Betrayal (24 page)

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.

Then, quite without warning, the line faltered and milled in confusion.

‘What the hell’s wrong with those men?’ snapped Beresford, shifting his glass from the enemy and training it on the floundering troops.

They had run into a quagmire and the advance came to a complete halt. On the other side of the marsh the Spanish drew up in ranks and began a murderous fire with their muskets while on the heights the guns were finding their range. A well-sprung trap – and the first line of defence.

Beresford bit his lip, then swung around to Kydd. ‘Get your men on a brace of guns and find your way around the marsh to take ’em in the flank.’

‘Aye aye, sir!’ Kydd saluted, wheeled his horse around sharply and galloped off to his men.

‘Clinton!’ he snapped. ‘Send a couple o’ men out to find a way around this bog, the rest to the traces an’ haul a pair o’ guns.’

After crisply dispatching Sergeant Dodds and his corporal, Clinton gave Kydd a lopsided smile. ‘And how did I know we’d be called on this way?’ Behind him the hauling man-ropes were already ranged for service.

‘Well done, Mr Clinton,’ Kydd said. ‘And as quick as you may.’

Back with Beresford, Kydd found the officers watching a display of Spanish horsemanship that had them bemused and affronted by turns. From the crest of the hill, riders in colourful and flamboyant dress were furiously pounding down to the edge of the marsh, skidding to a halt and showily dismounting, only to turn and make unmistakable gestures before racing away.

At this the Highland soldiers plunged into the morass after them, furiously staggering in the black mud-holes and stagnant pits, defying the musketry fire. Some spun and dropped but there was no stopping them, and when at last the crack and thump of field-pieces announced the arrival of their man-hauled guns out on the flank, the enemy’s fire began to fall away.

The first kilted soldiers stumbled out of the other side of the swamp and, without waiting for others, roared their defiance and made straight for the Spanish. This show of raw bravery unnerved the enemy – they turned and fled back up the hill. A colour-sergeant rallied his Highlanders at the base of the rise and, with a fearsome battle-cry, they stormed up the hill in line.

The ineffective artillery at the summit fell silent. A few figures could be seen moving and then there were none at all.

‘They’ve abandoned their guns, the villainous crew!’ Beresford said, in delight. ‘General advance!’ He urged his horse forward into the marsh; it stumbled and splashed through. Followed by his little group of staff, he rode to the top of the rise.

Most of the guns were in fact still there: six brass cannon with their impedimenta – even the mules that drew them remained nervously tethered nearby.

‘Still loaded!’ cried one of the St Helena gunners.

‘Well, why do you wait? Give ’em a salute!’

The guns were swung round and, to loud cheers, crashed out after the fleeing figures.

The terrain now lay in a gentle slope forward towards a distant line of trees – clearly the sinuous course of a river. ‘That’s the Ria Chuelo. I dare say they’re to make a stand on the other bank,’ mused Beresford, seeing the retreat converge on the crossing point, a wide bridge.

He snapped his glass shut. ‘Let’s give ’em no rest. Form line of advance!’

As an aside he muttered, ‘Would that I had horses – a squadron or two of cavalry would make it a fine rout.’

The troops stepped off again, heading for the bridge, pipers to the fore and, despite their torn and mud-soaked appearance, Kydd felt a surge of pride in their resolute marching.

But as they approached the river, smoke spiralled up from the bridge, and well before they reached it the structure was ablaze. On the opposite bank enemy troops were spreading out. The second line of defence.

Brought to a reluctant standstill, there was nothing for it but to bivouac for the night. While the camp was put in hasty preparation, Beresford summoned Kydd. ‘Sir. It would infinitely oblige me if . . .’

It was appalling work but the Royal Blues saw it as a point of honour to get the expedition’s guns across the ‘impassable’ mire. With muscles tempered by years of heaving on ropes, they turned their skills to another kind of hauling. They were well into their agony in the darkness when, without warning, there was a livid flash and an ear-splitting explosion, sending every man into an instinctive crouch.

They looked round fearfully for a gigantic piece of ordnance arrayed against them. Another, even louder, crash burst on them. Then the rain came. Cold, murderous and in unbelievable torrents. The sticky mud began to soften and fast rivulets started everywhere. Soaked, numbed to the bone and blinded by the ferocity of the deluge, the men turned back to their work, now made near impossible by the slippery grip of mud and rain.

For hours they laboured, but when a freezing dawn broke there were guns at the water’s edge facing the Spanish. They were safe – but their way forward was irretrievably blocked by the Ria Chuelo.

It was one of the seamen who found a way. ‘Sir – there’s some o’ them flat fishin’ boats in a puddle dock yonder. If ye c’n keep the Spaniards’ heads down for ’un we’ll swim across an’ fetch ’em for a bridge.’

Kydd could hardly believe it. In order to retrieve their situation the man and his mates were volunteering to plunge into the icy water and swim the forty-odd yards under fire to them. ‘How many?’ he snapped.

‘Four on us.’

‘Very well. Let’s have your names.’ At the very least the commodore would get to know who had saved the expedition.

