Seaflower

in definition and broaden, eager white horses hurrying towards the land. 'What's ashore, mate?' he asked Carby. He was unsure quite what to expect; Renzi had elaborated on the strategic importance of the sugar islands, but that didn't seem to square with the hazy tales he had heard of pirates, the Spanish Main and the infamous Port Royal. Especially the pirates — were they still at large?

'Yair, well. Nothin' much, 'ceptin cane-fields and blackamoors,' grunted Carby. 'Yez c'n get a good time at the punch shops, an' the ladies are obligin', I'll grant yer.' His lined eyes crinkled. 'But don' expect ter be steppin' ashore like in Portsmouth town, cully.'

Within the hour Barbados had transformed from an anonymous blue-grey sprawling land to a substantial island, curiously weathered into small ridges and valleys, all looking rather brown. As they rounded the south-west tip, Kydd saw many windmills and tiny huts on the hillsides in a sea of bright green sugar-cane.

One after another the convoy tacked around the point, an endless swarm of sail that filled the sea. As Kydd stood by in the maintop for the evolution of mooring ship, he made sure that Carby was near to give a commentary.

'There, mates, that's the lobsterbacks' barracks, an' up there, big place near th' open bit, you has th' hospital. Yer goes in there wi' the yellow jack 'n' it's a shillin' to a guinea yer comes out feet first.'

Kydd gazed at the detail of the land resolving in front of him. A wide bay was opening up past a large fort on the point, and a small town nestled in the arm of the bay. 'Carlisle Bay an' Bridgetown,' said Carby.

In common with the other vessels, they would not be entering the harbour, their anchor splashed down noisily into the innocent blue-green of the wide bay. As cable was veered Kydd worked at furling the big main course to its yard. This furl would be concluded with a fine harbour stow, and he was in place of honour at the bunt in the middle, not at the yard-arm. It was some satisfaction for Kydd to be recognised as a good seaman. 'A yard-arm furler and bunt reefer' was what a mediocre sailor was called: the best men always went to the outer ends of the yard for deep-sea reefing and the complex centre of the sail for harbour furling.

Kydd on one side and Carby on the other clapped on the bunt jigger, and brought the clews over each side of the mast in a neat 'pig's-ear'. Then they passed plaited bunt gaskets to finish the beautifully even stow. The captain of the maintop let them work on without orders — Kydd's fine seamanship was now instinctive.

Finally at rest, Trajan slowly turned to her anchor to face the warm, gentle breeze, which was all that remained of the ceaseless trade-winds of the open sea they had enjoyed over nearly the whole breadth of the Atlantic. Here, the waves were tiny, only enough to sparkle the sea, but a swell drove in to the beach in huge, indolent waves, a potent memento of a faraway storm.

A lazy heat descended on the motionless vessel. The boats were swayed out from their sea-stowed position on the skid-beams in the waist, and one by one they were placed in the water. An indefinable warm fragrance came on the winds from the shore — dusty earth, unfamiliar vegetation and a tropical sweetness.

The first away was the Captain's barge with Captain Bomford and the first lieutenant looking uncomfortable in their dress uniforms. The next was the longboat, its sturdy bluff bow pushing the water aside as it made its way shoreward. It would be returning with naval stores too valuable to be left to the local lighters even now putting off from the inner harbour.

Moodily, Kydd watched the boats lose themselves among the throng of other watercraft beetling among the many anchored vessels and the shore. He could see enough of the land's details to feel frustrated: he wanted to know what a Caribbean island looked like.

Trajan creaked in sequence as a swell passed down her length, accompanied by a lethargic rhythm of clacks and slatting from aloft as blocks and ropes ratded against the masts with the movement.

'Haaands to store ship!' Kydd's duty as quartermaster's mate required his presence. He took one last reluctant look at the shore. Already lighters were putting off from the distant quay with water, big leaguer casks in rows. He watched, astonished, as just two men fended off, then began manipulating mighty pole-like oars — all of fifty feet long - to bring out one of the heavy lighters.

To get at the hold, it was necessary to open the main-hatch on each deck, one under the other. At the orlop the decking was taken up, revealing the noisome darkness of the hold, now made light by the strengthening sun coming down through the hatches. Kydd dropped down to the top of the stores. The empty casks had to be cleared away to allow the full ones to lower down into the ground tier, safely nesded *bung-up and bilge free' in shingle ballast. The stench was thick and potent — the shingle had absorbed bilge water and the stink roiled up as it was disturbed. In the heat it was hard to take, and Kydd felt a guilty pang as he scrambled above. Clear of the hold, he wrote his reckoning on his slate.

