The Iberian Flame

Chapter 53

One morning an army officer was spied approaching the makeshift landing stage in the river at the gallop. It caused much comment and the needless signal ‘send boat’ from the beach party was acted on with speed.

The launch made for Tyger and the officer came aboard. ‘L’tenant Grieves, first battalion of the Thirty-eighth of Foot. I’ve dispatches, sir, as must be got to England.’

‘A battle?’ Kydd asked, trying not to let his eagerness show.

‘Um, not as who’s to say, sir. Its passage?’

‘Of course. Mr Bowden, call in Laertes if you will. Now, Mr Grieves, while it readies for England, you will have time to tell us your news.’

It was no earth-shattering revelation but it was significant. General Wellesley had landed without opposition and had now boldly decided to march south immediately towards Lisbon. At Kydd’s surprise that he was taking on the French headquarters in Portugal directly, Grieves confided that Wellesley was a man with little time. He’d received news that he was to be replaced as commander of the expedition by others senior to him and had barely days to make his mark before they arrived.

So far he’d made first contact with the enemy and had emerged victorious at the village of Rolica. The outnumbered enemy, surprised by the appearance of English soldiery, had grouped together and made good account of themselves, inflicting many casualties, but Wellesley had prevailed.

It was clear, though, that this was no more than a delaying tactic. Junot in Lisbon would have been informed and be on the march north with his thousands for a concluding engagement on quite another scale.

‘General Wellesley hopes you will follow him south, sir. He cleaves to the coast in the trust you can shift your most admirable operations of supply to parallel his movements.’

The little packet addressed to Kydd would no doubt include these details. ‘We shall, L’tenant.’

Charts and maps were consulted. Wellesley’s soldiers had covered all of seventy-odd miles, close to the coast, through uplands and even mountains, all of which they had crossed on foot with pack and musket. Kydd would do his part. The only other point of land they could consider for a landing was the river leading inland to Maceira, only thirty miles from the outskirts of Lisbon; it must be taken to be in enemy hands until proved otherwise.

Until then, General Wellesley was on his own.

‘I wish you well of the venture and God speed of your dispatch,’ Kydd told Grieves, as he saw him off.

He sat down to think. If the English were routed by Junot and his forces before Lisbon they would need taking off. It was quite outside his capability – the transports had been taken back to England and the nearest ships of any kind were in the fleet off Cadiz, even now dispersing, and the few under Rowley off Lisbon. Both squadrons were forwarded intelligence by the sloops attached to their respective commands and presumably would know what to do in the event of a defeat and forced evacuation.

Therefore his job was as before: to ensure the army ashore was supplied and tracked day by day so he was on hand, God forbid, for any escape by sea.

Two days later a small squadron appeared out of the mists to the north – English. It was rapidly established that an important personage was aboard, Lieutenant General Sir Harry Burrard, with reinforcements and orders that placed him above Wellesley in command of the expedition, now elevated to the status of British Forces, Iberia.

Impatient and eager to assume his rightful place, the general had nevertheless to stand idle until his forces had been landed. His temper was not improved by the sudden appearance of Grieves with news of the departure from Lisbon of Junot’s fighting columns. Not only that, but their pace was formidable and it was expected that a clash would occur within days, and at a place not so very far away.

The patient waiting was all too much for the red-faced general, who angrily took horse with his staff, then rode off to find Wellesley and take charge of the battle.

If there was going to be a sad ending to the expedition it would be now, and Kydd kept Redwing, a dispatch cutter, close by to send out the instant it became clear what had happened. Other than that there was nothing he could do.

A passing naval sloop had the courtesy to tell Kydd of a successful landing of reinforcements further south, at the Maceira river, under yet another senior general, Sir John Moore. It seemed Whitehall was doing all they could to support the enterprise.

Then news broke from three exhausted staff officers with urgent dispatches who’d put off in a boat together.

Moore had been too late on the scene, while Burrard had arrived when the battle was at its height and had to allow Wellesley to finish it, but it did not signify: the outcome was the same. A victory of gratifying proportions near the town of Vimeiro, the French even now falling back in disorder on Lisbon.

That evening Kydd joined the celebratory dinner in the gunroom when glasses were hoisted in toast to the prickly aristocrat who had put England’s footprint so firmly on the Continent. Not only was it a victory but it must give heart to all who wished them well, especially the Portuguese people who still suffered under the French. And the word now was ‘forward’.

