6-Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  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, 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.

  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 wight 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 o
f 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.’

  ‘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.

  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 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. If he did not, his father would have no compunction in taking the legal steps necessary to disinherit and disavow him in the succession.

  Therefore, in this hour he would make his decision, before he and Kydd went together to meet the dawn and all it would bring. He knew too well the arguments – his life at sea had opened his eyes to the human condition and made all the more precious the insights he had gathered on his adventures. This would cease: the vapid posturings of society were a poor substitute.

  Then there was the undeniable fact that he had matured in the face of calls upon his courage, fortitude and skills – he had become a man in the true sense of the word. And had about him the society of others who had been equally formed. Where would he find these on a country estate?

  No, he was deluding himself. If he was honest, the true reason was that in essence he wanted excitement before security, stimulation before tranquillity, change before monotony. The sea life.

  His instincts were telling him that he should refuse his father. But was this the proper course? He must examine the consequence.

  Could he foresee his life as a disavowed son of the aristocracy? He was content to continue with his persona as Renzi. He had means, a small enough competence, but his needs were little as a sea officer. He valued his books far beyond a fashionable lifestyle – it would be sufficient.

  This, therefore, should be his decision.

  Why, then, was he not convinced of it? At heart he knew that there was one looming consideration that forced the issue, one that his father had used against him without realising its power to move him. His duty. It was his obligation and responsibility to prepare himself to inherit the earldom, and no consideration of personal preference or taste could be allowed to take precedence.

  Therefore this was his proper answer, his determination.

  ‘No!’ The passion in his outburst surprised him. Hypothetical the argument might be, yet it was not a natural conclusion. It had been forced upon him and, with rising excitement, he saw another path of reason that led to a different decision.

  The true meaning of his duty was not solely to his father – or even to his family. It was to the wider community: to those who would depend on him – tenants, families, the estate men of business. It was to the caring husbandry of the land, the enlightened management of the estate – it was to descendants unborn. Would he make a worthy earl to them all? Or would he be a crabbed, uninterested and ultimately miserable aristocrat of the species he had seen so often before? No, indeed – he would leave the title to Henry and may he have the joy of it.

  A shuddering sigh overtook him. A burden had been lifted that had weighed on him since he realised his five-year exile had turned first into a blessing, then a fear that it must all end and he would be compelled to return to the claustrophobia of a sedentary life. He was free at last! He buckled on his sword in a glow of deep satisfaction.

  Renzi found Kydd alone at the top of the Cursed Tower, staring into the void of the night even now delicately touched with the first signs of light. ‘Brother,’ he said softly, but he could not find the words befitting this time of supreme trial that lay so close for them both. Instead he held out his hand, which Kydd took solemnly. Neith
er spoke as the dawn broke.

  After the ladies had withdrawn the gentlemen settled comfortably to their brandy and port, replete after as fine a dinner as ever had graced the table at No. 10. The guests looked appreciatively at the Prime Minister as he raised his glass.

  ‘A splendid repast as always,’ Addington said affably, noting Pitt’s evident contentment, ‘and, if I might remark it, impoved upon only by the intelligence you have disclosed to us tonight.’

  ‘Indeed,’ Pitt said, with satisfaction. ‘And the damnedest thing it was too! At dawn Smith and his doughty mariners stand to, expecting to fight for their lives, but what do they see? Nothing but an empty landscape. Our glorious Buonaparte – crept away in the night. Gone!’

  ‘Does this mean that Buonaparte is finished at last?’

  ‘Umm. We shall see. We do have intelligence that’s unimpeachable for once – I can tell you in confidence that we took the singularly aptly named La Fortune at sea, and aboard by extraordinary good luck we found the general’s dispatches to Paris.’ He smiled boyishly. ‘And in them he tries so hard to find a victory in his ruination that I nearly feel pity for the man. Now he has to explain to France how his grand design for glory and empire has failed. How the fine army that he led to victory and conquest across all Europe is now lost to plague and starvation in the deserts of Syria. And also why he has cynically abandoned his men to their fate – it seems he seeks to flee secretly to Paris.’

  Pitt’s smile widened. ‘But when he arrives, the hardest task he will face is to explain the fact that the army he vastly outnumbered yet who defeated him – for the very first time on land – was not in the character of the military at all, but common sailors!’

  Author’s note

  It is one of those happy coincidences that Tenacious is first published in 2005, the year of the Bicentenary celebrations of Nelson’s great victory of Trafalgar – and a time when we have the opportunity to value anew the achievements of such a great sea leader. This book is dedicated to Sir Horatio Nelson.