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. Trapped in an old warehouse with soldiers closing in, they could only burst out and meet the enemy in a last desperate stand – or was it time to call a halt to the killing and dying?
Slowly he turned to face his men. ‘I do believe – it’s not m’ duty t’ throw away y’r lives,’ he said thickly. ‘Hang out somethin’ white, if y’ please.’ There was a rustle and some murmuring, but no argument. A seaman shinned up to a high, barred window, worked through it a white waistcoat, then shook it awkwardly.
A single voice called loudly several times. Kydd could not understand the words but their import was plain. ‘Open th’ door,’ he said, then stepped outside.
The voice called again from out of the darkness, this time in a more commanding tone.
‘L’tenant Kydd, Royal Navy,’ he replied, and waited. The soldiers advanced warily, their muskets trained on him. They stood in a semicircle while a French officer in high boots and cockaded hat stalked forward.
‘J’exige votre reddition,’ he snapped.
Kydd had no idea what he had said. ‘Sir, I ask terms f’r my capitulation,’ he said wearily.
‘You surrender, ees it?’ the officer said, smirking.
‘What are y’r terms, sir?’ Kydd repeated stiffly.
‘Terms? You surrender, you safe your lifes. You not, then…’ He shrugged.
‘Very well. We, er, surrender.’ It was done.
‘C’est excellent, Lieutenant.’ He held out his hands. Kydd was at a loss to understand. Then he realised. He unbuckled his fine sword, still unblooded, and gave it to the officer. Bitterness threatened to choke him as he watched the man put the cherished sword under his arm, then turn to give the orders that must send them into captivity.
Chapter 13
Kydd was imprisoned in a former office above some sort of trading floor. Two sentries stood guard outside. As far as he knew, his men were below, crowded into the odorous basement room he had seen briefly as he mounted the stairs.
There was an echoing quiet in the barely furnished room, which contained a table, two chairs to one side and some untidy rubbish in the corner. A palliasse had been thrown on to the floor with a grey blanket. Moonlight entered through the window, which was barred, ironically, to prevent entry rather than exit. The view outside was limited to the slab side of another building. Kydd had no idea where he was.
He crossed to the palliasse; it was going to be a long night. Using an old seaman’s trick, he thumped it several times in the centre with his fist and saw dots scrabbling in the indentation. He kicked it aside and sat moodily in a chair. He felt shame at surrendering, giving up in the face of mere musket fire when at sea he had stood firm against decks of heavy cannon. It was hard to accept in a service where hauling down one’s flag was a rare and final humiliation.
His mind raced over the events, probing mercilessly for evidence of stupidity, neglect, cowardice – had he done his duty as a king’s officer to the full? Would he be able to stand before a court-martial and swear he had done all that was possible?
Hot, accusing images of men screaming at their death-wounds flooded in. Did the survivors blame him? What did they think of him as an officer? What did he think of himself?
But he was torturing himself to no purpose. He fought down the whirling thoughts but his feverish mind found a new tack: these soldiers were the same troops who had recently taken out three thousand surrendered men and massacred them on the spot. Would they do the same with them? It made little sense to guard and feed them in the middle of a full-scale siege. And probably Smith would not have heard of their fate…
The night passed slowly for Kydd, full of phantoms and dread of the unknown. With the first grey light came another question: what lay in store for the day – for the endless time that lay ahead? Smith had endured years in a Paris prison before his dramatic escape. Escape! But as soon as the thought had flowered, it died. Kydd had no mysterious friends to help him, no funds and, above all, he could not abandon his men to the French army. He vowed to share their fate, whatever it might be.
A breakfast of flavoured rice and gruel arrived, but it was not until the morning sun had come to full strength that he received a visitor, the officer who had accepted his sword in surrender. ‘Ah, bonjour, mon brave,’ he said, gesturing to the guards to wait outside. He took a chair and sat. ‘I am Lieutenant d’ Infantrie Cadoux. An’ you are Lieutenant Keed, n’est-ce pas?’ He smiled. ‘Of ze ship-o’-ze-line Tenacious?’
