It was lazy staff work and even worse tactical planning: without co-ordination with shore authorities they were blundering about, casting around for things to do. It was in keeping with Rowley’s character – as was his disinclination to see Kydd face to face in handing over the orders.
‘Edward,’ Kydd said, to Dillon at breakfast, ‘you may do me a service, old chap. Go to the military barracks and ask them for what intelligence they have of the north part of Spain, as our business is there.’
He sent Joyce, the master, to the ship chandlers, with a mission of securing charts of northern Spain – not standard navigation works but those used by Iberian masters for coastal passage showing porths, watering places, shelter coves, anchorages and the like. If Kydd was going to be chasing vermin, like privateers, this was the kind of detail he wanted.
Two masters’ mates were set to a minute inspection of every water cask and provision barrel before storing ship, while the carpenter and boatswain mustered their gear and stores in readiness. This was going to be operations in a friendless and harsh land five hundred miles from Lisbon, the nearest dockyard; they would have to rely on themselves and what they had on board.
Dillon was back before midday with a doleful expression. The adjutant had given him a fair grasp of the situation: while the Supreme Junta in Seville still argued, there were no reliable lines of communication set up and no one seemed to have any idea of the circumstances and conditions anywhere. In a general sense the Spanish didn’t want any interference by the British and saw no reason to co-operate – in fact, according to many, the two countries were still at war.
In despair it had been pointed out that the country was fragmented, the allegiance of whole districts doubtful and unknown, not so much siding with the French but whichever faction was in favour: the witless King Carlos or his young and feckless son, helpless prisoners of France. Or, in the absence of a strong central junta, a vague patriotism and loyalty that could only be termed local.
There were as yet no British bayonets on the soil of Spain, and until such time as there were, no intelligence worth speaking of would be available.
Chapter 59
Two days later, Tyger put to sea, sailing north out of Portuguese waters and to the extreme north-west tip of Iberia, her captain little the wiser for what they would do after they put over the helm for the run along the straight length of the rocky spine that was northern Spain.
For all this distance tortured rocks faced the Bay of Biscay, more often than not half glimpsed through the drifting mist of rain and squall, mile after mile the same blustery wretchedness and almost always as a deadly lee shore. What possible duty were they performing? There would be few privateers, and coastal shipping in support of French garrisons must have ceased. True, the French naval bases lay across the Bay but until it was evident what the British were doing – which was not clear to themselves – there would be no sorties from there to menace any landings.
The autumn gales were on them and there were few worse conditions for sailoring than Biscay in season.
Not long after rounding the furthest tip of Spain, Cape Ortegal, a ship was sighted. Full-rigged, much the same as themselves – a frigate!
This couldn’t be an enemy, not in this part of the world. Kydd gave orders to close and the other did the same, at the right time a challenge being thrown out, which Tyger correctly answered. The two fell into company under easy sail a hundred yards apart.
The frigate was Menander 38, Captain Mowlam. As junior to him, Kydd took boat to visit.
‘All hail an’ well met, Sir Thomas,’ he greeted, as Kydd hauled himself over the bulwark. ‘And what brings you to these infernal regions?’
His cabin out of the raw breeze was grateful to the senses and Kydd was appreciative of the warmth.
It didn’t take long to give the essence, and Mowlam groaned. ‘I’m of the Channel Fleet, the Rochefort squadron. Why the devil your Lisbon Flag sees fit to send you here poaching into our little empire I’ve no idea.’
‘I’ve the feeling the shabs just don’t talk to each other,’ Kydd replied, with a grim smile. ‘I’ve a duty to do, and would be much obliged for a steer in the matter.’
‘In fine, naught to do. We’ve no idea where the Frenchies are, or what the Spanish are doing, and we don’t step ashore on account of some of Boney’s finest on the loose. I’d advise the same. That leaves us watching the only ports of size on the coast, all up against the French border and all well held by ’em.’
‘Putting down coastal support and similar.’
‘Yes. Well, if you want to hear more, should you venture as far as Bayonne you’ll find two more of we frigates, Seine and Iris, who’re doing just that. I’m more this end o’ Iberia.’
Kydd shortly took his leave, resolved on at least seeking them out to get the best picture he could. How like Rowley carelessly to waste the services of a valuable frigate in overlapping operations!
Tyger took up again, heading eastward, day after day, lookouts primed for anything including the two English frigates. There were no signs of these, coastwise shipping was nowhere to be seen, and while the north-westerly was fair for their track there was indication of a blow coming on.
‘If this is Santander we’ll look in, I believe,’ Kydd announced, with a glance at the log. The chill grey day with its occasional driving white rain squalls was not favourable but they had a duty.
‘Sir. If’n we lie off an’ take a line o’ bearing west-sou’-west we can see right in without we need to hazard ourselves.’
‘Well noted, Mr Joyce,’ Kydd said to the master.
‘Not as if I wouldn’t know,’ the grey-haired man said happily, puffing out his cheeks. ‘Was in Seagull sloop in the last war, chasin’ down a privateersman who thought to go a-hiding in Santander.’
‘Thank you, Mr Joyce. We’ll do as you suggest.’
‘Didn’t do the villain any good, as we had a Don aboard taken out of a coaster and he tips me the wink as we’d cut him the wheedle on anything we gets.’
‘Quite.’
‘Got our sightin’ and saw the chase alongside. Kept on past, but that night sends in our boat, wakens the whole town, ye’ve no idea the noise, but our tars took no notice an’ bent their oars in a-laying hold on it.’
‘A fine action,’ Kydd told him. Why begrudge him his yarn, if the core of it was to their own advantage?
‘Aye, sir. That I’ll agree. But then just as they’s a cable off, someone sees they’ve set the barky afire. Well vexed, they claps on speed and tumbles ashore on the wharf and goes f’r the beggar. Half on ’em hold off the townsfolk, the other goes to board but it’s too late, she’s well gone, flames up right t’ the masthead.’
‘Bad luck, Mr Joyce.’
‘Not luck, sir. She’s loaded wi’ coffins and these made a clinking great bonfire in a brace o’ shakes. Even set off some laid on the quay nearby, in case that was what we were after, like.’
‘Coffins?’
‘Ah, well, the weather’s blashy that day, we muddled up our sightings an’ found too late we was after the wrong ’un.’ He sniffed, then added, ‘Still an’ all, we got the right ’un the next day, scampering off to the east’d. But it seems we got a bad name, torchin’ their supply o’ coffins for the whole year.’
Joyce duly directed them around a headland, and beyond was a river mouth less than a mile wide, which they crossed, leaving a stumpy light at one side and heading for an island the other.
Kydd sighed for the simpler days of Joyce’s time: if a ship was sighted it would be an enemy and lawful prey. These days it could be anything – a merchantman taking advantage of the change in conditions, a Spanish trader now upon its lawful occasions and even a British vessel trying for new markets.
What he was after was evidence of a huddle of ships that pointed to support vessels for a French garrison, or even a man-o’-war or several, able to make sortie against them.