Suspicion, hope, pride and satisfaction chased each other across Noriega’s face before he answered, ‘Capitan. Perhaps there is something you can do for us.’
‘Oh?’
‘The arms you were going to give the-’
‘Certainly. You will understand that my superiors must be satisfied that they are for good purpose. Shall we go to Bilbao at all?’
‘To see the junta? Of course, if you desire it, sir.’
If Bilbao was still in the hands of the Spanish, it proved the duplicity of the Basque rebels, and if this faction were actively fighting the French, he had a definite duty to them.
‘I have a boat-’
‘We know. The crew will be released immediately, sir.’
In a wash of relief he stepped outside. Moonlight now delicately touched the scene with silver and shadows. It lay as well on a still form among others near to the door: Lucila, her body grotesquely skewed but still with a heavy pistol in one hand, blood showing black against her girlish dress, her face mercifully shadowed.
It caught him off guard and, seized by a swell of pity, he felt the prick of tears at the extinction of a young and ardent life, now silent for ever.
Chapter 61
Bilbao
The city was in a ferment of excitement and fear. A well-known trading port, it was set up the Nervion river behind a considerable bar. Dillon was delighted to discover that the old naval term for the shackles of malefactors in the bowels of a ship, the bilboes, had its origin there.
Kydd learned the French had occupied the city soon after Murat had moved on Madrid but, hearing of the revolt there, it had risen and now stood alone, no contact with the outside world except Santander, which was containing the French for now. Their loyalty was to king and country, but having three kings with claims to the throne – the old King Carlos, his son and regent, Fernando, and the French puppet Joseph – which was he?
The leader of the Bilbao junta, Inaki Haro, had been effusive in his greetings to Kydd but the situation was grave.
The withdrawing French had moved only a small way inland to prepared positions and seemed to be awaiting further orders, no doubt the retaking of Bilbao. They had to be stopped, but while there were plenty of volunteers there were few weapons. Without guns it was a hopeless cause.
Kydd listened politely to the pleas but knew there was nothing he could do for them. Those guns were weeks away at best when they were needed in days.
He returned to Tyger, anchored offshore. A city that lay more than a dozen miles up a river, between lofty hills and inside a considerable bar, was no place for a frigate.
In his cabin he let his thoughts run free. Logic meant giving up any pretence at help and sailing away, regretfully but by necessity. This would, though, have the inevitable result of turning the inhabitants against the faithless British who, it would be felt, could never be relied on, even in better circumstances later. Was there nothing, even a token, he could do? A few boat-loads of muskets would be sufficient to keep faith and support the cause – but to sail back to the Lisbon depot would leave it far too late.
And then he had it. Why not ransack Tyger’s own armoury of muskets, powder and shot? It wouldn’t be much, but it would be something. That would leave the Royal Marines unarmed, naked of weapons, and his ship unable to mount any offensive action on land – and what would the authorities say about his freely giving away articles of His Majesty’s ordnance?
Yet why leave it at that? Somewhere out there, this side of Bayonne, were another two frigates. Adding their armouries to his would make quite a respectable showing – albeit at the cost of rendering three frigates incapable of shore operations.
In his opinion it was worth the sacrifice: the border with France was not so far away, and to supply their isolated Spanish garrisons, the French would have to pass Bilbao. If this was not in their hands they would be prevented from doing so.
Less than a day’s sail further east he found Seine and Iris cruising to seaward of Bayonne.
Kydd lost no time in calling them aboard, he being senior officer on the coast.
Both were surprised that Bilbao was in Spanish hands. They’d sailed off a lee shore in the recent blow, but with the city inland they’d seen nothing out of the ordinary as they’d cruised to prevent French resupply.
And ‘To harry the enemy’ was a usual phrase within written orders but why was it as loose as that? No other specific instructions?
Kydd’s response was that, while the enemy might be on land and out of reach, it didn’t mean they couldn’t be harried. And in this instance there was a very good reason why they should be – if Bilbao could stand unconquered it would be a strategic blow of the first rank to the French.
But when he outlined how this could be done, there were long faces from the veteran frigate captains. Thinking nothing of plunging into the thick of battle against terrible odds, they shrank at the spectre of a stern accounting for the handing over to rebels of a significant portion of their ship’s armament.
Only after long and earnest pleading by Kydd, with the bookkeeping stratagem that they were in fact making loan of their muskets only to him, a King’s ship, never to a parcel of foreigners, did they relent.
As Tyger hove to off Bilbao, waiting for a pilot, it was evident from the sight of fleeing humanity streaming along the coast roads that the French were on the move.
Kydd needed to act fast, but the pilot informed him that at this state of tide the bar was too dangerous to attempt a crossing. He cursed under his breath. If they were going to have any effect on events, they had to get the guns in quickly.
It could only be boats, his barge to take the lead, the launch and pinnace behind loaded with muskets under a doubled tarpaulin.
As if in discouragement, first one then another wind-driven rain squall whipped across their little flotilla as they entered the Bilbao ria, canvas flapping irritably, and the mizzle soaking Kydd with a biting autumnal chill. Ahead there was a white confusion of leaping seas – the bar. This was where three rivers met the open sea together, and on a making tide the contending flows were fierce.
They nevertheless headed into its bucking wild currents and unruly waters until they made it into an inner calm, the long river Nervion leading to Bilbao.
Haro came down the steps of his town hall in the rain to receive them, his praise for his British friends and benefactor loud and heartfelt. ‘The Frantziako are advancing each side of the Nervion valley,’ he told Kydd. ‘With these we’ll give them true greeting.’
The soldiers who came up to claim their weapons were in the same motley uniforms as before but their eyes glittered with feeling as they snatched at the muskets and loaded them, leaving at the trot for their posts. In the face of things, the several hundred muskets they’d been able to get together was a pitiful amount and, despite stopping the French at a choke point, they surely had little chance against a flood of trained troops.
‘Launch and pinnace to return now,’ Kydd ordered. ‘I’m staying a while longer.’ He hoped his presence might give moral support and proof to the citizens that their plight was not unknown in the outside world.
He strolled about, as if enjoying a promenade through the old town, aware from the stares and warm cheers that he was doing much to raise the standing of Britain, Spain’s new friend in whatever lay ahead.
Deciding to return to Tyger the following morning, he found beds for the night for himself, Dillon and the boat’s crew in a near-deserted dockside tavern. At dinner he heard from the few other guests rumour and gossip that left him no wiser as to the full story.