Kydd remained silent. The French could only have known this if his men had been interrogated.
‘Alors, eet is of no consequence. Do you know, Monsieur, zat you are famous? No? Then let me tell you, ze great General Napoleon Buonaparte ’imself knows of you. ’E wish to offer ’is condolences on your misfortune, but regrets ’e cannot receive you at zis moment. ’E is engaged on an important matter.’
Kydd said nothing. No doubt Buonaparte had heard of him – his capture would have been quickly reported by the triumphant officer in charge, but whether the general had any real interest in him he very much doubted.
‘Ze general wonders if you can be of service to ’im. ’E would be much oblige eef you are able to assist ’im with ’is unnerstanding of ze geography of Akker. For zis ’e wants you to know zat ’e will be grateful. Very grateful – eef you unnerstan’ me?’
‘No,’ he said defiantly.
Cadoux drew his chair closer. ‘M’sieur – you do not comprehend! One does not refuse ze general’s politeness. Did I not express mysel’ sufficiently?’ He tried again. Then, frustrated at Kydd’s lack of response, he stood and left.
The day drew on. Clearly the defences of Acre were of vital interest to the French and there was little they would not do to secure the intelligence. Kydd’s capture must have seemed a godsend. His stomach was in a knot and he could not bring himself to eat; he wondered what his men had been given, but seamen were inured to poor food when victualling declined and would probably eat whatever was put before them.
He paced round the shabby room trying not to think about what must follow his stubbornness. The sun gentled into evening and Cadoux returned. He entered slowly, his right hand concealing something behind him. Kydd went cold: if this was the end he would not go meekly.
‘Lieutenant Keed, you are a very fortunate man.’
Kydd tensed. Then Cadoux whipped out his beloved fighting sword from behind his back. ‘You are to be exchange. General Buonaparte graciously agree, you may return to your ship.’ He bowed elegantly and proffered the scabbard as though Kydd had absentmindedly left it behind.
Hesitating in disbelief, Kydd reached out for his sword. Another figure entered the room, Smith’s secretary. ‘True enough, sir,’ the man said drily. ‘As soon as he heard, Sir Sidney sent me to Gen’ral Buonaparte, flag o’ truce. You – and your men – are to be exchanged for two Frenchmen we hold. If you’d come with me down to the quay…’
‘Fortunate? I’d say you were damn lucky, Kydd!’ Smith, in his cabin in Tigre, did not seem to share Kydd’s relief at his deliverance. ‘You know that you’ve cost me my only two French captives of worth?’ With a sigh he stared through the stern windows. ‘Buonaparte taking up his positions, bombarding me with demands to turn over the town to him immediately – I can do without these distractions.’ He turned to Kydd. ‘Now, pray tell me, sir, what the devil happened?’
Kydd swallowed. ‘Sir, there was no sign o’ the enemy – he must’ve lay down atop the quay.’
‘No doubt. In the event you couldn’t be sure, perhaps you shou
ld have first thought of sending a man to peer over the top?’ Kydd held his tongue. ‘And your retreat. Whatever possessed you to go to ground in a warehouse? Why did you not put about immediately and return?’ he added in disdain.
‘I lost five men, just in making f’r the barges,’ Kydd said. ‘The firing coming fr’m behind, I would’ve lost far more going against ’em until I got t’ open water.’ He felt Smith’s scorn at his words and added forcefully, ‘Someone tipped ’em off. An’ that can only be y’r precious source of intelligence.’
‘That’s as may be, Lieutenant, but I’ll trouble you to keep your temper in my presence,’ Smith said acidly.
‘Sir.’
‘In war, casualties are inevitable. I’ll have your written report before sundown, if you please. I imagine you’ll want to get back to your ship now?’
‘No – sir. If you will oblige me, I should want t’ go back ashore an’ finish the job.’
‘Very well,’ Smith said, with a slight smile. ‘Let it be on your own head, sir.’
