Tenacious (37 page)

“Understood, sir,” said Hewitt. Kydd nodded.

“Then we shall proceed to the harem.”

“Sir?” both officers said, in astonishment.

“All official business with Djezzar Pasha is conducted in his seraglio. Shall we go now?”

With an increasing sense of unreality, Kydd followed Smith through noisy ancient streets to a complex of buildings to the north and a tent surrounded by chattering Arabs in a courtyard with palm trees and a fountain. A tall man in a turban approached and bowed in the eastern manner.

“To see His Excellency,” Smith said, with practised hauteur.

This was the man, Kydd had been told, who had recently won over the Sublime Porte in Constantinople to secure a treaty—he would be no stranger to eastern ways.

They entered the tent: rich hangings, soft carpets, riotous colour, unknown tongues—it was all an exotic wonder to Kydd.

To one side a man sat cross-legged and others stood round

him obsequiously. The man, whom Smith indicated was Djezzar, rose: well-built and mature, he wore the full burnous of the desert Arab and carried himself with dignity, a diamond-hilted dagger at his waist.

Smith bowed deeply and Kydd hastened to do likewise. Smith spoke in French to Djezzar, and the four then retired to the interior where they all sat cross-legged. Kydd refused a bubble-pipe but Hewitt accepted out of curiosity. Kydd looked furtively about for ladies of the harem but, disappointingly, saw none.

Smith conversed urbanely and at length with Djezzar, whose harsh, booming voice had a hard edge of authority. Kydd leaned over to Hewitt. “What’s the drift?” he whispered.

“Asking for men to build up the fortifications,” Hewitt replied, in a low voice, “and about the Turkish cavalry promised to us.” There was a snarl and impassioned words from Djezzar.

“He says he told them to go out and attack the enemy and not to return until they had done something worthy of his notice.”

The audience had apparently been a success: on the way back to their headquarters Smith made light commentary on the sights, approving the purposeful hurry of gangs now setting about clearing detritus and rubble from the walls, labouring at the stonework, shoring up weak bastions.

In their campaign room Smith looked in satisfaction at the map as he made corrections and notes. “So far, so good,” he said briskly. “El Djezzar is proving most co-operative, and I’m sanguine that if we do our part we shall have a good chance of delaying the French long enough for the Turks to bring them to battle.

“There is much to do—I shall be returning aboard
Tigre.
I want those guns landed before sunset and placed in position without delay. Your orders are here.” He produced a slim sheaf of papers. “In essence they require you to act for me ashore.

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Djezzar Pasha has been notified that you may do so in my name.

Therefore you will acquaint yourselves thoroughly with my orders so that nothing is overlooked.”

He considered for a moment, then said, “We have no reliable knowledge of the French advance. It might be prudent to begin a regular reconnaissance south until their presence is detected. One of you will take a boat away at dusk for this purpose.”

“So, we have our orders, an’ our task is tolerably clear. I only hope we can get away in time.”

“You are not confident of a favourable outcome?” Hewitt responded coolly.

“Are you?”

“I know my duty, I believe,” Hewitt said stiffly.

“F’r me . . .” Kydd began, and thought better of it. “Then let’s be started. Where’s Suleiman, the translator we’ve been promised?” He turned out to be the tall man at the seraglio.

“Er, Mr Suleiman, I want t’ see the
serang—
whatever you’d call th’ chief of the workers on the wall. There’s not a moment t’

lose.”

The first gun from
Tigre
was landed at the mole soon after midday: a heavy twenty-four-pounder, laid along the thwarts of a launch, and its two tons of cold iron swayed ashore by improvised sheer-legs. A gun-carriage followed, then boats with powder and shot, some with stores and rum casks.

Soon after, the grinning faces of Dobbie, his close friend Laffin and others arrived in
Tenacious
’s cutter, volunteers all, ready to man the guns that would soon face the great Napoleon Buonaparte.

Their twenty-four-pounder, which had come earlier in the launch, was man-hauled through the streets and into place.

