Tenacious

CHAPTER 11

"IF THERE'S ANY MORE o' that lobster salad, I'd be obliged," Kydd said lazily, from the long seat in the sternsheets of the officer's gig, where he lay sprawled under an unseasonably warm sun.

"No, you shall not!" Cecilia said crossly. "There'll be none left for the others." However, more preserved sardine fillets, it seemed, were on offer. The two midshipmen were ashore on the rocks of the little cove, trying without success to conjure a fire to grill their fish and Adams was out of sight inland.

The sun beamed and the plash of the waves was soothing. "Do you not feel a pity f'r Gen'ral Buonaparte, sis," Kydd teased, "that he's cast away in Egypt with no hope o' rescue, him 'n' his great army all alone in the desert?"

"I do not! Such a wicked man! I hope the sun quite dries him up like a wizened prune."

Kydd's grin at his sister's pout broadened as he considered how things had changed for the better. "Ye've heard we're in Leghorn now, Cec—that's in the north of Italy—"

"Thomas, I'm not ignorant."

"An', best of all, Our Nel has stirred up Naples enough that they've marched north an' taken Rome."

"'Our Nel'?"

"What we call Admiral Nelson."

"The common sailors, Thomas, not the officers!"

"They love him, Cec. When we were chasin' the French and everything looked so bad, he called across his captains then started asking 'em if they were feeding the men enough onions! And makes sure they get full measure o' grog with wine he buys himself. They'd sail through hell for him—truly."

"And you?" Cecilia pouted. "Will I see you run after a man with one eye, one arm, the most junior admiral in the list?"

"You will, Cec," Kydd said. "Nelson is th' greatest leader I know, and if he says that this is the way t' do it, why, that's the way t' do it."

"There are some who are not so easily persuaded ..." Cecilia said archly.

"Who? They're jealous, is all!"

"Lord Stanhope, for one."

Kydd paused. Stanhope's discreet position as a diplomat was mysterious, and involved much travel, but it was known his allegiance was to London alone. His presence in Minorca would not be coincidental. "What is he saying, then?"

"Well, he doesn't even tell things to Lady Stanhope," Cecilia said, "but when he heard that Sir Horatio had caused King Ferdinand to move on the French he was very uneasy—and even the news that Rome was restored didn't bring him to humour."

"Is that all? Well, now Nelson is a peer o' the realm—Baron Nelson o' the Nile! An' there's talk that the King o' Naples is going to make him a duke. Doesn't that tell you what the world thinks of him?" He sat up and tested the holding of the little kedge anchor. "Cec, we've got the mongseers on the run. Everywhere they're losin' battles—and it could be," he said, with a sudden wrinkling of his brow, "that this war is going t' be over soon."

Sir William Hamilton entered the room quietly. Nelson, scrawling at a great rate in his peculiar crabwise fashion, was at his desk by the window with its magnificent view of the Bay of Naples. He was grey with exhaustion and his slight body seemed shrivelled, but his expression nevertheless retained a fierce vitality. "Is it true?"

"I fear so. I have a letter from General Mack. In essence he cannot be sure of holding them, even at Capua. It's the very worst news—I'm sorry." It had been so extraordinarily swift: Rome had been taken but the regrouping French had rapidly struck back, vengefully striking south into the heart of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies. And now it seemed that the Austrian commander of King Ferdinand's forces, Mack, with an army far larger than that of the French, had contrived to lose every encounter with them so far.

Nelson stared out of the window, then said heavily, "Our situation in Leghorn becomes insupportable. The grand duke must shift for himself."

"Our reputation would be irretrievably ruined, should—"

"I didn't mean that," Nelson said testily. "I shall send a frigate, should his household be put to hazard."

"As it appears it will ..."

Nelson threw down his quill, got to his feet, and paced the floor as if it were a quarterdeck. "Charles Emmanuel of Sardinia escapes to Cagliari, now the Grand Duke of Tuscany flees before his own people—what kind of rulers are they? And from London I've received only reproaches—never any soldiers. How can I steady these cowardly wretches without English soldiers?" He stopped pacing. "I will leave Malta to Ball. That is all I can retain of this shambles."

