The explosion echoed across the desert like a thunderclap, and proved too much for the ancient cement holding the breach open. Like a man releasing his final breath, the wall collapsed in a cloud of bricks and dust.
“I’d say we told the enemy where to find us,” said Bay as he removed his fingers from his ears.
Kidd took Kemal’s musket and handed it to the Moor. “Then we’d best be ready to defend ourselves.”
~ Chapter 32 ~
THE BATTLE OF THE FIVE ARMIES
The night was long. Minutes stretched into hours. The smallest sounds; wind whistling through gaps in the brickwork, a bird call, the shifting of sand, filled Kidd with apprehension about the coming dawn.
They took turns to keep watch, but slept little. As the night deepened, the air grew chillier and Flint’s sickness worsened. He tossed and turned with feverish complaints. Huddled under all their blankets, he still could not get warm, and they lacked water enough to slake his thirst. Kidd helped him to drink, cradling his head so that no drops were lost. He kept none for himself. He felt no thirst.
Finally, a sliver of blood red light split the land from the sky. Kidd and Bay crept down the stair to survey the condition of the watchtower. Kidd’s makeshift bomb had been effective. The entrance was now filled with rubble, but it was still the most vulnerable point in the outer wall. Men would be able to climb the debris with grappling hooks and rope. “We must be vigilant.”
The loose bricks gave Kidd another idea. “Help me,” he said and gathered an armload. Bay’s strength made the task of ferrying bricks to the turret faster. They stacked the bricks waist-high across the doorway, leaving a slot for Bay’s musket. As Kidd placed the last brick, he hoped they wouldn’t need to rely on the musket as a last line of defence.
Bay gathered their firearms and laid them out side by side with their supply of powder, wadding and pistol shot. There were four pistols in all, two left behind by Kemal, and one each from Bay and Flint. They also had Kemal’s musket. “I can still load a gun even if I’m slow,” said Kidd. “How’s your aim?”
“Good enough,” Bay replied. “I’ve handled guns since I was a boy.”
Kidd looked over at his partner, cocooned in a ball of blankets. Now more than ever they needed Flint’s skill with a pistol. He cursed their bad luck and set about the painstaking task of loading the weapons. At least the procedure was still second-nature; firing pin to safety, ball in the muzzle, turn the wheel shaft until the mechanism locked, prime the pan, take aim, fire.
Bay stood at the eastern window shielding his eyes from the early morning sun. “Riders! No more than an hour away at most.”
Each group was small, no more than twenty light cavaliers, equipped for mobility and speed. The French reached the tower first. Kidd recognised The Caretaker with his flamboyant riding clothes flapping in the breeze. Only a Frenchman would choose fashionable attire for a desert skirmish. The Caretaker slowed his horse to a trot and circled the tower just beyond the range of a musket. He urged his riders to take up a defensive position ahead of the broken wall.
Soon after, the Spanish arrived with a contingent of grey-robed Warriors of God in their ranks. A solitary rider broke away from the pack and made a darting run to scout the terrain. The Spanish took position behind a sandbank opposite the French force.
Kidd felt certain it was the English who followed. Even though they were dressed as Turks, with gossamer cloaks flapping in the breeze, they approached the theatre of war tactically, making camp a furlong back from the French and Spanish. “Rush likes to attack his enemies from behind,” said Kidd. “He won’t risk his skin until he sees what the others do.”
The Turks appeared last, circling from the south on the backs of camels. While the beasts had far greater endurance than horses, they were not nearly as swift. The reason for their choice of steed was soon apparent. The Turks didn’t stop to make camp or set up a defensible position. Still fresh, the camels broke into an ungainly gallop to storm the tower without delay.
Bay squinted down the barrel of his musket. “Should I fire?”
“No. I don’t want to be responsible for firing the first shot.”
The Turks split ranks and formed a column to spread their numbers. Bay shifted his aim uneasily, unable to settle on a target. Each rider raised a short bow, and nocked an arrow without slowing. The leader raised his arm and when it fell, the volley was released.
