‘All out!’ he bellowed.
With muttered comments, the soldiers followed him into the water, splashing and cursing. ‘Port your weapon, y’ fool!’ he rasped at one, who had allowed his musket to dip into the water. The others raised their firearms above their heads as they stumbled along.
Soon there was a line of men behind Kydd in the long squelch and wrench that was now their strike ashore. Other boats followed suit and the foreshore became filled with redcoats straggling in.
Muscles burning, Kydd heaved himself forwards again and again. The coastline ahead seemed so far. Gradually it took on detail and character, flat scrub and occasional hard-green tree-clumps alternating with bare gaps in the low skyline. Nearer, with the water-level below the knees, it became a faster splashing progress. A hoarse cry from a soldier behind caught his attention: the man was pointing away to the right.
At the edge of the sea a young boy in a rough cloak was gaping at them. Someone waved – the boy’s hand flew to his mouth and he ran off yelling.
Reaching the tide-line Kydd squelched up the stinking mud-packed foreshore to a sparse grass clearing. He passed through the scrub to the more open plain beyond. Nothing. Not even a flock of sheep, or whatever passed for stock animals here. They had made it – they had achieved a landing.
They were standing on the mainland of South America . . .
Turning quickly, he strode back to the soldiers stumbling ashore and beckoned a sergeant, who panted up, unfurled and raised a standard. Men started to move towards the banner.
An officer arrived, shedding muddy water with a grimace. Kydd gave a broad smile. ‘The day is ours, sir. Do form up, if y’ please, Lieutenant.’
The man barked orders to another sergeant, who bawled incomprehensibly up and down the shoreline. Answering calls came from elsewhere, and before long, recognisable groups were coalescing and Kydd, feeling oddly unwanted, stepped out of the way.
A piper began a stirring wail with several drums rattling out in accompaniment. Screams of orders echoed, the springy turf muffling the stamp of boots.
After an hour or so
Twirling and stamping faultlessly under the eyes of the Army, he led off smartly to where the lines of Kydd’s marine brigade were drawn up. Their impromptu uniform was a pleasing mix of blue or red jacket, white trousers and gaiters, and surmounted by an ingenious black cap and feathers. They shouldered arms and came to the present like veterans.
Kydd started to inspect them gravely, accompanied by Clinton, with drawn sword, but was interrupted by a horseman who dashed up and saluted. ‘Respects, Cap’n Kydd, and the general requests your attendance.’
An outstretched arm indicated the direction to take but Kydd first concluded his ceremony with all proper salutes.
Before he left he drew Clinton aside. ‘Your first duty is to their weapons. We may have warm work before long and I’ll not be caught unprepared – their rations and stores will follow directly.’
He stamped off, aware that there were precious few horses and none to spare for sailors ashore. Beresford and a knot of officers cantered towards him.
‘Ahoy there, is it not, Captain?’ the general hailed him, with a salute. He was obviously pleased by the day so far.
‘Sir.’
‘Just to make claim of my new colonel of the marine brigade. How are your numbers?’
‘Um, over four hundred of foot – three hundred and fifty marines and near a hundred seamen.’ He wondered briefly whether a battalion was bigger than a brigade and settled on the general’s term. ‘Marine brigade mustered and ready, sir.’
‘Yes, I saw ’em. A stout body o’ men. I shall call them my “Royal Blues”, I believe.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ So, from commander of a fleet he was now a colonel of foot-soldiers.
‘As will be used where and when the circumstance dictates.’
So they would not find a place in the line . . . Kydd saluted, then tried to wheel about in military fashion and march off with dignity.
Clinton had the men on the foreshore unloading stores from the boats and piling them where directed by a distracted army quartermaster. In one place the St Helena artillerymen were assembling their field-pieces: six- pounders and a pair of howitzers. Later, no doubt, the Royal Blues would be asked to tail on and haul these guns.
Kydd found himself once more getting in the way and rued the fate that had him playing the soldier.
The afternoon wore on, then a rustle of expectation spread: the enemy had at last been sighted ahead. Kydd made his way through the encampment to an open area where the general was looking north intently. ‘Ah, Mr Kydd. You understand, old fellow, that you should stay by me until I send you away on a service,’ he said.
‘Yes, sir.’
An aide dismounted expertly and handed him his reins. ‘Sir, you have use of my mount until, er, we have need of it.’
Gratefully Kydd heaved himself aboard.
‘There you may see them, the villains!’ Beresford said dramatically, and pointed across to a slight rise about two miles ahead. Spreading out along the skyline was a vast horde, many on horseback, the wan glitter of steel clearly visible.
‘Sir, they’re in front of a village of sorts. Called “Reduction”, it says here,’ an officer with a map offered.
Beresford ignored him and said crisply, ‘I’ll have a forward line of Highlanders thrown out ahead, the six- pounders if they’re ready, but I have m’ doubts they’ll attack this day.’ He pursed his lips. ‘We’ll be waiting for ’em in the morning. See the men are well fed.’
As night fell, the last of the stores and horses were brought ashore, miraculously in good order, and the expeditionary force was complete.
Kydd’s apprehensions returned. It couldn’t be possible, not against a city – a continent! The odds were ridiculous – he needed to hear again just how few they were going into battle with.
‘What’s our count now?’ he asked a nearby officer.
The major consulted his notebook. ‘Let me see. There’s eight hundred of the 71st disembarked and with your marine brigade of four hundred and fifty that puts us at a bit over the thousand. Add in the odds and sods of the St Helena’s Infantry and Artillery and we’re at something like sixteen hundred officers and men – and that’s not forgetting our good general and his field staff of seven.’
‘Guns?’
‘Why, here we have four six-pounders in all, our heavy artillery,’ he said, with a sniff, ‘and not to mention a pair of small howitzers with the St Helena volunteers. As to horses, at last count three go to the general’s staff, the rest to dispatches and artillery. No more’n a dozen in all, I’d say.’
Little more than a thousand and a half to go up against . . .
In the distance a twinkling of fires started among the enemy until more and more were strung out along the rise.
During the night, light rain drifted down, a cold, dispiriting and endless misery. With few tents most soldiers hunched under their capes and huddled together to endure. Kydd shared an improvised tent with the major but the ground became sodden, and icy wet insinuated itself from under his blanket until he awoke, shivering.
The morning broke with leaden skies and a piercing wind from across the plains, but Beresford was in no mood to linger. As soon as it was light, trumpets sounded and, after a hasty breakfast, camp was struck.
Mercifully the rain was holding off and Kydd joined the small group around the general, all of them drooping with wet and odorous with the smell of damp uniform and horses. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ Beresford said briskly. ‘I should think about three thousand of the beggars. We’ve sighted eight guns among ’em, positioned on top of the rise.’
He gave his first orders, which were for a defensive line with a six-pounder on the flanks and the howitzers in the centre. It was the Highlanders who would take the brunt of the attack but close behind them the marine brigade was ready to move to where the battle was hottest.
