Betrayal

grape erupted, and the far side of the square was instantly transformed into a carpet of dead and wounded, the remainder fleeing.

Musket fire was futile against the thick stone of the fort and under the threat of the British guns there would be no sudden storming.

It was stalemate.

Beresford stood among his officers, gravely troubled. ‘Gentlemen. It now appears time to consider the last sanction. We have done what we can but the reinforcements have not arrived. Therefore I have decided to withdraw. Where is Mr Kydd, pray?’

‘I’m sorry to say, sir, that he has not returned from the diversionary raid. We can only assume he is captured or . . .’

A shadow passed across the general’s face. ‘So many good men,’ he whispered.

Clinton spoke: ‘Sir, any evacuation by sea cannot now be in contemplation. There is open ground before the mole, and with the state of the tide as it is, then-’

‘I understand you, sir.’

Pack said heavily, ‘An’ there’s no route south, the blandengoes are there in strength.’

‘And the gauchos to the north,’ added another.

It was Beresford’s decision and his alone. ‘Then I have no alternative. Gentlemen, to avoid vain loss of life, in two hours I shall ask General Liniers for terms. Pray do what you must to prepare.’

In the shocked silence he turned on his heel and left them.

That the British Army, the conqueror of Cape Town and so recently Buenos Aires, was to capitulate to a few Spanish regulars and a ragtag host of militia, cow-herders and townsfolk was an intolerable shame, and tears could be seen in the eyes of some officers.

His mind reeling at the turn of events, Clinton called the faithful Dodd to his office and together they went through papers, adding them to a pile destined for destruction.

As they worked, a lump rose in his throat. It was likely that as an officer he would at some point in the future be exchanged but men like Dodd, through no fault of their own, would now face incarceration in an enemy land for possibly years.

In the heightened atmosphere the thought threatened to unman him; he excused himself and pretended to look for something.

He couldn’t let it happen – not to this man.

Finding his pen he scribbled fast on a paper, signed it, carefully folded it twice, then sealed it. The outside he left blank, no address.

‘Er, Dodd. I have a last service for you, if you can.’

‘Sah.’ There was no resentment, no sullen reproach, just a calm acceptance of how things had turned out.

‘Now this is a secret dispatch, and it is to go to the commanding officer of HMS L’Aurore.’

‘Sah.’

‘It’s of vital importance – do you think it possible you could deliver it?’

Dodd hesitated, his open face working with emotion. ‘Sir, if they-’

‘You’re a reliable, long-service sergeant. Who else may I trust if not you?’

Snapping to rigid attention, Dodd threw off a quivering salute to his officer. ‘He’ll get ’em, sir. I knows how!’

‘Right. Well, go now, and the best of luck.’

The British colours at the flagstaff lowered and when they were raised again they were over a white flag of truce, seeking a parley.

This was greeted by an instant roar of gratification. The square was invaded by a joyous, incoherent rabble cheering and firing into the air – there would be no respectful falling back to allow the principals of both sides to conduct negotiations on neutral ground.

The scene quickly became rudely chaotic, some planting field guns opposite the gateway and many shouting taunts and firing muskets at any British they could see, in a wild and uncontrollable uproar.

A yell of triumph heralded the arrival of an officer. It was Quintana, who was carried shoulder-high through the seething mob to the very gates of the citadel.

At a sign from Beresford they were flung open and the rabble found themselves at the muzzle of two guns and a ring of steel and held back angrily. Quintana went in, to redoubled fury and shooting. After the gate had been closed, he bravely ran up to the roof and, throwing open his splendid coat to show himself, berated the rabble for their indiscipline.

Negotiations were brief. In the circumstances there was no other recourse – immediate and unconditional surrender.

After some hours, regular Spanish troops arrived to bring order, and Comandante General Liniers made his appearance; Beresford went out to meet him. After Liniers’s sincere expressions of regret at the behaviour of his men, terms were agreed and he accepted the general’s sword.

Finally the Highlanders left their positions, marching out together, tears of frustration and rage on many. They halted and the colours of the 71st Highland Regiment were given up to the enemy.

The officers were then separated from their men, who were taken off to the other end of the square where they were ordered to ground arms. Many threw down their muskets bitterly before being placed in three ranks under guard.

Such a brave and pitiful sight brought a catch in Clinton’s throat. These few hundred who had achieved so much – then to be overcome by numbers so overwhelming.

They were marched away to cat-calls and defiant shouts, which left no doubt that their captivity would not be easy.

Quintana asked the officers to go back into the fort where they were invited to sign a book of parole. General Beresford stepped forward first, there seemed little point in refusing, and Clinton added his own name.

After that, nothing seemed to matter any more.

Chapter 15

‘Boooat ahoy!’ the forward lookout yelled into the night.

With L’Aurore at such a pitch of nervous tension and her first lieutenant pacing the deck like a penned-up hound, it would never do to allow a stranger to approach too near without challenge.

An answering shout came, weak and distant.

Gilbey arrived to stand beside the lookout. ‘Tell that lubber t’ stand away or he’ll get a cold shot in the guts,’ he said peevishly.

The hail was dutifully made, but the little fisherman’s punt kept on obstinately, a single indistinct figure at the oars. When he was close enough he stood up swaying and hailed back in unmistakable English, ‘L’Aurore, ahoy – one t’ come aboard!’

Men scrambled up from below, eager to hear any news, and with them Renzi, who had become increasingly troubled. Since the betrayal at Punta Pavon they had lain at anchor for several days waiting for orders – or even word of how matters stood for their friends and shipmates ashore.

‘One to come aboard,’ agreed Gilbey.

Slowly and painfully the figure came up the side; by the time he swung inboard an eager welcoming committee was waiting for him.

‘Begob! It’s Sar’nt Dodd!’

An excited babble broke out and Gilbey thundered, ‘Hold y’ tongues! Silence fore ’n’ aft! Make y’r report, Sergeant.’

Dodd straightened with difficulty. ‘Bad news, sir. Th’ worst.’