Beresford lost no time in accepting. ‘Range the guns opposite and give fire continuously, if you please.’

When the bombardment started, the Spanish slipped back out of sight, seeing little point in enduring the near point-blank fire. The seamen stripped off and, shivering, slipped into the turbid and fast-flowing river. They struck out with frenzied strokes, every soul on the British side willing them on until they reached the boats. A boatswain’s mate with a heaving line stood ready. Then, as coolly as he would on the deck of a ship, he made his cast and the line sailed across, to be seized by the men, who quickly hauled in on a heavier rope.

One by one the boats were cut free and pulled across. Each was lashed, nose to tail, to another until there was a continuous line of them and then –
mirabile dictu
– they had their bridge.

Under covering fire from the guns the Highlanders stormed across, quickly establishing themselves under the bank where the Spanish could not aim at them without exposing themselves. More and more poured over, and when they were ready, they flung themselves up and into the body of the enemy.

They had broken through! From where Kydd was he could see the panic and consternation of the enemy, who scattered under the threat of the steadily advancing Scots and disappeared into the distance. Once across the river he saw a thrilling sight – not more than three or four miles in front of them were the steeples, towers and dense mass of buildings that was Buenos Aires.

It was past believing – could it be . . .? Then reason asserted itself. The viceroy, the Marquis of Sobremonte, would now without doubt bring all his forces to a climactic confrontation with the invaders and all would be decided that morning.

But there was no army massing ahead, no sudden opening of an artillery barrage. Only an ominous silence. Under low grey skies, the wind piercing their damp bodies, they marched on, nearer and nearer. A road firmed, leading into the suburbs and making the going much easier, and on either side there were curious flat-roofed houses, faces at the windows. Surely—

‘Flag o’ truce, sir!’

Six mounted soldiers under a white flag were winding their way towards them.

‘Halt the advance,’ Beresford ordered. ‘Let’s hear what they’ve got to say for themselves.’

The men were in splendid uniform, with gold sash and silver spurs, but there was an air of controlled ferocity about them. Stepping his mount forward, the general’s Spanish-speaking aide heard them out.

‘Sir,’ he said to Beresford, in a perfectly even voice, gesturing towards the most richly dressed. ‘This is the Virrey Diputado Quintana. He desires a parley concerning capitulation.’

‘Damn it!’ Beresford hissed. ‘His or ours?’

‘He is empowered to give up the entire city of Buenos Aires, sir.’

There was a shocked pause, then Beresford came back haughtily: ‘Tell ’em I’ll only discuss that with Viceroy Sobremonte himself.’

The men exchanged quick looks, their gaze dropping. His dark features contorted with shame, Quintana muttered something and looked away.

‘Sir, the viceroy has fled the capital and is unavailable.’

A breathless sense of unreality stole over Kydd. That they had thought to seize Buenos Aires with a mere handful of soldiers was incredible, but that they were now conquerors of the whole Spanish empire in the south with those same few was beyond belief.

‘Ah. Then, er, my terms are these. The honours of war to these stout defenders, the protection of the people and their property, and the foreseeable continuation of their justice and, er, municipal authority.’

This was the same as offered to the inhabitants of Cape Town, Kydd remembered.

‘Sir, they ask two hours for deliberation.’

‘Not granted. In half an hour my advance must resume and I cannot be held responsible for what my enraged Highlanders will do in the event of resistance by the city.’

The deputation withdrew, but when they returned, Quintana agreed and stiffly offered his sword. Beresford accepted it and, in accordance with his own terms, graciously returned it. ‘We shall enter the city in three hours, gentlemen.’

It had happened.

Popham’s audacious plan to bypass Montevideo had succeeded.

And at exactly the time specified, the British South American Expedition marched off to take possession.

In the event it was the best show that could be made – thin rain was beginning to fall again and, apart from some pipers and drummers, there was no military band. The soldiers were ordered to march well spaced in open order and stepping short to give an impression of greater numbers.

Kydd, riding with the staff, gave the honour of leading the Royal Blues to Clinton, who went pink with pleasure. There would be much in his next letter home, no doubt.

They swung along in that same sense of unreality. The houses on either side were now filled with curious onlookers, but Kydd could see no hatred, simply a mix of foreign-looking people looking more confused than hostile. Soldiers grinned at girls on latticed balconies who were waving and smiling, some even throwing blossoms as the men marched past.

The city proper was no sprawling provincial backwater. It was laid out in regular rectangular blocks of substantial buildings, the largest of which were finished in white along fine avenues. They passed a noble twin-spired church and frowning public edifices until at last they reached a vast square facing the river.

There was a domed cathedral, spacious colonnaded buildings and at one end a long arcade with a central arch. The parade marched through, the sound of the pipes and drums echoing dramatically, until they emerged before a massive square fort, the red and yellow colours of Spain prominent on its flagstaff. On all sides and from every passage and doorway, hundreds upon hundreds watched, silent and fascinated.

The parade came to a halt; hoarse shouts from sergeant majors made a show of dressing off and stamping to attention, and then it was the final act.