Seaflower (6 page)

'In
an enfilade,' Calley snarled sarcastically, 'the object is to bring the enemy
under fire from the flank.' So much for blankets, thought Kydd. 'We rake him,
you ninny!'

Kydd
burned. Why hadn't Calley used understandable sea terms from the first? To rake
the enemy at sea was to slam a storm of shot end on down the unprotected length
of the vessel instead of into her heavy sides, and was generally credited a
battle-winner.

Calley
glared, then collected himself. 'The fort lies yonder, a mile or so off,' he
said, gesturing at the dense undergrowth to the north. 'You will move around to
take him from the east. But mark my words! You are to take position only. Do
not advance until you hear the redcoat's trumpet that we are also in place.' He
breathed heavily. 'Else you will be destroyed.'

Kydd
led the way. A sea-service cutlass was too heavy and cumbersome to do much
about the thickening ground cover, and he swore — at first under his breath,
later aloud. His musket, over his shoulder in its sling, slipped and banged
him, and he could hear his men muttering.

Without
warning, the trees and vegetation dropped away to nothing. Kydd fell to the
ground, motioning the others to do the same. They had reached a track crossing
their course. It was the ideal path for enemy coming down on them from the
north, but there was nothing for it: he must obey orders and carry on eastwards.

He
ran across the track, followed by his party. The other side was a dense wall of
harsh greenery reaching skyward eight feet or more, so thickly sown that it was
virtually impenetrable. It would be impossible to keep on their course. Kydd
crouched and felt a rising tide of panic. He would do his duty or die in the
attempt! But this? What if they were going in the wrong direction, were late,
betrayed the brave souls making the frontal assault who believed they would be
supported to the east by Kydd's section?

'Give
over frettin', Tom!' Larcomb said kindly, coming up to squat next to him.
Larcomb had his jacket off, knotted round his waist. 'What say we takes a spell
here, mate?'

'No!'
Kydd snarled.

Renzi
loped up at the crouch. Kydd braced himself — he neither wanted to justify
himself to his friend nor discuss the philosophy of the situation.

'Should
you await me here, I do believe I can find an easterly path for us, my friend.'
Renzi was looking northward with a keen gaze.

'Er,
o' course,' Kydd said, caught off balance.

Renzi
left his musket and cutlass and sprinted off. Almost immediately he disappeared
into the thick vegetation. Kydd waited, debating with himself what to do if
Renzi did not reappear — then his friend popped into view, beckoning furiously.

'Sugar-cane
has to be harvested, was my logic!' Renzi chuckled, as they hurried down a
narrow break in the cane-field to the east.

Logic,
thought Kydd dully. It would have to be logic if it were Renzi, but his heart
warmed to the way his friend had made it easy for him.

'D'ye
think a mile has passed f'r us?' Kydd asked, as casually as he could, as they
moved along the endless, unchanging track. The assault could come at any time
.
..

'I
would think so,' said Renzi.

Kydd
felt annoyed again: it was easy for Renzi, he was not in charge. Not only did
Kydd have to be in position to the east, but when the trumpet sounded he had to
know which direction to push forward, or end up in the empty country while the
real battle was being fought and won without him.

'Damn
you!' he ground out. Renzi glanced at him, no emotion on his face.

Kydd
looked away. At least they were in position now — the fort must be away to their
left. He hunkered down for the wait. The others lay around, some on their
backs, seeming uncaring of the coming clash-at-arms. Renzi sat, hugging his
knees and staring into space, while Kydd got up and paced.

The
sun grew hotter. They had no water as it was all expected to end rapidly one
way or the other. The minutes dragged on, with not a sound apart from a bird
that kept up a deafening racket. It was agonising — what was delaying the main
assault? Kydd checked the priming on his musket again. Perhaps Calley had
received secret knowledge of a greater than expected French garrison, and was
waiting for reinforcements. If that was so—

A
rustling sounded on the other side of the wall of cane. They were discovered —
and before the assault!

He
would sell their lives dearly, though. Kydd seized his musket and pointed it at
the sound. He sensed the others grouping behind him.

Luke
wheeled round the end of the cane-field. 'I bin a-looldn' fer you!' His face
was wreathed in smiles as he ran towards Kydd. Then he stopped and attempted a
professional look, such as messengers have when delivering their news. ‘Er, Mr
Kydd, I'm ter tell yer from L'tenant Calley ter report t' the fort.'

'What?

'He's
in a rare takin' - Frogs ran off afore we c'd even get in position, they did!'
His face clouded. 'An' he says as how yer such an infernal looby as y' doesn't
know when the guns ain't firin' there ain't a battle.'

Kydd
gritted his teeth. Of course! That was what had been niggling at the back of
his mind - no firing! A quick glance at Renzi's blank expression told him that
he had known all along that their advance on the fort would be guided by the
sound of battle.

'An'
he told the Joey major that he'd be a confounded prig afore he sounds the
trumpet t' advance jus' ter oblige a parcel o'—'

'That's
enough o' yer insolence, m' lad!' Larcomb said reprovingly. The party hefted
their muskets and followed Luke meekly to the fort.

Flames
flickered ruddily from the cooking fire. The seamen had left the foraging and
other arrangements to the marines, who seemed well able to cope. Kydd nursed
his cracked cup of rum as he sat morosely against the wattle wall of the
chattel house, staring into the flames. It was not his kind of war, this -
crashing about in the undergrowth not knowing what was going on. Real war was
serving a mighty cannon on a surging gundeck.

