It had happened all too quickly, and trained, equipped armies were not to be plucked out of mid-air. Very fortunately such an expedition was already in existence: assembled in Cork, tasked embarrassingly for a strike against the Spanish colony of Venezuela province, its commander none other than Tyger’s celebrated guest.
Orders quickly revised, the fleet had sailed to Spain and made contact with the junta of Corunna to begin disembarkation, but after Bailen the proud Spaniards had become arrogant and refused to allow Wellesley to land. It was in a way understandable, for the Spanish, with no help from the outside world, had confronted Dupont’s army moving on Cadiz and had soundly defeated it in open battle, killing more than two thousand and taking nearly twenty thousand prisoners, including the French general and his entire staff.
Other juntas up and down the coast, exulting in this success, had similarly refused military co-operation, which had left Wellesley and his transports wallowing idly offshore in the Bay of Biscay. Fortunately his orders were wide and discretionary, and a descent on Portugal was put in consideration.
This was no easy matter: with the whole country in occupation by the French, any landing would attract an instant response, but with news of a rising in Oporto and resulting confusion, they had a chance – if there was a suitably discreet point for getting ashore.
With Britain’s only army at risk of destruction on a continental shore, so much was riding on Kydd’s selection, which was to say that if any were to be blamed for a botched landing it would not be General Wellesley, who was only asking the navy to bring about a safe disembarking.
Kydd slept badly that night. The blind rush into action was foreign to his cool mind, and in all his other conjunct enterprises there’d been extensive planning beforehand. He was being given the responsibility and he knew neither the extent of the forces he was being asked to place ashore nor where the individual support equipment was distributed in the transports. A disaster caused by either the elements or the enemy would put an end to his professional career in short order.
They raised the convoy, a mass of some seventy ships, in a cold dawn off Finisterre. It was escorted by an elderly 74, Donegal, and a frigate, Resistance. Kydd accompanied Wellesley to Donegal and a council-of-war was called immediately.
It was curious to be seated at one end of the table, Wellesley at the other while the captains of Donegal and Resistance, both senior to him, were given minor seating. The aristocratic general, though, made it abundantly clear that Kydd and his ship were to be the centre of operations for the actual landing and, without ceremony, turned the meeting over to him.
He was ready for it. Claiming Heron, a senior lieutenant, as his assistant, he spelled out his requirements: the numbers involved; a bill of lading of all transports by sunset the next day; a schedule of priorities from the army for landing men and equipment; and a comprehensive run-down of everything that floated, all the transports and naval craft, with the names of the commanders and their subordinates.
There was more but that could wait. He and Heron had the day to put it all together in the way he’d learned in other campaigns.
‘Gentlemen, you’ll have your orders before you as we land,’ Kydd said firmly. ‘It leaves us only to pray that the weather is not overmuch in the west or sou’-west.’
But there would be need for a lot more work before then. A comprehensive set of signals, from ‘abandon the enterprise’ to ‘form up to repel an enemy advance’; tarpaulins to cover stores landed in rain; safe storage of powder; sketch maps of beach divided into regimental territory; corrals for the secure holding of horses terrified by their experiences … It went on and on.
Bray became temporary captain of Tyger, while Dillon acted as manager of the crowded team of clerks and functionaries that was to turn out the actual orders. The midshipmen were told off to be within hail at all times for messenger duties.
In three days Kydd had the plans complete. The landings would be on the morrow.
A total of 9,600 men would go ashore – infantry, artillery-men with their guns, four hundred cavalry and their horses. A respectable number, but a small fraction of what Bonaparte could throw against them.
The gunroom held a dinner in honour of the occasion, but Kydd was still working and could not attend.
A misty dawn broke – it was time to move in.
With the convoy hove to out of range of the shore, Tyger closed with the river. The correct code jerked up the fort’s flagstaff, still in British hands and no enemy in sight.
So, it was not to be a bloody opposed assault. In huge relief the frigate came to anchor and threw out her hoist: ‘commence landing’.
Tyger’s launch was lowered to the water and boarded by the beach crew – Stirk, with his usual red kerchief, would have the honour of first ashore. But when Kydd scanned the beach and sand spit, he saw something at the entrance that made him pause. Along the line of the beach was the tell-tale creaming white of combers crashing in and at the entrance an even higher progression of rollers over the bar.
He watched anxiously. If the launch with a full naval crew couldn’t make it, boats encumbered with soldiery and guns could not be expected to.
Poulden brought the launch in cautiously, the oarsmen giving short, rapid strokes as the waves beneath them felt the shelving bottom and rose higher and higher. At a well-judged point, Poulden gave an order. The men fought at their oars to catch the top of a wave and keep with it in a furious rush through the entrance of the Mondego to the less frenzied waters inside. There, the boat took the sandy bottom and slewed violently sideways.
The experienced seamen had known that would happen and threw themselves over the side before it came to rest, upside down.
If Stirk was first ashore Kydd didn’t see it, but the doughty sailor soon had his piece of white bunting tied to an oar and hoisted high. ‘Conditions acceptable’.
He felt a rush of nerves. Could he trust his judgement?
Then he saw the dozen men with Stirk take position waist deep in the sea. They were going to intercept the boats before they took ground and presumably heave out the occupants.
Kydd gave a twisted smile. He doubted the big man would be in any wise gentle.
Spread over what seemed like miles of sea, boats were steadily making their way in. And, in accordance with Kydd’s instructions, they did so in regular order, the first lining up on the beach party and, after a hesitation, heading bravely in.
The boat was seized and steadied, the occupants turned out into the surf to stumble through the last tugging seethe of the sea to assemble on the higher beach.
Another came in, was held, and the previous passengers dragooned back to the task of hauling ashore stores as the first of their equipment was landed. Another Tyger boat came in to swell the beach party and the pace quickened.
As the afternoon wore on the weather grew boisterous and the seas increased in vigour, carrying real viciousness in their heave and roar. Inevitably one boat caught a broadside. In a flash it rolled over in a lethal tangle of oars and black shapes, men hammered under by the crumping waves, then re-appearing as still shapes further up the beach.
Almost immediately another went in, its coxswain distracted, perhaps, by the fate of the other, and again there was the snarl of splintered wreckage, ropes – and corpses.
Kydd could do nothing except agonise: was it right to let them continue?
They had started out well – but only hundreds had reached the safety of dry land. Thousands were yet to make it, let alone the tons of stores. Should he-