'All the haaaands! Clear lower deck ahooy’ Hands lay aft!' The boatswain's mates sounded distantly above.

Kydd cursed — this was not the time to be stopping work. 'Secure!' he growled, at the questioning faces of his work party below.

The Captain had returned unexpectedly and now waited patiently at the break of the poop, flanked by his officers.

'Still!' roared the master-at-arms. Conversations faded and the sound of shuffling feet quickly died away.

Captain Bomford stepped forward to the rail. 'Trajans, I have asked you here to tell you the news.' There was silence at his words. 'Our duty to the convoy is done.' This was met with stony looks — the slow progress of the convoy across the Atlantic had been tedious.

'Now we are released for our true work.' He let the words sink into the silence. 'We shall now sail for the French island of Guadeloupe. You will be happy to hear that His Majesty's arms have met with great success in the West Indies. We are taking the French islands from them, one by one, Martinique, St Lucia, and now Guadeloupe. We sail immediately. On arrival, all hands should be prepared for shore service. However, I do not anticipate much opposition.'

Trajan and the 3 2-gun frigate Wessex sailed unopposed into the sheltered arms of Grande Baie, Guadeloupe. The sleepy island was oddly shaped: to larboard a bulking, rounded beast of land, to starboard a low, rumpled coastline stretching away, the two forming an inward curve. Where they met, the land dipped to a flat joining place.

Sun-splashed and deeply green, the land seemed all that Kydd expected of an isle in the Caribbean. There were no wharves and shanty towns that he could see, just verdancy and, here and there, the golden lines of beaches. The heady scent of land on the brisk wind entered his nostrils, immediate and exciting.

The anchor dropped and cable rumbled out. Motion ceased on the Trajan, but Wessex continued on. Inshore, from a small, squat coral-stone fort, Kydd saw white puffs appear close to the water's edge. The puny guns seemed to have no effect on the ship, which glided on. Kydd wondered how he would feel if positions were reversed. Here was the equivalent of an entire artillery battery of the heaviest guns of the army coming to punish the little fort.

There was no more gunsmoke from the fort. Kydd guessed that the gunners were fleeing the menace closing in. But there was no time to watch. He was in charge of one party of fifteen seamen under Lieutenant Calley and a master's mate he didn't know, and they would shortly board one of the boats for the shore.

The sudden crash of a broadside echoed around the bay - Wessex had opened fire. The smoke blew down on them quickly in the lively breeze, hiding the frigate, but the effects of the tempest of shot on the silent fort were clear. Heavy balls had torn up the ground, sending huge clods of earth and rock fragments skyward. Tropical trees had fallen as if slapped down, and a haze of dust had materialised.

A storm of cheering went up, and the men tumbled willingly into the boats. Kydd and his party were assigned the forward part of the longboat, and he pushed between the rowers to the bow, his cutlass scabbard catching awkwardly. He saw Renzi board at the last minute; he could not catch his eye at this distance, and wondered what he was doing - he was not a member of Kydd's party.

He looked back along the boat to the rest of his men boarding. His heart raced, but whether this was at the thought of meeting the enemy or anxiety at having his powers of leadership tested in such an alien arena he could not be sure. The men seemed in good heart, joking and relaxed; comforting in their sturdy sea ways.

The boat shoved off, Kydd at the tiller. Bows swung obediently shoreward, bringing the seas smacking solidly on to the bluff bow, soaking him. These seas would make landing difficult — and if there were enemy waiting for them ...

The smash of another broadside drew his attention. Wessex was concentrating her guns on the coast where the boats were headed, and it would take a brave man to stand at the focus of such terrifying, rampaging power.

Kydd looked back. Other boats were converging together, bobbing and surging in the boisterous seas. A deep-laden pinnace stopped, and turned head-to-sea. Rainbow sheets of water flew over the side. He searched the seashore immediately ahead but could not see any beach, just endless vegetation coming down to the foreshore and dark reddish-brown coral at the water's edge. The heartening roar of the frigate's guns ceased, and the ship lay offshore under backed topsails. There was nothing more she could do for them.

