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 L’Aurore’s lieutenant of marines, Clinton, strode purposefully towards him. Throwing a magnificent salute, he announced, ‘Marine battalion ready for inspection, sah.’
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.
Together a thousand men were a mass; spread out over a battlefield they were pitifully few, and when the guns of the enemy opened up and the opposing infantry began to march down the rise against them in a flourish of tinny trumpet calls it seemed certain the whole adventure could finish that morning.
Kydd felt for the reassurance of his sword and glanced about. There was anything but concern on the faces of the officers, and the men were settled in two ranks, the first kneeling and looking steadily ahead in disciplined silence. The officers wore a look of professional interest and Beresford had out his glass, calmly scanning the advance.
By this time the Spanish guns on the hilltop were hard at work, their concussion a continuous roll but to no effect. The tearing whistle of their shot went well overhead. The gunners were apparently so raw they hadn’t allowed for their superior height of eye.
‘They’re coming on well, but a motley crew, I’m persuaded,’ Beresford murmured. ‘I do believe they need livening up. Sound the advance, if you please, and we’ll go and meet ’em.’
A volley of drumming was answered by the rising wail of pipes, and the entire line stepped off together in a steady tramp. The going was not easy, the scrubby plain populated with bushes and tussocks, but the seasoned men paced on stolidly, saving their strength for the hill ahead, which would inevitably have to be stormed. On either side their own guns spoke in sharp cracks but with little result at this range.