Betrayal

Chapter 11

‘You are quite clear, amado mio, what we must do?’ Rafaela said, her voice breaking with intensity.

‘Of course,’ Serrano replied, although in his nervousness his hands were working together.

‘You will wait at Los Tres Reyes and I will bring the English captain to you. Now, don’t forget-’

‘Mi rosa, you do your part and I will do mine. I shall not fail Don Baltasar.’

They walked together in a wary silence through the shabby streets, then separated towards the centre. The city was unusually quiet and had an air of tension and dread that played on Serrano’s mind. He tried to tell himself that it was safer now: he was known where it counted as an agent of the patriots and need not fear them. But was it really true that they were in sacred alliance with the loyalists, whose hatred had seen him exiled?

Distant sounds of a military column marching came echoing through the streets. In a panic he hid in a side alley while the tramping feet went by – he had no idea how the British must regard him now. It was Rafaela’s job to feel for this before she brought Captain Kydd to the back room of the tavern. The column seemed endless: there must be many thousand troops in the city – and now they were his sworn enemy.

‘I say, for the ears of Captain Keed only!’ Rafaela snapped at the fortress guard. She stood there stubbornly until eventually an important-looking naval officer and a plainly dressed man descended.

‘?Senorita, que quieres con el capitan?’

Ignoring him she addressed the officer directly. ‘Dona Rafaela Callejo, an’ I have informacion for you, Captain Keed.’ He was a handsome man with a strong, open face that paradoxically allowed her fears to subside a little.

‘How do you know my name?’ he challenged.

She said nothing.

‘Very well, I’ll see her inside,’ Kydd told the translator, and led the way to his office.

‘Now, what is it you have to tell me, Miss Callejo?’

Rafaela adjusted her shawl. He looked directly at her, no play with the eyes or attempt to dominate or charm, and she felt a twinge of guilt at what she was about to do. ‘Sir, you know my lover. Vicente Serrano.’

‘I do,’ Kydd said cautiously. ‘He left my ship some time ago.’

‘Yes. To reach los patriotas. I am to tell you he was not in time for your attack and only now has arrive in Buenos Aires.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

‘You’re not angry wi’ him?’

Kydd shook his head. ‘No. We had to sail quickly. These things happen in war.’

‘Capitan, he wish to do more. To help King George against the Spanish so they can be throw from our country!’ She smiled winningly. ‘Sir, he is hiding, he frighten that someone will see him if he come to the fort.’

‘I understand.’

‘He know you, he trust you. Sir, will you see him at all?’

Serrano stood up when Kydd and Rafaela entered, his nervousness allayed by her smile.

‘Captain Keed! I, er . . .’ But all his imaginings for a suave line of questioning leading to secrets fled before the reality of facing the man he was about to betray.

‘You wanted to help us against the Spanish?’ Kydd prompted.

‘Er, yes, sir.’

‘Then I’m not at all sure what you can do unless first you tell us.’

‘I – um, then what is your problem, may I ask?’ Serrano blurted.

‘That must be finding victuals for the soldiers – bread and spirit, provisions. We’re in much need – but this is not something you can help us with, I fear, unless you know of secret stores or such,’ Kydd finished hopefully.

‘I will try. Thank you, sir – thank you!’ he spluttered, the excitement in him building while Rafaela looked on in bafflement.

‘And if you ever hear of mischief from the Spanish . . .’

‘Yes, yes. Goodbye, sir, goodbye!’

Blinking, Kydd allowed himself to be escorted outside by Rafaela, who hurried back afterwards.

‘What are you doing, you fool?’ she blazed. ‘Where are the secrets to tell Don Baltasar? You should have-’

Serrano gazed back with a saintly smile. ‘I have the biggest of all, mi bella flor,’ he said, challenging her with his eyes.

‘What is this big secret then?’ She pouted.

‘Only that I’m to tell General Liniers to order his soldiers to rest easy. There will be no battles, no mortal struggle with the English.’

‘What are you saying? This is lunatic, Vicente!’

