6-Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  He examined the charts with Hewitt: communications with the south were a road following a fertile strip along the sea at the edge of the desert – if the enemy were to come they must choose between the coast road and a long swing inland from the interior to reach the gates of Acre.

  ‘I’ll press south t’ this Mount Carmel,’ Kydd mused. ‘Ten miles or so. They’ll come along the coast road’s my guess.’

  ‘Mount Carmel – Elijah discomfits the prophets of Baal, two Kings something…’

  Kydd could not bring it to mind: this was half a world away from the boredom of the Sunday service in Guildford town where the dry words of a preacher speaking of the Holy Land bore no resemblance at all to this arid country.

  ‘. . . the Samaritans, even. Christ passed by here on his way to Jerusalem…’

  ‘Um, that’s right – an’ I’m takin’ a carronade in case they have gunboats out. Do ye keep a watch f’r gunfire, as will be y’r signal they’re abroad.’ He left Hewitt to his Biblical musings and collected his sword belt from the corner. He favoured a shoulder carriage to spread the weight, leaving the belt loose for a brace of pistols. His fighting sword had a satisfying heft and in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun he strode down to the mole.

  Laffin, the hard petty officer Kydd remembered from his ‘duel’ in Canada, touched his hat at his approach; also in the boat was the lofty Poulden, forward at the stubby carronade, and several other Tenaciouses along the thwarts. A stout enough crew, he thought with satisfaction.

  ‘Pistols an’ cutlasses?’

  ‘In th’ arms chest, sir,’ Laffin said immediately.

  He boarded the big launch and settled in the stern-sheets, leaving Laffin the tiller. ‘We’ll shove off now, if y’ please,’ Kydd told him.

  The soft westerly meant they did not even have to ship oars as the gaff-headed main was hoisted. ‘I’ll have th’ running bowsprit out with jib an’ stays’l, I believe.’ The carronade would not bear forward while this was rigged but it would add considerably to their speed and could be struck in a hurry if need be.

  The boat left the mole, slipped past the roiling white of the Manara rocks, then headed out to sea to preserve an offing before shaping course south. It was most pleasant, Kydd had to admit; the sun sinking out to sea in shimmering splendour, warmth still in the air, and in the other direction, the low, nondescript coast taking on the wistful indigo of evening. Along the endless virgin sands was the startling white of breakers, the purple of far mountains now a deep ultramarine.

  Olive gardens and small clusters of the flat-topped dwellings were dotted along the shore. Several times figures stopped, watching them curiously. The cheerful splash of their passage and the occasional grunted conversation of the men lulled Kydd into a reverie – he pulled himself together. What did a great army look like, apart from thousands of bayonets? He had no idea, but knew that if he saw one his duty was to get the news to Smith with the utmost urgency.

  The bay curved round. At one place he saw classical ruins enough to make Renzi stare – but he was not present: he was in distant England, resolving his personal life. A string of camels plodded along the skyline. Kydd idly counted nearly a hundred on the dusty road with their riders in flowing desert cloaks looking as if they had stepped out of a picture book of his childhood. He followed their advance, their riders rhythmically jerking forward as though in a boat in a rough sea – jerking? Surely a desert Bedouin had a more comfortable style of riding.

  He looked about quickly. ‘Laffin – put about an’ go beyond that spit o’ land.’ They had passed a tiny headland, no more than a small twist of sand. The boat went about smartly and returned the way they had come. As soon as they were out of sight of the riders Kydd said urgently, ‘Set me ashore, an’ stand off ’n’ on until they’re past, then collect me.’

  The boat scrunched into the fine sand beyond the point and Kydd leaped off, scurrying to get into the fringing grasses of the sand dune. He crouched, waiting. There were no sounds of sighting or pursuit but he kept very still. At length came the soft chinkle of a camel harness and the murmur of voices on the evening air. A delicate, unknown but haunting fragrance warred with the dry pungency of the desert and the nearer salty sand of the dunes – he flattened among the reedy grasses, rigid with concentration.

  He felt the thumping of camel feet through the ground as they drew nearer. The voices were louder – and it was not Arabic that was being spoken but French.