Hamilton murmured sympathy but Nelson interrupted, "General Buonaparte! To give the devil his due, he's now crossed an impassable desert and kept his army together, which is more than any man would credit. Now he's marching north into the Holy Land and could be anywhere. God damn his French soul!"

A young army captain covered with dust entered hurriedly and handed over a dispatch satchel. "Sir! From Capua." He saluted. "Sir, you might give thought to your safety—Naples is in a rare state of disorder. The people are terrified they are being abandoned to the French, that the King will depart privily and—"

"Thank you, sir. Now go," growled Nelson, unbuckling the satchel and scanning the single sheet. He looked up slowly. "Good God ..."

"What is it?"

"Mack has been defeated! His army is now only a rabble— more than two thousand have deserted, he's lost communication with his rear. There's nothing between us here and General Championnet's veterans." Nelson went to his desk and slumped into the chair. He stared into space for a moment, then picked up the papers he was working on and tore them up, one by one.

When he had finished he looked up with an odd smile. "There is now nothing to detain us in Naples. You may wish to make your dispositions for leaving, Sir William."

Hamilton opened his mouth but closed it again, then said, " Yes. I shall be within call," and left as quietly as he had arrived.

Nelson's head drooped in despair. The door opened again. "Why, what's this? England's Glory in a stew, is 'e?" Lady Hamilton crossed to Nelson, whose face lit up. "The conqueror of th' Nile cast down? For shame!"

"Your ladyship has only to bestow a smile and I shall be made new again."

"There's somethin' wrong, isn't there?" she said, her hand on his shoulder.

Nelson stood up, as though to throw off her touch. "We are to evacuate Naples, I believe," he said harshly. "That is to say, the King and Queen and their household—they must not be allowed to fall into the hands of the French."

She went pale. "You mean—well, we must, o' course. But if—"

Outside, from the cold corridors of the palazzo came shouts and the sound of people running. She looked fearfully at Nelson— and the Queen burst into the room. "Siamo persi!"

Emma crossed to the frantic woman and held her, stroking, comforting. "She's hearin' the tumbrels comin' for her too," she said. The Queen's sister, Marie Antoinette, had been guillotined by the revolutionaries in Paris. "Non i preoccupare, signora, cara, Nelson ci sta con noi," she added in spirited Italian. Looking over her shoulder at Nelson, she said, "If we're t' do it proper, it's best we 'ave a good plan. What are we to do, Adm'ral?"

There were ships enough. Vanguard lay at anchor in the bay with other warships, and there were smaller vessels, which Nelson ordered to be prepared for the evacuation of English residents— but no indication of the Royal Family's departure could be even hinted at.

As if on a visit of state, Sir William Hamilton and Admiral Nelson made the short journey from the embassy to the vast Palazzo Reale, palace to the kings of the Two Sicilies for centuries and a fortress in its own right.

"Your Majesty," Nelson murmured, bowing low to King Ferdinand. A repugnant figure, with the raw-boned build of a farm labourer, the King had small, sly eyes each side of a grotesquely long nose, and gave a doltish impression—yet the safety of this monarch was Nelson's prime duty.

"Do acquaint His Majesty of our intentions, if you please, my dear." Emma Hamilton was fast becoming indispensable with her warm, practical handling of the royal couple, whom she had long known, not to mention her easy familiarity with the language. It seemed there would be no difficulties from them, as long as the Queen's hysteria could be kept in check. Nelson crossed to a window and pulled aside the curtain to peer out: the waterfront was seething with angry crowds converging on the palace.

"We're not going to be able to get to the boats through that," he said soberly, "even with a regiment of soldiers."

"Don't be fooled, sir. They love the King an' would never 'ave a revolution," Emma came back.

"That is quite true," Hamilton said. "The lazzaroni, the common people, adore their king. It's the lawyers and petty bureaucrats who see their opportunity at this time. We must ensure that their loyalty is not tested by, er, their sovereign's precipitate flight. Sir Horatio is quite right in his concern—I rather fear we may find ourselves trapped here." In the rich surrounds of the immense gold-vaulted room they were as helpless as any felon in the local prison.