‘Tonight I shall leave in the fishing boat and at dawn I shall be speaking to the general directly,’ he declared. ‘You shall wait for my return.’

Colonia del Sacramento was now overwhelmed by an armed encampment that extended far out into the country. As Serrano was escorted through it he was thrilled by the sight of legendary regiments, soldiers in blue with red sashes, drilling proudly, and countless volunteers in their tall shakos, with their muskets a-slope, led by officers in magnificently plumed headgear.

Over to the right the blandengues, the veteran frontier militia, had their distinctive poled tents in rows, and in the distance cavalry thundered in mock charges. These blandengues had just completed a forced march over the ninety miles from Montevideo to Colonia but showed no sign of it.

Serrano threw out his chest: he was not in a fine uniform but he knew he had tidings for the commander in chief that would affect every last one of them.

Approaching the headquarters tent, he saw Guemes talking to an officer and waved gaily. His friend looked back at him in astonishment and Serrano felt his gaze follow him into the tent.

Several distinguished-seeming officers stood over a desk where an older man in a severe black uniform, finished in gold and scarlet, was seated, writing.

‘Sir, an agent from Buenos Aires with news.’

‘Wait.’

The man finished scratching away, then thrust a paper at one of the officers before looking up at the intruder.

‘Don Santiago Liniers!’ whispered someone behind Serrano.

‘Sir. I have to report . . .’

‘Well?’ The voice was soft and calm.

Encouraged, Serrano went on, ‘Sir, there is no need for a battle, sir.’

There were gasps and a stifled giggle.

‘Go on.’

‘I, personally, have interviewed the capitan de puerto himself and have made discovery that the treacherous English are in dire want of any kind of provisions. I put it to you, sir, that it is only a matter of a short while and they will be starved out. If we are patient, they must soon surrender to us, and without a drop of our own blood shed.’

‘What do you know of military affairs?’ snarled one of the officers. ‘Leave us to-’

Serrano’s face burned.

‘No, no, Miguel, he means well. Tell me, what account of the present state of their stores can you give me? How many men are on rations? Where is it kept? Can they supply from the sea? These things I need to know for if we wait longer we must find more supply for our own army.

‘And the biggest question is, when will their reinforcements arrive? If you can tell me the answer to that it would be of the greatest service. As it is, I must go forward without delay on the assault, you see.’

A tall officer bent down and whispered to Liniers, who nodded and said, ‘There is an office you can perform for me, as it happens.’

‘Anything, sir!’

‘You’ll no doubt be aware that our naval forces at Colonia suffered in a recent reversal at arms. This has had the unfortunate effect of frustrating our strategy to cross the Rio de la Plata and join with our brothers for the grand assault on Buenos Aires. I would not have them think we are unwilling and therefore I shall write a message of encouragement and patience, which I desire you shall take to them.’

‘Sir!’ said Serrano, stiffening to attention.

‘It will be to Colonel General Pueyrredon, commander of the Voluntarios Montados Bonaerense.’

‘The gauchos?’

‘Quite.’

‘We’ll stand on a little further, I believe,’ Acting Lieutenant Hellard said evenly, watching the three craft fleeing ahead of him, each not much smaller than his own and which, together, could overcome Stalwart, the sumaca, if they chose – but they were at a crucial disadvantage: they faced the moral superiority of the famed Royal Navy that had the year before at Trafalgar crushed the best that Spain could send against it. These would never chance a confrontation.

The chill wind was getting stronger, tearing the tops from the waves – it gave speed to the more stoutly built sumaca but was threatening the odd assortment they were chasing: two feluccas whose soaring lateens could not easily be reefed and a balandra, a more European-styled cutter. All were clawing into the wind, the edges of their sails fluttering desperately, pale faces looking back on their implacable pursuer.

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 of 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.

‘Find me some clothes, mi angel,’ he said importantly, at her wide-eyed apprehension. ‘Tonight I’m about the work of the patriots.’

Looking at the impassive Charcas, she shivered. ‘Mi querido, you know what it is that-’

‘The clothes!’ Serrano demanded.