Trajan's large cutter approached the landing place to lead the others. It carried marines. Close in now, it did not appear to be under fire but seemed to hesitate at the last minute. It dipped and rolled in the energetic seas, then turned to pass along the shoreline to find a better landing place. In a flash, the boat was seized by the riotous waves and thrown over in a tangle of oars and red uniforms. Yells of fear and despair carried across the water.

Other boats came on. Some followed the example of the lighter pinnace, which stretched out manfully to ground noisily on the dead coral in a surfing rush. Its men scrambled out, but before half had made it, the boat slewed broadside to the waves and also overturned.

The more sea-wise cast an anchor when still off the landing place, and with bows firmly held seawards, veered rope until they were in the shallows. The disadvantage was that men dropped into feet of water and stumbled, soaked and bruised, long yards to the shore. Kydd had the sense to deploy his men in a chain to the tide-line, passing over their heads muskets and the small kegs of powder.

There was still no sign of opposition ashore. Military shouts sounded in the glades where the sailors were grouping.

'My crew, t' me!' Kydd called brusquely. He mustered them carefully. Two missing. Should he tell someone to find them? The man might get lost; best to count on what he had. Curious glances came from those waiting for him to show indecision or worse. Responsibility was hard. What was Renzi doing in his party? He frowned and turned to him. 'Why are you—' he began.

'I was bored.'

Kydd took a deep breath. This was no time to be enigmatic. 'Then ...'

'I am, for the nonce, a bona fide member of your excellent party,' Renzi said.

'An' ready t' take my orders?' Kydd retorted, then regretted his tone, but stubbornness kept him glowering.

'But, of course, my dear fellow.'

One of the missing men arrived, grinning foolishly and showing obvious signs of the bottle.

'Tom, L'tenant Calley wants y'r report,' said Luke, who had managed to get ashore as messenger. His wide eyes gazed trustfully at Kydd.

'Thanks, younker' Kydd said, and looked around for Calley.

‘Kydd, sir, mustered complete,' he reported. If Renzi was so eager to be in his party, he could make up the numbers.

'Very good, Kydd. Be ready to advance in one hour — you will take flank.' Calley looked distracted. Flank was some sort of tent or blanket for the officers, Kydd assumed. 'We will storm Gozier Fort,' said Calley quickly. "The one attacked by Wessex’ he added impatiently, seeing Kydd's expression. He turned to an anxious midshipman, effectively dismissing Kydd.

As far as Kydd could see, they would be assisting the marines in the assault, a useful mass of armed men coming in from behind. They would carry the familiar weapons of the boarding party, pistols and either a cutlass or a tomahawk with its blade and useful spike. It would be just like carrying an enemy vessel by boarding, no marching up and down like the army seemed to do. He brightened at the familiar focus.

Trajans ahoy!' Calley's voice blared. 'We go to meet the enemy - to the fore, advance!'

Three distinct lines of men began to move into the light, wooded land, the red coats of the marines visible ahead. The columns diverged and, wending their way through the undergrowth, the lead men disappeared from view.

Away from the sea breeze, the warmth turned to heat, sending up the smell of steamy vegetation. The path was well beaten now, and they plodded on steadily.

The man behind Kydd suddenly gave a cry and dropped his musket. It went off with a muffled report, suffusing the ground with gunsmoke. He danced about, waving his arms frantically. Kydd stood rooted in astonishment. Then he saw a large hairy black spider with glittering eyes clinging to the man's lower arm. Suddenly it scuttled over his body, the man fell to the ground and the spider leaped off then disappeared. Shame-faced and trembling, the man rose as Calley arrived in a lather of indignation.

The first sign of resistance appeared with a tiny white puff arising from the undergrowth ahead and the tap of a musket sounding faintly. Kydd's mouth dried. This might be the enemy returning after the sea bombardment, angry and resentful — in their thousands. He gripped his musket nervously and slogged on, knowing that the eyes of his party behind - including Renzi - were on him.

'First section will attempt an enfilade.' Kydd had not noticed Calley return. 'That's you, Kydd,' he snapped, taking off his cocked hat to wipe his streaming forehead. His cotton stockings were streaked now with soft green and his blue coat hung loose. 'Sir—' began Kydd.

'In an enfilade,' Calley snarled sarcastically, 'the object is to bring the enemy under fire from the flank.' So much for blankets, thought Kydd. 'We rake him, you ninny!'

Kydd burned. Why hadn't Calley used understandable sea terms from the first? To rake the enemy at sea was to slam a storm of shot end on down the unprotected length of the vessel instead of into her heavy sides, and was generally credited a battle-winner.

