His opponent had an old-fashioned rapier, which flicked about like a snake’s tongue, searching for an opening, its lightness giving it deadly speed while Kydd’s snatched-up cutlass seemed heavy and unresponsive.
In the flickering pool of light, the fight was brutal and with no quarter possible – but they had to hold the line: no more enemy boarders could make it on to the crowded deck while they did so, and their attackers knew it, throwing themselves forward in a frenzy of violence, stabbing, hacking, smashing.
As he parried and slashed, a tiny part of Kydd’s mind coolly told him he was right: this ferocity owed its intensity to the need to stop a secret being spilled, which could only be the point of entry of the arms smuggling.
His momentary lapse in concentration was punished by the sight of the pitiless features of his opponent as the rapier pierced his defences in a lunge to his face. He reflexively tried to avoid the blade but it hissed through his collar and he felt its hot burn along his neck. Instinctively he twisted away – it brought pressure on the rapier blade, impeding its withdrawal, and Kydd desperately brought his cutlass in a wide slash across towards the belly. The man pulled back – and tripped, falling full length, and Kydd was on him, the heavy cutlass swinging down and laying the man’s body open in a welter of blood and viscera.
In a split second Kydd trampled over the body and thrust his bloody cutlass at the one bearing down on Dougal. The man swung to meet him but Dougal’s blade transfixed his side – in this morbid hackery there was no space for the gallantries of the fencing code and he whirled around to meet one about to impale him from behind. His blade at parry, something made the man hesitate – Kydd pressed his advantage and his opponent stumbled backwards against the low bulwark to topple over the side.
The sound of the plunge was loud against the grunts, steel clashing and slithers that filled the air. Thinking, perhaps, that his comrades were abandoning the fight and swimming for their lives, one made the fatal mistake of looking over his shoulder and was cut down in an instant; another turned and ran, and a last leaped over the side.
There were more in the falucho but they hesitated. A figure bravely darted past Kydd and began sawing at the grapnel line with his midshipman’s dirk. It fell free, the craft swinging clear, but with their boarders out of the line of fire there was a last vengeful burst of musketry from the enemy. In the vicious whip of bullets, Kydd’s upraised blade took a ball squarely, with a numbing clang that caused him to drop it in pain but, with a sudden flash, their starboard carronade had banged out and a storm of grape tore into the men opposite, throwing them aside like bloody skittles.
It was the end of the fight: the falucho, out of control, drifted away, leaving the Stalwarts to count the cost.
There were two enemy dead, one seaman on his hands and knees rocking with pain, another biting off gasps as a shipmate bound his forearm – and the huddled form of Beekman still forward. Kydd hurried over but by the sputtering light of the lamp it was obvious his wound was mortal: even as the midshipman had knelt at his ship-saving task, a ball had struck in at the shoulder and raked down into his body.
The lad’s consciousness was slipping, his eyes flicking from one side to the other, desperately scrabbling for life. Kydd tried to cradle the absurdly slight body while the last battle was fought, his heart wringing at the pity of it. A sudden spasm seized the boy in a paroxysm of desperation but when it had left – so had his life.
Chapter 12
The sound of Kydd’s steps echoed from the stone stairs as he made his way yet again to the roof parapets of the fort. He stood and looked out to the restless grey water, with its limitless horizon, feeling for the freedom and contentment of the open sea.
With every fibre of his soul he wanted to be quit of the place, with its mood of foreboding and treachery; the monotony of the flat, endless landscape; the inescapable stink of mud and animals; the pinched rations and strained faces; the tedium of waiting and keeping his flotilla at their vital blockade until relief finally came.
He thought of brave little Beekman, who would leave his bones here, never again to see the grand sight of Cape Town’s Table Mountain and the sun-splashed veld. In his sea life Kydd had seen countless tragedies and had acquired a detachment that usually kept him distant, but Beekman had got under his guard. Such a pitiable waste.
