Betrayal (41 page)

After that, nothing seemed to matter any more.

‘
B
oooat ahoy!
’ the forward lookout yelled into the night.

With
L’Aurore
at such a pitch of nervous tension and her first lieutenant pacing the deck like a penned-up hound, it would never do to allow a stranger to approach too near without challenge.

An answering shout came, weak and distant.

Gilbey arrived to stand beside the lookout. ‘Tell that lubber t’ stand away or he’ll get a cold shot in the guts,’ he said peevishly.

The hail was dutifully made, but the little fisherman’s punt kept on obstinately, a single indistinct figure at the oars. When he was close enough he stood up swaying and hailed back in unmistakable English, ‘
L’Aurore
, ahoy – one t’ come aboard!’

Men scrambled up from below, eager to hear any news, and with them Renzi, who had become increasingly troubled. Since the betrayal at Punta Pavón they had lain at anchor for several days waiting for orders – or even word of how matters stood for their friends and shipmates ashore.

‘One to come aboard,’ agreed Gilbey.

Slowly and painfully the figure came up the side; by the time he swung inboard an eager welcoming committee was waiting for him.

‘Begob! It’s Sar’nt Dodd!’

An excited babble broke out and Gilbey thundered, ‘Hold y’ tongues! Silence fore ’n’ aft! Make y’r report, Sergeant.’

Dodd straightened with difficulty. ‘Bad news, sir. Th’ worst.’

‘Get on with it!’

‘Well, as we’ve struck t’ the Spanish, sir.’

After a moment of shocked surprise, there was pandemonium. ‘Silence!’ Gilbey yelled. ‘Anyone says a word more goes t’ the bilboes.’

He waited for quiet then said, ‘Carry on.’

‘I’ve to give ye this,’ Dodd said, fumbling for the dispatches. ‘Seein’ as you’re the new captain. From m’ officer, L’tenant Clinton, sir, urgent like.’ He managed a tired but proud salute.

Gilbey snatched it and read it avidly. He frowned, then reread the paper, his brow darkening. ‘What’s this nonsense? Do you know what’s in this, Sergeant?’

Confused, Dodd shook his head. ‘M’ orders were t’ get it to you wi’ all dispatch, is all I know, sir.’

Glaring, Gilbey thrust it at Renzi. ‘Can you make anything of this?’ he asked angrily.

Renzi took it and read:

To the commanding officer, HMS L’Aurore

In fifteen minutes we shall be obliged to lay down our arms. In all conscience I cannot allow the bearer, Sergeant Dodd, a man I have come to value above all reason in these ruinous days, to be carried off to a vile captivity at the greatest loss to His Majesty’s service. This therefore is the only method I have of ensuring his obedience in quitting his men.

Signed, Clinton, lieutenant Royal Marines

Folding the paper, Renzi replied, ‘Well, Mr Gilbey, I see it to be Clinton’s thoughtfulness in providing us with one who may give us verbal news of conditions in Buenos Aires, this paper a means of getting him past our sentries.’

‘Oh. Well, what the blazes
is
happening, Dodd?’

‘Sir. After them Dons got across, th’ whole town rose up an’ we had t’ fall back on the fort. Too many on ’em, the general had t’ ask for terms, is all.’

‘Where’s Captain Kydd?’

‘Don’t rightly know, sir. Went off on a raid or such, sorry t’ say he didn’t come back.’

‘You mean . . . ?’

‘Taken maybe or, er, snabbled.’

Dumbfounded, Gilbey simply stared.

Renzi swallowed, tightly controlling his feelings. ‘Then our forces have capitulated?’ he asked gently. ‘And General Beresford and all others are captured?’

‘Must be, I suppose,’ Dodd said, scratching his head. ‘I got away before, y’ see.’

Gilbey came to, and snapped irritably, ‘Then how many of the enemy are there now in the city? Come along, man, what’s their force?’

‘Er, can’t rightly say f’r sure, sir, seein’ as how m’ post was in the fort.’

‘What? You’ve no idea?’ said Gilbey, contemptuously. ‘You’re sent to inform us—’

‘Sir. The man is sorely tried after his ordeal,’ Renzi came in. ‘I’ll take him below and see he has something to recruit his strength while I build up an idea for you of how things are.’