  It seemed to take for ever for the camel train to pass. He heard muted laughter, sharp words and an occasional snatch of song above the rustle of shuffling feet and the leathery slap of harness. Finally the last one passed. Cautiously Kydd raised his head: they were receding along the road without looking back. He delayed for a while longer, then slid down to the beach and waited for the boat.

  ‘Load with canister!’ he growled at Poulden, as they shoved off. There was no doubt in his mind of what he should do – the sound of the cannon would be as good as a personal report to Smith of their presence.

  The launch leaned purposefully to the wind; they passed the camel train once more, the riders took no notice of the little sailing boat offshore. Kydd chose his move carefully: if the boat took the ground they could expect no mercy from the enemy riders.

  At a stipple in the line of dunes ahead he doused the sails and took in the bowsprit, using oars to rotate them shoreward. ‘Out kedge,’ he snapped. The little anchor plummeted and bit and the line tautened over the transom. He paid it out to allow the boat to nose close in, the deadly carronade trained steadily on the shore. Still the camel riders did not take alarm: in the uncertain light and against the setting sun it must have seemed a fishing-boat.

  The line of camels came on, some heads turned curiously. ‘As they bear, Poulden,’ Kydd growled, ‘an’ make it count.’ There was a great army following behind and he had no compunction about the blood he was about to spill, but his heart beat faster as the train of camels passed the cold black muzzle.

  The carronade crashed back in its slide, the gun-flash nearly blinding in the fading light. The effect on the column was instant – sleeting balls tore into them, and with squeals and screams it dissolved into panic. One riderless camel fled back down the road as others shed their mounts and scrambled in terror over the dunes. Hoarse cries of command mingled with shrieks. Poulden reloaded, and Laffin deftly lined up the boat for another crashing discharge.

  In total disarray, the camel train was no more, still dark forms and wildly scrabbling men and animals all that were left. Kydd recalled from the map that inland there was nothing but salt-marsh: the French would find themselves trapped.

  ‘Secure the gun,’ he ordered. They had made contact with the enemy and alerted the defenders – there was no glory in useless bloodshed.

  Smith arrived late for the morning conference, and wasted no time. ‘So Buonaparte’s advance guard now has a bloody nose – well done, Mr Kydd.’ He grinned without humour. ‘We can expect therefore that they’ll abandon the coast road and swing inland to come at us from the north. There’s no time to lose. We’re nearly complete with the fosse – that’s our surrounding ditch – and all the gunboats I can find are anchored here in support.’

  He bit his lip. ‘Regrettably it would appear that the Muhammadans have got wind of Buonaparte’s behaviour at the siege of Jaffa – he induced the garrison there to surrender, then took them all down to the beach and slaughtered the lot. Had the cold-blooded gall to use bayonets to save powder. Now half our own Mussulmen are streaming out of town and heading for the hills.’ Unexpectedly, he smiled. ‘But this means that those who remain will be staunch. We’re well rid of the rest – useless mouths to feed.

  ‘So! We expect Buonaparte on our doorstep directly. I have given orders concerning the illumination of the wall in the event of a surprise attack and other matters, do you both ensure they are carried out—’ He was interrupted by a messenger. Unfolding the dispatch he chuckled grimly. ‘From Tenacious. Go
od news indeed, for once. In fact, magnificent news.’ Dancing a jig and flourishing the paper aloft, he grinned boyishly at the dumbfounded officers.

  ‘This will take the shine off the morning for Mr Buonaparte. Tenacious fell in with a French convoy off Mount Carmel and took nine – nine o’ the beggars, mark you!’ Kydd and Hewitt politely murmured their surprise, but Smith continued, ‘And the best thing about it is, those were Buonaparte’s entire siege train! He has no ammunition, no heavy guns – we’re reprieved, gentlemen. Unless he gets another such, we have a chance.’

  Kydd felt an unworthy envy: he could visualise the convoy, within sight of safe harbour and then a ship-of-the-line, no less, appears from round the point. Boarding parties are sent away in every boat, seizing vessel after vessel, all under the helpless eye of the French army ashore.