Calley glared, then collected himself. 'The fort lies yonder, a mile or so off,' he said, gesturing at the dense undergrowth to the north. 'You will move around to take him from the east. But mark my words! You are to take position only. Do not advance until you hear the redcoat's trumpet that we are also in place.' He breathed heavily. 'Else you will be destroyed.'

Kydd led the way. A sea-service cutlass was too heavy and cumbersome to do much about the thickening ground cover, and he swore — at first under his breath, later aloud. His musket, over his shoulder in its sling, slipped and banged him, and he could hear his men muttering.

Without warning, the trees and vegetation dropped away to nothing. Kydd fell to the ground, motioning the others to do the same. They had reached a track crossing their course. It was the ideal path for enemy coming down on them from the north, but there was nothing for it: he must obey orders and carry on eastwards.

He ran across the track, followed by his party. The other side was a dense wall of harsh greenery reaching skyward eight feet or more, so thickly sown that it was virtually impenetrable. It would be impossible to keep on their course. Kydd crouched and felt a rising tide of panic. He would do his duty or die in the attempt! But this? What if they were going in the wrong direction, were late, betrayed the brave souls making the frontal assault who believed they would be supported to the east by Kydd's section?

'Give over frettin', Tom!' Larcomb said kindly, coming up to squat next to him. Larcomb had his jacket off, knotted round his waist. 'What say we takes a spell here, mate?'

'No!' Kydd snarled.

Renzi loped up at the crouch. Kydd braced himself — he neither wanted to justify himself to his friend nor discuss the philosophy of the situation.

'Should you await me here, I do believe I can find an easterly path for us, my friend.' Renzi was looking northward with a keen gaze.

'Er, o' course,' Kydd said, caught off balance.

Renzi left his musket and cutlass and sprinted off. Almost immediately he disappeared into the thick vegetation. Kydd waited, debating with himself what to do if Renzi did not reappear — then his friend popped into view, beckoning furiously.

'Sugar-cane has to be harvested, was my logic!' Renzi chuckled, as they hurried down a narrow break in the cane-field to the east.

Logic, thought Kydd dully. It would have to be logic if it were Renzi, but his heart warmed to the way his friend had made it easy for him.

'D'ye think a mile has passed f'r us?' Kydd asked, as casually as he could, as they moved along the endless, unchanging track. The assault could come at any time . ..

'I would think so,' said Renzi.

Kydd felt annoyed again: it was easy for Renzi, he was not in charge. Not only did Kydd have to be in position to the east, but when the trumpet sounded he had to know which direction to push forward, or end up in the empty country while the real battle was being fought and won without him.

'Damn you!' he ground out. Renzi glanced at him, no emotion on his face.

Kydd looked away. At least they were in position now — the fort must be away to their left. He hunkered down for the wait. The others lay around, some on their backs, seeming uncaring of the coming clash-at-arms. Renzi sat, hugging his knees and staring into space, while Kydd got up and paced.

The sun grew hotter. They had no water as it was all expected to end rapidly one way or the other. The minutes dragged on, with not a sound apart from a bird that kept up a deafening racket. It was agonising — what was delaying the main assault? Kydd checked the priming on his musket again. Perhaps Calley had received secret knowledge of a greater than expected French garrison, and was waiting for reinforcements. If that was so—

A rustling sounded on the other side of the wall of cane. They were discovered — and before the assault!

He would sell their lives dearly, though. Kydd seized his musket and pointed it at the sound. He sensed the others grouping behind him.

Luke wheeled round the end of the cane-field. 'I bin a-looldn' fer you!' His face was wreathed in smiles as he ran towards Kydd. Then he stopped and attempted a professional look, such as messengers have when delivering their news. ‘Er, Mr Kydd, I'm ter tell yer from L'tenant Calley ter report t' the fort.'

'What?

'He's in a rare takin' - Frogs ran off afore we c'd even get in position, they did!' His face clouded. 'An' he says as how yer such an infernal looby as y' doesn't know when the guns ain't firin' there ain't a battle.'

Kydd gritted his teeth. Of course! That was what had been niggling at the back of his mind - no firing! A quick glance at Renzi's blank expression told him that he had known all along that their advance on the fort would be guided by the sound of battle.

