Tenacious (42 page)

Kydd knew his friend to be one who cared deeply about moral

issues and worried at them until he had drawn all the threads into a satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps this was one such instance.

“Should you wish t’ debate a little, Nicholas . . . ?”

“That is kind in you, dear fellow, but the nature of my dilemma does not readily yield to the powers of rational philosophy.”

“Then I shall no longer speak on it,” Kydd said firmly. Renzi would come out with a fully reasoned decision when he was ready, and at the moment they had other more pressing concerns.

“Did I mention,” Renzi said, in quite another voice, “that our good chaplain Peake comes ashore shortly? Knowing his extreme distaste for the effusion of blood I tried to dissuade him from this charnel pit but he is a stubborn old horse.” He considered for a moment and added, “Do bear him with patience—he’s been aboard an anchored ship for an age while he knows that there are men here dying without comfort, and he devoutly wishes to do his duty in some way.”

The morning conference opened with the news that Buonaparte was drawing close, and the dismaying intelligence that because he no longer had to look to a threat from inland he could bring up and deploy every resource to the one object—the reduction of Acre.

“This, then, is the climax,” Smith declared. “Buonaparte has all his forces present and if he cannot triumph over us with these he never will. I recognise this as our supreme moment. My intention is to deny him his victory and, to that end, I am stripping our ships of every man that can be spared and bringing ’em ashore to fight. Gentlemen, we shall not be beat!”

It was crazy—a few hundred seamen, a handful of ship’s guns and the Turks and Arabs, who could at best be only a few thousand against the might of Buonaparte’s army.

“We must hold,” Smith went on. “I have word from Constantinople that a Turkish fleet is on its way to us, and troops
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are summoned from Rhodes. We have but to hold and we’re assured the final victory.”

He felt for a satchel under the desk and swung it up. “Taken from a French supply vessel yesterday. See what our devilish friend is up to now.”

Inside were leaflets. Renzi picked one up: “ ‘To all Christians!

I am come to deliver you at last from the unholy practices of the Muhammadans . . .’ ”

Smith grimaced. “And the other?”

“ ‘. . . am the Defender of the True Faith; the infidels shall be swept away . . .’ ”

“You see? Very well. I will not stand in the way of such devout protestations. I will have these delivered to Christian and Muhammadan alike. However, the Muslim will read that this general is a champion of the Christians, while the Christian will read it was the same Buonaparte who bore away the Pope to captivity.”

Chaplain Peake came ashore by one of the boats streaming in with the reinforcements, an unmistakable figure. Kydd went to meet him and was struck by the peculiar mixture of reverence and disgust playing on his features. “Mr Peake, I’ll have you know we expect hourly t’ have the French about our ears, an’ this will not be a sight for eyes as cultured as y’r own, sir. I beg—”

“And have me sit on the ship in forced idleness, hearing the dread sounds of war at a remove, knowing there are wolves in human clothing rending each other—”

“Have a care, sir!” Kydd said tightly. “Such words aren’t welcomed here. If you wish t’ remain, you’ll keep y’r judgements to yourself.” Peake kept his silence, but his expression was eloquent. Kydd sighed. “Be aware I have nobody t’ look after ye, Mr Peake. They all have a job t’ do. Keep away fr’m the walls, sir—you’ll find th’ wounded in the town. And, er, the Djezzar

will not welcome instruction on the conduct of his harem. Good luck, Mr Peake.”

Rawson and Bowden found their way to the headquarters and saluted smartly. “Our orders, sir?” Rawson said, his eyes straying to exotic sights: the Bedouin with their swaying camels and veiled ladies, fierce Turks with scimitars and turbans, the ruin of bombardments.

“Do you stay here until you understand th’ situation, if y’

please.” Kydd made room at the table where the situation map lay open. “Then I shall want ye to take position inside the walls here, and here, at opposite ends, with a parcel o’ pikemen and cutlasses. There’s a breach at the Cursed Tower here, where we’ve been takin’ the assaults. If the French get through an’ into the town, you close with ’em from your side. Clear?”