"There is one course that we may consider." Hamilton's cool words were in English; his warning glance at Emma kept her mute. "It would be a coup beyond compare should the famous Horatio Nelson be taken by the French. At all costs this must not happen. I suggest that as we are English, the mob will let us pass ..."

"No," Nelson said crisply. "There will be another way to get them out—at night perhaps. We prepare for evacuation now. Troubridge will arrive soon and we shall conceive a plan together."

"Then might I recommend that the treasury be not left to the French? It is reputed to be of several millions in specie alone." There were also rich paintings, hangings, gilded carvings beyond counting—but these would have to remain. Only the state reserves could be taken.

Darkness fell. More crowds gathered below, chanting and restless. There would be no flight from the palace even at night. Troubridge arrived at last: grave and polite, he listened while Nelson gave his orders, then slipped away to prepare communications with the ships.

The chanting grew in volume and Hamilton peeped out. "Dare I ask that Their Majesties show themselves to the crowd?"

The King and Queen of the Kingdom of the Two Sicilies appeared on the balcony of the palace to tumultuous applause, bowing and waving, held for an hour by the baying crowds before they could move inside, pale and shaking.

"We move the treasury to the embassy," Nelson snapped. "I want every cask and barrel that the kitchens can find, and we'll stow it all in those." The embassy in the Palazzo Sessa was conveniently on high ground at the back of the palace, and before long, gold ducats, silver from a dozen countries and even gold sovereigns were being nailed into hogsheads and ankers, Emma loyally scrawling in chalk on each one "Stores for Nelson."

The howls of the mob grew louder. Hamilton eased back the curtain again. The streets were alive with packs of men, some carrying torches, others weapons. "They're staying around the palace," he murmured. "We dare not leave.

"There goes Ferreri," he said, and stiffened. A figure in a dark cloak thrust across the waterfront road and began to board a boat not a hundred yards away. The boatman gestured angrily, shouting at the crowd. Ferreri was a valuable man to Hamilton, a royalist Frenchman with a line to secrets within the Jacobin underworld.

With horrifying swiftness the mob closed round him. His French accent had triggered suspicions and he was dragged from the boat on to the quayside where he disappeared under a flailing pack. They punched, kicked and tore at the black figure until it moved no more, then a rope was tied round one leg and the corpse was dragged over the cobblestones towards the palace, leaving a slime of blood to glitter in the torchlight. A maniac chanting started from the upturned faces below the balcony.

"My God," said Hamilton. "They want to show the King what they've done for him!"

Queen Maria Carolina dropped into a swoon; the King made odd gobbling noises. Nelson turned to Hamilton. "We have to leave now, sir. Do you know—"

The Queen came to herself, muttering strangely.

"Be quiet! Everyone!" Emma listened intently, then threw a triumphant look at Nelson. "She says there's some kind o' door—a gate. It connects her rooms to th' old caves an' passages under Naples."

"That could well be so," said Hamilton. "We know of the sottosuolo, where the Romans left underground catacombs and tunnels after excavating for tufo building stone. Huge voids, some, and artefacts have been found that date—"

Emma gave a twisted smile. "She says she hasn't told us before as she's always worried a thief might get to know of it an' rob her in her sleep."

"Do any of these connect with the sea?" Nelson demanded.

"Apparently most of them do, yes," Hamilton said.

"The sea!" Nelson's cry was heartfelt: to an Englishman the sea was a friend, a highway to freedom. "At which point?" he added hastily.

"The Molosiglio."

"That's all I need. I'll get word to Troubridge directly. Please to inform Their Majesties to prepare for their departure."

Soon after midnight Nelson stood grimly at the top of a dark stairway, listening to the hollow sound of approaching footsteps. A naval officer came into view, blinking uncertainly in the bright light. "Cap'n Hope, Alcmene frigate, sir, with a party of men," he said, touching his hat.

"Well met, sir! Shall we proceed?"

