He wished them well and returned to the fort, knowing the unearthly quiet would end at one o’clock. A distant trumpet bayed; it was taken up by another out to the left and one more to the south. An ugly, surging roar sounded in response. Coming ominously from all three directions, it meant that Liniers had succeeded in flanking Pack and his line, and now the net was tightening.
The fighting was vicious and one-sided. Although Pack could command the streets with his artillery it was the city buildings themselves that were his greatest foe. In deference to the sultry heat of summer each had a flat roof, edged for safety with a modest wall all round. Enemy marksmen quickly found these an admirable parapet and, firing down, made a hell of blood and death for the English gunners and any who stood to fight.
Iasthma hauled herself up and down the seafront, stopping only to open up with a crash of guns when enemy troops showed themselves. At one point Liniers ordered two of the Spanish field guns down to the shore and a gun duel opened. A hit brought down her mizzen and with it her ensign. Wild cheering erupted from the enemy. A nimble sailor, however, quickly had the colours aloft once more on the bare mainmast, and her crew gave savage cheers as they threw themselves into serving their guns.
Then, for reasons that couldn’t be made out from the shore, the brave vessel took fire, flames starting from her after end and rapidly finding naked powder charges, which flared and blazed. Her guns stopped, and in minutes her crew were in the water, making for the land – to inevitable death or capture.
Beresford had no choice: he pulled in his forces so that only the big square, the Plaza Mayor, was being defended, and this with every gun and soldier he had.
‘Captain – I’ve no right to ask it of you,’ he said, in a low voice to Kydd. ‘If I had any means of landing a force behind their lines to delay . . .’
Justina was one of the few vessels left in the roadstead. She had fulfilled her charter as troop transport and had been hovering, waiting for the rich cargoes promised. Now she was at anchor and deserted, her crew long since fled.
‘I shall need volunteers,’ Kydd replied, thinking of the gallant Royal Blues, fighting on land. This would be more to their liking and he knew he could count on them.
‘The St Helena men have volunteered,’ Beresford said, missing his meaning. ‘Artillery men all, they begged a more active war.’
Kydd was touched. That far-off island, a tiny speck in the vast wastes of the Atlantic – and since these were East India Company men, there was no compelling reason for them to be in this fearful cauldron.
He nodded. ‘Thank you, sir. We’ll sail immediately.’
It took a moment or two for Kydd to shift from a land-bound perspective back to the imperatives of the open sea. A respectable north-easterly was building so it would be close-hauled on the starboard tack and the tide safely making, with no doubt, a useful northerly current. It was possible.
Clinton had another Royal Blues detachment mustered ready. There were set faces among them: Iasthma’s fate might well be their own but none had been conscripted into the venture and all knew the risks.
An army subaltern reported that men had now been posted to cover the embarkation at the mole and it was 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 saiclass="underline" 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.