The Iberian Flame

Chapter 52

Aboard HMS Tyger

Kydd saw the last of the dusty columns march into the distance with mixed feelings. Any logical speculation would give weeks only before the French converged on them in an irresistible onslaught, resulting in misery and retreat. Yet he saw behind the aristocratic arrogance of the general who led them a will of tempered steel coupled with a razor-sharp mind and hardened battlefield ruthlessness. If they had any chance, Wellesley would be the one to give it to them.

The beachhead was by no means abandoned. For want of mules and carts, vast amounts of stores stood guarded in rows, growing by the day. Those tens of thousands would be kept supplied from the sea. Then, when sufficient horse and mule transport had been found, the stores would be carried inland to where the army marched on. Only when a port of size had been captured could any kind of regular commissariat be established.

Almost as soon as General Wellesley and his regiments had disappeared, Kydd was called to Donegal. This time there was no nonsense about who was in charge: the landing had been accomplished and Kydd’s part completed. Brusquely he was told Tyger’s employment: to stay by the beachhead to regulate the landing of stores and their seaward defence until relieved. Donegal and all others would leave with the empty transports.

It was tedious work for a crack frigate, but the weather had moderated to a fine, warm cast and Kydd had the pleasure of seeing his midshipmen in the tops with the men, mast against mast in sail exercises, and occasionally out in a boat for a ‘banyan’ picnic ashore or in haughty challenge to one of the sloops that kept them company.

It was good, too, to see Brice developing, his social confidence building on his exemplary professional skills, maturing into a first-class naval officer Kydd was proud to have aboard.

In Bowden as well he had a reliable, top-quality officer, whose calm incisiveness under pressure and long-sighted decisions were models of reasoning. He was a little quiet, never one to push himself forward, but with his friends in high places he would in time get himself noticed in the service and find the preferment he deserved.

It was only his first lieutenant, Bray, who gave him cause for concern. One of the old school of sea officers, he led from the front in the thickest action. His courage in gale or battle brought out the sincerest admiration, his legendary short ways with skulkers and laziness precisely what were needed to forge a ship’s company of matchless performance and dedication to duty.

What was becoming increasingly obvious, though, was his moodiness – nothing Kydd could put his finger on but worrying all the same. Was it to do with his future career path? Bray had performed impeccably in Tyger as her premier, taking on his appointment when she was at her lowest point, a mutiny ship, and seeing her through all her trials and triumphs since. However, for reasons most likely connected to Kydd’s style of leadership, he had never had the opportunity to shine alone in some desperate engagement.

Bray was now approaching his forties and needed to make that crucial step to command, however lowly, when his ship’s victories and successes would be in his own name and honour. Left too long, he would finally pace his own quarterdeck, his youthful vigour diminished, the vital drive to conquer no longer the foremost element of his character.

But Kydd could do nothing about it for the present.

Days passed into weeks.

It was odd to have positions reversed. For most of the war it had been the navy that had borne the brunt, keeping the seas in all weathers and at every dawn prepared to sight an enemy that would mean hours spent locked in bloody fighting. And, in the fearsome days of the threatened invasion, it had been in constant warfare off the French coast, keeping the flotillas at bay, while England trembled and the army waited behind their walls and battlements.

Years of this had passed, and the army for the most part had remained in Britain, in garrisons and barracks, never seeing a shot fired in anger.

Now the army was marching into danger, headed for a full-blooded confrontation with the enemy on the mainland of Europe while the navy stood by in support. How would Wellesley and his small army fare? Yet again Kydd had to learn patience and wait for what emerged from a situation that was no longer the navy’s to direct or influence.