"Aye aye, sir."

"Light the torches—I shall go first." Nelson descended the dank stairs and paused at the bottom to inspect the seamen. They were in their familiar sea rig and all had drawn cutlasses, which gleamed in the flickering torchlight.

"Keep station on me," he snapped, drew his sword and plunged forward. It was ghostly quiet in the ancient tunnels and stank of damp antiquity. The flickering light fell on rough-hewn tunnel walls and the black of anonymous voids.

The men hurried to keep up, the only sound their footsteps and heavy breathing. Nelson was in front, his sword at point. From behind came occasional female squawks of protest but the pace never slackened.

A petty officer pointed to an open iron gate. "Th' entrance, if y' please, sir." Beyond, the stars glittered in the night sky. "All's well," he hailed into the blackness and an anxious lieutenant appeared.

"Sir, your barge is at the mole."

"I shall not board until Their Majesties are safely embarked."

"Aye aye, sir," the lieutenant said reluctantly.

When the Royal Family arrived, there were cloaks to conceal them and men to carry their belongings. Seamen stood guard on the short distance to the mole, facing outwards with naked blades. With heartbreaking sobs, the Queen, clutching her baby, was bundled aboard the admiral's barge, the King rigid with fear beside her.

"We're going t' be jus' fine, sir," Emma said stoutly, smoothing the distraught Queen's hair, "an' lookin' forward to a bit o' sea air now, aren't we?"

Vanguard was soon in a state of chaos: the Royal Family included young princes and princesses, ministers, ambassadors—any, it seemed, who feared the imminent catastrophe—all of whom had to be found accommodation.

As soon as Nelson came aboard he had only one question of his flag-lieutenant: "What is General Buonaparte doing?"

"Sir, I'm truly grieved to say he has triumphed over the Turks yet again. At Jaffa, and with three thousand prisoners butchered in cold blood. He is now unopposed, sir." Jaffa was in the Holy Land, far from the European war, but ominously north of Egypt and therefore in a direct path to Constantinople and the trade routes east to India. Napoleon Buonaparte had succeeded in breaking out of his desert prison and was now on the march north in a bid to outdo Alexander's conquests.

"And, sir, Captain Sidney Smith begs to inform you that he is attempting a defence of Acre just to the north with two sail-of-the-line."

CHAPTER 12

KYDD STEPPED OFF THE BOAT in Acre, ruefully contemplating the fortunes of war. While he had succeeded in Minorca, he had failed to gain the notice he had sought, but his part in the recapture of the island had ensured that when a lieutenant for service ashore in Acre had been called for, his name had been the first that was mentioned. He had heard that the commander, Sir Sidney Smith, was a daring, unconventional officer who, no doubt, would welcome initiative and ambition.

Tigre, with Tenacious and a hodge-podge of small fry, was all that had been available to Smith and he was going to try to hold on to this old town, which lay directly in the path of the French advance north. With a handful of troops and seamen to call on, against an army of thirteen thousand with siege artillery and the legendary Buonaparte at its head, he could not last for long, but if he could delay the French advance even for a short time, perhaps the Turks would take heart and make a defence of Constantinople.

While the crew transferred his gear from Tenacious's pinnace, Kydd looked around. It was a squarish walled town of immeasurable antiquity on a low, west-facing promontory. The golden-yellow stone walls were grey and gnarled with age, crumbling towers and empty gun embrasures testifying to its dilapidated condition. A tiny, silted harbour to the south-east had been created by a mole, but breaking water over rocky shoals offshore showed it was useless to larger ships. The dry, arid odour of sun-baked rocks was overlaid with the pungent goat-like smell of camels, together with the heady aroma of spices and dried fish.

A small gateway opened and a marine sergeant came forward. "Sah!" he said, saluting smartly. "L'tenant Hewitt, sah, welcomes you ashore an' would you come wi' me?" Kydd followed him through narrow streets swarming with people in every form of dress. They emerged into a small square, on one side of which was a building with a marine sentry on guard beneath a flag hanging limply.

