24
The line of camels came on, some heads turned curiously. “As they bear, Poulden,” Kydd growled, “an’ make it count.” There was a great army following behind and he had no compunction about the blood he was about to spill, but his heart beat faster as the train of camels passed the cold black muzzle.
The carronade crashed back in its slide, the gun-flash nearly blinding in the fading light. The effect on the column was instant—
sleeting balls tore into them, and with squeals and screams it dissolved into panic. One riderless camel fled back down the road as others shed their mounts and scrambled in terror over the dunes. Hoarse cries of command mingled with shrieks. Poulden reloaded, and Laffin deftly lined up the boat for another crashing discharge.
In total disarray, the camel train was no more, still dark forms and wildly scrabbling men and animals all that were left. Kydd recalled from the map that inland there was nothing but salt-marsh: the French would find themselves trapped.
“Secure the gun,” he ordered. They had made contact with the enemy and alerted the defenders—there was no glory in useless bloodshed.
Smith arrived late for the morning conference, and wasted no time.
“So Buonaparte’s advance guard now has a bloody nose—well done, Mr Kydd.” He grinned without humour. “We can expect therefore that they’ll abandon the coast road and swing inland to come at us from the north. There’s no time to lose. We’re nearly complete with the fosse—that’s our surrounding ditch—and all the gunboats I can find are anchored here in support.”
He bit his lip. “Regrettably it would appear that the Muhammadans have got wind of Buonaparte’s behaviour at the siege of Jaffa—he induced the garrison there to surrender, then took them all down to the beach and slaughtered the lot. Had
25
the cold-blooded gall to use bayonets to save powder. Now half our own Mussulmen are streaming out of town and heading for the hills.” Unexpectedly, he smiled. “But this means that those who remain will be staunch. We’re well rid of the rest—useless mouths to feed.
“So! We expect Buonaparte on our doorstep directly. I have given orders concerning the illumination of the wall in the event of a surprise attack and other matters, do you both ensure they are carried out—” He was interrupted by a messenger. Unfolding the dispatch he chuckled grimly. “From
Tenacious.
Good news indeed, for once. In fact, magnificent news.” Dancing a jig and flourishing the paper aloft, he grinned boyishly at the dumb-founded officers.
“This will take the shine off the morning for Mr Buonaparte.
Tenacious
fell in with a French convoy off Mount Carmel and took nine—nine o’ the beggars, mark you!” Kydd and Hewitt politely murmured their surprise, but Smith continued, “And the best thing about it is, those were Buonaparte’s entire siege train!
He has no ammunition, no heavy guns—we’re reprieved, gentlemen. Unless he gets another such, we have a chance.”
Kydd felt an unworthy envy: he could visualise the convoy, within sight of safe harbour and then a ship-of-the-line, no less, appears from round the point. Boarding parties are sent away in every boat, seizing vessel after vessel, all under the helpless eye of the French army ashore.
“Count Phélippeaux will be exceedingly satisfied with this morning’s work—we shall mount the guns ourselves and pound
’em with their own metal,” Smith concluded.
Later in the morning there was a blurring of the horizon to the north-east, a broad ochrous veil of dust rising from the countless thousands of a great army. Kydd climbed the narrow steps
26
inside the Cursed Tower to see for himself. His pocket spyglass added details of the serried glitter of bayonets, columns of dusty blue coats, cavalry, vast numbers of wagons, light guns, more columns.
In its creeping, menacing, unstoppable progress it was a sinister sight. It would take some time yet to reach them but when it did it would clamp a vice-like grip on Acre before an overwhelming assault.
Kydd went cold as he considered the larger scene and realised the stakes could hardly be bigger. Buonaparte was a ruthless, gifted general: there was no reason why he could not complete his march north by taking Constantinople from the weakened Turks. Then he would stand astride the route to India and the world. Only one thing was in his way: Acre.
If he bypassed it on his thrust north he would then have a port in his wake through which his enemies could pour troops to fall on his rear at any time. Even in his ignorance of military affairs Kydd could see that this would be intolerable. While Acre still stood Buonaparte’s triumphant advance was halted. He had no alternative but to throw everything he had into its destruction.
Kydd descended the tower stairs slowly. This was no longer a simple duty in a far-off land: it was now the crux of the whole war against the French and he had been called to the fore at this critical hour. Acre
must
be held.
A sea mist over a calm sea was lifting as Kydd made his way back to the headquarters, but the road out of Acre was full of people, some on donkeys or camels, others in wooden wagons, all hurrying away from the doomed town.
Smith was still at the headquarters, crisply ordering the disposition of the captured guns. Kydd took up the order book to make sure he was aware of any changes. In addition to sentries there were outlying pickets who would be the first to catch sight
27
of the siege army. They would retire quickly and sound the alert.
A small force of gunboats would patrol to seaward from now on, not only to give warning of hostile naval forces but also to deny the attackers any seaborne supply.
Hewitt returned from his inspection of the northern flank with
Tigre
’s gun, propping his sword in the corner and wiping his brow, ready to hear Smith’s latest news.
“Ah! Now, gentlemen, let me apprise you of some intelligence that has come my way. It appears that while
Tenacious
dealt ably with the convoy, four vessels escaped. These, it turns out, are sailing barges laden with stores for the army. I don’t have to tell you, if the enemy is denied these he will find it hard to forage hereabouts . . .”
Kydd could see where it was all leading. “Sir, where are they?”
“In the port below Mount Carmel, which is Haifa. There’s no doubt it will require a bold cutting-out expedition if we wish to take them from the enemy.”
“Three boats enough, sir?” Kydd said casually. A smart operation would at the very least mean a mention in dispatches.
