6-Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  When the Royal Family arrived, there were cloaks to conceal them and men to carry their belongings. Seamen stood guard on the short distance to the mole, facing outwards with naked blades. With heartbreaking sobs, the Queen, clutching her baby, was bundled aboard the admiral’s barge, the King rigid with fear beside her.

  ‘We’re going t’ be jus’ fine, sir,’ Emma said stoutly, smoothing the distraught Queen’s hair, ‘an’ lookin’ forward to a bit o’ sea air now, aren’t we?’

  Vanguard was soon in a state of chaos: the Royal Family included young princes and princesses, ministers, ambassadors – any, it seemed, who feared the imminent catastrophe – all of whom had to be found accommodation.

  As soon as Nelson came aboard he had only one question of his flag-lieutenant: ‘What is General Buonaparte doing?’

  ‘Sir, I’m truly grieved to say he has triumphed over the Turks yet again. At Jaffa, and with three thousand prisoners butchered in cold blood. He is now unopposed, sir.’ Jaffa was in the Holy Land, far from the European war, but ominously north of Egypt and therefore in a direct path to Constantinople and the trade routes east to India. Napoleon Buonaparte had succeeded in breaking out of his desert prison and was now on the march north in a bid to outdo Alexander’s conquests.

  ‘And, sir, Captain Sidney Smith begs to inform you that he is attempting a defence of Acre just to the north with two sail-of-the-line.’

  Chapter 12

  Kydd stepped off the boat in Acre, ruefully contemplating the fortunes of war. While he had succeeded in Minorca, he had failed to gain the notice he had sought, but his part in the recapture of the island had ensured that when a lieutenant for service ashore in Acre had been called for, his name had been the first that was mentioned. He had heard that the commander, Sir Sidney Smith, was a daring, unconventional officer who, no doubt, would welcome initiative and ambition.

  Tigre, with Tenacious and a hodge-podge of small fry, was all that had been available to Smith and he was going to try to hold on to this old town, which lay directly in the path of the French advance north. With a handful of troops and seamen to call on, against an army of thirteen thousand with siege artillery and the legendary Buonaparte at its head, he could not last for long, but if he could delay the French advance even for a short time, perhaps the Turks would take heart and make a defence of Constantinople.

  While the crew transferred his gear from Tenacious’s pinnace, Kydd looked around. It was a squarish walled town of immeasurable antiquity on a low, west-facing promontory. The golden-yellow stone walls were grey and gnarled with age, crumbling towers and empty gun embrasures testifying to its dilapidated condition. A tiny, silted harbour to the south-east had been created by a mole, but breaking water over rocky shoals offshore showed it was useless to larger ships. The dry, arid odour of sun-baked rocks was overlaid with the pungent goat-like smell of camels, together with the heady aroma of spices and dried fish.

  A small gateway opened and a marine sergeant came forward. ‘Sah!’ he said, saluting smartly. ‘L’tenant Hewitt, sah, welcomes you ashore an’ would you come wi’ me?’ Kydd followed him through narrow streets swarming with people in every form of dress. They emerged into a small square, on one side of which was a building with a marine sentry on guard beneath a flag hanging limply.

  Inside, a naval lieutenant, writing at a desk, looked up at Kydd’s entry. ‘Ah, you’re expected, old fellow. I’m Hewitt, third o’ the Tigre.’ He extended a hand and listened courteously as Kydd introduced himself.

  ‘I expect you’ll be interested to know that this is, pro tem, the headquarters of our commander ashore, and therefore our place o’ duty also.’

  Kydd’s interest quickened. ‘Duty?’

  ‘Ah. That is our aggrieved leader being mysterious. He means us to be in turn a duty officer ashore in his place. We take watch ’n’ watch, sleeping here where we can be found.’

  ‘Aggrieved?’

  ‘Why, yes – I’m amazed you’ve not heard the tale! He was at Toulon with Hood in ’ninety-three, personally setting the torch to near a dozen French sail-o’-the-line. Next he gets himself captured in a river action and is taken to Paris. There he’s accused by our fine friend Buonaparte of being an incendiary and is thrown into a condemned cell while they prepare a public trial. But he made a daring escape before they could do the deed and now he’s facing this same Buonaparte again and vows he will make him smart for it.’

  ‘He’s really going t’ see out a siege against the whole French army?’ said Kydd. It was bold and courageous, but was Smith imagining he could stand against an army of conquest with siege guns?

  Hewitt went on drily, ‘Do not judge Sir Sidney by standards you’d use on others. He’s unique, completely fearless and most inventive in the arts of war. You’ll find him… different. Many dislike him for his ways. As my captain, I’ve found him amiable enough. And he’s devilishly well connected – his brother’s our top diplomat in Constantinople, and he takes his orders direct from the Foreign Office as plenipotentiary, which has probably put Our Nel’s nose somewhat out of joint.’

  ‘What are our orders, then?’ Kydd said.

