The Iberian Flame

Chapter 46

Tyger anchored to seaward as Kydd took the pinnace in under sail, Meireles at his side in the sternsheets, pointing out the sights. Kydd had eyes only for terrain and fortifications. Besides the fort at the river entrance, there were others, those on the right manned by the French. As they sailed on, the river narrowed to a spectacular gorge, the town itself crowded on the left just before it, an imposing and beautiful sight.

The bridge ahead connecting the two sides was actually a bridge of boats stemming the current, its wooden roadway flat and open.

Yes, denying it to the French would be possible: a ship moored off the bank such that its broadside could be directed along the length of the bridge. Each gun loaded for canister or grape and firing in turn could render the bridge a killing ground for any column of troops attempting the crossing. The only other bridge of any kind for miles was up-river – no French general would hazard a crossing the long way around. Kydd’s plan would effectively confine them to their side of the river, thus saving Oporto.

But he must find a ship of force to do it. This couldn’t be Tyger – she had other work. He scanned the wharves and docks until he spotted an ocean-going ship, one of the Brazil traders in enforced idleness. ‘Can you commandeer that ship?’ he asked Meireles.

‘It will be done if you require it, Comandante.’

There could be no question of wielding a warship’s broadsides but shipping half a dozen of the fort’s twelve-pounders would do the job, and the gunner, carpenter and willing hands made it so. The boatswain took charge of the mooring and, with tackles secured to shore bollards, the lofty trader could be made to train her lethal armament precisely.

They worked fast and hard for word had to be got out that Oporto was a city in successful insurrection, which needed aid badly.

Back aboard Tyger, Kydd gave serious thought to how things were turning out. If he was the only one locally in the knowledge of the opportunities thrown open by the Portuguese patriots, he should take every chance to gather intelligence and opinion with a view to the later role of English support. And, witness to the bravery and resource of the Portuguese, all his being urged him to find something else to do for them, instead of passively cruising offshore.

There was one possibility. Although talk had been of an army expedition in support of the Spanish, sooner or later there would be intervention in Portugal. Damn it, didn’t his remit include finding a spot for a landing? They would need one quickly when the time came, and he would have it on hand.

He’d the experience – once at the Cape of Good Hope and again at Buenos Aires – and had no illusions about the dangers of landing an army in boats through the surf as well as the tactical need for open ground, free of enemy fire, for deploying prior to the push inland.

But Portugal was particularly difficult. For the entire Iberian coastline the North Atlantic, with its long fetch, made a fearful shore for boats.

The two most valuable objectives had to be Lisbon and Oporto. Not knowing which was more important, this implied a place reasonably equal in distance from both.

He called the master. ‘Mr Joyce. You know this coast. Can you tell me of a sheltered place as would take a landing of some five thousand lobsterbacks? At around forty degrees o’ latitude or so.’

The man pursed his lips. ‘Can’t say as I do, sir. No one’s done it this age, they being our friends an’ all.’ He scratched his head thoughtfully, then offered, ‘How about askin’ your Portuguee? He’d have an idea, I’d wager.’

It was the obvious course and Kydd invited him aboard again.

‘To land an army? This is not possible anywhere between Oporto and Lisbon. Close to these cities the French will have every beach and seaport defended, and in between, the terrain is hard country, no towns or harbours. Except one place,’ he added, brightening. ‘Figueira da Foz, an old village but at the mouth of the Mondego river, it has a good road to Coimbra.’

‘And you say this is the only landing place possible before Lisbon?’

‘The coast of Portugal is everywhere open to the roaring Atlantic, you must understand. Monstrous waves booming in all the time. At Figueira there are sandbars across the mouth. It protects the fishing boats putting to sea.’

‘This sounds good, Capitao.’

‘Ah, but it has a problem. The Santa Catarina fort. It overlooks the river mouth and the little town and will certainly cause trouble in a landing.’

‘Be damned to it! We’ll take a look at it all the same, my friend.’

