Tenacious(114)

The horizon rapidly filled with soldiers advancing towards them, more massing behind. A dismayed murmur spread through the defenders. Kydd raised his sword. ‘Give ’em a cheer, m’lads!’ he shouted, above the increasing noise. The seamen raised their voices and, encouraged, the Turks gave their harsh war-cries. The attackers came on in a headlong charge, the numbers beyond counting.

The other ships’ guns mounted in the ravelins opened up. Grape-shot ripped into the attackers. From to seaward came the heavy rumble of broadsides in enfilade, which tore into the advancing mass at appalling cost. Even before the first had reached the rubble-strewn fosse the retreat had sounded and the grim marching had turned into a disorderly scramble out of range of the merciless naval guns. They left the ground before the walls a wasteland of pain and dying with new dead joining rotting corpses, wild dogs howling and tearing at the bodies, a sickening odour of death catching in the throats of the defenders.

Kydd felt a hot hatred for Napoleon Buonaparte and his towering ambition to conquer at whatever cost, a tide of anger that took him above his exhaustion and anxieties and left him only with a burning determination to thwart the man. ‘Stand fast!’ he bellowed. ‘They’ll be back!’ His voice broke with emotion but he did not care. They would stand until they were victorious or were overcome.

But the midday sun beat down without a sign of the enemy. Kydd stood down half of the men and sent them for rations and an hour’s rest. Smith came to observe the breach, coolly taking notes. ‘I’ll send you all the help I can, Mr Kydd,’ he said, scanning the wasteland beyond the walls. ‘They have to defeat us, of course – Buonaparte’s very reputation and the future of the world rides on this.’

In less than an hour the drums beat again and trumpets pealed the pas de charge up and down the lines, but with one difference: this time it was the grenadiers in full array leading the assault, Buonaparte’s finest troops at the advance edge. They came on steadily, marching with standards held high. In their distinctive red-plumed hats and long muskets aslope they were a different calibre of soldier.

The first shots from the ravelins found them. Men fell, but they closed ranks and marched on. The anchored ships opened up with a massed thunder, tearing into the columns like a scythe. Still they advanced. All along the parapets every man that could hold a musket blazed away. The noise was horrific and smoke hung over the battle as a pall – but the grenadiers still came on.

At the breach Kydd braced himself. Then someone jostled him from behind and he caught a glimpse of Renzi moving up to his side, pale-faced but with a steely resolution. ‘I do believe, dear fellow, we’re in this together,’ he said, with the ghost of a smile, flourishing his blade.

The first rank of the grenadiers carried pikes and as their moustachioed faces became distinct Kydd gripped his sword and prepared for what must come. In the last few yards they levelled their weapons and broke into a trot, coming at them with a fierce snarl. Kydd tensed. In theory the same principles must apply as with boarding a ship in the face of a pike – get inside it and the man was yours.

With a vicious lunge at Kydd’s eyes a dark-featured grenadier hurled himself at him. Kydd swayed just enough to avoid the pike, yanking the man forward by it to his waiting blade, but another dropped his pike and drew his sword. Kydd snatched out one of his brace of pistols and pulled the trigger in the man’s face, whirling to meet another who was coming in low. He smashed his pistol down on the man’s head but at the same time felt the searing burn of a bayonet under his arm. Wildly he spun about for his next opponent but saw only an unstoppable flood of soldiers pressing forward through the fierce musketry and explosions of grenades thrown from the walls.

Renzi was backed against one side, hacking and slashing at two soldiers. Kydd threw himself at one, his sword taking him in the back. His victim let out an animal squeal and a fountain of blood. Renzi’s blade flashed out at the other and transfixed him, but he had seen something behind Kydd and with a shout he pulled out his sword and made ready. Kydd realised what had happened and wheeled about but the man had disappeared back into the mêlée.

‘Retire!’ Renzi shouted, above the guns and death screams. Retreat – to the second line of defences Phélippeaux had prepared – was the only course: the press of invaders was so great that they were jostling each other in their eagerness to break through.

‘Fall back!’ Kydd roared in agreement, edging round the jagged end of the wall and gesturing with his sword. Seeing the remnants of the breach crew disengage or be swept aside he turned and ran to the inner line – an improvised parapet of rubble on each side and loop-holed houses on the far side. He vaulted over and crouched, panting.