Betrayal

Chapter 6

‘Flag, sir. All captains.’ It was Calloway, now holding a temporary warrant from the commodore as master’s mate after the death of Pearse. With a vacancy on the quarterdeck for a midshipman, the earnest Searle had been elevated, seeming young and vulnerable in the inherited uniform that hung about him.

‘Thank you,’ said Kydd. The summons was expected: at this critical point Popham had decided on a proper council-of-war, which had full legal standing – no mere gathering of opinion but the coming to a course of action that they would all agree upon. Then if there was a calamity, no one could claim they had known it all along and not been heard.

Diadem’s great cabin was soon packed. At one end of the table athwart was the commodore, at the other Beresford, general officer in command of land forces. The naval captains were along one side, the army on the other.

‘Thank you for your attendance, gentlemen,’ Popham opened, with a broad smile. ‘This council-of-war now begins.’ One of his lieutenants sat to his right, taking note of the proceedings, a subaltern next to General Beresford doing the same.

‘Prospects for our success remain excellent, I’m happy to say. The strength of the enemy is as we heard before and there appears no reinforcement contemplated. Should we make our stroke with boldness and speed, we shall be able to avoid a protracted campaign.’

Beresford coughed discreetly. ‘That is all very well, sir, but may we be told where such information has come from? Do you have sources of intelligence among the Dons that can be trusted to reveal all to us?’

Popham looked pained. ‘Sir, as in most expeditions of my experience, the usual fishermen, merchants and others are well capable of providing a picture of their circumstances, which, taken in the round, can establish the situation better even than a lone spy or traitor. They have nothing to gain by giving false information, which will be discovered later, and everything to gain when it is over and we are in power.’

The general harrumphed but offered no further question.

‘I’m interested to know how your revolt is to be managed,’ rumbled Honyman. ‘Are they to play in our show? When will we know they’re of a mind to rise up and such?’

‘I’ve an envoy passed ashore to speak with the chief of the rebels, and another courtesy of Captain Kydd. Their task is to bring them to a meeting with ourselves with the object of co-ordinating our attack with their rising. Their instructions are to proceed with the utmost celerity.’

‘Have you communication from them?’

‘I expect it hourly, General.’

‘So, no word yet after three days. We cannot delay matters for them,’ Beresford came in sharply, ‘and, further, it’s my opinion that no reliance whatsoever be placed on the services of irregular troops, whatever their dedication. Are they to be under my express command? If not, then they cannot appear in my order of battle.’

‘Neither do we expect to see them there, sir,’ Popham replied smoothly. ‘Any accession to strength from these irregulars is to be welcomed but not relied upon. Our expectation is that any revolt will be more in the character of a general and spontaneous uprising in the population as a whole, following the example of our assault, which will go on to overwhelm the Spanish forces.’

‘Hmph,’ glowered Beresford. ‘Let us now consider the reduction of the Montevideo fortress. We’ve little enough in the way of siege engines and such, and you admitted before, did you not, that this is the chief stronghold for the entire River Plate?’ He looked about him significantly.

‘I’m not saying we’ve no chance of success, merely that our planning has to be meticulous. Therefore this is what I propose. We land well to the east, marching rapidly for a hooked advance from the interior instead of-’

Popham held up his hand. ‘Thank you, General. Before we discuss these details I wish to advise that in the light of recent intelligence I’ve been looking at quite another strategy as it offers itself.’

‘Recent intelligence?’ the general growled. ‘Should we not be told of this?’

‘All will become clear in a moment, sir,’ Popham said patiently. ‘The intelligence comes from an unimpeachable source – the chief pilot of the viceroyalty, lately taken. He may be considered the first major figure coming over to us. He’s laid before me the defensive situation of the Spanish, and this is that all their regular troops have been moved to Montevideo on the assumption that that city will be our objective.’

‘Any fool knows this.’

‘He further specifies that, as a consequence, the city of Buenos Aires is defenceless, a paltry militia battalion only.’

‘Are you seriously suggesting-’

‘It crosses my mind that as this is the chief city and seat of power, its loss will, at a blow, paralyse the Spanish and give heart to the people in their rising.’

‘This is a foolish notion that flies in the face of military science. To leave an enemy position of strength in the rear of one’s advance is of the first rank of idiocy and I cannot countenance such an act.’

‘Umm. Not only this, General, but you may not be aware that in the city treasury lie untold millions in silver that cannot be freighted to Spain for want of ships . . .’

There was an immediate stir of interest. ‘Purely out of curiosity, dear fellow, but should this be confiscated, for the Navy . . . will it be put forward as in the nature of, er, prize money?’ Captain Byng asked.

‘There is precedent, George. I rather feel that Droits of the Crown will not be asserted in this case,’ Popham murmured.

Another voice came in: ‘Ah. Then-’

‘Shall we get back to the matter in hand?’ Beresford broke in heavily. ‘Montevideo will not easily be taken by storm with the forces I have to command. Therefore we will-’

‘General. I have shown how a successful assault on the Spanish might be contemplated. Should we not consider this before going into operational details of any one stratagem?’

Beresford looked at him in amazement. ‘You really desire us to make a direct assault on the capital? With less than a thousand and a half under arms? Ridiculous! A city of what, thirty or forty thousand, a central fortress and an unknown number of defenders under the command of the viceroy himself? Preposterous!’

Popham leaned forward and spoke forcefully. ‘It’s effectively an open city for we’ve heard that it is drained of their best troops, who have gone to Montevideo. As well, it’s the last thing the Spanish expect, a rapid and direct move on their capital – and you’ve not considered the effect on the population of a confident and well-conducted thrust against their military. Recollect, sir, there has in history never yet been a full-scale field engagement on the soil of South America. Consequently their troops must be accounted quite untried and will certainly flee when confronted by soldiers of the quality of your Highlanders.’

‘A single bold stroke straight to the heart of the Spanish. I confess I do like it, sir.’

‘Thank you, Captain Honyman,’ Popham said modestly, and shifted his gaze to the captain of L’Aurore.

The talk of silver had disturbed Kydd. Renzi’s words about venal motives still echoed in his ears, but the attraction of a daring thrust straight for the centre over a methodical reduction in the usual way was undeniable. ‘I, er, agree,’ Kydd said, adding, ‘particularly as we haven’t the resources for a lengthy engagement.’

‘Quite!’ barked Beresford. ‘I would have thought it elementary that we first take Montevideo – if we can – before embarking on any other adventure.’

‘Few resources, yes,’ Popham said, with equal energy, ‘then how much better it would be to use these in going straight for Buenos Aires and leave Montevideo to wither alone.’

Colonel Pack was the first to speak up from the Army side. ‘Damn me if there isn’t some sense in what he says, sir. If we’re to be short o’ men, throw ’em at the main objective and be buggered to hanging back waiting.’

Beresford winced and looked about for support. Seeing none, he stiffened. ‘For the record of proceedings I want it known that my counsel is to take Montevideo and, defending same, to send dispatches to England advising reinforcement for a later assault on Buenos Aires.’

Kydd knew this was a course Popham would never take. The initiative would be lost and command would be passed to an Admiralty nominee who would succeed to the honour of taking the city, let alone the certainty of losing the opportunity while the Spanish warships were absent.

