Julian Stockwin - The Iberian Flame - Thomas Kydd 20

It was a straightforward enough assignment, with no real hardship – after all, he would be safely in the middle of an army of some twenty thousand, with its massive and elaborate field train. Rowan would return with valuable experience of military life.

For the twentieth time he sniffed the wind. Damn! Still from the south-west and brisk with it, foul for the transports from England. It was worrying and frustrating but he knew that at this time of the year the very intensity of the weather would ensure a change before long.

He went below to find something to do while he waited for their arrival and decided to make a start on the inevitable paper war that would begin when Rowley received his dispatch that told of his decision to vary the port of embarkation. Anyone with a smattering of sea sense would see the trap immediately it was pointed out to them, but he had a fool for a superior and would need to spell it out at length.

After all, he had not only seen the potential pitfall but had provided and executed a workmanlike solution. There should be no difficulty, even with Rowley.

A faint cry from the deck above made him pause, and almost at the same time a breathless messenger announced that their transports were coming through the northern entrance into Vigo Bay.

Kydd was out and on the upper deck in moments. And there they were: under reduced sail and shepherded in by two sloops; plain, unlovely, but a most welcome sight.

Five, seven then twelve … fifteen. Was that all?

The senior officer escort presented himself. It had been a hard sail from Plymouth and Portland and on two occasions gales had scattered his charges, requiring a long and tedious wait for the convoy to come together again. Fifteen? This was only one of five joiner convoys that would bring the number up to seventy-three sail. At least two consisted solely of the specialist vessels that had flat-built lighters with sweeps to bring out field guns and horses. There was nothing Kydd could do but find the patience to await them.

He was unable to move on Corunna until he had the majority in hand and time was not on his side.

Two convoys came in together, and after a fourth it left only the last.

And then Kydd finally received Rowley’s response to his initiative via a brig-sloop, with an order by hand-of-officer.

It was dire and final – both a condemnation and ultimate professional ruin. For disregarding orders lawfully given by a superior, in flagrant breach of the Articles of War, Kydd was forthwith to consider himself under open arrest. He was to remain in Vigo until relieved by another before handing over his task and returning to Lisbon to face charges.

Rowley had found a way to achieve his object: Kydd’s disgrace and ruination.

He sat back, appalled. There were really only two alternatives: to obey – or to continue on to Corunna.

If he obeyed, there would be a confrontation with Rowley that could go either way. If he disobeyed, it was most certainly a court-martial, without any doubt about the end result.

The first would give him a fighting chance, but would leave General Moore in a perilous situation – and his word to him broken.

He gave a twisted smile. There really wasn’t any choice. He’d go on to Corunna.

That left the brig-sloop, whose commander needed his signature on receipt before returning to Lisbon.

But, as his superior still, he’d require the man first to be employed in escort for the convoy to Corunna, after which it didn’t really matter anyway.

The officer was surprised but obeyed, clearly not knowing the contents of the orders he’d brought.

And late that afternoon the last of the transports sailed through the northern channel in an untidy gaggle. Without a moment to lose, Kydd had them watering and storing for the evacuation voyage while he got to work with the masters of the ships. Having had plenty of time to prepare the sailing order folder and similar beforehand, it did not take long and, with much relief, he set daybreak as departure time for Corunna.

He slept fitfully, refusing to dwell on the future past the embarkation, but awoke to Tyger ’s uneasy jibbing at her anchor.

As soon as he glanced out of the stern windows he knew something was wrong.

Wind-rode, instead of a fine view upstream he was now looking into Vigo itself on the southern shore and the dense mass of shipping waiting to leave.

There was only one explanation and in his worry and concern he hadn’t paid as much attention to this possibility as he should have.

The gods had thrown their dice and it had come out against him – during the night the south-westerly had veered, just as he had initially feared it might. Now from the west-south-west, it effectively stoppered the exits to the open sea for any square-rigged vessel in Vigo Bay.

They were trapped until the wind shifted again.

And if Napoleon Bonaparte arrived with his great guns, just as he’d warned, they’d be pounded to splinters, as helpless as a sucking shrimp.

It couldn’t be worse – or could it? That instead Bonaparte had gone to Corunna and, surrounding the stranded British Army, was in the process of exterminating it.

Chapter 74

Corunna

General Moore waited for his answer with a terrible patience.

Rowan reached out for strength. Tyger ’s jolly sailing master, Joyce, who’d been his instructor in the sea arts, always leavening learning with yarns from a colourful past, would explain what was happening to the ship by imagining a seagull soaring way up, then looking down, seeing one by one the elements come into play – winds, currents, the mass of tide in its channel sliding the ship to one side apparently against the breeze. It all made sense when taken at that perspective.

And he realised what had happened to Tyger . Sniffing the wind, like the deep-sea mariner he was turning into, he saw that it was in the west-south-west, the very quarter Kydd had feared would trap his transports.

‘Sir, I can explain.’

‘Do so, sir!’

Rowan sketched in the dust the aspect of Vigo open to one direction only, the wind now foul for leaving.

‘Sir, I counsel that you wait but a short time, for just as soon as the wind shifts, so shall you see your transports within a day, two days. Captain Kydd will then be here, this I promise you.’

Moore considered this. ‘And when will this wind shift?’

‘Sir, I cannot say. The ways of the winds are hidden from us. I can only say that at this time of the year it may be hours or days but, sir, they will shift.’

‘Very well. And thank you for your lucid explanation. When this shift occurs let me know, Mr, er …’

‘Mr Midshipman Rowan, sir.’

Later in the afternoon the scouts came back. Their heroic march had gained for them a priceless advantage of several days’ distance from the pursuing French and Moore didn’t waste it. Quickly he identified the central heights as crucial – if left to the enemy, artillery could be brought to rain fire down on the embarkation. Therefore it would be held at all costs, preserving the coastal plain, the town of Corunna and its harbour from the enemy.

‘The village atop Monte Mero – Elviña. This is where we shall stand,’ he pronounced.

Set among walled olive gardens and fields of prickly aloes, the French could never deploy cavalry there, and it provided excellent cover for the light infantry Moore had trained. And while those troops took up position, the remainder of his army collapsed to their rest of exhaustion on the slopes below, knowing that very soon the French would come.

Chapter 75