Tenacious (36 page)

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“My God,” said Hamilton. “They want to show the King what they’ve done for him!”

Queen Maria Carolina dropped into a swoon; the King made odd gobbling noises. Nelson turned to Hamilton. “We have to leave now, sir. Do you know—”

The Queen came to herself, muttering strangely.

“Be quiet! Everyone!” Emma listened intently, then threw a triumphant look at Nelson. “She says there’s some kind o’

door—a gate. It connects her rooms to th’ old caves an’ passages under Naples.”

“That could well be so,” said Hamilton. “We know of the
sottosuolo,
where the Romans left underground catacombs and tunnels after excavating for
tufo
building stone. Huge voids, some, and artefacts have been found that date—”

Emma gave a twisted smile. “She says she hasn’t told us before as she’s always worried a thief might get to know of it an’

rob her in her sleep.”

“Do any of these connect with the sea?” Nelson demanded.

“Apparently most of them do, yes,” Hamilton said.

“The sea!” Nelson’s cry was heartfelt: to an Englishman the sea was a friend, a highway to freedom. “At which point?” he added hastily.

“The Molosiglio.”

“That’s all I need. I’ll get word to Troubridge directly. Please to inform Their Majesties to prepare for their departure.”

Soon after midnight Nelson stood grimly at the top of a dark stairway, listening to the hollow sound of approaching footsteps. A naval officer came into view, blinking uncertainly in the bright light. “Cap’n Hope,
Alcmene
frigate, sir, with a party of men,” he said, touching his hat.

“Well met, sir! Shall we proceed?”

“Aye aye, sir.”

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“Light the torches—I shall go first.” Nelson descended the dank stairs and paused at the bottom to inspect the seamen. They were in their familiar sea rig and all had drawn cutlasses, which gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

“Keep station on me,” he snapped, drew his sword and plunged forward. It was ghostly quiet in the ancient tunnels and stank of damp antiquity. The flickering light fell on rough-hewn tunnel walls and the black of anonymous voids.

The men hurried to keep up, the only sound their footsteps and heavy breathing. Nelson was in front, his sword at point.

From behind came occasional female squawks of protest but the pace never slackened.

A petty officer pointed to an open iron gate. “Th’ entrance, if y’ please, sir.” Beyond, the stars glittered in the night sky. “All’s well,” he hailed into the blackness and an anxious lieutenant appeared.

“Sir, your barge is at the mole.”

“I shall not board until Their Majesties are safely embarked.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the lieutenant said reluctantly.

When the Royal Family arrived, there were cloaks to conceal them and men to carry their belongings. Seamen stood guard on the short distance to the mole, facing outwards with naked blades. With heartbreaking sobs, the Queen, clutching her baby, was bundled aboard the admiral’s barge, the King rigid with fear beside her.

“We’re going t’ be jus’ fine, sir,” Emma said stoutly, smoothing the distraught Queen’s hair, “an’ lookin’ forward to a bit o’

sea air now, aren’t we?”

Vanguard
was soon in a state of chaos: the Royal Family included young princes and princesses, ministers, ambassadors—any, it seemed, who feared the imminent catastrophe—all of whom had to be found accommodation.

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As soon as Nelson came aboard he had only one question of his flag-lieutenant: “What is General Buonaparte doing?”

“Sir, I’m truly grieved to say he has triumphed over the Turks yet again. At Jaffa, and with three thousand prisoners butchered in cold blood. He is now unopposed, sir.” Jaffa was in the Holy Land, far from the European war, but ominously north of Egypt and therefore in a direct path to Constantinople and the trade routes east to India. Napoleon Buonaparte had succeeded in breaking out of his desert prison and was now on the march north in a bid to outdo Alexander’s conquests.

“And, sir, Captain Sidney Smith begs to inform you that he is attempting a defence of Acre just to the north with two sail-of-the-line.”