Inside, a naval lieutenant, writing at a desk, looked up at Kydd's entry. "Ah, you're expected, old fellow. I'm Hewitt, third o' the Tigre." He extended a hand and listened courteously as Kydd introduced himself.

"I expect you'll be interested to know that this is, pro tem, the headquarters of our commander ashore, and therefore our place o' duty also."

Kydd's interest quickened. "Duty?"

"Ah. That is our aggrieved leader being mysterious. He means us to be in turn a duty officer ashore in his place. We take watch 'n' watch, sleeping here where we can be found."

"Aggrieved?"

"Why, yes—I'm amazed you've not heard the tale! He was at Toulon with Hood in 'ninety-three, personally setting the torch to near a dozen French sail-o'-the-line. Next he gets himself captured in a river action and is taken to Paris. There he's accused by our fine friend Buonaparte of being an incendiary and is thrown into a condemned cell while they prepare a public trial. But he made a daring escape before they could do the deed and now he's facing this same Buonaparte again and vows he will make him smart for it."

"He's really going t' see out a siege against the whole French army?" said Kydd. It was bold and courageous, but was Smith imagining he could stand against an army of conquest with siege guns?

Hewitt went on drily, "Do not judge Sir Sidney by standards you'd use on others. He's unique, completely fearless and most inventive in the arts of war. You'll find him ... different. Many dislike him for his ways. As my captain, I've found him amiable enough. And he's devilishly well connected—his brother's our top diplomat in Constantinople, and he takes his orders direct from the Foreign Office as plenipotentiary, which has probably put Our Nel's nose somewhat out of joint."

"What are our orders, then?" Kydd said.

"We'll both discover shortly—he's coming ashore to plan his defences." Hewitt looked at Kydd shrewdly. "As I said, make no hasty judgements. He's damned clever and brave to a fault."

Smith arrived promptly at noon. Fastidiously dressed, he had made no concessions to their surroundings. His uniform coat even bore the bejewelled star of some order. Kydd noted the delicacy of his grip as he shook his hand, the sensitivity of his face.

"Conference now, if you please, gentlemen." He led the way to an upper room with plain furniture scattered about and pulled a table to the centre. There he spread out a large hand-drawn map, showing the land features that were necessarily missing from the familiar sea chart. "This, gentlemen, is the town of St John d'Acre. As you can see, walled around, open ground without. Two sides to the sea, two facing inland—here at their corner is a large square tower. It has good observation possibilities. The locals call it the 'Cursed Tower.'" He added lightly, "It seems it was paid for with Judas Iscariot's thirty pieces of silver."

Kydd was not interested in a Biblical allusion. "Sir, ye're thinking on making a stand against Gen'ral Buonaparte here?"

Smith's smile vanished. "I most certainly am, Mr Kydd. Can you be one of those wretched crew who cringe at the sound of his name? I mean to show the world that he can be bested—and, remember, we have the sea at our backs."

Kydd felt Hewitt's eyes on him. "Sir, with no soldiers it'll be a hard job."

"You're forgetting Djezzar, the ruler of this region. He is providing three thousand of the best troops—Anatolian, Albanian, Kurds, Africans—and will reside within these walls while the French do their worst, trusting us to effect its defence."

Something of Kydd's scepticism must have shown, for Smith went on, "Our object is simply to hold the town until relieved. And I can tell you now that at this very moment a Turkish army eight times the size of Buonaparte's is preparing to advance towards us. Not even the victor of Italy may prevail over that."

There was the sound of movement and voices below. "Ah, he has arrived." Smith went to the window and stared out until an older officer, with a deeply lined face, wearing a uniform that Kydd did not recognise, entered. Smith turned and, with a warm smile, greeted him in a stream of mellifluous French, gesturing first to Hewitt, who responded with a bow and murmured French, and then to Kydd, who could only bow and mutter in English.

"For those without the necessary accomplishment I will translate," Smith said. "This gentleman is Lieutenant General the Count Phélippeaux, an honourable Frenchman of the ancien régime. He is in the first rank of those learned in the arts of fortification and will tell us how best we may prepare for our siege."

