'Did I mention,' Renzi said, in quite another voice, 'that our good chaplain Peake comes ashore shortly? Knowing his extreme distaste for the effusion of blood I tried to dissuade him from this charnel pit but he is a stubborn old horse.' He considered for a moment and added, 'Do bear him with patience—he's been aboard an anchored ship for an age while he knows that there are men here dying without comfort, and he devoutly wishes to do his duty in some way.'
The morning conference opened with the news that Buonaparte was drawing close, and the dismaying intelligence that because he no longer had to look to a threat from inland he could bring up and deploy every resource to the one object—the reduction of Acre.
'This, then, is the climax,' Smith declared. 'Buonaparte has all his forces present and if he cannot triumph over us with these he never will. I recognise this as our supreme moment. My intention is to deny him his victory and, to that end, I am stripping our ships of every man that can be spared and bringing 'em ashore to fight. Gentlemen, we shall not be beat!'
It was crazy—a few hundred seamen, a handful of ship's guns and the Turks and Arabs, who could at best be only a few thousand against the might of Buonaparte's army.
'We must hold,' Smith went on. 'I have word from Constantinople that a Turkish fleet is on its way to us, and troops are summoned from Rhodes. We have but to hold and we're assured the final victory.'
He felt for a satchel under the desk and swung it up. 'Taken from a French supply vessel yesterday. See what our devilish friend is up to now.'
Inside were leaflets. Renzi picked one up: ' 'To all Christians! I am come to deliver you at last from the unholy practices of the Muhammadans ...''
Smith grimaced. 'And the other?'
''... am the Defender of the True Faith; the infidels shall be swept away ...''
'You see? Very well. I will not stand in the way of such devout protestations. I will have these delivered to Christian and Muhammadan alike. However, the Muslim will read that this general is a champion of the Christians, while the Christian will read it was the same Buonaparte who bore away the Pope to captivity.'
Chaplain Peake came ashore by one of the boats streaming in with the reinforcements, an unmistakable figure. Kydd went to meet him and was struck by the peculiar mixture of reverence and disgust playing on his features. 'Mr Peake, I'll have you know we expect hourly t' have the French about our ears, an' this will not be a sight for eyes as cultured as y'r own, sir. I beg—'
'And have me sit on the ship in forced idleness, hearing the dread sounds of war at a remove, knowing there are wolves in human clothing rending each other—'
'Have a care, sir!' Kydd said tightly. 'Such words aren't welcomed here. If you wish t' remain, you'll keep y'r judgements to yourself.' Peake kept his silence, but his expression was eloquent. Kydd sighed. 'Be aware I have nobody t' look after ye, Mr Peake. They all have a job t' do. Keep away fr'm the walls, sir—you'll find th' wounded in the town. And, er, the Djezzar will not welcome instruction on the conduct of his harem. Good luck, Mr Peake.'
Rawson and Bowden found their way to the headquarters and saluted smartly. 'Our orders, sir?' Rawson said, his eyes straying to exotic sights: the Bedouin with their swaying camels and veiled ladies, fierce Turks with scimitars and turbans, the ruin of bombardments.
'Do you stay here until you understand th' situation, if y' please.' Kydd made room at the table where the situation map lay open. 'Then I shall want ye to take position inside the walls here, and here, at opposite ends, with a parcel o' pikemen and cutlasses. There's a breach at the Cursed Tower here, where we've been takin' the assaults. If the French get through an' into the town, you close with 'em from your side. Clear?'
Bowden looked absurdly young—his hat was still too big, but now there was a firming of his shoulders, a confidence in his bearing. 'One more thing. Leave aside y'r dirks an' ship a cutlass. This is men's work. And—and remember what you've been taught ... and, er, good luck.'
Kydd left for the guns with a sinking heart. The French encampment had swollen, and rumour had it that the unorthodox Druse sect was siding with the French against Djezzar Pasha to settle old scores. Now hundreds more were against them. Hurrying along the wall, Kydd placed his men alternately with the Turks and Arabs; if some broke and ran there was a chance the seamen could hold for a time, but there were among their ranks some whom Kydd had seen fighting like demons—their harsh cries had stiffened the others.
He could not suppress his forebodings. It was possible that he might not survive to see the night. And what of these men, who had to take his orders as an officer and obey? Whether wise or ill-conceived, they had no choice. Would his orders be lucid and reasoned or would he, in the chaos of the moment, waste their lives?
Along the wall he saw Renzi shouting to the gun crew in the redoubt. 'Nicholas, I—I just wanted t' say ... the best o' luck to ye,' he said gruffly, holding out his hand. 'I have a brace o' the best claret waiting f'r when we get back, an' we shall enjoy 'em together.'
Renzi looked up with the familiar half-smile. 'In the event, it will—' He was interrupted by a shattering roar from the bowels of the earth. A gust of super-heated air threw them to the ground and showered everything with debris. As it settled Kydd picked himself up, dazed and choking on the swirling dust. The mine had exploded! One half of the Cursed Tower lay in rubble and there was an opening in the wall wide enough for fifty men abreast to march into the town.
'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