Swallowing, Kydd forced himself to concentrate as he made his usual appraisal of the weather. The glass was falling but too little to worry about, the winds gusty and sulky from the north-east, not a concern for the blockade of Colonia. Moreover, the mud-flats close by were under water, ensuring there was navigability around the Chico Bank. There was no telling, however, in these duplicitous waters: he had heard of one occasion when, with an adverse wind, the incoming tide had actually been cowed into retreating, leaving the whole River Plate a vast mud-flat, shore to shore.
He turned to go, but hesitated at what he saw developing inland to the south-west. A peculiar roll of cloud, separate from the rest, stretched for miles and had a dark, unhealthy hue. It put him in mind of the Southerly Buster, a phenomenon he had once been caught up in some years ago off Australia: it had the vicious trick of advancing with high winds from one direction, then whipping round to attack an unfortunate ship from the opposite direction.
When he wandered back up just before noon to check, it was considerably nearer, a peculiar uniform long tube of brown-grey, slowly and ominously rolling forward. Under its baneful influence the winds before it faded, bringing an oppressive humidity and the feral apprehension that always came before a storm.
Kydd thought of his little band of vessels on their ceaseless patrol against the far shore. At the sight of this kind of weather he himself would be taking full storm precautions, no matter how big his vessel. Should he call off the blockade and bring them all safely back to port? If this was a harmless local phenomenon he would be risking all, for Liniers with his superior knowledge of these parts would jump at the chance of a breakout. No: he must leave it to the judgement of his captains.
At two, however, it became clear that this was no trivial weather spat. The rolling cloud was nearly overhead and behind it hung a dark pall. In nearby buildings wooden shutters had been hastily fastened, the last people abroad were hurrying home and all small craft had vanished.
And not one of his little fleet had returned. They had chosen to stay at their post – but if it was the same species of tempest he’d encountered in Australia, would they know of the fiendish wind reversal? Even if they survived they’d be thrown on a deadly lee-shore, driven in by the bluster, andA heavy concussion, so loud it shook the stonework of the fort, startled Kydd. Not far out on his right a fork of lightning burst on his senses – then another, leaping between the clouds in hideous display. A further avalanche of thunder pealed out, nearly deafening him.
In the breathless atmosphere it was a devil’s display of malice, intense blue-white lightning arcing down in strikes seconds apart, the smell of sulphur clear on the air. Then a squall buffeted him, a chill and malevolent blast – from the south! The wind swung back, fretful and restless, before another southerly gust caught him, pummelling with a force that increased all the time.
Then came the rain. Gusty torrents and afterwards a hammering roar of heavy drops that quickly became a deluge, driving Kydd to take shelter in a corner. His last sight of the sea was of a perfect fury of whiteness. It was a fight for life that now faced his navy, out there somewhere.
Another stupefying round of thunderclaps burst overhead, this time accompanied by a volley of hailstones as big as musket balls that rushed and clattered violently about. Kydd retreated, hurrying back down the steps, now echoing with the storm’s frenzy, and returned to his desk. The view from the window was a blur of grey and white through the sheeting rain on the glass, the muted drone and scream of the wind, quite different from the open howl through bare rigging at sea, and his heart went out to the seamen facing the worst in this chaos.
For hours
the tempest beat about them, from dead south to more in the west, a flat, hard, savage blast that numbed the senses with its roar and venom.
Kydd was unable to work and sat staring at his papers. Here he was in the warm and dry while others fought for their lives. And was L’Aurore in good hands? He knew Gilbey as a tarpaulin to be sensitive to weather moods but for the same reason he could be relied on to make no concessions to comfort and the frigate would be lying to two anchors, jibbing like a frightened horse at the onrush of frenzied seas.
Kydd dozed at his desk but was wide awake at the first sign of light before the winter dawn. The storm had diminished to a sullen bluster, cold and heartless, but the rain had thankfully ceased. The sea was in a fret and restless, and wherever he peered there was no sight of distant sails. Clutching an oilskin to himself he went outside and looked towards the mole to see one craft alongside, and one poling itself in. Just two.
