Tenacious (41 page)
Kydd braced himself, his sword warily at point. A soldier reared up with a short carbine and threw it to his shoulder, aiming at Kydd’s face. It missed fire but he hurled it at Kydd, yanked a long bayonet from its scabbard and came at him. Used to the confines of shipboard fighting, Kydd whirled away and his blade flashed out and took the man squarely in the side. He fell and was immediately trampled by another whose bayoneted musket jabbed at Kydd’s face. He dropped to one knee and as the man lurched forward he lunged for his bowels. The sword ran true and the man dropped with a howl, but his fall jerked the weapon from Kydd’s hands. On his knees he scrabbled for it desperately—but towering above him was a giant of a soldier. Before the man could plunge his bayonet down, bloody steel shot out of the front of his chest. With a squeal the man half turned as if to see who had killed him, then toppled, trapping Kydd under his wet carcass. Struggling to move Kydd felt the body shift. It was
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heaved aside to reveal the grinning face of Suleiman, his curved Ottoman dagger still dripping red.
Kydd shook his head to clear it. The fighting had moved down the rubble and into the ditch. He picked up his sword and looked about. Rain now hammered down in earnest on his bare head and his eyes stung with a salty mix of sweat and blood.
The well-sited guns from the ships were still tearing great holes in the waves of attackers. A musket ball slammed past his cheek with a vicious slap of air, but he could see that the rain and mud were severely impeding the assault.
In the fosse, grenades and infernal devices thrown at the hapless survivors exploded loudly in bursts of flame and smoke.
Kydd saw a skull split and crushed by a heavy stone flung from the upper storey of the Cursed Tower. The attack was faltering.
Then, as quickly as it started, it faded, leaving Kydd trembling with fatigue atop the rubble of the breach.
He stepped inside the tower out of the rain and wiped his sticky sword on a body. He looked at the now bloodied and muddy weapon, then slid it neatly into its scabbard: it had proved its worth.
There would be a reckoning when the weather abated; there would be no rest. At the
Tenacious
gun the men sat exhausted on the ground, heads in their hands. Dobbie looked up wearily with a smile of recognition. “Got ’em beat again, sir,” he croaked.
Kydd could not trust himself to say the words that lay on his heart and ended with a gruff “No chance o’ Buonaparte getting what he wants while there’s a Tenacious in th’ offing.” It seemed to serve, for several of the gun crew looked up with pleased grins.
“Don’t know where I’ll find it, but there’s a double tot f’r you all when I do.”
At the headquarters he found Hewitt slumped in his chair, staring at the wall with the map of operations spread out before
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him. “That damned relief army had better show itself before long or we’re a cooked goose.”
“Aye,” said Kydd, and searched for words of cheer. “We came close t’day—but doesn’t it tell us that Buonaparte is getting impatient, running scared, that he throws his army at us without he has a plan—an’ in this blow?”
Hewitt looked up, an odd expression on his face. “Pray see things from his point of view. Before now he has taken the strongest fortresses in Europe, defended by the most modern troops.
What does he see here in Acre? An ancient, decaying town ruled by a bloody tyrant and defended by a ragged mix of sailors and Orientals. No wonder he thinks to sweep us aside quickly and get on with his conquests.”
“He’s tried—”
“He has not yet! But I’ll wager he’s already sent for a second siege train to pound us to ruin even with our wonderful ships, supposing he is not at this moment up to some other deviltry!
Remember, he made his name at Toulon at the head of the artillery—he is no stranger to such works.”
They worked together on the defences, Hewitt’s halting translations of Phélippeaux’s schemes of fortification serving for them both. They divided between them the main tasks: Hewitt consulted Djezzar on matters concerning labour for the works and Kydd saw to the lines of supply from the victualling stores and magazines to the guns—but always many other details demanded their attention.
