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 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.