At the edge of action Kydd teetered. The movement stopped and Kydd took a deep breath — but then came the tinkle of urine on the ground.
In a dizzying moment of relief, he touched the arms of Larcomb and another seaman then pointed. They nodded and rose soundlessly. In a swift flurry they brought the man crashing down. He was a young sentry, who had laid down his musket to relieve himself out of sight of the fort. He struggled hard, but was pinioned securely, Larcomb's hand clamped over his mouth. The struggles spent themselves, and the hapless man stared up.
Kydd knew that Renzi spoke French, and-whispered to him harshly, 'Tell him he's our prisoner.'
'I rather think not,' Renzi replied.
'Damn it! Do as I—'
'We have no men to spare to look after prisoners.' To give point to Renzi's words, the youth struggled again. Three men were holding him down — three effectives who would be greatly missed later.
'You can't just . . .'
Renzi said nothing. The young man's eyes bulged: he seemed to sense what was being discussed, and tried desperately to reach out to them.
'Bugger wants ter talk,' Larcomb muttered hoarsely, and looked up.
Hesitating, Kydd shook his head - there was too much risk. Renzi's logic led one way, pity and humanity another. He gazed at Renzi in despair.
Renzi leaned across, and extracted the bayonet in a steely slither from Larcomb's scabbard.
'No!' breathed Kydd, held powerless in horror as the nightmare face returned.
The youth heaved and floundered, his eyes frozen on the blade. A rank, unmistakable odour arose. 'He's shit hisself,' Larcomb croaked, his voice thick with compassion.
'Make room,' Renzi said.
Kydd realised he meant Larcomb to move aside enough to enable the bayonet to do its work. Larcomb did so, his eyes down. The boy ceased his struggle, lay petrified and rigid. Renzi crawled over to him and raised the bayonet. There was an inhuman squeal of such intensity that it sounded through Larcomb's tight grip - then Renzi thrust the bayonet firmly into the chest to the heart. A dextrous half-twist, and the blade was withdrawn, the gout of bright life-blood hopeless and final.
Renzi wiped the weapon on the ground and handed it back to Larcomb. He looked up at the anguish on Kydd's face. 'Duty can often take a harsh disguise, my friend,' he said, in a low voice.
Kydd tore himself away from the sight of the fresh corpse, his mind a whirl of confusion. Nobody came to where he crouched, and there was no relief to his emotions. Away to the left, far in the distance, a trumpet bayed, its sound taken up by another, nearer. 'Tom!' said Renzi softly.
Kydd pulled himself together. 'With me!' he croaked. He cleared his throat. 'Let's give 'em a quiltin', then.' He broke out of the wood and stumbled up the rise towards the fort, hearing his men follow. Others emerged all along the fringe of wood. It seemed incredible that their drama could have taken place in such isolation.
They moved up the hill. The fort's palisades were topped with continuous gunsmoke in the soft dawn light, and attackers began to drop. The fusillade died away — they had succeeded in their surprise: there were not enough men on watch to maintain the reloading cycle for full defence.
Something seized Kydd's mind in a fierce, uncaring rage — a point of concentration for his incoherent feelings. His legs burned as he pounded on towards the focus of his madness. Behind him panted Larcomb — then Kydd realised he had gone. Renzi was away to his right and all the others he assumed were somewhere close. All the time the weakened enemy fire found victims.
The palisades rose up suddenly. Renzi appeared beside him. He carried a rolled
