Kydd had been in more than a few conjunct operations with the army and knew what to ask for from the transport agent, the victualler, the shore authorities. But the key to it all was a good understanding between the navy and the transport masters: unless he could get them to co-operate fully, the first ones to board could consume all their stores before the last ship was fully laden – and there were so many other hindrances and impediments to achieving an orderly retreat.
Some of the shore people were in attendance: the army quartermasters were setting out to establish makeshift barracks for the evacuees, others preparing vast temporary field kitchens, still more making a start on peripheral defences. All of these were needed but, as a priority, Kydd had to find boats and lighters in their hundreds and just where would the transports moor for loading?
Vigo was spacious enough, a triangle of water with its base at the entrance seven miles across, and two sides the same length meeting at Vigo town. Depth of water was generous and the islands across the entrance were fending off the worst of the gale, but as Kydd finished a quick reconnaissance, he felt a growing sense of unease.
Instead of the welcoming refuge from Atlantic storms that it had been for centuries, the situation was reversed: the danger was coming from the land, not the sea. An exhausted army was on its way, pursued by the French battalions, led by Napoleon Bonaparte. There would be a narrow bracket of time to get Moore’s army aboard, then make a hasty exit for the open sea.
Putting aside all other considerations, the operation of some hundreds of unhandy, thinly manned but heavily loaded sail putting to sea at the same time was a daunting prospect – but what if the elements conspired against them?
The south-westerly that had brought Tyger to Vigo was fair for her and she’d sailed in under storm clouds without drama. It was, however, foul for the empty transports flailing across Biscay from England, delaying them.
With a sinking heart, Kydd could foresee unmitigated disaster if the transports arrived, Moore’s army embarked – and the wind veered just a few points. The islands that protected Vigo had two channels a mile or less wide past them and he’d found that for half a tide or more their safe depth width would contract as extensive sandbanks rose from the seabed. Yet it would be no problem with the winds in anything but the west. Then it would be foul for leaving and, worse, there would be insufficient channel width to tack into it, a condition exaggerated by spring tides, as there were at present.
The entire armada of transports would be trapped within, and Bonaparte would have leisure to bring his artillery up and reduce them all to burning wrecks.
And he, Kydd, would be seen as presiding over the destruction of Moore’s army and the hopes of the nation.
In a tide of despair he kept to his cabin, trying desperately to come up with a solution but always there was the same result: if Neptune chose to let the winds veer there was nothing that man or beast could do about it.
Two days passed, then an idea came – a desperate remedy, but it deserved consideration. There were few other ports of refuge on the Costa da Morte, the Coast of Death, but there was one he knew about from a brief visit in the past with a convoy on the way to the north: Corunna.
He recalled a bluff north-south promontory with a neat harbour tucked in its lee – and heights above it, which, if held by the British, could prevent Bonaparte’s artillery from putting the evacuation fleet under fire. And, above all, a fair run to seaward whatever the wind’s direction.
Peering over the small-scale chart, he located Vigo. It was around two hundred miles further to Corunna – but if Moore was vaguely in the centre of Spain, then the radial distance to either was about the same.
Was it lunatic to think of taking it upon himself to change the port of embarkation from Vigo to Corunna?
There was no time to go back and forth to Lisbon for conferring, not in this south-westerly gale. Any decision, and therefore responsibility, was his alone and time was critical. If it didn’t succeed, what he was contemplating could result in arrest and court-martial, with a sentence extreme enough to placate an outraged public. But he’d never shied before from a hard decision and wouldn’t start now. If the facts and reasoning held water, he would stand by them and be damned to the consequences.
A course decided on, he gave it his best concentration.
If he went ahead, apart from defying orders, there were two major difficulties either of which, if not met, would bring down the whole scheme.
One was the elementary task of telling Moore in time to change the course of his army away from Vigo to Corunna. The other was how to intercept the transports still on the high seas to divert to the new port.
Could he do it, and in time?
He bent to the map again. By now Moore would have had word from Lisbon to make for Vigo. Therefore if Kydd sent a runner out from Vigo he would eventually meet up with Moore coming in the opposite direction – there was only the one good road connecting with the interior.
The other question had a straightforward solution. He would stay in Vigo until the transports arrived, then take them in convoy to Corunna. The diversion should take less time than for an army to cross the mountains so it was safe to say he’d be there ready for them.
A runner? Who? Obviously he couldn’t go himself, and neither could any of his officers, whom he couldn’t spare in case of sudden action against an enemy. The man would have to be naval and credible in the sea arts, and for a commander-in-chief the reasons would have to be well argued.
Dillon? Needed.
A non-executive officer, such as the purser or doctor? No credibility.
A warrant officer, petty officer or other skilled seaman? Hardly likely to make an impression on a commander-in-chief.
In despair he cast around for one he could trust but at the same time could be spared – who was in the last essence expendable.
Rowan. His mind rebelled instantly. Barely sixteen, a boy. Was it fair?
But he was sufficiently intelligent, reliable and credibly seamanlike – and could be spared.
The mission was vital – he would need support: who in the last instance could be relied on to deliver the message? Clinton’s mature and steady sergeant, Dodd, came to mind. He would know army ways, advise on fieldcraft, stand by his young charge.
He felt a rush of hope. It could work!
‘Pass the word for Mr Midshipman Rowan.’
Eyes wide, the lad stood before him, still with jam on his face from feasting on duff with his messmates in the midshipmen’s berth.
‘I’ve a mission that’s vital and I can’t but think that there’s none other in Tyger more suitable for it than yourself, younker.’
‘S-sir?’ Rowan stuttered.
Kydd invited him to sit and unfolded the plan.
‘You’ll go assisted by Sergeant Dodd, but you’ll be in charge. Clear?’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ the lad replied manfully, eyes even wider.
‘After I speak with Dodd, we’ll go over what you’ll say to General Moore. Then hold yourself ready to leave first thing tomorrow.’
The cheerless morning saw the two muster at the gangway, their small bundles by their sides.
‘A lot depends on you, men,’ Kydd began, as the entire ship turned out to see them off. ‘So I shall fare you well and desire you don’t overstay your liberty ashore as shall see you back on board before long.’
Chapter 71
Moore’s army on the march
Out of a Continental heart came a frigid blast, the herald of winter. Gathering force it blustered over the high Spanish central plateau, turning thin rain into icy snowflakes, driven almost horizontal and draining the life-force from the exposed skin of every man.