Tenacious

by Julian Stockwin

  He would sit it out where he was. "Isabella—if y' understands—I'd like t' see how it ends. Can y' ask José if I could stay here tonight?"

  She left in tears of emotion and Kydd resumed his vigil at his spyglass. More men landed at Fornells; with a tug of pride, Kydd saw seamen rig lines ashore to land artillery pieces. Once there, they passed drag-lines and began man-hauling the guns along the roads inland. The end could not possibly be in doubt.

  "Brindemos por la victoria!" José's affable toast came as he handed Kydd a glass of Xoriguer.

  "Thank ye—whatever y' said! Must say, sir, this is a rare drop. Y' good self, Mr José!"

  "Who the devil—?" stuttered Colonel Paget, in command of the approaching troops. Kydd was wearing his begrimed uniform recovered from the cave, without cocked hat and sword.

  "L'tenant Kydd, HMS Tenacious, y'r duty, sir. I make apology f'r my appearance."

  "As you should, sir," the colonel replied, eyeing Kydd askance. "And may I know why you are not on your ship?"

  "Sir?"

  "The Spanish fleet at sea and not you? Hey? Hey?"

  "Sir, I've spent several days behind th' Spanish lines an' have not had news. I'd be obliged if you'd confide th' progress of the landing."

  "I see. Well, sir, be assured we're rolling up their rearguard in fine style and have this hour taken Mercadal. The Spanish are retiring on Ciudadela—General Stuart is in pursuit but has required me to take a fast column to lay against Port Mahon. I am at this moment at the business of forming it up."

  "The Spanish fleet, sir?"

  "Yes, yes," Paget said testily. "It seems they were sighted falling on us from the west and the commodore took all his ships to sea to meet 'em. There's none still here, Mr Kydd."

  Kydd ground his teeth and cursed his luck. That morning while he had been cautiously making contact with the advancing soldiers Tenacious was now possibly in a climactic battle that would decide the fate of Minorca. If this was the Cartagena fleet they were in serious trouble.

  "Sir, what ships were sighted?" Kydd asked urgently.

  "Dammit—five, six big ones, I don't remember," the colonel said, clearly tiring of the exchange.

  For Kydd it was mortifying news—and left him stranded with no way to rejoin his ship. But he could not stand idly by while others went on to face the enemy. "Sir, I do offer m' services to ye. Mahon has a dockyard an' big harbour and it would be very strange if there weren't any ships there. I could help ye secure 'em as prizes."

  Paget raised his eyebrows. "And, no doubt, put yourself in the way of some prize-money." Kydd bristled but Paget went on genially, "But you're in the right of it, sir—I'll need someone who knows the ropes to make sure the dons don't set the dockyard afire or any other foolishness. Right, sir. Your offer is handsomely accepted. Do ask the quartermaster for something a little more fitting for an officer, if you catch my meaning. We move off at dawn."

  In a startling mix of buff army breeches, a navy lieutenant's coat and an infantry cocked hat, Kydd went out to meet the seamen just arriving after man-hauling the guns overland. The pieces would soon be finding employment in laying siege to the walled town of Ciudadela.

  "Good Lord above! Of what species of warrior are you, sir?" said the young naval lieutenant in charge of them.

  "Why, in th' uniform t' be expected of the officer-in-charge o' the naval detachment in the assault on Port Mahon," Kydd said loftily.

  "Naval detachment?" the man said, puzzled.

  "Yes. I mean t' press half a hundred of y'r men, if y' please." A quick glance told him that at fifty men each on the dozen or so guns there were more than five hundred in all, probably contributed evenly by each ship in the squadron including his own: they could spare a tenth of their number.

  "Press my men!" the lieutenant stared in amazement and began to laugh. At Kydd's glare his mirth tailed away.

  "We must secure th' dockyard, board all ships in harbour and attend t' any prisoners," Kydd said, in a hard voice. "I don't think fifty men overmuch f'r the task, d' you?"