“I would think so,” Smith said, with satisfaction.
The little flotilla set off in longboats and cutters in the last of the daylight, Kydd’s boat in the lead, the other two under a senior midshipman on either flank. In all there were sufficient seamen to fight any reasonable waterfront opposition and work the captured vessels out to sea.
He had studied the charts: Haifa was a small haven, a lengthy quay enclosing an inner harbour. If the barges were alongside this quay on either side it would be a straightforward matter but if they were further in it would complicate things.
The Bay of Haifa was calm; a quarter-moon gave adequate
2
visibility and there did not seem to be any other shipping about, apart from the lateen sails of the ubiquitous trading feluccas.
Nevertheless things could happen quickly—he felt once more for the comforting presence of his fine fighting sword. There was every prospect that this night it would taste its first blood.
The land was dark and anonymous; occasional lights flickered but nothing to show the presence of a great army. They had diverted inland, Kydd reasoned, and were probably close to taking up their positions around Acre. His resolution firmed—their action would bring results out of all proportion to their numbers and justify risks.
They approached the end of the bay, the bold bluff of Mount Carmel easy to make out; the small port of Haifa was at its base.
Kydd strained to see into the harbour—there were some lights, but not enough to reveal the situation, and the quarter-moon was now veiled in high cloud. “Keep together!” he hailed to the others.
The barges were probably inside the long quay, but where?
The further in they were the longer they would be under fire as they sailed out with their prizes. But on the other hand there did not appear to be formal defences—in fact, there were neither gunboats at the entrance nor soldiers guarding the quay. Could they be so lucky?
Closer, there were no sudden shouts or signs of alarm. Tense and ready to order an instant retreat, Kydd took his tiny fleet round the end of the quay and into the inner harbour. The barges came into view—at the far end, rafted together, probably to unload in the morning into the tall warehouses that lined the wharf.
It was quiet—too quiet? The cheery splash of their passage could be heard echoing back from the tall stone of the quay.
The waterfront buildings were in complete darkness, the nearest
2
lights in the small town on the slopes above. He could not see anything of concern but the silence was unnerving.
Kydd felt uneasy with the long passage they were having to make up the harbour. If they had encountered opposition, even just well-placed muskets on the quay and the inner shoreline, they would not have been able to penetrate more than yards towards their prizes, so close to were they on each side.
Barely two hundred yards away Kydd looked about for the easiest way to board. One or two curious Arabs glanced their way, and on one of the barges a curious head popped up. “Red cutter t’ larb’d, longboat th’ other side,” Kydd called quietly to the other boat crews. They would fall on the barges from each side, working inboard.
The order was barely uttered when Kydd’s world tore apart.
A single hoarse shout came from somewhere, then the crash of muskets, screams and violent movements in the boat slammed into his perception. The stroke oar took a ball in the head and jerked before slithering down, his oar flying up and tangling with the next. A shriek came from forward: a man rose, then fell over the side.
Kydd’s mind snapped to an icy cold, ferocious concentration.
The firing was coming from
behind
and it was coming down from the upper storeys of the warehouse and the quay. The soldiers had done well to lie concealed while the boats, with their lower line of sight, had gone right past them, the trap well sprung.
There could be no return the way they had come. Kydd realised bitterly that the source of Smith’s intelligence had also betrayed them to the other side.
There was only one course. “The barges!” he bellowed. There was just a chance that the enemy would be reluctant to fire on their own vessels. It was only twenty or so yards, a dozen fren-zied strokes . . . A young seaman clutching his cutlass was struck
20
in the throat by a musket-ball with a
splutch
that sounded curiously loud above the general uproar. He fell forward, kicking, into the bottom of the boat with a strangled bubbling, gouting blood. Kydd could feel the constant slam and thud of bullets into the boat’s side as he fought the tiller to counteract the wild slewing as more oarsmen were hit.
The boat thudded woodenly into the side of the outside barge—its freeboard was lower even than that of the longboat.
“Take cover on board!” he yelled, clambering over the side to the deserted deck. Others crowded after him. On deck he drew his sword for the first time in deadly earnest and ran forward.
Any hopes that the French would slacken fire on their own ships were proved false—the lethal
whup
and strike of bullets continued about him with no diminishing. There was no cover on the upper decks of the ungainly barge and with its hold full there was no shelter there either.
With a wrench of the heart Kydd saw that the other boats had loyally made the longer distance round to the other end of the rafted barges in accordance with his last orders and the sailors were clambering up, white faces and bright steel in the moonlight.
“Go f’r the warehouse!” He had to buy time. They rushed forward and over a rickety gangplank to the wharf. Panting hard, Kydd dashed to the doors of the nearest building. He drew his pistol, shot off the padlock and swung the door wide. Inside a musket fired and he saw two or three soldiers frantically reloading. Maddened seamen got to them and slaughtered them in an instant.
The rest of his men threw themselves inside and the door was slammed shut. The darkness was lit only by a single lantern. Kydd shouted at a petty officer to search out any remaining enemy hiding in there and tried to force his mind to a cool
21
rationality. He had probably about thirty men left, far too few to stand up to a regular army force, and only a handful of muskets.
Most seamen were equipped for standard boarding with pistols and tomahawks and, of course, a cutlass; their main task was to get sail quickly on the prize.
Peeping through cracks in the door he could see the aimless drift of their abandoned boats and, worse, out of range he could detect enemy soldiers assembling for a rush on them. There was no more time.
His men, seamen he had known through long night watches, out on the yardarm in a gale, at a cannon in the titanic battle of the Nile, were looking to him to make a decision, take firm action and save them.
A lump grew in his throat as cold desolation flooded in.