Betrayal

Chapter 5

St Helena lifted above the horizon, a rumpled grey shape set against deep blue seas with eager white horses as far as the eye could see. A vast azure heaven was populated with gambolling fluffy clouds, the warmth of the sun grateful to the skin. After their time of testing, the ships of the fleet had found one another and now proceeded in proper formation.

However, of the five transports there were now only four. Somewhere out in the howling chaos Ocean had disappeared. It was possible that she would suddenly appear but the frigates quartering far out after the storm to gather in the scattered band had seen no sign of her, and three days had passed. There was the outside chance that she was already at St Helena, the appointed rendezvous, and waiting for them, but Kydd doubted the lumbering merchantman could have overhauled them all.

The probability was that at some time during the night she had not proved equal to the stress of tempest: her shattered wreck had finally yielded and sunk, taking with her to a watery grave not only captain and crew but several hundred officers and soldiers, a significant part of the expedition. Kydd grieved at their fate.

An improbable dot in the immensity of ocean, St Helena was at the near geographic centre of the South Atlantic. North to south, east to west, it could be no further from land, to which the majestic height of the rollers close to the coast attested. As they rounded the last point, the haven of James Bay opened up and telescopes were quickly searching – but Ocean was not there.

Popham was not about to waste time. Even as anchors plunged, a precautionary single flag whipped up Diadem’s mainmast head: the blue square pierced with white, which was the Blue Peter, the signal for ‘prepare to sail within twenty-four hours’. Soon afterwards, ‘all captains’ was hung out: it was the order for them to join Popham in going ashore to meet the governor. But there would be no solemn gun salutes: this governor had been appointed privately by the East India Company to rule over this vital rendezvous for the India convoys and therefore was not entitled to such.

The soaring crags and cloud-wreathed peaks were all of two thousand feet in altitude, and the narrow valley that led up to Plantation House was steep and spectacular, requiring the services of a government calesa. Governor Patton was waiting for them on the front lawn of his residence under the myrtles and mimosa.

‘Welcome, gentlemen, whatever your occasion.’ He had met most of the captains before during the Cape campaign and clearly suspected something was afoot.

White-gloved footmen circulated with wine. In the sun and pleasant oceanic breezes, most of the captains found they had a yarn or two to tell of recent stormy experiences. All too soon the sky greyed, a rain squall threatening, and the group was ushered inside to a reception room.

Popham was in striking form, in the finery of a flag officer attended by his lieutenant and with an air of serene authority. Patton approached him. ‘Tell me, Commodore, would it be altogether too presumptuous of me to ask your mission? I rather thought the French squadrons had been scattered – or is this some new adventure?’

Popham smiled, then confided, ‘As it promises to be the greatest stroke this age, Robert. Not for the ear of the common herd, of course, but this little armada is on its way to set South America ablaze.’

‘Good God!’ said Patton, faintly.

‘Indeed. It seems the natives are ripe for rebellion, and since Trafalgar, the Spanish being powerless to defend their interests, our fleet is able to sail in the character of liberator.’

‘Why, that would mean . . .’

‘Yes. Detach their empire and source of wealth and the Spanish must treat for peace, despite any bluster Bonaparte may put up.’

‘Trade! That’s where the real excitement is. Be damned to their colonial laws – this would open the whole of the continent to us. And that’s to be reckoned in the millions, tens of millions the least of it. Damme, but this is blood-stirring stuff.’

Beresford joined the group, in the red and gold regimentals of a general a splendid match for Popham. Patton asked him, ‘A military challenge of sorts, I’d think it, William. The Dons have all those irregulars and must keep a sizeable garrison in Montevideo.’

‘Our information is that these are not as formidable as rumoured,’ Beresford began cautiously. ‘However, it’s vital we secure a quick and visible victory to encourage the rising or we’re lost, and with few enough men . . .’

Popham came back quickly: ‘And to all involved a capital opportunity for distinction, I’d believe. Especially one that’s set fair to make fortunes.’

‘I do envy you fellows,’ Patton said, with feeling. ‘It’s to be a grand occasion, I’m persuaded – but is the East India Company not to be invited to a change of empires? It’s too bad, really too bad.’

There was good-natured laughter, then Popham rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Ah, as to that, Robert, it does cross my mind that in the recent storm we somehow mislaid Ocean transport, which leaves us short of artillery and, er, it would not be without precedent for John Company to lend support to His Majesty’s arms when requested. A trifle of field pieces, amounting to, say, a hundred men in all, and there you would have your invitation.’

Patton immediately cooled. ‘You’re seriously asking that I authorise a detaching of our St Helena garrison, with their guns, for service with you?’

‘Only a suggestion, Robert. And simply for the term of the initial showing before the Spanish. Naturally your outgoings would be compensated by the Crown, and other fees I’ll leave with the fiscals, but this would certainly ensure your appearance in the annals of the expedition.’

‘Then, pray, what do your orders say precisely concerning an involvement of the Company?’ Patton challenged.

‘I can most definitely assure you that I have no orders whatsoever forbidding your assistance,’ Popham replied earnestly. ‘And when I last spoke with Mr Pitt on the matter he was most insistent that all local resources be employed.’

‘Mr Pitt?’ Patton said, impressed. ‘You’ve discussed-’

‘This entire expedition is merely the resuming of a venture planned and agreed upon by myself and His Majesty’s government, lately interrupted by Trafalgar.’

‘Oh, well, I can see-’

‘Be that as it may, Robert, most would see it to your advantage to be first to plant a mercantile interest in the new lands, to secure a preferential trading position before the City hears of our coup.’