  He looked past the officer at the weary men coiling down the drag-lines, pulling off encamping kit and flexing tired muscles. He strode over to them, leaving the lieutenant to hurry along behind. "I say, this is out of order, sir! You may not—"

  "If I have t' ask th' colonel he'll make it a hundred," Kydd snapped, without looking back. He had spotted Dobbie from Tenacious.

  The stocky seaman's face creased with pleasure as Kydd went up to him. "Sir! Never thought ter see yez again, goin' ashore with them dagoes."

  "Dobbie—I want fifty good men f'r particular service in Mahon. Seamen I must have, knows the difference between a buntline and a bobstay an' can be relied on in a fight."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Have 'em mustered here for me in an hour."

  There was one further matter he had to attend to. There was every prospect of his meeting the enemy on the morrow and the quartermaster had offered him the loan of a heavy sabre or a token small-sword, but neither appealed. He went to an arms chest on the limber of one gun and helped himself to a cutlass; this would be of use only in close quarters fighting, but a defensive action was all that he expected for the seamen. It was not the fine sword he had now grown used to, but the heft and balance of the plain black weapon was familiar and pleasing, and he slipped the scabbard into its frog, settling it comfortably on his belt.

  Later that night, after he had seen to his men, Kydd dined with the officers in their mess-tent. It was both strange and comforting. The singular appearance of the red check tartan of a regiment of Highlanders, with their arcane mess rituals and free-flowing whisky, was another world to the ordered uniformity of a naval wardroom. But the loyal toast was sturdily proposed and the same warmth of brotherhood reached out to Kydd. "Give ye joy of y'r victory, sir," Kydd acknowledged to the army captain sitting to his side.

  The officer raised an eyebrow. "You think so?"

  "Why, yes! I know nothing of y'r military affairs but t' land and take a town seems t' me to be a fine thing for such numbers."

  The captain examined his whisky, holding it to the light so the glass twinkled prettily. "It was fine done the landing, I'll grant— but the general must have had inside intelligence to change the place of landing at such notice. Quite took the dons on the hop."

  Kydd glowed, but now was not the time to claim recognition.

  "But then I don't envy Quesada—an impossible task, I'd say."

  "Quesada?"

  "Their commander. One can feel pity for the man. His soldiery has rotted from too much garrison duty and they're near useless. And reinforcements? All he got before you fellows cleared the seas of 'em was a couple of battalions of Swiss."

  "The Swiss?" Kydd was hazily aware of the tangled complexity of allegiances in Europe but had not heard they were at war with Switzerland.

  "Yes, German-Swiss mercenaries. Austrians took 'em prisoner, then sold them to the Spanish for two thaler a head. Not my idea of a bargain. When we landed at Addaya they were opposing us. Then your frigate let fly a broadside or two and in twenty minutes they broke and ran."

  "Still runnin'?" Kydd chuckled.

  "In fact, no. We took a hundred deserters and told 'em that if they could bring in their friends we'd see them right in the matter of employment. Gen'l Stuart is thinking of forming up a foreign corps of some sort, and now we have the lot—a thousand and more."

  Kydd agreed. With rabble like that Quesada could do nothing to stop the English. Then he remembered, with sudden apprehension: "Did ye see the Spanish fleet at all? If we're beat at sea ..."

  "The fleet? I'm not sure about that. I did catch a sight of the Spanish, but they weren't your big fellows, only one line of guns." Frigates, realised Kydd, with jubilation.

  "And last I saw of 'em was the gallant commodore haring off over the horizon, tally-ho, after them with all flags flying."

  Kydd grinned. "So we c'n sleep tight tonight but y'r Gen'ral Quesada has a mort t' reflect o
n."

  "He has. Without command of the sea of any kind he can't get supplies or reinforcements, nothing. And he'll never get the Minorcans to fight for him."

  "So ye'd say we've won?" Kydd said cautiously.

  "By no means. Quesada is off with the bulk of his troops to Ciudadela—their major town with city walls and fortifications. A siege will be a tedious thing with no certainty at the end of it. And tomorrow we march on Mahon, which is even more heavily fortified. While we hold the country, Quesada will hold the towns—and we can't wait for ever."

