Should he set up a signalling station when they were ashore? No, there weren’t any trained naval signalmen in these hired transports to receive and decipher the messages and, in any case, to what purpose? These weren’t warships with covering gunfire support to manoeuvre or superior commanders to advise; once established ashore the only communications from the Army would be by boat to Encounter and then the long haul out to the anchored ships-of-the-line and the commodore.
Effectively, therefore, he was the naval commander on the spot and carried every responsibility for operations afloat.
Other anxieties crowded in but he beat them back with the thought that everything had gone well so far, there was no opposition, and when all were landed he could hand over the whole to General Beresford. In fact heThe boat suddenly lurched and stopped dead in the water, sending men down in a tangle. Kydd glared over the side at the roiling discolour. There was no escaping the fact that, quite simply, they had insufficient depth to make it in. They were left on the mud a quarter-mile short of the tide-line.
Was Fate returning to deal them a cynical counter-blow? Containing his anger at the unfairness, Kydd knew that to retreat would cost them their precious surprise. He grabbed the gunwale and jumped into the sea. Feeling the soft embrace of the mud he steadied himself; the sea was above his groin but this was the only way they could go forward.
‘Toss y’r oars!’ he snapped. Obediently the rowers smacked down on the looms of their oars, bringing them vertical and allowing Kydd to wade along outside the boat. The mud tugged and resisted, sending him staggering, but he gradually made progress to beyond its bow.
‘All out!’ he bellowed.
With muttered comments, the soldiers followed him into the water, splashing and cursing. ‘Port your weapon, y’ fool!’ he rasped at one, who had allowed his musket to dip into the water. The others raised their firearms above their heads as they stumbled along.
Soon there was a line of men behind Kydd in the long squelch and wrench that was now their strike ashore. Other boats followed suit and the foreshore became filled with redcoats straggling in.
Muscles burning, Kydd heaved himself forwards again and again. The coastline ahead seemed so far. Gradually it took on detail and character, flat scrub and occasional hard-green tree-clumps alternating with bare gaps in the low skyline. Nearer, with the water-level below the knees, it became a faster splashing progress. A hoarse cry from a soldier behind caught his attention: the man was pointing away to the right.
At the edge of the sea a young boy in a rough cloak was gaping at them. Someone waved – the boy’s hand flew to his mouth and he ran off yelling.
Reaching the tide-line Kydd squelched up the stinking mud-packed foreshore to a sparse grass clearing. He passed through the scrub to the more open plain beyond. Nothing. Not even a flock of sheep, or whatever passed for stock animals here. They had made it – they had achieved a landing.
They were standing on the mainland of South America …
Turning quickly, he strode back to the soldiers stumbling ashore and beckoned a sergeant, who panted up, unfurled and raised a standard. Men started to move towards the banner.
An officer arrived, shedding muddy water with a grimace. Kydd gave a broad smile. ‘The day is ours, sir. Do form up, if y’ please, Lieutenant.’
The man barked orders to another sergeant, who bawled incomprehensibly up and down the shoreline. Answering calls came from elsewhere, and before long, recognisable groups were coalescing and Kydd, feeling oddly unwanted, stepped out of the way.
A piper began a stirring wail with several drums rattling out in accompaniment. Screams of orders echoed, the springy turf muffling the stamp of boots.
After an hour or so L’Aurore’s lieutenant of marines, Clinton, strode purposefully towards him. Throwing a magnificent salute, he announced, ‘Marine battalion ready for inspection, sah.’
Twirling and stamping faultlessly under the eyes of the Army, he led off smartly to where the lines of Kydd’s marine brigade were drawn up. Their impromptu uniform was a pleasing mix of blue or red jacket, white trousers and gaiters, and surmounted by an ingenious black cap and feathers. They shouldered arms and came to the present like veterans.
Kydd started to inspect them gravely, accompanied by Clinton, with drawn sword, but was interrupted by a horseman who dashed up and saluted. ‘Respects, Cap’n Kydd, and the general requests your attendance.’
