Seaflower (7 page)

Renzi
leaned across, and extracted the bayonet in a steely slither from Larcomb's
scabbard.

'No!'
breathed Kydd, held powerless in horror as the nightmare face returned.

The
youth heaved and floundered, his eyes frozen on the blade. A rank, unmistakable
odour arose. 'He's shit hisself,' Larcomb croaked, his voice thick with
compassion.

'Make
room,' Renzi said.

Kydd
realised he meant Larcomb to move aside enough to enable the bayonet to do its
work. Larcomb did so, his eyes down. The boy ceased his struggle, lay petrified
and rigid. Renzi crawled over to him and raised the bayonet. There was an
inhuman squeal of such intensity that it sounded through Larcomb's tight grip -
then Renzi thrust the bayonet firmly into the chest to the heart. A dextrous
half-twist, and the blade was withdrawn, the gout of bright life-blood
hopeless and final.

Renzi
wiped the weapon on the ground and handed it back to Larcomb. He looked up at
the anguish on Kydd's face. 'Duty can often take a harsh disguise, my friend,'
he said, in a low voice.

Kydd
tore himself away from the sight of the fresh corpse, his mind a whirl of
confusion. Nobody came to where he crouched, and there was no relief to his
emotions. Away to the left, far in the distance, a trumpet bayed, its sound
taken up by another, nearer. 'Tom!' said Renzi softly.

Kydd
pulled himself together. 'With me!' he croaked. He cleared his throat. 'Let's
give 'em a quiltin', then.' He broke out of the wood and stumbled up the rise
towards the fort, hearing his men follow. Others emerged all along the fringe
of wood. It seemed incredible that their drama could have taken place in such
isolation.

They
moved up the hill. The fort's palisades were topped with continuous gunsmoke in
the soft dawn light, and attackers began to drop. The fusillade died away —
they had succeeded in their surprise: there were not enough men on watch to
maintain the reloading cycle for full defence.

Something
seized Kydd's mind in a fierce, uncaring rage — a point of concentration for
his incoherent feelings. His legs burned as he pounded on towards the focus of
his madness. Behind him panted Larcomb — then Kydd realised he had gone. Renzi
was away to his right and all the others he assumed were somewhere close. All
the time the weakened enemy fire found victims.

The
palisades rose up suddenly. Renzi appeared beside him. He carried a rolled
Jacob's ladder, and coolly hurled it up, hooking it to the jagged top of the
barrier. Faces appeared above, then quickly disappeared. Musket smoke came in
gusts, the sound of the shots this time from behind him. Kydd seized the ladder
and swarmed up. Other seamen had boarding axes and they were using them in the
same way as they would to storm the side of an enemy ship. The seamen's agility
told: they were quickly into the inner square and throwing wide the gates for
the soldiers before the confused enemy could group.

Panting,
hot and aching, Kydd stood watching the fluttering French flag jerk down, then
rise again, surmounted by a Union Flag. A disconsolate group of

French
prisoners flanked by marines began their march into exile. The last of the dead
were dragged off and the wounded attended to.

The
crisp sound of marching heralded the arrival of the light infantry, with a
mounted colonel at their head. Lieutenant Calley removed his hat and awaited
the Colonel. 'Well done, sir!' the Colonel spluttered, as he dismounted.
'Damme, but that was a splendid thing. Blast m' eyes if it weren't!'

The
marines snapped to attention; their sergeant needed no lessons in military
honours. The 'present arms' was parade-ground perfect, yet these men, less than
an hour before, had been storming the fort.

The
Colonel marched across and inspected them, his gruff compliments making the
sergeant red-faced with pleasure. Kydd felt awkward with his ragtag sailors,
but the Colonel touched his hat genially in response to the individualistic
salutes of the seamen, in no way disconcerted by the sight of their direct gaze
and sea-fashion rigs.

'A
fine body of men!' said the Colonel to Calley. 'And 'twould infinitely oblige
me, sir, if they were in my column for the final push on the capital.'

'By
all means, sir. Your orders?' Calley replied.

Within
an hour the column was swinging along at a measured pace astride the road to
Pointe a Pitre, the capital, soldiers four abreast in a serpentine column that
stretched ahead of the seamen, with fifes and drums squeaking and rattling.

A
sergeant of infantry dropped back from the rear of the column, and stared with
frank curiosity at the seamen. 'Hoay - the sergeant ahoy!' called Kydd. The
hard-featured man fell back to Kydd, still keeping step.

'How
long to Pwun a-Peter?' Kydd asked.

The
man sized him up. There was no clue for a soldier that might reveal his rank.
He was dressed as the others in his usual red and white shirt with short blue
jacket and white free-swinging trousers. Kydd sensed wariness and added, 'Tom
Kydd, quartermaster's mate - that's petty officer.'

'Sar'nt
Hotham.'

Clearly
a 'petty officer' meant nothing either to this army veteran, who peered at him
suspiciously from under his tall black shako. The voice was deep and projected
an effortless authority that Kydd envied.

'An'
these are m' men,' Kydd continued, gesturing - behind him at the
cutlass-adorned sailors.

The
sergeant's eyebrows rose: Kydd must be some sort of sergeant, then. 'Ah, yeah,'
he said, easing his stock. 'Saw yez take the fort fr'm yer front - plucky dos,
mate!'

Feet
rose and fell, the rhythm of the march was hypnotic. 'Aye, well, how far d'we
march afore—'

Hotham
flashed a quick grin. 'Don't be in such a hell-fired pelt ter get there, m'
lad,' he boomed. "That there's th' capital town o' the island, an' the
Frogs ain't about to give it up without a fight.'

