Tenacious(104)

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?’