The
evening was pleasant, the constant breeze from the ocean reliable enough, but
the ground all about was hard and dusty. He scratched at a persistent tickle in
his leg-hairs in the darkness, then saw by the firelight that it was a busy
column of ants. He leaped to his feet in disgust.

They'd
eaten a kind of spicy chicken that the previous owners of the house had thought
they would be having that night It sat uneasily on Kydd's stomach. Reluctantly
he pushed his way closer to the fire and settled down again on the stony
ground.

It
seemed like minutes later when boatswain's mates and corporals roared about to
rouse the huddled men. Kydd ached in the pre-dawn darkness after his uncomfortable
doze. A thin overcast hid the half-moon and the night was full of dull shadows.

Kydd
knew the plan in a general way. They would push forward before dawn towards a
much bigger fort, Fleur d'Epee, and fall upon it at first light It was hoped
that the defenders would not expect such a rapid resuming of the advance.

'Pay
attention, you section leaders.' Calley was indistinct in the poor light but
his words came strongly. Kydd stood in the semicircle of a dozen men, listening
carefully.

'We
advance on the fort shortly. There are two roads. Sections one and three will
take the easterly, the other sections the westerly. The roads go each side of
the fort. Now, mark this, the fort is on a slight hill, and reconnaissance
tells us that the brush has been cleared around to give a good field of fire.
Therefore — and I cannot emphasise this too strongly - we will be bloodily
repulsed if they are waiting for us. The advance must take place in complete
silence. Total silence! Do I make myself clear?'

All
traces of weariness and aching fell away as Kydd took in the words.

‘For
that reason, the first numbered sections will be armed with cold steel only -
this will ensure that there are no accidental discharges of musketry. And, do
you bear in mind always, you are not to leave cover and advance over the open
ground until the trumpet sounds. Then move very quickly, if you please,' Calley
added drily.

Kydd
took his cutlass, the blackened steel and grey oily blade sinister in the last of
the firelight. He remembered the first time he had used one with deadly force.
Then it had saved his life, but at the cost of the enduring memory of a young
man's face sagging under the recognition of his coming death.

He
fitted the scabbard to its frog, and slid it on to his wide seaman's belt.
Experimentally, he drew the heavy weapon's greased length - it fell to hand
easily, and Kydd noted that the blade had been ground to a good point: it could
be relied on to sink through clothing and leather to the heart.

'Form
up!' he growled at his section. Renzi was present, although Kydd was none the
wiser about his action in joining his party. He had been too tired the previous
evening to do more than grunt at Renzi's solicitudes; there had been no
comfortable conversation.

They
moved off. In the lead were other sections. They paced on rapidly, Kydd
grateful for the easy going afforded by a road instead of clinging undergrowth.
The road forked. Kydd's section took the lead to the right. The road sank lower
and its sides reared as they passed into a defile cut into a rise in the coral
rock, until even the least military of them realised that, trapped as they were
by the vertical sides of the road, they were easy meat for any ambush.

Kydd
paced on, his ears pricking, his eyes staring-wide. His men followed behind in
file. It was no use trying to listen for strange sounds - the tropical night
was alive with unknown stridulations, barks, squeaks and grunts. The road
emerged from the defile, and began to trend upward. They must be approaching
the prominence with the fort astride it, he reasoned. Sure enough, a curve in
the road led out of the wooded fringing area and somewhere shortly ahead must
lie the open ground — and Fort d'Epee.

'Dead
silence!' whispered Kydd, 'Or - or
...'
It seemed thin and pathetic against the reality of their situation, but the men
nodded, and plunged after him off the road and into the woods. It wasn't long
before they came to the edge: the crudely felled and levelled area ahead gave
no cover, open ground all the way up to the drab cluster of low buildings
inside stout palisades. It was still too overcast and murky to make out much.

'Back
— we wait f'r the call,' Kydd whispered. It were best they were not at the very
edge of the clearing in case a pale face in the night was seen from the fort.
They moved inward a few yards and settled to wait.

'I
c'n hear
...'
began Larcomb. There
was a rustle.

Renzi
moved up and looked around questioningly. 'There!' he hissed.

It
was a footfall. Kydd held up his hand for silence. His heart thudded. Another
footfall, a rustling of foliage. Someone was entering the woods, and heading
towards them.

At
the edge of action Kydd teetered. The movement stopped and Kydd took a deep
breath — but then came the tinkle of urine on the ground.

In
a dizzying moment of relief, he touched the arms of Larcomb and another seaman
then pointed. They nodded and rose soundlessly. In a swift flurry they brought
the man crashing down. He was a young sentry, who had laid down his musket to
relieve himself out of sight of the fort. He struggled hard, but was pinioned
securely, Larcomb's hand clamped over his mouth. The struggles spent
themselves, and the hapless man stared up.

Kydd
knew that Renzi spoke French, and-whispered to him harshly, 'Tell him he's our
prisoner.'

'I
rather think not,' Renzi replied.

'Damn
it! Do as I—'

'We
have no men to spare to look after prisoners.' To give point to Renzi's words,
the youth struggled again. Three men were holding him down — three effectives
who would be greatly missed later.

'You
can't just . . .'

Renzi
said nothing. The young man's eyes bulged: he seemed to sense what was being
discussed, and tried desperately to reach out to them.

'Bugger
wants ter talk,' Larcomb muttered hoarsely, and looked up.

Hesitating,
Kydd shook his head - there was too much risk. Renzi's logic led one way, pity
and humanity another. He gazed at Renzi in despair.