‘Quite so. Um, it would seem a reasonable request you are making, m’ friend. And considering an early success is much to be desired by us both, then perhaps the artillery detachment might profitably be accompanied by, perhaps, two or three hundred of our infantry. You could make use of them?’

‘That’s handsome in you, dear fellow, and I’m sanguine we’ll be able to exercise ’em for you in the field.’

‘Their transport?’

‘We’ll see they’re well taken care of, Robert, never fear.’

Beaming, the commodore turned to the circle of his officers. ‘Gentlemen! The gods of war are smiling upon us. We sail just as soon as your green stuff and water are complete. You’ll want to return to your ships – no liberty for the hands, of course, and not a moment to be lost.’

In the general stir, he called, ‘Captain Kydd, if you’d kindly wait on me – details of the St Helena reinforcements to be dealt with.’ The other captains, taking the hint, quickly made to leave.

‘I’ll wish you well of your mission, sir,’ Patton said warmly, shaking Popham’s hand, then lifting his arm in salute. ‘As enterprising a piece of work as ever I’ve heard.’

‘Thank you, Robert,’ Popham said, and made for the door, but stopped at a small marble side table where some newspapers were neatly piled.

‘Oh, papers from home, new arrived. Haven’t had time to read ’em – do help yourself, old chap.’

Popham reached for one, then paused. Without looking round he hurriedly stuffed it into his waistcoat. ‘Er, you’ll have my earliest word, of course. Goodbye.’

They joined the others in a waiting calesa, which ground off down the steep road. Cheerful conversations started up, but Kydd was disturbed to see Popham’s set face and to note his unusual quiet. At the seafront the captains took boat for their commands but Kydd was ushered into Diadem’s barge, Popham still serious and thoughtful.

Kydd kept his silence until they were alone in the great cabin, then said, ‘A good day’s work, if I might remark it. But Ocean is “mislaid”?’

‘Never mind Ocean, we’ve more pressing concerns, damn it.’

This was not like Popham. Hardly believing his ears, Kydd blurted, ‘Lost at sea, three hundred souls! How can you possibly-’

‘I said forget it. There’s a pretty moil we must deal with right at this time.’

‘Forget it? How, in God’s name, can you-’

‘Ocean’s safe,’ Popham snapped irritably. ‘I told Audley to take her direct to the River Plate. Now let’s-’

‘Safe? You knew all the time?’

‘What better can you think of to prise troops from Patton?’

‘A trick – a ploy!’

Popham sighed. ‘Dear fellow, we’ve secured four hundred more troops in the assault. Nearly a third of our force. Don’t you think it worth the harmless subterfuge? The higher cause is our expedition, and for that I’m prepared to use anything that presents itself as a means. Wouldn’t you?’

Kydd was unable to reply. There was no illegality, no moral issue at stake – but was this the action of a noble commander?

‘I’m sure you would if you’d given it thought. Now, down to more serious business. Much more serious – and I don’t mind confessing that the services of a friend would be of infinite value to me at this time.’

Kydd stiffened awkwardly, still unsure.

‘A friend. As will hear me and test my words,’ Popham pressed, his features tight with worry.

Kydd made up his mind and replied stoutly, ‘As I can help, Dasher.’

Popham hesitated, then brought out the newspaper. ‘Pitt’s dead,’ he said simply.

Kydd reeled. This was the prime minister who’d been at the helm of state since the very first day of the war, when Kydd had still been a perruquier of Guildford. The man who’d scorned the slaughter of the French Revolution while Spain and most of Europe had allied against him. And until now had been locked in a lethal struggle with Napoleon Bonaparte, who stood astride his conquests like a colossus.

‘There’s a new government – Grenville,’ Popham added.

Kydd remembered dimly that he was a statesman of the Whig Party, implying an administration radically different from Pitt’s Tory government. Then he understood. Popham’s expedition was a resumption of a plan agreed with Pitt and his ministers, especially the first lord of the Admiralty, Melville, and then Barham. These now being out of office, he could count on no supporters in high places, and conceivably there would be those who might see it in their political interest to oppose any Pitt-inspired operation.

‘Of all times to choose to leave this world . . .’ Popham said bitterly.

‘We’ll have to turn back, of course.’

Popham looked up sharply. ‘That is not in my thinking.’

‘The Grenville government might act differently about the strategics, Dasher. We must wait for new orders.’

‘I’d have thought you of stronger mettle, Kydd.’ He forced a smile. ‘I didn’t mean it to come out like that, but you must agree that nothing has changed. Not a single iota. The Spanish are occupied in the north, their navy is reeling in defeat after Trafalgar, we still have surprise – and our armada is gathered and ready. If we turn back now, all this is wasted. Any new orders will only confirm the preparations, but we will have lost our moment.’

Kydd was torn. All that Popham had said was true, but where did their higher duty really lie? A change of political alignment to be allowed to destroy a daring initiative that could alter the entire direction of the war, or the prudent awaiting of instructions before proceeding any further?

Damn it, here was a man who was willing to risk everything for the sake of his country’s future. ‘For what it’s worth, Dasher, this is what I feel. As a patriot and an Englishman, I can think of no greater cause before me at this moment than South America. But as a professional naval officer I find that we’re sailing a mort close to the wind, at peril of disobedience to the wishes of their lordships.

‘As a man – why, with all there is to be gained, I’d a hundred times be hanged for doing something as doing nothing at all.’

‘Bravo, my friend!’ Popham cried, the worry melting away. ‘As I’d hoped you’d say! It’s my decision – and it’s to go forward with the enterprise.’