Popham gave a curt nod. ‘Thank you, sir. Your position is abundantly clear. However, also for the record, I’d be interested to know of the officers here how many would consider a direct assault on Buenos Aires preferable to a more . . . circumspect approach.’

Looks were exchanged around the table and hands went up hesitantly. Besides Kydd, all the Navy captains, save Donnelly of Narcissus, indicated support, with Pack leading more than half of the Army.

‘I see.’ Popham kept his tone level. ‘Then it appears this council-of-war has a majority agreement on the way forward for the operation. Gentlemen, there’s much to be covered in preparing for this assault and I propose that it be accomplished by forming two planning groups, one naval, for landing and support, and one army, for operations ashore. I shall head the naval. Might I ask General Beresford to head the army?’

Renzi was neither in the gunroom nor his cabin. Kydd hid his irritation and went on deck looking for him; he couldn’t set messengers to finding him because a captain’s summons would be relayed in the strongest terms – which was not what he wanted with his friend in the mood he had been under these past days.

After several blank looks at his enquiries he remembered that when the vessel was at anchor Renzi sometimes secured solitude, that prize above all things in a small ship, in one favoured place. Kydd made his way forward and swung up into the fore-ratlines, climbing up and over the futtock shrouds into the fore-top.

Renzi was there, his back to the mast and with a book. He looked up coldly. ‘Do I inconvenience at all?’

Kydd sat next to him. With all sails in, no men aloft and lookouts absent, it felt strangely bare and deserted, the maze of rigging thrumming softly in the quiet with the far-off sad keening of a sea-bird carrying across the water.

‘You’re not at your scribbling, then.’

‘No.’

‘Er, it would oblige if you could favour me with your presence at this time.’

‘If that is your order.’

‘Time presses, Nicholas. We make our move on the Spaniards very shortly but there’s a mort o’ planning to be done first. This is not work for the captain’s clerk and I’d appreciate it if-’

‘I’d hoped to have escaped an embroilment in this absurdity.’

Kydd’s voice hardened. ‘And could I remind you that you’re aboard this ship courtesy of a position which carries duties. If you’re not of a mind . . .’

‘Very well, I shall come, if such is necessary.’

‘Damn it, Nicholas!’ Kydd burst out. ‘What more have you got against the man?’

‘Since you ask it,’ Renzi replied coolly, ‘I shall point out to you how this whole business must look to the world.

‘Here we have a flag-officer who quits his station for the other side of the ocean – and for what? Not only is it for the fantastical notion of invading a continent but now it appears he has persuaded his command that they abandon the reduction of the enemy’s fortress stronghold for an attack on the seat of the viceroyalty itself. Why? Well, in the meantime he has learned of a king’s ransom in silver in the city’s vaults, and-’

‘This is not the way it is, Nicholas,’ Kydd said thickly, ‘and unworthy of you!’

‘-therefore most would be hard pressed to find a real difference between this and Drake’s raids on the Spanish Main two centuries past. No strategics but gain and plunder.’

‘You’ve the opening of trade and-’

‘Do spare me the recitation, old fellow. I’ve said I’ll come,’ Renzi said wearily, and got up. ‘Shall we get on with it?’

The first draft of planning brought back from Popham was a sobering document. Shifting the objective had brought with it some near insuperable problems, the worst of which was Russell’s emphatic statement – confirmed by boat – that the depth of water was such that not only were the sixty-fours unable to penetrate much further into the River Plate but neither were the frigates.

This was a severe blow for it meant that their landing far up the river would go in without heavy gunfire support of any kind, the boats at the mercy of any artillery brought to bear from the shore as well as being under the merciless lash of musketry as they tried to group on the landing beach, with no chance to reply.

Actual forces defending were unknown: the viceroy could be counted on to garrison a battalion or two, but what if a much larger militia force had been mobilised? Perhaps an army in the interior was on forced march to the coast even as they delayed.

Their own force was frighteningly slight. Eight hundred or so officers and men of the 71st and a handful of light dragoons, together with the reinforcements from St Helena, bringing the total to something over a thousand all told. Against a city of so many tens of thousands.

‘If you are determined upon it, then there’s only one rational course,’ Renzi pronounced.

‘What, pray?’

‘Suspend your immediate ambitions and wait patiently for reinforcements.’

Kydd gave a grim smile. ‘There’s another.’

‘Oh?’

‘Our ships are obliged to lie at anchor, idle – if we make levy of every marine and seaman who can carry a musket we’ll have half as many troops again. Remember the sea battalion at Blaauwberg? And we’ve a mighty ally that’ll count for a whole army.’

‘I’m intrigued to know what.’

‘Surprise! No one will believe we really intend to fall on Buenos Aires with what few we have.’

‘True indeed,’ Renzi agreed fervently.

‘We tide up in one of these damn fogs and set ashore as close as we can to the city, then go straight in. I’ve heard there’s a pitiful harbour there and now I know why, but we’ll be coming ashore south o’ the city.’

‘And the Good Lord have mercy on us all,’ murmured Renzi.

‘Damn it all, Nicholas,’ Kydd blazed. ‘If ye can’t think of else to say, clew up y’r jawing tackle an’ stand mumchance f’r once.’

Renzi started at the return of Kydd’s fo’c’sle lingo. He shuffled awkwardly at the sudden realisation of the depth of his friend’s feelings. ‘My apologies. If there’s aught . . . ?’

Kydd subsided, but growled, ‘Then what’s to do with your painting friend? A general rising an’ natives flocking to our colours would be prime at this time, I’d believe.’

Renzi’s face shadowed. ‘There’s been no signal from Puerto del Ingles these five days. I’m sanguine Vicente will be doing what he can, so it has to be assumed there’s to be no immediate action on the part of the rebels. Whether this is due to him not being able to find or communicate with the leaders, or that he hasn’t been able to secure their agreement to meet us, I’ve no idea.’

‘Or he’s been taken by the Spanish before he’s spoken with ’em.’

‘Er, just so.’

The next morning Kydd arrived back from consultations on the flagship with a wry grin. ‘He’s already thought of my idea about landing seamen and takes my bringing it to him as a mark of enthusiasm. Be damned to it, and I’m therefore made chief of the Marine Battalion.’

‘My earnest felicitations, brother.’

‘I’ve two days to bring ’em up to snuff. So let’s begin – an order on all captains for a return of men trained in muskets, the ship’s company set to stitching up some sort of red coat for each one. We’ll have – let me see – a field mark on the left arm of a stripe o’ white cloth. No harm in taking precautions. Then we have to know what they’ll need in their knapsacks and such.’

He snorted. ‘But this is all lobsterback territory. I’m to send for our l’tenant o’ marines, I believe.’

Clinton heard Kydd out gravely and promised to bring his recommendations within the hour.

‘Now we’ve only to find seats for a thousand and a half men in craft as will swim among the shoals.’

‘And more for the running in of stores and ammunition,’ Renzi added.

‘And the field guns,’ agreed Kydd. ‘And we’ve horses to get landed. So let’s be moving on it.’

