The Iberian Flame

Chapter 56

At anchor, Lisbon

Nobody dared approach the figure that stalked the quarterdeck of HMS Tyger. The appalling news from Cintra had broken over the anchorage in a surge of disgust and anger, but what had made Kydd seethe was the brief orders he had received soon afterwards.

In accordance with the terms of the convention, the entire French Army, from commander-in-chief to meanest private, was to be repatriated to France by the British and the vessel selected to be flagship and escort was HMS Tyger. Her captain being a knight of the realm she was considered most appropriate to the solemnity of the occasion.

Kydd was under no illusion: this was Rowley cynically hoping the shame and disrepute of the whole thing would rub off on him. His blood boiled at the certain knowledge that the admiral had been aware of how it would wound his sense of rightness, and he tried in vain to think of a way out – but duty laid down was duty to be done.

There was one bright light in all the gloom: the military liaison officer he was directed to work with was none other than Major General Beresford, the upright but sorely tested commander of the failed British attempt on Buenos Aires in which Kydd had played his part. They would understand each other.

Tyger sailed into the Tagus, past Forte de Sao Laurenco at the entrance that Kydd had last seen on his attack only some weeks before, now with an enormous Portuguese flag lazily floating atop its stout tower, then by the centuries-old carved-stone Belem tower before the mile or so of wharves, alive with newly liberated shipping.

Beresford’s courteous note had indicated that the French would be assigned the Belem Square for their embarkation point, and he would meet Kydd there for details of the departure, timed to begin the next day.

Tyger lay off, well clear of the docks and moored to two anchors. Ashore it was difficult to make out what was going on as it was crowded with masses of moving figures, most in the vivid colours of the military, and the transports were even now jockeying to be warped in alongside.

‘My barge – Mr Dillon to accompany, Mr Clayton in the launch to provide a dozen marines issued with ball to land with bayonets fixed.’

Beresford would have suitable military but Kydd meant to take personal charge in the boarding of the transports. Who knew what would blow up, with the Portuguese rumoured to be in an ugly mood?

The barge found the steps and Kydd mounted them with a dignified air. Beresford was waiting for him at the top with a few of his staff and gave a comradely smile, advancing to shake his hand.

‘I’m bound to say it’s most gratifying to meet you again, sir,’ Kydd said, with all sincerity, ‘since last I saw you in such provoking circumstances.’

‘Buenos Aires? Yes, a trying state of affairs.’ They had both escaped, but at different times, then gone on to more illustrious futures. ‘Yet perhaps not as provoking as what we face here, my friend,’ Beresford added.

He briefly gestured. The square was crowded but remarkably neat. Dominating all was a headquarters tent with a tasselled regimental flag above it and, in no less than four other places, a French national standard in arrogant defiance. A stream of carts and soldiers bearing packs and bundles was adding to mountains of baggage near filling the area. With a start Kydd took in the sight of field guns at the sides and rear of the square, ranged for firing outward, complete with limber and smoking portfire – manned entirely by Frenchmen.

‘Yes. They’ve every reason to fear the vengeance of the Portuguese people, and the convention allowing ’em to keep their military equipment, I can’t well deny them.’

Officers of Junot’s army sauntered about in full dress uniform, their swords conspicuously by their sides, with expressions ranging from lordly disdain to sullen animosity. To Kydd, it resembled more a gathering of triumphant veterans than a defeated army being ejected after just one battle.

‘You have plans for the transports, Sir Thomas?’ asked Beresford.

‘I have. In all we are allowed by the Board of Transport thirty of the full-rigged breed and sixty-two of the lesser. As were used by General Wellesley in his descent on the Mondego river. These will-’

‘This will be barely enough. The wording of the convention is so loose as to allow your coach and horses through. “The honours of war” – all pennons, eagles, baubles and similar to be paraded whenever they see fit, with bands and horses. “Military equipment” – every gun they possess with its impedimenta and munitions, all bladed weapons, of any kind, and stores thereto. And “personal property” by which we are to understand not merely their clothing and accoutrements but as well their full share of plunder from this ravaged country.’