Bowden looked absurdly young—his hat was still too big, but now there was a firming of his shoulders, a confidence in his bearing. “One more thing. Leave aside y’r dirks an’ ship a cutlass. This is men’s work. And—and remember what you’ve been taught . . . and, er, good luck.”

Kydd left for the guns with a sinking heart. The French encampment had swollen, and rumour had it that the unorthodox Druse sect was siding with the French against Djezzar Pasha to settle old scores. Now hundreds more were against them.

Hurrying along the wall, Kydd placed his men alternately with the Turks and Arabs; if some broke and ran there was a chance the seamen could hold for a time, but there were among their ranks some whom Kydd had seen fighting like demons—their harsh cries had stiffened the others.

He could not suppress his forebodings. It was possible that he might not survive to see the night. And what of these men, who had to take his orders as an officer and obey? Whether wise or ill-conceived, they had no choice. Would his orders be lucid
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and reasoned or would he, in the chaos of the moment, waste their lives?

Along the wall he saw Renzi shouting to the gun crew in the redoubt. “Nicholas, I—I just wanted t’ say . . . the best o’ luck to ye,” he said gruffly, holding out his hand. “I have a brace o’ the best claret waiting f’r when we get back, an’ we shall enjoy ’em together.”

Renzi looked up with the familiar half-smile. “In the event, it will—” He was interrupted by a shattering roar from the bowels of the earth. A gust of super-heated air threw them to the ground and showered everything with debris. As it settled Kydd picked himself up, dazed and choking on the swirling dust. The mine had exploded! One half of the Cursed Tower lay in rubble and there was an opening in the wall wide enough for fifty men abreast to march into the town.

“T’ the breach!” bellowed Kydd. It was crucial to meet the inevitable assault with as many as could be mustered until more effective resistance was ready. He dropped from the wall to the top of the rubble and faced outwards, his sword ready. Several seamen with boarding pikes and cutlasses joined him, then Turks and Arabs with their daggers and scimitars. Others arrived, until there were a hundred or more.

The horizon rapidly filled with soldiers advancing towards them, more massing behind. A dismayed murmur spread through the defenders. Kydd raised his sword. “Give ’em a cheer, m’lads!”

he shouted, above the increasing noise. The seamen raised their voices and, encouraged, the Turks gave their harsh war-cries. The attackers came on in a headlong charge, the numbers beyond counting.

The other ships’ guns mounted in the ravelins opened up.

Grape-shot ripped into the attackers. From to seaward came the heavy rumble of broadsides in enfilade, which tore into the

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advancing mass at appalling cost. Even before the first had reached the rubble-strewn fosse the retreat had sounded and the grim marching had turned into a disorderly scramble out of range of the merciless naval guns. They left the ground before the walls a wasteland of pain and dying with new dead joining rotting corpses, wild dogs howling and tearing at the bodies, a sickening odour of death catching in the throats of the defenders.

Kydd felt a hot hatred for Napoleon Buonaparte and his towering ambition to conquer at whatever cost, a tide of anger that took him above his exhaustion and anxieties and left him only with a burning determination to thwart the man. “Stand fast!”

he bellowed. “They’ll be back!” His voice broke with emotion but he did not care. They would stand until they were victorious or were overcome.

But the midday sun beat down without a sign of the enemy.

Kydd stood down half of the men and sent them for rations and an hour’s rest. Smith came to observe the breach, coolly taking notes. “I’ll send you all the help I can, Mr Kydd,” he said, scanning the wasteland beyond the walls. “They have to defeat us, of course—Buonaparte’s very reputation and the future of the world rides on this.”

In less than an hour the drums beat again and trumpets pealed the
pas de charge
up and down the lines, but with one difference: this time it was the grenadiers in full array leading the assault, Buonaparte’s finest troops at the advance edge. They came on steadily, marching with standards held high. In their distinctive red-plumed hats and long muskets aslope they were a different calibre of soldier.

The first shots from the ravelins found them. Men fell, but they closed ranks and marched on. The anchored ships opened up with a massed thunder, tearing into the columns like a scythe. Still they advanced. All along the parapets every man
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that could hold a musket blazed away. The noise was horrific and smoke hung over the battle as a pall—but the grenadiers still came on.