‘It’s a miracle, I agree, Mr Gilbey,’ Kydd said, waiting for the boat to take him to Encounter, the little craft that was to have the honour of leading the expedition in its thrust into the heart of the enemy. Hollow-eyed and weary beyond feeling, he surveyed the scatter of humble vessels that was now the invasion fleet. Small transports, captured coasters, the largest ship’s boats – anything that could carry men was now crowded with soldiery, on time and ready to sail.

And, praise be, one of the cold fogs had rolled in right on cue. This was the chance they needed to slip past Montevideo and achieve some measure of surprise, but at the cost of all landmarks obliterated as they closed with their objective among the fearful shallows and reefs. It would take seamanship of the highest order to get through without casualty.

‘You’ll take care of her for me,’ Kydd said to Gilbey, as Encounter’s boat approached.

‘Sir, I will,’ his first lieutenant replied gravely. ‘An’ good fortune in what must come.’ Kydd shook his hand before he was piped over the side.

Twisting around he took a last sight of L’Aurore – her trim beauty wrenched at him for he had no illusions about what lay ahead. Service ashore had been inevitable after his experiences with the Army, particularly in the recent capture of Cape Town with these same soldiers, but . . . A premonition lay on him, one that welled up with memories of his time as a young seaman involved in a royalist rising in Brittany those many years ago when all hopes had dissolved into chaos and blood.

He tried to shake off the ghosts and looked back again at his lovely frigate, those divinely inspired lines, the rightness of the curves and proud elegance of the lofty spars – and there was Renzi’s white face at the open stern window, his arm lifted in a sad farewell. Unaccountably a lump formed in his throat and he turned resolutely forward.

Encounter was a gun-brig, one of the plain, stout workhorses of the Navy. That this little inshore gunboat had been expected without hesitation to cross oceans with the fleet was yet another reason why Bonaparte could never prevail against such a navy. But were they now expecting too much of timber and sinew, daring and resolve? Where were the limits?

He shook off the morbid thoughts as he heaved himself over the modest bulwarks to see Godwin, the youthful lieutenant-in-command, waiting for him. ‘Welcome aboard, sir. It’s said as where Captain Kydd is, there’s always sport to be had,’ he added.

Kydd couldn’t help an answering grin. ‘L’Aurore will have to bide her time – I’ve a fancy Encounter is to have all the entertainment to herself.’

‘Er, my cabin for refreshments, sir?’

‘No time,’ Kydd said briskly. ‘And I desire you hang out the “preparative” as soon as you may.’

The breeze was light but steady, the fog-bank a dank, impenetrable screen of dull white. There was nothing to be gained in waiting longer. ‘The “proceed” Mr Godwin,’ Kydd ordered.

Three boats closed with Encounter, their task to sound ahead. A white or red warning flag would fly from each; a row-guard of pinnaces armed with swivels accompanied them – a pitiful defence if the Spanish had hidden sea forces further in.

Kydd glanced back at the ghostly grey of the anchored sixty-fours. They looked so insubstantial but he knew Popham was watching their little expedition leave to be quickly swallowed up by the fog with the entire fate of the expedition in their hands. An indistinct but elaborate signal hoist was up in the flagship – there was nothing that could be done now so without a doubt it was a deeply meant farewell.

Their anchor won and the soldiers crowded on deck, trying to keep to one side, the little ship got under way. The enterprise had begun.

His heart beat a little faster as he glanced back at the rest following. The broad-beamed Melantho was a reassuring bulk, a light in her bows steady to confirm that her own next astern was safely in sight. And then came Triton, the transport containing General Beresford and elements of the 71st with their two guns.

There was little Kydd could do to occupy himself. He was aboard in the leading ship under sufferance to make decisions should there be trouble and to be among the first to land. While Godwin was amiable and attentive, he had his responsibilities. The quarterdeck was ludicrously small, with no room for pacing about, and before long Kydd found himself picking his way forward through the redcoats on deck.

Initially they stiffened as he approached but soon Kydd was able to pass among them without fuss, overhearing the age-old military banter of fighting men about to go into battle. He made his way back down the other side to find a chair waiting for him on the quarterdeck.

Time passed. At a speed of something like three knots it would take several days to cover the hundred and thirty miles to their landing zone. Painstaking work with the hand lead in the boats was needed to establish a safe channel and Russell’s muddled directions were confusing – somehow he had found more drink and now, surly or riotous by turns, he was under personal guard by a relay of midshipmen.

They had agonised over the conflicting charts and finally settled on Punta Quilmes, a dozen or so miles south of the city, the furthest point where the depth of water was anything like adequate, but first there was the fraught passage to negotiate between the notorious Ortiz and Chico banks.

The fog held as they left Montevideo invisibly to starboard, the muddy water gurgling, over-loud, in the pale closeness, their ceaseless motion ever onward into the anonymous reaches of the languid river. When the darkness closed in there was no option but to anchor. Rations and grog were distributed to the troops.

The officers shared the stuffy confines of Godwin’s cabin for their evening meal, humorously making light of their conditions, but as soon as he could, Kydd made his way back to the upper deck. The soldiers lay all about, drawing their blankets around them. ‘They’ll see far worse in the field, believe me,’ a subaltern confided. ‘A few days there and they’ll be yearning for a nice comfortable plank to sleep on.’

Godwin had offered Kydd his cabin, but at his insistence they had compromised on a hammock aloft and alow in the old way and he tumbled into the ‘’mick’ comfortably, like the foremast jack he had been so long ago.

He slept little. The sounds of the ship, the anonymous creaks, rumbles and distant slithers as it swung with the current, were foreign, and his thoughts were chaotic and anxious. It felt quite different from the nervous exhilaration before the Cape Town landings: he could not throw off the feeling of foreboding that was clamping in on him.

The morning dawned with a thinning fog and visibility out to nearly half a mile. As soon as the boats could be seen reliably they were under way once more and, as the day progressed, the fog finally dissolved to reveal a grey desolation of empty sea.

They had made it past Montevideo, the secret of their departure still safe, and Kydd’s spirits rose.

Towards evening they were near the tail of the twin banks, allegedly buoyed, but Russell had warned that mud-scouring would continually shift their moorings and they could not be relied on. A few distant sails were sighted, flat fishing craft that ignored them – and always the drab grey-brown water sliding monotonously past.

As Kydd deliberated about anchoring for the night, Melantho slewed and stopped, nearly bringing Ocean into collision with her. The forced delaying of the fleet settled the question – but had the vessel touched on mud or an outlier of the hard-packed sand of the Chico bank?

In the last of the light it was established that it had been mud – there would be no damage, but freeing the deep-laden transport from the thick, glutinous ooze would not be easy. Her crew would have a hard night of it, lightening ship and hauling off.

But Kydd’s mind was on the next day. In a matter of hours they would be in sight of the enemy. Given the general’s strong opposition to their alteration of plans, would he be looking for an excuse to call it off? Kydd knew if that happened he would be caught up in the inevitable bitterness to follow. He must take care to do nothing that could be flourished at a later court-martial.

Full of dark thoughts he finally drifted off. He awoke early to a cold and cheerless day, rain threatening, a serious matter if they had to land with damp muskets in the teeth of heavy fire. Kydd felt unable to finish his breakfast.

