Kydd thought of his little band of vessels on their ceaseless patrol against the far shore. At the sight of this kind of weather he himself would be taking full storm precautions, no matter how big his vessel. Should he call off the blockade and bring them all safely back to port? If this was a harmless local phenomenon he would be risking all, for Liniers with his superior knowledge of these parts would jump at the chance of a breakout. No: he must leave it to the judgement of his captains.
At two, however, it became clear that this was no trivial weather spat. The rolling cloud was nearly overhead and behind it hung a dark pall. In nearby buildings wooden shutters had been hastily fastened, the last people abroad were hurrying home and all small craft had vanished.
And not one of his little fleet had returned. They had chosen to stay at their post – but if it was the same species of tempest he’d encountered in Australia, would they know of the fiendish wind reversal? Even if they survived they’d be thrown on a deadly lee-shore, driven in by the bluster, and-
A heavy concussion, so loud it shook the stonework of the fort, startled Kydd. Not far out on his right a fork of lightning burst on his senses – then another, leaping between the clouds in hideous display. A further avalanche of thunder pealed out, nearly deafening him.
In the breathless atmosphere it was a devil’s display of malice, intense blue-white lightning arcing down in strikes seconds apart, the smell of sulphur clear on the air. Then a squall buffeted him, a chill and malevolent blast – from the south! The wind swung back, fretful and restless, before another southerly gust caught him, pummelling with a force that increased all the time.
Then came the rain. Gusty torrents and afterwards a hammering roar of heavy drops that quickly became a deluge, driving Kydd to take shelter in a corner. His last sight of the sea was of a perfect fury of whiteness. It was a fight for life that now faced his navy, out there somewhere.
Another stupefying round of thunderclaps burst overhead, this time accompanied by a volley of hailstones as big as musket balls that rushed and clattered violently about. Kydd retreated, hurrying back down the steps, now echoing with the storm’s frenzy, and returned to his desk. The view from the window was a blur of grey and white through the sheeting rain on the glass, the muted drone and scream of the wind, quite different from the open howl through bare rigging at sea, and his heart went out to the seamen facing the worst in this chaos.
For hours the tempest beat about them, from dead south to more in the west, a flat, hard, savage blast that numbed the senses with its roar and venom.
Kydd was unable to work and sat staring at his papers. Here he was in the warm and dry while others fought for their lives. And was L’Aurore in good hands? He knew Gilbey as a tarpaulin to be sensitive to weather moods but for the same reason he could be relied on to make no concessions to comfort and the frigate would be lying to two anchors, jibbing like a frightened horse at the onrush of frenzied seas.
Kydd dozed at his desk but was wide awake at the first sign of light before the winter dawn. The storm had diminished to a sullen bluster, cold and heartless, but the rain had thankfully ceased. The sea was in a fret and restless, and wherever he peered there was no sight of distant sails. Clutching an oilskin to himself he went outside and looked towards the mole to see one craft alongside, and one poling itself in. Just two.
He pretended to exercise, pacing up and down the foreshore in the mud, among the seaweed and debris thrown up, his oilskin ballooning and the cold wind piercing, but of his seven vessels, by mid-morning there was only one further arrival. Unable to keep up the pretence, he returned to the fort but was shortly summoned back.
‘Um, just beyond the point, sir,’ a soldier said, stolidly leading. It was as Kydd had dreaded. Some way out there was the low, untidy black outline of a washed-up wreck with two figures picking at it. With a catch in his throat he started out to it.
‘Oi, sir, don’t you . . .’ began the soldier, but Kydd was not to be stopped and squelched on over the mud, then into the heavily discoloured water until he reached the pathetic remains, shattered and tangled with seaweed-strewn rope.
‘Stalwart, sir,’ said a petty officer from the fort.
‘Any . . . ?’
‘Two on ’em only, sir,’ the man said, pointing to the foreshore where tarpaulin-covered bodies lay, which he’d overlooked in his haste. He sloshed back and, with the soldier gravely watching, he carefully pulled back the covering on one.
Dougal. Master’s mate. The pallor of death but a calm face, a trace of wistful sadness that was so touching in one on the threshold of manhood. Kydd tenderly covered it again.
The other was Lieutenant Hellard, utterly determined to succeed in his first command. His features were heavily bruised but not enough to hide the bitter indignation, the rage at Fate that had been his final emotion.
Kydd turned away. This cursed place was touching so many lives. He felt hatred rising as he stalked back, trailing mud and water into the fort.
In his office he heard the reports of the three vessels that had survived, listening with compassion as the officers recounted their ordeal.
The hard truth of the matter was that two might be made fit for sea but the third was little more than a wreck, brought back by sheer bull-headed courage and matchless skill.
Two – to stand before Colonia and the massing Spanish Army. It was impossible, but the imperatives of war dictated he try.
Conscious of their tired and strained faces, Kydd nevertheless spoke firmly: ‘That’s a grim tale, which I’m sure’ll be told in every wardroom in the fleet – but here’s the rub. You’re the only ones left to me. We have to make a showing off Colonia or the Dons will take heart and try a crossing.
‘Gentlemen, I desire you’ll get your craft ready for sea by any means you can contrive. In two hours you’ll put out for Colonia and the blockade where you’ll stay to the last biscuit, drop of water and shot. They must not sail! Do you understand me?’
He did what he could, finding seamen to bear a hand with repairs, soldiers to help with the storing and watering, and any small thing he could think of that might in any way make their lot more bearable.
When he went back to his desk a hovering clerk said apologetically, ‘Sir, a Mr Serrano t’ see you – seems very anxious an’ all.’
‘Show him in,’ Kydd said. That the artist was daring to come to the fort and risk being taken for a spy in the pay of the British must indicate some urgency.
‘Good in you to come, Mr – er, Senor Serrano. A tea, perhaps?’ The young man was rumpled and unshaven but had an intensity about him, an exaltation even.
‘No! Captain Keed – no time. I will tell you, ver’ important. I come as quick as I can. Gen’ral Liniers, he coming! He trick you – while your ships scatter because of the storm he’s to make a crossing over.’
‘When?’ Kydd breathed, his tiredness vanishing in a flash.
‘Is not when, is where. Not from Colonia del Sacramento, there he knows you will see him. No, he march forty mile along to Punta Pavon. At there is deeper, an’ ship can come in close. He can load up his boats wi’ soldiers quickly, you cannot see him.’
Kydd rummaged for his largest-scale chart and found the spot, a third of the way back to Montevideo. Sure enough, there was a tongue of three- or four-fathom water the other side of the Ortiz Bank, coming to within a short distance of the uninhabited coast.
‘Ships – how’s he going to get them, without we see them move from Colonia?’ Kydd snapped, cudgelling his mind to take in the implications of the all-too-possible stratagem.
‘He leave them there, an’ you think he will still cross. He brings boats from Montevideo, many.’
‘Mr Serrano, I need to know – when?’
‘Not more an’ two days. This I hear from the general talking.’