Kydd decided to show himself on deck, take an interest in Brice’s exercises – despite the nature of their mission, who knew when next a battle-winning move might be needed in a rush?
It was brisk and refreshing on deck and Kydd was pleased to see his third lieutenant taking advantage of the morning offshore breeze to keep in well with the land. This was close to Oporto, an important wine-exporting seaport now occupied by the French and therefore choked off from its trade by the blockade.
Nothing appeared to have changed: the low, sandy coast, the river mouth guarded by the fort Sao Joao da Foz, and a mile or so in, past the sandbar, the town itself, no more ships to see than the usual few at the docks.
He turned to watch a reef being put into the fore course, the movements of the topmen lithe and sure. There would be no hesitation in stress of battle with these men, probably the best he’d ever had the honour to command.
‘Well done, Mr Brice,’ he called unnecessarily. ‘You’ve some good men there, I believe.’
But the officer was not listening. He had his telescope up, trained ashore. ‘Sir, and here’s a puzzle. The fort – those aren’t your French colours at all. Portuguee, if I’m not pixy-led.’
Kydd borrowed his glass and concentrated on the old fortification. Without a doubt, the bunting was not French. Red, with a shield borne in the centre – this was the Portuguese national flag, he was sure of it, but what did it mean?
‘I agree with you. Do you think …?’
Brice gave a sudden grin. ‘Why not? If Spain is in revolt against the Mongseers, then why not the Portuguese?’
If they were, he should offer any help he could. The first thing was to confirm the situation without putting Tyger at risk.
‘We pay our respects, Mr Brice.’
The frigate closed with the fort and, when within range, began a respectful gun salute to the standard of Portugal, firing safely out to sea, as was the custom. There was no response until they’d completed the salute. Then the fort thudded out its reply.
‘So. They wouldn’t dare if Boney’s soldiers were about, and that means …’
‘Ah, there’s a boat putting off, sir.’
It was pulled by oars instead of sail, resembling a warship’s pinnace, and an officer was in its sternsheets. It made its way out slowly while Tyger remained hove to.
‘Side party,’ Kydd growled. If this was who he thought it might be, he would see everything done the right way.
The boat came alongside, its rowers exhausted, but the officer sprang energetically up the ship’s side and accepted Kydd’s formal greeting with an easy grace.
He introduced himself. ‘Capitao Manuel Meireles. Of the armed forces of the junta of Oporto.’
Kydd murmured a reply and asked politely, ‘And of what service may we be to you, sir?’
‘A half an hour to hear me would greatly oblige, sir.’
As Tyger got under way again, under easy sail, Kydd led his visitor to his great cabin.
‘Your English is of the first order, Capitao.’
‘As is why the bishop sends me to you.’
‘Bishop?’
‘Dom Antonio de Castro, leader of the Oporto junta.’
‘I think you’d better tell me more,’ Kydd said, eyeing Meireles with a degree of wariness.
It was a complex tale but delivered elegantly and succinctly.
Following the risings in Spain, the Portuguese had taken heart and risen against the French in isolated locations about the country. Junot’s soldiery had responded in the usual brutal manner, triggering murderous attacks and assassinations in reprisal. This had set the French on the defensive, Junot ordering his garrisons and forts to draw in their lines to form a series of military concentrations in place of the previous thinly spread occupation force.
The most successful rising was in Oporto. It had been garrisoned by Spanish troops in accordance with the Treaty of Fontainebleau, but when they had heard of the outrages in Madrid their general had abruptly left, marching eastwards to join the Spanish risings in Galicia. This left a vacuum, quickly filled by insurgents, who had broken into barracks to seize arms and form a militia army.
In a fever of patriotism, officers of the disbanded royal army had been recalled to the colours, their mission to reconstruct the old battalions, but it was proving next to impossible. There was no lack of volunteers but they could be armed only with pitchforks, scythes and home-made pikes. These men, coming up with Junot’s regulars, would be slaughtered in their thousands unless they were given arms, especially muskets and artillery.
As to the current situation in Oporto, the different juntas had vowed to stay together and allow themselves to be led by the trusted bishop, Dom Antonio de Castro.
At the moment the north shore of the Douro was in the hands of the insurgents while, in accordance with Junot’s orders, the French were concentrated at an encampment in the south, poised to take back Oporto when ordered.
In dignified tones, Meireles concluded by asking that Kydd give thought to what he could do to bring hope to the Portuguese people in their peril.
Kydd was at a loss to see how he could do anything. A frigate was a sea beast, equipped for far ocean-ranging against ships of the foe. The Portuguese needed arms and something like an army to stand up to the French. All he had were the Royal Marines, only a couple of dozen at that, and no muskets or powder to spare. By rights, he should break off his cruise immediately and return to the fleet to alert them of the need, let them have the worry of putting together a relief force. But that would take too long, the French massing so close for a strike back. The people of Oporto needed something now, a tangible proof that they were not on their own in this brute struggle.
‘Capitao, you will tell me of Oporto, where the French are, your own forces.’
‘Certainly, Captain.’ Meireles drew out a folded map, not detailed but quite sufficient to convey the gist of the matter.
Kydd gave him a glance of respect: the man was intelligent and resourceful, one he could work with. He studied the map: the French to the south around Vila Nova, at the narrowest point in the river Douro, the junta and its headquarters on the north shore. A bridge connected the two.
Kydd looked up. Yes! Without a doubt the French would be relying on the bridge. It took them from their cantonment directly into the heart of the town.
‘Hmm. I believe, sir, we can do something for you. Shall we …?’
Chapter 46
Tyger anchored to seaward as Kydd took the pinnace in under sail, Meireles at his side in the sternsheets, pointing out the sights. Kydd had eyes only for terrain and fortifications. Besides the fort at the river entrance, there were others, those on the right manned by the French. As they sailed on, the river narrowed to a spectacular gorge, the town itself crowded on the left just before it, an imposing and beautiful sight.
The bridge ahead connecting the two sides was actually a bridge of boats stemming the current, its wooden roadway flat and open.
Yes, denying it to the French would be possible: a ship moored off the bank such that its broadside could be directed along the length of the bridge. Each gun loaded for canister or grape and firing in turn could render the bridge a killing ground for any column of troops attempting the crossing. The only other bridge of any kind for miles was up-river – no French general would hazard a crossing the long way around. Kydd’s plan would effectively confine them to their side of the river, thus saving Oporto.
But he must find a ship of force to do it. This couldn’t be Tyger – she had other work. He scanned the wharves and docks until he spotted an ocean-going ship, one of the Brazil traders in enforced idleness. ‘Can you commandeer that ship?’ he asked Meireles.