They got under way as soon as possible, and before midday, a low, monotonously flat coastline was raised to larboard. It continued on as scattered buildings came into sight, and then from the masthead a hail, the city itself.

After signalling the fleet to heave to, Kydd joined the lookout and took out his pocket glass. At this moment the entire expedition was in his hands: if he overlooked any threat, failed to see an enemy column, mistook a distant feature and then set the assault in motion . . .

He quartered the terrain with care, cursing at the thrum and judder of the rigging as he braced on it, but could see nothing remotely like a threat. The closer shore was low and featureless, open scrub and flat heath, as far as he could tell, while further to the right there was a modest river, set about with thickets of small trees and with a slight rise on the far side.

And some miles beyond, at the limit of vision, he saw the spires and domes of a city – Buenos Aires.

After taking one last sweep of the nearest coastline he returned to the deck.

‘I see nothing of the enemy,’ he told the expectant faces. It seemed astonishing, but the Spanish were simply not there.

He boarded Encounter’s tiny jolly-boat and was taken to Triton to report to the general.

Beresford greeted him impatiently. ‘Well, now, and what can you tell us, sir?’ Significantly he was wearing his sword, and officers began hurrying up to hear the conversation. At deck level only an anonymous low coastline was in sight.

‘From the masthead I could see no sign of the enemy,’ Kydd said carefully.

‘Nothing?’ Beresford said incredulously. ‘No camp, no lines being thrown up, troops on column of march?’

‘The terrain is flat and open, sir. I should have seen them.’ He spoke firmly, ‘Therefore I counsel the landing takes place.’

‘Ah!’

‘We’re some two miles south of Punta Quilmes, with the city a dozen miles north.’ Kydd did not add that this was only if the river they had sighted was indeed the Ria Chuelo – the featureless landscape and sketchy maps made an exact fix impossible.

Beresford beamed at his officers. ‘I rather think Dame Fortune is smiling upon us today, by Jove.’

The actual landing had demanded meticulous planning. The order of the troops first ashore and their support required pinpoint timing, with the men in different ships around the fleet coming together, the few horses and guns essential to be landed with them marshalled at the same time before all moved in together. Because of the hours this would take before they could meet the enemy in a protected formation, a dawn assault was expected. ‘Then we move at first light, sir?’ a dragoon officer enquired.

‘No offence to our gracious hosts, but the sooner we’re on dry land the better I’d like it,’ Beresford said grimly. ‘And while we’ve an unopposed descent, I’m to dispense with the order of assault.’

He paused for effect. ‘Gentlemen – we go in today. Now! Just get the men ashore and form ’em up. We’ll take it on from there.’

A wash of relief swept over Kydd. Despite his worst imaginings, for some reason they were to be granted a landing without fire from the shore. Beresford was a general who was not afraid to take decisions.

But how long were they to be given before the Spanish woke up to what was happening?

‘I’ll get it under way, then, sir,’ the dragoon officer responded smartly.

It would not take long to send boats around the waiting fleet to order the transports to get their men landed as soon as they had kitted up. Kydd would take the first boat heading inshore.

Back in Encounter he watched the sudden surge in activity in the ships following the dispatch boat’s visit. They were positioned some three to four miles safely to seaward of the mud shallows; the boats had far to pull, but even the smallest ships could get no nearer in safety in these treacherous waters.

The sky overhead was louring and dull grey, the dark-ruffled sea fretful and alien. Washed by a fever-pitch of anxiety, Kydd watched as the assault boats began assembling, among them Diadem’s launch.

‘Take me to it,’ he demanded quickly. The jolly-boat pulled over strongly and Kydd was heaved into the crowded launch after a disgruntled infantryman had to be exchanged out of it to make room.

‘Sir?’ The lieutenant in charge of the boat looked at a loss.

‘Never mind me,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Get this boat under way.’

The men at the oars heaved and grunted; the boat was jammed with soldiers, crammed along the centreline, wedged under thwarts and hunched together in the sternsheets. Nursing their muskets carefully, they gazed on the silent shore.

Other boats fell in astern and the first wave was on its way. Kydd was distracted by the passing thought that he was seeing history unfolding but it was quickly overtaken with worries for the present.

Should he set up a signalling station when they were ashore? No, there weren’t any trained naval signalmen in these hired transports to receive and decipher the messages and, in any case, to what purpose? These weren’t warships with covering gunfire support to manoeuvre or superior commanders to advise; once established ashore the only communications from the Army would be by boat to Encounter and then the long haul out to the anchored ships-of-the-line and the commodore.

Effectively, therefore, he was the naval commander on the spot and carried every responsibility for operations afloat.

Other anxieties crowded in but he beat them back with the thought that everything had gone well so far, there was no opposition, and when all were landed he could hand over the whole to General Beresford. In fact he-

The boat suddenly lurched and stopped dead in the water, sending men down in a tangle. Kydd glared over the side at the roiling discolour. There was no escaping the fact that, quite simply, they had insufficient depth to make it in. They were left on the mud a quarter-mile short of the tide-line.

Was Fate returning to deal them a cynical counter-blow? Containing his anger at the unfairness, Kydd knew that to retreat would cost them their precious surprise. He grabbed the gunwale and jumped into the sea. Feeling the soft embrace of the mud he steadied himself; the sea was above his groin but this was the only way they could go forward.

‘Toss y’r oars!’ he snapped. Obediently the rowers smacked down on the looms of their oars, bringing them vertical and allowing Kydd to wade along outside the boat. The mud tugged and resisted, sending him staggering, but he gradually made progress to beyond its bow.

‘All out!’ he bellowed.

With muttered comments, the soldiers followed him into the water, splashing and cursing. ‘Port your weapon, y’ fool!’ he rasped at one, who had allowed his musket to dip into the water. The others raised their firearms above their heads as they stumbled along.

Soon there was a line of men behind Kydd in the long squelch and wrench that was now their strike ashore. Other boats followed suit and the foreshore became filled with redcoats straggling in.

Muscles burning, Kydd heaved himself forwards again and again. The coastline ahead seemed so far. Gradually it took on detail and character, flat scrub and occasional hard-green tree-clumps alternating with bare gaps in the low skyline. Nearer, with the water-level below the knees, it became a faster splashing progress. A hoarse cry from a soldier behind caught his attention: the man was pointing away to the right.

At the edge of the sea a young boy in a rough cloak was gaping at them. Someone waved – the boy’s hand flew to his mouth and he ran off yelling.

Reaching the tide-line Kydd squelched up the stinking mud-packed foreshore to a sparse grass clearing. He passed through the scrub to the more open plain beyond. Nothing. Not even a flock of sheep, or whatever passed for stock animals here. They had made it – they had achieved a landing.

They were standing on the mainland of South America . . .

Turning quickly, he strode back to the soldiers stumbling ashore and beckoned a sergeant, who panted up, unfurled and raised a standard. Men started to move towards the banner.

An officer arrived, shedding muddy water with a grimace. Kydd gave a broad smile. ‘The day is ours, sir. Do form up, if y’ please, Lieutenant.’