Kydd
said nothing: the whole business of war on land was a mystery to him.

Hotham
mistook his silence for apprehension. 'Not ter worry, we've drubbed th' French
in every other island, can't see why not 'ere as well.'

'So
. . .'

'We's
three, four mile out, less'n an hour — but then we comes up agin the battery
commandin' the town.'He sucked his teeth as he ruminated. 'We gets past that on
this road, Mongseers'd be hard put ter stop us then.'

It
was still mid-morning when the column came to a halt at the sullen rumble of
heavy guns ahead. A flurry of trumpet calls echoing up and down the line;
bellowed orders and earnest subalterns hurrying on important missions had the
column quickly deployed in line.

The
seamen mustered together in the centre of the line: they would have the road.
With a clinking of equipment, a squadron of cavalry mounted on indifferent horses
clattered off towards the battery, which dominated the skyline.

'Poor
beggars,' muttered a sailor.

'How
so?' said Kydd.

'O'
course, they's bein' sacrificed to see 'ow far the guns c'n reach.' A single
gout of smoke appeared at the embrasures of the battery and seconds later a
thud came, but there was no apparent harm to the widely separated horses. They
cantered further along the road, now even at the suburbs of Pointe a Pitre.

'Stand
to!' Lieutenant Calley ordered. 'We march.'

The
re-formed column, having tested their advance, resumed the march. Eyes
nervously on the battery above the town, they tramped along the road unopposed.
Kydd looked at the deserted houses and neat gardens. No sign of war, just a
sullen silence. The squadron cantered back. It seemed the battery had been
deserted by the French, and their other forces were in full retreat. The empty
town echoed to their progress, only the odd dog or fowl left to dispute
possession. By midday, the seamen were slaking their thirst in the fountain of
the town square, and the regimental fifes and drums were bringing in the
soldiers.

It
was an anti-climax — but welcome for all that. Parties of soldiers were sent
out to secure strongpoints. The seamen were marched down to the neat harbour,
its white stone walls and red-tiled buildings baking in the heat.

Chapter 4

The
rain hammered down in a tropical burst of furious intensity. Kydd opened an eye
lazily. It was relatively dry aft under the awning of the trading schooner and he
saw no reason to disturb his repose. There was little that he and his two men
could do until someone had found enough sea-stores to complete the refit, not
just of this little craft on the slipway but the larger brig alongside the quay
further up. The French had not dared to sail these merchant vessels out against
the waiting English, or had time to destroy them.

A
steamy earthiness arose as the rain eased, then stopped. Kydd took in the
landlocked harbour, the vividness of the colours after the rain holding him
rapt.

The
ladder at the side of the craft rattled and the beaming face of Luke appeared.
He and Renzi, Kydd's 'men', had volunteered for this task rather than return to
Trajan,
other seamen were working on the
brig. 'Mr Kydd!' Luke called, and clambered over the gunwale. He had sheltered
under the schooner on the slipway with Renzi.

Kydd
grunted and sat up.

'Chucks'll
be down on us like thunder,' Luke said cheerfully, "less we show we done
somethin'.'

'What?'
said Kydd grumpily. Admittedly, they could find small things to do — the
departing French had slashed at the rigging, but the reason why the craft had
been slipped, a strake or two stove in forward, would have to await the
shipwright's attention before the schooner took to the water again.

Renzi
appeared from under the round of the bilges and paced along the length of the
craft on the hard-standing. God only knew what he was thinking about, mused
Kydd. The smell of the schooner's hull close to was pleasant, the essence of
the tar and preservatives heightened by the sun; the underwater weed and barnacles
produced an intense sea aroma.

'
Younker, get y'rself down t' Toby 'n' see if he needs ye,' Kydd told Luke. He
waited until Luke was on his way to the brig, then dropped overside.
'Nicholas,' he said, 'might we talk?'

Renzi
stopped, and struck a dramatic pose:

'Slow
glides the sail along the illumined shore,

And
steals into shade the lazy oar,

Soft
bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,

And
amorous music on the water dies!'

Then,
gazing at the broad harbour vista, he said, 'Do you not find that—'

'You
think I am a weak looby, that I did not — settle th' sentry,' Kydd said
bluntly.

Renzi
paused only for a moment, before he replied,

'No,
dear fellow, I do not.' Kydd opened his mouth to speak, but Renzi continued, 'I
observe that you are driven by the highest considerations of humanity, most
laudable, but these are not,
entre nous,
always the ones to bear foremost in such a pass.
Your humanity bears you on up false paths while the essential principle remains
neglected.'

'In
this instance,' Kydd said stubbornly, lifting his chin, Sve could—'

'In
this instance, the entire assault is put to the hazard,' Renzi replied firmly. 'There
is no other course. Your duty is as clear as at the helm in a storm. The moral
courage lies in attending to the matter and without repine.'

They
paced together to the end of the fine-run bow. Kydd stopped. 'Why did ye come
ashore with me? Was it t' play the nursemaid? Do I need a keeper?'

Renzi
smiled. 'Do you believe that I would not be interested in the fate of my
particular friend?'

A
stab of pleasure shot through Kydd. 'Y' must be green at m' rate of petty
officer,' he said gruffly.

'On
the contrary, dear fellow, I give you joy of it.' His smile was genuine. 'My
purpose in a ship of war is in the serving of exile, not to top it the tyrant
over my shipmates.'