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.