He pretended to exercise, pacing up and down the foreshore in the mud, among the seaweed and debris thrown up, his oilskin ballooning and the cold wind piercing, but of his seven vessels, by mid-morning there was only one further arrival. Unable to keep up the pretence, he returned to the fort but was shortly summoned back.
‘Um, just beyond the point, sir,’ a soldier said, stolidly leading. It was as Kydd had dreaded. Some way out there was the low, untidy black outline of a washed-up wreck with two figures picking at it. With a catch in his throat he started out to it.
‘Oi, sir, don’t you …’ began the soldier, but Kydd was not to be stopped and squelched on over the mud, then into the heavily discoloured water until he reached the pathetic remains, shattered and tangled with seaweed-strewn rope.
‘Stalwart, sir,’ said a petty officer from the fort.
‘Any … ?’
‘Two on ’em only, sir,’ the man said, pointing to the foreshore where tarpaulin-covered bodies lay, which he’d overlooked in his haste. He sloshed back and, with the soldier gravely watching, he carefully pulled back the covering on one.
Dougal. Master’s mate. The pallor of death but a calm face, a trace of wistful sadness that was so touching in one on the threshold of manhood. Kydd tenderly covered it again.
The other was Lieutenant Hellard, utterly determined to succeed in his first command. His features were heavily bruised but not enough to hide the bitter indignation, the rage at Fate that had been his final emotion.
Kydd turned away. This cursed place was touching so many lives. He felt hatred rising as he stalked back, trailing mud and water into the fort.
In his office he heard the reports of the three vessels that had survived, listening with compassion as the officers recounted their ordeal.
The hard truth of the matter was that two might be made fit for sea but the third was little more than a wreck, brought back by sheer bull-headed courage and matchless skill.
Two – to stand before Colonia and the massing Spanish Army. It was impossible, but the imperatives of war dictated he try.
Conscious of their tired and strained faces, Kydd nevertheless spoke firmly: ‘That’s a grim tale, which I’m sure’ll be told in every wardroom in the fleet – but here’s the rub. You’re the only ones left to me. We have to make a showing off Colonia or the Dons will take heart and try a crossing.
‘Gentlemen, I desire you’ll get your craft ready for sea by any means you can contrive. In two hours you’ll put out for Colonia and the blockade where you’ll stay to the last biscuit, drop of water and shot. They must not sail! Do you understand me?’
He did what he could, finding seamen to bear a hand with repairs, soldiers to help with the storing and watering, and any small thing he could think of that might in any way make their lot more bearable.
When he went back to his desk a hovering clerk said apologetically, ‘Sir, a Mr Serrano t’ see you – seems very anxious an’ all.’
‘Show him in,’ Kydd said. That the artist was daring to come to the fort and risk being taken for a spy in the pay of the British must indicate some urgency.
‘Good in you to come, Mr – er, Senor Serrano. A tea, perhaps?’ The young man was rumpled and unshaven but had an intensity about him, an exaltation even.
‘No! Captain Keed – no time. I will tell you, ver’ important. I come as quick as I can. Gen’ral Liniers, he coming! He trick you – while your ships scatter because of the storm he’s to make a crossing over.’
‘When?’ Kydd breathed, his tiredness vanishing in a flash.
‘Is not when, is where. Not from Colonia del Sacramento, there he knows you will see him. No, he march forty mile along to Punta Pavon. At there is deeper, an’ ship can come in close. He can load up his boats wi’ soldiers quickly, you cannot see him.’
Kydd rummaged for his largest-scale chart and found the spot, a third of the way back to Montevideo. Sure enough, there was a tongue of three-or four-fathom water the other side of the Ortiz Bank, coming to within a short distance of the uninhabited coast.
‘Ships – how’s he going to get them, without we see them move from Colonia?’ Kydd snapped, cudgelling his mind to take in the implications of the all-too-possible stratagem.
‘He leave them there, an’ you think he will still cross. He brings boats from Montevideo, many.’