Kydd grinned. ‘And we’ll see those politicking trimmers in Parliament change tack at the run, once they see what we’ve achieved for ’em.’

‘Damn them all for a parcel o’ rogues. They’ll see their way clear to consolidating us once we’ve done the initial hard work, of course. Now, there’s much we’ve to do, the chief of which is to find berths for our reinforcements.’ There was not a prayer of cramming any more men into their ships but it would be doubly ironic if they and their guns had to be left behind for lack of room.

‘It’s by way of a puzzler, Dasher,’ Kydd said cautiously.

‘Yes. But I’m leaving it entirely to you, old chap. I’m bound up for the next few hours in working up dispatches as will persuade the Admiralty that it’s to be their first duty to get those consolidating reinforcements to us as soon as they may. It has to go off before we sail.’

Kydd gave a rueful grin. ‘So it’s my own good self who must conjure a way to get four hundred more men to Montevideo, it seems.’

‘As you can. And, by the way, we’ll keep it to ourselves, Mr Pitt’s untimely demise. Morale, of course.’

‘From the officers as well?’

‘I would think so.’

Four hundred men. Close to double the number of a frigate’s entire complement. And their guns and impedimenta. It simply couldn’t be done – the ships had already been loaded to safe limits and, with every conceivable space taken up, they would be hard pressed to fight in such crowded conditions if confronted by an enemy.

No – there was only one possible course: to find another ship. There were no naval vessels available but a co-opted merchant ship – if any could be found – would demand hire as a transport to compensate for lack of a commercial cargo, which would necessarily be at considerable cost as there was an empty return voyage to include. And where was the ready cash to come from? And what would they do with her existing cargo?

There was no question of the Crown taking over a merchantman for the task. While the law looked on impassively as ships were stripped of their crews by a press gang, if a ship itself were taken it would be deemed nothing less than an act of piracy. In fact, in these matters there was an entire Board of Transport department of the Admiralty to deal with the intricate details. That the Board was hopelessly distant was no excuse.

It was one of those unwritten naval laws: at the end of everything, and even to the end of time, there was always to be a due accounting.

No ship, no precious troops. In despair Kydd looked about the James Bay roadstead. There was shipping a-plenty but only one of size. What were the chances that it was going to South America? Or could be persuaded to render a loyal service to its country? There was only one way to find out and time was crucial.

In the boat out there were only himself and the purser, Owen, with Curzon as a counter-signatory if they achieved a miracle. As to Kydd’s exact authority to incur expenditure, whether as ship’s captain or proxy for the commodore, the purser was hard put to establish a clear line and had wrung his hands in dismay: without the requisite form or written order from above there was no source of credit against which to issue a note.

Kydd noticed that the ship was high in the water, then spotted a lighter leaving from the opposite side. Transshipping cargo – was that a good or bad sign? But she was a sturdy, ship-rigged vessel that would not need nursing in the ocean crossing.

‘Go about her stern,’ he ordered. He saw that Justina was of British registry, a considerable advantage.

The three boarded amidships by the wooden-runged pilot ladder. The hold was open, displaying a nearly empty cavern, and they were quickly confronted by a suspicious individual with a deeply lined face. ‘Hardiman, master,’ he growled.

Conscious of eyes on them and the need for privacy, Kydd introduced himself in a friendly manner, adding, ‘Not the press, sir, but I’d be obliged for five minutes of your time, if you would.’

The master gave him a piercing look, then grunted and took them aft to his cabin.

‘Could I ask where you’re bound?’ Kydd began.

‘Cape Town for orders.’

‘Not so profitable therefore. Captain, I’ve a proposition to make to you, as will be to your advantage.’ Nothing could be learned from the man’s stony expression so he pressed on.

‘We have need to ship a parcel of soldiers to South America and were wondering if you-’

‘Not possible. M’ papers say we’re cleared for Cape Town and be sure that’s where we’re going.’

‘A cash profit on a straightforward voyage? I’m surprised you refuse even to hear me.’

‘South America – you’re off t’ some war or other. No.’

‘Not even if you’ll render a great service to your country, sir?’

Hardiman gave a cynical grunt, then got to his feet abruptly. ‘I’ll see you off.’

Kydd felt a rising anger. ‘Be so good as to ask your supercargo to join us, Captain,’ he said, with a touch of steel. His single voyage as master in the merchant service had taught him many useful wrinkles. A supercargo was there to look after the interests of the freighting party against that of the ship.

‘He won’t-’

‘Please.’

The master gave him a foul look but leaned out of the door and bellowed orders to send for a Mr Maycock. After some delay a flustered little man came in. ‘This’n wants t’ talk with ye,’ Hardiman said coldly.

‘Ah, Mr Maycock, Captain Kydd. Sorry to have interrupted you, but I have a proposition for your principals. Should I offer you a cargo this very day for a quick voyage to the River Plate, as will be a bareboat charter party, would you be willing to talk?’ If it was taken up, the master would most surely find himself overruled.

There was an unmistakable gleam of interest. ‘Cargo?’

‘Soldiers is all.’

‘A transport.’

‘Of sorts. We must move very quickly on this, Mr Maycock.’

‘Ah. With a return voyage empty, I’d think a sum of . . . let me see . . .’

Kydd had only one card to play, and he gave it all he had. ‘Before we discuss rates, there’s a little proposal I’m authorised to make.’ This was not quite true for he had only just thought of it, but he knew Popham would back him.

