Mason cleared his throat. ‘Boats. Not so many as can be seen, but each well loaded with seamen and marines.’
Kydd began to speak but thought better of it.
‘What is it, Kydd? You have an objection already?’ Rowley snapped.
‘Keep the marines separate. They can then independently lay down a fire from their boat to cover the others on a boarding or such. And more boats – with casualties you’ll be-’
‘Opinion noted,’ Mason said sharply, ‘And my orders stand.’
There was more but Kydd let it go. He could think of so many ways in which things might snarl up for them – night, boats, the accompanying frigates stopped at the bar and unable to assist, the lack of knowledge of where the French garrison troops were, no local pilots.
‘To clarify, sir, our objectives are the destruction of the Indiaman and the frigate and none else.’
A gratified flash of satisfaction betrayed that the ‘sir’ was not wasted on Mason.
‘To carry both to be prizes would be-’
‘Captain Mason, the object of this operation is the bringing down of confusion and dread on the enemy in a harbour he thought safe,’ Rowley said testily. Surprised at his comment, Kydd could only nod in agreement.
‘That is to say,’ Mason continued smoothly, barely hiding his cupidity, ‘where the primary objective is met, the additional advantage of flaunting ships of value to the enemy as seized by us is not to be scorned.’
‘Timing therefore being of the essence.’
Mason frowned. ‘In what sense, sir? The moon will not be up before-’
‘If we go in with the tide on the flood, the ships we have, er, seized must be out over the bar before the ebb traps them inside.’
‘Well, of course, man! Captain Kydd, I do desire you will wait until you have my full written orders before you make free with your objections. Shall I go on?’
The operation was set for three days’ time.
Chapter 18
The orders specified that a division of seamen and marines in three boats be provided by each frigate, which would lie off the bar in company to recover the craft.
The assault would go in at eleven that night, being dictated by the flood tide an hour earlier and the moon, rising at one thirty. Speed and surprise were emphasised, the boats throwing their men ashore at each end of the vessel to be stormed, battling their way onto the deck where the sail handlers would race aloft while fighting was still going on.
The Indiaman was prey for Riposte’s division, the frigate Tyger and Vigilant’s. If there was trouble, in view of the tide state and the bar, any talk of rescue by British frigates was off the table, whatever the peril. The entire engagement was expected to take just three hours from departure to return.
In an attachment, there were complicated signals, involving false fires and rockets concerned with recall and abandoning the mission – quite useless, for once discovered there was only one course, to fight free, and unquestionably it was up to the commander on the spot to act as he saw fit.
Kydd called his first lieutenant. ‘Mr Bray. You shall be leading the Tygers.’ It brought a deep grin of satisfaction. ‘And as such you will make preparations as will conform to our orders.’
By evening the lieutenant had them ready. The launch would be commanded by himself, with a boat carronade mounted forward and containing the first wave of seamen boarders, the blue cutter with the second wave under Mr Bowden, and the red cutter, carrying marines, to stand off and maintain fire with Mr Midshipman Rowan.
The boats would have spare oars becketed up under the thwarts, a boat’s bag with plugs for shot-holes, and copper tingles that could be nailed over as a patch on larger breaches. Each man would be equipped with a brace of pistols and a fresh-sharpened cutlass, some with rigging-slashing tomahawks, and all in their loose clothing able to swarm into the tops fully armed.
Kydd wandered down the deck as the work proceeded, reaching for the right words to say to men who would be going into mortal conflict at his order. He knew they were watching him, drawing strength from whatever they saw in his bearing and manner when dealing with matters as they came up.
Rowan, looking absurdly young, stood among a line of well-built seamen at the armourer’s grindstone. He smiled uncertainly at his captain, his face pale and serious. For a fleeting moment Kydd nearly gave in to the temptation of finding some excuse to stand the man-child down but knew he must not. He comforted himself with the thought that in charge of a boat standing off he would not be in actual hand-to-hand struggle with the enemy.
As the time for the expedition approached, Kydd weighed up the odds.
Lisbon was by no means easy meat. This was a world-class harbour with forts each side of the entrance and along the river shore garrison citadels at unknown intervals. It was all of four or five miles to the docks and, unless they were lucky, they could be under fire all the way.
On the other hand it was the last thing the French would be expecting and, with their objectives limited to specifics, there was every reason to be done with the job and get out.
At ten the three frigates closed with the entrance to the Tagus and took position, anchoring, the bows quickly swinging seawards with the incoming tide.
All was in utter blackness, except the glow on the horizon upriver that was Lisbon docks. They could be properly made out only with a glass in the tops, so Kydd climbed up and carefully trained the telescope, the image leaping into focus upside-down as it was a night lens.
He studied the scene. River traffic seemed to be settling down, boats and lighters still at work around the vessels moored out, some in numbers that needed them to be rafted together, useful cover.
Shifting the glass along, he scanned the wharf slowly, the Indiaman clearly visible by its size, and closer to seaward the frigate, looking improbably small. The length of working quay from its beginning at the quaint Tower of Belem onwards was straight, gratifyingly well lit for handling cargo, and therefore suitable for close action.
After another quick look round, he returned to the deck. ‘Well, Mr Bray, it seems quiet enough. I see nothing to dismay us.’
Riposte was close by, difficult to make out in the darkness. A dim lanthorn flickered into life on her quarterdeck: it was raised, lowered, raised.
‘Board your boats!’
Men thumped down into their places with a mutter, a feeble joke. Kydd’s eyes sought out and found the slight figure of Rowan, correctly waiting for his cutter to fill before he went down over the side, his blackened face glancing back just once to the quarterdeck. May God preserve the youngster, he thought.
The pinprick of lanthorn light turned blue as a filter was passed across it.
They were off – there was nothing now that Kydd could do for any of them.
In the blackness of the outer limits they were soon invisible, but he knew where they were going: not directly into the broad entrance of the Tagus with its forts but away to the south, across the wide Bugio sandbar and behind the squat Forte de Sao Laurenco whose cannon were expecting ships to attack through the mile-wide entry into Lisbon. The sandbar was treacherous and shallow, but for boats on a flowing tide it gave a chance to reach deep within the harbour.
As long as the weather held and they were not seen.
It seemed an age before there was any change in the night scene. Then, in a silent display, there was unreadable confusion – too far away to hear firing but within sight in the tops, a vivid criss-cross of gun-flash centred about the two ships. The assault was on.
In a fever of frustration Kydd tried to make out what was happening, but from near five miles distance, it was too chaotic to disentangle. He could just see fighting on the wharf close to them and firing from boats in the water, which shortly petered out.