Tenacious (43 page)

Seamen rose up and joined Kydd in the vicious fighting that spilled out, but now there was a change in the spirit of the invaders. Turning to retreat, they found their way barred. Ululations of triumph became howls of terror, for the Turks now had the enemy at their mercy and flooded into the area from all sides, slaughtering and mutilating without mercy.

Kydd’s battle rage fell away at the sight and he stood back with bloodied blade as the last of the interlopers was hacked to death and the area cleared up to the breach. The line of Chiftlicks, facing out, capered and menaced with their strangely curved weapons at the demoralised columns, which fell back into the fire from the ship’s guns.

Kydd pulled at the sleeve of one, gesturing up at the Cursed Tower and making suggestive motions with his sword. The man’s eyes were glazed, uncomprehending, as though he was drugged.

Then he grinned fiercely, shouted for others and rushed for the gaping ruin.

The wavering column began to disintegrate. Buonaparte’s brave grenadiers had broken and they fled out of range of the merciless broadsides in a
sauve qui peut—
every man for himself.

Trembling with emotion, Kydd watched them flee but suddenly a dark, round object soared through the air to thump at his feet—and another. Grenades? His heart froze. But they were the heads of Frenchmen who had had the misfortune to be stranded in the Cursed Tower and found by the Chiftlicks.

His gorge rose, as much at the sight as at the sickening repetition of killing. He left the line and stalked back through the breach. There were now only corpses and those picking over the bodies. But where was Renzi? At last he saw him standing bowed at one corner of the killing field. Relief chased dread as he crossed over to him. “Nicholas! You . . .” There was a tear in his friend’s eye.

In a low voice Renzi pointed to a body and croaked, “Mr Peake—he must have got lost.” He cleared his throat and continued, “Of all I know, he was a man of conviction, of courage and did not fear to stand for the cause of humanity over the world’s striving for vanities . . . a gentle man, and the world is now the poorer for his loss.” Kydd walked away, leaving his friend to his grief.

“Sir—sir!” Bowden raced down the steps of the parapet. “Mr Smith’s duty, and if you should cast your eyes to the nor-west you shall see such a sight as will fill your heart!”

Kydd mounted the steps to the top of the wall and looked out to sea. On the horizon, perhaps a dozen miles off, was a cloud of sail, sprawling over most of the west. “The Turkish fleet,
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sir.” They were saved—Buonaparte was thwarted. Deliverance meant cessation of this madness. All Kydd could think about was his little cabin aboard
Tenacious
and the precious benison of sleep.

He snatched Bowden’s telescope and saw about nine warships, the rest transports, presumably with soldiers. “That’s them, sure enough,” he grunted. Something made him raise the glass again: the image had suffered from the glare of the sun on water, but it was plain now that the whole fleet lay becalmed, helpless. There would be no quick end.

The first guns started, and others, until the whole enemy line seemed to be alive with the flash and shock of artillery.

No longer were they battering at the fortifications: now they aimed at random: cannon balls, explosive shells, incendiary carcasses—all fell on the town of Acre, setting alight houses, mosques, camel stables, tenements. Screaming women ran about the streets. Buildings crumbled and burned.

Kydd got hold of Dobbie. “Get all th’ men behind the wall an’ on their hunkers.” Ironically, the walls were now the safest place to be and, following his example, many rushed to flatten themselves against the inside of the wall.

“Sir, why?”

“I don’t know, Dobbie. M’ guess is that Buonaparte knows that if he c’n break into Acre afore the fleet arrives he’s won.

Some sort o’ ruse to rush us in the confusion—trickery of some kind, for sure.”

“Aye, sir. Then we’ll stand to th’ gun, by y’r leave, sir.”

“Thank ye, Dobbie.”

The guns pounded all afternoon. It was not until dusk drew in that the cannon-fire slackened and finally stopped for want of aim. Kydd peered through the breach at the darkening countryside now being speckled by the light of campfires; there would

be no more suicidal assaults, but what deviltry would they meet tomorrow? The Turkish fleet still lay distant offshore, unable to come to their help if there was another mine or if the renewed bombardment set fire to the town.