The morning brought spreading sunshine, much speculation – and the arrival of a lone senior officer. He’d taken boat over calm seas to Tyger. Holding himself still and forbidding, he came aboard without demand of ceremony and asked to see the captain.

‘I do thank you, sir,’ he said gratefully, accepting a cordial. Tired and dusty, his faultlessly cut dark uniform showing signs of recent hard wear, he was obviously in need of respite. ‘Colonel Hugh Packwood of the Thirty-sixth – or, more properly, the late colonel.’

‘Captain Kydd and you’re right welcome aboard my ship, Colonel,’ Kydd replied, hiding his curiosity. ‘You said “late”, did you not?’

Packwood looked away, his expression unreadable.

‘A hard-fought battle, then,’ Kydd prompted.

‘Not the worst I’ve encountered.’ He drained the glass abruptly and gave Kydd a lop-sided grin.

He was of an age, and mature, lines in his face telling of long years in military service, but his humorous manner spoke of an irreverent spirit. ‘This morning I resigned my post as colonel of the regiment and so therefore am no longer.’

At Kydd’s uncomprehending look, he said, ‘I see I must explain further. The resignation is nothing to do with the fighting, which was brisk enough. Rather it was as a result of the actions of my commanding general, to which I took grave exception.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You’re not of the military tribe so I may feel free to be frank. Well, the action was fine done and we saw the French off in noble fashion. Yet the first order of General Burrard on taking command was to General Wellesley – to halt the pursuit of the fleeing French. Yes! Just so – to leave off an action that would result in something approaching annihilation and the road wide open for Lisbon.’

‘I see,’ Kydd said. ‘And your general agreed?’

‘No, sir, but he was with strenuous protest overruled by Lieutenant General Dalrymple, one sent to rule over them both. The reason? That it was too risky to chance our only army in a pursuit and we should pause to consolidate. Just forty miles from the capital, as the crow doth fly, and we sit on our hands!’

Packwood slumped, dejected, in his chair. ‘I’m getting too old for the tolerating of idiocy – I swear I cannot find it in me to serve under such.’

Kydd was not sure how he should respond and kept his silence until Packwood looked up hopefully. ‘I understand you’re the officer in charge of transports and shipping. I’d be infinitely obliged for passage back to England, sir.’

‘Ah. All dispatch cutters are absent on service at this time, I fear.’ He sympathised with the man but what he was saying was nothing but the truth. ‘Returning transports will be going to Gibraltar, and anything of a naval stripe will be standing by until matters become clearer.’

‘Oh.’

On impulse he offered, ‘You may consider staying aboard Tyger until a ship is found for you, our deploying remaining the same, of course.’

‘This is handsome in you, sir.’

‘Purely as a guest with no official status, you’ll understand. I’d let you have my cabin but at the moment it must act as a species of headquarters and-’

‘Not at all, my dear fellow. I’ll keep well out of your way.’

‘We’ll rig something for you in the gunroom, then. They’re always ready to welcome a new face.’

The gunroom found him amiable and courteous and quite able to tell them everything they wanted to know of the decisive victory, a raconteur who would be missed when things settled.

Just two days later, however, a galloper from Dalrymple’s headquarters brought a blunt summons: in view of certain developments, the services of Colonel Packwood were required forthwith.

The ensign was interrogated on just what developments had occurred that demanded the presence of their obliging guest.

‘Why, gentlemen – you haven’t heard?’ the young man teased.

What he said shattered the calm of the morning. ‘The Frog chief, Dupont, has given it away. He’s asked for terms!’

The commander of all French forces in Portugal, the trusted instrument of Napoleon Bonaparte, asking for surrender terms before the campaign had been under way more than a dog-watch?

The ensign concluded, ‘So, Colonel, sir, you’re asked to return and be part of a council-of-war as will try to fathom what’s to do. They’re all to be in on it, the navy as well.’

Packwood took horse immediately, with a solemn promise to let them know what was happening, and Tyger was left to digest the extraordinary news.

‘It’s a trick, of course,’ Bray rumbled dismissively. ‘Can’t understand why they’re not hot-foot on the road to lay siege to Lisbon instead o’ wasting time, the sluggards.’

