A shout of triumph went up from the grenadiers as they found themselves flooding into the town. It was taken up outside the walls and excitedly echoed back from the advancing columns.
‘Stand y’r ground!’ roared Kydd, seeing the pitiful line of defenders wavering. ‘Get ’em while they don’t know where they are!’ The second line of defence, a square a hundred yards distant inside the breach, was crude but effective, temporarily containing the invaders. The French milled about, unsure of where to head next, penned in and without a clear enemy.
Some tried to climb over the rough barrier but had to lower their weapons to do so and were easily dispatched. More pressed in through the breach to add to the confusion and were met with musket fire. Above it all, Kydd could hear the crash and thump of heavy guns outside – the battle was by no means over.
Suddenly his eye was caught by a flutter of colour from the top of the Cursed Tower – a French flag had replaced the English: the citadel that dominated the town had fallen to the enemy. Now it only needed them to expand their toehold in the town and they would be unstoppable. Acre would be Buonaparte’s before sunset.
Then a harsh, alien braying sounded from the breach. Kydd stared, trying to make out what was happening through the smoke and dust. Inwards, from each side of the breach hurtled a whirling frenzy of men in gold turbans and flowing trousers. All flashing blades and demonic screams, they fell in a murderous fury on the French grenadiers pouring in. The two sides met in the middle of the breach and as the grenadiers gave way they joined together – one line facing outwards, another inward.
These were Bosnian Chiftlicks, sent by Sultan Selim from his personal bodyguard; Smith had kept them for just this occasion. With a surge of hope Kydd saw how they had severed those penned inside from the support of their comrades outside. They had a chance! He rose with a shout: ‘Finish the bastards!’ He kicked at a nearby seaman. ‘Move y’rselves, we have a chance if we move now!’ Several looked at him as if he were a madman. ‘Get off y’r arses an’ fight!’ he yelled hoarsely, and leaped over the parapet into the dismayed Frenchmen, who now saw that they were, in effect, surrounded, their cohesion as a military unit demolished.
Seamen rose up and joined Kydd in the vicious fighting that spilled out, but now there was a change in the spirit of the invaders. Turning to retreat, they found their way barred. Ululations of triumph became howls of terror, for the Turks now had the enemy at their mercy and flooded into the area from all sides, slaughtering and mutilating without mercy.
Kydd’s battle rage fell away at the sight and he stood back with bloodied blade as the last of the interlopers was hacked to death and the area cleared up to the breach. The line of Chiftlicks, facing out, capered and menaced with their strangely curved weapons at the demoralised columns, which fell back into the fire from the ship’s guns.
Kydd pulled at the sleeve of one, gesturing up at the Cursed Tower and making suggestive motions with his sword. The man’s eyes were glazed, uncomprehending, as though he was drugged. Then he grinned fiercely, shouted for others and rushed for the gaping ruin.
The wavering column began to disintegrate. Buonaparte’s brave grenadiers had broken and they fled out of range of the merciless broadsides in a sauve qui peut – every man for himself.
Trembling with emotion, Kydd watched them flee but suddenly a dark, round object soared through the air to thump at his feet – and another. Grenades? His heart froze. But they were the heads of Frenchmen who had had the misfortune to be stranded in the Cursed Tower and found by the Chiftlicks.
His gorge rose, as much at the sight as at the sickening repetition of killing. He left the line and stalked back through the breach. There were now only corpses and those picking over the bodies. But where was Renzi? At last he saw him standing bowed at one corner of the killing field. Relief chased dread as he crossed over to him. ‘Nicholas! You…’ There was a tear in his friend’s eye.
In a low voice Renzi pointed to a body and croaked, ‘Mr Peake – he must have got lost.’ He cleared his throat and continued, ‘Of all I know, he was a man of conviction, of courage and did not fear to stand for the cause of humanity over the world’s striving for vanities… a gentle man, and the world is now the poorer for his loss.’ Kydd walked away, leaving his friend to his grief.
‘Sir – sir!’ Bowden raced down the steps of the parapet. ‘Mr Smith’s duty, and if you should cast your eyes to the nor-west you shall see such a sight as will fill your heart!’
Kydd mounted the steps to the top of the wall and looked out to sea. On the horizon, perhaps a dozen miles off, was a cloud of sail, sprawling over most of the west. ‘The Turkish fleet, sir.’ They were saved – Buonaparte was thwarted. Deliverance meant cessation of this madness. All Kydd could think about was his little cabin aboard Tenacious and the precious benison of sleep.