Tenacious(108)

Dobbie and the others acknowledged him calmly and a surge of feeling for them came over him. ‘Grape, then canister,’ he croaked, with renewed determination. There would be time to get away only two shots before the French were upon them. Smoke was obscuring his view but he could make out the advance guard running in front. They carried scaling ladders and equipment, and close behind were their armed supporters.

The sheer numbers appalled Kydd, dense masses of troops that faded into the distance, all tramping forwards in an unstoppable wave, even over the bodies of those who fell. In his gut he felt the terror of the helpless. The main wave was going against the Cursed Tower, and their close-packed ranks quickened as they drew nearer, their swords and bayonets rising and falling with a terrible glint.

The final battle for Acre would be won or lost at the tower. He hurried to the breach and saw that it would never stand a determined assault. Kydd stood there with bared sword, waiting for the onslaught. He sensed others forming up behind him, filling the breach with their bodies, and suddenly felt exhilaration, a curious exaltation that he was alive and a man on such a day.

The first wave of the assault reached middle ground, then came to the final distance. Then above the tumult of battle came an avalanche of thuds. Seconds later the entire front of the attacking army crumpled. Whole columns were slapped to the ground or flung skyward, and military formation dissolved into panic-stricken scrabbling. Offshore, Tenacious and Tigre delivered their ferocious broadsides again, their shot rampaging the length of each wall and converging in front of the Cursed Tower in a welter of blood and corpses. Nothing could stand against what amounted to whole regiments of heavy artillery, and Buonaparte’s assault crumbled.

Most turned to flee, to find the rear of the army still pressing them forward. Others stormed on heroically but when they came close to the walls they discovered Phélippeaux’s fosse, a ditch twelve feet deep that made a mockery of ladders intended only for the height of the wall. Rallying, the Turks ran back to the parapets and threw grenades and heavy stones into the ditch, which quickly turned into a killing ground.

Trumpets sounded distantly – the retreat, Kydd realised. He looked down into the fosse. Those surviving, abandoned by their own army, held up their hands. It took main force to prevent the Turks killing the prisoners, who were led away by marines.

It was a galling blow for Buonaparte. Cheated of an easy victory by the same navy that had destroyed his hopes for an Oriental empire, he could no longer expect to take Acre in a frontal attack. Sliding his sword into its scabbard with a satisfying snick, Kydd watched the last of the assault wave scramble to the rear. He was still breathing deeply, aglow with the intoxication of battle on a scale he had never seen before – and he had been ready! He turned and made his way to the gun, but although the columns were repulsed in such disorder, cooler regions of his mind told him that Buonaparte would not be thwarted in his march to glory.

At sunset Kydd left the headquarters where he had been in conference. He had been grateful for the activity: the day’s events had disturbed him. In a man-o’-war there were casualties and he had seen his share at the Nile, but he had been unprepared for the scale of slaughter in a land battle. Hewitt was on the first watch and he must try to catch some sleep – but could he close his eyes on the images of blood and death?

His evening walk took him to the Tenacious gun. One of the seamen, whom Kydd remembered only as a reliable member of the afterguard, was sitting on the gun-carriage with his grog can, singing to the others in a low and compelling tenor:

‘The topsails shiver in the wind,

The ship she’s bound to sea;

But yet my heart, my soul, my mind,

Are, Mary, moored with thee…’



Kydd stood transfixed: in this harsh and unfeeling land, away from the clean simplicities of a sea life, these sailors had brought their world with them and were drawing strength from their age-old customs.

He turned to go, but his seaman’s instincts had pricked an alert and he faced back, sniffing the wind. Since morning, it seemed, it had backed a full three points. He had no barometer or other instruments but he felt uneasy.

The dawn came and, as he had suspected, the winds were more in the north, a cooler touch to them after the dry warmth of the desert khamsin. The giant bowl of the deep blue sky, brassy with sunlight and usually innocent of cloud apart from playful tufts, was becoming overcast.

Kydd climbed the Cursed Tower with Hewitt. Nothing in the French camp gave a clue to Buonaparte’s plans, but Hewitt seemed unusually reserved.

‘Wind’s gone to the nor’ard,’ Kydd said.