‘I can say to you in confidence that we are on an expedition to Montevideo to join with rebels in overthrowing Spanish rule in the viceroyalty, which we have every confidence will be achieved rapidly. If you feel able to assist us, then the leader of the expedition states that, when the port of Buenos Aires is thrown open to free trade, this ship will be given the status of preferred vessel. This means that with the merchants there starved of export, all other shipping present must nonetheless first wait for you to take your pick of any cargo you desire, bound for anywhere to your best profit.’

It was irregular, if not downright illegal, but was within Popham’s power to carry out simply by forewarning Justina of dates and times ahead of any declaration. The pickings to be had would be princely, vastly outweighing any considerations of delay in reporting to Cape Town for orders.

He was rewarded with a quick intake of breath. ‘I understand you, Captain. We accept your offer.’ He rose, offering his hand. Kydd took it, suppressing a surge of elation.

The act was revealing: Maycock was not expecting anything written down that could later be used against either of them.

‘Be damned to it, an’ you can’t do that, mister!’ Hardiman snapped triumphantly. ‘Justina’s voyage insurance is t’ Cape Town only.’

Kydd hadn’t thought of this. It was no trivial point: the value of a well-found merchantman this size must amount to something like his annual salary for fifty years or more; even if the premium could be renegotiated it would certainly not cover an act of war.

Maycock looked at him pointedly and waited.

‘Very well. She’ll sail uninsured.’

Maycock kept a polite silence.

‘You’ll have my note of hand to say you’ll be reimbursed for her loss if the worst happens,’ Kydd said. There was no help for it. The risk was all his – the Navy would never agree to what he was proposing, and if the vessel was wrecked or captured, they would wash their hands of him.

He ignored Curzon’s look of appalled bewilderment and hoped his winning smile was convincing. ‘Excellent. We have an arrangement. An officer of the St Helena’s Infantry will be aboard directly to supervise your fitting for troop accommodation. Good day, gentlemen.’

The expedition sailed in two days with Kydd worried. Popham had approved of his move but had carefully ignored the mention of personal risk. The estuary of the River Plate was notorious for shoals and reefs, and when they sailed, Justina was not with them. She was still frantically being outfitted and stored and would follow when she could, easy prey to anything hostile, Spanish or French.

Popham had not felt able to deplete his main force to offer escort, and the thought of the vulnerable merchantman thrashing along alone in their wake was hard for Kydd to bear. Despite his nature he grew surly and snappish, swearing when Oakley’s bawling out of the afterguard on the open deck above broke into his dark thoughts.

The next land raised would be the enemy coast and the climax of the expedition, when they would be entirely alone and their best-laid dispositions would be tested to the full. Would they be good enough? Their knowledge of the viceroyalty was sketchy at best, the charts commercial ones of a previous age and by no means to the technical standard he was used to. Furthermore, details of the military deployments to be faced were based on rumour only.

When he and Popham had prepared the operation orders, he had been dismayed by the generalisations and assumptions they had been compelled to employ to cover for lack of intelligence. Before Blaauwberg they had been equipped by ships that had regularly touched at the Cape with vital knowledge of the terrain and enemy strongholds. Here the Spanish had kept away all but their own ships and smugglers, who were not about to make free with their information.

And with barely a quarter of the troops and a handful of guns. In the cold light of day it was beginning to seem more an ill-conceived impertinence than a decisive military assault. His disquiet about the entire conception and its implementation was growing.

L’Aurore, with her relatively shallow draught, would no doubt be the one ordered to conduct an early reconnaissance and he felt the responsibility keenly. Poor charts and hostile waters were by no means unknown to the Navy – feats of seamanship were performed regularly by the heroes on blockade off the French coast with never a complaint. He recalled Captain Hurd, an officer, like himself, from before the mast. In a humble sloop in fearful conditions he had conducted a secret hydrographic survey of Brest under the very noses of the enemy.

He couldn’t let the Navy down. Besides which-

‘If I’m intruding, I’ll come back later, brother.’ He hadn’t noticed Renzi hovering.

‘No, no, m’ friend. You’ve every right.’

‘Well, I . . .’

Kydd looked up and saw that Renzi was carrying a sheaf of papers.

‘You’re sore pressed, I know, but you did say you’d take a look. Do give me your opinion of its worth – as a regular-going reader, in course. I’m now half done, you know.’

‘I did say that, but I have m’ worries, Nicholas, as are taking attention. It might not be a fair judgement, is all,’ he finished lamely.

Renzi’s face fell and Kydd held out his hand. ‘Let me have ’em and I’ll tell you when I’ve read through.’

‘Things aren’t going so well for you?’

‘Just your usual mullygrubs afore an action, nothing to worry on.’

He had not told Renzi about Pitt’s death and his increasing unease that they were sailing without Admiralty orders. By now the gunroom would be agog with the tale from Curzon of how their captain had cozened passage for the reinforcements and there would be considerable speculation as to why it had been necessary to go to such lengths.

Renzi hesitated, as though he was about to say something, then left quietly.

Kydd put down the sheaf of paper. Damn it all to blazes! This was the final act of what should be an historic occasion and it was turning into a nightmare. And if anything happened to Justina, most surely he’d be ruined financially – would he then be expected still to play his full part?

Mind full of worry, he picked up Renzi’s manuscript. Anything was better than being left alone with his thoughts. The paper was well used, crossings-out and tiny insertions everywhere, but in Renzi’s strong, educated hand it was easy to read. He focused on the first page, remembering with a sigh the awkward delivery the first time he had read it. He determined, however, to persevere for at least an hour.

