The heading could not be sustained. Up the River Plate to its end there was a maze of mud-flats and the blunt thirty-mile barrier of impenetrable marshes that separated the two shores. Sooner or later they must turn and face their fate or drive aground to be taken separately by Stalwart. Hellard grinned in anticipation and glanced at his crew, each with a cutlass and a brace of pistols: they didn’t need to be told what was in prospect.
Abruptly the lead felucca put her helm down and lay over on to the other tack, followed like wheeling starlings by the other two.
‘Ready about,’ Hellard ordered languidly, and Stalwart made to follow suit. In an instant the three ahead swung back to their original course, gaining nearly a hundred yards, but the end could not be long in doubt.
It was the balandra, marginally larger than the other two, that took the ground first. Almost comically slowing as the muddy seabed rose to brush her undersides she stopped, still under full sail. The other two pressed on.
Hellard ordered savagely, ‘Come to, a half-pistol-shot abeam.’
Then he snapped, ‘Ahoy there, the swivel. One round to wake him up!’
The shot was sent low over the little half-deck aft where the crew crouched. They ducked out of sight and he ordered, ‘Boarders away!’
In a well-practised move their boat was launched; with Hellard at the tiller and four men at the oars, they pulled strongly towards the balandra’s squared-off stern. Muskets banged from the deck-line but Hellard smiled cynically – in their inexperience they were firing much too early and the shots were going wide.
At the last minute he threw over his tiller and brought the boat in at an angle with a thump. With a roar a brawny seaman tossed his cutlass aboard and reached for a rope to heave himself in. Four crouched men rose to meet him – but Hellard’s ready-aimed pistol kicked in his hand and the first went down in a gurgle of blood. A seaman’s pistol behind him took the next with a bullet in the stomach and the man toppled forward, screaming, into the sea.
The third held his blade at point and retreated, pale and shaking. Hellard swung aboard and faced him with his sword, motioning for him to drop his weapon. The man was rigid with terror but kept his position, the tip of his crude cutlass wavering, his eyes black pits of fear. The lieutenant made a threatening gesture but the sailor kept up his weapon. A plunge overboard the other side was presumably the last making his escape.
It was butchery but there was no alternative: Hellard swept up his blade as though to slash down – the cutlass went up to protect and, with a sharp twist and stoop, Hellard was lunging inside, catching the man in the throat in a bloody spray. He fell to his knees, choking his life away.
Out ahead the two feluccas were making a broad circle, looking to an opportunity for revenge – Hellard and his party had little time.
In the cabin he found an oil lamp. He shouted down into the waist for the wreckers to stop smashing at the bottom of the vessel with broad-axe and maul, then dashed the lamp to the deck. It splintered and the oil caught in roiling flame.
As men tumbled into the boat to return to Stalwart the bowman leaned over and fished out a shapeless dripping black object. ‘So what’s this’n?’
‘Get on your oar!’ Hellard snarled at him in reply and they were away.
In the dim twilight, Serrano stood up to his knees in the sea, clutching his arms and shivering uncontrollably with cold and fright. It had taken hours for the blaze to be noticed from shore and a cautious fishing boat sent to investigate, but now it was coming and he would be back in blessed safety and warmth before long. It had been the worst experience he had ever had – the quick crossing abruptly interrupted by scenes of stark terror ended only by the plunge for his life over the side.
The desolate time standing in the mud was preferable to the alternative: being seized by the British and taken before their senior officer – Captain Kydd, who would quickly recognise his real position. And he could congratulate himself that even in all the horror he had thought to cast his precious dispatches overboard to prevent their capture.
The fishing boat loomed close, hands hauled him in and he was found a blanket and a mug of rough aguardiente.
Suddenly he realised their direction. ‘Where are we going? I’ve to report to General Liniers himself – take us back!’
‘What? We’re from Las Conchas, and I can swear to you by the Holy Name we’re going there.’