The man barked orders to another sergeant, who bawled incomprehensibly up and down the shoreline. Answering calls came from elsewhere, and before long, recognisable groups were coalescing and Kydd, feeling oddly unwanted, stepped out of the way.

A piper began a stirring wail with several drums rattling out in accompaniment. Screams of orders echoed, the springy turf muffling the stamp of boots.

After an hour or so L’Aurore’s lieutenant of marines, Clinton, strode purposefully towards him. Throwing a magnificent salute, he announced, ‘Marine battalion ready for inspection, sah.’

Twirling and stamping faultlessly under the eyes of the Army, he led off smartly to where the lines of Kydd’s marine brigade were drawn up. Their impromptu uniform was a pleasing mix of blue or red jacket, white trousers and gaiters, and surmounted by an ingenious black cap and feathers. They shouldered arms and came to the present like veterans.

Kydd started to inspect them gravely, accompanied by Clinton, with drawn sword, but was interrupted by a horseman who dashed up and saluted. ‘Respects, Cap’n Kydd, and the general requests your attendance.’

An outstretched arm indicated the direction to take but Kydd first concluded his ceremony with all proper salutes.

Before he left he drew Clinton aside. ‘Your first duty is to their weapons. We may have warm work before long and I’ll not be caught unprepared – their rations and stores will follow directly.’

He stamped off, aware that there were precious few horses and none to spare for sailors ashore. Beresford and a knot of officers cantered towards him.

‘Ahoy there, is it not, Captain?’ the general hailed him, with a salute. He was obviously pleased by the day so far.

‘Sir.’

‘Just to make claim of my new colonel of the marine brigade. How are your numbers?’

‘Um, over four hundred of foot – three hundred and fifty marines and near a hundred seamen.’ He wondered briefly whether a battalion was bigger than a brigade and settled on the general’s term. ‘Marine brigade mustered and ready, sir.’

‘Yes, I saw ’em. A stout body o’ men. I shall call them my “Royal Blues”, I believe.’

‘Aye aye, sir.’ So, from commander of a fleet he was now a colonel of foot-soldiers.

‘As will be used where and when the circumstance dictates.’

So they would not find a place in the line . . . Kydd saluted, then tried to wheel about in military fashion and march off with dignity.

Clinton had the men on the foreshore unloading stores from the boats and piling them where directed by a distracted army quartermaster. In one place the St Helena artillerymen were assembling their field-pieces: six-pounders and a pair of howitzers. Later, no doubt, the Royal Blues would be asked to tail on and haul these guns.

Kydd found himself once more getting in the way and rued the fate that had him playing the soldier.

The afternoon wore on, then a rustle of expectation spread: the enemy had at last been sighted ahead. Kydd made his way through the encampment to an open area where the general was looking north intently. ‘Ah, Mr Kydd. You understand, old fellow, that you should stay by me until I send you away on a service,’ he said.

‘Yes, sir.’

An aide dismounted expertly and handed him his reins. ‘Sir, you have use of my mount until, er, we have need of it.’

Gratefully Kydd heaved himself aboard.

‘There you may see them, the villains!’ Beresford said dramatically, and pointed across to a slight rise about two miles ahead. Spreading out along the skyline was a vast horde, many on horseback, the wan glitter of steel clearly visible.

‘Sir, they’re in front of a village of sorts. Called “Reduction”, it says here,’ an officer with a map offered.

Beresford ignored him and said crisply, ‘I’ll have a forward line of Highlanders thrown out ahead, the six-pounders if they’re ready, but I have m’ doubts they’ll attack this day.’ He pursed his lips. ‘We’ll be waiting for ’em in the morning. See the men are well fed.’

As night fell, the last of the stores and horses were brought ashore, miraculously in good order, and the expeditionary force was complete.

Kydd’s apprehensions returned. It couldn’t be possible, not against a city – a continent! The odds were ridiculous – he needed to hear again just how few they were going into battle with.

‘What’s our count now?’ he asked a nearby officer.

The major consulted his notebook. ‘Let me see. There’s eight hundred of the 71st disembarked and with your marine brigade of four hundred and fifty that puts us at a bit over the thousand. Add in the odds and sods of the St Helena’s Infantry and Artillery and we’re at something like sixteen hundred officers and men – and that’s not forgetting our good general and his field staff of seven.’

‘Guns?’

‘Why, here we have four six-pounders in all, our heavy artillery,’ he said, with a sniff, ‘and not to mention a pair of small howitzers with the St Helena volunteers. As to horses, at last count three go to the general’s staff, the rest to dispatches and artillery. No more’n a dozen in all, I’d say.’

Little more than a thousand and a half to go up against . . .

In the distance a twinkling of fires started among the enemy until more and more were strung out along the rise.

During the night, light rain drifted down, a cold, dispiriting and endless misery. With few tents most soldiers hunched under their capes and huddled together to endure. Kydd shared an improvised tent with the major but the ground became sodden, and icy wet insinuated itself from under his blanket until he awoke, shivering.

The morning broke with leaden skies and a piercing wind from across the plains, but Beresford was in no mood to linger. As soon as it was light, trumpets sounded and, after a hasty breakfast, camp was struck.

Mercifully the rain was holding off and Kydd joined the small group around the general, all of them drooping with wet and odorous with the smell of damp uniform and horses. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Beresford said briskly. ‘I should think about three thousand of the beggars. We’ve sighted eight guns among ’em, positioned on top of the rise.’

He gave his first orders, which were for a defensive line with a six-pounder on the flanks and the howitzers in the centre. It was the Highlanders who would take the brunt of the attack but close behind them the marine brigade was ready to move to where the battle was hottest.

Together a thousand men were a mass; spread out over a battlefield they were pitifully few, and when the guns of the enemy opened up and the opposing infantry began to march down the rise against them in a flourish of tinny trumpet calls it seemed certain the whole adventure could finish that morning.

Kydd felt for the reassurance of his sword and glanced about. There was anything but concern on the faces of the officers, and the men were settled in two ranks, the first kneeling and looking steadily ahead in disciplined silence. The officers wore a look of professional interest and Beresford had out his glass, calmly scanning the advance.

By this time the Spanish guns on the hilltop were hard at work, their concussion a continuous roll but to no effect. The tearing whistle of their shot went well overhead. The gunners were apparently so raw they hadn’t allowed for their superior height of eye.

‘They’re coming on well, but a motley crew, I’m persuaded,’ Beresford murmured. ‘I do believe they need livening up. Sound the advance, if you please, and we’ll go and meet ’em.’

A volley of drumming was answered by the rising wail of pipes, and the entire line stepped off together in a steady tramp. The going was not easy, the scrubby plain populated with bushes and tussocks, but the seasoned men paced on stolidly, saving their strength for the hill ahead, which would inevitably have to be stormed. On either side their own guns spoke in sharp cracks but with little result at this range.

Then, quite without warning, the line faltered and milled in confusion.

‘What the hell’s wrong with those men?’ snapped Beresford, shifting his glass from the enemy and training it on the floundering troops.

They had run into a quagmire and the advance came to a complete halt. On the other side of the marsh the Spanish drew up in ranks and began a murderous fire with their muskets while on the heights the guns were finding their range. A well-sprung trap – and the first line of defence.