At the breach Kydd braced himself. Then someone jostled him from behind and he caught a glimpse of Renzi moving up to his side, pale-faced but with a steely resolution. “I do believe, dear fellow, we’re in this together,” he said, with the ghost of a smile, flourishing his blade.

The first rank of the grenadiers carried pikes and as their moustachioed faces became distinct Kydd gripped his sword and prepared for what must come. In the last few yards they levelled their weapons and broke into a trot, coming at them with a fierce snarl. Kydd tensed. In theory the same principles must apply as with boarding a ship in the face of a pike—get inside it and the man was yours.

With a vicious lunge at Kydd’s eyes a dark-featured grenadier hurled himself at him. Kydd swayed just enough to avoid the pike, yanking the man forward by it to his waiting blade, but another dropped his pike and drew his sword. Kydd snatched out one of his brace of pistols and pulled the trigger in the man’s face, whirling to meet another who was coming in low.

He smashed his pistol down on the man’s head but at the same time felt the searing burn of a bayonet under his arm. Wildly he spun about for his next opponent but saw only an unstoppable flood of soldiers pressing forward through the fierce musketry and explosions of grenades thrown from the walls.

Renzi was backed against one side, hacking and slashing at two soldiers. Kydd threw himself at one, his sword taking him in the back. His victim let out an animal squeal and a fountain of blood. Renzi’s blade flashed out at the other and transfixed him, but he had seen something behind Kydd and with a shout he pulled out his sword and made ready. Kydd realised what

had happened and wheeled about but the man had disappeared back into the mêlée.

“Retire!” Renzi shouted, above the guns and death screams.

Retreat—to the second line of defences Phélippeaux had prepared—was the only course: the press of invaders was so great that they were jostling each other in their eagerness to break through.

“Fall back!” Kydd roared in agreement, edging round the jagged end of the wall and gesturing with his sword. Seeing the remnants of the breach crew disengage or be swept aside he turned and ran to the inner line—an improvised parapet of rubble on each side and loop-holed houses on the far side. He vaulted over and crouched, panting.

A shout of triumph went up from the grenadiers as they found themselves flooding into the town. It was taken up outside the walls and excitedly echoed back from the advancing columns.

“Stand y’r ground!” roared Kydd, seeing the pitiful line of defenders wavering. “Get ’em while they don’t know where they are!” The second line of defence, a square a hundred yards distant inside the breach, was crude but effective, temporarily containing the invaders. The French milled about, unsure of where to head next, penned in and without a clear enemy.

Some tried to climb over the rough barrier but had to lower their weapons to do so and were easily dispatched. More pressed in through the breach to add to the confusion and were met with musket fire. Above it all, Kydd could hear the crash and thump of heavy guns outside—the battle was by no means over.

Suddenly his eye was caught by a flutter of colour from the top of the Cursed Tower—a French flag had replaced the English: the citadel that dominated the town had fallen to the enemy.

Now it only needed them to expand their toehold in the town
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and they would be unstoppable. Acre would be Buonaparte’s before sunset.

Then a harsh, alien braying sounded from the breach. Kydd stared, trying to make out what was happening through the smoke and dust. Inwards, from each side of the breach hurtled a whirling frenzy of men in gold turbans and flowing trousers. All flashing blades and demonic screams, they fell in a murderous fury on the French grenadiers pouring in. The two sides met in the middle of the breach and as the grenadiers gave way they joined together—one line facing outwards, another inward.

These were Bosnian Chiftlicks, sent by Sultan Selim from his personal bodyguard; Smith had kept them for just this occasion. With a surge of hope Kydd saw how they had severed those penned inside from the support of their comrades outside. They had a chance! He rose with a shout: “Finish the bastards!” He kicked at a nearby seaman. “Move y’rselves, we have a chance if we move
now!
” Several looked at him as if he were a madman. “Get off y’r arses an’ fight!” he yelled hoarsely, and leaped over the parapet into the dismayed Frenchmen, who now saw that they were, in effect, surrounded, their cohesion as a military unit demolished.