‘You’re right to say “we”, Comandante. I will come with you. You help us, we help you.’

With her men recovered from the floating battery, Tyger set off to the southward. They raised the rugged bluffs of Cabo Mondego in the early morning, a series of ridges extending inland, looking for all the world like an island, but torn from the headland was line upon line of white surf, the betraying sign of reef and shoal. Kydd made certain Tyger kept well to seaward as they fell away to the south-east into the bay of the river Mondego and Figueira da Foz.

‘There, sir.’ Meireles pointed to a light-coloured beach, which grew to a full quarter-mile width of pristine sand. At its end was a fort, its ancient brown weathered stone a dark contrast to the vast beach. Beyond it was the entrance to the Mondego, the town opening up further in.

‘French,’ Kydd said dully, seeing the tricolour floating high above the fortification and its guns, which dominated the broad, open beach, making it impassable. Any boat attempting the river must do so at point-blank range, foolhardy to attempt. And beyond, the opposite bank was a flat marshy wilderness.

Was there any point in going on?

Suddenly puffs of gun-smoke rose up from the sparse scrub and from along the parapets, soundless against the swash of ocean waves out to sea.

‘This is interesting,’ Kydd grunted, taking the officer-of-the-watch’s telescope. It gave no better picture with the unknown assailants hidden by the vegetation but it told him that others besides themselves were in hostile action against the French.

He hesitated, listening. No heavy guns. The aggressors were taking on a fortress with musketry only. They could only be the poorly equipped but fervent militia or insurgents.

They hadn’t a prayer of success, but it sparked an idea. ‘Capitao. You’d oblige me if you’d take boat ashore and speak to them. Find out if they’re doing a strike-and-run, or whether the countryside is in general rebellion.’

Meireles was back quickly. ‘They’re in defiance of the French, who’ve retreated into the fort. They ask if you can batter down the walls. Can you, Comandante?’

‘No. We’re near to the five-fathom line already, and who knows what reefs and so forth stop us closing into range?’

The real reason was that Tyger’s eighteen-pounders could never be expected to smash through yards of thick stone. But it gave Kydd an idea.

‘Ask Captain Clinton to attend on me.’ The Royal Marines were going to earn their grog this day.

In something approaching consternation the marine officer heard Kydd’s order: ‘You will storm the fort, if you please.’

‘Um, sir. Does this mean-’

Within an hour every boat Tyger possessed was in the water with a full complement of marines heading inshore. Not so very many, but it was enough.

Kydd saw them head in, as ordered, up the beach and out of range of the fort. Clinton was intelligent and had immediately seen Kydd’s plan.

As soon as they landed, they headed inland in a wide circle around the citadel but before it was completed, to his intense satisfaction, he saw it had achieved what he’d wanted.

The gates of the fort were flung open and the French ran out, firing as they went, making for the road to the mountains, a streaming mass in fear of their lives.

It had worked. The fort commander had made the assumption that the Portuguese had the power to call on their allies to bring up a man-o’-war to pound the fort to dust and, to make sure of their destruction, had sent feared redcoats ashore to cut off their escape. They’d chosen to break for the hills instead of being left to the mercy of the insurgents.

Kydd knew he’d been lucky and would need to consolidate in some way. If this was going to be the landing spot he had to be sure the fort was theirs – that it had not been retaken. He knew he couldn’t leave it in the hands of the Portuguese irregulars. Too much depended on it.

There was only one course: to keep Clinton and his men here in nominal command, visible red coats around the battlements token of the determination of the British to keep it. He would have no chance if the French sent a full-scale relieving column, but Kydd’s plan was to clap on all sail for the fleet and tell of the situation – that they had sure possession of a landing place if they only sent reinforcements. If this was refused it would be easy enough to re-embark the marines when Tyger returned to her cruising station.

He’d tarry only as long as a quick precautionary peek at the terrain ashore took, then be away.