Kidd ducked for cover as arrows whistled through the windows. “Very well, let them have it.”
Bay swung around, took aim, and fired. The musket cracked, his shoulder jerked, and the air was filled with smoke.
Kidd passed him a fresh pistol. “Did you get one?”
Bay primed the firing pin. “I don’t know.”
Kidd crouched low and cautiously glanced out the window. The French, English and Spanish seemed content to let the Turks attack. They circled for another pass and fired a second volley. Bay discharged both pistols in reply.
The noise woke Flint. He groaned and stirred. “What the hell is going on?”
“We’re under attack,” said Kidd. “They’re all here for The Tears.” He covered his head as more arrows struck the tower walls. “Kemal has gone for help. Otherwise, we’re outnumbered about twenty-five to one. Are you well enough to shoot a pistol?”
Flint shook his head. “No, but I can load them faster than you. Help me over.” Kidd braced his old partner, and settled him next to Bay where he could reload the spent firearms.
Bay pointed to the east. Three Turkish raiders had reached the wall and thrown grappling hooks.
“Keep on top of those archers,” said Kidd. “I’ll deal with them.”
Bay unloaded two pistols and grunted with satisfaction as a camel rider fell to the sand. Flint handed him two more and he fired again.
Meanwhile, the Turkish soldiers scrambled over the wall and dropped to the ground. They landed with cat-like balance, drew scimitars, and sprinted for the tower. Kidd listened to the thud of their boots. He felt so acutely aware of each man that he could sense them disturbing the air. Without fear, he stepped up to the barricade as the first Turk reached the top and buried his fist in the man’s face. The Ottoman soldier tumbled backwards down the stair. The second thrust his scimitar at Kidd’s throat. Kidd tilted his neck to avoid the blade. He grabbed the Turk by the scruff of the neck and hurled him bodily into the last. All three Turks met their fate at the base of the tower with limbs twisted in unnatural ways.
Bay seemed to be getting the better of the camel riders, shooting more often now Flint was reloading the pistols. The Turkish arrows had almost been quelled. Flint handed Bay the musket. He raised it to his shoulder, took aim, and fired. The discharge sounded like a tree cracking apart, and the air was filled with thick white smoke. The musket rattled to the floor, and Bay followed bellowing, his arms wrapped around his head.
“Backfire!” coughed Flint.
Kidd rushed to the fallen Moor and gently urged his huge hands away from his face. He had several deep lacerations and numerous angry powder burns. He reached for a blanket and pressed it into the wounds.
“I can’t see,” Bay said with a shuddering groan.
“Just lie there for a moment,” said Kidd. “It might be temporary.” He raised the remains of the musket to his eye. The ball and wadding had jammed in the barrel. “Tom, any chance you can shoot?”
Flint was pale, and shivering. He coughed and shook his head.
Kidd lifted a pistol and clawed at the trigger with his finger. It was futile. He would have to defend The Tears without aid, without weapons, with only his metal fists. Perhaps this was the way it was meant to be.
Even though the Turks had ceased firing arrows, the situation had become grim. Every brigade had made a move. The French despatched half their numbers with grappling hooks, while the others protected their passage with volleys of musket fire. The Spanish advanced slowly, circling around the tower to flank the French.
It
was the English who made the boldest move. They formed two ranks, aimed their muskets, and shot down the remaining camel riders. With the Turkish soldiers vanquished, they reloaded, and took position against the French.
“What’s happening?” wheezed Flint.
“Rush is picking off the opposition, one by one, shooting them in the back if necessary. I can’t sit here and wait to be next. Keep low and don’t go anywhere.”
Flint rested his head on the stone. “Not much chance of that.”
Kidd vaulted the barricade, descended the stair, and crossed the courtyard. He pressed his back against the wall and waited for the Frenchmen to emerge at the top. As the first one appeared, he picked up a brick and hurled it hard, but his aim was wide. A rope dropped to allow men to shimmy down into the courtyard. Kidd yanked the rope hard to pull it down, but the Frenchman had done his job well. He leapt over the edge with a knife in his hand, aiming to skewer Kidd as he fell.