An outstretched arm indicated the direction to take but Kydd first concluded his ceremony with all proper salutes.
Before he left he drew Clinton aside. ‘Your first duty is to their weapons. We may have warm work before long and I’ll not be caught unprepared – their rations and stores will follow directly.’
He stamped off, aware that there were precious few horses and none to spare for sailors ashore. Beresford and a knot of officers cantered towards him.
‘Ahoy there, is it not, Captain?’ the general hailed him, with a salute. He was obviously pleased by the day so far.
‘Sir.’
‘Just to make claim of my new colonel of the marine brigade. How are your numbers?’
‘Um, over four hundred of foot – three hundred and fifty marines and near a hundred seamen.’ He wondered briefly whether a battalion was bigger than a brigade and settled on the general’s term. ‘Marine brigade mustered and ready, sir.’
‘Yes, I saw ’em. A stout body o’ men. I shall call them my “Royal Blues”, I believe.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ So, from commander of a fleet he was now a colonel of foot-soldiers.
‘As will be used where and when the circumstance dictates.’
So they would not find a place in the line … Kydd saluted, then tried to wheel about in military fashion and march off with dignity.
Clinton had the men on the foreshore unloading stores from the boats and piling them where directed by a distracted army quartermaster. In one place the St Helena artillerymen were assembling their field-pieces: six-pounders and a pair of howitzers. Later, no doubt, the Royal Blues would be asked to tail on and haul these guns.
Kydd found himself once more getting in the way and rued the fate that had him playing the soldier.
The afternoon wore on, then a rustle of expectation spread: the enemy had at last been sighted ahead. Kydd made his way through the encampment to an open area where the general was looking north intently. ‘Ah, Mr Kydd. You understand, old fellow, that you should stay by me until I send you away on a service,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
An aide dismounted expertly and handed him his reins. ‘Sir, you have use of my mount until, er, we have need of it.’
Gratefully Kydd heaved himself aboard.
‘There you may see them, the villains!’ Beresford said dramatically, and pointed across to a slight rise about two miles ahead. Spreading out along the skyline was a vast horde, many on horseback, the wan glitter of steel clearly visible.
‘Sir, they’re in front of a village of sorts. Called “Reduction”, it says here,’ an officer with a map offered.
Beresford ignored him and said crisply, ‘I’ll have a forward line of Highlanders thrown out ahead, the six-pounders if they’re ready, but I have m’ doubts they’ll attack this day.’ He pursed his lips. ‘We’ll be waiting for ’em in the morning. See the men are well fed.’
As night fell, the last of the stores and horses were brought ashore, miraculously in good order, and the expeditionary force was complete.
Kydd’s apprehensions returned. It couldn’t be possible, not against a city – a continent! The odds were ridiculous – he needed to hear again just how few they were going into battle with.
‘What’s our count now?’ he asked a nearby officer.
The major consulted his notebook. ‘Let me see. There’s eight hundred of the 71st disembarked and with your marine brigade of four hundred and fifty that puts us at a bit over the thousand. Add in the odds and sods of the St Helena’s Infantry and Artillery and we’re at someth
ing like sixteen hundred officers and men – and that’s not forgetting our good general and his field staff of seven.’
‘Guns?’
‘Why, here we have four six-pounders in all, our heavy artillery,’ he said, with a sniff, ‘and not to mention a pair of small howitzers with the St Helena volunteers. As to horses, at last count three go to the general’s staff, the rest to dispatches and artillery. No more’n a dozen in all, I’d say.’
Little more than a thousand and a half to go up against …
In the distance a twinkling of fires started among the enemy until more and more were strung out along the rise.
During the night, light rain drifted down, a cold, dispiriting and endless misery. With few tents most soldiers hunched under their capes and huddled together to endure. Kydd shared an improvised tent with the major but the ground became sodden, and icy wet insinuated itself from under his blanket until he awoke, shivering.
The morning broke with leaden skies and a piercing wind from across the plains, but Beresford was in no mood to linger. As soon as it was light, trumpets sounded and, after a hasty breakfast, camp was struck.