Hewitt looked up from some Arab dish he was eating off a chipped plate. ‘Well, I can’t say that I find your good self unwelcome.’ He went to the window. ‘See there?’ He indicated to the north-east. Just out of range a city of grey tents in three main blocks, regular as a chessboard, was springing up row by row and covering the terrain facing them. ‘I’ve been watching ’em. And I believe we are looking at General Buonaparte’s headquarters in the centre, with the engineers to the left and artillery to the right.’
Kydd took his telescope and slowly traversed the ridges. ‘I can see ’em,’ he said, in a hard voice. ‘Any word on th’ relief army?’
‘Smith heard that the Turks are taking time to mass a huge force, one that’ll outnumber Buonaparte’s by far. We just have to resist until it arrives.’
Kydd lowered the glass. ‘Do ye know what we c’n expect next?’
‘According to the Count, they’ll establish their advance lines within range of us first. Then they’ll push forward and start their parallels – that is, trenches matching the line of our walls – and it’s from these that they’ll begin digging saps, deep tunnels, direct towards us. The idea is to bring up guns near enough to pound a breach in the walls.’
His expression hardened. ‘If a practicable breach is made, it’s customary for the defenders to seek terms. If they insist on fighting, it’s equally customary for the attackers to put the entire population to the sword without mercy.’
‘What does he say are our chances?’
Hewitt shrugged.
‘I’m going t’ see my gun,’ Kydd said, and left him to finish his meal.
The experience of being captured, possessed by the enemy, had shaken Kydd’s confidence. And although Smith had not directly criticised his conduct, how could he be sure he had done everything possible in that situation? In a black mood he made his way through the malodorous alley to the corner of the wall where the Tenacious gun was sited. It was fully in place, complete with wooden runners cunningly inclined upwards to slow the recoil and help bring the gun back to the firing position.
Dobbie stood to greet him and touched his forehead. ‘Good ter see you again, sir. An’ Black Bess ’ere’s all ready ’n’ correct fer your inspection.’ He slapped the long muzzle of the big gun affectionately. Some seaman artist had embellished the sides of the carriage with an heraldic ribbon bearing the name.
Kydd looked at Dobbie closely. He had not been on the cutting-out expedition but would know about it. However, his face showed only honest satisfaction at his return. ‘It’s going t’ be a hard fight before it’s over,’ Kydd said, then felt uncomfortable that he had perhaps sounded pompous and affected.
‘Aye, sir, but we’m ready f’r when the beggar shows ’imself at last.’ Dobbie’s gun crew had prepared faultlessly, handspikes and rammers neatly against the inner parapet, powder cartridges stowed in a case out of sight below.
‘When it starts I want every man t’ wear a cutlass even when working th’ gun,’ Kydd said. ‘I’ll see about pistols.’ He looked out over the broken ground. ‘They’ll be moving t’ their advance lines afore long – then you’ll have work t’ do.’
There was no point in waiting about so he walked back slowly to the headquarters. ‘Don’t much fancy kicking my heels here,’ Hewitt said. ‘Shall we go to the Cursed Tower and see what there is to see?’
The antique square tower stood at the corner of the wall: they climbed the old stairs to the top room and Hewitt trained his telescope towards the French encampment. ‘Busy enough,’ he grunted, and brought it further round. ‘Ah, what do we have here? Well, well – I do declare!’ He passed the glass to Kydd. ‘Do you mark the mound to the nor’-east? That is Richard Coeur de Lion’s mound. Now, tell me what you can see.’
There was general activity around the mound but at the highest point a solitary group was looking directly towards the tower. In the centre, in plain dress contrasting with those on each side, stood a single figure. Even at that distance Kydd could sense a presence, a maleficent will. ‘General Buonaparte,’ he said, in a low voice, and handed back the glass. In the same view he had seen a dozen or so big field-pieces being hauled forward across the uneven ground. On all sides there were ominous signs of encirclement, entrapment. In its slow but certain progress, it held a deadly fascination.
