It was still mid-morning when the column came to a halt at the sullen rumble of heavy guns ahead. A flurry of trumpet calls echoing up and down the line; bellowed orders and earnest subalterns hurrying on important missions had the column quickly deployed in line.
The seamen mustered together in the centre of the line: they would have the road. With a clinking of equipment, a squadron of cavalry mounted on indifferent horses clattered off towards the battery, which dominated the skyline.
'Poor beggars,' muttered a sailor.
'How so?' said Kydd.
'O' course, they's bein' sacrificed to see 'ow far the guns c'n reach.' A single gout of smoke appeared at the embrasures of the battery and seconds later a thud came, but there was no apparent harm to the widely separated horses. They cantered further along the road, now even at the suburbs of Pointe a Pitre.
'Stand to!' Lieutenant Calley ordered. 'We march.'
The re-formed column, having tested their advance, resumed the march. Eyes nervously on the battery above the town, they tramped along the road unopposed. Kydd looked at the deserted houses and neat gardens. No sign of war, just a sullen silence. The squadron cantered back. It seemed the battery had been deserted by the French, and their other forces were in full retreat. The empty town echoed to their progress, only the odd dog or fowl left to dispute possession. By midday, the seamen were slaking their thirst in the fountain of the town square, and the regimental fifes and drums were bringing in the soldiers.
It was an anti-climax — but welcome for all that. Parties of soldiers were sent out to secure strongpoints. The seamen were marched down to the neat harbour, its white stone walls and red-tiled buildings baking in the heat.
The rain hammered down in a tropical burst of furious intensity. Kydd opened an eye lazily. It was relatively dry aft under the awning of the trading schooner and he saw no reason to disturb his repose. There was little that he and his two men could do until someone had found enough sea-stores to complete the refit, not just of this little craft on the slipway but the larger brig alongside the quay further up. The French had not dared to sail these merchant vessels out against the waiting English, or had time to destroy them.
A steamy earthiness arose as the rain eased, then stopped. Kydd took in the landlocked harbour, the vividness of the colours after the rain holding him rapt.
The ladder at the side of the craft rattled and the beaming face of Luke appeared. He and Renzi, Kydd's 'men', had volunteered for this task rather than return to
Kydd grunted and sat up.
'Chucks'll be down on us like thunder,' Luke said cheerfully, 'less we show we done somethin'.'
'What?' said Kydd grumpily. Admittedly, they could find small things to do — the departing French had slashed at the rigging, but the reason why the craft had been slipped, a strake or two stove in forward, would have to await the shipwright's attention before the schooner took to the water again.
Renzi appeared from under the round of the bilges and paced along the length of the craft on the hard-standing. God only knew what he was thinking about, mused Kydd. The smell of the schooner's hull close to was pleasant, the essence of the tar and preservatives heightened by the sun; the underwater weed and barnacles produced an intense sea aroma.
' Younker, get y'rself down t' Toby 'n' see if he needs ye,' Kydd told Luke. He waited until Luke was on his way to the brig, then dropped overside. 'Nicholas,' he said, 'might we talk?'