‘Mr Serrano, I need to know – when?’
‘Not more an’ two days. This I hear from the general talking.’
Kydd slumped in despair. Only two to set against a probable armada, and they a good sixty miles off in still rough conditions. And in two days …
‘This is hard news, Mr Serrano. Are you very sure of what you heard?’
‘Is so, sir.’
‘And … you’re telling me the truth, that is to say, no twisters? Do you swear to it?’
‘I say it true,’ the young man said, set and pale.
‘Oh, I’m not saying your flamming me,’ Kydd said hastily. ‘It’s just as how I must now change plans at the gallop.’
‘They come, I swear it.’
Kydd looked into the burning eyes, then eased into a smile. ‘Thank you, Mr Serrano, I believe you. Can we find you some refreshment? You must be-’
‘I go now,’ he whispered, and slipped away.
Kydd tried to marshal his thoughts. He should go immediately to Beresford with the news and the grave admission that the Navy was powerless to stop Liniers; the general would have to improvise his own defences, but if only he could report to him with -
Something stirred at the back of his mind. He peered again at the chart. The tongue of deeper water was indeed an extension of the indented sea passage that gave Montevideo its ocean access – the sparse soundings were probably unreliable but it was worth a try. Animated, he snatched up the dividers and stepped it out. Forty-eight miles. Possible.
He shouted for the master’s mate. ‘Rouse out our fastest dispatch boat – I’ve orders for L’Aurore frigate as will need it to fly.’
It would be a close-run thing but if the frigate met Liniers’s invasion at sea it would be a massacre. Grinning savagely, he dashed off the order that would have the frigate rendezvous off Punta Pavon with his remaining two sumacas, Staunch and Protector. Sobering, he took another sheet and carefully outlined the situation for Popham, setting out his reasoning for working the frigate up to the embarkation point even if it meant stranding the vessel, helpless on the mud between tides.
It would exercise Gilbey considerably to lighten the ship to the extreme as well as the tricky task of feeling his way through the shoals and banks.
Was there anything else? Yes – he should make some showing off Colonia to assure the Spanish that he was still there and blockading, for if they suspected he knew of the real embarkation point they would revert back and no frigate could make it up that far. There was just one snag – he didn’t have a ship for the task.
In frustration he stood up and looked out over the open roadstead before the city. There was a huddle of small fry and one or two larger craft – like the fine-lined sc
hooner close in and the European-looking ship-rigged merchantman. Circumstances demanded a desperate remedy – but what he was contemplating was little more than piracy.
When the master’s mate returned, Kydd was ready. ‘I want a party of twenty good seamen. Arm them and let me know when they’re mustered.’
‘Aye aye, sir!’
It was done. Now, with his orders safely on their way across the storm-torn waters, it was time to let Beresford know what he had in mind.
The general smiled thinly. ‘I can only suppose you are aware of the legal niceties, Captain. If there is a disinclination to assist and you have a confrontation then there’s nothing I can do to intervene or, indeed, shield you from the rigours of the law should they press suit.’
Kydd bit his tongue. That Beresford was honourable and upright was well known; that his high principles would prevent him giving his support to an action that would save his situation was taking it to absurdity.
‘I understand, sir,’ he replied evenly. ‘You have my word there’ll be no contravention of the law.’
He had until those ships were boarded to think of something …
The men were waiting when he returned. ‘Ask the duty lieutenant to join us with our usual interpreter cove,’ he ordered, surveying his party. These were good men, volunteers out of the big ships and reliable.
The lieutenant appeared, out of breath. ‘L’tenant Herrick. Sorry, sir, I-’
‘Stand easy, sir. I’ve something to say.’
He turned to the little group and stood in an uncompromising quarterdeck brace. ‘If you men are the kind of prime hands I think you are, looking for a frolic at the expense of the Dons, then today you’ll get your fill. I’ve word General Liniers thinks to cross secretly from another place. Only we can stop him and it may turn out to be a first-rate dusting.
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