated, not for the pity of the thing but that I’d then have too few to garrison the city.’

  ‘Therefore?’

  Beresford shook his head sadly. ‘Therefore I choose to contest his entry with half my force, the other half to return and secure the city.

  ‘Colonel Pack, sir!’ he called out.

  Kydd knew what was being said. This was a fighting retreat but a retreat for all that. Liniers would have parties out probing, thrusting, and must eventually drive a wedge in Beresford’s forward elements, causing it to fall back by stages. The only saving grace was that even he could see that city streets were not the place for cavalry and the two armies would in these terms at least be on a level footing.

  As far as naval support went, a battlefield hidden among the streets would make targeting from seaward out of the question – an impossibility. But surely there must be tasks for the Navy to do.

  When Beresford had concluded his dispositions he cast one long look about him, exchanged deep-felt salutes with Pack, his forward commander, then moved off with half of his men, some five hundred-odd only – less than a single battalion to hold a modern city.

  The column marched off to the sound of a defiant piper, joined by another until, heads high, the proud Scots were swinging along as if on parade before the world. As the suburbs became denser, so did the onlookers. This time there was little curiosity, only a sullen, hostile stare. From balconies came cat-calls and jeers, then ugly shouts that had an edge of contempt.

  There was now a different mood: a surging restlessness, a tension that radiated out from tight knots of people. Others hurried to distance themselves.

  In another interminable rain flurry they at last halted by the colonnades of the Plaza Mayor outside the fort.

  Kydd followed Beresford, and a conclave of officers was hastily convened; Clinton was appointed second-in-command after Captain Arbuthnot for the internal security of the city.

  Beresford went off to begin his dispatches, and Kydd settled down to the task of finding work for the Navy. The front line would need supply: provisions, rum, gunpowder. What better than to ship it in as the line moved forward or back? It would need escort, and his newly released Staunch and Protector could do the job.

  And just as important was the sea guard, protection of the Army from seaward raids. And then, of course, operations against the enemy’s own supply lines. As well there was … but where was he going to get the hulls? Or the crews – so many good ships and seamen had been lost in the storm.

  It was becoming difficult to concentrate – he had been shifted into Clinton’s office to make way for others: Beresford wanted as many as possible brought inside the fort’s walls.

  A subaltern arrived and reported to Clinton that the sentries who had been posted at key points were being harassed – taunted, muskets stolen, threatened. Kydd felt for the young men out on their own in this treacherous and alien place but they had a vital part to play. If they withdrew, they would be giving up the city to the enemy.

  His own concerns claimed his attention again. Provisions in the cask were heavy and cumbersome; water was a critical matter. How many barrels could be stacked on, say, those flat fishing craft? He could seize a few and set up a running supply-line, and be damned to the noise from their owners. Perhaps it would be better to preserve Staunch and Protector for gun action …

  At a stirring below and raised voices Kydd looked up as an angry Popham stalked in. ‘We shall speak alone, sir,’ he demanded sharply.

  Kydd got to his feet. ‘There is no such in this building, sir.’

  Popham snorted. ‘You!’ he snapped at Clinton. ‘Out until I say return.’

  Clinton hesitated, but left with an awkward glance at Kydd.

  ‘Now, sir. You’ll tell me how in Hades you managed, single-handed, to destroy this expedition.’

  Kydd reddened but kept his temper. ‘I beg to differ, Dasher. My blockade was sound until the pampero and then-’

  ‘You let ’em pass! And now my entire enterprise is under dire threat.’

  The ‘my’ did not escape Kydd. He replied curtly, ‘After the storm I was left with just two sail. Even if I’d been athwart their course when they sallied I could not have stopped them.’

  ‘You didn’t even try!’

  Kydd took a deep breath and replied levelly, ‘If I had, we’d now be left with not a single armed vessel to see off attacks or escort supply.’

  Popham glowered at him but said nothing. His hollow eyes and haggard face betrayed an inner torment that Kydd could only guess at – forced to stay idle in the big ships that were on watch in the outer reaches of the River Plate while the destiny of his adventure was decided by others, aware that failure was now not impossible, and his was the responsibility.

  ‘Nevertheless, I find your conduct questionable, sir, to say the least.’

  ‘There are those,’ Kydd said quietly, ‘who say venturing upon an invasion without we have reinforcements assured is-’

  ‘How dare you?’ Popham exploded, his face white. ‘You – you have the temerity to criticise me! This expedition was soundly conceived but, I’ll have you know, brought to hazard by others. I’ll not be cried down by the likes of you, my most junior captain, b’ God!’

  ‘Sir, you’re being-’

  ‘I’ll not forget this, Kydd! If we fail, it’s to your tally I’ll sheet home the blame for the whole bloody thing, be damn sure about that!’ He stood for a moment, chest heaving, then stormed out.