She returned with them, herself arrayed in a cape and hood.

‘Rafaela – you cannot possibly-’

‘I can go in places denied to a man. Will you stop me playing my part?’

The three hurried down the Calle Victoria to the mansion of Martin de Alzaga where they were hastily admitted.

‘Senor Charcas,’ the silver-haired man said softly. ‘Is it planned?’

‘I have word from Don Baltasar, now in amicable alliance with the royalists. It is . . . that you should proceed as planned.’

‘Ah,’ breathed Alzaga, ‘I shall start hiring tomorrow. And who are these?’ he added carefully.

‘Servants of the fatherland!’ Serrano said loudly, with a bow.

‘I see.’

Charcas allowed a thin smile to show. ‘Senor Alzaga is a rich man but he is dedicating his fortune to the glory of his country.’

‘And to his honour,’ Serrano blurted.

‘He is funding the construction of a secret tunnel, which will begin under the seminary of St Francis – and will end under the barrack rooms of the soldiers. Thirty-six barrels of gunpowder will put an end to them as they sleep.’

‘Wait for it . . . About turn!’ Sergeant Dodd’s effortless bellow echoed across the square to the lines of Royal Marines opposite. They stamped about crisply, their dress faultless. A few passers-by stopped to watch but most ignored them.

‘Companyyyyyy . . . halt!’ Dodd strode up and inspected them before reporting to Clinton with a quivering salute. The lieutenant acknowledged and, accompanied by Dodd, went over for an officer’s inspection. That complete, Dodd stood before the men while Clinton reported to Kydd, who had emerged from the fort.

He went up and down the ranks, here and there giving words of praise and encouragement. ‘A splendid body of men, Lieutenant. Carry on, please.’

The men marched off, Kydd receiving a magnificent salute from Dodd. The drill had been devised to give heart to the men, solid evidence that the world, while being out of joint, was still under discipline.

‘A dish of tea, William?’ Kydd offered.

Kydd’s room was cheerless and cold, a fire now a luxury, and the two kept their coats buttoned.

‘How goes it, then?’

Clinton paused before he answered. ‘I’d be to loo’ard of the truth should I say we’re improving our situation. Those on sentry-go are taunted daily and some even suffer rotten food thrown at them. They’re being tempted by offers of women and employment if they desert – but no chance of that with our chaps, sir.’

‘It’s asking much of ’em, I believe, to stand alone on those far posts in the city. If things begin to . . .’

‘They’ll do their duty, sir, never fear.’

‘If only those damnable reinforcements . . .’

They took their tea, the leaves used twice to eke them out, in silence. So close to the foreshore the miasma of rotting fish offal was always on the air, and the harsh cawing of a soaring condor sounded above the rumble of a passing cart.

‘And they’re changing – the people, I mean,’ Clinton said. ‘They’re now openly contemptuous, defiant, hard to handle as a crowd.’

The young man was maturing fast: only in his early twenties, his face was acquiring lines of care and his voice now had the practised calm of authority. He and the fine long-service Dodd were a shining credit to their service and Kydd wished he could express this – but it would never do to say it.

‘How are our Royal Blues bearing their lot? The short canny, I mean.’

Clinton gave a wry smile. ‘They say as how they’ve always held our reasty pork is to be preferred over foreign kickshaws.’

They were reduced to picking the bread – going through the last of the hard-tack for insect life – and buying up voyage-end stores from merchant ships, but in the absence of provisions from up-country there was little else. Kydd knew the older marines were making light of conditions for the sake of the younger men.

An aide interrupted: ‘Captain Kydd? General Beresford desires you should attend on him at convenience, sir.’

He rose, dreading what emergency it was this time.

Beresford sat moodily at his desk, twirling a quill, and looked up with a start when Kydd entered. ‘Ah, Kydd. There’s trouble afoot, I’m persuaded. One of our patrols found three stand of muskets in a house not far from here. Someone’s arming the mob and it has to be stopped.’

