‘Um, then hold position here, sir, deny the enemy entry to Buenos Aires.’
‘Even that will not be possible. In a city of this size any half-competent commander will try to circle around our rear and cut us off while they retake it, and General Liniers is a wily sort. French – did you know that? In the Spanish service these thirty years, fought against us before the Revolution.’
‘Sir, I beg you’ll tell me what else is possible,’ Kydd said uncomfortably.
‘Nothing. Of these alternatives I must choose the least bad.
‘At one extreme I could fall back in the face of impossible odds, leave Buenos Aires to the Spanish and quit the country, but this can never be in consideration. At the other, I could move forward to endeavour to inflict as much damage on Liniers as I can but at grievous cost. This also is not to be contemplated, not for the pity of the thing but that I’d then have too few to garrison the city.’
‘Therefore?’
Beresford shook his head sadly. ‘Therefore I choose to contest his entry with half my force, the other half to return and secure the city.
‘Colonel Pack, sir!’ he called out.
Kydd knew what was being said. This was a fighting retreat but a retreat for all that. Liniers would have parties out probing, thrusting, and must eventually drive a wedge in Beresford’s forward elements, causing it to fall back by stages. The only saving grace was that even he could see that city streets were not the place for cavalry and the two armies would in these terms at least be on a level footing.
As far as naval support went, a battlefield hidden among the streets would make targeting from seaward out of the question – an impossibility. But surely there must be tasks for the Navy to do.
When Beresford had concluded his dispositions he cast one long look about him, exchanged deep-felt salutes with Pack, his forward commander, then moved off with half of his men, some five hundred-odd only – less than a single battalion to hold a modern city.
The column marched off to the sound of a defiant piper, joined by another until, heads high, the proud Scots were swinging along as if on parade before the world. As the suburbs became denser, so did the onlookers. This time there was little curiosity, only a sullen, hostile stare. From balconies came cat-calls and jeers, then ugly shouts that had an edge of contempt.
There was now a different mood: a surging restlessness, a tension that radiated out from tight knots of people. Others hurried to distance themselves.
In another interminable rain flurry they at last halted by the colonnades of the Plaza Mayor outside the fort.
Kydd followed Beresford, and a conclave of officers was hastily convened; Clinton was appointed second-in-command after Captain Arbuthnot for the internal security of the city.
Beresford went off to begin his dispatches, and Kydd settled down to the task of finding work for the Navy. The front line would need supply: provisions, rum, gunpowder. What better than to ship it in as the line moved forward or back? It would need escort, and his newly released Staunch and Protector could do the job.
And just as important was the sea guard, protection of the Army from seaward raids. And then, of course, operations against the enemy’s own supply lines. As well there was . . . but where was he going to get the hulls? Or the crews – so many good ships and seamen had been lost in the storm.
It was becoming difficult to concentrate – he had been shifted into Clinton’s office to make way for others: Beresford wanted as many as possible brought inside the fort’s walls.
A subaltern arrived and reported to Clinton that the sentries who had been posted at key points were being harassed – taunted, muskets stolen, threatened. Kydd felt for the young men out on their own in this treacherous and alien place but they had a vital part to play. If they withdrew, they would be giving up the city to the enemy.
His own concerns claimed his attention again. Provisions in the cask were heavy and cumbersome; water was a critical matter. How many barrels could be stacked on, say, those flat fishing craft? He could seize a few and set up a running supply-line, and be damned to the noise from their owners. Perhaps it would be better to preserve Staunch and Protector for gun action . . .
At a stirring below and raised voices Kydd looked up as an angry Popham stalked in. ‘We shall speak alone, sir,’ he demanded sharply.
Kydd got to his feet. ‘There is no such in this building, sir.’
Popham snorted. ‘You!’ he snapped at Clinton. ‘Out until I say return.’
Clinton hesitated, but left with an awkward glance at Kydd.
‘Now, sir. You’ll tell me how in Hades you managed, single-handed, to destroy this expedition.’
Kydd reddened but kept his temper. ‘I beg to differ, Dasher. My blockade was sound until the pampero and then-’
‘You let ’em pass! And now my entire enterprise is under dire threat.’
The ‘my’ did not escape Kydd. He replied curtly, ‘After the storm I was left with just two sail. Even if I’d been athwart their course when they sallied I could not have stopped them.’
‘You didn’t even try!’
Kydd took a deep breath and replied levelly, ‘If I had, we’d now be left with not a single armed vessel to see off attacks or escort supply.’
Popham glowered at him but said nothing. His hollow eyes and haggard face betrayed an inner torment that Kydd could only guess at – forced to stay idle in the big ships that were on watch in the outer reaches of the River Plate while the destiny of his adventure was decided by others, aware that failure was now not impossible, and his was the responsibility.
‘Nevertheless, I find your conduct questionable, sir, to say the least.’
‘There are those,’ Kydd said quietly, ‘who say venturing upon an invasion without we have reinforcements assured is-’
‘How dare you?’ Popham exploded, his face white. ‘You – you have the temerity to criticise me! This expedition was soundly conceived but, I’ll have you know, brought to hazard by others. I’ll not be cried down by the likes of you, my most junior captain, b’ God!’
‘Sir, you’re being-’
‘I’ll not forget this, Kydd! If we fail, it’s to your tally I’ll sheet home the blame for the whole bloody thing, be damn sure about that!’ He stood for a moment, chest heaving, then stormed out.
After a decent interval Clinton came in, taking his chair without catching Kydd’s eye, and busied himself with a paper.
Kydd tried to compose himself. He had nothing to be ashamed of and be damned to Popham if he tried to prove otherwise. There was vital work to do and he wasn’t about to let that suffer on his account. He picked up his quill and resumed his order to take up three fishing boats.
As evening drew in, the subaltern appeared again to address Clinton. ‘I’ve a strange thing to report, sir, if you’ll hear it.’
Helped by Dodd, whose calm acceptance of discomfort and danger was unfailing, Clinton had been assigning night duties in such a way that nearby support could be summoned quickly if there were any outbreaks of trouble. It was not an easy task and he looked up distracted. ‘Er, what is it, then?’
‘In the barracks, sir. One of my privates was cleaning his musket when the damnedest thing happened. He was tapping his fire-lock on the floor when it disappeared.’
Clinton sighed. ‘You’re not making yourself clear, old bean.’
‘The musket – it went right through a hole and he lost it. He called over his sergeant and they found that there was a suspicious cavity underneath where it had fallen and beg it be inspected.’
‘Not now, I’m afraid. I’m too busy.’
Impulsively Kydd stood up. ‘I’ll go. Need to stretch the legs.’
‘That’s kind in you, sir,’ Clinton said gratefully. ‘Sar’nt Dodd will go with you. Er, a sword would not be noticed.’
They left by the main gate, striding out into the gathering dark towards the barracks, two streets distant. As they turned the corner, without warning a screeching crowd with clubs ran towards them.