‘I cannot ask for more transports! They’ll have to leave it behind.’

‘Not so, old chap,’ Beresford said sadly. ‘The terms of the convention are not to be breached. If their personal property must be returned it is not their concern how it’s to be done, merely that it is. How – this is your affair, I’m sorry to say.’

‘Be damned to the knaves!’ Kydd blurted hotly. ‘I won’t have it!’

‘Dear fellow. Should you refuse them, it will be my own good self that will be held accountable and I know you wouldn’t want that.’

Smouldering, Kydd glared at the gathering horde. Here was the enemy, his duty to fall upon and destroy, and they were dictating to him. ‘Very well. Each of the transports alongside the quay will have two brows – that’s gang-planks. The forward one will be for rank and file, the after one for the officers, who will board last. Those with heavy gear will load separately. I want to get away as soon as I may. The vessels will be warped out and lie at anchor until all are ready for sea at which we’ll proceed, without touching anywhere, to Rochefort.’

‘You’ll want guards?’

‘Not on the ships. They cause trouble, they don’t get home. I’ve a notion they’ll more need guards here in the square.’

‘We’ve a battalion of foot in barracks, if needed. British bayonets saving a French army for another day,’ he muttered sourly.

Kydd sensed the bitterness that lay under his words but moved on. ‘I’ll need ’em mustered here by ship. I’ll let you know numbers when each is ready to load.’

A rectangle was quickly laid out, using ropes. ‘Men here, their baggage there for ticketing.’

The first transport: Lord McAllan, a substantial full-rigged vessel being worked in up to the quay. ‘Mr Clayton. Guard of honour, bayonets fixed.’

Clayton grinned mirthlessly. He knew what Kydd meant: a double line of marines facing inwards at each brow just as the Botany Bay convicts were duly honoured at their transportation.

Several French officers strolled forward, their servants standing by their baggage.

Kydd went to the first, a tall, supercilious staff officer. ‘Your papers?’ he demanded.

The man looked astonished, then reluctantly extracted a well-thumbed military notecase and took out a document that meant little to Kydd.

‘Baggage?’

Wearily the man gestured to a considerable pile of well-secured pieces of kit.

‘Open it.’

Two seamen went to the mound and began unlacing the first bag.

The officer started with horror and, with a snarl, tried to intervene but was held back. It contained jewellery and plate, carefully wrapped and very obviously of ecclesiastical origin.

Red-faced, the officer bellowed in outrage. It brought others running but Kydd snapped an order and the marines took position.

Beresford hurried forward. ‘What’s the problem?’ he puffed.

Kydd pointed to the gold and silver. ‘Personal property?’ he asked sarcastically.

The officer spat out his answer. It seemed Kydd had no right whatsoever to make search of his baggage, as if he were a common criminal. As an officer and gentleman, if he declared it as his personal property who was Kydd to interfere?

‘If he swears it’s his, there’s little we can do to argue otherwise,’ Beresford muttered.

‘Look at it! I’m not allowing the results of this thievery aboard my ships,’ Kydd barked, folding his arms with a pointed finality.

It provoked a bedlam of protest but he remained unmoving.

More Frenchmen arrived, drawn by the shouting.

‘We’re not going anywhere at this rate,’ Beresford snapped. ‘Wait here. I’m seeing Kellermann, their chief.’

Kydd made sure nothing moved until Beresford returned with a haughty, dusky-featured cavalryman in impossibly ornate uniform who, with a bored expression, resolutely ignored Kydd.

‘We’ve agreed to form a commission as will decide whether disputed items may be considered legitimate under the terms of the convention or no. Carry on, please.’

A table was brought up and they sat stiffly together.

‘This officer swears he bought these paltry baubles at a country church, there being no question of receipt from those ignorant peasants.’

‘Passed,’ snapped Kellermann. ‘Or do you propose to challenge the word of a gentleman?’ he sneered.

