The youth heaved and floundered, his eyes frozen on the blade. A rank, unmistakable odour arose. ‘He’s shit hisself,’ Larcomb croaked, his voice thick with compassion.
‘Make room,’ Renzi said.
Kydd realised he meant Larcomb to move aside enough to enable the bayonet to do its work. Larcomb did so, his eyes down. The boy ceased his struggle, lay petrified and rigid. Renzi crawled over to him and raised the bayonet. There was an inhuman squeal of such intensity that it sounded through Larcomb’s tight grip – then Renzi thrust the bayonet firmly into the chest to the heart. A dextrous half-twist, and the blade was withdrawn, the gout of bright life-blood hopeless and final.
Renzi wiped the weapon on the ground and handed it back to Larcomb. He looked up at the anguish on Kydd’s face. ‘Duty can often take a harsh disguise, my friend,’ he said, in a low voice.
Kydd tore himself away from the sight of the fresh corpse, his mind a whirl of confusion. Nobody came to where he crouched, and there was no relief to his emotions. Away to the left, far in the distance, a trumpet bayed, its sound taken up by another, nearer. ‘Tom!’ said Renzi softly.
Kydd pulled himself together. ‘With me!’ he croaked. He cleared his throat. ‘Let’s give ’em a quiltin’, then.’ He broke out of the wood and stumbled up the rise towards the fort, hearing his men follow. Others emerged all along the fringe of wood. It seemed incredible that their drama could have taken place in such isolation.
They moved up the hill. The fort’s palisades were topped with continuous gunsmoke in the soft dawn light, and attackers began to drop. The fusillade died away – they had succeeded in their surprise: there were not enough men on watch to maintain the reloading cycle for full defence.
Something seized Kydd’s mind in a fierce, uncaring rage – a point of concentration for his incoherent feelings. His legs burned as he pounded on towards the focus of his madness. Behind him panted Larcomb – then Kydd realised he had gone. Renzi was away to his right and all the others he assumed were somewhere close. All the time the weakened enemy fire found victims.
The palisades rose up suddenly. Renzi appeared beside him. He carried a rolled Jacob’s ladder, and coolly hurled it up, hooking it to the jagged top of the barrier. Faces appeared above, then quickly disappeared. Musket smoke came in gusts, the sound of the shots this time from behind him. Kydd seized the ladder and swarmed up. Other seamen had boarding axes and they were using them in the same way as they would to storm the side of an enemy ship. The seamen’s agility told: they were quickly into the inner square and throwing wide the gates for the soldiers before the confused enemy could group.
Panting, hot and aching, Kydd stood watching the fluttering French flag jerk down, then rise again, surmounted by a Union Flag. A disconsolate group of French prisoners flanked by marines began their march into exile. The last of the dead were dragged off and the wounded attended to.
The crisp sound of marching heralded the arrival of the light infantry, with a mounted colonel at their head. Lieutenant Calley removed his hat and awaited the Colonel. ‘Well done, sir!’ the Colonel spluttered, as he dismounted. ‘Damme, but that was a splendid thing. Blast m’ eyes if it weren’t!’
The marines snapped to attention; their sergeant needed no lessons in military honours. The ‘present arms’ was parade-ground perfect, yet these men, less than an hour before, had been storming the fort.
The Colonel marched across and inspected them, his gruff compliments making the sergeant red-faced with pleasure. Kydd felt awkward with his ragtag sailors, but the Colonel touched his hat genially in response to the individualistic salutes of the seamen, in no way disconcerted by the sight of their direct gaze and sea-fashion rigs.
‘A fine body of men!’ said the Colonel to Calley. ‘And ’twould infinitely oblige me, sir, if they were in my column for the final push on the capital.’
‘By all means, sir. Your orders?’ Calley replied.
Within an hour the column was swinging along at a measured pace astride the road to Pointe à Pitre, the capital, soldiers four abreast in a serpentine column that stretched ahead of the seamen, with fifes and drums squeaking and rattling.
A sergeant of infantry dropped back from the rear of the column, and stared with frank curiosity at the seamen. ‘Hoay – the sergeant ahoy!’ called Kydd. The hard-featured man fell back to Kydd, still keeping step.
‘How long to Pwun a-Peter?’ Kydd asked.
The man sized him up. There was no clue for a soldier that might reveal his rank. He was dressed as the others in his usual red and white shirt with short blue jacket and white free-swinging trousers. Kydd sensed wariness and added, ‘Tom Kydd, quartermaster’s mate – that’s petty officer.’
‘Sar’nt Hotham.’
Clearly a ‘petty officer’ meant nothing either to this army veteran, who peered at him suspiciously from under his tall black shako. The voice was deep and projected an effortless authority that Kydd envied.