That night Kydd paced along the walls. This ancient, foreign land was not the right place for a sea officer – he was completely out of his element. But he had accepted this duty, and it was here that he would prove himself. Or…
Dobbie and his gun crew lay about their post. Some were sleeping, others spun yarns, much as they would in a night watch aboard Tenacious. Kydd nodded to Dobbie and passed by. At four points along the walls watch-fires blazed, throwing ruddy light over the open ground. He looked out into the black of the night, aware of the line of marine sentries placed within sight of each other along the walls.
The Turkish and Arab troops chattered noisily together within the wall. The seamen were there only as gunners and it was these soldiers who would repulse any assault. They seemed outlandish, with their turbans and scimitars, and were an unknown quantity in close combat, but Kydd would lead them and the marines into battle. The seamen would act as a reserve if fighting came down to close quarters.
His thoughts were rudely interrupted as a musket went off near the centre of the wall, then another. Out in the darkness, at the extremity of the light thrown by the watch-fire, he could see the suspicion of a moving shadow, then several more. He ordered the oil fire lit, which flared up with a satisfying whoomf.
Caught in the sudden light, scurrying figures darted about. Muskets blazed up and down the parapets, the first shots of the siege, but with little effect. ‘Cease fire!’ roared Kydd. It had probably been a reconnaissance party, spying out the terrain. His men had achieved what they wanted: there would be no more French creeping about at night. He gripped his sword. They knew what to expect in the morning.
At dawn Buonaparte’s cannonade began. During the night his guns had been drawn up in a breach battery directly opposite the Cursed Tower and they opened up in a continuous roll as the light strengthened. Through his feet Kydd felt the vicious thump of solid hits. Some stray balls tore through the air above him, while others struck noisily but ineffectively off the slope of bastions and casemates.
He could distinguish the deep smash of twelve-pounders above the more strident eight-pounders and the bark of lesser pieces, before their own artillery replied. Their siege mortars were now turned on the besiegers, antiquated bronze guns of Djezzar’s own and, most satisfying of all, the twenty-fours landed from Tenacious and Tigre.
Dobbie needed no special instructions. He laid the gun calmly himself, then sent ball after ball into the French positions, making them pay for the privilege of coming within the range needed for their own guns. Kydd could see the earth parapets before the enemy guns flung aside, leaving broken muzzles pointing skywards.
> But the ancient Cursed Tower, built at a time before modern iron guns, suffered. The French had correctly estimated it the weakest part of the wall and concentrated savage fire upon it. Under the remorseless battering the masonry started to crumble, then fall. For five hours it endured bombardment before the last French gun was destroyed.
The facing wall of the tower was now a gaping ruin. Kydd left the gun and hurried to the scene. The tumbled stonework had left the lower part of the tower a dusty cave, a wide pathway to the interior of Acre – a breach in their defences.
Among the babble of excited Turks Kydd caught sight of Phélippeaux, clambering over the fallen rubble. If the customs of war were to hold, they should now treat for a capitulation and withdrawal or later suffer the carnage of a sacking. But if they did, what would be the fate of this brave and resourceful royalist Frenchman?
As the dust settled, all sounds died away in the enemy direction, then came the thunder of massed drums: the chamade, a demand to parley. A white flag appeared above the enemy earthworks and waved to and fro. Then a single figure appeared, standing erect with the white flag on a banner staff. Kydd noticed that Smith had arrived next to him.
The figure began a rigid march towards them, stumbling occasionally on the broken ground. At a point within shouting range the man stopped and demanded something in French. Smith stepped forward and replied with a bow and mild words. The man came on: he was an officer of proud bearing with scarlet sash and feathered cockade. His eyes flickered rapidly from side to side as he marched.
Gawking onlookers made way for him as he stalked through the breach. He halted, then began a staccato tirade but was interrupted with a gesture from Smith, who turned contemptuously to Hewitt, speaking in English: ‘The rogue came without a blindfold – he thinks to come as a spy!’ He turned back to the officer and barked a command; Turkish soldiers seized him and dragged him away.
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