Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

‘Signal, sir,’ the officer-of-the-watch reported quietly, seeing a dash of colour at the crest of a bluff.

‘Very well. Carry on, the marines.’ A launch under sail, even if seen, would not be in the least threatening to the marching column.

It left quickly and Tyger made out to sea on a triangular course that would see her angle inshore at the right place for her cataclysm of fire.

Telescopes followed the launch until it disappeared into the sprawl of beach and crag.

Within a short time they were focusing on the emerging caterpillar of marching troops with their glint of steel bayonets, the splash of colour of their uniforms against the drab rocky face of the bulking mountain, the series of horse-drawn guns and, here and there, officers on their mounts.

Too far off to take in details, Kydd wondered what they made of Tyger . Probably she would not be seen with any great concern – the army was on land, the navy at sea and it was said that the twain never met in battle. This day there would be a rapid changing of opinions.

There was no slackening of pace, only the occasional face turned towards the exotic sight of a graceful man-o’-war so near. The mountainside was as steep and abrupt as Wishart had described and Kydd felt the first stirrings of pity.

His attention was taken over to the left by a soundless angry flash and rising pall of smoke and dust. Seconds later the dull thud of the explosion reached him. Clinton had set off his charge and now the road was cut in the rear of the marching column.

At first there was confused movement in the ranks, mainly the rearmost ones closest, but then it steadied and the march resumed, no doubt scornful that an attack by Spanish irregulars had missed its mark.

‘At two cables offing,’ Kydd decided. The chart showed a bold coast, steep to, and he didn’t have to worry about shoal water.

Tyger shaped course in. At less than a quarter-mile away the tramping soldiers were now in full detail, faces looking out curiously at the diverting sight of the frigate. It seemed an endless procession but Kydd realised they were probably proceeding in pairs along the confining cart-track.

‘As you bear,’ he ordered levelly. Many men unknown to him would die at his command in the next few minutes.

A slight pause, the poignant chuckle at the waterline and the usual comfortable squeaking of rigging loud in the anticipatory hush – then the heart-stopping, shattering roar of the first gun, and a rippling slam as the others took it up.

As the smoke drifted clear Kydd saw the result: ragged holes torn in the column, rising dust from shot-strike, still bodies – the marching progress brought to a sudden stop. The shock must have been complete: that the graceful craft with swan-like wings had in a split second delivered death and destruction to them was inconceivable.

Tyger could sustain about three aimed shots every five minutes – a minute and a half to reload.

It gave the French time to come to their senses. Some tried to flee back whence they’d come but quickly came up against the chasm of fallen rock; a few tried instinctively to scramble up the impossible raw heights above them, but eventually the officers realised their best chance was to go forward and urged the men on at double pace.

With a sudden crash Tyger ’s guns resumed their lethal work.

Between the gouts of gun-smoke Kydd took in the effect. The same tearing of the line and the sight of an officer and his horse falling together down the precipice below, bouncing several times, glittering blood-smear from the horse’s disintegrating corpse visible even at this range. Disorder was now general and more plunged to their death as the rest scrambled to escape the lethal avalanche from the sea.

The first cheers from the gun-crews died back as they saw what their shots were doing. Kydd felt his gorge rising at the helpless slaughter, and guilty relief when they reached the twist in the road that took them behind a projecting headland, even as he knew what waited ahead for the routed soldiery.

‘Heave to,’ Kydd said hoarsely. ‘Send the launch and recover Mr Clinton.’

The Royal Marines captain returned and made his report.

‘We’re away soon, sir?’ A slight quaver in his voice showed that even the fiery Bray had been touched by the carnage.

Beyond the headland gun-smoke rose, in awful witness to what was taking place, then died away until there was no more.

‘Take away the pinnace, Mr Brice, and find out how many prisoners to prepare for,’ Kydd told his third lieutenant.

For some reason Kydd needed to go ashore too, to see at first-hand the results of Tyger ’s guns.

The boat came in to a small beach the other side of the headland, away from the scene. Several of Wishart’s men came down to greet them, guffawing and hooting exultantly. Kydd recoiled in distaste – they were wearing bloodstained items of despoiled French uniforms, along with swords, bright ribands and cockades.

He signed to them that he wanted to find Wishart. They gleefully led the way up and around a debris-strewn road to an open slope. It was the slaughter-place, corpses scattered everywhere, each with its human vulture robbing it, no sign anywhere of corralled prisoners.

Hurrying through, Kydd suddenly stopped, held speechless by a hideous sight that had him gagging for sanity.

On the old wooden door of a mountain hut was the half-stripped body of a French officer who had been nailed upside-down, the corpse hanging lifeless and pallid, its hair dripping blood.

Reeling away, he felt his arm gripped hard.

‘Hold hard, old man. This is a different war – a hellishly different war.’

Kydd turned to stare at Wishart.

‘These men have seen their families shot and bayonetted, their friends hounded to death, villages burned – you’ve no idea. Now they’ve a chance to get back at ’em. Judge not, old fellow …’

‘N-no prisoners, then?’

‘No prisoners.’

Brice was retching to one side. Hauling him to his feet, Kydd led him away from the charnel field to another world.

Tyger shortly set all sail for the open cleansing sea, Kydd’s wordless going below, and the shock on Brice’s face, enough to still any questions before they were uttered.

Chapter 68

Two days later, an aviso hove into view through a spiteful rain squall. Kydd stood at the ship’s side as the little vessel bucketed in to leeward and brailed up to make hail.

There were no dispatches for Tyger but a verbal requirement was passed to quit his station and with best speed make for Lisbon in the face of a grave and important development that he would learn about on arrival.

The lieutenant was clearly under orders for the utmost haste and respectfully asked Kydd if he knew of the likely locations of the other three frigates. After a hasty farewell the cutter plunged off into the murk while Tyger wore about for Lisbon and the fleet.

Under grey skies and a thin rain they raised the roadstead. To Kydd’s surprise and wonder he saw a major fleet there – not only the legendary Victory but the great 110-gun Ville de Paris , both in the centre of half-a-dozen line-of-battle ships and a crowd of frigates and sloops. What was it all about?

As was usual in harbour, gun salutes to the flag were held over – at least three admirals’ pennants were in plain sight as Kydd picked his way past to the inner anchorage.

Rowley’s pennant in Conqueror was absent: he was therefore not on board and Kydd was relieved from reporting until it reappeared – but at the price of not knowing what the devil was afoot.