Kydd was under no illusion: this was Rowley cynically hoping the shame and disrepute of the whole thing would rub off on him. His blood boiled at the certain knowledge that the admiral had been aware of how it would wound his sense of rightness, and he tried in vain to think of a way out – but duty laid down was duty to be done.
There was one bright light in all the gloom: the military liaison officer he was directed to work with was none other than Major General Beresford, the upright but sorely tested commander of the failed British attempt on Buenos Aires in which Kydd had played his part. They would understand each other.
Tyger sailed into the Tagus, past Forte de Sao Laurenco at the entrance that Kydd had last seen on his attack only some weeks before, now with an enormous Portuguese flag lazily floating atop its stout tower, then by the centuries-old carved-stone Belem tower before the mile or so of wharves, alive with newly liberated shipping.
Beresford’s courteous note had indicated that the French would be assigned the Belem Square for their embarkation point, and he would meet Kydd there for details of the departure, timed to begin the next day.
Tyger lay off, well clear of the docks and moored to two anchors. Ashore it was difficult to make out what was going on as it was crowded with masses of moving figures, most in the vivid colours of the military, and the transports were even now jockeying to be warped in alongside.
‘My barge – Mr Dillon to accompany, Mr Clayton in the launch to provide a dozen marines issued with ball to land with bayonets fixed.’
Beresford would have suitable military but Kydd meant to take personal charge in the boarding of the transports. Who knew what would blow up, with the Portuguese rumoured to be in an ugly mood?
The barge found the steps and Kydd mounted them with a dignified air. Beresford was waiting for him at the top with a few of his staff and gave a comradely smile, advancing to shake his hand.
‘I’m bound to say it’s most gratifying to meet you again, sir,’ Kydd said, with all sincerity, ‘since last I saw you in such provoking circumstances.’
‘Buenos Aires? Yes, a trying state of affairs.’ They had both escaped, but at different times, then gone on to more illustrious futures. ‘Yet perhaps not as provoking as what we face here, my friend,’ Beresford added.
He briefly gestured. The square was crowded but remarkably neat. Dominating all was a headquarters tent with a tasselled regimental flag above it and, in no less than four other places, a French national standard in arrogant defiance. A stream of carts and soldiers bearing packs and bundles was adding to mountains of baggage near filling the area. With a start Kydd took in the sight of field guns at the sides and rear of the square, ranged for firing outward, complete with limber and smoking portfire – manned entirely by Frenchmen.
‘Yes. They’ve every reason to fear the vengeance of the Portuguese people, and the convention allowing ’em to keep their military equipment, I can’t well deny them.’
Officers of Junot’s army sauntered about in full dress uniform, their swords conspicuously by their sides, with expressions ranging from lordly disdain to sullen animosity. To Kydd, it resembled more a gathering of triumphant veterans than a defeated army being ejected after just one battle.
‘You have plans for the transports, Sir Thomas?’ asked Beresford.
‘I have. In all we are allowed by the Board of Transport thirty of the full-rigged breed and sixty-two of the lesser. As were used by General Wellesley in his descent on the Mondego river. These will-’
‘This will be barely enough. The wording of the convention is so loose as to allow your coach and horses through. “The honours of war” – all pennons, eagles, baubles and similar to be paraded whenever they see fit, with bands and horses. “Military equipment” – every gun they possess with its impedimenta and munitions, all bladed weapons, of any kind, and stores thereto. And “personal property” by which we are to understand not merely their clothing and accoutrements but as well their full share of plunder from this ravaged country.’
‘I cannot ask for more transports! They’ll have to leave it behind.’
‘Not so, old chap,’ Beresford said sadly. ‘The terms of the convention are not to be breached. If their personal property must be returned it is not their concern how it’s to be done, merely that it is. How – this is your affair, I’m sorry to say.’
‘Be damned to the knaves!’ Kydd blurted hotly. ‘I won’t have it!’
‘Dear fellow. Should you refuse them, it will be my own good self that will be held accountable and I know you wouldn’t want that.’
Smouldering, Kydd glared at the gathering horde. Here was the enemy, his duty to fall upon and destroy, and they were dictating to him. ‘Very well. Each of the transports alongside the quay will have two brows – that’s gang-planks. The forward one will be for rank and file, the after one for the officers, who will board last. Those with heavy gear will load separately. I want to get away as soon as I may. The vessels will be warped out and lie at anchor until all are ready for sea at which we’ll proceed, without touching anywhere, to Rochefort.’
‘You’ll want guards?’
‘Not on the ships. They cause trouble, they don’t get home. I’ve a notion they’ll more need guards here in the square.’
‘We’ve a battalion of foot in barracks, if needed. British bayonets saving a French army for another day,’ he muttered sourly.
Kydd sensed the bitterness that lay under his words but moved on. ‘I’ll need ’em mustered here by ship. I’ll let you know numbers when each is ready to load.’
A rectangle was quickly laid out, using ropes. ‘Men here, their baggage there for ticketing.’
The first transport: Lord McAllan, a substantial full-rigged vessel being worked in up to the quay. ‘Mr Clayton. Guard of honour, bayonets fixed.’
Clayton grinned mirthlessly. He knew what Kydd meant: a double line of marines facing inwards at each brow just as the Botany Bay convicts were duly honoured at their transportation.
Several French officers strolled forward, their servants standing by their baggage.
Kydd went to the first, a tall, supercilious staff officer. ‘Your papers?’ he demanded.
The man looked astonished, then reluctantly extracted a well-thumbed military notecase and took out a document that meant little to Kydd.
‘Baggage?’
Wearily the man gestured to a considerable pile of well-secured pieces of kit.
‘Open it.’
Two seamen went to the mound and began unlacing the first bag.
The officer started with horror and, with a snarl, tried to intervene but was held back. It contained jewellery and plate, carefully wrapped and very obviously of ecclesiastical origin.
Red-faced, the officer bellowed in outrage. It brought others running but Kydd snapped an order and the marines took position.
Beresford hurried forward. ‘What’s the problem?’ he puffed.
Kydd pointed to the gold and silver. ‘Personal property?’ he asked sarcastically.
The officer spat out his answer. It seemed Kydd had no right whatsoever to make search of his baggage, as if he were a common criminal. As an officer and gentleman, if he declared it as his personal property who was Kydd to interfere?
‘If he swears it’s his, there’s little we can do to argue otherwise,’ Beresford muttered.
‘Look at it! I’m not allowing the results of this thievery aboard my ships,’ Kydd barked, folding his arms with a pointed finality.
It provoked a bedlam of protest but he remained unmoving.
More Frenchmen arrived, drawn by the shouting.
‘We’re not going anywhere at this rate,’ Beresford snapped. ‘Wait here. I’m seeing Kellermann, their chief.’
Kydd made sure nothing moved until Beresford returned with a haughty, dusky-featured cavalryman in impossibly ornate uniform who, with a bored expression, resolutely ignored Kydd.