Kydd's expression altered, but Smith, mistaking the change, went on, "Set aside your concerns. This was the officer who, in the most handsome manner, assisted in my escape from the prison cell in Paris. He has every reason to detest the revolutionaries, you may believe, Mr Kydd."

The conference moved forward quickly. Whatever else, Smith was clear-headed and energetic. Within the hour they had settled on immediate priorities: with an unknown time before Buonaparte appeared, their defences had to be completed as soon as possible.

The most effective would be in the deploying of their two ships of force, which amounted to the equivalent of a regiment of artillery. Each ship would be anchored in position so that it could fire down the length of one side or the other of the walls, their line of fire intersecting at the end. The open ground in front of the walls across which the enemy must pass for an assault could therefore be kept under fire. The only problem with this was that shallow water with rocky shoals extended in places for several miles, making it a dangerous and exposed anchorage for ships of size. They would be firing at extreme range.

The count engaged in long, earnest discussions with Smith, which Smith summarised tersely. It seemed that, without effective artillery of their own, they would be at a grave disadvantage: they had to keep Buonaparte's siege guns at a distance or they would effect a rapid breach.

"I shall land guns from Tigre and Tenacious with volunteer seamen gunners to serve them. The men relish a jaunt ashore and I shall oblige them." More discussion yielded their number and position.

Things were looking up for Kydd: with seamen to command and a worthy task ahead, there was every prospect of distinguished service.

Smith stood and stretched theatrically. "At this point it would appear appropriate to involve Djezzar Pasha." He began to pace about the room, his hands behind his back. "I would have you understand the importance I attach to our alliance. He alone has the men close at hand whom we need, and without him we are lost. Now, before we make audience, allow me to say something of this worthy gentleman. He is pasha of this region, holding nominal allegiance to Sultan Selim in Constantinople but has always been an independent spirit."

He glanced significantly at the other two officers in turn. " 'Djezzar' means Slasher or Butcher and it is an apt name. When he was young he sold himself into slavery to the Mamelukes and by sinister means made himself indispensable as an assassin until he turned his blade on his master. He is cruel and has the morals of a polecat, but is the ruler and will be accorded all possible marks of respect. Is that clear?"

"Understood, sir," said Hewitt. Kydd nodded.

"Then we shall proceed to the harem."

"Sir?" both officers said, in astonishment.

"All official business with Djezzar Pasha is conducted in his seraglio. Shall we go now?"

With an increasing sense of unreality, Kydd followed Smith through noisy ancient streets to a complex of buildings to the north and a tent surrounded by chattering Arabs in a courtyard with palm trees and a fountain. A tall man in a turban approached and bowed in the eastern manner.

"To see His Excellency," Smith said, with practised hauteur. This was the man, Kydd had been told, who had recently won over the Sublime Porte in Constantinople to secure a treaty—he would be no stranger to eastern ways.

They entered the tent: rich hangings, soft carpets, riotous colour, unknown tongues—it was all an exotic wonder to Kydd.

To one side a man sat cross-legged and others stood round him obsequiously. The man, whom Smith indicated was Djezzar, rose: well-built and mature, he wore the full burnous of the desert Arab and carried himself with dignity, a diamond-hilted dagger at his waist.

Smith bowed deeply and Kydd hastened to do likewise. Smith spoke in French to Djezzar, and the four then retired to the interior where they all sat cross-legged. Kydd refused a bubble-pipe but Hewitt accepted out of curiosity. Kydd looked furtively about for ladies of the harem but, disappointingly, saw none.

Smith conversed urbanely and at length with Djezzar, whose harsh, booming voice had a hard edge of authority. Kydd leaned over to Hewitt. "What's the drift?" he whispered.

"Asking for men to build up the fortifications," Hewitt replied, in a low voice, "and about the Turkish cavalry promised to us." There was a snarl and impassioned words from Djezzar. "He says he told them to go out and attack the enemy and not to return until they had done something worthy of his notice."

The audience had apparently been a success: on the way back to their headquarters Smith made light commentary on the sights, approving the purposeful hurry of gangs now setting about clearing detritus and rubble from the walls, labouring at the stonework, shoring up weak bastions.