He resumed his pacing at the breach, his mind a turmoil after the day. Dobbie came up with Laffin. “Stand down th’ gun, sir?”

“Yes. I’d get y’r sleep while you can. Who knows what we’ll be facing tomorrow?”

“Sir.” Dobbie turned to go, but some trick of the light, the last of the sunset, touched the top of the Cursed Tower and Kydd noticed the French flag still hanging limply atop it. On impulse he told him, “Afore ye turn in, douse that Frog rag and bring it t’ me.”

Dobbie touched his forehead and loped off, emerging on the top of the ruined tower. There appeared to be some sort of difficulty, which Kydd guessed was that the flag halliards had been shot away. Dobbie lifted a hand to point up to the flag and began shinning up the bare mast, an easy feat for a seaman. At the truck he tugged on the flag until it came free, and stuffed it inside his shirt. Then he slid down the mast awkwardly and disappeared inside the tower. He emerged from its base and stumbled towards Kydd, the flag outstretched, a look of grim concentration on his face.

Kydd stepped forward in concern, but before he could reach him, Dobbie fell face forward to the ground and lay still, the victim of a sharp-shooter in the outer shadows. With a hoarse cry Laffin pushed past Kydd and dropped to his knees next to the unmoving Dobbie. “No!” he screamed blindly, holding up a bloody hand and staring at it. “He’s dead! An’ it’s you, y’ glory-seeking bastard,” he choked at Kydd.

• • •

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Kydd keeled over into his cot, shattered in mind and body. The death of Dobbie and Laffin’s accusation brought an unstoppable wave of grief and emotion. He tried to fight it, but the weeks had taken their toll. A sob escaped him.

It had been a cruel taunt: Kydd knew only too well from his time before the mast that a glory-seeker as an officer was worse than an incompetent, inevitably resulting in men’s lives sacrificed on the altar of ambition. He could understand Laffin’s reaction, but how could he say that his order to Dobbie to take down the flag and bring it was only so that he could present it to Smith as a tribute for what he was achieving?

But was this more of a general indictment? Were his actions in leading from the front during the siege seen by the lower deck as an ambitious bid for notice, to their cost? Was he, in truth, a despised glory-seeker?

Kydd tossed fretfully in the close air of the little room above the headquarters. His motivations in stepping forward into danger at the head of his men were, he had believed, those of duty and understanding of their desperate situation, but could there be within him a hidden impulse to glory and ambition?

And what kind of leader was he? His capture, along with that of the men who had trusted him, still smarted in him for it had been only by the greatest good luck that Smith had had French captives on hand whom Buonaparte had needed. What was being said at the mess tables when they took their grog? What judgement was being passed on him? Perhaps he would be perceived as an unlucky weight around whom men seemed to get themselves killed and, indeed, many had since the siege of Acre had started.

Kydd knew that this was at the core of himself as an officer. If the seamen regarded him as square and true they would follow him through anything; if he was seen as a glory-seeker, he might one day find himself alone on an enemy deck.

He could not sleep—the torturing thoughts rioting through his mind made it impossible—and when the marine private arrived at midnight to call him for his watch he almost welcomed it.

Renzi was below at the operations table, staring at the map with its lines and erasures enumerating the many assaults and savage encounters they had endured. So tired, the friends spoke little more than a few words and, after the customary hand-over, Renzi left for his room above.

Kydd had the watch until dawn. If it was quiet it was usual to stay at the headquarters where any could find him, but his heart was so full of dark thoughts that he told the sentries gruffly he would be at the wall.

Hearing the burr and chirp of night insects he paced along the parapet past the occasional sentries next to watch-fires. Out there, in the vast unknown velvet darkness, their mortal enemy lay and plotted their destruction. In the other direction was the inky sea and anchored offshore
Tenacious
and
Tigre,
the warmth of golden light from the wardroom windows and clustered lanthorns on their fo’c’sles so redolent of the sea life, but at the same time so remote from Kydd’s place of trial.