‘Have we any conceiving of how they’re entering, sir?’

‘No. I’ve doubled up on checkpoints into the city where we search everything – it must be by another route.’

‘By sea.’

‘It seems so,’ Beresford said flatly.

Kydd was at a loss to know how to prevent this with nearly all of his vessels blockading the far shore, but he replied, ‘I’ll do what I can, sir.’

Beresford nodded bleakly and Kydd took his leave.

It came to him as he made his way back to his office. Some thirty miles further down the coast there was a discreet landing place, Ensenada de Barragan, where in the past dutiable goods had been smuggled into the viceroyalty by that unofficial arrangement with the authorities.

But his little navy was now stretched out along the opposite coast, bar one ship in repair, Protector, and Hellard’s Stalwart, in only that morning, her captain and crew exhausted after days in action. Rather than drive them to sea once more, Kydd’s impulse was to spare them and do it himself.

‘I’m taking Stalwart away,’ he announced. ‘Muster the Protectors as her crew.’

They put out into driving rain from the north-west and squally, spiteful winds, which kicked up an uncomfortable short sea against the incoming tide, yet having the advantage that it was fair for Barragan.

Stalwart was plainly built with few comforts but a snug ‘mess-deck’ had been fashioned within the cargo hold. In the way of sailors, it had all the touches of home in a space that would be spurned in a London rookery – racks against the side for mess utensils, hooks to take the ditty bags that held each individual’s ready-use gear, mirrors and small ornaments, and forward a neat rectangular bin for stowed hammocks.

In accordance with Kydd’s own standing orders, they stopped on the way and boarded the larger flat-bottomed fishing boats, a form of deterrence against contraband that was proving remarkably effective.

Then, as the wan sun was lowering over the flat and bleak shore, they came up with the maze of channels and shoals that was their objective. Off the point there were four vessels – a sumaca, a lugger and two faluchos, local craft, two-masted with a lateen and jib. Even as Kydd watched sail was hoisted and they were rapidly off downwind.

‘A bad conscience,’ grinned Dougal, Stalwart’s master’s mate, who’d insisted on keeping an eye on his ship.

‘We’ll have that gaff higher,’ Kydd snapped. These could either be innocents wary of pirates or, indeed, those they were looking for, but either way he had to stop them to prove the case.

The chase was played well by the Spanish. Fairly quickly they separated, the larger sumaca heading for deeper water offshore and the two faluchos shying from Stalwart’s progress to each side, the smaller lugger with its three masts beating hard into the wind and away. ‘The sumaca,’ Kydd decided, and they headed after it out to sea.

It didn’t take long to discover that the bigger craft was making better speed, standing away in regular bursts of white until it was obvious they had lost the race. Kydd swore and turned to see where faluchos were. They had vanished.

It was impossible – but there was no sign of them. Feeling foolish, he called down the deck. ‘Stalwarts, ahoy! Any who saw where the faluchos went, sing out.’

‘Saw ’em down sail an’ then go in a creek or some such,’ a young lad said diffidently, touching his cap.

He pointed out where it had happened. The area had once been a watering place for ships but had gradually silted, the dark grey mud now extending for miles with an offshore island entrapped in its creeping embrace. An old coastal fort was some miles inland, possibly connected through channels, but the evening was well advanced and there was nothing for it but to leave further investigation for the morning light.

Taking position off the creek the anchor went down in two fathoms, the weather easing with the onset of night, and as the darkness crept in they snugged down for the long hours until morning.

Kydd had served in the Caribbean in Seaflower, a tiny cutter. There, the threats had been many and diverse, and now his old instincts came back to assert themselves. While there was light to see, he had the two bow carronades loaded and primed and the arms chest of cutlasses and pistols open and handy. A pair of lookouts took position fore and aft. Satisfied, he went below – not to the rabbit hutch of a captain’s cabin but to the mess-deck with the soft light of its single oil lamp. The seamen looked up in surprise, then dismay. A post-captain, even in worn and faded sea rig, was a formidable being and now their stand-down time was set fair to be an awkward trial.