Mercifully the rain was holding off and Kydd joined the small group around the general, all of them drooping with wet and odorous with the smell of damp uniform and horses. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Beresford said briskly. ‘I should think about three thousand of the beggars. We’ve sighted eight guns among ’em, positioned on top of the rise.’
He gave his first orders, which were for a defensive line with a six-pounder on the flanks and the howitzers in the centre. It was the Highlanders who would take the brunt of the attack but close behind them the marine brigade was ready to move to where the battle was hottest.
Together a thousand men were a mass; spread out over a battlefield they were pitifully few, and when the guns of the enemy opened up and the opposing infantry began to march down the rise against them in a flourish of tinny trumpet calls it seemed certain the whole adventure could finish that morning.
Kydd felt for the reassurance of his sword and glanced about. There was anything but concern on the faces of the officers, and the men were settled in two ranks, the first kneeling and looking steadily ahead in disciplined silence. The officers wore a look of professional interest and Beresford had out his glass, calmly scanning the advance.
By this time the Spanish guns on the hilltop were hard at work, their concussion a continuous roll but to no effect. The tearing whistle of their shot went well overhead. The gunners were apparently so raw they hadn’t allowed for their superior height of eye.
‘They’re coming on well, but a motley crew, I’m persuaded,’ Beresford murmured. ‘I do believe they need livening up. Sound the advance, if you please, and we’ll go and meet ’em.’
A volley of drumming was answered by the rising wail of pipes, and the entire line stepped off together in a steady tramp. The going was not easy, the scrubby plain populated with bushes and tussocks, but the seasoned men paced on stolidly, saving their strength for the hill ahead, which would inevitably have to be stormed. On either side their own guns spoke in sharp cracks but with little result at this range.
Then, quite without warning, the line faltered and milled in confusion.
‘What the hell’s wrong with those men?’ snapped Beresford, shifting his glass from the enemy and training it on the floundering troops.
They had run into a quagmire and the advance came to a complete halt. On the other side of the marsh the Spanish drew up in ranks and began a murderous fire with their muskets while on the heights the guns were finding their range. A well-sprung trap – and the first line of defence.
Beresford bit his lip, then swung around to Kydd. ‘Get your men on a brace of guns and find your way around the marsh to take ’em in the flank.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’ Kydd saluted, wheeled his horse around sharply and galloped off to his men.
‘Clinton!’ he snapped. ‘Send a couple o’ men out to find a way around this bog, the rest to the traces an’ haul a pair o’ guns.’
After crisply dispatching Sergeant Dodds and his corporal, Clinton gave Kydd a lopsided smile. ‘And how did I know we’d be called on this way?’ Behind him the hauling man-ropes were already ranged for service.
‘Well done, Mr Clinton,’ Kydd said. ‘And as quick as you may.’
Back with Beresford, Kydd found the officers watching a display of Spanish horsemanship that had them bemused and affronted by turns. From the crest of the hill, riders in colourful and flamboyant dress were furiously pounding down to the edge of the marsh, skidding to a halt and showily dismounting, only to turn and make unmistakable gestures before racing away.
At this the Highland soldiers plunged into the morass after them, furiously staggering in the black mud-holes and stagnant pits, defying the musketry fire. Some spun and dropped but there was no stopping them, and when at last the crack and thump of field-pieces announced the arrival of their man-hauled guns out on the flank, the enemy’s fire began to fall away.
The first kilted soldiers stumbled out of the other side of the swamp and, without waiting for others, roared their defiance and made straight for the Spanish. This show of raw bravery unnerved the enemy – they turned and fled back up the hill. A colour-sergeant rallied his Highlanders at the base of the rise and, with a fearsome battle-cry, they stormed up the hill in line.
The ineffective artillery at the summit fell silent. A few figures could be seen moving and then there were none at all.
‘They’ve abandoned their guns, the villainous crew!’ Beresford said, in delight. ‘General advance!’ He urged his horse forward into the marsh; it stumbled and splashed through. Followed by his little group of staff, he rode to the top of the rise.