In their campaign room Smith looked in satisfaction at the map as he made corrections and notes. "So far, so good," he said briskly. "El Djezzar is proving most co-operative, and I'm sanguine that if we do our part we shall have a good chance of delaying the French long enough for the Turks to bring them to battle.

"There is much to do—I shall be returning aboard Tigre. I want those guns landed before sunset and placed in position without delay. Your orders are here." He produced a slim sheaf of papers. "In essence they require you to act for me ashore.

Djezzar Pasha has been notified that you may do so in my name. Therefore you will acquaint yourselves thoroughly with my orders so that nothing is overlooked."

He considered for a moment, then said, "We have no reliable knowledge of the French advance. It might be prudent to begin a regular reconnaissance south until their presence is detected. One of you will take a boat away at dusk for this purpose."

"So, we have our orders, an' our task is tolerably clear. I only hope we can get away in time."

"You are not confident of a favourable outcome?" Hewitt responded coolly.

"Are you?"

"I know my duty, I believe," Hewitt said stiffly.

"F'r me ..." Kydd began, and thought better of it. "Then let's be started. Where's Suleiman, the translator we've been promised?" He turned out to be the tall man at the seraglio.

"Er, Mr Suleiman, I want t' see the serang—whatever you'd call th' chief of the workers on the wall. There's not a moment t' lose."

The first gun from Tigre was landed at the mole soon after midday: a heavy twenty-four-pounder, laid along the thwarts of a launch, and its two tons of cold iron swayed ashore by improvised sheer-legs. A gun-carriage followed, then boats with powder and shot, some with stores and rum casks.

Soon after, the grinning faces of Dobbie, his close friend Laffin and others arrived in Tenacious's cutter, volunteers all, ready to man the guns that would soon face the great Napoleon Buonaparte. Their twenty-four-pounder, which had come earlier in the launch, was man-hauled through the streets and into place.

"Dobbie, you're gun captain here. There'll be a Frenchy along presently as will tell ye where, er, you'll best direct y'r fire." There would be no looming enemy ship to fire into: presumably it would be columns of men or random waves of attackers. He ignored the puzzled looks of the men at the word "Frenchy."

The Tenacious gun was mounted at the end of the wall where it met the sea to the south and commanded the open ground in front of the town, now being broken up to form a discouragement to attackers. Kydd let his gaze move across the littered landscape: wild fig trees and hovels had been levelled out to line-of-sight of the nearest high ground some quarter of a mile away. Beyond that was the anonymous dry, scrubby country that stretched inland to distant purple hills. It would be from this direction that the army of Napoleon Buonaparte would come.

Kydd watched Dobbie dispose his men in imitation of shipboard, handspike and crow to hand. He had ensured that there was a semblance of a magazine along the inside of the wall and gave orders for the safe handling of powder and shot. But he was becoming uneasy in this unfamiliar world and hoped their withdrawal would not be long delayed; it had been in a similar siege on land at Calvi that Nelson had lost the sight of one eye to the splintering stone of a ricocheting shot.

Hewitt had concluded his gun dispositions at the other end of the wall—they could now converge fire and, judging from the chattering fascination of gaping onlookers, they were giving heart by their presence.

They met later back at their musty headquarters for a snatched meal. "We get marines t'morrow," Kydd said, through the last of his lamb stew, "t' use as we please."

"Orders are strict enough in the matter of sentries. I'd far rather trust a leatherneck on sentry-go than a Turk, if you take my point."

"I do. An' I notice that we're on watch an' watch—days on an' split the nights?"

"Alternately?"

"Agreed." Kydd lifted his cup in acknowledgement; the wine was dry and resinous but pleasant enough. Hewitt looked disapprovingly at the china cup but drank.

"And the dusk patrol?"

"That's f'r me," Kydd said quickly—the chance for some sea-time was not to be missed. It was also an opportunity to show Smith what he could do.

"Then I'll take the first watch."

"Aye."