‘Stand fast the puffery – we’re all Stalwarts here,’ Kydd said easily, taking a stool at the corner of the small table. ‘What’s for scran, cuffin?’

Easing into a smile, Dougal slid across the bread barge, a wicker basket that held pre-broken hard tack and carefully sliced cheese. Kydd took a piece of the wood-hard and greyish cheese and helped himself to the dry biscuit, which he calmly tapped on the table. No weevils emerged and he tucked in with appreciation, feeling the disbelieving eyes of the three foremast hands on him.

‘We’ve the Dago biltong to follow,’ piped up Beekman, a South African midshipman originally brought aboard Diomede in Cape Town. He hesitantly offered some to Kydd.

‘Thank ’ee,’ he said, with a grin, and set to on the dried beef strips. These were not the spicy, toothsome morsels of Africa he’d enjoyed but they would have to do. With no galley fire in a craft so diminutive there could be no coffee or piping hot kai – cocoa stripped from a chocolate block – until they made port once more but there was a welcome mug of grog: Kydd had insisted that it be included in the rations.

As the evening drew on, the talk eddied back and forth over the age-old sailorly concerns of wind and weather, the quality of Buenos Aires as a step-ashore port, the prospects for action. Inevitably it turned to the immediate future, and Beekman asked, ‘Sir, if you please, things are in a pretty moil, you’ll agree. What will happen to us if- ?’

‘Don’t pay any mind to that, m’lad,’ Kydd said heartily. ‘We’ve one parcel of Spanish locked up on the north shore and we’ve just beaten the other. All we’ve to do is hold out until the reinforcements arrive.’

‘When’s that, then, sir?’ the young man said artlessly.

‘Who’s to say? Tomorrow, next week? On the way here the commodore sent dispatches from St Helena requesting ’em, which I saw with my own eyes. They’ll be here shortly, never fear.’

Knowing that the rest of the table were behind him, the midshipman persisted. ‘If’n Mr Liniers gets across and joins with the goochies, the Army’ll be hard pressed to hold ’em. And if we can’t get ships in close to give fire . . .’

Kydd nodded: these were no ignorant loobies and deserved an answer. ‘If things go against us, we retire,’ he said flatly. ‘Take the Army off and return to Cape Town. No heroic last stands. Clear?’

It seemed to satisfy and he stretched and yawned. ‘Well, I’m for my ’mick. I’ll take a turn about the uppers and then get my head down. Dougal, I’m to be called the instant there’s a change o’ weather or tide.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’

‘Goodnight, then,’ Kydd pronounced, and left for his customary sniff at the wind before sleep.

The weather had eased even further: there was nothing but a light offshore breeze and the pale dappling of wavelets. The moon was totally hidden behind low cloud that stretched in a sullen stillness in every direction, leaving a dull, uniform luminosity just sufficient to make out the low, scrubby shoreline.

He shivered. The thought came again that the sooner he was quit of this place the better. Then he paused for a moment, something subliminal touching his senses. The scene was blameless, a bird flapping on the sea the only disturbance, and nothing but a grey desolation of mud-flats and reeds.

Hairs prickled on his neck – there was something.

‘Keep a bright lookout, you men,’ he called, and stood for a space, listening intently. Nothing. Then something caught his eye along the shoreline to the left – he strained to see but couldn’t make out anything, then tried the old lookout’s ruse of looking off to one side to trick the eye into perceiving motion.

And then he saw. somewhere among the scruffy wooded inland, a barely perceptible spider-web-thin vertical line that moved. And, close by, another. He froze, trying to make sense of it. Then he had it.

‘Get below and turn up the hands!’ he barked. They tumbled up, confused and blinking.

‘Sir?’ Dougal said, with a bewildered look.

‘The Spanish. They’re in the channel under oars and mean to take us.’ Too long the stalker, they had not imagined themselves to be prey – Kydd mentally took off his hat to the audacious commander who had looked to turn the tables on them.