The winds blew themselves out and veered more easterly as the rain cleared. With the first blue sky all eyes turned to the French encampment for signs of a new assault. But the sodden ground remained impractical and, to the cheers of the defenders, the two ships sailed back cautiously to take up their positions once more.
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Smith came ashore immediately and energetically visited all parts of the old walled town, demanding particulars of each. He finished at his headquarters. “Well done, gentlemen,” he said, with satisfaction. “Yet I would rather you had kept a better eye on Djezzar Pasha—he is a man of decided opinions concerning his enemies, and I have just learned that in my absence he seized thirty of the prisoners, had them sewn into sacks and thrown into the sea, including our French officer spy. I shall have to be firmer with him in the future.
“And now I have news. Good news, believe me. You will be happy to learn that the Turkish relief army in Galilee has left Damascus and is even now on its way south. A mighty army indeed: seventy-five banners of Mahgrebi infantry and Albanian cavalry, two hundred Janissaries, Dalat and field cannon, Mamelukes and Kurds beyond counting—near eight times Buonaparte’s numbers.
They march fast and will reach the Jordan in a day or so. Then he must fight, or retreat and abandon the siege. I believe he will fight, and in that case he will be obliged to divide his forces. It will be an interesting time for Mr Buonaparte.”
Kydd’s heart lifted. Perhaps in a few days he could return to his rightful place in
Tenacious—
the warm fellowship and ordered sanity of the wardroom.
There was other news: Bedouin fighters were joining from the country—more exotic fighters to prowl the walls with their flowing robes and wickedly curved knives. And it seemed agents in India had discovered that Buonaparte had told the Sultan of Mysore, the scheming Tippoo Sahib, to prepare for a victorious host that would descend on his country from Persia in the footsteps of Alexander.
“However, we have a more immediate worry. Count Phélippeaux has confided that he believes the French have begun a sap, a mine. Protected from our ships’ gunfire they are tunnelling
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towards us from their forward trenches and when they are under the wall they will explode a great charge to bring it down.”
Kydd and Hewitt exchanged a glance. In one stroke another dimension of war had started. While they walked and talked above, French engineers were driving their unseen mine ever closer. In a single instant they could be blown to pieces.
“Sir, does he know where it is? How far it’s gone?” Kydd wanted to know.
“No doubt about it—he has seen an advance parallel grow earthworks and men go down into it. The closest trench to the Cursed Tower.”
“Is there anything we can do?” Hewitt looked drawn and tired.
“The usual in these cases is for us to counter-mine, to drive our own pit towards theirs and stop them.”
Kydd shuddered: he could not conceive of a worse scene than in this black underground the breaking through into an enemy mine and the savagery of hacking and stabbing in such a confined space that must follow.
There was no attack that day, or the next: it was becoming clear that Buonaparte was not going to risk another frontal assault in the face of the ships’ broadsides and was either biding his time while his sappers did their work or was away, deploying his forces to face the Turkish hordes.
It gave Smith, Hewitt and Kydd precious time to repair and regroup. One thing they could be sure of, which Kydd kept close to his heart: they would never starve—the little feluccas bringing food ensured that. It was something their enemies could only dream of without command of the sea.
On the following day Smith brought grave news. “Gentlemen, I have to tell you now, the Turkish reinforcements are beaten—
outnumbered many times. That devil Buonaparte won a victory
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over them at Mount Tabor in Canaan. They’re fleeing north as fast as they are able and we can expect nothing from them now.”
“May we then know your intentions, Sir Sidney?” Hewitt asked, in a low voice.
Without any relieving force in prospect their main reason for holding out was gone. Slowly but surely the mining was reaching their walls, and a victorious General Buonaparte was returning with his booty and no threat in his rear to distract him. When the news got out who knew how it would be received? An evacuation was the only real course left.
“We stay,” Smith said calmly. “To yield up Acre is to hand Buonaparte a highway to Constantinople and the world. While we are still here he dare not proceed further with us in his rear.