Most of the guns were in fact still there: six brass cannon with their impedimenta – even the mules that drew them remained nervously tethered nearby.
‘Still loaded!’ cried one of the St Helena gunners.
‘Well, why do you wait? Give ’em a salute!’
The guns were swung round and, to loud cheers, crashed out after the fleeing figures.
The terrain now lay in a gentle slope forward towards a distant line of trees – clearly the sinuous course of a river. ‘That’s the Ria Chuelo. I dare say they’re to make a stand on the other bank,’ mused Beresford, seeing the retreat converge on the crossing point, a wide bridge.
He snapped his glass shut. ‘Let’s give ’em no rest. Form line of advance!’
As an aside he muttered, ‘Would that I had horses – a squadron or two of cavalry would make it a fine rout.’
The troops stepped off again, heading for the bridge, pipers to the fore and, despite their torn and mud-soaked appearance, Kydd felt a surge of pride in their resolute marching.
But as they approached the river, smoke spiralled up from the bridge, and well before they reached it the structure was ablaze. On the opposite bank enemy troops were spreading out. The second line of defence.
Brought to a reluctant standstill, there was nothing for it but to bivouac for the night. While the camp was put in hasty preparation, Beresford summoned Kydd. ‘Sir. It would infinitely oblige me if …’
It was appalling work but the Royal Blues saw it as a point of honour to get the expedition’s guns across the ‘impassable’ mire. With muscles tempered by years of heaving on ropes, they turned their skills to another kind of hauling. They were well into their agony in the darkness when, without warning, there was a livid flash and an ear-splitting explosion, sending every man into an instinctive crouch.
They looked round fearfully for a gigantic piece of ordnance arrayed against them. Another, even louder, crash burst on them. Then the rain came. Cold, murderous and in unbelievable torrents. The sticky mud began to soften and fast rivulets started everywhere. Soaked, numbed to the bone and blinded by the ferocity of the deluge, the men turned back to their work, now made near impossible by the slippery grip of mud and rain.
Fo
r hours they laboured, but when a freezing dawn broke there were guns at the water’s edge facing the Spanish. They were safe – but their way forward was irretrievably blocked by the Ria Chuelo.
It was one of the seamen who found a way. ‘Sir – there’s some o’ them flat fishin’ boats in a puddle dock yonder. If ye c’n keep the Spaniards’ heads down for ’un we’ll swim across an’ fetch ’em for a bridge.’
Kydd could hardly believe it. In order to retrieve their situation the man and his mates were volunteering to plunge into the icy water and swim the forty-odd yards under fire to them. ‘How many?’ he snapped.
‘Four on us.’
‘Very well. Let’s have your names.’ At the very least the commodore would get to know who had saved the expedition.
Beresford lost no time in accepting. ‘Range the guns opposite and give fire continuously, if you please.’
When the bombardment started, the Spanish slipped back out of sight, seeing little point in enduring the near point-blank fire. The seamen stripped off and, shivering, slipped into the turbid and fast-flowing river. They struck out with frenzied strokes, every soul on the British side willing them on until they reached the boats. A boatswain’s mate with a heaving line stood ready. Then, as coolly as he would on the deck of a ship, he made his cast and the line sailed across, to be seized by the men, who quickly hauled in on a heavier rope.
One by one the boats were cut free and pulled across. Each was lashed, nose to tail, to another until there was a continuous line of them and then – mirabile dictu – they had their bridge.
Under covering fire from the guns the Highlanders stormed across, quickly establishing themselves under the bank where the Spanish could not aim at them without exposing themselves. More and more poured over, and when they were ready, they flung themselves up and into the body of the enemy.
They had broken through! From where Kydd was he could see the panic and consternation of the enemy, who scattered under the threat of the steadily advancing Scots and disappeared into the distance. Once across the river he saw a thrilling sight – not more than three or four miles in front of them were the steeples, towers and dense mass of buildings that was Buenos Aires.
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