The Privateer's Revenge(17)
As the hard night softened with the first intimations of dawn, Kydd readied his boats' crews. It was a hastily planned operation with all the potential to go wrong. During the night they had been towed within striking distance by Teazer. He was in the first boat, about to lead the shore party, which included others who had been sent in reinforcement from the squadron.
An oar clunked awkwardly as the men took up position for the coming assault. "Hold y' noise, oaf," Kydd hissed savagely, "or I swear I'll see y' liver at the gangway tomorrow!" The man stared back at him resentfully.
All hinged on surprise—getting the men ashore and to the top of the two-hundred-foot cliffs before troops, roused by sentries, could arrive from farther up and down the coast. Once on the heights there was level ground into the interior countryside, and if they could establish a well-defended position, reinforcements could flood ashore.
The coast materialised ahead from the dove-grey mists, high, craggy and forbidding. There might be pickets even now concerned by the odd cluster of shapes out to sea, finding a telescope and . . . Kydd scanned the area feverishly, looking for the features he must locate in order to land in the right place: an offshore scatter of rocks that guarded a small coomb, not much more than a fissure but which would give them a chance to reach the top. There! At the right distance from the unmistakable high headland to the southwest he saw the betraying white of sea-washed rocks extending out in a distinctive pattern, Les Lieuses, Sept Boues and the rest.
"Stretch out!" Kydd roared. "Stretch out f'r y'lives!" The need for caution was past—now everything depended on speed. Oars thumped and strained as men leaned into the task. Astern, the other boats surged and flew to bellows and threats from their coxswains.
At the periphery of his vision Kydd saw movement at the high cliff-edge. It was a figure on horseback! The alarm would now be given speedily—their margin of time was perilously small. The figure fell back and disappeared.
They reached the first rocks. The assumption was that those defending would believe these lofty crags would prevent any seaward onslaught—this would certainly be true for a ship-of-war under sail but well-handled boats could thread their way through and make a landing.
As they approached, the cliffs towered impossibly high above them but their information had been correct: a fold in the cliff-face lay away at an angle; bare rock, scrubby bushes and the occasional scree slope—but a way up!
And praise be! Queripel had the tides precisely calculated in these parts. The rocky plateau at the base was all but submerged, allowing the boats to ground close in. Kydd clambered over the side, all pretensions to dignity abandoned, and splashed into the shallows. "Move y'selves!" he bellowed.
Men started to gather on the rocky strand, many staring up anxiously at the precipitous heights. "Light along th' tackles—get going, then!" Kydd barked irritably. This was his trump card: numbers of nimble-footed topmen would work in relays, advancing upward to secure a block and tackle, which would then be used to sway up swivel guns and their improvised mounts in stages. Only a light weapon at sea, on land in these wild parts they would be the only artillery in the field, and would give pause to even the finest infantry arrayed against them.
"Now!" Kydd gestured to Ambrose, and the marines began to climb up the slope, disappearing quickly into the scrubby undergrowth in clouds of reddish dust. At the top they would throw up a defensive perimeter for the rest. The stolid sergeant had grasped immediately what had to be done.
It seemed to be going well—too well? Nearly two hundred men were massing at the foot of the cliff, each encumbered with a musket slung over his back and others with ungainly packs of ammunition. As more landed, they were getting increasingly in each other's way.
Kydd drew his sword hastily. "Forward!" he yelled, and led them upwards in a rush. So much had to go right! There were those who were detailed to haul on the tackles, unarmed topmen swarming up to secure the blocks, more still to fleet the blocks once close up, others to keep together for gun-crew when on the level . . .
At any moment lines of soldiers might appear along the edge of the cliff—and it would be all over very quickly. Panting with effort, Kydd yanked on bushes to heave himself up the craggy heights, muscles burning and his world contracting to the untidy slither of dust and rubble that was their path.
Out of sight above them the marines must have reached the top—would they be met with naked bayonets or . . . ? But there had been no sudden shouts so they were still in with a chance.
When he drew near to the top Ambrose scrambled over to him. Breathless, Kydd heard that the perimeter was secure with outlying sentries concealed and the defenders not yet in sight. Keeping his head down, the marine pointed out the salient features: a far-distant cluster of buildings, probably a farm, and farther still the tip of a steeple. For the rest it was open fields and curious cows in a gently rolling rural tranquillity.