Beresford bit his lip, then swung around to Kydd. ‘Get your men on a brace of guns and find your way around the marsh to take ’em in the flank.’

‘Aye aye, sir!’ Kydd saluted, wheeled his horse around sharply and galloped off to his men.

‘Clinton!’ he snapped. ‘Send a couple o’ men out to find a way around this bog, the rest to the traces an’ haul a pair o’ guns.’

After crisply dispatching Sergeant Dodds and his corporal, Clinton gave Kydd a lopsided smile. ‘And how did I know we’d be called on this way?’ Behind him the hauling man-ropes were already ranged for service.

‘Well done, Mr Clinton,’ Kydd said. ‘And as quick as you may.’

Back with Beresford, Kydd found the officers watching a display of Spanish horsemanship that had them bemused and affronted by turns. From the crest of the hill, riders in colourful and flamboyant dress were furiously pounding down to the edge of the marsh, skidding to a halt and showily dismounting, only to turn and make unmistakable gestures before racing away.

At this the Highland soldiers plunged into the morass after them, furiously staggering in the black mud-holes and stagnant pits, defying the musketry fire. Some spun and dropped but there was no stopping them, and when at last the crack and thump of field-pieces announced the arrival of their man-hauled guns out on the flank, the enemy’s fire began to fall away.

The first kilted soldiers stumbled out of the other side of the swamp and, without waiting for others, roared their defiance and made straight for the Spanish. This show of raw bravery unnerved the enemy – they turned and fled back up the hill. A colour-sergeant rallied his Highlanders at the base of the rise and, with a fearsome battle-cry, they stormed up the hill in line.

The ineffective artillery at the summit fell silent. A few figures could be seen moving and then there were none at all.

‘They’ve abandoned their guns, the villainous crew!’ Beresford said, in delight. ‘General advance!’ He urged his horse forward into the marsh; it stumbled and splashed through. Followed by his little group of staff, he rode to the top of the rise.

Most of the guns were in fact still there: six brass cannon with their impedimenta – even the mules that drew them remained nervously tethered nearby.

‘Still loaded!’ cried one of the St Helena gunners.

‘Well, why do you wait? Give ’em a salute!’

The guns were swung round and, to loud cheers, crashed out after the fleeing figures.

The terrain now lay in a gentle slope forward towards a distant line of trees – clearly the sinuous course of a river. ‘That’s the Ria Chuelo. I dare say they’re to make a stand on the other bank,’ mused Beresford, seeing the retreat converge on the crossing point, a wide bridge.

He snapped his glass shut. ‘Let’s give ’em no rest. Form line of advance!’

As an aside he muttered, ‘Would that I had horses – a squadron or two of cavalry would make it a fine rout.’

The troops stepped off again, heading for the bridge, pipers to the fore and, despite their torn and mud-soaked appearance, Kydd felt a surge of pride in their resolute marching.

But as they approached the river, smoke spiralled up from the bridge, and well before they reached it the structure was ablaze. On the opposite bank enemy troops were spreading out. The second line of defence.

Brought to a reluctant standstill, there was nothing for it but to bivouac for the night. While the camp was put in hasty preparation, Beresford summoned Kydd. ‘Sir. It would infinitely oblige me if . . .’

It was appalling work but the Royal Blues saw it as a point of honour to get the expedition’s guns across the ‘impassable’ mire. With muscles tempered by years of heaving on ropes, they turned their skills to another kind of hauling. They were well into their agony in the darkness when, without warning, there was a livid flash and an ear-splitting explosion, sending every man into an instinctive crouch.

They looked round fearfully for a gigantic piece of ordnance arrayed against them. Another, even louder, crash burst on them. Then the rain came. Cold, murderous and in unbelievable torrents. The sticky mud began to soften and fast rivulets started everywhere. Soaked, numbed to the bone and blinded by the ferocity of the deluge, the men turned back to their work, now made near impossible by the slippery grip of mud and rain.

For hours they laboured, but when a freezing dawn broke there were guns at the water’s edge facing the Spanish. They were safe – but their way forward was irretrievably blocked by the Ria Chuelo.

It was one of the seamen who found a way. ‘Sir – there’s some o’ them flat fishin’ boats in a puddle dock yonder. If ye c’n keep the Spaniards’ heads down for ’un we’ll swim across an’ fetch ’em for a bridge.’

Kydd could hardly believe it. In order to retrieve their situation the man and his mates were volunteering to plunge into the icy water and swim the forty-odd yards under fire to them. ‘How many?’ he snapped.

‘Four on us.’

‘Very well. Let’s have your names.’ At the very least the commodore would get to know who had saved the expedition.

Beresford lost no time in accepting. ‘Range the guns opposite and give fire continuously, if you please.’

When the bombardment started, the Spanish slipped back out of sight, seeing little point in enduring the near point-blank fire. The seamen stripped off and, shivering, slipped into the turbid and fast-flowing river. They struck out with frenzied strokes, every soul on the British side willing them on until they reached the boats. A boatswain’s mate with a heaving line stood ready. Then, as coolly as he would on the deck of a ship, he made his cast and the line sailed across, to be seized by the men, who quickly hauled in on a heavier rope.

One by one the boats were cut free and pulled across. Each was lashed, nose to tail, to another until there was a continuous line of them and then – mirabile dictu – they had their bridge.

Under covering fire from the guns the Highlanders stormed across, quickly establishing themselves under the bank where the Spanish could not aim at them without exposing themselves. More and more poured over, and when they were ready, they flung themselves up and into the body of the enemy.

They had broken through! From where Kydd was he could see the panic and consternation of the enemy, who scattered under the threat of the steadily advancing Scots and disappeared into the distance. Once across the river he saw a thrilling sight – not more than three or four miles in front of them were the steeples, towers and dense mass of buildings that was Buenos Aires.

It was past believing – could it be . . .? Then reason asserted itself. The viceroy, the Marquis of Sobremonte, would now without doubt bring all his forces to a climactic confrontation with the invaders and all would be decided that morning.

But there was no army massing ahead, no sudden opening of an artillery barrage. Only an ominous silence. Under low grey skies, the wind piercing their damp bodies, they marched on, nearer and nearer. A road firmed, leading into the suburbs and making the going much easier, and on either side there were curious flat-roofed houses, faces at the windows. Surely-

‘Flag o’ truce, sir!’

Six mounted soldiers under a white flag were winding their way towards them.

‘Halt the advance,’ Beresford ordered. ‘Let’s hear what they’ve got to say for themselves.’

The men were in splendid uniform, with gold sash and silver spurs, but there was an air of controlled ferocity about them. Stepping his mount forward, the general’s Spanish-speaking aide heard them out.

‘Sir,’ he said to Beresford, in a perfectly even voice, gesturing towards the most richly dressed. ‘This is the Virrey Diputado Quintana. He desires a parley concerning capitulation.’

‘Damn it!’ Beresford hissed. ‘His or ours?’

‘He is empowered to give up the entire city of Buenos Aires, sir.’

There was a shocked pause, then Beresford came back haughtily: ‘Tell ’em I’ll only discuss that with Viceroy Sobremonte himself.’

The men exchanged quick looks, their gaze dropping. His dark features contorted with shame, Quintana muttered something and looked away.