It was their masts he had seen, unavoidably above the level of the undergrowth as they made their way stealthily out to the open water. The question now was whether to open fire as soon as they were visible or keep quiet to lure them near and to destruction.

But there was a big risk. If these two had soldiers to swell their boarders the Stalwarts might easily be overwhelmed. And if they were resolutely handled they could press home their attack through Stalwart’s ‘broadside’, which consisted only of the two carronades and two swivels. After that they were defenceless, apart from their small arms.

This implied a single course of action: allow the Spanish to believe their surprise had been successful, then open up with everything that could fire in a single devastating blast of shot. In the night it might be terrifying enough to deter the onslaught or, at the very least, to gain them enough time to reload.

‘Silence fore ’n’ aft!’ Kydd snapped, and made his dispositions, having the men keep out of sight until his order. Each had a blade weapon and a brace of pistols with four muskets lying in the chest, while the oil lamp was suspended out of sight by rope yarns, ready to be lashed to the foremast as a fighting lantern for reloading the carronades.

There was little more he could do.

Water chuckled against the vessel’s side, the wind dropping yet more to a cold night zephyr bringing a stillness that carried every sound in breathless clarity. The distant betraying slither and clunk of unmuffled oars on the air became plain as the two faluchos emerged from the channel and came around. Kydd gave a conspiratorial grin at Dougal, lying on the deck next to him – that would never do in a professional cutting-out expedition.

It was a half-mile of hard pulling for them; they could have hoisted sail and done it in less time but the sudden pale glimmer of canvas would have been an immediate giveaway. Kydd was content to let them tire themselves, the better to dull their fighting ardour.

At two hundred yards he hissed, ‘Stand by!’

In the winter gloom men gripped their weapons, loosened pistols in readiness and tensed for the order.

‘Fire!’ Kydd roared.

The night was split apart by multiple flashes and concussion as ball, grape and musket fire hammered into the hapless faluchos, shrieks and shouts accompanying the mayhem. Slewing sideways the leader canted to one side, out of the fight, but the other stretched out frantically with the obvious intention of falling on Stalwart before her guns were reloaded.

The fighting lantern was in place but to go through the motions with sponge, rammer and charge was asking a lot of men who were half blinded by gun-flash. Kydd felt a creeping anxiety as the enemy craft came in fast, broad on their beam. An officer was shouting encouragement and foreign-sounding cheers came floating over the water.

Kydd saw the white face of Beekman looking back at him from forward, waiting on his decision. A gentle puff of the night breeze came; they were at anchor, stemming the slight current and-

‘Get that mizzen hoisted!’ he bellowed, in sudden conviction.

Startled, men turned in incomprehension.

‘Now! Hoist the bugger!’ His voice cracked with the effort, but it lashed them into movement. Two seamen clambered aft and helped him raise the ponderous sail. It flapped twice, then bellied, and under the leverage of sail aft on the anchor forward, Stalwart obediently began swinging into the wind – bows on to the approaching enemy.

It had worked! Now the target they offered was reduced and, most important, under oars there was no easy coming in to board at an angle amidships; instead they must either grapple and come in over the bow by ones and twos or crab around to get alongside while under fire the whole time.

They chose the bows.

With three men on muskets and pistols and two reloading, Stalwart did what she could but a grapnel came sailing in and hauled the craft together, the other bowsprit spearing over their fore-deck until the two were awkwardly locked side by side. With a roar of triumph the enemy boarders crowded forward.

Throwing aside their empty pistols the defenders drew their cutlasses and, with bared teeth, dared them to try. The first two ran out on the bowsprit – if Stalwart had had pikes they would have been dead men – and with sword points extended they leaped down either side, then raced for the defenders.

Kydd had four men in a line across the wider part of the triangular fore-deck and the two closed with a vicious clash of steel. Dougal took one and Kydd the other but, behind, two more were jumping down and Kydd was aware of the set-faced petty officer beside him lunging forward to meet them, and a vague impression of their fourth giving savage blows to one side before he was swallowed in the confusion.

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.