Within minutes he was gripped. It was so different! The first scene was not the father’s study, it was the milking shed. And without any elaborate setting out, the action opened quickly with the hero, Jeremy, tiptoeing into the dark, playfully whispering for Jenny, the milkmaid, who finally emerged pouting from the shadows. It went on from there in startling detail until the closing act of the chapter when the doors were flung wide and they were discovered.

It was extraordinary! The flow was quite different as well – instead of a modest first-person telling it was now a confident invisible observer drily chronicling the vigorous adventurings of a young man learning about life. Kydd read on; the succeeding chapter in which Jeremy was rusticated to a country academy was unexpectedly pathetic and noble by turns, Renzi’s device of standing outside the character yet at the same time in intimate connection with thoughts and desires nothing short of masterly.

Kydd found himself a whisky, then settled back in anticipation. The passage of young Jeremy’s staunch defence of a younger in the face of bullying by a master had all the hallmarks of Renzi himself but his ultimate expulsion for whoring in town was not. Or was it? Just how much was this his friend and how much fiction?

‘Sir?’ It was the first lieutenant, leaning through the door.

‘Er, yes?’

‘The master-at-arms reports all lights out, an’ we’re full an’ bye on the larboard tack, course sou’-sou’-west, commodore in sight.’ Kydd realised that he’d not been up to take his accustomed turn about the upper deck before retiring, which must be puzzling the watch-on-deck.

‘Oh – er, thank you, Mr Gilbey,’ he said pleasantly, ‘and, um, goodnight to you.’

He turned back to the tale, spellbound.

The wasted years following, spent in idleness at the grand family estate under the eye of his noble and irascible father, were set out in unaffected detail; the growing emotional crisis resulting from their differences was temporarily resolved by his unexpected friendship with a certain other-worldly young man, a poet, whose wild and romantic leanings seemed to give so much point to existence.

The writing darkened, though, as it went on to describe how they set off together on a tour of the continent, vowing to live life to its fullest. The first scenes of debauchery and carnal excess were forthright and clear – Kydd could hardly believe what he was reading, still flowing as it did in the strong hand he knew so well.

Bemused, then astounded, Kydd read on until, with a pang, he realised that what he had of the manuscript had come to an end. He considered going to Renzi and waking him up, but of course he couldn’t. Instead he leaned back in admiration. Either this would be the wonder of the season or it would be howled off the streets for its wickedness.

He chortled, hearing the marine sentry outside the door stir uneasily.

Before a spanking north-east trade wind the little armada made good speed across the South Atlantic, the weather remaining kind if steadily dropping in temperature into the southern late autumn. The continental influence far to starboard was of a quite different quality from Africa at the same latitude. At five hundred miles off, Leda and L’Aurore were detached to range on ahead.

Kydd complied unhappily, for Justina had still not hauled into sight. His mind shied from the implication and took refuge in his duty, the satisfaction of shaking out sail and quitting the slow progress of the rest of the force.

They criss-crossed the sullen grey wastes for days without incident until they reached the parallel of the great estuary at which their instructions were to make rendezvous with Narcissus, sent on before to reconnoitre. Shaping course due west, the pair ran down the latitude of the River Plate until, astonishingly, even at seventy-five miles to seaward, discolouring of the monotonous grey-green seas became noticeable, strengthening until the entire character of the sea was changed.

By nightfall they were within the loom of the land but prudently lay to until morning for there was every possibility that Narcissus would have news of the return of the Spanish warships. At first light they resumed their course, and when a rumpled grey-blue rising on the starboard bow announced their landfall on South America, with it was the distant pale blur of sails – Narcissus on her beat across the wide estuary mouth.

The three ships lay together in the cross-swell and exchanged news. The captain of Narcissus blared out from his speaking trumpet that, to his knowledge, the Spanish Navy had not yet returned, that all was quiet but that navigation in the estuary was the very devil due to its uncertain and shifting shoals, mud-banks and terrifying squalls.

Kydd hailed back that the fleet was on its way and that all was well, while Honyman in Leda wanted to know if Ocean had been sighted.

Narcissus then spread sail for the open sea to find the commodore. She was replaced on station by Leda while Kydd, with the shallowest draught, was dispatched to penetrate deeper into the River Plate to make sure of the reconnaissance.

It was a fearful task: at nearly 150 miles across at the mouth to a mile or two at its inner end hundreds of miles away, every rutter, pilot and guide they could muster was unanimous in its warnings. The chief peril was the shallow and treacherous trending of the river, which made impossible any approach into the estuary by a sea-going vessel unless by the deeper channels, which wove among the notoriously shifting hard-packed banks. It was said a thousand ships had laid their bones in this bleak place.

The other threat was the weather. The southern bank of the River Plate was in effect the edge of the endless flat plains of the Pampas across which the wind could blast without check. The notorious pampero could become so strong as to kick up a sea potent enough to stop the river in its flow – one from the south-east was sufficient, incredibly, even to reverse the tide – and a hard blow coming from the north-west could virtually dry out the estuary.

Kydd and the master pored over the charts. The funnel-shaped estuary had on the north side the outlying port of Maldonado, with Montevideo fifty miles further in at the true entry to the River Plate. The river narrowed there from sixty miles to thirty, at which point the past Portuguese settlement of Colonia lay opposite Buenos Aires. Twenty miles further on, it ended abruptly in a maze of marshes.

The south side had, except for the capital, no settlements of note and was very low-lying, with cloying mud-flats that stretched for miles. And in the river there were two main sandbanks: the long Ortiz Bank in the middle, and the sinuous length of the Chico closer inshore towards Buenos Aires. Beyond there was nothing but un-navigable shallows.