Kydd shook his head in confusion. That the whole of Portugal was to be relinquished as a consequence of a single battle made no sense, but then again, a capitulation was a definitive act that could not be reversed.

‘Simple,’ offered Brice. ‘They’re playing for time. Spin it out over weeks, gives them the chance to whistle for help and they’re ready for a return fight.’

‘So we’re to swing about our anchor until things get hot again,’ Bowden said glumly. ‘Shocking waste of a fine ship and prime crew.’

Astonishingly Packwood was back within two days. ‘Gentlemen. I shall tell you my tidings, but only on the back of a muzzler as shall steady me.’

This was more extraordinary than before. An armistice was now in force. Not only was Dupont going to follow through without delay on his seeking of terms but these were to cover the yielding up of the country as a whole: the two sides would meet in conclave at a national convention in the magnificent medieval city of Cintra to determine the fate of Portugal and its French occupiers.

Appreciative of a gunroom dinner after army field victuals, the colonel tried to answer the obvious question: why was Dupont conceding so much for so little?

‘The best kind of general does not spy out the field and look for his advantage,’ he explained. ‘Instead he gets inside the head of his opponent and sees it through his eyes.’

‘So this is what the generals are doing?’

‘I didn’t say that. No, sir, this is my reckoning of Dupont’s motives.’ He took another grateful sip of his claret. ‘When the risings began in Spain they fanned out quickly to Portugal and he found himself spread all too thinly about the country. The natives rose up in general, not at one place, which made it impossible for him to put it down. This threw him on the defensive and he did what he could – told his field commanders to contract their boundaries around strongholds into local concentrations of force.’

The naval officers tried to nod wisely.

‘A reasonable thing, you’d say. But not in this instance. The French in Portugal have been brutal and forceful in their occupation and the people have learned to hate them. As a result the areas between these force concentrations are impassable to Dupont’s military communications on account of assassinations and similar. And you know what that means.’

‘Er, do elaborate for us unlearned sailor-men, please.’

‘Why, first, he has no knowledge of what is going on in his field of operations. This is insupportable for him, as he no longer knows which of his concentrations is in trouble, and which ones he can call on to help the other. Next, he has no intelligence of the enemy – the insurgent armies springing into life around him that threaten to overwhelm these concentrations. Worse, he’s not in a position to supply them with victuals, let alone powder and shot. They are therefore inevitably lost to him. To these woes add the final: that, thanks to their ownership of the sea, the British are landing in strength at unknown points in his domain and might be expected at any moment to seize the capital. What should he do?’

He had complete attention as he went on, ‘He can have no hope of succour from Spain – after Bailen their forces there are under the same adversities and therefore he can entertain no prospect of relief. Good sirs, his only course now is to lay down his arms on the best terms he can get at this time.’

‘So that’s why … And what do you conceive these will be?’ Kydd asked.

‘With our forces swelling daily, undoubtedly he’ll be held to an unconditional surrender. Nothing less.’

As it sank in, there was a collective sigh of incredulity.

‘It’s high tide, then, for Mr Bonaparte,’ Kydd said slowly. ‘And then it’s Spain and …’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I ask it – the cause removed, will you return to your regiment, Colonel?’

‘The circumstances being as they are, I feel I must. Shortly there’ll be motions made towards Spain, as you’ve fancied. I have desire to be at the head of my men when that happens. And may I ask it of you to keep the fortunes of war of the Thirty-sixth of Foot, the Herefords, which is to say the “Saucy Greens” always to the fore in your gatherings?’

Kydd stood immediately. ‘Gentlemen, do raise your glasses! To His Majesty’s Thirty-sixth Regiment, the Saucy Greens, and all who serve in it.’

The colonel coloured with pleasure. ‘And might I be allowed to propose a toast to the health and prosperity of the captain and crew of HMS Tyger, as being her success at arms is patently assured?’

They saw off their colonel in fine style and, in accordance with orders, followed the army south to lay off the coast, Cintra not more than five miles inland on the heights overlooking Lisbon.

Impressively, most of the fleet was present, Conqueror prominent with her rear admiral’s pennant. Kydd remembered Packwood mentioning that the navy would be represented and this would include Rowley. Not that he would have much to do, the initiatives lying with the army.

In thrall to the moment, Tyger awaited events.