‘A battle?’ Kydd asked, trying not to let his eagerness show.
‘Um, not as who’s to say, sir. Its passage?’
‘Of course. Mr Bowden, call in Laertes if you will. Now, Mr Grieves, while it readies for England, you will have time to tell us your news.’
It was no earth-shattering revelation but it was significant. General Wellesley had landed without opposition and had now boldly decided to march south immediately towards Lisbon. At Kydd’s surprise that he was taking on the French headquarters in Portugal directly, Grieves confided that Wellesley was a man with little time. He’d received news that he was to be replaced as commander of the expedition by others senior to him and had barely days to make his mark before they arrived.
So far he’d made first contact with the enemy and had emerged victorious at the village of Rolica. The outnumbered enemy, surprised by the appearance of English soldiery, had grouped together and made good account of themselves, inflicting many casualties, but Wellesley had prevailed.
It was clear, though, that this was no more than a delaying tactic. Junot in Lisbon would have been informed and be on the march north with his thousands for a concluding engagement on quite another scale.
‘General Wellesley hopes you will follow him south, sir. He cleaves to the coast in the trust you can shift your most admirable operations of supply to parallel his movements.’
The little packet addressed to Kydd would no doubt include these details. ‘We shall, L’tenant.’
Charts and maps were consulted. Wellesley’s soldiers had covered all of seventy-odd miles, close to the coast, through uplands and even mountains, all of which they had crossed on foot with pack and musket. Kydd would do his part. The only other point of land they could consider for a landing was the river leading inland to Maceira, only thirty miles from the outskirts of Lisbon; it must be taken to be in enemy hands until proved otherwise.
Until then, General Wellesley was on his own.
‘I wish you well of the venture and God speed of your dispatch,’ Kydd told Grieves, as he saw him off.
He sat down to think. If the English were routed by Junot and his forces before Lisbon they would need taking off. It was quite outside his capability – the transports had been taken back to England and the nearest ships of any kind were in the fleet off Cadiz, even now dispersing, and the few under Rowley off Lisbon. Both squadrons were forwarded intelligence by the sloops attached to their respective commands and presumably would know what to do in the event of a defeat and forced evacuation.
Therefore his job was as before: to ensure the army ashore was supplied and tracked day by day so he was on hand, God forbid, for any escape by sea.
Two days later a small squadron appeared out of the mists to the north – English. It was rapidly established that an important personage was aboard, Lieutenant General Sir Harry Burrard, with reinforcements and orders that placed him above Wellesley in command of the expedition, now elevated to the status of British Forces, Iberia.
Impatient and eager to assume his rightful place, the general had nevertheless to stand idle until his forces had been landed. His temper was not improved by the sudden appearance of Grieves with news of the departure from Lisbon of Junot’s fighting columns. Not only that, but their pace was formidable and it was expected that a clash would occur within days, and at a place not so very far away.
The patient waiting was all too much for the red-faced general, who angrily took horse with his staff, then rode off to find Wellesley and take charge of the battle.
If there was going to be a sad ending to the expedition it would be now, and Kydd kept Redwing, a dispatch cutter, close by to send out the instant it became clear what had happened. Other than that there was nothing he could do.
A passing naval sloop had the courtesy to tell Kydd of a successful landing of reinforcements further south, at the Maceira river, under yet another senior general, Sir John Moore. It seemed Whitehall was doing all they could to support the enterprise.
Then news broke from three exhausted staff officers with urgent dispatches who’d put off in a boat together.
Moore had been too late on the scene, while Burrard had arrived when the battle was at its height and had to allow Wellesley to finish it, but it did not signify: the outcome was the same. A victory of gratifying proportions near the town of Vimeiro, the French even now falling back in disorder on Lisbon.
That evening Kydd joined the celebratory dinner in the gunroom when glasses were hoisted in toast to the prickly aristocrat who had put England’s footprint so firmly on the Continent. Not only was it a victory but it must give heart to all who wished them well, especially the Portuguese people who still suffered under the French. And the word now was ‘forward’.
The morning brought spreading sunshine, much speculation – and the arrival of a lone senior officer. He’d taken boat over calm seas to Tyger. Holding himself still and forbidding, he came aboard without demand of ceremony and asked to see the captain.
‘I do thank you, sir,’ he said gratefully, accepting a cordial. Tired and dusty, his faultlessly cut dark uniform showing signs of recent hard wear, he was obviously in need of respite. ‘Colonel Hugh Packwood of the Thirty-sixth – or, more properly, the late colonel.’
‘Captain Kydd and you’re right welcome aboard my ship, Colonel,’ Kydd replied, hiding his curiosity. ‘You said “late”, did you not?’
Packwood looked away, his expression unreadable.
‘A hard-fought battle, then,’ Kydd prompted.
‘Not the worst I’ve encountered.’ He drained the glass abruptly and gave Kydd a lop-sided grin.
He was of an age, and mature, lines in his face telling of long years in military service, but his humorous manner spoke of an irreverent spirit. ‘This morning I resigned my post as colonel of the regiment and so therefore am no longer.’
At Kydd’s uncomprehending look, he said, ‘I see I must explain further. The resignation is nothing to do with the fighting, which was brisk enough. Rather it was as a result of the actions of my commanding general, to which I took grave exception.’ He smiled sadly. ‘You’re not of the military tribe so I may feel free to be frank. Well, the action was fine done and we saw the French off in noble fashion. Yet the first order of General Burrard on taking command was to General Wellesley – to halt the pursuit of the fleeing French. Yes! Just so – to leave off an action that would result in something approaching annihilation and the road wide open for Lisbon.’
‘I see,’ Kydd said. ‘And your general agreed?’
‘No, sir, but he was with strenuous protest overruled by Lieutenant General Dalrymple, one sent to rule over them both. The reason? That it was too risky to chance our only army in a pursuit and we should pause to consolidate. Just forty miles from the capital, as the crow doth fly, and we sit on our hands!’
Packwood slumped, dejected, in his chair. ‘I’m getting too old for the tolerating of idiocy – I swear I cannot find it in me to serve under such.’
Kydd was not sure how he should respond and kept his silence until Packwood looked up hopefully. ‘I understand you’re the officer in charge of transports and shipping. I’d be infinitely obliged for passage back to England, sir.’
‘Ah. All dispatch cutters are absent on service at this time, I fear.’ He sympathised with the man but what he was saying was nothing but the truth. ‘Returning transports will be going to Gibraltar, and anything of a naval stripe will be standing by until matters become clearer.’
‘Oh.’
On impulse he offered, ‘You may consider staying aboard Tyger until a ship is found for you, our deploying remaining the same, of course.’
‘This is handsome in you, sir.’
‘Purely as a guest with no official status, you’ll understand. I’d let you have my cabin but at the moment it must act as a species of headquarters and-’