In hostile waters, without local knowledge or a pilot, they stood in as grave danger as anywhere Kydd had known before. Their stowaway, Serrano, was apologetic: he knew nothing of the sea so their track was entirely their own decision.

‘We stand towards Montevideo, then keep in with the north,’ Kydd finally decided.

Narcissus, a heavy frigate with a draught to match, had been unable to look into this port, the most likely to harbour defending Spanish men-o’-war. It was an essential first step, of course, for this was the designated assault point for the expedition.

With Maldonado safely out of sight, well to the northward, L’Aurore set her prow to the west with doubled lookouts. The lowering grey skies were menacing and the captain and ship’s company were sombre. As they headed in, it was hard to believe they were sailing up a river for there was no land in sight and none expected: it was as if they were in the open ocean, but for the shorter wave-shape and tainted sea.

The master studied intently his Remarks, a printed booklet produced by a merchant captain of half a century before that persuasively gave sailing instructions for safe entry into the port of Montevideo. ‘Bear west b’ north until we raise the isle o’ Flores,’ Kendall intoned.

L’Aurore progressed under cautious sail. A shout came from one of the seamen looking over the side: the water had now turned a repellent mud-brown, solid and impenetrable – the great effluvium of a continental river.

‘Leadsmen!’ Kydd snapped.

A monotonous chant began from the forechains. ‘No bottom wi’ this line!’ It would be a wet and cold job but it would last for as long as they were within the estuary.

Then they reached soundings. ‘By the mark – fifteen!’ So far from land and only ninety feet . . .

Barely half an hour later it was by the deep twelve and then eight, shoaling fast – they must be reaching the vast extrusion of sediment extending seaward. At six fathoms Kydd put another man in the opposite forechain to call out of sequence with the first.

‘Laaand hooo!’

Kydd could not see it from the deck. Then came the hail that it was a long, rambling island – Isla de Flores. Montevideo was just fifteen miles further on.

‘The island – no nearer’n three mile, sir.’

They bore away and almost immediately anxious shouts came from the leadsmen. ‘I’ve five fathom! B’ the mark five!’

It was incredible but with no land in sight they had less than twelve feet of water under their keel. Any rise or knoll in the invisible seabed and they would touch.

‘Heave us to, Mr Kendall,’ Kydd ordered, and turned to the boatswain. ‘I want three boats in the water ahead with a hand lead in each.’

Spread in a line across their bows, they would give indication of the best passage. ‘Says here, sir, if you brings up mud, you’re in the channel, black sand and ye’ve strayed either side.’ Now the leadsmen would be looking to the base of their leads, smeared with tallow to bring up an indication of the nature of the sea bottom.

It was agonisingly slow work. The fitful wind fluttered the sides of the sails; it had been mercifully constant until now but if it veered from its south-westerly direction they would be headed, and the reconnaissance would be over.

After a little more than an hour, the mainland of South America was raised at the masthead: Punta Brava at the outer point of the Bay of Montevideo.

When the land could be seen from the quarterdeck it was flat and uninteresting, scrub, occasional sand dunes and then the last point before the bay. Would they see a tell-tale forest of masts, a swarm of angry gunboats emerging?

The water shallowed further and Kydd kept the frigate well offshore as they made the final low headland and the bay opened up. Instantly telescopes trained and searched – and there was no fleet at anchor.

They were still five miles or more off so Kydd swung into the shrouds and mounted to the tops, taking out his pocket telescope. He could see deep within the bay, nothing hidden from this vantage-point.

On the right he saw the untidy low sprawl of a large town, which must be Montevideo, and on the left of the bay a conical hill about four hundred feet high, no doubt the ‘mountain’ that could be seen from across the bay and gave the city its name. There were vessels within but not one that answered the description of a man-o’-war.

In a rush of relief Kydd descended. ‘Nothing,’ he told the group on the quarterdeck.

‘Where now, sir?’ Kendall enquired anxiously.

They had news that would gladden Popham – but would he be satisfied with just that? There had to be deeper channels, perhaps dredged, that would allow large vessels to enter, but these would be known only to pilots and local captains. At the same time this would imply that other channels were available that led deeper into the River Plate. It was his duty therefore to attempt further penetration.

‘We stand on.’

With the boats still leading they hardened in and, close-hauled, stood away. Before they had made more than a few miles the wind failed. Kydd was too much the seaman not to know that this was usually the precursor of a shift in direction and there was only one action that could be contemplated.

‘Get the boats in. We’re going back.’

But in the time it took to heave to, hoist aboard their boats and put about, everything had changed.

In these strange climes, it seemed, it was not to be a simple change of wind direction: from the south-west spread a wide, glistening white fluffiness, a sea-fog. It reached and enveloped them in a clammy embrace until they were swallowed in its soundless immensity.

L’Aurore glided on in the eerie whiteness, the only thing to be heard the subdued chuckle of water at her forefoot and the mournful chant of the leadsmen. If this were an English Channel pea-souper they would be surrounded by a bedlam of horns, gongs and drumbeats, Kydd remembered.

It would be reasonably safe to return to the open sea simply by reversing the plot of compass courses, the wind conveniently on the beam, but he wouldn’t feel secure until-

From the tops came an agitated, breathy hail: ‘Deck hoooo!’

Kydd looked up.

‘Sail – jus’ a pistol shot t’ loo’ard! I see tops’ls of a schooner!’

‘Silence fore ’n’ aft!’ Kydd ordered savagely, in a low voice. This could only be the enemy – at that size never a threat but if they could question the crew . . .