‘Very well. I’ll see you in half a glass, Renzi.’

In the privacy of his own cabin, Renzi teased out the story. Finding a hiding place, the wily sergeant had lain low while the surrender was completed, waiting as the city erupted into celebration. Then, after dark, he had stolen a fishing punt and made his escape, rowing single-handed against wind and the sea’s bluster. Mutely he held up his hands: they were piteously blistered and bloody.

Asked about surrender terms, Dodd could shed no light on them, but believed they had been concluded rapidly as he’d heard the men being marched off within less than an hour after the guns had stopped firing.

This implied overbearing force and therefore an unconditional capitulation of the whole city. ‘And you’ve no idea what happened to the captain?’ enquired Renzi, feeling a cold pit forming in his belly.

‘Sorry, sir,’ Dodd said sorrowfully. ‘Jus’ didn’t come back. Don’t mean t’ say he’s not in clink somewhere,’ he added, with loyal fervour.

Renzi left the exhausted man wolfing cheese and hard tack, and appreciative of a jug of thin wine.

Gilbey impatiently dismissed the report. ‘Clinton should have had more sense than t’ leave it to a Royal to get intelligence out to us. Completely useless.’

Renzi bit back a hot retort, while Gilbey went on, ‘So Mr Kydd is taken, or more probably killed. It means I’m captain o’ the barky now.

‘I have m’ duty, and that’s to get to Commodore Popham an’ acquaint him of developments ashore. Likely he’ll confirm me in post on the spot, I wouldn’t wonder. Should I move into my captain’s quarters now, do y’ think, or wait till I’m confirmed?’

‘As being somewhat more important than we, the commodore will certainly have been advised by now,’ Renzi said icily. ‘And I believe your assumption of the dignity of captain should certainly wait.’

‘Wait? What for?’

On impulse, Renzi rapped, ‘Until I’ve returned from Buenos Aires. I’m going back to find him.’

It had been said, and he felt a fierce glee begin to swell in him.

‘You’re what? Be damned to it, man, you’re proposin’ to present yourself in a city new relieved an’ swarmin’ with poxy Spanish to demand what happened to y’r captain?’

Fighting down the temptation to reveal that he’d done something like that in Revolutionary Paris, Renzi contented himself with a simple, ‘Yes, I am.’

Gilbey sat back with a look of bafflement, then retorted, ‘You’re mad. Even if he’s still alive, how th’ devil will you find where he is? No! It’s lunacy, and I won’t have it.’

‘I’m going.’

‘You’re not – as acting captain o’ this ship, an’ you crew, Renzi, I forbid it.’

‘I don’t think so,’ he said acidly. ‘You’ve not the authority. Recollect – I’m Captain Kydd’s confidential secretary, his personal retinue, not a member of the ship’s company.’

‘But . . .’

Renzi waited for the implication to sink in, then added, ‘But I’d be beholden if you’d allow me to call for volunteers to assist me.’

Gilbey recovered quickly. ‘No, I will not! Do y’ really think a foremast jack will want t’ go back into—’

‘I’m going alone. These are boat’s crew only, to lie to a kedge offshore. And, yes, I do think they’ll come forward.’

Gilbey gave him an intense look and snapped, ‘You go, then. However, you’ll get no men from me.’

Renzi leaned across. ‘Then I’d ask you to conceive of your standing as captain among your Jack Tars if it becomes known you’d not allow me even to
try
a rescue of their Mr Kydd!
Comprende?
’

There were many volunteers. Far too many for
L’Aurore
’s smallest boat, the gig, which was all a grudging Gilbey would allow. As he’d also been adamant that there were to be no officers or midshipmen, it was just Poulden on the tiller, Stirk in the bow and old shipmates Pinto and Doud to tend sail and oars. All others had to be content with a well-meant and noisy farewell, which inevitably finished in a three times three hearty cheer.

‘We sail after twenty-four hours!’ growled Gilbey. ‘Not a minute later!’

Renzi had no idea how it was to be done when they pushed off into the darkness, the fishing punt in tow. He realised they would need the rest of the night to make passage, lying at one of the many hard sand shoals mid-estuary during the day and closing to within a mile or so of the city the next night. Gilbey would not dare to put to sea before dawn the following day.