'An' he told the Joey major that he'd be a confounded prig afore he sounds the trumpet t' advance jus' ter oblige a parcel o'—'

'That's enough o' yer insolence, m' lad!' Larcomb said reprovingly. The party hefted their muskets and followed Luke meekly to the fort.

Flames flickered ruddily from the cooking fire. The seamen had left the foraging and other arrangements to the marines, who seemed well able to cope. Kydd nursed his cracked cup of rum as he sat morosely against the wattle wall of the chattel house, staring into the flames. It was not his kind of war, this - crashing about in the undergrowth not knowing what was going on. Real war was serving a mighty cannon on a surging gundeck.

The evening was pleasant, the constant breeze from the ocean reliable enough, but the ground all about was hard and dusty. He scratched at a persistent tickle in his leg-hairs in the darkness, then saw by the firelight that it was a busy column of ants. He leaped to his feet in disgust.

They'd eaten a kind of spicy chicken that the previous owners of the house had thought they would be having that night It sat uneasily on Kydd's stomach. Reluctantly he pushed his way closer to the fire and settled down again on the stony ground.

It seemed like minutes later when boatswain's mates and corporals roared about to rouse the huddled men. Kydd ached in the pre-dawn darkness after his uncomfortable doze. A thin overcast hid the half-moon and the night was full of dull shadows.

Kydd knew the plan in a general way. They would push forward before dawn towards a much bigger fort, Fleur d'Epee, and fall upon it at first light It was hoped that the defenders would not expect such a rapid resuming of the advance.

'Pay attention, you section leaders.' Calley was indistinct in the poor light but his words came strongly. Kydd stood in the semicircle of a dozen men, listening carefully.

'We advance on the fort shortly. There are two roads. Sections one and three will take the easterly, the other sections the westerly. The roads go each side of the fort. Now, mark this, the fort is on a slight hill, and reconnaissance tells us that the brush has been cleared around to give a good field of fire. Therefore — and I cannot emphasise this too strongly - we will be bloodily repulsed if they are waiting for us. The advance must take place in complete silence. Total silence! Do I make myself clear?'

All traces of weariness and aching fell away as Kydd took in the words.

‘For that reason, the first numbered sections will be armed with cold steel only - this will ensure that there are no accidental discharges of musketry. And, do you bear in mind always, you are not to leave cover and advance over the open ground until the trumpet sounds. Then move very quickly, if you please,' Calley added drily.

Kydd took his cutlass, the blackened steel and grey oily blade sinister in the last of the firelight. He remembered the first time he had used one with deadly force. Then it had saved his life, but at the cost of the enduring memory of a young man's face sagging under the recognition of his coming death.

He fitted the scabbard to its frog, and slid it on to his wide seaman's belt. Experimentally, he drew the heavy weapon's greased length - it fell to hand easily, and Kydd noted that the blade had been ground to a good point: it could be relied on to sink through clothing and leather to the heart.

'Form up!' he growled at his section. Renzi was present, although Kydd was none the wiser about his action in joining his party. He had been too tired the previous evening to do more than grunt at Renzi's solicitudes; there had been no comfortable conversation.

They moved off. In the lead were other sections. They paced on rapidly, Kydd grateful for the easy going afforded by a road instead of clinging undergrowth. The road forked. Kydd's section took the lead to the right. The road sank lower and its sides reared as they passed into a defile cut into a rise in the coral rock, until even the least military of them realised that, trapped as they were by the vertical sides of the road, they were easy meat for any ambush.

Kydd paced on, his ears pricking, his eyes staring-wide. His men followed behind in file. It was no use trying to listen for strange sounds - the tropical night was alive with unknown stridulations, barks, squeaks and grunts. The road emerged from the defile, and began to trend upward. They must be approaching the prominence with the fort astride it, he reasoned. Sure enough, a curve in the road led out of the wooded fringing area and somewhere shortly ahead must lie the open ground — and Fort d'Epee.

'Dead silence!' whispered Kydd, 'Or - or ...' It seemed thin and pathetic against the reality of their situation, but the men nodded, and plunged after him off the road and into the woods. It wasn't long before they came to the edge: the crudely felled and levelled area ahead gave no cover, open ground all the way up to the drab cluster of low buildings inside stout palisades. It was still too overcast and murky to make out much.

'Back — we wait f'r the call,' Kydd whispered. It were best they were not at the very edge of the clearing in case a pale face in the night was seen from the fort. They moved inward a few yards and settled to wait.