‘Where headed?’ he threw to the lookout.

‘’Cross our bows.’

Their priceless advantage was that in a fore-and-aft-rigged vessel like a schooner there could be no lookout positions aloft, but their own, high up, had been able to see the betraying upper sails of the ship above the fog-bank.

‘Get men below. On my order, just open all gun-ports to larboard,’ Kydd hissed at Curzon.

Gently rippling along, there was ample time to prepare. ‘M’ compliments to Mr Renzi and would he step up here.’

Judging his moment well, precisely as the grey shape of the other craft materialised out of the fog, he swung L’Aurore parallel and roared out the order for the gun-ports to open while trumpets blared and marine drummers beat out a terrifying tattoo.

In the schooner it must have been the stuff of nightmares, a towering enemy frigate appearing like magic out of the mists, apparently about to blast them to splinters. The hapless vessel was grappled and boarded before even her colours had been jerked down in terrified surrender.

‘Nicholas,’ Kydd said, gratified that Renzi’s coming on deck had coincided with the sudden commotion of the appearance and taking of an enemy, ‘would you kindly accompany Mr Gilbey aboard and invite the captain to join us?’

When Renzi returned it was not merely with a Spanish captain but a distinctly unamused gentleman of imperious manner and fine dress. ‘Sir, I have the honour to present His Excellency the Governor of Truxillo.’ Bows were exchanged but the smouldering dark eyes barely concealed thunder and the desire for vengeance.

Kydd nodded to Renzi. It was impressive, the suavity his friend was managing with his new-found Spanish. ‘I shall look forward to entertaining His Excellency in my cabin shortly. As soon as we have concluded our business here.’

The schooner was a fine one, trim-lined and well appointed, her crew standing disconsolately along the deck. An aviso? If so, this was an official vessel and quite likely to be charged with dispatches. The speed of her capture meant almost certainly that these were still aboard. Gilbey could be trusted to intercept any attempt to get rid of them.

The governor was surly and abrupt, and nothing could be learned from courtly questioning except that their presence had been utterly unexpected. No matter: the commodore would follow through with his own interrogation.

The small crew was another matter. When under way once more, the schooner under prize crew and demurely in the frigate’s wake, he had her company examined one by one.

Renzi came up to see Kydd in his cabin. ‘I think you’ll find one man an interesting fellow,’ he said mysteriously. ‘I’ve had Serrano concealed nearby and he swears he’s an Englishman.’

The man was under guard in the gunroom, a large, somewhat florid individual in the plain dress of a warrant officer of sorts.

‘This is Crujido, sir.’

‘And what is his rank?’

‘?Cual es su rango, senor?’ There was a flow of mumbled Spanish in reply.

‘He’s being evasive about it, sir.’

‘Tell him that unless he’s more truthful, he’ll be sent back to Cape Town in irons as a suspected deserter.’

The nervous start he gave before it was translated was all the evidence Kydd needed. ‘So we understand each other?’

‘Aye, Captain. Jed Russell it is, an’ I been here since before the Frenchies started. Emigrated, a new life I has now.’

‘Then you’ve sworn allegiance to the Spanish Crown?’

‘Had to, o’ course.’

‘And now we’re at war with the Spanish – with you,’ Kydd said mildly. ‘What do you say to that?’

There was a reluctant silence. Then, ‘What do ye here, if I c’n ask it?’

Kydd gave the man a shrewd look.

‘I’m thinking ye’re here to do a mischief agin the Spaniards in Montevideo. Are ye a fleet?’

Kydd said nothing, letting Russell make the running.

‘Aye, well, if ye are, then there’s many o’ these here who’ll relish ’em being humbled. What say I give help? What’ll ye do for me?’

‘Give help? What’s your situation, sir?’

A satisfied smile emerged. ‘Why, an’ I’m a senior pilot for the Rio de la Plata under the viceroyalty, is all.’

Kydd couldn’t suppress an answering grin. ‘Then, Mr Russell, you shall be satisfied in all particulars should you choose service with us. Is there anything else you’d be wanting?’

‘There is.’

‘And what is that, pray?’

‘It’s been all o’ these fifteen years an’ I’ve never tasted a right true drop. If ye can see y’r way clear . . .’

‘What do you mean, the man’s indisposed?’ Popham snapped. ‘I want him here. It’s imperative I get answers, and this instant!’

Kydd sighed. ‘That is to say, he’s been taken with barrel fever, it being the first grog he’s faced this age. I thought it necessary if we have to use him.’

‘For God’s sake, are the Spanish going to-’

‘Dasher, the substance of what he told me is this, and it’s the first direct intelligence we’ve had, damn it. He says the people would look kindly on being made free, as we know, and as of this moment it’s a prime time to attack. They’ve no idea we’re here or why. There are no Spanish men-o’-war as they’re all in the north still, engaged with Miranda. In Montevideo the fortress is manned but by a smallish number of regulars and a sad parcel o’ militia who won’t stand against real troops such as ours. In particular, in a few days it’ll be the feast of Corpus Christi in which all will join in drunken riot for a week, a fine time to move against ’em.’

‘That’s more like it,’ Popham grunted, in much satisfaction.

‘Oh, and he says there’s a considerable treasure in Buenos Aires waiting for want of escort to Spain.’

‘Is there, by heaven?’ Popham said slowly, his eyes widening.

‘There’s more – I have a man aboard, a native of these parts with strong sympathy towards a rebellion. He stowed away to be in at the kill so I signed him on as translator. If he can make his number with the rebels ashore . . . ?’