  It was another kind of war but in the warmth of the evening's cordiality it seemed far removed. Yet here he was, enjoying the regiment's hospitality not only in the middle of enemy country but presumably on a battlefield with enemy soldiers perhaps creeping through the night.

  "What's out there? I mean, what's to stop th' Spanish coming suddenly while we're enjoyin' our supper?" Kydd did not mean it to come out so nervously but he preferred the direct ship-to-ship fighting at sea where the foe was visible rather than the uncertainties of land.

  "Well, armies don't fight at night as a rule," the officer said, with only the glimmer of a smile. "But if the Spanish see fit to counter-attack in the dark—presuming they have precise knowledge of our position—then first they must find a way to get past our vedettes and outer pickets before our sentinels can take alarm, but even then you may sleep soundly, I believe."

  The brass baying of trumpets woke Kydd. Before he had struggled into his clothes the stillness was rent by hoarse cries of sergeants and shouts of command from impatient officers as the camp came to life. First light appeared as the soldiers bolted down their breakfast and prepared for the march, buckling on equipment and loosening limbs.

  The damp smoke of breakfast fires still hung about in the grey-ness of the pre-dawn as Kydd drew up his men to address them. "I'm L'tenant Kydd, and this is th' Port Mahon naval detachment. You're not going t' pull the guns any more—but you are going t' march. This is what th' lobsterbacks call a 'flying column,' which is to say we're going to move fast. We're heading f'r Port Mahon, an' there we'll find a harbour and dockyard fit f'r the whole o' Nelson's fleet. But only if we take it from them—there could be quite a deal o' fighting before we're done, but I've got no doubts about that with English hearts of oak by m' side."

  His hand dropped unconsciously to his cutlass hilt as he continued, "We're not here t' do the assault. That'll be the lobster-backs' job, an' they're good at it. What we'll be doing is t' wait until they've got a breach and marched into the town. Then we'll follow and go to the harbour an' set about any shipping we find—not forgettin' the dockyard, that the Spanish don't start fire-raisin' there."

  He regarded the men dispassionately. Lithe, intelligent, these were the skilled seamen who were achieving more at sea than any before them and he felt a deep pride. "So we'll be on our way— this is Kane's highway to Mahon an' it was laid by us eighty years ago. Now let's use it!"

  But they had to stand aside as the professionals formed up. Scouts clattered off ahead into the early morning and others fanned out to each side of the line-of-march. Yet more galloped urgently backwards and forwards for some arcane military reason. Finally, officers on splendid horses took their place at the head of their men and with a squeal and drone of bagpipes skirling and the rattle and thump of drums the column set off.

  Kydd had refused a horse, feeling unable to ride while his men marched, but after the first hour he regretted the decision. It was good to swing along to the stirring music, seeing the soldiers moving ahead economically and fast but he was unused to the discipline of the march and felt increasingly sore.

  After five miles they reached the small market town of Alayor. The inhabitants watched them pass, some with grave expressions, others fearful. On the far side they stopped for fifteen minutes' rest. The soldiers joked and relaxed, some not even bothering to sit, but the sailors squatted or sat in the dust.

  A cheerful sun was abroad when they got under way once more; there were no disturbances or threats of attack and after another five miles in a countryside of sinister quiet they were pressing close to Port Mahon. A halt was called while the town was still hidden in the low hills ahead, orange orchards and neat garden plots betraying its proximity.

  But there was no sign of the enemy. Could it be that they were lying concealed, waiting for the whole column to enter before springing their ambush? The soldiers did not appear unduly concerned, and Kydd reasoned that as the detachment was only about three hundred strong, it was more a reconnaissance in force than an assault and could withdraw at any time. His worries subsided.

  Then his mind supplied a new concern: was the main body for the real assault approaching from another direction? The anxieties returned—not that he had any doubts about his courage, but as an officer of rank what would be expected of him should the army "beat to quarters"? He forced his eyes closed.

  "Sir."

  Kydd opened his eyes and saw a youthful subaltern saluting him in the odd army fashion with the palm outwards.

  "Colonel Paget desires you should wait on him."

  At the head of the column Paget was at the centre of an animated group of officers, each apparently with a personal view on recent events. Kydd took off his hat and waited for attention.

