Betrayal

him.

The morning dawned with a thinning fog and visibility out to nearly half a mile. As soon as the boats could be seen reliably they were under way once more and, as the day progressed, the fog finally dissolved to reveal a grey desolation of empty sea.

They had made it past Montevideo, the secret of their departure still safe, and Kydd’s spirits rose.

Towards evening they were near the tail of the twin banks, allegedly buoyed, but Russell had warned that mud-scouring would continually shift their moorings and they could not be relied on. A few distant sails were sighted, flat fishing craft that ignored them – and always the drab grey-brown water sliding monotonously past.

As Kydd deliberated about anchoring for the night, Melantho slewed and stopped, nearly bringing Ocean into collision with her. The forced delaying of the fleet settled the question – but had the vessel touched on mud or an outlier of the hard-packed sand of the Chico bank?

In the last of the light it was established that it had been mud – there would be no damage, but freeing the deep-laden transport from the thick, glutinous ooze would not be easy. Her crew would have a hard night of it, lightening ship and hauling off.

But Kydd’s mind was on the next day. In a matter of hours they would be in sight of the enemy. Given the general’s strong opposition to their alteration of plans, would he be looking for an excuse to call it off? Kydd knew if that happened he would be caught up in the inevitable bitterness to follow. He must take care to do nothing that could be flourished at a later court-martial.

Full of dark thoughts he finally drifted off. He awoke early to a cold and cheerless day, rain threatening, a serious matter if they had to land with damp muskets in the teeth of heavy fire. Kydd felt unable to finish his breakfast.

They got under way as soon as possible, and before midday, a low, monotonously flat coastline was raised to larboard. It continued on as scattered buildings came into sight, and then from the masthead a hail, the city itself.

After signalling the fleet to heave to, Kydd joined the lookout and took out his pocket glass. At this moment the entire expedition was in his hands: if he overlooked any threat, failed to see an enemy column, mistook a distant feature and then set the assault in motion . . .

He quartered the terrain with care, cursing at the thrum and judder of the rigging as he braced on it, but could see nothing remotely like a threat. The closer shore was low and featureless, open scrub and flat heath, as far as he could tell, while further to the right there was a modest river, set about with thickets of small trees and with a slight rise on the far side.

And some miles beyond, at the limit of vision, he saw the spires and domes of a city – Buenos Aires.

After taking one last sweep of the nearest coastline he returned to the deck.

‘I see nothing of the enemy,’ he told the expectant faces. It seemed astonishing, but the Spanish were simply not there.

He boarded Encounter’s tiny jolly-boat and was taken to Triton to report to the general.

Beresford greeted him impatiently. ‘Well, now, and what can you tell us, sir?’ Significantly he was wearing his sword, and officers began hurrying up to hear the conversation. At deck level only an anonymous low coastline was in sight.

‘From the masthead I could see no sign of the enemy,’ Kydd said carefully.

‘Nothing?’ Beresford said incredulously. ‘No camp, no lines being thrown up, troops on column of march?’

‘The terrain is flat and open, sir. I should have seen them.’ He spoke firmly, ‘Therefore I counsel the landing takes place.’

‘Ah!’

‘We’re some two miles south of Punta Quilmes, with the city a dozen miles north.’ Kydd did not add that this was only if the river they had sighted was indeed the Ria Chuelo – the featureless landscape and sketchy maps made an exact fix impossible.

Beresford beamed at his officers. ‘I rather think Dame Fortune is smiling upon us today, by Jove.’

The actual landing had demanded meticulous planning. The order of the troops first ashore and their support required pinpoint timing, with the men in different ships around the fleet coming together, the few horses and guns essential to be landed with them marshalled at the same time before all moved in together. Because of the hours this would take before they could meet the enemy in a protected formation, a dawn assault was expected. ‘Then we move at first light, sir?’ a dragoon officer enquired.

‘No offence to our gracious hosts, but the sooner we’re on dry land the better I’d like it,’ Beresford said grimly. ‘And while we’ve an unopposed descent, I’m to dispense with the order of assault.’

He paused for effect. ‘Gentlemen – we go in today. Now! Just get the men ashore and form ’em up. We’ll take it on from there.’

A wash of relief swept over Kydd. Despite his worst imaginings, for some reason they were to be granted a landing without fire from the shore. Beresford was a general who was not afraid to take decisions.

But how long were they to be given before the Spanish woke up to what was happening?

‘I’ll get it under way, then, sir,’ the dragoon officer responded smartly.

It would not take long to send boats around the waiting fleet to order the transports to get their men landed as soon as they had kitted up. Kydd would take the first boat heading inshore.

Back in Encounter he watched the sudden surge in activity in the ships following the dispatch boat’s visit. They were positioned some three to four miles safely to seaward of the mud shallows; the boats had far to pull, but even the smallest ships could get no nearer in safety in these treacherous waters.

The sky overhead was louring and dull grey, the dark-ruffled sea fretful and alien. Washed by a fever-pitch of anxiety, Kydd watched as the assault boats began assembling, among them Diadem’s launch.

‘Take me to it,’ he demanded quickly. The jolly-boat pulled over strongly and Kydd was heaved into the crowded launch after a disgruntled infantryman had to be exchanged out of it to make room.

‘Sir?’ The lieutenant in charge of the boat looked at a loss.

‘Never mind me,’ Kydd snapped. ‘Get this boat under way.’

The men at the oars heaved and grunted; the boat was jammed with soldiers, crammed along the centreline, wedged under thwarts and hunched together in the sternsheets. Nursing their muskets carefully, they gazed on the silent shore.

Other boats fell in astern and the first wave was on its way. Kydd was distracted by the passing thought that he was seeing history unfolding but it was quickly overtaken with worries for the present.

Should he set up a signalling station when they were ashore? No, there weren’t any trained naval signalmen in these hired transports to receive and decipher the messages and, in any case, to what purpose? These weren’t warships with covering gunfire support to manoeuvre or superior commanders to advise; once established ashore the only communications from the Army would be by boat to Encounter and then the long haul out to the anchored ships-of-the-line and the commodore.

Effectively, therefore, he was the naval commander on the spot and carried every responsibility for operations afloat.

Other anxieties crowded in but he beat them back with the thought that everything had gone well so far, there was no opposition, and when all were landed he could hand over the whole to General Beresford. In fact he-

The boat suddenly lurched and stopped dead in the water, sending men down in a tangle. Kydd glared over the side at the roiling discolour. There was no escaping the fact that, quite simply, they had insufficient depth to make it in. They were left on the mud a quarter-mile short of the tide-line.

Was Fate returning to deal them a cynical counter-blow? Containing his anger at the unfairness, Kydd knew that to retreat would cost them their precious surprise. He grabbed the gunwale and jumped into the sea. Feeling the soft embrace of the mud he steadied himself; the sea was above his groin but this was the only way they could go forward.

‘Toss y’r oars!’ he snapped. Obediently the rowers smacked down on the looms of their oars, bringing them vertical and allowing Kydd to wade along outside the boat. The mud tugged and resisted, sending him staggering, but he gradually made progress to beyond its bow.