'I c'n hear ...' began Larcomb. There was a rustle.

Renzi moved up and looked around questioningly. 'There!' he hissed.

It was a footfall. Kydd held up his hand for silence. His heart thudded. Another footfall, a rustling of foliage. Someone was entering the woods, and heading towards them.

At the edge of action Kydd teetered. The movement stopped and Kydd took a deep breath — but then came the tinkle of urine on the ground.

In a dizzying moment of relief, he touched the arms of Larcomb and another seaman then pointed. They nodded and rose soundlessly. In a swift flurry they brought the man crashing down. He was a young sentry, who had laid down his musket to relieve himself out of sight of the fort. He struggled hard, but was pinioned securely, Larcomb's hand clamped over his mouth. The struggles spent themselves, and the hapless man stared up.

Kydd knew that Renzi spoke French, and-whispered to him harshly, 'Tell him he's our prisoner.'

'I rather think not,' Renzi replied.

'Damn it! Do as I—'

'We have no men to spare to look after prisoners.' To give point to Renzi's words, the youth struggled again. Three men were holding him down — three effectives who would be greatly missed later.

'You can't just . . .'

Renzi said nothing. The young man's eyes bulged: he seemed to sense what was being discussed, and tried desperately to reach out to them.

'Bugger wants ter talk,' Larcomb muttered hoarsely, and looked up.

Hesitating, Kydd shook his head - there was too much risk. Renzi's logic led one way, pity and humanity another. He gazed at Renzi in despair.

Renzi leaned across, and extracted the bayonet in a steely slither from Larcomb's scabbard.

'No!' breathed Kydd, held powerless in horror as the nightmare face returned.

The youth heaved and floundered, his eyes frozen on the blade. A rank, unmistakable odour arose. 'He's shit hisself,' Larcomb croaked, his voice thick with compassion.

'Make room,' Renzi said.

Kydd realised he meant Larcomb to move aside enough to enable the bayonet to do its work. Larcomb did so, his eyes down. The boy ceased his struggle, lay petrified and rigid. Renzi crawled over to him and raised the bayonet. There was an inhuman squeal of such intensity that it sounded through Larcomb's tight grip - then Renzi thrust the bayonet firmly into the chest to the heart. A dextrous half-twist, and the blade was withdrawn, the gout of bright life-blood hopeless and final.

Renzi wiped the weapon on the ground and handed it back to Larcomb. He looked up at the anguish on Kydd's face. 'Duty can often take a harsh disguise, my friend,' he said, in a low voice.

Kydd tore himself away from the sight of the fresh corpse, his mind a whirl of confusion. Nobody came to where he crouched, and there was no relief to his emotions. Away to the left, far in the distance, a trumpet bayed, its sound taken up by another, nearer. 'Tom!' said Renzi softly.

Kydd pulled himself together. 'With me!' he croaked. He cleared his throat. 'Let's give 'em a quiltin', then.' He broke out of the wood and stumbled up the rise towards the fort, hearing his men follow. Others emerged all along the fringe of wood. It seemed incredible that their drama could have taken place in such isolation.

They moved up the hill. The fort's palisades were topped with continuous gunsmoke in the soft dawn light, and attackers began to drop. The fusillade died away — they had succeeded in their surprise: there were not enough men on watch to maintain the reloading cycle for full defence.

Something seized Kydd's mind in a fierce, uncaring rage — a point of concentration for his incoherent feelings. His legs burned as he pounded on towards the focus of his madness. Behind him panted Larcomb — then Kydd realised he had gone. Renzi was away to his right and all the others he assumed were somewhere close. All the time the weakened enemy fire found victims.

The palisades rose up suddenly. Renzi appeared beside him. He carried a rolled Jacob's ladder, and coolly hurled it up, hooking it to the jagged top of the barrier. Faces appeared above, then quickly disappeared. Musket smoke came in gusts, the sound of the shots this time from behind him. Kydd seized the ladder and swarmed up. Other seamen had boarding axes and they were using them in the same way as they would to storm the side of an enemy ship. The seamen's agility told: they were quickly into the inner square and throwing wide the gates for the soldiers before the confused enemy could group.

Panting, hot and aching, Kydd stood watching the fluttering French flag jerk down, then rise again, surmounted by a Union Flag. A disconsolate group of

French prisoners flanked by marines began their march into exile. The last of the dead were dragged off and the wounded attended to.