‘An’ these are m’ men,’ Kydd continued, gesturing behind him at the cutlass-adorned sailors.
The sergeant’s eyebrows rose: Kydd must be some sort of sergeant, then. ‘Ah, yeah,’ he said, easing his stock. ‘Saw yez take the fort fr’m yer front – plucky dos, mate!’
Feet rose and fell, the rhythm of the march was hypnotic. ‘Aye, well, how far d’we march afore––’
Hotham flashed a quick grin. ‘Don’t be in such a hell-fired pelt ter get there, m’ lad,’ he boomed. ‘That there’s th’ capital town o’ the island, an’ the Frogs ain’t about to give it up without a fight.’
Kydd said nothing: the whole business of war on land was a mystery to him.
Hotham mistook his silence for apprehension. ‘Not ter worry, we’ve drubbed th’ French in every other island, can’t see why not ’ere as well.’
‘So . . .’
‘We’s three, four mile out, less’n an hour – but then we comes up agin the battery commandin’ the town.’ He sucked his teeth as he ruminated. ‘We gets past that on this road, Mongseers ’d be hard put ter stop us then.’
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 à 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.
Chapter 4
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 reas
on 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 Trajan; other seamen were working on the brig. ‘Mr Kydd!’ Luke called, and clambered over the gunwale. He had sheltered under the schooner on the slipway with Renzi.
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 hardstanding. 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?’
Renzi stopped, and struck a dramatic pose:
‘Slow glides the sail along the illumined shore,
And steals into shade the lazy oar;
Soft bosoms breathe around contagious sighs,
And amorous music on the water dies!’
Then, gazing at the broad harbour vista, he said, ‘Do you not find that––’
‘You think I am a weak looby, that I did not – settle th’ sentry,’ Kydd said bluntly.
Renzi paused only for a moment, before he replied, ‘No, dear fellow, I do not.’ Kydd opened his mouth to speak, but Renzi continued, ‘I observe that you are driven by the highest considerations of humanity, most laudable, but these are not, entre nous, always the ones to bear foremost in such a pass. Your humanity bears you on up false paths while the essential principle remains neglected.’
‘In this instance,’ Kydd said stubbornly, lifting his chin, ‘we could––’
‘In this instance, the entire assault is put to the hazard,’ Renzi replied firmly. ‘There is no other course. Your duty is as clear as at the helm in a storm. The moral courage lies in attending to the matter and without repine.’
They paced together to the end of the fine-run bow. Kydd stopped. ‘Why did ye come ashore with me? Was it t’ play the nursemaid? Do I need a keeper?’
Renzi smiled. ‘Do you believe that I would not be interested in the fate of my particular friend?’
A stab of pleasure shot through Kydd. ‘Y’ must be green at m’ rate of petty officer,’ he said gruffly.
‘On the contrary, dear fellow, I give you joy of it.’ His smile was genuine. ‘My purpose in a ship of war is in the serving of exile, not to top it the tyrant over my shipmates.’
At that moment the boatswain and his two mates came round from the other side of the boat. ‘Sticks in m’ craw,’ he rumbled, ‘but yez are stood down f’r the day.’ He took off his hat and mopped his brow. ‘An’ I have a berth for yez – yer’ll be livin’ wi’ a Johnny Crapaud ’n’ his family. ’E’ll tell y’ where,’ he added, thumbing at one of his boatswain’s mates.
‘Poxy Frogs!’ sneered Luke scornfully.
‘Not you, skinker,’ said the boatswain, ‘you comes along wi’ me.’
It wasn’t far from the dusty waterfront; in fact, it was a shop in a street leading off the quay. In its neat, small windows Kydd saw tobacco pipes, bone snuff boxes and rows of caddies disappearing into the gloom. Outside stood a small moustachioed Frenchman, his desiccated wife behind clutching spasmodically at him.
‘Nah, then, Fronswah, these ’ere are yer guests fer now,’ the tall boatswain’s mate said kindly. ‘Kydd ’ere, an’ Renzi that one. Compree?’
‘Ah, oui,’ the man said doubtfully.
The boatswain’s mate looked at Kydd. ‘So I c’n leave yer with ’em, then?’
Kydd lifted his sea-bag. ‘Aye. We’ve nothing t’ fear fr’m these folks.’
The sailor grinned and left. The Frenchman looked up and down the street nervously and made shooing gestures to the two sailors. ‘Allez – allez!’ he said.
‘Mais, mon brave, nous sommes. . .’ began Renzi, in mellifluous French, sparking a visible leap in the man’s spirits.