  ‘We’ll both discover shortly – he’s coming ashore to plan his defences.’ Hewitt looked at Kydd shrewdly. ‘As I said, make no hasty judgements. He’s damned clever and brave to a fault.’

  Smith arrived promptly at noon. Fastidiously dressed, he had made no concessions to their surroundings. His uniform coat even bore the bejewelled star of some order. Kydd noted the delicacy of his grip as he shook his hand, the sensitivity of his face.

  ‘Conference now, if you please, gentlemen.’ He led the way to an upper room with plain furniture scattered about and pulled a table to the centre. There he spread out a large hand-drawn map, showing the land features that were necessarily missing from the familiar sea chart. ‘This, gentlemen, is the town of St John d’Acre. As you can see, walled around, open ground without. Two sides to the sea, two facing inland – here at their corner is a large square tower. It has good observation possibilities. The locals call it the “Cursed Tower”.’ He added lightly, ‘It seems it was paid for with Judas Iscariot’s thirty pieces of silver.’

  Kydd was not interested in a Biblical allusion. ‘Sir, ye’re thinking on making a stand against Gen’ral Buonaparte here?’

  Smith’s smile vanished. ‘I most certainly am, Mr Kydd. Can you be one of those wretched crew who cringe at the sound of his name? I mean to show the world that he can be bested – and, remember, we have the sea at our backs.’

  Kydd felt Hewitt’s eyes on him. ‘Sir, with no soldiers it’ll be a hard job.’

  ‘You’re forgetting Djezzar, the ruler of this region. He is providing three thousand of the best troops – Anatolian, Albanian, Kurds, Africans – and will reside within these walls while the French do their worst, trusting us to effect its defence.’

  Something of Kydd’s scepticism must have shown, for Smith went on, ‘Our object is simply to hold the town until relieved. And I can tell you now that at this very moment a Turkish army eight times the size of Buonaparte’s is preparing to advance towards us. Not even the victor of Italy may prevail over that.’

  There was the sound of movement and voices below. ‘Ah, he has arrived.’ Smith went to the window and stared out until an older officer, with a deeply lined face, wearing a uniform that Kydd did not recognise, entered. Smith turned and, with a warm smile, greeted him in a stream of mellifluous French, gesturing first to Hewitt, who responded with a bow and murmured French, and then to Kydd, who could only bow and mutter in English.

  ‘For those without the necessary accomplishment I will translate,’ Smith said. ‘This gentleman is Lieutenant General the Count Phélippeaux, an honourable Frenchman of the ancien régime. He is in the first rank of those learned in the arts of fortification and will tell us how best we may prepare for our siege.’

  Kydd’s expression altered, but Smith, mistaking the change, went on, ‘Set aside your concerns.
This was the officer who, in the most handsome manner, assisted in my escape from the prison cell in Paris. He has every reason to detest the revolutionaries, you may believe, Mr Kydd.’

  The conference moved forward quickly. Whatever else, Smith was clear-headed and energetic. Within the hour they had settled on immediate priorities: with an unknown time before Buonaparte appeared, their defences had to be completed as soon as possible.

  The most effective would be in the deploying of their two ships of force, which amounted to the equivalent of a regiment of artillery. Each ship would be anchored in position so that it could fire down the length of one side or the other of the walls, their line of fire intersecting at the end. The open ground in front of the walls across which the enemy must pass for an assault could therefore be kept under fire. The only problem with this was that shallow water with rocky shoals extended in places for several miles, making it a dangerous and exposed anchorage for ships of size. They would be firing at extreme range.

  The count engaged in long, earnest discussions with Smith, which Smith summarised tersely. It seemed that, without effective artillery of their own, they would be at a grave disadvantage: they had to keep Buonaparte’s siege guns at a distance or they would effect a rapid breach.

  ‘I shall land guns from Tigre and Tenacious with volunteer seamen gunners to serve them. The men relish a jaunt ashore and I shall oblige them.’ More discussion yielded their number and position.

  Things were looking up for Kydd: with seamen to command and a worthy task ahead, there was every prospect of distinguished service.

  Smith stood and stretched theatrically. ‘At this point it would appear appropriate to involve Djezzar Pasha.’ He began to pace about the room, his hands behind his back. ‘I would have you understand the importance I attach to our alliance. He alone has the men close at hand whom we need, and without him we are lost. Now, before we make audience, allow me to say something of this worthy gentleman. He is pasha of this region, holding nominal allegiance to Sultan Selim in Constantinople but has always been an independent spirit.’

  He glanced significantly at the other two officers in turn. ‘“Djezzar” means Slasher or Butcher and it is an apt name. When he was young he sold himself into slavery to the Mamelukes and by sinister means made himself indispensable as an assassin until he turned his blade on his master. He is cruel and has the morals of a polecat, but is the ruler and will be accorded all possible marks of respect. Is that clear?’

  ‘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. 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 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?’

  ‘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.’