  After a decent interval Clinton came in, taking his chair without catching Kydd’s eye, and busied himself with a paper.

  Kydd tried to compose himself. He had nothing to be ashamed of and be damned to Popham if
he tried to prove otherwise. There was vital work to do and he wasn’t about to let that suffer on his account. He picked up his quill and resumed his order to take up three fishing boats.

  As evening drew in, the subaltern appeared again to address Clinton. ‘I’ve a strange thing to report, sir, if you’ll hear it.’

  Helped by Dodd, whose calm acceptance of discomfort and danger was unfailing, Clinton had been assigning night duties in such a way that nearby support could be summoned quickly if there were any outbreaks of trouble. It was not an easy task and he looked up distracted. ‘Er, what is it, then?’

  ‘In the barracks, sir. One of my privates was cleaning his musket when the damnedest thing happened. He was tapping his fire-lock on the floor when it disappeared.’

  Clinton sighed. ‘You’re not making yourself clear, old bean.’

  ‘The musket – it went right through a hole and he lost it. He called over his sergeant and they found that there was a suspicious cavity underneath where it had fallen and beg it be inspected.’

  ‘Not now, I’m afraid. I’m too busy.’

  Impulsively Kydd stood up. ‘I’ll go. Need to stretch the legs.’

  ‘That’s kind in you, sir,’ Clinton said gratefully. ‘Sar’nt Dodd will go with you. Er, a sword would not be noticed.’

  They left by the main gate, striding out into the gathering dark towards the barracks, two streets distant. As they turned the corner, without warning a screeching crowd with clubs ran towards them.

  Instantly the three drew their swords and, back to back, awaited the onslaught.

  It never came. The mob hesitated at the sight of the steel, then, with derisory shouts, ran away down a passage.

  ‘Rum lot, sir,’ Dodd said, sheathing a stout Highland broadsword he had somehow acquired. ‘The lads never could work ’em out.’

  The barracks fronted on to a grand street, and in the quarters for privates, located in the lower part, a ring of off-duty soldiers stood around a splintered plank. They drew back as Kydd approached. He peered into the blackness of a void underneath. A probe with a broom-handle found nothing.

  ‘Tear up the boards,’ he ordered.

  Out of the gloom the outlines of a small passageway or tunnel appeared.

  ‘Bring a lantern.’ It could be nothing but an old bolt-hole for soldiers to slip out into the town – or was it something more sinister?

  Kydd held the light over the hole – and there below was a row of round, familiar objects.

  He went icy cold: if these really were …

  ‘Stand clear, I’m going down,’ he grunted, swinging his legs over and dropping into the pit. ‘More light.’

  He went to the first object. Now there was no doubt: thirty-six barrels of gunpowder lay beneath the barracks in a plot to wipe out, in one blast, half of Beresford’s army.

  Struck dumb by the enormity, Kydd took some moments to recover. He looked about him – the tunnel led away deep into the pitch darkness: were they still there?

  ‘Sar’nt Dodd – come with me.’

  Dodd lowered himself in, peering around apprehensively. Kydd asked for two pistols and a lantern to be lowered. Crouching, they set off into the blackness.

  It seemed to go on for ever, but the tunnel was straight and the wavering light reached well ahead. It ended in a stone cellar with dusty stores and a wooden ladder going up to a small trapdoor. Kydd eased it up very carefully, light spilling in as he did so – and all became clear.

  The little group looking down the hole in the barrack-room floor started with surprise when Kydd and Dodd magically appeared behind them.

  ‘Turn out the guard,’ Kydd said briefly. ‘We know where they’re coming from.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘The convent of St Francis opposite.’

  Under the protection and assurances of the bishop, the convent and other sanctuaries had been exempted from access by the British – and that trust had been betrayed.

  Clinton was concerned at the revelation of the tunnel, but had other pressing problems to deal with. A sentry had been assaulted by a masked figure whirling a bolas, the deadly efficient gaucho method of bringing down steers. He’d then been badly beaten. Five men had simply disappeared.

  For Kydd there was unsettling news. Four feluccas had reached Buenos Aires; they were full of militia from the south, and attempted to land them behind the lines. A small sea battle had ended with their withdrawal, but if the Spanish had the sense to make a massed attack with more, it was certain that Kydd’s tiny navy would be overcome.

  He fought off a sense of inevitability and doom, and when the victuallers failed to arrive from Rio de Janeiro it was four upon two – the meagre rations of two men now shared four ways.

  Night brought with it its own terrors: sleep in the barracks was once shattered by a demented screeching and howling outside that went on and on. An armed party sent outside returned white-faced – wild dogs had been staked under the walls, then flayed alive and left.