Kydd ground his teeth, then held up his hand. ‘Hold! Sergeant, double away and bring before me the priest who mans that cathedral.’

The black-frocked cleric appeared promptly. ‘Ask him if he’s ever seen these “baubles” before.’

At the dawning joy and happy babble, there was no need to go further. The French officer was stripped of his loot and sent aboard.

Others were harder to crack. And the higher the rank of officer, the worse the peculation. In one, gold bars worth a million francs were claimed to be the official reparation of the Portuguese government to the French Empire, a perfectly genuine and verifiable levy. Kydd disposed of this with savage pleasure: if it was indeed properly certified official, how could it possibly be personal property?

Beresford intervened when a regimental chest of some weight of specie was produced as ‘military equipment’. He allowed it, but cunningly enquired where the accounting was that proved in the usual form all shore debts had been cleared when the regiment sailed?

They were less successful with others, whose more anonymous thefts were untraceable, but it wasn’t until the baggage of Junot, the commander-in-chief, was searched under furious protest from his aide that the outrageous scale of the ransacking was revealed.

Fifty-three large chests of Brazilian indigo worth a fortune, fourteen volumes of a priceless Florentine Renaissance Bible, and many other works stolen from the Royal Library. And the general had even ordered the bare-faced breaking into the Deposito Publico and seizure of all coin as private booty. Nothing was too shameful or despicable for one of Napoleon’s heroes.

‘When will you want to clap eyes on your guest?’ Beresford murmured at one point.

‘Guest?’

‘Junot himself, in course.’ There was nothing but sympathy in his expression. ‘Demands royal treatment in the flagship by right of equality, old man. Has a point, too.’

‘When I’m ready for the damned thief and not before.’ If he had to give passage to a self-appointed potentate, the Tygers would be hard to handle. He’d have to give it thought or end up with crew and passengers at each other’s throats.

By this point the boundary of French ‘territory’ was beginning to contract. Outlying forts and encampments were marching in, dumping their equipment and demanding ships. As numbers crowding onto the transports increased, so did pressure on Kydd’s stores of victuals and water. And the inhabitants of Lisbon, sensing their freedom and the humiliation of their previous occupiers, were now screaming threats and defiance.

A report came in from the suburbs that a detachment of Frenchmen had been set upon and battered to death by enraged townsfolk before they could reach the safety of the British bayonet squares. From now on, any finding themselves isolated could expect a rapid and squalid end.

Beresford approached Kydd. ‘His Nibs is getting restless, old fellow. Can’t you get him away from this deadly mess? I’ll do the introductions for you.’

The headquarters tent turned out to be a Persian sybarite’s den, with Oriental carpet, hangings, fragrant candles smoking and, in a curved Romanesque chair the image of Napoleon’s, a sullen Junot. Thin-faced and slight his voice was high and demanding. ‘I shall go aboard my flagship now, I believe. Are you its master?’

‘No, I’m not,’ Kydd snapped coldly.

Confused, Junot looked quizzically at Beresford, who, equally at a loss, could not answer.

As though to a child, Kydd explained in French: ‘Your maitre is demeaning to me. A maitre pilote, the only maitre we have aboard, ranks below a lieutenant in the Royal Navy and is responsible to me, a capitaine de vaisseau.’

A distant squealing in a street beyond made the general wince.

‘I rather think it time to go, don’t you, mon brave?’

Kydd stood silent and unblinking.

‘What the devil’s the matter with this dolt?’ spat Junot, peevishly. ‘He doesn’t seem to-’

‘I rather think “capitaine” would answer, mon general.’

‘So, Capitaine. We go, hein?’

This was someone who’d risen through the ranks in the lethal feverishness of the Directorate and later furthered his ambitions in slavish devotion to the Bonaparte empire, not a man to cross. Further humiliation would not be in anyone’s interest.

‘A boat will be sent in one hour.’ Kydd doffed his bicorne and left.