He continued pacing, the cool breeze bringing with it the ever-present stench of death, overhead the calm splendour of stars in the moonless heavens. What would they face tomorrow? If the guns kept up their bombardment there would be ruin and panic.

The only course would be evacuation and a suicidal rearguard action. His mind shied from the implications.

He heard someone approach in the stillness. It was Laffin. The seamen had no night watches: the man had no reason to be about at that hour. “C’n I talk, if y’ please, Mr Kydd?” His expression was indistinct in the gloom.

“What d’ ye want?”

“It’s Bill Dobbie—sir.”

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“If ye want to say you’re grieving f’r him, then I’ll have you know—so am I.”

“He were m’ mate, sir.”

Kydd waited warily.

“We was two-blocks since ’e came aboard in Halifax. ’E was

’appy ’n’ did well in
Tenacious,
’e did—wanted t’ make gunner’s mate but didn’t ’ave ’is letters, an’ so I learned him.”

This was by no means unknown but spoke of a deep friendship born of common hardship, which Kydd recognised, with a stab of feeling.

“Has a wife in Brixham an’ a little girl—”

“Laffin, why are you telling me this?” Kydd said sharply.

The man hesitated, then straightened. “Sir, I wants ye t’ know that I was hasty wi’ me words when I called ye a—”

“Aye, well, thank you f’r telling me.”

“—an I think as how y’ should read this’n. Comes across it while I was makin’ up his gear t’ give to his wife.” He held out a paper, then disappeared into the darkness.

Kydd went to a watch-fire and realised, with a sinking feeling, that it was a letter. Back in the privacy of Headquarters he took the lanthorn across to the table and smoothed out the paper. The writing was strong but childish. Kydd remembered that in Canada not much more than a year ago, Dobbie had been obliged to make his mark on the ship’s books, the tell-tale sign of illiteracy.

“My sweet Mary” it began. A letter home to his wife. “Anuther day in this god-blastd hole whi the bedoo like it I dont know for the lif of me.”

It was hard to continue—he felt it a violation to read the precious words that would be all that the woman would know of her man’s thoughts and feelings before . . . Kydd wondered why Laffin had wanted him to read this.

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I hav saved for you my dearist mor than eihtgteen
gineas to this date. I doant know when wi will
return it is a hard time wi are having but my dear
it wuld make yuo smil to see the rare drubbing
we ar giving the frogs and we not lobsterbaks but
jack tar!

Kydd felt his eyes sting but he kept reading.

Wi will win, sweethart there is no dout of that.

Yuo see we hav the best men and the best oficers
and yuo may beleive that like sir sidny and mr
kidd who I hav seen miself with his fine sowrd at
the breech in the wall. He giv hart to us all to see
him alweys there he is a leson in currage if we see
him in charg of us wi will allways tak after him
wher he tell us to go . . .

The rest dissolved in a blur of tears. Any torturing doubts were now behind him for ever.

“Sir? One hour t’ dawn.”

Renzi was fully awake but politely thanked the marine, who touched a taper to a little oil-lamp. He lay for a few more moments, then, with a sigh of resolution, threw off the single sheet.

He had barely slept and wondered at Kydd’s stamina after the much longer perils and hardships he had endured.

Something had spoken to him during the night, a tendril of presentiment reaching out that the day would see a culmination of all their striving. For himself, Renzi had no doubts. When it chose to strike, death could come in so many ways—disease, shipwreck, a round shot. It really was of no consequence. What
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was of importance was the manner of leaving life. With courage, and no regrets.

In the mirror his face looked back at him, grave but calm. He raised an eyebrow quizzically and silently acknowledged that there was one matter, trivial in the circumstances, but a loose end that his logical self insisted should be resolved to satisfaction, if only to impose a philosophic neatness on his life to this date. It was the decision in the matter of his father’s demand that he take up his place as eldest son and heir-apparent to the earldom.

The stakes were plain: if he acceded he would be in the fullness of time the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall.