Seaflower

by Julian Stockwin

  He looked back along the boat to the rest of his men boarding. His heart raced, but whether this was at the thought of meeting the enemy or anxiety at having his powers of leadership tested in such an alien arena he could not be sure. The men seemed in good heart, joking and relaxed; comforting in their sturdy sea ways.

  The boat shoved off, Kydd at the tiller. Bows swung obediently shoreward, bringing the seas smacking solidly on to the bluff bow, soaking him. These seas would make landing difficult – and if there were enemy waiting for them . . .

  The smash of another broadside drew his attention. Wessex was concentrating her guns on the coast where the boats were headed, and it would take a brave man to stand at the focus of such terrifying, rampaging power.

  Kydd looked back. Other boats were converging together, bobbing and surging in the boisterous seas. A deep-laden pinnace stopped, and turned head-to-sea. Rainbow sheets of water flew over the side. He searched the seashore immediately ahead but could not see any beach, just endless vegetation coming down to the foreshore and dark reddish-brown coral at the water’s edge. The heartening roar of the frigate’s guns ceased, and the ship lay offshore under backed topsails. There was nothing more she could do for them.

  Trajan’s large cutter approached the landing place to lead the others. It carried marines. Close in now, it did not appear to be under fire but seemed to hesitate at the last minute. It dipped and rolled in the energetic seas, then turned to pass along the shoreline to find a better landing place. In a flash, the boat was seized by the riotous waves and thrown over in a tangle of oars and red uniforms. Yells of fear and despair carried across the water.

  Other boats came on. Some followed the example of the lighter pinnace, which stretched out manfully to ground noisily on the dead coral in a surfing rush. Its men scrambled out, but before half had made it, the boat slewed broadside to the waves and also overturned.

  The more sea-wise cast an anchor when still off the landing place, and with bows firmly held seawards, veered rope until they were in the shallows. The disadvantage was that men dropped into feet of water and stumbled, soaked and bruised, long yards to the shore. Kydd had the sense to deploy his men in a chain to the tide-line, passing over their heads muskets and the small kegs of powder.

  There was still no sign of opposition ashore. Military shouts sounded in the glades where the sailors were grouping.

  ‘My crew, t’ me!’ Kydd called brusquely. He mustered them carefully. Two missing. Should he tell someone to find them? The man might get lost; best to count on what he had. Curious glances came from those waiting for him to show indecision or worse. Responsibility was hard. What was Renzi doing in his party? He frowned and turned to him. ‘Why are you––’ he began.

  ‘I was bored.’

  Kydd took a deep breath. This was no time to be enigmatic. ‘Then . . .’

  ‘I am, for the nonce, a bona fide member of your excellent party,’ Renzi said.

  ‘An’ ready t’ take my orders?’ Kydd retorted, then regretted his tone, but stubbornness kept him glowering.

  ‘But, of course, my dear fellow.’

  One of the missing men arrived, grinning foolishly and showing obvious signs of the bottle.

  ‘Tom, L’tenant Calley wants y’r report,’ said Luke, who had managed to get ashore as messenger. His wide eyes gazed trustfully at Kydd.

  ‘Thanks, younker,’ Kydd said, and looked around for Calley.

  ‘Kydd, sir, mustered complete,’ he reported. If Renzi was so eager to be in his party, he could make up the numbers.

  ‘Very good, Kydd. Be ready to advance in one hour – you will take flank.’ Calley looked distracted. Flank was some sort of tent or blanket for the officers, Kydd assumed. ‘We will storm Gozier Fort,’ said Calley quickly. ‘The one attacked by Wessex,’ he added impatiently, seeing Kydd’s expression. He turned to an anxious midshipman, effectively dismissing Kydd.

  As far as Kydd could see, they would be assisting the marines in the assault, a useful mass of armed men coming in from behind. They would carry the familiar weapons of the boarding party, pistols and either a cutlass or a tomahawk with its blade and useful spike. It would be just like carrying an enemy vessel by boarding, no marching up and down like the army seemed to do. He brightened at the familiar focus.

  ‘Trajans ahoy!’ Calley’s voice blared. ‘We go to meet the enemy – to the fore, advance!’

  Three distinct lines of men began to move into the light, wooded land, the red coats of the marines visible ahead. The columns diverged and, wending their way through the undergrowth, the lead men disappeared from view.

  Away from the sea breeze, the warmth turned to heat, sending up the smell of steamy vegetation. The path was well beaten now, and they plodded on steadily.

  The man behind Kydd suddenly gave a cry and dropped his musket. It went off with a muffled report, suffusing the ground with gunsmoke. He danced about, waving his arms frantically. Kydd stood rooted in astonishment. Then he saw a large hairy black spider with glittering eyes clinging to the man’s lower arm. Suddenly it scuttled over his body, the man fell to the ground and the spider leaped off then disappeared. Shame-faced and trembling, the man rose as Calley arrived in a lather of indignation.

  The first sign of resistance appeared with a tiny white puff arising from the undergrowth ahead and the tap of a musket sounding faintly. Kydd’s mouth dried. This might be the enemy returning after the sea bombardment, angry and resentful – in their thousands. He gripped his musket nervously and slogged on, knowing that the eyes of his party behind – including Renzi – were on him.

  ‘First section will attempt an enfilade.’ Kydd had not noticed Calley return. ‘That’s you, Kydd,’ he snapped, taking off his cocked hat to wipe his streaming forehead. His cotton stockings were streaked now with soft green and his blue coat hung loose.

  ‘Sir––’ began Kydd.

  ‘In an enfilade,’ Calley snarled sarcastically, ‘the object is to bring the enemy under fire from the flank.’

  So much for blankets, thought Kydd.

  ‘We rake him, you ninny!’

  Kydd burned. Why hadn’t Calley used understandable sea terms from the first? To rake the enemy at sea was to slam a storm of shot end on down the unprotected length of the vessel instead of into her heavy sides, and was generally credited a battle-winner.

  Calley glared, then collected himself. ‘The fort lies yonder, a mile or so off,’ he said, gesturing at the dense undergrowth to the north. ‘You will move around to take him from the east. But mark my words! You are to take position only. Do not advance until you hear the redcoat’s trumpet that we are also in place.’ He breathed heavily. ‘Else you will be destroyed.’

  Kydd led the way. A sea-service cutlass was too heavy and cumbersome to do much about the thickening ground cover, and he swore – at first under his breath, later aloud. His musket, over his shoulder in its sling, slipped and banged him, and he could hear his men muttering.

  Without warning, the trees and vegetation dropped away to nothing. Kydd fell to the ground, motioning the others to do the same. They had reached a track crossing their course. It was the ideal path for enemy coming down on them from the north, but there was nothing for it: he must obey orders and carry on eastwards.

  He ran across the track, followed by his party. The other side was a dense wall of harsh greenery reaching skyward eight feet or more, so thickly sown that it was virtually impenetrable. It would be impossible to keep on their course. Kydd crouched and felt a rising tide of panic. He would do his duty or die in the attempt! But this? What if they were going in the wrong direction, were late, betrayed the brave souls making the frontal assault who believed they would be supported to the east by Kydd’s section?

  ‘Give over frettin’, Tom!’ Larcomb said kindly, coming up to squat next to him. Larcomb had his jacket off, knotted round his waist. ‘What say we takes a spell here, mate?’

  ‘No!’ Kydd snarled.

  Renzi lope
d up at the crouch. Kydd braced himself – he neither wanted to justify himself to his friend nor discuss the philosophy of the situation.

  ‘Should you await me here, I do believe I can find an easterly path for us, my friend.’ Renzi was looking northward with a keen gaze.

  ‘Er, o’ course,’ Kydd said, caught off balance.

  Renzi left his musket and cutlass and sprinted off. Almost immediately he disappeared into the thick vegetation. Kydd waited, debating with himself what to do if Renzi did not reappear – then his friend popped into view, beckoning furiously.

  ‘Sugar-cane has to be harvested, was my logic!’ Renzi chuckled, as they hurried down a narrow break in the cane-field to the east.

  Logic, thought Kydd dully. It would have to be logic if it were Renzi, but his heart warmed to the way his friend had made it easy for him.

  ‘D’ye think a mile has passed f’r us?’ Kydd asked, as casually as he could, as they moved along the endless, unchanging track. The assault could come at any time . . .

  ‘I would think so,’ said Renzi.

  Kydd felt annoyed again: it was easy for Renzi, he was not in charge. Not only did Kydd have to be in position to the east, but when the trumpet sounded he had to know which direction to push forward, or end up in the empty country while the real battle was being fought and won without him.

  ‘Damn you!’ he ground out. Renzi glanced at him, no emotion on his face.

  Kydd looked away. At least they were in position now – the fort must be away to their left. He hunkered down for the wait. The others lay around, some on their backs, seeming uncaring of the coming clash-at-arms. Renzi sat, hugging his knees and staring into space, while Kydd got up and paced.

  The sun grew hotter. They had no water as it was all expected to end rapidly one way or the other. The minutes dragged on, with not a sound apart from a bird that kept up a deafening racket. It was agonising – what was delaying the main assault? Kydd checked the priming on his musket again. Perhaps Calley had received secret knowledge of a greater than expected French garrison, and was waiting for reinforcements. If that was so––

  A rustling sounded on the other side of the wall of cane. They were discovered – and before the assault! He would sell their lives dearly, though. Kydd seized his musket and pointed it at the sound. He sensed the others grouping behind him.

  Luke wheeled round the end of the cane-field. ‘I bin a-lookin’ fer you!’ His face was wreathed in smiles as he ran towards Kydd. Then he stopped and attempted a professional look, such as messengers have when delivering their news. ‘Er, Mr Kydd, I’m ter tell yer from L’tenant Calley ter report t’ the fort.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s in a rare takin’ – Frogs ran off afore we c’d even get in position, they did!’ His face clouded. ‘An’ he says as how yer such an infernal looby as y’ doesn’t know when the guns ain’t firin’ there ain’t a battle.’

  Kydd gritted his teeth. Of course! That was what had been niggling at the back of his mind – no firing! A quick glance at Renzi’s blank expression told him that he had known all along that their advance on the fort would be guided by the sound of battle.

  ‘An’ he told the Joey major that he’d be a confounded prig afore he sounds the trumpet t’ advance jus’ ter oblige a parcel o’––’

  ‘That’s enough o’ yer insolence, m’ lad!’ Larcomb said reprovingly. The party hefted their muskets and followed Luke meekly to the fort.

  Flames flickered ruddily from the cooking fire. The seamen had left the foraging and other arrangements to the marines, who seemed well able to cope. Kydd nursed his cracked cup of rum as he sat morosely against the wattle wall of the chattel house, staring into the flames. It was not his kind of war, this – crashing about in the undergrowth not knowing what was going on. Real war was serving a mighty cannon on a surging gundeck.

  The evening was pleasant, the constant breeze from the ocean reliable enough, but the ground all about was hard and dusty. He scratched at a persistent tickle in his leg-hairs in the darkness, then saw by the firelight that it was a busy column of ants. He leaped to his feet in disgust.

  They’d eaten a kind of spicy chicken that the previous owners of the house had thought they would be having that night. It sat uneasily on Kydd’s stomach. Reluctantly he pushed his way closer to the fire and settled down again on the stony ground.

  It seemed like minutes later when boatswain’s mates and corporals roared about to rouse the huddled men. Kydd ached in the pre-dawn darkness after his uncomfortable doze. A thin overcast hid the half-moon and the night was full of dull shadows.

  Kydd knew the plan in a general way. They would push forward before dawn towards a much bigger fort, Fleur d’Épée, and fall upon it at first light. It was hoped that the defenders would not expect such a rapid resuming of the advance.

  ‘Pay attention, you section leaders.’ Calley was indistinct in the poor light but his words came strongly. Kydd stood in the semicircle of a dozen men, listening carefully.

  ‘We advance on the fort shortly. There are two roads. Sections one and three will take the easterly, the other sections the westerly. The roads go each side of the fort. Now, mark this, the fort is on a slight hill, and reconnaissance tells us that the brush has been cleared around to give a good field of fire. Therefore – and I cannot emphasise this too strongly – we will be bloodily repulsed if they are waiting for us. The advance must take place in complete silence. Total silence! Do I make myself clear?’

  All traces of weariness and aching fell away as Kydd took in the words.

  ‘For that reason, the first numbered sections will be armed with cold steel only – this will ensure that there are no accidental discharges of musketry. And, do you bear in mind always, you are not to leave cover and advance over the open ground until the trumpet sounds. Then move very quickly, if you please,’ Calley added drily.

  Kydd took his cutlass, the blackened steel and grey oily blade sinister in the last of the firelight. He remembered the first time he had used one with deadly force. Then it had saved his life, but at the cost of the enduring memory of a young man’s face sagging under the recognition of his coming death.

  He fitted the scabbard to its frog, and slid it on to his wide seaman’s belt. Experimentally, he drew the heavy weapon’s greased length – it fell to hand easily, and Kydd noted that the blade had been ground to a good point: it could be relied on to sink through clothing and leather to the heart.

  ‘Form up!’ he growled at his section. Renzi was present, although Kydd was none the wiser about his action in joining his party. He had been too tired the previous evening to do more than grunt at Renzi’s solicitudes; there had been no comfortable conversation.

  They moved off. In the lead were other sections. They paced on rapidly, Kydd grateful for the easy going afforded by a road instead of clinging undergrowth. The road forked. Kydd’s section took the lead to the right. The road sank lower and its sides reared as they passed into a defile cut into a rise in the coral rock, until even the least military of them realised that, trapped as they were by the vertical sides of the road, they were easy meat for any ambush.

  Kydd paced on, his ears pricking, his eyes staring-wide. His men followed behind in file. It was no use trying to listen for strange sounds – the tropical night was alive with unknown stridulations, barks, squeaks and grunts. The road emerged from the defile, and began to trend upward. They must be approaching the prominence with the fort astride it, he reasoned. Sure enough, a curve in the road led out of the wooded fringing area and somewhere shortly ahead must lie the open ground – and Fort d’Épée.

  ‘Dead silence!’ whispered Kydd, ‘Or – or . . .’ It seemed thin and pathetic against the reality of their situation, but the men nodded, and plunged after him off the road and into the woods. It wasn’t long before they came to the edge: the crudely felled and levelled area ahead gave no cover, open ground all the way up to the drab cluster of low buildings inside stout palisa
des. It was still too overcast and murky to make out much.

  ‘Back – we wait f’r the call,’ Kydd whispered. It were best they were not at the very edge of the clearing in case a pale face in the night was seen from the fort. They moved inward a few yards and settled to wait.

  ‘I c’n hear . . .’ began Larcomb. There was a rustle.

  Renzi moved up and looked around questioningly. ‘There!’ he hissed.

  It was a footfall. Kydd held up his hand for silence. His heart thudded. Another footfall, a rustling of foliage. Someone was entering the woods, and heading towards them.

  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.