A plan crystallised: it all hinged on the traitor – or patriot – Serrano. If he could persuade him with sufficient threat to divulge Kydd’s fate, or possibly his whereabouts, it would radically change the odds.

In his somewhat worn, plain shore-going rig, he would be a confused Italian merchant, unsure of what was happening, seeking news, reassurance. It would suffice.

The boat’s crew were not to be risked, for this matter was what he owed his friend personally. To pen a sorrowful letter to Kydd’s sister without knowing his ultimate fate was unthinkable. They could come inshore but the final dash would be his alone in the punt, brought along for the purpose.

The lights of Buenos Aires were visible miles to seaward, and as they crept in, there were soaring fireworks, gunshots and all the signs of a city very much awake. ‘Lie off for me, Poulden. Be sure if I’m not back an hour before first light to return immediately to
L’Aurore
. Is that clear?’

There was some mumbling, but Renzi was having nothing of it. ‘I say quit this place an hour before. No later. Compree?’

‘Aye,’ Poulden said grudgingly.

Renzi stepped into the punt and took the oars, looking shoreward to take bearings for the return.

The punt swayed dangerously. He looked round – Stirk was climbing in.

‘Shift y’ arse, I’m coming wi’ ye,’ he announced.

‘Toby, you can’t—’

‘Can’t I? Two reasons – y’ need a pair o’ peepers as’ll watch y’r stern, an’ blow me down, what’ll they say o’ the
Billy Roarer
that they lets orficers take th’ oars?’

He shouldered Renzi out of the way and shipped oars professionally. ‘Give way, sir?’

There was one spot that suggested itself as a place for landing. Below the fort, he remembered, was where the washerwomen plied their trade. There would be none there at this hour and Renzi conned the punt in, conscious that they would be under observation – but he also knew that this was the time when flounder fishermen were about in England, and might not the equivalent be abroad in Buenos Aires?

It seemed to work: there were the silhouettes of sentinels behind the parapets of the fort but they were taking no notice and the foreshore was deserted.

The punt nudged in to the muddy shore; they pulled it up beyond the tide line and prepared to set out.

‘Er, Toby – if you’d kindly allow me . . .’ He bent down, then came up suddenly to slop mud in his face. Stirk spluttered with indignation but Renzi inspected him critically. ‘Perhaps a little more. Just here possibly . . .’

Looking around, he found a pile of fishermen’s sacks waiting for the morning and helped himself to one, bulking it out with seaweed and thrusting it at Stirk. ‘Ready? Then follow me, my man.’

On the streets knots of revellers drifted by; figures laughed, brawled and argued. They took no notice of the woebegone merchant trudging along with his servant behind.

It was not far to the back street where he had discovered Serrano lived with his woman. Renzi had no real animosity towards the young man, who must have done as he had more out of ardent patriotism than perfidy, and he was the only possible lead to Kydd’s fate.

If, however, he suspected Serrano was aware of his friend’s whereabouts, he would have no qualms at all about doing what was needed to wrench the information from him. After his time with French royalist agents, he knew the ways.

‘Watch my back,’ he told Stirk. With a bent wire he prised open the door lock and stepped inside, ready for anything.

Serrano was there, alone, sitting moodily at a table with a single candle. He looked up in fright when Renzi appeared. ‘
Santa Madre de Dios!
How you find me?’

Renzi remained silent.

‘You assassinate me?’

‘That depends,’ Renzi said silkily, taking a seat opposite, his eyes drilling remorselessly into Serrano’s skull.

The artist looked up obstinately. His eyes were red. ‘It make no difference, not now . . .’

‘Oh? Tell me.’

Slowly it came out. Liniers was now revealed as a royalist; he had gone along with the revolutionary fervour but had cunningly diverted it into a movement to oust the British first. He had been joined by
los patriotas
to whom he’d given deliberately minor roles in the
reconquista
and, now in control, he had hardened his grip with a view to handing the whole back to the Spanish, with himself high in government.

That it was not yet so was mainly because the viceroy, Sobremonte, was still far inland where he had fled, but the fact remained that Don Baltasar and the Sociedad Patriótica were therefore neatly sidelined and destined to be once more hunted rebels in the resumed administration – they had been betrayed and the clock was being wound back.