Betrayal

time to leave.

‘I – I would wish you well of the day, sir,’ Clinton said, extending his hand. In his eyes Kydd saw a look almost of pleading and felt a chill presentiment steal over him.

‘Thank you, William,’ he replied, his handshake lingering. On an impulse he unbuckled his sword belt and handed across the fine blade that his Canadian uncle had provided for him and that he had treasured since crossing the miraculous gulf to become an officer. ‘Take care of this until I return, will you?’

He settled the broad baldric of a cutlass across his shoulders, then found a stout weapon, testing its edge, and slipped it into its scabbard. ‘Goodbye, my friend,’ he said simply, and left with his men.

Outside the fort there was a lethal chaos of bullets and stone splinters. Men ran crouched, while marines at the corners of the building fired up at windows and roof-tops until they reached the boats and pushed off.

Looking back as the boat pulled out strongly, Kydd saw a pall of powder-smoke drifting up from all around the dark bulk of the fort. Battle sounds floated out over the water and a choking atmosphere of war and waste was fast clamping in.

Justina was in a neglected state, rigging slack and hanging, her sails mildewed and dank, but by the time the last boatload of St Helenas had come alongside to join the Royal Blues they were ready to cast to the wind. No one spoke as they passed the city, then bore away to close with the land.

Kydd reasoned that after they’d passed the front line there would be far fewer of the enemy. Beresford needed a distraction in the enemy’s rear: if he placed his raiding force at any point from now on it would cause maximum shock and dismay and, conceivably, a lessening of pressure at the front – Liniers would be forced to turn back to deal with it.

They were sailing close to the chill north-easterly and made heavy going of the short, steep waves it kicked up, but they had the tide in their favour. Something niggled at the back of his brain about the combination but nothing crystallised and he shrugged it off.

He tried to find a place for the landing but no spot suggested itself. Possibly that small, tussocked headland? The tiller was brought over and, under brailed course, they nosed inshore. The St Helenas readied themselves, for without boats they would have to wade to the beach.

Then an unwelcome puff of white smoke showed at the shoreline and another: they would have to fight their way in.

The merchantman had only four six-pounders of doubtful vintage but these were plied with ferocity, their rage kicking up gouts of earth around the positions on the foreshore, which then fell silent. Musket fire came from a warehouse and Justina’s guns banged out – windows disappeared and black holes peppered the walls before there, too, resistance ceased.

If they were going to make their move, now was the time. ‘Ease away,’ he ordered, and the ship swung in to a closer angle.

‘Foul water!’ a seaman shrieked forward.

‘Hard t’ starb’d!’ Kydd snarled. There was a mud-shoal or some such ahead – but the clumsy vessel shied from the wind and slowly they ceased their forward motion.

It was the worst of situations. Not only were they prevented from going anywhere but they had lost that most priceless asset to a ship under sail: her manoeuvrability. And, of course, without boats there was no chance of hauling off. They could only wait and pray that the incoming tide would lift them off.

However, minutes later a troop of cavalry appeared along the shore, cantering along as they spied out the situation. Justina’s guns opened up and the leading horseman went down in a flurry of kicking but the rest increased to a reckless gallop until they were out of range, then turned and milled about in a watchful group.

Kydd had known there would be cavalry in their rear but they had come up so fast. Certainly now all ideas of a landing would have to be revised.

He improvised a hand lead with a belaying pin and went about the stationary vessel taking soundings. Expecting to find it shallower forward at the mud-bank and deeper aft, he found, to his surprise, that it was the same all around.

The treacherous Rio de la Plata had betrayed them. One of its inexplicable wind-driven surges had sent the mass of its head-water back against the tide flow and now the broad expanse of mud-flats was beginning to drain – and would leave them high and dry.

The cruel twist was hard to bear and he knew he must make some very bleak choices in the near future.

The cavalry made another pass and Justina’s guns thundered, sending up gouts of mud and water that deterred the horsemen, who raced away to regroup again.

But Kydd had seen one other thing. His gunners had slammed in their quoins to their maximum and the guns were now at the extremity of depression. It meant that as the ship settled on its muddy bed it was canting over. Very soon the guns facing the shore would be pointing helplessly at the sky and on the other side directly into the sea and mud.

The cavalry troop was now being joined by a larger mass of horsemen, galloping along the wide strip of wet mud down by the shoreline. In minutes they would notice Justina’s plight and then they would make their charge.

And they were completely helpless. Kydd tried to cudgel his brain into providing some last ingenious trick that would see them sail away but-

‘They’re coming!’

Led by an officer in plumes and frogging, waving a sabre, the mass of horsemen splashed into the water in a glorious charge towards them.

There were no longer any options.

Kydd opened his mouth to order the colours to be struck – but, of course, there were none, Justina not being in naval commission. In an ultimate stroke of irony they were to be massacred because they could not surrender.

He sent a nervous soldier below to find a bedsheet, which was hung over the side just in time. With much splashing and triumphant whoops, the cavalry sheathed their sabres and noisily surrounded the vessel. The officer shouted hoarsely and they obediently fell back to allow him to get through and climb on to the low main-deck.

Snatching off his tall shako he swept down in a deep bow. When he rose Kydd saw a preposterously young man with intelligent and fine-drawn features.

‘Teniente Martin Miguel de Guemes, your service, sir,’ he said. ‘The fortunes of war – and this ship is prize of His Catholic Majesty.’ He held out both hands meaningfully.

His cup of bitterness full, Kydd slowly unbuckled and rendered up his weapon, his career as a sea officer ended.

A bullet struck the fort roof parapet near Clinton and ricocheted off; he felt the usual sting of stone chips – but this was more serious. They were being fired on from a higher angle. He looked about the chaos of smoke and dust and spied where it was coming from. The San Miguel church.

‘Sar’nt Dodd – we’ve got to get to those rascals or they’ll make it impossible to man our guns.’

The sergeant nodded. ‘Oi – you two!’ he called, and two marines left their embrasures to report.

‘Follow me,’ Clinton ordered, and rattled down the steps to the base of the fort. The square was alive with men, guns and noise, and as they raced across to the ornate church at the corner the air was choked with acrid gun-smoke, the whip and zing of unseen missiles.

They reached the massive doors. Dodd tried to force them open but their solidity resisted all his panting efforts.

‘Bayonets.’

Their points were levered into cracks and the butts of their muskets used as battering rams, but to no avail. When one of the marines fell with a cry, the effort was abandoned.

‘I’ll do it, if’n you’ll leave me at it!’ Dodd gasped, hefting a length of market timber.

‘No. Get back and cover me.’ Clinton hoisted the wounded marine over his shoulder and stumbled back towards the fort. Other soldiers were racing to get there, too. This must be the last act – every man was being pulled back into the citadel.

With a roar of triumph the crowd pressed forward, but Beresford had positioned guns at the gate and smaller- calibre weapons on the roof – and with the square now evacuated there was a clear field of fire. A double charge of