‘Sir, the viceroy has fled the capital and is unavailable.’

A breathless sense of unreality stole over Kydd. That they had thought to seize Buenos Aires with a mere handful of soldiers was incredible, but that they were now conquerors of the whole Spanish empire in the south with those same few was beyond belief.

‘Ah. Then, er, my terms are these. The honours of war to these stout defenders, the protection of the people and their property, and the foreseeable continuation of their justice and, er, municipal authority.’

This was the same as offered to the inhabitants of Cape Town, Kydd remembered.

‘Sir, they ask two hours for deliberation.’

‘Not granted. In half an hour my advance must resume and I cannot be held responsible for what my enraged Highlanders will do in the event of resistance by the city.’

The deputation withdrew, but when they returned, Quintana agreed and stiffly offered his sword. Beresford accepted it and, in accordance with his own terms, graciously returned it. ‘We shall enter the city in three hours, gentlemen.’

It had happened.

Popham’s audacious plan to bypass Montevideo had succeeded.

And at exactly the time specified, the British South American Expedition marched off to take possession.

In the event it was the best show that could be made – thin rain was beginning to fall again and, apart from some pipers and drummers, there was no military band. The soldiers were ordered to march well spaced in open order and stepping short to give an impression of greater numbers.

Kydd, riding with the staff, gave the honour of leading the Royal Blues to Clinton, who went pink with pleasure. There would be much in his next letter home, no doubt.

They swung along in that same sense of unreality. The houses on either side were now filled with curious onlookers, but Kydd could see no hatred, simply a mix of foreign-looking people looking more confused than hostile. Soldiers grinned at girls on latticed balconies who were waving and smiling, some even throwing blossoms as the men marched past.

The city proper was no sprawling provincial backwater. It was laid out in regular rectangular blocks of substantial buildings, the largest of which were finished in white along fine avenues. They passed a noble twin-spired church and frowning public edifices until at last they reached a vast square facing the river.

There was a domed cathedral, spacious colonnaded buildings and at one end a long arcade with a central arch. The parade marched through, the sound of the pipes and drums echoing dramatically, until they emerged before a massive square fort, the red and yellow colours of Spain prominent on its flagstaff. On all sides and from every passage and doorway, hundreds upon hundreds watched, silent and fascinated.

The parade came to a halt; hoarse shouts from sergeant majors made a show of dressing off and stamping to attention, and then it was the final act.

Beresford dismounted, paced evenly to the disconsolate group at the gates of the fort and answered their salutes smartly. Kydd could not hear what was said but it was clear what was happening. After some polite exchanges and bows, an object was handed over which he guessed must be the keys. The gates were flung open and a small body of soldiers marched out.

Taking the keys, an aide and two soldiers entered the fort. Nobody moved for some minutes and then, abruptly, the flag of Spain jerked down. In its place the Union flag of Great Britain soared up in a breathless hush. A low murmur spread around the square but in the distance came the rumble of guns. It was Encounter – acknowledging the yielding of the city of Buenos Aires to His Britannic Majesty.

It had happened.

Inside the fort it was bedlam. While a distracted Beresford stood at a desk snapping orders to his harassed staff, a constant stream of messengers arrived, continually interrupting with urgent news. He thrust scribbled orders at his aide, which, hastily relayed, brought on distant shouts and commotion as they were put into effect. Other officers impatiently waited their turn for clarification and detail, every man still mud-spattered and dishevelled, direct from the field of battle.

Kydd kept apart, knowing that there was little he could do until the situation cleared. There was, of course, the tantalising prospect that, as his role ashore had been concluded, surely there was nothing to prevent him returning to the comfort and order of his ship. His pulse quickened at the thought but he took in the scene as the future of Buenos Aires was decided.

It was a titanic task: nothing less than the securing of a great city, new conquered.

In the near term, armed parties of reconnaissance would be sent forth, urgently seeking out pockets of resistance, while at the same time a nucleus of rule had to be established to centralise decisions and orders. Then there were the troops, who must be fed and sheltered, lines of supply established, at first with the fleet and later locally and after that . . .

Then it would be necessary to make public announcement of intentions – how the new masters of Buenos Aires would rule, what the position of the former great and good would be in any ruling council and, above all, how the price of victory would be exacted in taxation. With a staff in single figures and few able to speak Spanish, it was going to be a Herculean task to perform in just a very few days. But it had been done before – so recently at Cape Town.

They had achieved their triumph in a very short time – was this why there was no uprising of the disaffected? It would be of incalculable value to be able to install a rebel government, keen to preserve their standing against a Spanish counter-move, but so far none had made communication and therefore, in the sturdy tradition of the British military, they would make shift for themselves.

Seeing his chance, he moved across to Beresford. ‘Sir, I’m truly sorry to intrude, but would you not say my character as a colonel of foot is now at an end?’

When the general looked up, it was with a smile. ‘Ah, yes. You sailors are notoriously restless if kept from your element overlong. I do thank you for your service, sir, and bid you to be gone – but if you’ve no objection, I’ll retain your brigade until things become more certain. You have a lieutenant who . . . ?’

‘You’ll be well served by Lieutenant Clinton, sir,’ Kydd said, exulting inwardly.

A new disturbance sounded outside. The crash of boots and muskets – it could only be the arrival of an officer of rank.

It was Commodore Popham, who strode beaming into the room, his spotless uniform a picture of splendour against the mired soldiers. He acknowledged Kydd’s presence but went straight to Beresford.

‘My word, William, and what a stroke!’ The din subsided a little out of respect for him. ‘The conqueror of Buenos Aires! Three days and you have the city. You’re much to be congratulated, you devil.’

Beresford regarded him stonily. ‘The rabble I faced in the field was not an adversary worth the name, sir.’

‘You prevailed. Saw them off in fine style – that’s all that matters and, I’d say, gives us heart for the future.’

‘Yes, to be sure. Now, there’s much to occupy me, Commodore . . .’ Beresford said meaningfully.

‘Of course! Not the least of which must be the safe custody of so much treasure.’

‘So much . . . To what do you refer, sir?’

‘Why, here in the fort. You must know it’s the holding point for the cargo of the Spanish treasure fleet before it ships across to Spain?’

‘I had heard something.’

‘Well, surely you-’

‘Sir, there are other matters touching on our survival that would seem to have more claim on my time. If we are to-’

‘I can only think that such a vast sum, unguarded, will quickly be a focus for every species of adventurer, to the hazard of our security. It would seem to me prudent at least to make an account of its amount and situation.’

Beresford’s lips thinned. ‘This is not-’

An army lieutenant intervened hastily: ‘Er, gentlemen, may I interrupt? As having but this hour returned from making inventory of the armoury and similar in this fort, I can say with certainty that there is no bullion or specie held in this building beyond a trivial amount.’

The room fell silent, all turning to the young officer. He continued nervously, ‘You see, Viceroy Sobremonte in fleeing into the country took care to remove the treasure to take with him. Some thirty tons of silver at the least, I was told.’

‘You mean there’s . . . nothing in the strong-room? At all?’

‘Er, some four hundred piastres for the payment of troops is all, sir.’

