‘Since the piping days of the elder Pitt it’s been our golden rule never to tangle ourselves in a Continental quarrel. All our strategy and plans follow this dictum. It’s worked to full satisfaction until now in so far as we’ve resisted the temptation to put troops ashore on some adventure or other.’
‘Copenhagen?’
‘In to do the job, out as soon as we may. No, Pip, this is different. There’s no defined objective I can work to, no clear task I’m given that, being achieved, we can say we’ve won.’
‘To help the Spanish, surely.’
‘I can ship them arms and guineas, but as soon as it turns to troops on the ground, I have to ask some devilish hard questions. What are they to be used for? To fight the French in common cause. Until when? Presumably until they’ve been ejected from the country. How long will that take? At the very least years – mayhap many years. So there we are, moiled in a Continental land war for the indefinitely long term as we’ve always said we wouldn’t be.’
‘Don’t be so cast down, m’ friend. We’ve lost the Dons as an enemy and gained ’em as a friend. They’re passionate about the thing, are they not?’
‘I’m not at all sanguine they’re an advantage. If you’ve heard what I have about the reign of chaos they call their government and the band of peasantry and bandits they call their army it would give you cause to weep.’
‘Our own military is much to be esteemed, I fancy.’
‘Such as we have,’ Castlereagh muttered. ‘And that only as good as the officers.’
‘Why, how can you say that when it’s the hero of the Mahrattas to their fore?’
‘Wellesley? He may be the people’s hero, but he’s a politicking, fame-seeking popinjay who happened to be available at the time. He’s an able general, I’ll grant, but damned difficult to work with.’ He paused, then said, ‘In any event, he’s not to be accounted anything more than a junior in the field. Horse Guards has realised that the only active military command is in Iberia, and now I have them loudly claiming the honour for themselves, so I’ve this day had to sign papers appointing three generals of seniority above Wellesley. No doubt they’re already on their way to relieve him of his army.’ He sighed extravagantly. ‘With Junot’s numbers being what they are, I can’t imagine why. I wouldn’t wish to be in the field against him. We’ll see.’
‘So what do you expect?’
‘To be brutally honest, a gallant defeat. But we’ve obeyed the people’s will, and as long as the military are prudent enough to keep within shouting distance of the sea, we’ll be able to take them off again.’
‘A damned cynical view, if I may say so. Surely there’s a bright side.’
‘Umm. Not as I’d term plausible, Pip. If by some miracle we can prevail in Portugal, it would be the first time in Europe’s recent history that the French are ejected from their own conquered territory. And if we could then back the monarchy, trade, their full liberty, we’ve near a thousand miles of the desert and mountains of Iberia to cross and restore before we can say the same about Spain. Do you think that credible, dear fellow?’
Lawder sipped his brandy, regarding Castlereagh steadily. ‘I take your point, sir. And will await an outcome with some interest, this you may believe.’
Chapter 52
Aboard HMS Tyger
Kydd saw the last of the dusty columns march into the distance with mixed feelings. Any logical speculation would give weeks only before the French converged on them in an irresistible onslaught, resulting in misery and retreat. Yet he saw behind the aristocratic arrogance of the general who led them a will of tempered steel coupled with a razor-sharp mind and hardened battlefield ruthlessness. If they had any chance, Wellesley would be the one to give it to them.
The beachhead was by no means abandoned. For want of mules and carts, vast amounts of stores stood guarded in rows, growing by the day. Those tens of thousands would be kept supplied from the sea. Then, when sufficient horse and mule transport had been found, the stores would be carried inland to where the army marched on. Only when a port of size had been captured could any kind of regular commissariat be established.
Almost as soon as General Wellesley and his regiments had disappeared, Kydd was called to Donegal. This time there was no nonsense about who was in charge: the landing had been accomplished and Kydd’s part completed. Brusquely he was told Tyger’s employment: to stay by the beachhead to regulate the landing of stores and their seaward defence until relieved. Donegal and all others would leave with the empty transports.
It was tedious work for a crack frigate, but the weather had moderated to a fine, warm cast and Kydd had the pleasure of seeing his midshipmen in the tops with the men, mast against mast in sail exercises, and occasionally out in a boat for a ‘banyan’ picnic ashore or in haughty challenge to one of the sloops that kept them company.
It was good, too, to see Brice developing, his social confidence building on his exemplary professional skills, maturing into a first-class naval officer Kydd was proud to have aboard.
In Bowden as well he had a reliable, top-quality officer, whose calm incisiveness under pressure and long-sighted decisions were models of reasoning. He was a little quiet, never one to push himself forward, but with his friends in high places he would in time get himself noticed in the service and find the preferment he deserved.
It was only his first lieutenant, Bray, who gave him cause for concern. One of the old school of sea officers, he led from the front in the thickest action. His courage in gale or battle brought out the sincerest admiration, his legendary short ways with skulkers and laziness precisely what were needed to forge a ship’s company of matchless performance and dedication to duty.
What was becoming increasingly obvious, though, was his moodiness – nothing Kydd could put his finger on but worrying all the same. Was it to do with his future career path? Bray had performed impeccably in Tyger as her premier, taking on his appointment when she was at her lowest point, a mutiny ship, and seeing her through all her trials and triumphs since. However, for reasons most likely connected to Kydd’s style of leadership, he had never had the opportunity to shine alone in some desperate engagement.
Bray was now approaching his forties and needed to make that crucial step to command, however lowly, when his ship’s victories and successes would be in his own name and honour. Left too long, he would finally pace his own quarterdeck, his youthful vigour diminished, the vital drive to conquer no longer the foremost element of his character.
But Kydd could do nothing about it for the present.
Days passed into weeks.
It was odd to have positions reversed. For most of the war it had been the navy that had borne the brunt, keeping the seas in all weathers and at every dawn prepared to sight an enemy that would mean hours spent locked in bloody fighting. And, in the fearsome days of the threatened invasion, it had been in constant warfare off the French coast, keeping the flotillas at bay, while England trembled and the army waited behind their walls and battlements.
Years of this had passed, and the army for the most part had remained in Britain, in garrisons and barracks, never seeing a shot fired in anger.
Now the army was marching into danger, headed for a full-blooded confrontation with the enemy on the mainland of Europe while the navy stood by in support. How would Wellesley and his small army fare? Yet again Kydd had to learn patience and wait for what emerged from a situation that was no longer the navy’s to direct or influence.
Chapter 53
One morning an army officer was spied approaching the makeshift landing stage in the river at the gallop. It caused much comment and the needless signal ‘send boat’ from the beach party was acted on with speed.
The launch made for Tyger and the officer came aboard. ‘L’tenant Grieves, first battalion of the Thirty-eighth of Foot. I’ve dispatches, sir, as must be got to England.’