“Dobbie, you’re gun captain here. There’ll be a Frenchy along presently as will tell ye where, er, you’ll best direct y’r fire.” There

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would be no looming enemy ship to fire into: presumably it would be columns of men or random waves of attackers. He ignored the puzzled looks of the men at the word “Frenchy.”

The
Tenacious
gun was mounted at the end of the wall where it met the sea to the south and commanded the open ground in front of the town, now being broken up to form a discouragement to attackers. Kydd let his gaze move across the littered landscape: wild fig trees and hovels had been levelled out to line-of-sight of the nearest high ground some quarter of a mile away. Beyond that was the anonymous dry, scrubby country that stretched inland to distant purple hills. It would be from this direction that the army of Napoleon Buonaparte would come.

Kydd watched Dobbie dispose his men in imitation of shipboard, handspike and crow to hand. He had ensured that there was a semblance of a magazine along the inside of the wall and gave orders for the safe handling of powder and shot. But he was becoming uneasy in this unfamiliar world and hoped their withdrawal would not be long delayed; it had been in a similar siege on land at Calvi that Nelson had lost the sight of one eye to the splintering stone of a ricocheting shot.

Hewitt had concluded his gun dispositions at the other end of the wall—they could now converge fire and, judging from the chattering fascination of gaping onlookers, they were giving heart by their presence.

They met later back at their musty headquarters for a snatched meal. “We get marines t’morrow,” Kydd said, through the last of his lamb stew, “t’ use as we please.”

“Orders are strict enough in the matter of sentries. I’d far rather trust a leatherneck on sentry-go than a Turk, if you take my point.”

“I do. An’ I notice that we’re on watch an’ watch—days on an’ split the nights?”

“Alternately?”

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“Agreed.” Kydd lifted his cup in acknowledgement; the wine was dry and resinous but pleasant enough. Hewitt looked disapprovingly at the china cup but drank.

“And the dusk patrol?”

“That’s f’r me,” Kydd said quickly—the chance for some sea-time was not to be missed. It was also an opportunity to show Smith what he could do.

“Then I’ll take the first watch.”

“Aye.”

Hewitt seemed moody, distracted. Kydd sensed that he was having misgivings. “Rum sort of place,” Kydd tried. “Ye can see how old it is.”

“Old? You might say that,” said Hewitt bleakly. “This is Canaan—that is to say, the Phoenician lands from centuries before Rome. And that’s the road to Nazareth over the hills—St Paul was here, and this was the very place, St John of Acre, where Richard the Lionheart and the crusaders marched against Jerusalem. It’s been fought over by all the tribes of man for thousands of years, and now we are come to add our blood . . .”

Kydd would not be depressed: this was a passing strange and unusual task for a sea officer but it was also the best and only chance in sight for notice and advancement.

“Laffin, get a boat’s crew t’gether for me. Cox’n an’ six, the launch under sail and I’ll have the thirty-two-pounder carronade shipped in the bows.” There was no harm in being well prepared: a boat action could be the most brutal form of combat at sea.

“Ready in half an hour, if y’ please.”

He examined the charts with Hewitt: communications with the south were a road following a fertile strip along the sea at the edge of the desert—if the enemy were to come they must choose between the coast road and a long swing inland from the interior to reach the gates of Acre.

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“I’ll press south t’ this Mount Carmel,” Kydd mused. “Ten miles or so. They’ll come along the coast road’s my guess.”

“Mount Carmel—Elijah discomfits the prophets of Baal, two Kings something . . .”

Kydd could not bring it to mind: this was half a world away from the boredom of the Sunday service in Guildford town where the dry words of a preacher speaking of the Holy Land bore no resemblance at all to this arid country.

“. . . the Samaritans, even. Christ passed by here on his way to Jerusalem . . .”

“Um, that’s right—an’ I’m takin’ a carronade in case they have gunboats out. Do ye keep a watch f’r gunfire, as will be y’r signal they’re abroad.” He left Hewitt to his Biblical musings and collected his sword belt from the corner. He favoured a shoulder carriage to spread the weight, leaving the belt loose for a brace of pistols. His fighting sword had a satisfying heft and in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun he strode down to the mole.