Kydd stepped off the boat in Acre, ruefully contemplating the fortunes of war. While he had succeeded in Minorca, he had failed to gain the notice he had sought, but his part in the recapture of the island had ensured that when a lieutenant for service ashore in Acre had been called for, his name had been the first that was mentioned. He had heard that the commander, Sir Sidney Smith, was a daring, unconventional officer who, no doubt, would welcome initiative and ambition.

Tigre,
with
Tenacious
and a hodge-podge of small fry, was all that had been available to Smith and he was going to try to hold on to this old town, which lay directly in the path of the French advance north. With a handful of troops and seamen to call on, against an army of thirteen thousand with siege artillery and the legendary Buonaparte at its head, he could not last for long, but if he could delay the French advance even for a short time, perhaps the Turks would take heart and make a defence of Constantinople.

While the crew transferred his gear from
Tenacious
’s pinnace, Kydd looked around. It was a squarish walled town of immeasurable antiquity on a low, west-facing promontory.

The golden-yellow stone walls were grey and gnarled with age,
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crumbling towers and empty gun embrasures testifying to its di-lapidated condition. A tiny, silted harbour to the south-east had been created by a mole, but breaking water over rocky shoals offshore showed it was useless to larger ships. The dry, arid odour of sun-baked rocks was overlaid with the pungent goat-like smell of camels, together with the heady aroma of spices and dried fish.

A small gateway opened and a marine sergeant came forward. “Sah!” he said, saluting smartly. “L’tenant Hewitt, sah, welcomes you ashore an’ would you come wi’ me?” Kydd followed him through narrow streets swarming with people in every form of dress. They emerged into a small square, on one side of which was a building with a marine sentry on guard beneath a flag hanging limply.

Inside, a naval lieutenant, writing at a desk, looked up at Kydd’s entry. “Ah, you’re expected, old fellow. I’m Hewitt, third o’ the
Tigre.
” He extended a hand and listened courteously as Kydd introduced himself.

“I expect you’ll be interested to know that this is,
pro tem,
the headquarters of our commander ashore, and therefore our place o’ duty also.”

Kydd’s interest quickened. “Duty?”

“Ah. That is our aggrieved leader being mysterious. He means us to be in turn a duty officer ashore in his place. We take watch

’n’ watch, sleeping here where we can be found.”

“Aggrieved?”

“Why, yes—I’m amazed you’ve not heard the tale! He was at Toulon with Hood in ’ninety-three, personally setting the torch to near a dozen French sail-o’-the-line. Next he gets himself captured in a river action and is taken to Paris. There he’s accused by our fine friend Buonaparte of being an incendiary and is thrown into a condemned cell while they prepare a public trial. But he made a daring escape before they could do the deed and now he’s

facing this same Buonaparte again and vows he will make him smart for it.”

“He’s really going t’ see out a siege against the whole French army?” said Kydd. It was bold and courageous, but was Smith imagining he could stand against an army of conquest with siege guns?

Hewitt went on drily, “Do not judge Sir Sidney by standards you’d use on others. He’s unique, completely fearless and most inventive in the arts of war. You’ll find him . . . different. Many dislike him for his ways. As my captain, I’ve found him amiable enough. And he’s devilishly well connected—his brother’s our top diplomat in Constantinople, and he takes his orders direct from the Foreign Office as plenipotentiary, which has probably put Our Nel’s nose somewhat out of joint.”

“What are our orders, then?” Kydd said.

“We’ll both discover shortly—he’s coming ashore to plan his defences.” Hewitt looked at Kydd shrewdly. “As I said, make no hasty judgements. He’s damned clever and brave to a fault.”

Smith arrived promptly at noon. Fastidiously dressed, he had made no concessions to their surroundings. His uniform coat even bore the bejewelled star of some order. Kydd noted the delicacy of his grip as he shook his hand, the sensitivity of his face.

“Conference now, if you please, gentlemen.” He led the way to an upper room with plain furniture scattered about and pulled a table to the centre. There he spread out a large hand-drawn map, showing the land features that were necessarily missing from the familiar sea chart. “This, gentlemen, is the town of St John d’Acre. As you can see, walled around, open ground without. Two sides to the sea, two facing inland—here at their corner is a large square tower. It has good observation possibilities. The locals call it the ‘Cursed Tower.’ ” He added lightly, “It seems it
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was paid for with Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver.”