‘J’ai l’honneur d’être Henri Vernou, et voici ma femme.’ Careful nods were exchanged after Renzi had translated. His wife began guarded rapid jabber at him, but Renzi turned to her, bowed elegantly and murmured polite words. Her expression relaxed a little.
They threaded through the shop and arrived at the back in a large kitchen-cum-sitting-room. A rotund black woman froze in astonishment at the intruders, but was sharply set about her business. An external flight of steps took them to the upper storey; the wife fiddled with a key and stood back to let them enter, her eyes following them unblinking as a crow’s.
‘Merci, Madame,’ Renzi said. The room was small, but snug – a woman’s room. It smelt of fragrances that made Kydd feel his rough-hewn maleness.
‘Le diner est servi à sept heures précises. Voici votre clé. Ne la perdez pas.’ She closed the door on them.
‘Supper will be at seven, you will be gratified to know,’ Renzi said.
There were two beds, one an obvious extra. ‘Turn ’n’ turn about,’ Kydd suggested, for the original bed was the better one. He chuckled. ‘The throw o’ th’ dice,’ he ruminated. ‘B’ rights, we should be in a doss-house o’ sorts – maybe there ain’t any in this town.’
‘I have my suspicions as to the hospitality,’ said Renzi, but would not be drawn. The door led to an upper veranda that overlooked the street and, with the jalousie windows, made it acceptably cool. It was infinitely preferable to the careless noise and drunken conviviality of a seamen’s boarding-house.
They went into the kitchen and were ushered to places on either side of that of the head of the house, who entered last. A woman with a frosting of silver hair and an intelligent face was seated at the other end, and at Kydd’s glance gave a slight nod and a tiny smile.
The table was spread, the wine was open in the centre of the table and the black maid stood by. A warning glare from Renzi was too late to stop Kydd reaching for a stick of interesting bread, which he crunched appreciatively. ‘Rattlin’ good,’ he said, but was met with a chilly silence.
‘I do believe that the French set great store by the preliminaries,’ Renzi muttered. Kydd felt reproachful stares around the table.
‘Seigneur, nous vous rendons grâce pour ce repas que nous nous apprêtons à partager. . .’ The ancient words of the grace droned into the silence. Eyes lifted, and there was an awkward pause.
‘Et voici ma soeur, Louise,’ said Monsieur Vernou reproachfully.
‘And his sister, Louise,’ Renzi murmured to Kydd.
They turned down the table to the woman, who inclined her head graciously and said, ‘Plissed to mit you.’
Kydd gave a broad smile. ‘Aye, an’ we too, er, ma’am!’
‘I ’ave been the governess an’ ticher of French to ze English before.’
‘Oh,’ said Kydd. ‘Before what?’
At the slight frown this brought, Renzi said firmly, ‘Pray let us not be accounted boors, my friend.’ The table sat expressionless. Renzi turned to Louise. ‘M
adame, your English does credit to your calling.’
Kydd let the conversation flow around him. It passed belief the situation he was now in. The French were a parcel of mad rascals who had murdered their king and now wanted to set the world at defiance – but here he was, on the face of it one of the conquerors of this island, being politely entertained by them. Perhaps the food would be poisoned? He glanced at Renzi, who seemed to take it all in his stride. He had the attention of the whole table – except Madame Louise, whose quiet gaze strayed from time to time in Kydd’s direction.
‘Tom, Madame Vernou wishes to know what it is like living in a boat,’ prompted Renzi, keeping his face a study in restraint. Kydd opened his mouth but recoiled, the task of rendering into polite talk the stern realities of life at sea beyond him. Renzi’s smooth flow of French, however, seemed to satisfy the table.
During the meal, a tasty stew, Kydd tried to remember his manners. He grinned inwardly, thinking of what his mother would have to say to him, in this alien place so far from home. The watered wine was excellent medicine for the pork and beans, and he began to relax. ‘Hear tell th’t France is a pretty place,’ he tried. The comment rippled out under translation, but caused some dismay. Mystified, he turned to Renzi.
‘It appears, my friend, that none here has ever been to France.’
Kydd gave a weak smile. To his amazement, Monsieur Vernou, who was well into his third glass of wine, suddenly stood up, scattering dishes. He stabbed a finger at Kydd and broke into impassioned speech.
‘Monsieur Vernou . . . states that he is not to be mistaken for one of those regicides in Paris . . . who have brought such dishonour on their country . . . who have brought ruin and shame to the land . . .’ Renzi’s polite manner was not best suited to the passion of the words.
Monsieur Vernou stopped and, grasping the lapels of his waistcoat, glared down at Kydd.
‘In addition, Monsieur Vernou wishes it to be understood that he is proud to be termed a béké – which I understand to be of a class in some way superior to others . . .’
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