Laffin, the hard petty officer Kydd remembered from his

“duel” in Canada, touched his hat at his approach; also in the boat was the lofty Poulden, forward at the stubby carronade, and several other Tenaciouses along the thwarts. A stout enough crew, he thought with satisfaction.

“Pistols an’ cutlasses?”

“In th’ arms chest, sir,” Laffin said immediately.

He boarded the big launch and settled in the sternsheets, leaving Laffin the tiller. “We’ll shove off now, if y’ please,” Kydd told him.

The soft westerly meant they did not even have to ship oars as the gaff-headed main was hoisted. “I’ll have th’ running bowsprit out with jib an’ stays’l, I believe.” The carronade would not bear forward while this was rigged but it would add considerably to their speed and could be struck in a hurry if need be.

The boat left the mole, slipped past the roiling white of the
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Manara rocks, then headed out to sea to preserve an offing before shaping course south. It was most pleasant, Kydd had to admit; the sun sinking out to sea in shimmering splendour, warmth still in the air, and in the other direction, the low, nondescript coast taking on the wistful indigo of evening. Along the endless virgin sands was the startling white of breakers, the purple of far mountains now a deep ultramarine.

Olive gardens and small clusters of the flat-topped dwellings were dotted along the shore. Several times figures stopped, watching them curiously. The cheerful splash of their passage and the occasional grunted conversation of the men lulled Kydd into a reverie—he pulled himself together. What
did
a great army look like, apart from thousands of bayonets? He had no idea, but knew that if he saw one his duty was to get the news to Smith with the utmost urgency.

The bay curved round. At one place he saw classical ruins enough to make Renzi stare—but he was not present: he was in distant England, resolving his personal life. A string of camels plodded along the skyline. Kydd idly counted nearly a hundred on the dusty road with their riders in flowing desert cloaks looking as if they had stepped out of a picture book of his childhood.

He followed their advance, their riders rhythmically jerking forward as though in a boat in a rough sea—
jerking?
Surely a desert Bedouin had a more comfortable style of riding.

He looked about quickly. “Laffin—put about an’ go beyond that spit o’ land.” They had passed a tiny headland, no more than a small twist of sand. The boat went about smartly and returned the way they had come. As soon as they were out of sight of the riders Kydd said urgently, “Set me ashore, an’ stand off ’n’

on until they’re past, then collect me.”

The boat scrunched into the fine sand beyond the point and Kydd leaped off, scurrying to get into the fringing grasses of the

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sand dune. He crouched, waiting. There were no sounds of sighting or pursuit but he kept very still. At length came the soft chinkle of a camel harness and the murmur of voices on the evening air.

A delicate, unknown but haunting fragrance warred with the dry pungency of the desert and the nearer salty sand of the dunes—he flattened among the reedy grasses, rigid with concentration.

He felt the thumping of camel feet through the ground as they drew nearer. The voices were louder—and it was not Arabic that was being spoken but French.

It seemed to take for ever for the camel train to pass. He heard muted laughter, sharp words and an occasional snatch of song above the rustle of shuffling feet and the leathery slap of harness.

Finally the last one passed. Cautiously Kydd raised his head: they were receding along the road without looking back. He delayed for a while longer, then slid down to the beach and waited for the boat.

“Load with canister!” he growled at Poulden, as they shoved off. There was no doubt in his mind of what he should do—the sound of the cannon would be as good as a personal report to Smith of their presence.

The launch leaned purposefully to the wind; they passed the camel train once more, the riders took no notice of the little sailing boat offshore. Kydd chose his move carefully: if the boat took the ground they could expect no mercy from the enemy riders.

At a stipple in the line of dunes ahead he doused the sails and took in the bowsprit, using oars to rotate them shoreward.

“Out kedge,” he snapped. The little anchor plummeted and bit and the line tautened over the transom. He paid it out to allow the boat to nose close in, the deadly carronade trained steadily on the shore. Still the camel riders did not take alarm: in the uncertain light and against the setting sun it must have seemed a fishing-boat.