"T' the breach!" bellowed Kydd. It was crucial to meet the inevitable assault with as many as could be mustered until more effective resistance was ready. He dropped from the wall to the top of the rubble and faced outwards, his sword ready. Several seamen with boarding pikes and cutlasses joined him, then Turks and Arabs with their daggers and scimitars. Others arrived, until there were a hundred or more.
The horizon rapidly filled with soldiers advancing towards them, more massing behind. A dismayed murmur spread through the defenders. Kydd raised his sword. "Give 'em a cheer, m'lads!" he shouted, above the increasing noise. The seamen raised their voices and, encouraged, the Turks gave their harsh war-cries. The attackers came on in a headlong charge, the numbers beyond counting.
The other ships' guns mounted in the ravelins opened up. Grape-shot ripped into the attackers. From to seaward came the heavy rumble of broadsides in enfilade, which tore into the advancing mass at appalling cost. Even before the first had reached the rubble-strewn fosse the retreat had sounded and the grim marching had turned into a disorderly scramble out of range of the merciless naval guns. They left the ground before the walls a wasteland of pain and dying with new dead joining rotting corpses, wild dogs howling and tearing at the bodies, a sickening odour of death catching in the throats of the defenders.
Kydd felt a hot hatred for Napoleon Buonaparte and his towering ambition to conquer at whatever cost, a tide of anger that took him above his exhaustion and anxieties and left him only with a burning determination to thwart the man. "Stand fast!" he bellowed. "They'll be back!" His voice broke with emotion but he did not care. They would stand until they were victorious or were overcome.
But the midday sun beat down without a sign of the enemy. Kydd stood down half of the men and sent them for rations and an hour's rest. Smith came to observe the breach, coolly taking notes. "I'll send you all the help I can, Mr Kydd," he said, scanning the wasteland beyond the walls. "They have to defeat us, of course—Buonaparte's very reputation and the future of the world rides on this."
In less than an hour the drums beat again and trumpets pealed the pas de charge up and down the lines, but with one difference: this time it was the grenadiers in full array leading the assault, Buonaparte's finest troops at the advance edge. They came on steadily, marching with standards held high. In their distinctive red-plumed hats and long muskets aslope they were a different calibre of soldier.
The first shots from the ravelins found them. Men fell, but they closed ranks and marched on. The anchored ships opened up with a massed thunder, tearing into the columns like a scythe. Still they advanced. All along the parapets every man that could hold a musket blazed away. The noise was horrific and smoke hung over the battle as a pall—but the grenadiers still came on.
At the breach Kydd braced himself. Then someone jostled him from behind and he caught a glimpse of Renzi moving up to his side, pale-faced but with a steely resolution. "I do believe, dear fellow, we're in this together," he said, with the ghost of a smile, flourishing his blade.
The first rank of the grenadiers carried pikes and as their moustachioed faces became distinct Kydd gripped his sword and prepared for what must come. In the last few yards they levelled their weapons and broke into a trot, coming at them with a fierce snarl. Kydd tensed. In theory the same principles must apply as with boarding a ship in the face of a pike—get inside it and the man was yours.
With a vicious lunge at Kydd's eyes a dark-featured grenadier hurled himself at him. Kydd swayed just enough to avoid the pike, yanking the man forward by it to his waiting blade, but another dropped his pike and drew his sword. Kydd snatched out one of his brace of pistols and pulled the trigger in the man's face, whirling to meet another who was coming in low. He smashed his pistol down on the man's head but at the same time felt the searing burn of a bayonet under his arm. Wildly he spun about for his next opponent but saw only an unstoppable flood of soldiers pressing forward through the fierce musketry and explosions of grenades thrown from the walls.
Renzi was backed against one side, hacking and slashing at two soldiers. Kydd threw himself at one, his sword taking him in the back. His victim let out an animal squeal and a fountain of blood. Renzi's blade flashed out at the other and transfixed him, but he had seen something behind Kydd and with a shout he pulled out his sword and made ready. Kydd realised what had happened and wheeled about but the man had disappeared back into the mêlée.
"Retire!" Renzi shouted, above the guns and death screams. Retreat—to the second line of defences Phélippeaux had prepared—was the only course: the press of invaders was so great that they were jostling each other in their eagerness to break through.
"Fall back!" Kydd roared in agreement, edging round the jagged end of the wall and gesturing with his sword. Seeing the remnants of the breach crew disengage or be swept aside he turned and ran to the inner line—an improvised parapet of rubble on each side and loop-holed houses on the far side. He vaulted over and crouched, panting.
A shout of triumph went up from the grenadiers as they found themselves flooding into the town. It was taken up outside the walls and excitedly echoed back from the advancing columns.
"Stand y'r ground!" roared Kydd, seeing the pitiful line of defenders wavering. "Get 'em while they don't know where they are!" The second line of defence, a square a hundred yards distant inside the breach, was crude but effective, temporarily containing the invaders. The French milled about, unsure of where to head next, penned in and without a clear enemy.
Some tried to climb over the rough barrier but had to lower their weapons to do so and were easily dispatched. More pressed in through the breach to add to the confusion and were met with musket fire. Above it all, Kydd could hear the crash and thump of heavy guns outside—the battle was by no means over.
Suddenly his eye was caught by a flutter of colour from the top of the Cursed Tower—a French flag had replaced the English: the citadel that dominated the town had fallen to the enemy. Now it only needed them to expand their toehold in the town and they would be unstoppable. Acre would be Buonaparte's before sunset.
Then a harsh, alien braying sounded from the breach. Kydd stared, trying to make out what was happening through the smoke and dust. Inwards, from each side of the breach hurtled a whirling frenzy of men in gold turbans and flowing trousers. All flashing blades and demonic screams, they fell in a murderous fury on the French grenadiers pouring in. The two sides met in the middle of the breach and as the grenadiers gave way they joined together—one line facing outwards, another inward.
These were Bosnian Chiftlicks, sent by Sultan Selim from his personal bodyguard; Smith had kept them for just this occasion. With a surge of hope Kydd saw how they had severed those penned inside from the support of their comrades outside. They had a chance! He rose with a shout: "Finish the bastards!" He kicked at a nearby seaman. "Move y'rselves, we have a chance if we move now!" Several looked at him as if he were a madman. "Get off y'r arses an' fight!" he yelled hoarsely, and leaped over the parapet into the dismayed Frenchmen, who now saw that they were, in effect, surrounded, their cohesion as a military unit demolished.
Seamen rose up and joined Kydd in the vicious fighting that spilled out, but now there was a change in the spirit of the invaders. Turning to retreat, they found their way barred. Ululations of triumph became howls of terror, for the Turks now had the enemy at their mercy and flooded into the area from all sides, slaughtering and mutilating without mercy.
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 un-moving 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 weight 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 of 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 lan-thorns 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 on
ly 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.
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