The Iberian Flame

Chapter 77

As the last of the troops were embarked Kydd gave the signal to prepare for sea.

However, he had no intention of leaving Beresford, and as the ships began slipping out to sea Tyger remained, firing up at the gun positions in Elvina. All attention was on her – and Beresford’s brigade, under cover of fire from the city walls, vanished inside. They lost no time in racing to the opposite side of the promontory to the harbour, to a curving, rock-strewn beach – where boats were waiting to take them to their transport out of sight of the Elvina position.

‘Cease fire,’ Kydd ordered. ‘The straggler patrol is in?’

‘Aye, sir,’ Brice reported. This had been a last rounding up of the quayside and town, to be sure none remained on enemy soil.

‘And I’m to say we have a guest, Sir Thomas.’

It was Packwood.

‘I needed to satisfy myself there’s none of our brave fellows left,’ he croaked. ‘And beg that I might take passage back to England with you, sir.’

He was in a shocking condition, sunken eyes, weariness to a near-mortal degree and in threadbare uniform.

‘My dear fellow, and so you shall!’ Kydd answered immediately. ‘You know my cabin. If you bear with me, I shall be with you presently.’

He gave orders that saw Tyger under weigh and making out to sea, out of Corunna, the last sail of all – to join with the homeward-bound armada of shipping. After a final lingering glance at the receding shore, overhung with smoke and now in the possession of Napoleon Bonaparte, he went below, waves of fatigue after a night without rest threatening to unman him.

Packwood was slumped in a chair, an untouched whisky by his side. He pulled himself upright when Kydd entered and gave a rueful smile. ‘The peace, the order, indeed a haven of tranquillity,’ he allowed softly, then, playing with his glass, murmured, ‘I do confess I have my reasons for desiring passage in Tyger.’

‘Oh?’

‘As it gives me chance to make certain you’re aware of just what you achieved, my friend.’

‘My duty only, old fellow. Yet I stand to face court-martial on my return in the matter of having disobeyed the orders of my admiral to take station on Vigo, never Corunna.’

‘Ha! He’s to now explain why he failed to see the trap of Vigo. Have no fear of this – is that the sound of papers being torn up I hear?’

Kydd gave an awkward smile, and Packwood went on, ‘Duty? Never in life, sir. Some twenty-seven thousand all told taken up in four days, their guns and equipment. Preserved for the nation, their sweethearts and their wives. You’ll get no thanks in Parliament for it, but accept from me, it’s as strategical as a mighty battle. There’ll be some who’ll bless you every day of their lives and others who won’t even think on it, but you’ll value above all the opinions of those who know what it is to struggle and fight to reach Corunna in the firm, sure trust that the navy will be there for them.’

Touched, Kydd mumbled something.

‘My only sorrow is that our great leader – our dauntless pilot and commander – is no longer here to laud the achievement.’

‘General Moore?’ Kydd said in astonishment. ‘You mean …’

‘He fell on the field of Elvina, mortally wounded by a round-shot on the eve of his victory – for victory it most assuredly was. Soult beaten back, never to prevail, and thereby permitting us to conclude our miracle.’

Shocked, Kydd could think of nothing he could say that was adequate to the moment.

‘The last night we carried him down in a blanket, he still issuing his orders. Just before dawn he gave up the ghost and is no more.’

Packwood paused, then picked up again in a softer tone: ‘We buried him immediately, the blankets his shroud, willing the French to hold off their counter-attack while the padre said his words. As magnificent a farewell as a soldier can deserve.’

Moore. Gone. It didn’t seem possible that such a figure should be removed from the world of men.

‘I … I grieve with you, m’ friend,’ Kydd said softly.

They sat together in silence.

‘So, we gained a species of triumph,’ Kydd said at length, ‘but have we lost our purpose? Bonaparte has cast us out entirely and now rules Spain. We’ve forfeited our chance to face him on the battlefield and are back where we started, all Europe under his heel.’

Packwood eased into a wry smile. ‘Ah, you don’t know our sepoy general. Wellesley is a tough nut. We may have been thrown out of Spain but not Iberia. The flame of resistance will not go out and Wellesley will stick by Lisbon like a limpet. When the tide turns he’ll lead us back into Spain – and a victory that will be all the sweeter!’

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