Popham turned pale. ‘Then – then we must go after this damned viceroy! William, if we’re to-’

‘We do nothing of the sort, sir. What will the world think? That we’re here on a mission of depredation and plunder? No, sir, I won’t have it.’

‘We must!’ Popham blurted. ‘Let’s send after him with a troop of fast-riding dragoons or some such. They’ll soon come up with the wretch – that weight of silver in ox-carts will slow-’

‘I will not, sir! And, in case you need reminding, I hold a commission from Governor Baird that honours me with the title of lieutenant governor of this city. All such orders will emanate from me alone.’

Popham took control of himself and replied evenly, ‘Then, sir, I would beg you consider the consequences in London-’

‘Pray keep silent, sir!’ Beresford barked. ‘I find your display at this time of difficulty an impertinence.’

‘No, sir, I cannot!’ Popham snapped. ‘This expedition is a joint affair – we all bear responsibility for what occurs. And should it be known that, for want of due dispatch, a treasure in the amount that will pay for this expedition many times over is let go for the sake of a nicety then we shall all answer for it.’

Beresford glared at him as he went on strongly, ‘And where, pray, do you expect to find monies sufficient to pay troops for an extended occupation? And reserves for works of fortification? And other? Sir, we have no choice whatsoever – we must go after it.’

The general hesitated. ‘The people here will resent its seizing. We cannot.’

‘The City of London will be much encouraged by its display and will hotly desire to invest in such a place, while Whitehall must perforce send reinforcements to safeguard same – the greater object is achieved.’

‘Nevertheless, I haven’t the troops.’

‘A small detachment will suffice. The Spanish are not expecting a bold move.’

Beresford gave it thought. ‘Perhaps those dragoons. Very well, they shall set out this hour,’ he said coldly. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me . . .’

The room resumed its clamour.

Popham mopped his brow and, recovering himself, went to Kydd. ‘An entertaining time for you these last days, I don’t doubt.’ He surveyed Kydd’s soiled uniform and winced. ‘Did our marine brigade put up a reasonable show of it?’

‘They did so indeed,’ Kydd answered warily, unsure what construction to put on Popham’s outburst.

‘But you’ll be happy to part with them.’

‘Sir,’ he said carefully.

‘Good. For I’ve a particular service for you that is of vital importance to our existence here.’

‘It’ll be my pleasure to be back aboard, Dasher, that I’ll confess.’

Popham smiled briefly. ‘That is, I have no power to elevate you to the felicity of port admiral but I can make you port captain. A very necessary post – responsible for all ship movements in and out of the port, and for the sake of our survival here the effectiveness of our resupply and cargo handling. You will keep a weather eye open for any motions of the enemy to agitate against us, and regulate the merchantmen when they come, which they surely will when they smell the trade.’

‘But-’

‘L’Aurore is in good hands. In your absence your premier has behaved himself well – and, in any case, her tasking is simple seaward picket duty.’

‘I had hoped-’

‘Yes. Oh, and one more thing.’ Popham leaned forward and lowered his voice. ‘It would oblige me greatly should you keep me in touch with what’s going on among our army colleagues. Not that I don’t trust ’em, but they have odd ways and I’d rather not be surprised, if you take my meaning.’

Kydd bristled. ‘In all fairness, Dasher, I think I’ve done my part. Can you not find another to-’

‘No. You’re the only one of my captains experienced with the lobsterbacks and, besides, this is but an extension of your current situation, which will last only until our reinforcements arrive in a few weeks.’

Kydd paused: it was a necessary and responsible post, certainly, but not best suited to his temperament. Yet, if looked at in the light of his career as a whole, Kydd had to concede it was a not unwelcome development. A spell ashore as port captain was often a necessary prelude to active flag rank in order to demonstrate organisational ability. Further, if L’Aurore was indeed to be kept criss-crossing the vast estuary, it wasn’t as if he was missing any action.

It settled his mind. ‘An office? Staff?’

‘You shall have my written order this day. Raise what you need against it. And do remember, a healthy and profitable trade is what is most calculated to rally the people to our cause.’

He clapped Kydd on the shoulder, turned and left quickly.

The din resumed but Kydd’s mind was engaged. The first priority was to register an account of every marine resource, from the total length of alongside berths to docking facilities, slipways, shipbuilding and repair. Then to establish procedures for Customs clearance, legal quays and all the apparatus of port control together with the outer services, such as pilots and surveyors. A form of coastguard and revenue service would be needed, but was that within his remit? And-

‘They said this was where I’d find you.’

Kydd looked round in surprise. ‘Why, Nicholas – what are you doing here?’

‘Is it so strange, old fellow, to witness a confidential secretary bearing ship’s papers to his captain?’

‘I know you too well, Nicholas. You’re curious – you want to see the ethnicals of South America.’

‘And so I have,’ Renzi said, with a grin. ‘In my short walk here . . . Look, if we go to the roof of this stout fortress, you’ll see.’

They climbed a flight of stone steps and emerged on to a flat roof, edged by parapets and populated by guns, to gaze out over the city.

‘Behold!’ Renzi exclaimed, throwing out his arms.

The fort itself was modest in size compared to other buildings, one side of it facing on to the large square, with the great cathedral in one corner and all parts connected by colonnaded pathways and arcades. On the far side there was an impressive, multi-arched building, which Renzi suggested was the seat of city government, the cabildo.

Closer to, the high gateway they had gone through was apparently the entrance to the marketplace, already with hopeful traders bringing in their produce. But beyond the opposite wall was the river, still a limitless expanse to the horizon. A long stone mole extended out but at this state of tide no boat could reach it. Instead they came to a stop some way out and peculiar carts went to attend them. Narrow, with a pair of immense wheels that served to keep them clear of the thick mud, they were drawn by listless, pitifully thin horses.

They looked downwards on to a stretch of foreshore and saw washerwomen at grassy pits working vigorously with wooden mallets, completely oblivious to the great happenings about them. Further along sea-birds wheeled in noisy clouds, shrieking as pieces of fish offal were thrown into the water, and out in the bay dozens of small ships lay at anchor, waiting for the situation to resolve.

‘A certain fragrance, don’t you think?’ The air was thick with competing odours: the fish, a suggestion of the grasses of the Pampas and the usual exotic cooking smells of a foreign land.

‘Yes, as may be. Did you hear I’m to be port captain?’

‘No, I didn’t. Then we shall be deprived of your presence on our good ship?’

‘The next few weeks or so until the reinforcements arrive, I’m told.’

Something passed across Renzi’s face, and Kydd added, ‘Nicholas, you never thought we’d do it, did you? Doubted that we’d win over such odds as we saw, that Popham’s plan was nonsense – isn’t that so?’

Renzi shook his head and looked at him gravely. ‘Dear fellow. It’s more that I have misgivings, not to say a sense of foreboding. I can’t say it more precisely, but it was all too easy, so like our success at Cape Town – but this continent is strange, ominous in its differences in a way Africa never was.’

‘Ha! You’ve grown qualmish, old trout. We’ve made a conquest and mean to keep it. As simple as that.’

‘Just so. You haven’t heard from our Mr Serrano, at all?’ Renzi asked, with concern.