to reveal the grinning face of Suleiman, his curved Ottoman dagger still dripping red.
Kydd shook his head to clear it. The fighting had moved down the rubble and into the ditch. He picked up his sword and looked about. Rain now hammered down in earnest on his bare head and his eyes stung with a salty mix of sweat and blood.
The well-sited guns from the ships were still tearing great holes in the waves of attackers. A musket ball slammed past his cheek with a vicious slap of air, but he could see that the rain and mud were severely impeding the assault.
In the fosse, grenades and infernal devices thrown at the hapless survivors exploded loudly in bursts of flame and smoke. Kydd saw a skull split and crushed by a heavy stone flung from the upper storey of the Cursed Tower. The attack was faltering. Then, as quickly as it started, it faded, leaving Kydd trembling with fatigue atop the rubble of the breach.
He stepped inside the tower out of the rain and wiped his sticky sword on a body. He looked at the now bloodied and muddy weapon, then slid it neatly into its scabbard: it had proved its worth.
There would be a reckoning when the weather abated; there would be no rest. At the
Kydd could not trust himself to say the words that lay on his heart and ended with a gruff 'No chance o' Buonaparte getting what he wants while there's a Tenacious in th' offing.' It seemed to serve, for several of the gun crew looked up with pleased grins. 'Don't know where I'll find it, but there's a double tot f'r you all when I do.'
At the headquarters he found Hewitt slumped in his chair, staring at the wall with the map of operations spread out before him. 'That damned relief army had better show itself before long or we're a cooked goose.'
'Aye,' said Kydd, and searched for words of cheer. 'We came close t'day—but doesn't it tell us that Buonaparte is getting impatient, running scared, that he throws his army at us without he has a plan—an' in this blow?'
Hewitt looked up, an odd expression on his face. 'Pray see things from his point of view. Before now he has taken the strongest fortresses in Europe, defended by the most modern troops. What does he see here in Acre? An ancient, decaying town ruled by a bloody tyrant and defended by a ragged mix of sailors and Orientals. No wonder he thinks to sweep us aside quickly and get on with his conquests.'
'He's tried—'
'He has not yet! But I'll wager he's already sent for a second siege train to pound us to ruin even with our wonderful ships, supposing he is not at this moment up to some other deviltry! Remember, he made his name at Toulon at the head of the artillery—he is no stranger to such works.'
They worked together on the defences, Hewitt's halting translations of Phelippeaux's schemes of fortification serving for them both. They divided between them the main tasks: Hewitt consulted Djezzar on matters concerning labour for the works and Kydd saw to the lines of supply from the victualling stores and magazines to the guns—but always many other details demanded their attention.
The winds blew themselves out and veered more easterly as the rain cleared. With the first blue sky all eyes turned to the French encampment for signs of a new assault. But the sodden ground remained impractical and, to the cheers of the defenders, the two ships sailed back cautiously to take up their positions once more.
Smith came ashore immediately and energetically visited all parts of the old walled town, demanding particulars of each. He finished at his headquarters. 'Well done, gentlemen,' he said, with satisfaction. 'Yet I would rather you had kept a better eye on Djezzar Pasha—he is a man of decided opinions concerning his enemies, and I have just learned that in my absence he seized thirty of the prisoners, had them sewn into sacks and thrown into the sea, including our French officer spy. I shall have to be firmer with him in the future.
'And now I have news. Good news, believe me. You will be happy to learn that the Turkish relief army in Galilee has left Damascus and is even now on its way south. A mighty army indeed: seventy-five banners of Mahgrebi infantry and Albanian cavalry, two hundred Janissaries, Dalat and field cannon, Mamelukes and Kurds beyond counting—near eight times Buonaparte's numbers. They march fast and will reach the Jordan in a day or so. Then he must fight, or retreat and abandon the siege. I believe he will fight, and in that case he will be obliged to divide his forces. It will be an interesting time for Mr Buonaparte.'
Kydd's heart lifted. Perhaps in a few days he could return to his rightful place in
There was other news: Bedouin fighters were joining from the country—more exotic fighters to prowl the walls with their flowing robes and wickedly curved knives. And it seemed agents in India had discovered that Buonaparte had told the Sultan of Mysore, the scheming Tippoo Sahib, to prepare for a victorious host that would descend on his country from Persia in the footsteps of Alexander.
'However, we have a more immediate worry. Count Phelip-peaux has confided that he believes the French have begun a sap, a mine. Protected from our ships' gunfire they are tunnelling towards us from their forward trenches and when they are under the wall they will explode a great charge to bring it down.'
Kydd and Hewitt exchanged a glance. In one stroke another dimension of war had started. While they walked and talked above, French engineers were driving their unseen mine ever closer. In a single instant they could be blown to pieces.
'Sir, does he know where it is? How far it's gone?' Kydd wanted to know.
'No doubt about it—he has seen an advance parallel grow earthworks and men go down into it. The closest trench to the Cursed Tower.'
'Is there anything we can do?' Hewitt looked drawn and tired.
'The usual in these cases is for us to counter-mine, to drive our own pit towards theirs and stop them.'
Kydd shuddered: he could not conceive of a worse scene than in this black underground the breaking through into an enemy mine and the savagery of hacking and stabbing in such a confined space that must follow.
There was no attack that day, or the next: it was becoming clear that Buonaparte was not going to risk another frontal assault in the face of the ships' broadsides and was either biding his time while his sappers did their work or was away, deploying his forces to face the Turkish hordes.
It gave Smith, Hewitt and Kydd precious time to repair and regroup. One thing they could be sure of, which Kydd kept close to his heart: they would never starve—the little feluccas bringing food ensured that. It was
