“
As the little boat plunged past, seeking the broad pennant of the Commodore in
In the boat a cockaded and sashed individual stood erect, waved and bowed, clearly delighted.
Within the hour the big men-o’-war had anchored, the frigates had taken stations to seaward, and the transports prepared to enter port. These would require pilots for the difficult rock-studded entrance, and even so they would then need to lie offshore among myriad islands, the tiny port’s river entrance too difficult to navigate.
The transports got under way, passing close enough for Kydd to watch the redcoats thronging their decks. The thumping of martial music carried over the water.
“Don’t stand there gawpin’, tail on to that fall!” Elkins growled.
The launch eased alongside and the first of the four upper-deck twelve-pounders was readied to be swayed in. A delicate and precise operation, the long cannon, free of its carriage, had to be lowered into the boat that surged below in the slight sea. The slightest ill-timing, and the boat coming up with the waves would meet the mass of iron moving down and the result would be so much splintered wreckage. Lines ran from the yardarms in a complex pattern, balancing movements and loads with the use of tie blocks, guys and mast tackles in a complex exercise of seamanship.
What was surprising to Kydd in this difficult maneuver was that there was silence – no shouted orders. The boatswain controlled the men on the tackles through his mates and their silver whistles. Orders were passed by different patterns of twittering calls: a continuous fluttering warble sounded continuously while lowering, and at the right position a sharp upward squeal told the crew to avast.
It was hard work, and Kydd envied the seamen who waited in the boat.
After dinner the landing party assembled by divisions, two hundred men in their seaman’s rig wearing their field sign – a white band on the left arm. The boats took them ashore, the men happy to be away from shipboard discipline. As the boats approached the landing place, Kydd looked around with interest. There was a wild beauty about it, rocky spurs among tiny beaches, the ragged land interspersed with dark-pink granite outcrops, and the port, a walled city, the ramparts connected to the mainland by an ancient causeway. Adding to the exotic effect was a subtle, exciting foreignness about the houses, the tiny farms and the patterns of cultivation. And the smell: after the purity of the sea, the odor of land – a mix of raw earth, vegetation and manure – had a poignant effect on Kydd. It reminded him of the countryside he had left, but it was overlaid with tantalizing alien scents.
On the quayside of the inner harbor the marines were formed up, their lieutenant languidly fanning himself. It seemed the elements were smiling on the enterprise, for the sun was breaking through with unusual brilliance.
“Hold water port, give way starboard – oars; rowed of all!”
The boat glided alongside the quay, oars tossed upright, and the men scrambled ashore, laughing, joking, the novelty of their surroundings refreshing but unsettling.
As soon as Kydd stepped off the boat onto dry land, the solid stone of the quay fell away under his feet. The boat had been perfectly steady, but despite the evidence of his eyes the land felt like the deck of a ship, heaving gently in a moderate swell. Mystified, he shrugged and walked away with a fine seaman-like roll.
From some windows drooped hastily found Bourbon flags, and banners with foreign words that seemed to offer welcome. Small groups of townsfolk gathered to stare at them, the ladies wearing quaint ornate lace headdresses, the men surly and defensive.
Petty officers called them to order: “Form up, then, you useless lubbers. Get in a line or somethin’, fer Chrissake!”
Sailors could be trusted to lay aloft in a gale of wind, but the rigid mechanical movements of military drill were beyond them. A ragged group, they shuffled off. The line of marines on either flank marched crisply, and with more than a touch of swagger.
“Silence in the ranks! Corporal, take charge o’ yer men!” The marine sergeant’s face reddened at the shambles, but the seamen continued to chatter excitedly.
They moved through the narrow streets, the sound of their tramping feet echoing off the roughcast white houses. Windows were flung open and women looked down, throwing a blossom or screeching an incom prehensible invitation. The company emerged into the town square and halted. The previous shore party had prepared the cannon for transport, chocking them into stout farm wagons, which waited for them on one side.
“Stay where you is!” snarled the sergeant, as the sailors began to drift away, gaping at imposing stone buildings. The flanking marines chivvied them back until they stood together in a bored mass.
More ranks of seamen arrived from the other ships; they took position around the sides of the square, facing the central fountain, which was decked with bunting and draped flags.
“Who would believe it?” Kydd said. “I’m in France. It would make them stare in Guildford t’see me here like this.” He shook his head, then laughed and turned to Renzi. “Where would we be, do you believe?”
Renzi pursed his lips. “St. Pontrieux. I was here before, in… different circumstances. It’s in the northwest, in Brittany. Odd sort of place, mostly fishing, some orchards inland a bit. We know it as a nest of corsairs. It is supposed that they have moved elsewhere for the nonce. Don’t remember too much else about it.” But he remembered only too well Marie, whom he’d left in tears on the quay. But that had been a different man.
In the distance they could hear the military band. The stirring sound came closer, drums thudding, fifes shrilling, and into the square marched the Duke of Cornwall’s 93rd Regiment of Foot, a burst of bright scarlet and glittering equipment, stepping out like heroes. At their head rode the officers on gleaming horses, with tall cockaded hats and glittering swords held proudly before them. Behind them stolid lines of soldiers marched, white spats rising and falling together, the tramp of boots loud in the confines of the square. The seamen fell silent, watching the spectacle. Screamed orders had the soldiers marking time, then turning inwards and forming fours. Finally the band entered, the sound almost deafening. The drum major held his stick high – double thumps on the drum and the band stopped. More orders screamed out and the stamp and clash of muskets sounded as they were brought to order. The soldiers now stood motionless in immaculate lines.
Kydd loosened his neckerchief and waistcoat. The noon sun seemed to have a particular quality in this foreign land, a somewhat metallic glare after the softness of more northerly climes.
The ceremonial party mounted the steps of the fountain, the British officers deferring to a personage who had the most ornate plumed hat that Kydd had ever seen. It was worn fore and aft in the new Continental style.
“Silence! Silence on parade!” roared the sergeant major, his outrage directed at the sailors, who seemed to have no parade ground discipline whatsoever.
The square fell quiet, and the plumed individual climbed to the highest step. With the utmost dignity he began his speech. “
The sailors were mystified. “Wot’s he yatterin’ about?” whispered Jewkes to Kydd.
A ripple of applause came from the townsfolk.
“No idea,” Kydd had to admit. He looked at Renzi.
“Welcomes the glorious arms of their friends across the Channel,” he whispered. “Promises that God, with perhaps a little help from us, will send packing the thieving rascals in Paris.”
The oration continued, illustrated by grand gestures and flourishes. The soldiers in their ranks stared woodenly ahead, but the sailors moved restlessly. At last it came to an end. The British army officer in charge stood alongside the orator and removed his own large hat.
“Three cheers for the
Released from their enforced silence, the sailors roared out lustily.
“Three cheers for the Dauphin, and may he soon assume his rightful place on the throne of France!”
The townspeople looked surprised and delighted at the full-throated response from the sailors.
“And three times three for the sacred soil of France-may it be rid forever of the stain of dishonor!”
Hoarse with cheering, Kydd waved his hat with the rest.
A snapped order and the soldiers straightened, then presented arms. The band struck up a solemn tune, which had all the local folk removing their hats and coming to attention, followed by “God Save the King.”