  And in the morning the naked and mangled body of one of the missing soldiers was found on the foreshore.

  Was this the beginning of the end?

  Chapter 14

  The sound of trumpets echoed up from Whitehall Avenue. Grenville hurried to the window of the Admiralty, quite neglecting the table of grave faces that were discussing the war at sea. ‘I say, what a grand sight!’ the prime minister exclaimed. ‘Come and see, you fellows!’

  With a scraping of chairs the others dutifully obliged, moving to the long windows to peer down into the crowd-lined streets. In the distance the head of a cavalcade was approaching, an escort of the Loyal Britons Volunteers proudly stepping out with fixed bayonets to the sound of two military bands.

  People were shouting and cheering, urging on the colourful parade in waves of joyfulness. ‘My word, but I’ve not seen the mobility so exercised since Trafalgar,’ murmured Sidmouth, the Lord Privy Seal.

  Even the torpid figure of Fox, the notorious but ageing foreign secretary, gained some measure of animation. ‘An’ they’ve little enough to cheer these last months since Austerlitz,’ he grunted.

  Since that climactic confrontation at sea Napoleon had raged about Europe, winning one titanic battle after another. This had brought the late Pitt’s coalition to ruin, and had rendered England without friends and alone in the war once more. Now, however, they had a victory: better than that, there was plunder – treasure that took a stream of wagons, each drawn by six horses, to make the journey from Portsmouth to the Bank of England.

  The thump of drums grew louder and details of the procession clearer. ‘What flag’s that?’ enquired Grenville, noticing a Royal Marine holding aloft a green and gold tasselled banner in the first wagon.

  ‘I’ve been told it’s that of the viceroyalty of Peru, my lord,’ Viscount Howick, the first lord of the Admiralty, said sourly.

  ‘And the others?’

  ‘Flags various, taken at Buenos Aires.’

  The procession came nearer, the shouts more strident. Each wagon had a large pennant aloft bearing the single word ‘treasure’ woven with blue ribbons, and drawn behind each was a gleaming brass field-piece taken from the enemy. ‘Nice touch,’ Sidmouth grunted appreciatively.

  The cavalcade came to a ceremonial halt below their window.

  A smart party of Royal Marines emerged from the front portico bearing a banner of blue silk with words in gold – ‘Buenos Aires, Popham, Beresford, Victory!’ – and carried it out to a carriage where Captain Donnelly of Narcissus graciously accepted it on behalf of the gallant soldiers and sailors so far away.

  ‘Come now, Charles, why so peevish?’ Grenville said. The government could safely be said to be, at least by implication, responsible for this ray of light into the dark miseries of war.

  ‘The man’s insufferable, very plausible and has insinuating manners,’ Howick blustered. ‘Had the hide to dress up a pirate raid on the Spanish as a tilt at liberation.’

  ‘Popham? I’d have
thought we’ve reason enough to be grateful.’

  ‘He sails off on some unplanned treasure-hunting expedition, and then starts badgering me to find reinforcements from somewhere for his whimsy.’

  ‘Isn’t that what we want in a commander – pluck and enterprise?’

  ‘He left station without so much as a by-your-leave,’ the first lord snorted, ‘which for the Navy you can be very sure will earn any commander a court-martial at the trot.’

  ‘Like Nelson,’ Grenville responded lightly. The great admiral’s legendary and unauthorised race across the Atlantic had necessarily been accepted by the Admiralty.

  ‘Hmm. Popham was lucky – he takes a city the size of Bristol with a handful of men and ships, then trumpets it to all the world like a fairground huckster. Pens letters that puff South America as the next big market after India and gets the City all in a tizzy. Now I don’t suppose I can touch him – he’s the people’s hero.’

  In the wide street below, the bands started up again and the parade got under way, heading for a grand climax along Pall Mall. The two men watched it together as it disappeared around the corner.

  ‘I dare say I should get reinforcements out to the villain,’ muttered Howick.

  The Plaza de Toros, the bullring, was at the Retiro in the north of the city. After dark in the moonless night it was approached from three directions by a silent stream of men and equipment. By midnight General Liniers had an encampment established within the city.

  The only British in this district were a sergeant and seventeen men of the 71st, who occupied a derelict house. In the pre-dawn cold a tired sentry was aroused by the sound of dogs barking maniacally. He woke his sergeant, who was in no doubt of what was happening.

  ‘Go as fast as y’ legs’ll carry you, an’ tell Colonel Pack they’re on the move,’ he told the lad. ‘Say I’ll hold ’em as long as I can.’

  The sixteen soldiers were posted in fours, covering each other. Steel glittered in the early light as bayonets were fixed, and after he’d told them what he expected the sergeant solemnly shook hands with each man, then sent him out.