Kydd was not interested in a Biblical allusion. “Sir, ye’re thinking on making a stand against Gen’ral Buonaparte here?”

Smith’s smile vanished. “I most certainly am, Mr Kydd. Can you be one of those wretched crew who cringe at the sound of his name? I mean to show the world that he can be bested—and, remember, we have the sea at our backs.”

Kydd felt Hewitt’s eyes on him. “Sir, with no soldiers it’ll be a hard job.”

“You’re forgetting Djezzar, the ruler of this region. He is providing three thousand of the best troops—Anatolian, Albanian, Kurds, Africans—and will reside within these walls while the French do their worst, trusting us to effect its defence.”

Something of Kydd’s scepticism must have shown, for Smith went on, “Our object is simply to hold the town until relieved.

And I can tell you now that at this very moment a Turkish army eight times the size of Buonaparte’s is preparing to advance towards us. Not even the victor of Italy may prevail over that.”

There was the sound of movement and voices below. “Ah, he has arrived.” Smith went to the window and stared out until an older officer, with a deeply lined face, wearing a uniform that Kydd did not recognise, entered. Smith turned and, with a warm smile, greeted him in a stream of mellifluous French, gesturing first to Hewitt, who responded with a bow and murmured French, and then to Kydd, who could only bow and mutter in English.

“For those without the necessary accomplishment I will translate,” Smith said. “This gentleman is Lieutenant General the Count Phélippeaux, an honourable Frenchman of the
ancien
régime.
He is in the first rank of those learned in the arts of fortification and will tell us how best we may prepare for our siege.”

Kydd’s expression altered, but Smith, mistaking the change,

went on, “Set aside your concerns. This was the officer who, in the most handsome manner, assisted in my escape from the prison cell in Paris. He has every reason to detest the revolutionaries, you may believe, Mr Kydd.”

The conference moved forward quickly. Whatever else, Smith was clear-headed and energetic. Within the hour they had settled on immediate priorities: with an unknown time before Buonaparte appeared, their defences had to be completed as soon as possible.

The most effective would be in the deploying of their two ships of force, which amounted to the equivalent of a regiment of artillery. Each ship would be anchored in position so that it could fire down the length of one side or the other of the walls, their line of fire intersecting at the end. The open ground in front of the walls across which the enemy must pass for an assault could therefore be kept under fire. The only problem with this was that shallow water with rocky shoals extended in places for several miles, making it a dangerous and exposed anchorage for ships of size. They would be firing at extreme range.

The count engaged in long, earnest discussions with Smith, which Smith summarised tersely. It seemed that, without effective artillery of their own, they would be at a grave disadvantage: they had to keep Buonaparte’s siege guns at a distance or they would effect a rapid breach.

“I shall land guns from
Tigre
and
Tenacious
with volunteer seamen gunners to serve them. The men relish a jaunt ashore and I shall oblige them.” More discussion yielded their number and position.

Things were looking up for Kydd: with seamen to command and a worthy task ahead, there was every prospect of distinguished service.

Smith stood and stretched theatrically. “At this point it would
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appear appropriate to involve Djezzar Pasha.” He began to pace about the room, his hands behind his back. “I would have you understand the importance I attach to our alliance. He alone has the men close at hand whom we need, and without him we are lost. Now, before we make audience, allow me to say something of this worthy gentleman. He is pasha of this region, holding nominal allegiance to Sultan Selim in Constantinople but has always been an independent spirit.”

He glanced significantly at the other two officers in turn.

“ ‘Djezzar’ means Slasher or Butcher and it is an apt name. When he was young he sold himself into slavery to the Mamelukes and by sinister means made himself indispensable as an assassin until he turned his blade on his master. He is cruel and has the morals of a polecat, but is the ruler and will be accorded all possible marks of respect. Is that clear?”