Kidd sidestepped the assault. However, the daring leap had served its purpose. Two more Frenchman had secured grappling lines and had reached the courtyard safely. More would be able to follow.
Curiously, they appeared to move slowly, as though they were weighed down with a heavy burden. The first was unable to draw his sabre before Kidd dislodged three of his teeth. The second swung his sword hard. Kidd blocked the blade with his forearm, sending the Frenchman sprawling.
Beyond the wall the battle drew closer. He heard the crack of musket fire, the clash of swords, and the cries of men being slain. He wondered how long it would be until the battle was fought within the tower walls, and how long he could hope to last. His question was answered with a pistol shot. He felt the red hot ball graze his skull, blurring his vision for a second. The Frenchman who’d fired it cursed, threw the spent pistol aside, and drew two short daggers from his belt. Both were thrown in quick succession. Kidd avoided the first, but the second pierced his left thigh and buried itself up to the hilt. The pain was momentary. His leg was soon as numb as his fingers.
More Frenchmen shimmied down the ropes into the keep. Three now surrounded Kidd including the one with the throwing knives. They unsheathed their sabres with a shrill ring. Another headed straight for the staircase and began to climb.
Kidd’s thoughts wandered to Bay and Flint at the top of the tower, both of them vulnerable and weak. They had been bested so easily. Desperation took hold of him and he forgot the knife in his leg. He reached out, grabbed the first sabre within reach, and pulled the Frenchman off balance. He spun the man around, and pushed him into his comrade. In the confusion, the man was skewered on his comrade’s blade.
A pistol cracked from the tower above. Kidd’s heart raced. The next two Frenchmen fell without Kidd thinking much about it. He pulled the knife from his leg, tossed it away, and bolted up the stairwell three steps at a time.
Two bodies lay on the floor. The first belonged to the French soldier, shot square between the eyes. Bay lay next to him with a sabre in his belly. Flint sat against the wall with a smoking pistol held loosely in his fingers. He was breathing hard, but appeared to be unharmed. Kidd knelt next to Bay and carefully peeled away his blood-soaked shirt. The sword had passed right through his torso.
Bay suffered his injury quietly, and managed a slight smile as Kidd cradled his head in his hands.
Kidd reached for a blanket and carefully tucked it under Bay’s head. “Save your strength. When Kemal returns, we’ll get you some medicine.”
“This is my time. I have no complaints. I have lived happy and free... what more could a man ask for?” Bay reached out and took Kidd’s hand in the grip used for arm-wrestling. “We never had a rematch,” he said. “You know I would’ve won.”
“I never stood a chance.”
Bay smiled with bloody teeth, closed his eyes, and passed out. Kidd gripped The Tears through his shirt and wished he understood its power to heal. Short of a miracle, Bay would never wake up.
“For all this death and suffering, what have we gained?” he asked, his voice hoarse. The question was met with silence. Flint lay slumped against the wall. “I’ll be damned if I lose you too.” He carefully moved his friend into a more restful pose.
There had been no further incursions. Just beyond the wall, the French were huddled in a helpless mass, fighting the English and Spanish on two fronts. Just as it had been with the Turks, political loyalties governed the allegiances of the combatants, and neither the English nor the Spaniards had any love for the French. The Caretaker soon called the retreat as their numbers dwindled. Kidd raised a pistol wistfully and stared down the barrel. From his vantage point he had a clear shot. The Caretaker was lucky he couldn’t fire the weapon.
The French retreat led to a tense stand-off between the English and Spanish. Both were keen to take the vulnerable eastern wall and neither were prepared to give ground. The morning passed, the desert grew uncomfortably hot in the midday sun, and the stalemate continued. As Kidd looked down, he imagined Hamilton Rush and the Spanish leader were probably contemplating similar tactical issues. Any assault on the tower was deadly in daylight and in such small numbers. They would both come under the cover of dark.