‘Yes, yes – see what you can do,’ Popham said, distracted. ‘I need to think.’

Kydd took his leave and returned to L’Aurore in high spirits: when he had emerged from the fog to rendezvous with the fleet off Maldonado, he’d seen the unmistakable outlines of Justina primly at anchor in the middle of the little group, her voyage and contract now fulfilled, and beyond her, the welcome sight of Ocean, at last come to join.

Renzi stood forward, in conversation with Serrano, who was looking fixedly at the Maldonado shore.

‘So – this is your South America, Vicente,’ Renzi murmured, seeing the rapt expression on his Spanish friend’s face.

‘Si! Is very beautiful, no?’

The distant shoreline, dry, flat and a study in ochrous brown, looked anything but inviting.

‘Most attractive,’ Renzi agreed hastily. ‘Are you looking forward to setting foot on shore?’

‘When the Spanish have left, not ever before.’

‘And then?’

‘Ah. The first – it to be mi carino, the girl who wait. I finish my study, we are married. Maybe business. The silver, it will finish, the Pampas our true riches, I think. The – how you say? – skin of cow, these the whole world always want. Our meats, grain – with libre comercio we sell, all profit will stay wi’ us, we be rich.’

‘Just so, m’ friend. As soon as you’re independent.’

Serrano looked pensive then asked abruptly, ‘You English – why you’re helping wi’ us?’

‘It’s to our advantage should the Spanish lose their colonies.’

He looked sideways at Renzi’s set face with a slight smile. ‘Why quiet? You’re not agreeable wi’ this?’

Renzi hesitated, then admitted, ‘The governance of a country is its own business. Even in war I cannot see we have any right to interfere in its sovereign affairs. If the people rise against their rulers, then that is for them and only them to resolve.’

‘Your chief not think like that – he will attack, soon.’

‘As I understand it.’

‘Good. I will paint a grand battle, your soldiers with ours fighting to beat the Spanish. A magnifico drama like as Senor Shakespeare write!’

‘Er, possibly. Do enjoy this prospect, my friend. I must return to my writing, I find.’

‘Ah, Mr Serrano,’ Kydd said, rising in welcome as the artist was escorted into his day cabin. ‘There is a matter I wish to discuss.’

‘At your service, Captain.’

‘I will not hide it from you – an assault on Montevideo will begin shortly. Our commodore is desirous that all who wish to throw off the Spanish yoke may join with us to share in the glory of this occasion.’

‘Of history!’ Serrano breathed, his face glowing.

‘Er, yes. To enable this to happen, it will be necessary to join forces, to talk together of where we shall strike first, where supplies are to be found.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘So we must speak with the leaders of the, um, movement for freedom.’

‘Los patriotas! The patriots, Captain.’

‘Do you know them?’

‘These I know an’ hold close to my heart, sir.’

‘Very well. We would be much obliged should you go and inform them that the British leader desires a parley.’

Serrano’s eyes shone. ‘Is dangerous, but for freedom I do it.’

Kydd remembered that the man was wanted by the authorities and hesitated. ‘Not if it places you in hazard at all.’

‘I want to landing at Puerto del Ingles, Captain. At darkness.’

It seemed only fair to send for Renzi at this point. ‘Nicholas, your friend is assisting us by contacting the rebel band. Shall you want to supervise his arrangements at all?’

‘Vicente,’ Renzi said, with concern, ‘mi amigo, you are only to find the leader of the band and bring him to us. There’s no need to play the temerario in this.’ The young painter was so intense, so bound up with his place in the destiny of his country. Would he, like Wordsworth, be caught up in the roaring chaos of a nation in revolt and then be disillusioned with its price in blood and terror?

‘Is my duty, Nicholas. I playing my part.’

The exaltation had passed and there was now seriousness – and resolve. ‘But not so easy. Los patriotas they are many, but many leaders also. They quarrel, fight each other. I will tell them for the sake of freedom they must join in one.’

‘Then – would you wish it that we go together?’ In Renzi’s past he had seen his share of naivety and treachery and feared for his young friend.

‘No es posible. Here is no place for the English gentleman. The country is raw and wicked, the people as untamed animals. No, is my duty, my glory.’

‘Then I honour you for it, Vicente. So, Puerto del Ingles, where is it at all?’

‘Ah, Maldonado, to the west twenty miles. Is where you English take on shore your smuggled goods to trade. A lagoon of seven mile protect and it have a pretty beach.’

‘Captain Kydd wishes to make contact as quickly as possible. You should be prepared to land in the darkness tonight. Are you ready?’

A knapsack of rations and a canteen of water was all he would accept, together with a stout boat-cloak and scarf, insisting he go entirely unarmed. It was Renzi who quietly pointed out that any documentation of authenticity provided by the commodore would be a death sentence if he was taken up by the authorities.

In the evening, L’Aurore ghosted into the bay. A boat was put in the water with Renzi and Serrano as passengers and they warily made for the point at the northern end of the beach, passing inshore fishermen in their curious flat boats, ignoring them as they worked. In the gathering gloom the boat doused sail and, under oars, hissed into the sand.

Serrano stood in the boat and hesitated, staring into the anonymous countryside with its wafting odour of dryness and cattle.

‘If you’d rather wait . . . ?’ Renzi offered.

He shook his head, made his way clumsily down the boat and dropped on to the beach, remembering to turn and lift a hand in farewell.

‘Vaya con Dios, mi amigo,’ called Renzi, in a low voice. He watched the man trudge up the beach and into the thickets.