different voice came from high above, and Kydd saw the shako of an army officer. 'Well done, you men.' There was a pause, and the-head and shoulders of the officer showed. 'You should understand that we may have fever . ..' there was a stirring of alarm among Kydd's men '. .. and therefore you may not wish to enter.'
'Sod it! Any place 'as vittles, somewhere ter flake out,' said the older seaman coarsely.
'Hold y'r jabber,' Kydd told him briefly. 'Where else c'n we go, sir?' he hailed.
'Wouldn't advise you to remain here,' the officer called. 'I expect an assault any hour.' Kydd's heart lurched. 'Yet I do know where there are more of you fellows. You might wish to join them.' His tone became apologetic. 'It's all of twenty miles or so further along this road, around the south part of this island — Fort Mathilda.' Silence. 'I do believe you should make your dispositions soon,' the officer said, and indicated across the bay to where they had come from.
Pointe a Pitre was now a bleak scene, ruined gaps in rows of houses, smoke from burning buildings. The smell of devastation lay on the wind. The bombardment had stopped, which meant that the French were in possession of the town. 'No choice, is there, mates?' he heard from beside him.
He remembered Renzi's way with logic and forced himself to think. If they entered they would be safe for the time being, but at the risk of yellow fever. If they started on a march of twenty miles or more there was every chance that they would be overtaken by the French. Or they might make it, without exposure to the fever. The elements shuffled themselves in his head at vertiginous speed and came down on a course of cool certainty. They would march on. If there was a chance they could reinforce Fort Mathilda with some able-bodied men, then their duty was plain.
'We march!' he growled. He hailed the fort again. 'We go on, sir! Chance o' some rations — an' some water?'
The officer removed his hat. 'Very commendable, my man. I will see to it.' His figure disappeared downwards.
'There is a choice, yer knows.' The older seaman confronted him, his eyes fixing Kydd's. 'We're not in kilter fer a long piece o' walkin' so we 'as ter do what we must - we gives it all away, we got nothin' ter worry of, not like them royalists, we'll get treated square . ..'
Kydd's fist slammed into the man's stomach, doubling him over. The next blow took him on the chin, knocking him to the dust, where he lay sullenly feeling his jaw. Kydd turned back to the fort.
A bucket on the end of a piece of rope appeared. In it, covered by a grey blanket, were army biscuits, two cooked haunches of rabbit and a hand of bananas. Three canteens of water followed. 'March!' Kydd ordered. They stepped off, the fallen man left to catch up. As they rounded a curve he saw the officer still looking in their direction. The marines had a rhythm of marching that was relaxed and economic, but the seamen were fast becoming tired and slow.
'Up there,' Kydd said suddenly, pointing at the sugarcane field. They stared at him dully. 'Are ye thinkin' of walkin' all th' way?' It didn't need much smart thinking to realise that cane-fields had carts for the cut cane, and these would be pulled by horses or some other animal.
It was more difficult than it appeared. 'Don' be daft!' One of the marines, an ex-farmhand, chuckled, and took the reins from Kydd's hands. Kydd surrendered them gratefully. The single ox was placid but sure, and the sugar-cane cart jerked forward. Sprawled in the back were his men, and he had provided for them. Before he fell asleep under the hot sun, Kydd felt a certain satisfaction.
Fort Mathilda was small, but built securely into the rock of the coast. A surprised lieutenant met them inside the gates and asked immediately about the situation in Pointe a Pitre. Then the little fort stood to, awaiting the inevitable.
It wasn't long in coming: rising dust clouds inland showed the approach of a substantial column — but the satisfying sight of men-o'-war coming round the point with
The deck of a ship at dawn was the most beautiful sight he could think of, Kydd decided. Even the swish and slop of the men swabbing the deck did not intrude. The easy, domestic sounds in the cool of the early morning were balm to his troubled soul.
The quality of the dawn light on the anchored ship was of a gossamer hesitancy, a soft emerging of colour through grey; the tropical sea began its transition from dark grey-blue anonymity to its usual striking transparent greens and deep-water blue. Within the hour it would bear the hard glitter of the sun, and this magical time would be dismissed into memory. A sigh forced itself on him. The land with all its brutal ways could now be relinquished for the sea — the
