The Iberian Flame

Chapter 73

Vigo, earlier

A twinge of guilt touched Kydd as he saw off the two into the duty cutter. It should have been Bray at the least going to brace a commander-in-chief but almost anything could happen in this absurd Iberian war and he didn’t want to lose his first lieutenant at this time. Rowan was really the only one he could spare and just had to present the facts. General Moore would see the problem of foul winds in Vigo and fall in with his altered destination.

It was a straightforward enough assignment, with no real hardship – after all, he would be safely in the middle of an army of some twenty thousand, with its massive and elaborate field train. Rowan would return with valuable experience of military life.

For the twentieth time he sniffed the wind. Damn! Still from the south-west and brisk with it, foul for the transports from England. It was worrying and frustrating but he knew that at this time of the year the very intensity of the weather would ensure a change before long.

He went below to find something to do while he waited for their arrival and decided to make a start on the inevitable paper war that would begin when Rowley received his dispatch that told of his decision to vary the port of embarkation. Anyone with a smattering of sea sense would see the trap immediately it was pointed out to them, but he had a fool for a superior and would need to spell it out at length.

After all, he had not only seen the potential pitfall but had provided and executed a workmanlike solution. There should be no difficulty, even with Rowley.

A faint cry from the deck above made him pause, and almost at the same time a breathless messenger announced that their transports were coming through the northern entrance into Vigo Bay.

Kydd was out and on the upper deck in moments. And there they were: under reduced sail and shepherded in by two sloops; plain, unlovely, but a most welcome sight.

Five, seven then twelve … fifteen. Was that all?

The senior officer escort presented himself. It had been a hard sail from Plymouth and Portland and on two occasions gales had scattered his charges, requiring a long and tedious wait for the convoy to come together again. Fifteen? This was only one of five joiner convoys that would bring the number up to seventy-three sail. At least two consisted solely of the specialist vessels that had flat-built lighters with sweeps to bring out field guns and horses. There was nothing Kydd could do but find the patience to await them.

He was unable to move on Corunna until he had the majority in hand and time was not on his side.

Two convoys came in together, and after a fourth it left only the last.

And then Kydd finally received Rowley’s response to his initiative via a brig-sloop, with an order by hand-of-officer.

It was dire and final – both a condemnation and ultimate professional ruin. For disregarding orders lawfully given by a superior, in flagrant breach of the Articles of War, Kydd was forthwith to consider himself under open arrest. He was to remain in Vigo until relieved by another before handing over his task and returning to Lisbon to face charges.

Rowley had found a way to achieve his object: Kydd’s disgrace and ruination.

He sat back, appalled. There were really only two alternatives: to obey – or to continue on to Corunna.

If he obeyed, there would be a confrontation with Rowley that could go either way. If he disobeyed, it was most certainly a court-martial, without any doubt about the end result.

The first would give him a fighting chance, but would leave General Moore in a perilous situation – and his word to him broken.

He gave a twisted smile. There really wasn’t any choice. He’d go on to Corunna.

That left the brig-sloop, whose commander needed his signature on receipt before returning to Lisbon.

But, as his superior still, he’d require the man first to be employed in escort for the convoy to Corunna, after which it didn’t really matter anyway.

The officer was surprised but obeyed, clearly not knowing the contents of the orders he’d brought.

And late that afternoon the last of the transports sailed through the northern channel in an untidy gaggle. Without a moment to lose, Kydd had them watering and storing for the evacuation voyage while he got to work with the masters of the ships. Having had plenty of time to prepare the sailing order folder and similar beforehand, it did not take long and, with much relief, he set daybreak as departure time for Corunna.

He slept fitfully, refusing to dwell on the future past the embarkation, but awoke to Tyger’s uneasy jibbing at her anchor.

As soon as he glanced out of the stern windows he knew something was wrong.

Wind-rode, instead of a fine view upstream he was now looking into Vigo itself on the southern shore and the dense mass of shipping waiting to leave.

There was only one explanation and in his worry and concern he hadn’t paid as much attention to this possibility as he should have.

The gods had thrown their dice and it had come out against him – during the night the south-westerly had veered, just as he had initially feared it might. Now from the west-south-west, it effectively stoppered the exits to the open sea for any square-rigged vessel in Vigo Bay.

They were trapped until the wind shifted again.

And if Napoleon Bonaparte arrived with his great guns, just as he’d warned, they’d be pounded to splinters, as helpless as a sucking shrimp.

It couldn’t be worse – or could it? That instead Bonaparte had gone to Corunna and, surrounding the stranded British Army, was in the process of exterminating it.