'B-by no means, sir!' Kydd stuttered. 'I shall bend m' utmost endeavours. It's—it's just that . . .'
'You find the service too challenging?' Smith's eyebrows rose.
'No, sir!'
'Then I can safely leave the matter with you.' He turned his back and resumed his animated conversation with the Turk.
'Be damned t' you, sir!' the elderly colonel spluttered, his fist waving comically in the night air. 'I'm not about to risk m' men in that contraption! What kind o' loobies d' ye think we are?'
A seaman patiently held the blunt prow of a boat for the milling and distrustful soldiers to board. But this was no stout and seaworthy naval launch—it was a flat, awkward beast built in sections joined with leather seams, a portable boat that had been carried across the desert on the backs of soldiers: a plicatile. It was now ready to take to the waters of the rejuvenated Lake Mareotis to catch the unsuspecting French in the rear. And it leaked like a colander.
Kydd took a ragged breath. It had been a nightmare, ensuring that there were enough reliable seamen to conn the hundreds of craft and that each had a boat compass and dark-lantern, repair kits, balers and so on as well as the right fit of army stores. The tedious and bitingly cold night march through the anonymous sand had been preceded by days of Kydd's organisation and planning that had taken its toll on his stamina, and he was in no mood to debate the wisdom of embarking the troops in the transport provided.
'Then, sir, I'm t' tell Gen'ral Hely-Hutchinson that his regiments refuse t' move forward?' he retorted. 'Th' colonel says he might get his feet wet?'
'Have a care, sir!' the officer spat dangerously. 'I'll remember your name, sir!'
'Aye, Kydd it is—meanwhile . . . ?'
All along the reedy 'shore' of the new lake more and more of the plicatiles took to the water. It was vital that a credible force was assembled ready at the appointed point on the opposite shore at dawn. This implied a departure time of not later than two in the morning if they were to avoid being revealed by a rising moon. They had to board now.
Stumping along the shoreline, shouting himself hoarse, goading, wheedling, ordering, it was a nightmare for Kydd. If the night succeeded, there would be not much more than an avuncular pat on the back: if he failed, the whole world would hear of it.
He had also come to realise bitterly that Smith had probably engineered his removal ashore during this phase to remove a hungry rival for glory in the only true naval enterprise on offer. Dacres had been at first surprised, then transparently avaricious at the prospect of temporary command of
It was time: ready or not, they had to start. He fumbled for his silver boatswain's call, set it to his lips and blasted the high and falling low of 'carry on.' It was yet another thing to worry about, setting some thousands of men into an advance without the use of trumpets or other give-away signals. From up and down the line of shore came the echoing peal of other pipes sounding in a caterwaul of conflicting notes. They died away but then the first plicatiles tentatively began their long paddle across the invisible dark of the lake.
In a fever of impatience Kydd watched their slow progress, but then more and more ventured out until the dark waters seemed full of a cloud of awkward shapes disappearing onwards into the night. Energised to desperate hope, he scrambled aboard the nearest and they pushed off. Water instantly began to collect in the flat bottom and sloshed about; Kydd growled at one of the nervous redcoats and threw him the baler.
The boat felt unstable and Kydd was grateful for the absolute calm of the waters. He snapped at the four paddlers for greater efforts; he wanted to close with the main body ahead before they reached the other side. To his right despairing cries turned to shrieks. Why the devil could they not drown quietly? he mused blackly.
Ahead, from what must be over the dunes to seaward, a rocket soared. Several others answered and distant gunflashes lit the sky, with continuous dull crumps and thuds. The sea diversion was beginning: if the French thought it was the main assault it would draw them there and the rear assault would have a chance—but if not . . . Kydd knew that if their own attack attracted the majority of defenders, the enterprise of the Navy would attempt a landing of their own: marines and seamen would be establishing a vital bridgehead while his lightly armed force was cut to pieces.
'Stretch out, ye haymakin' shabs!' he ground out fiercely, at the hapless soldiers plying the paddles. He had to be up with the others when they made their surprise move—but when they did, exactly what orders would he give?
A soft edge to the darkness was turning into the first delicate flush of dawn. He could see ahead much further and the reed-fringed bank of the opposite shore materialised. Mercifully it seemed they had not yet been seen, and under cover of a low ridge the boats were touching ashore and being pulled up.
An impossible mass of men was assembling at the water's edge; he had not realised the minimum area of ground a thousand men or more must occupy. His feverish imagination rushed stark images into his mind of the muzzles of cannon suddenly appearing at the skyline to blast a storm of grape-shot and canister into the helpless crowds—what could he do? What orders should he give the moment he landed?
The boat nudged into sandy mud and he splashed into the shore, urgently looking about and swallowing his concern. Then from random parts of the mass came stentorian bellows—he recognised the colonel's—and up and down the milling mass other military shouts. Here and there pennons were raised high with regimental colours, attracting men to them. Order coalesced out of chaos and, with a sudden emptiness, Kydd knew his job was done. The Army was taking charge of its own.
Columns formed, scouts and pickets trotted forward and the force prepared to move out in disciplined silence. The fireworks display was still playing out to sea but now the deeper thuds of heavier guns could be heard in the distance; closer to, the light tap of muskets became more insistent, then a marked flurry before dying away. The men moved forward into battle.
* * *
'That was clean done, Mr Kydd,' Smith said equably, seated in a tent in an encampment overlooking the city. He had resumed his Turkish raiment and, with the pasha of Egypt, was bubbling away on a hookah with every indication of enjoyment. 'Achieved its object. With our fearsome motions from seaward and the sudden appearance of an unknown number of men in their rear, where before they felt safe they now have no other option than to retreat into the city. Well done, sir!'
It was all very well for Smith to feel so complacent, Kydd thought sourly. He was the one mentioned in the general's account.