  ‘Count Phélippeaux will be exceedingly satisfied with this morning’s work – we shall mount the guns ourselves and pound ’em with their own metal,’ Smith concluded.

  Later in the morning there was a blurring of the horizon to the north-east, a broad ochrous veil of dust rising from the countless thousands of a great army. Kydd climbed the narrow steps inside the Cursed Tower to see for himself. His pocket spyglass added details of the serried glitter of bayonets, columns of dusty blue coats, cavalry, vast numbers of wagons, light guns, more columns.

  In its creeping, menacing, unstoppable progress it was a sinister sight. It would take some time yet to reach them but when it did it would clamp a vice-like grip on Acre before an overwhelming assault.

  Kydd went cold as he considered the larger scene and realised the stakes could hardly be bigger. Buonaparte was a ruthless, gifted general: there was no reason why he could not complete his march north by taking Constantinople from the weakened Turks. Then he would stand astride the route to India and the world. Only one thing was in his way: Acre.

  If he bypassed it on his thrust north he would then have a port in his wake through which his enemies could pour troops to fall on his rear at any time. Even in his ignorance of military affairs Kydd could see that this would be intolerable. While Acre still stood Buonaparte’s triumphant advance was halted. He had no alternative but to throw everything he had into its destruction.

  Kydd descended the tower stairs slowly. This was no longer a simple duty in a far-off land: it was now the crux of the whole war against the French and he had been called to the fore at this critical hour. Acre must be held.

  A sea mist over a calm sea was lifting as Kydd made his way back to the headquarters, but the road out of Acre was full of people, some on donkeys or camels, others in wooden wagons, all hurrying away from the doomed town.

  Smith was still at the headquarters, crisply ordering the disposition of the captured guns. Kydd took up the order book to make sure he was aware of any changes. In addition to sentries there were outlying pickets who would be the first to catch sight of the siege army. They would retire quickly and sound the alert. A small force of gunboats would patrol to seaward from now on, not only to give warning of hostile naval forces but also to deny the attackers any seaborne supply.

  Hewitt returned from his inspection of the northern flank with Tigre’s gun, propping his sword in the corner and wiping his brow, ready to hear Smith’s latest news.

  ‘Ah! Now, gentlemen, let me apprise you of some intelligence that has come my way. It appears that while Tenacious dealt ably with the convoy, four vessels escaped. These, it turns out, are sailing barges laden with stores for the army. I don’t have to tell you, if the enemy is denied these he will find it hard to forage hereabouts…’

  Kydd could see where it was all leading. ‘Sir, where are they?’

  ‘In the port below Mount Carmel, which is Haifa. There’s no doubt it will require a bold cutting-out expedition if we wish to take them from the enemy.’

  ‘Three boats enough, sir?’ Kydd said casually. A smart operation would at the very least mean a mention in dispatches.

  ‘I would think so,’ Smith said, with satisfaction.

  The little flotilla set off in longboats and cutters in the last of the daylight, Kydd’s boat in the lead, the other two under a senior midshipman on either flank. In all there were sufficient seamen to fight any reasonable waterfront opposition and work the captured vessels out to sea.

  He had studied the charts: Haifa was a small haven, a lengthy quay enclosing an inner harbour. If the barges were alongside this quay on either side it would be a straightforward matter but if they were further in it would complicate things.

  The Bay of Haifa was calm; a quarter-moon gave adequate visibility and there did not seem to be any other shipping about, apart from the lateen sails of the ubiquitous trading feluccas. Nevertheless things could happen quickly – he felt once more for the comforting presence of his fine fighting sword. There was every prospect that this night it would taste its first blood.

  The land was dark and anonymous; occasional lights flickered but nothing to show the presence of a great army. They had diverted inland, Kydd reasoned, and were probably close to taking up their positions around Acre. His resolution firmed – their action would bring results out of all proportion to their numbers and justify risks.

  They approached the end of the bay, the bold bluff of Mount Carmel easy to make out; the small port of Haifa was at its base. Kydd strained to see into the harbour – there were some lights, but not enough to reveal the situation, and the quarter-moon was now veiled in high cloud. ‘Keep together!’ he hailed to the others.