It was the wrong side of the river. ‘But-’
‘You’d rather get out and walk?’
He slumped down. Then he realised that telling Liniers he had not been able to deliver the message was neither informative nor helpful. Las Conchas was well to the north of Buenos Aires and he could safely move down to the gauchos who were secretly concentrated at the Perdriel ranch. Much better to see Pueyrredon himself and pass on the message personally.
‘Las Conchas will do,’ Serrano said loftily.
The old and stinking fishing village provided a measure of compensation: a resident, impressed with his tale of escape from the clutches of desperate English pirates on the high seas, lent him a horse. In a matter of an hour or so he was cantering into the sprawling Perdriel ranch.
Juan Martin de Pueyrredon was tall, handsome and imperious, and of startling youth in his blaze of stars and epaulettes.
His piercing gaze never left Serrano as he heard his story. ‘Very well, I’ll accept this comes from General Liniers – your father is known to me.’
He mounted his horse with a flourish, then gestured towards the open country where great numbers of horsemen were thundering backwards and forwards in mock charge. ‘How he expects me to keep these noble caballeros entertained while he and Baltasar dally is quite beyond me.’ He sniffed. ‘And, should the English dare to show their faces, I cannot be held accountable that these brave fellows insist on falling upon them without recourse to orders.’
‘It was fished out of the water near the balandra,’ Hellard said, handing over the sodden object. ‘I saw there was a packet inside.’
Kydd inspected it curiously: a small leather hold-all, not military, and inside, a well-folded package secured with rawhide fastenings. Its covering was a stout oilskin preserving its contents against the seawater.
His pocket-knife soon had it open – it was a message, still quite legible but in Spanish. What was plain, however, was that, from the conspicuous Spanish royal coat of arms, this was official and of some importance. Yet why was it not in a military form? And would anyone be foolish enough to ditch valuable dispatches without the customary pair of musket-balls to weigh them down?
It had to be a deception but he was duty-bound to pass it on to the general.
‘Found in the sea near a vessel taken by one of my captains,’ Kydd murmured.
‘A trickery, no doubt,’ Beresford said immediately, but handed it to an aide. ‘What does it say, Erskine?’
The man scanned it closely then looked up. ‘Sir, it’s a note from General Liniers to a Colonel General Pueyrredon.’
‘Ah. That’s our gaucho fellow, I’m told. Carry on.’
‘A warm message encouraging them to hold fast until he can find some way to cross, their progress being halted at the shore by our navy, which holds the sea. Then, he says, they will join together to liberate their fair city from the invader.’
‘Ha! I can’t see how they believe this might constitute a misleading. We know very well that Liniers is confined to Colonia in idleness and we also know that the gauchos can’t move without he crosses and joins up with them, so where’s the deceit?’
He frowned, then a slow smile spread. ‘Yet there is a message in this for us.’
‘Sir?’
‘If this is their admitted position I see no reason why we can’t take advantage of it. Gentlemen, I’m to make a sally out of the city and deal with our country gaucho friends while they’re thus separated. I shall not lose a moment. Send for Colonel Pack, if you please.’
In the chill dawn a column of infantry o
f the 71st Regiment with fifty of the St Helena Infantry and their guns tramped through the silent streets, watched by citizens awed by the warlike array of an army on the march. The general was taking more than half his strength – a grave risk, for if the future battle went against him Buenos Aires could not be held by those remaining.
They moved quickly, the guns and limbers pulled by mules and the soldiers with light packs, their marching rhythm eating up the miles until they had left the city and its suburbs well behind. With few horses, scouts could not be deployed on either flank and therefore it had to be assumed their progress was observed by Pueyrredon’s outriders and the news relayed on.
The land was flat and monotonous, scrub and occasional trees bent with the wind adding to the feel of a God-forsaken landscape. A forward observer galloped back with news: ahead there were at least two thousand troops, mounted and with field guns. Near four times the British number, in their familiar country and on ground of their own choosing.