  "Ah, Mr Kydd. Developments." He looked distracted and barely glanced at Kydd. "Scouts have returned, they report that the Spanish in Mahon want to parley."

  "Sir?" It could mean anything from abject surrender to an ultimatum—or a Spanish trick, Kydd told himself, to control his sudden rush of excitement.

  "I'm inclined to take it at face value. I shall go forward under flag o' truce and see what they want. I should be obliged if you would accompany me in case they try any knavish tricks concerning sea matters." He glanced at Kydd. "Kindly remain silent during the proceedings unless you perceive anything untoward at which you will inform me, never addressing the enemy. Do you understand?"

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Paget heaved himself up on his horse, which was patiently held by a soldier. "And get this man a horse, for God's sake," he threw at an officer, as he looked down on Kydd's rumpled, dusty appearance.

  The little group of officers walked their horses down the road, preceded by a mounted trooper holding a pennon with a vast white flag attached. Ahead, in the distance, a blob of white appeared, resolving by degrees into a group, which to Kydd looked distinctly non-military.

  "Halt!" A trumpeter dismounted and marched smartly to the exact point of equidistance and sounded off an elaborate call. There was movement among the figures opposite but no inclination to treat that Kydd could discern.

  They waited in the sun: Kydd could hear Paget swearing under his breath, his horse impatiently picking at the ground with his hoof. At length there was a general advance of the whole mass towards them.

  "What the devil!" Paget exploded. "Stand your ground!" he roared back over his shoulder to his officers.

  It was apparent that any military component of the Spanish group was conspicuous only by its absence. The florid garments and general demeanour of the leading members seemed more municipal than statesmanlike as they nervously approached. "Tell 'em that's far enough," Paget told an aide.

  "Ni un paso más!" The group stopped, but a man stepped forward uneasily with an old-fashioned frilly tricorne in his hands. Words were spoken and the man regarded Paget with a look that was half truculent, half pleading.

  "Sir, this is Antonio Andreu, alcalde of the councillors of Mahon. He wishes you a good day."

  "Dammit! Tell him who I am, and say I'm expecting three more battalions to arrive by the other road presently."

  "He desires to know if there is produce of the land that perhaps he can offer, that you have come such a long way—red wine, olives, some oranges."

  "Also tell him that our siege train arrives by sea tonight, and before dawn Mahon will be held within a ring of iron standing ready to pound his town to dust and rubble."

>   "Mr Andreu mentions that Minorca is famed for its shoes and leather harnesses, which we English will have remembered from the past—I believe he is talking about our last occupation, sir."

  "What does the man want, for God's sake? Ask him!"

  "Sir," said the lieutenant, very carefully, "on behalf of the citizens of Port Mahon he wishes to surrender."

  "He what?" Paget choked.

  Andreu's face was pale. He spoke briefly, then handed up a polished box. "He offers up the keys to Mahon, sir, but deeply regrets that he is not certain of the ceremonial form of a capitulation and apologises profoundly for any unintended slight."

  Taking a deep breath, Paget turned to his adjutant. "I can't take a surrender from a parcel o' tradesmen."

  "Sir, it might be considered churlish to refuse."

  "They haven't even got a flag we can haul down. There are forms an' conventions, dammit."

  "An expression of submission on their part, sir? Purely for form's sake ..."

  "Tell 'em—tell 'em this minute they're to give three hearty hurrahs for King George."

  "They say, sir—er, they say ..."

  "And what do they say, sir?"

  "And then may they go home?"

  At the head of his seamen Kydd moved through the town. They padded down to the waterfront, past gaping women leaning from windows and curious knots of townsfolk at street corners. Most were silent but some dared cheers at the sight of the English sailors.

  The dockyard was deserted: there was a brig under construction but little other shipping. That left only the boom, set across the harbour further along. Helpful townsfolk pointed it out, then found them the capstans to operate it.

  There was little else that Kydd could think to do. It was a magnificent harbour with its unusual deep cleft of water between the heights where the main town appeared to be. It was long and spacious, its entrance flanked by forts. Out to sea were the men-o'-war of the Royal Navy.