Out ahead the two feluccas were making a broad circle, looking to an opportunity for revenge – Hellard and his party had little time.
In the cabin he found an oil lamp. He shouted down into the waist for the wreckers to stop smashing at the bottom of the vessel with broad-axe and maul, then dashed the lamp to the deck. It splintered and the oil caught in roiling flame.
As men tumbled into the boat to return to Stalwart the bowman leaned over and fished out a shapeless dripping black object. ‘So what’s this’n?’
‘Get on your oar!’ Hellard snarled at him in reply and they were away.
In the dim twilight, Serrano stood up to his knees in the sea, clutching his arms and shivering uncontrollably with cold and fright. It had taken hours for the blaze to be noticed from shore and a cautious fishing boat sent to investigate, but now it was coming and he would be back in blessed safety and warmth before long. It had been the worst experience he had ever had – the quick crossing abruptly interrupted by scenes of stark terror ended only by the plunge for his life over the side.
The desolate time standing in the mud was preferable to the alternative: being seized by the British and taken before their senior officer – Captain Kydd, who would quickly recognise his real position. And he could congratulate himself that even in all the horror he had thought to cast his precious dispatches overboard to prevent their capture.
The fishing boat loomed close, hands hauled him in and he was found a blanket and a mug of rough aguardiente.
Suddenly he realised their direction. ‘Where are we going? I’ve to report to General Liniers himself – take us back!’
‘What? We’re from Las Conchas, and I can swear to you by the Holy Name we’re going there.’
It was the wrong side of the river. ‘But-’
‘You’d rather get out and walk?’
He slumped down. Then he realised that telling Liniers he had not been able to deliver the message was neither informative nor helpful. Las Conchas was well to the north of Buenos Aires and he could safely move down to the gauchos who were secretly concentrated at the Perdriel ranch. Much better to see Pueyrredon himself and pass on the message personally.
‘Las Conchas will do,’ Serrano said loftily.
The old and stinking fishing village provided a measure of compensation: a resident, impressed with his tale of escape from the clutches of desperate English pirates on the high seas, lent him a horse. In a matter of an hour or so he was cantering into the sprawling Perdriel ranch.
Juan Martin de Pueyrredon was tall, handsome and imperious, and of startling youth in his blaze of stars and epaulettes.
His piercing gaze never left Serrano as he heard his story. ‘Very well, I’ll accept this comes from General Liniers – your father is known to me.’
He mounted his horse with a flourish, then gestured towards the open country where great numbers of horsemen were thundering backwards and forwards in mock charge. ‘How he expects me to keep these noble caballeros entertained while he and Baltasar dally is quite beyond me.’ He sniffed. ‘And, should the English dare to show their faces, I cannot be held accountable that these brave fellows insist on falling upon them without recourse to orders.’
‘It was fished out of the water near the balandra,’ Hellard said, handing over the sodden object. ‘I saw there was a packet inside.’
Kydd inspected it curiously: a small leather hold-all, not military, and inside, a well-folded package secured with rawhide fastenings. Its covering was a stout oilskin preserving its contents against the seawater.
His pocket-knife soon had it open – it was a message, still quite legible but in Spanish. What was plain, however, was that, from the conspicuous Spanish royal coat of arms, this was official and of some importance. Yet why was it not in a military form? And would anyone be foolish enough to ditch valuable dispatches without the customary pair of musket-balls to weigh them down?
It had to be a deception but he was duty-bound to pass it on to the general.
‘Found in the sea near a vessel taken by one of my captains,’ Kydd murmured.
‘A trickery, no doubt,’ Beresford said immediately, but handed it to an aide. ‘What does it say, Erskine?’
The man scanned it closely then looked up. ‘Sir, it’s a note from General Liniers to a Colonel General Pueyrredon.’
‘Ah. That’s our gaucho fellow, I’m told. Carry on.’
‘A warm message encouraging them to hold fast until he can find some way to cross, their progress being halted at the shore by our navy, which holds the sea. Then, he says, they will join together to liberate their fair city from the invader.’
‘Ha! I can’t see how they believe this might constitute a misleading. We know very well that Liniers is confined to Colonia in idleness and we also know that the gauchos can’t move without he crosses and joins up with them, so where’s the deceit?’
He frowned, then a slow smile spread. ‘Yet there is a message in this for us.’
‘Sir?’
‘If this is their admitted position I see no reason why we can’t take advantage of it. Gentlemen, I’m to make a sally out of the city and deal with our country gaucho friends while they’re thus separated. I shall not lose a moment. Send for Colonel Pack, if you please.’
In the chill dawn a column of infantry of the 71st Regiment with fifty of the St Helena Infantry and their guns tramped through the silent streets, watched by citizens awed by the warlike array of an army on the march. The general was taking more than half his strength – a grave risk, for if the future battle went against him Buenos Aires could not be held by those remaining.
They moved quickly, the guns and limbers pulled by mules and the soldiers with light packs, their marching rhythm eating up the miles until they had left the city and its suburbs well behind. With few horses, scouts could not be deployed on either flank and therefore it had to be assumed their progress was observed by Pueyrredon’s outriders and the news relayed on.
The land was flat and monotonous, scrub and occasional trees bent with the wind adding to the feel of a God-forsaken landscape. A forward observer galloped back with news: ahead there were at least two thousand troops, mounted and with field guns. Near four times the British number, in their familiar country and on ground of their own choosing.
Beresford took the news calmly and the column marched on without pause.
At a little after ten they passed two ranch outbuildings, then caught sight of the enemy. They were taking advantage of a long stone wall for a defensive work, their guns at regular intervals, behind them a mass of horses and troops, the glitter of steel and the colour of pennons clearly visible.
The guns thudded into life too early with wild firing; the British continued advancing in column and the balls gouged earth well away from them.
Then Beresford gave the order to deploy, bringing his men to a halt while his guns took position.
His artillerymen opened up with devastating effect. A stone wall was the worst shelter imaginable – as the iron balls struck, they dissolved it into flying, razor-sharp splinters that carried into the packed mass behind.
‘Fix bayonets! To the fore – march!’ The 71st formed a double line and advanced; the St Helena’s stayed with the guns.
From the enemy positions a stream of riders burst out to the left, another to the right, maddened gauchos in an impulsive charge that owed little to soldierly discipline and much to their lust for glory.
Against veteran Highlanders it was a mistake. With crisp commands the redcoats halted and formed a loose square. The gauchos were met with the concentrated fire of the first rank, which brought down men and horses in a chaos of flying bodies and squeals of terror. To the front one gaucho officer was spectacularly unhorsed, but staggered to his feet and stood defiant against the foe, the gold of his epaulettes and decorations an incongruous glint against the filth of the battlefield.