Beresford took the news calmly and the column marched on without pause.
At a little after ten they passed two ranch outbuildings, then caught sight of the enemy. They were taking advantage of a long stone wall for a defensive work, their guns at regular intervals, behind them a mass of horses and troops, the glitter of steel and the colour of pennons clearly visible.
The guns thudded into life too early with wild firing; the British continued advancing in column and the balls gouged earth well away from them.
Then Beresford gave the order to deploy, bringing his men to a halt while his guns took position.
His artillerymen opened up with devastating effect. A stone wall was the worst shelter imaginable – as the iron balls struck, they dissolved it into flying, razor-sharp splinters that carried into the packed mass behind.
‘Fix bayonets! To the fore – march!’ The 71st formed a double line and advanced; the St Helena’s stayed with the guns.
From the enemy positions a stream of riders burst out to the left, another to the right, maddened gauchos in an impulsive charge that owed little to soldierly discipline and much to their lust for glory.
Against veteran Highlanders it was a mistake. With crisp commands the redcoats halted and formed a loose square. The gauchos were met with the concentrated fire of the first rank, which brought down men and horses in a chaos of flying bodies and squeals of terror. To the front one gaucho officer was spectacularly unhorsed, but staggered to his feet and stood defiant against the foe, the gold of his epaulettes and decorations an incongruous glint against the filth of the battlefield.
The British resumed their advance, but the officer didn’t run – he snatched up a flag, which he flourished aloft, shouting heroically into the anarchy and confusion. Seemingly from nowhere a gaucho dragoon galloped wildly towards him, low in the saddle, beating his horse mercilessly. In a feat worthy of a circus spectacle the unhorsed officer vaulted into the saddle behind him and they made their escape.
Gauchos circled out of range – then a pair made a wild dash for the British lines, straight towards where the general and his staff were standing. Beresford tried to draw his sword but it jammed in its scabbard. Musket fire brought one gaucho crashing to the ground but the other, sabre at the ready, thundered in. The general’s aide threw himself between them and parried the swing with his own weapon. The rider circled for another pass but was brought down with pistols.
Ahead, two Spanish guns fired but fell silent before the charging Scots. The gunners fled – all save one, who valiantly stayed by his weapon and was captured.
The 71st had taken Perdriel, the equipment and guns for no loss. There was nothing the gauchos could do but leave their dead and retreat.
‘A glorious day, sir!’ a young officer enthused to Beresford.
‘You think so?’ the general said. ‘What do you see? A conquered army at my feet? No, sir. We have the field, but what are we going to do with it? We have to quit it immediately and return to Buenos Aires, having taught ’em respect, but their force still exists and we must meet them again. This only buys time.’
He called to his aide: ‘Do bring that prisoner before me. The bravest fellow the Spanish had this day.’
The man was led forward. ‘Tell him I shall compliment him on his conduct as his own commanding officer would. What’s his name?’
There was no response from the gunner, who stood defiant and silent. ‘Come, come, sir – you have nothing to be ashamed of. Tell us your name and rank,’ Beresford said.
Colonel Pack stormed up, red-faced. ‘The villain! I know that man, sir! He’s an Irish deserter!’
The general’s expression turned bleak. ‘You see?’ he said, to the young officer. ‘Now I have to hang a good man. A glorious day? I think not.’
There were shouts of men returning – but they were Spanish. Serrano had not heard English spoken for some time. Were the British abandoning the battlefield? Fearfully, he cleared a hole from his hiding place under the mule feed to see a colourful gaucho swaggering past.
He got up to find the camp in ruins. The British had destroyed what they could and had left, taking the guns, and now there was nothing but the desolation of a battlefield and wailing women. He wandered around in shock – they had outnumbered the enemy by four to one yet had been soundly beaten. What had happened – what now of the future?
He saw Pueyrredon with his officers around him and heard him cry out, ‘The glorious sacrifice of our men on the field of battle will not be in vain. We know we’re children in the arts of war compared to the imperialista British – but we have an advantage: a mighty sword in our hand. Our cause is just.’