The crisp sound of marching heralded the arrival of the light infantry, with a mounted colonel at their head. Lieutenant Calley removed his hat and awaited the Colonel. 'Well done, sir!' the Colonel spluttered, as he dismounted. 'Damme, but that was a splendid thing. Blast m' eyes if it weren't!'

The marines snapped to attention; their sergeant needed no lessons in military honours. The 'present arms' was parade-ground perfect, yet these men, less than an hour before, had been storming the fort.

The Colonel marched across and inspected them, his gruff compliments making the sergeant red-faced with pleasure. Kydd felt awkward with his ragtag sailors, but the Colonel touched his hat genially in response to the individualistic salutes of the seamen, in no way disconcerted by the sight of their direct gaze and sea-fashion rigs.

'A fine body of men!' said the Colonel to Calley. 'And 'twould infinitely oblige me, sir, if they were in my column for the final push on the capital.'

'By all means, sir. Your orders?' Calley replied.

Within an hour the column was swinging along at a measured pace astride the road to Pointe a Pitre, the capital, soldiers four abreast in a serpentine column that stretched ahead of the seamen, with fifes and drums squeaking and rattling.

A sergeant of infantry dropped back from the rear of the column, and stared with frank curiosity at the seamen. 'Hoay - the sergeant ahoy!' called Kydd. The hard-featured man fell back to Kydd, still keeping step.

'How long to Pwun a-Peter?' Kydd asked.

The man sized him up. There was no clue for a soldier that might reveal his rank. He was dressed as the others in his usual red and white shirt with short blue jacket and white free-swinging trousers. Kydd sensed wariness and added, 'Tom Kydd, quartermaster's mate - that's petty officer.'

'Sar'nt Hotham.'

Clearly a 'petty officer' meant nothing either to this army veteran, who peered at him suspiciously from under his tall black shako. The voice was deep and projected an effortless authority that Kydd envied.

'An' these are m' men,' Kydd continued, gesturing - behind him at the cutlass-adorned sailors.

The sergeant's eyebrows rose: Kydd must be some sort of sergeant, then. 'Ah, yeah,' he said, easing his stock. 'Saw yez take the fort fr'm yer front - plucky dos, mate!'

Feet rose and fell, the rhythm of the march was hypnotic. 'Aye, well, how far d'we march afore—'

Hotham flashed a quick grin. 'Don't be in such a hell-fired pelt ter get there, m' lad,' he boomed. "That there's th' capital town o' the island, an' the Frogs ain't about to give it up without a fight.'

Kydd said nothing: the whole business of war on land was a mystery to him.

Hotham mistook his silence for apprehension. 'Not ter worry, we've drubbed th' French in every other island, can't see why not 'ere as well.'

'So . . .'

'We's three, four mile out, less'n an hour — but then we comes up agin the battery commandin' the town.'He sucked his teeth as he ruminated. 'We gets past that on this road, Mongseers'd be hard put ter stop us then.'

It was still mid-morning when the column came to a halt at the sullen rumble of heavy guns ahead. A flurry of trumpet calls echoing up and down the line; bellowed orders and earnest subalterns hurrying on important missions had the column quickly deployed in line.

The seamen mustered together in the centre of the line: they would have the road. With a clinking of equipment, a squadron of cavalry mounted on indifferent horses clattered off towards the battery, which dominated the skyline.

'Poor beggars,' muttered a sailor.

'How so?' said Kydd.

'O' course, they's bein' sacrificed to see 'ow far the guns c'n reach.' A single gout of smoke appeared at the embrasures of the battery and seconds later a thud came, but there was no apparent harm to the widely separated horses. They cantered further along the road, now even at the suburbs of Pointe a Pitre.

'Stand to!' Lieutenant Calley ordered. 'We march.'

The re-formed column, having tested their advance, resumed the march. Eyes nervously on the battery above the town, they tramped along the road unopposed. Kydd looked at the deserted houses and neat gardens. No sign of war, just a sullen silence. The squadron cantered back. It seemed the battery had been deserted by the French, and their other forces were in full retreat. The empty town echoed to their progress, only the odd dog or fowl left to dispute possession. By midday, the seamen were slaking their thirst in the fountain of the town square, and the regimental fifes and drums were bringing in the soldiers.

It was an anti-climax — but welcome for all that. Parties of soldiers were sent out to secure strongpoints. The seamen were marched down to the neat harbour, its white stone walls and red-tiled buildings baking in the heat.