  The barges were probably inside the long quay, but where? The further in they were the longer they would be under fire as they sailed out with their prizes. But on the other hand there did not appear to be formal defences – in fact, there were neither gunboats at the entrance nor soldiers guarding the quay. Could they be so lucky?

  Closer, there were no sudden shouts or signs of alarm. Tense and ready to order an instant retreat, Kydd took his tiny fleet round the end of the quay and into the inner harbour. The barges came into view – at the far end, rafted together, probably to unload in the morning into the tall warehouses that lined the wharf.

  It was quiet – too quiet? The cheery splash of their passage could be heard echoing back from the tall stone of the quay. The waterfront buildings were in complete darkness, the nearest lights in the small town on the slopes above. He could not see anything of concern but the silence was unnerving.

  Kydd felt uneasy with the long passage they were having to make up the harbour. If they had encountered opposition, even just well-placed muskets on the quay and the inner shoreline, they would not have been able to penetrate more than yards towards their prizes, so close to were they on each side.

  Barely two hundred yards away Kydd looked about for the easiest way to board. One or two curious Arabs glanced their way, and on one of the barges a curious head popped up. ‘Red cutter t’ larb’d, longboat th’ other side,’ Kydd called quietly to the other boat crews. They would fall on the barges from each side, working inboard.

  The order was barely uttered when Kydd’s world tore apart. A single hoarse shout came from somewhere, then the crash of muskets, screams and violent movements in the boat slammed into his perception. The stroke oar took a ball in the head and jerked before slithering down, his oar flying up and tangling with the next. A shriek came from forward: a man rose, then fell over the side.

  Kydd’s mind snapped to an icy cold, ferocious concentration. The firing was coming from behind and it was coming down from the upper storeys of the warehouse and the quay. The soldiers had done well to lie concealed while the boats, with their lower line of sight, had gone right past them, the trap well sprung. There could be no return the way they had come. Kydd realised bitterly that the source of Smith’s intelligence had also betrayed them to the other side.

  There was only one course. ‘The barges!’ he bellowed. There was just a chance that the enemy would be reluctant to fire on their own vessels. It was only twenty or so yards, a doz
en frenzied strokes… A young seaman clutching his cutlass was struck in the throat by a musket-ball with a splutch that sounded curiously loud above the general uproar. He fell forward, kicking, into the bottom of the boat with a strangled bubbling, gouting blood. Kydd could feel the constant slam and thud of bullets into the boat’s side as he fought the tiller to counteract the wild slewing as more oarsmen were hit.

  The boat thudded woodenly into the side of the outside barge – its freeboard was lower even than that of the longboat. ‘Take cover on board!’ he yelled, clambering over the side to the deserted deck. Others crowded after him. On deck he drew his sword for the first time in deadly earnest and ran forward.

  Any hopes that the French would slacken fire on their own ships were proved false – the lethal whup and strike of bullets continued about him with no diminishing. There was no cover on the upper decks of the ungainly barge and with its hold full there was no shelter there either.

  With a wrench of the heart Kydd saw that the other boats had loyally made the longer distance round to the other end of the rafted barges in accordance with his last orders and the sailors were clambering up, white faces and bright steel in the moonlight.

  ‘Go f’r the warehouse!’ He had to buy time. They rushed forward and over a rickety gangplank to the wharf. Panting hard, Kydd dashed to the doors of the nearest building. He drew his pistol, shot off the padlock and swung the door wide. Inside a musket fired and he saw two or three soldiers frantically reloading. Maddened seamen got to them and slaughtered them in an instant.

  The rest of his men threw themselves inside and the door was slammed shut. The darkness was lit only by a single lantern. Kydd shouted at a petty officer to search out any remaining enemy hiding in there and tried to force his mind to a cool rationality. He had probably about thirty men left, far too few to stand up to a regular army force, and only a handful of muskets. Most seamen were equipped for standard boarding with pistols and tomahawks and, of course, a cutlass; their main task was to get sail quickly on the prize.