There was a roar of support, but impatiently he cut through it. ‘And every last bonaerense son would flock to the colours if they could and join us in our time of glory.’
Serrano was spellbound. With leaders like this man, how could they fail to stand against the English, and then in the fullness of time march on to seize the golden crown of liberation and independence?
Pueyrredon went on, ‘I have a plan that will grant them their sacred wish. We cannot prevail in the open field of battle before the forces the British can muster against us. Therefore we shall arm the people and as one we shall rise up against them in numbers they cannot withstand. By stealth and courage we will infiltrate muskets and pikes, guns, swords and powder into the city. When General Liniers crosses to join us at last, a trumpet will sound forth our freedom’s call and the entire city will rise up and humble them.’
Joining in the storm of applause, Serrano pushed forward eagerly. ‘I shall be first to return. I know the British – let me be the one!’
Pueyrredon looked around grandly, then fixed on Serrano. ‘Very well, you shall have your wish. You shall accompany my chief lieutenant and emissary, Charcas, Hidalgo de Sarmiento, to Buenos Aires, there to raise our people’s army.’
Eyes shining, Serrano snapped to attention. ‘Yes, General.’
‘Then go,’ Pueyrredon said, looking pointedly over his shoulder.
Serrano turned round – and met the eyes of the man he had last seen in the home of his lover.
Charcas’s cynical smile sliced through his elation. ‘Do lead on. Be first – and I will follow,’ he added grimly.
They left disguised as farm peons on a cart of donkey hay but under the load lay a dozen muskets. At the reins Serrano led off towards the city in the distance, his apprehension turning to terror as they approached the first sentry. Charcas took over, chewing a straw and spreading his hands in incomprehension. The nervous young soldier let them pass.
The cart wound its way through the meaner streets of the northern suburbs, passing into an enclosed courtyard at the back of an inn. In a dramatic gesture Charcas threw off his poncho to reveal a glittering uniform, then stood on his seat and waited haughtily, his arms folded.
A curious face appeared at a window, then a few customers stepped out to see. Charcas declined to notice them. More came, filling the little courtyard.
Then, taking a long and significant look about him, he proclaimed, ‘Citizens of Buenos Aires! I am here at the peril of my life to bring you hope …’
His words swept over them, promises of glory and sacrifice, war and patriotism until the space rang with shouts of fire and ardour.
He drew himself up and looked about impressively. ‘Who will then be first to enlist in the glorious Legion de Patricios Voluntarios Urbanos de Buenos Aires? With a purse of dollars each month and freedom to elect your own officers …’
A thrusting crowd pressed forward with a roar, and Charcas pointed at one individual. ‘What is your name, sir?’
‘Ah, Manuel Galvis, as it pleases you, sir,’ the man said, whipping off his cap.
‘Then it is now Sergeant Galvis. You shall take the details of all who will serve their country and I will come later to enlist them.’
A priest pushed through, frowning, but was carried along by the excitement and insisted on giving heaven’s blessing to the uprising.
‘We thank you, Father,’ Charcas said, in dignified tones, ‘and crave a further service.’ This was to act as trusted intermediary between various units of the people’s army, the British having issued special passes to priests to go about freely in ministering to their flock.
‘And now as an earnest to the future – Sar’nt Galvis!’
‘Sir!’
With a flourish he swung down and went to the rear of the cart, snatching away the loose hay to reveal the muskets, gleaming and deadly. ‘Take these for your good men – be certain there’s many more to come.’
In the sudden hush Charcas added, ‘In your hands is the destiny of our great city. Guerra al cuchillo! Mueran los ingleses!’
When they met up again that evening, Charcas wore the black cloak Serrano remembered all too well but Serrano himself was still in his shabby and torn clothes. They slipped through the darkened and near deserted streets until, once more, he was before Rafaela.
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