Kidd paced back and forth relentlessly, waiting for something to happen. Every hour that passed brought help closer, if help was coming. Flint slept peacefully through the day, huddled in a ball. Bay also clung to life, but there was nothing Kidd could do to halt the flow of blood and fluids from his belly. He even tried placing The Tears over the wound in the way Jabez had described in his confession, but it had no effect.
Late in the afternoon, as the heat of the day began to subside, scouts emerged from both camps to circle the walls. Kidd threaded a leather thong through the guard of a pistol and discharged it into the air. It was sufficient to force a retreat. Flint woke briefly with the noise, and passed out again after drinking what was left of their water.
By the time night fell, Bay was dead.
Kidd maintained the watch, but felt no fatigue as he patrolled the tower and courtyard. In the quiet hours of the night he tended to the wound in his leg, strapping the bandage tight lest it started to bleed again.
In the early hours before dawn, when night was darkest, the fires were doused in both camps. Kidd took a deep breath and prepared himself, taking position at the top of the tower behind the barricade. If he had to fight so many men, he would force them to come at him one at a time. He clutched The Tears and swore to make the battle memorable.
He heard a voice in the darkness, not the strange whispers on the wind, but the husky murmur of his old friend and partner. “Look, Will... lights on the horizon.”
Kidd crept to a window. Sure enough a large body of riders sped towards the tower, their lanterns and torches twinkling. “I know you can hear me,” he shouted into the darkness. “An army is coming. They’re either my allies, or Turkish reinforcements. Either way, unless you retreat, you will be slain.”
There was no response, not that he expected one. He crouched low and waited for the horde to approach. They arrived at the tower as a seam of golden sunlight heralded the start of a new day.
The English and Spanish had vanished. Kidd counted the new body of riders. There were a great number, many more than the sixty men that lived aboard the Masala. The leader rode forth, pulling up at the tower. Kidd thought it might be Suleiman himself, but the man was much too small. The riders gathered around him, sole victors on the field of battle. Unhindered, they began to clear a path through the broken wall.
Kidd had no choice but to surrender himself and The Tears.
The leader removed his headdress, freeing thick locks of cedar-brown hair. He also wore an emerald scarf across his face.
Kidd waved his arms frantically. “Harissa!”
“William!” She settled her horse and dismounted.
“How did you manage to muster so many soldiers?”
She called for the battalion to remove their turbans and wraps. They were Turks by the look; young bo
ys, old men, farmers, certainly not battle-hardened warriors.
“Ah, I’m rather pleased we didn’t actually have to stand and fight,” she said. “These are the best I could afford.”
~ Chapter 33 ~
A POT OF STEW
Kidd couldn’t believe his eyes. The Tears had been saved by a simple deception. Battle-hardened cavaliers had been routed by a group of farmers wielding common garden tools. He scanned the desert for the enemy, but there was no sign of life. It seemed too good to be true. It was like a breath of wind had swept across the dunes and blown the field of battle clean. He wondered how Hamilton Rush would feel now if he were to discover that The Tears had been ripe for the taking.
Harissa laughed joyously. “Iron William Kidd, your task is done. Come down from your ivory tower and let’s get you to Rome.”
As the last of the rubble was cleared he stepped through and embraced her. “I was prepared to die.”
“You didn’t think I’d let you down did you?” The rumbling voice belonged to Kemal. He extended his hand. “After all,” he added, “Bay is worth two men at the oars.”
Kidd accepted the handshake, and with a heavy heart, told them of Bay’s valiant stand, and the misfortune that had led to his death. “I know we should leave with all haste, but Bay deserves a burial first. I owe him that.” He took a spade from one of the farmers and began to shovel sand to dig a trench. Kemal and more of the Masala’s crew appeared with tools to help dig the grave. Stories were exchanged with laughter and tears while they worked.
Kemal and Kidd carried Bay from the tower and laid him to rest. People paid their respects as the grave was filled. “I can’t help but think he’d still be alive if that musket hadn’t backfired,” said Kidd. He thrust a spade into the sand at the grave head. It was a poor gravestone, but all they had.
Iron William and the Carpenter's Tears Page 24