Therefore our duty is plain.” It was the cold logic of war. “We bend every sinew to defend ourselves, every man to bear a hand in doing whatever Count Phélippeaux desires in the article of fortifications. We send away any who cannot hold a weapon. Let there be nothing left undone that can help us resist the tyrant.”
Hewitt got to his feet and reached for his sword. “Then we had best be about our business. Mr Phélippeaux has the idea to place a ravelin outside the walls. I have no idea what species of animal this is, but I look forward to finding out. Good-day, gentlemen.”
Kydd looked nonplussed. “Outside the walls?”
“Certainly. We raise an earthworks on each flank of the wall—this in the shape of an arrowhead pointing towards the Cursed Tower. Each will contain a twenty-four-pounder and they will have an unrivalled field of fire when they play upon the approaches to the breach.” Building these ravelins in the open would be a bloody affair, Kydd mused.
“And I desire you, sir, to attend to our port. I’m sure there’s much that can be done to dismay the French. Take what you need and tell me about it afterwards—and thank you, Mr Kydd.”
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A brass eighteen-pounder was found and, in consultation with the gunner of
Tenacious,
mounted on a platform high up in the lighthouse. This gave a deal of grave joy to the seamen, who were employed to rig complicated sheer-legs, parbuckles and all manner of tackles to raise the long gun to its final eminence. When finished, the height provided a most satisfying range into the French camp.
Kydd turned his attention to the mole: here was a potential hostile landing place. Remembering his first success in the dunes, he moored a barge there with spring cables to bow and stern. A thirty-six-pounder carronade was mounted in it, the ugly muzzle capable of blasting hundreds of musket balls at any who were brave enough to attempt a landing.
There were fishing-boats, gunboats, every kind of small fry—
why not use them? Capable of clearing the shoal water inshore they could render the entire southern approaches impassable by soldiers. Each craft could be equipped with the smaller guns of the ships anchored offshore, then spaced close around the walls, ready for immediate service at any point.
When dusk brought a halt to the work Kydd returned to the headquarters. Smith had the map laid out and courteously enquired what steps he had taken. Kydd told him, puzzled that Hewitt was not present as was their usual practice when setting the night watch. Smith’s expression did not change. “I’m grieved to say that Lieutenant Hewitt was gravely wounded in the discharge of his duty and has been returned to his ship. I have asked for another officer.” Kydd’s heart went out to the dry, sensitive Hewitt, who had suspected from the first that his own blood would join that of others in the history of this ancient, holy land.
“Therefore I will assume the first watch,” Smith said, in a controlled tone.
“Aye, sir. May I ask if the ravelins—”
“They are secure and their guns will be in place tomorrow.”
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Julian Stockwin
• • •
At daybreak he went to the parapets to scan the distant French encampment with his signal telescope. There were no signs of untoward activity: perhaps today would be quiet.
At breakfast the new lieutenant was announced. Kydd lifted his eyes—to see Renzi standing there. “Have I lost m’ reason in the sun—or is it you, m’ dear friend?” he cried, lurched to his feet and gripped Renzi’s hand. He broke into a smile—the first for a long time.
Renzi greeted his friend warmly, and Kydd brightened. “Why, Nicholas, but I had hoped you were safe in England,” he said.
“How is it I find you in this place o’ misery?”
“And leave all the sport to your own good self?” Renzi said lightly. “Besides, I am only returned these two days, and seeing this is set fair to be the most famous siege of the age, I could yet find myself noticed . . .”
They paced slowly along the scarred walls of Acre, Renzi blank-faced as he learned of the perilous state of the siege and the imminent return of the victorious Buonaparte.
“Did your visit to y’r family go well?” Kydd asked, after a space. Renzi had said nothing to him before he left, other than that a family concern required his attention.
They walked further before Renzi replied quietly, “It was a matter involving a decision of great importance to my future and, I confess, it is not yet resolved.”