Hewitt seemed moody, distracted. Kydd sensed that he was having misgivings. "Rum sort of place," Kydd tried. "Ye can see how old it is."

"Old? You might say that," said Hewitt bleakly. "This is Canaan—that is to say, the Phoenician lands from centuries before Rome. And that's the road to Nazareth over the hills—St Paul was here, and this was the very place, St John of Acre, where Richard the Lionheart and the crusaders marched against Jerusalem. It's been fought over by all the tribes of man for thousands of years, and now we are come to add our blood ..."

Kydd would not be depressed: this was a passing strange and unusual task for a sea officer but it was also the best and only chance in sight for notice and advancement.

"Laffin, get a boat's crew t'gether for me. Cox'n an' six, the launch under sail and I'll have the thirty-two-pounder carronade shipped in the bows." There was no harm in being well prepared: a boat action could be the most brutal form of combat at sea. "Ready in half an hour, if y' please."

He examined the charts with Hewitt: communications with the south were a road following a fertile strip along the sea at the edge of the desert—if the enemy were to come they must choose between the coast road and a long swing inland from the interior to reach the gates of Acre.

"I'll press south t' this Mount Carmel," Kydd mused. "Ten miles or so. They'll come along the coast road's my guess."

"Mount Carmel—Elijah discomfits the prophets of Baal, two Kings something ..."

Kydd could not bring it to mind: this was half a world away from the boredom of the Sunday service in Guildford town where the dry words of a preacher speaking of the Holy Land bore no resemblance at all to this arid country.

"... the Samaritans, even. Christ passed by here on his way to Jerusalem ..."

"Um, that's right—an' I'm takin' a carronade in case they have gunboats out. Do ye keep a watch f'r gunfire, as will be y'r signal they're abroad." He left Hewitt to his Biblical musings and collected his sword belt from the corner. He favoured a shoulder carriage to spread the weight, leaving the belt loose for a brace of pistols. His fighting sword had a satisfying heft and in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun he strode down to the mole.

Laffin, the hard petty officer Kydd remembered from his "duel" in Canada, touched his hat at his approach; also in the boat was the lofty Poulden, forward at the stubby carronade, and several other Tenaciouses along the thwarts. A stout enough crew, he thought with satisfaction.

"Pistols an' cutlasses?"

"In th' arms chest, sir," Laffin said immediately.

He boarded the big launch and settled in the sternsheets, leaving Laffin the tiller. "We'll shove off now, if y' please," Kydd told him.

The soft westerly meant they did not even have to ship oars as the gaff-headed main was hoisted. "I'll have th' running bowsprit out with jib an' stays'l, I believe." The carronade would not bear forward while this was rigged but it would add considerably to their speed and could be struck in a hurry if need be.

The boat left the mole, slipped past the roiling white of the Manara rocks, then headed out to sea to preserve an offing before shaping course south. It was most pleasant, Kydd had to admit; the sun sinking out to sea in shimmering splendour, warmth still in the air, and in the other direction, the low, nondescript coast taking on the wistful indigo of evening. Along the endless virgin sands was the startling white of breakers, the purple of far mountains now a deep ultramarine.

Olive gardens and small clusters of the flat-topped dwellings were dotted along the shore. Several times figures stopped, watching them curiously. The cheerful splash of their passage and the occasional grunted conversation of the men lulled Kydd into a reverie—he pulled himself together. What did a great army look like, apart from thousands of bayonets? He had no idea, but knew that if he saw one his duty was to get the news to Smith with the utmost urgency.

The bay curved round. At one place he saw classical ruins enough to make Renzi stare—but he was not present: he was in distant England, resolving his personal life. A string of camels plodded along the skyline. Kydd idly counted nearly a hundred on the dusty road with their riders in flowing desert cloaks looking as if they had stepped out of a picture book of his childhood. He followed their advance, their riders rhythmically jerking forward as though in a boat in a rough sea—jerking? Surely a desert Bedouin had a more comfortable style of riding.

He looked about quickly. "Laffin—put about an' go beyond that spit o' land." They had passed a tiny headland, no more than a small twist of sand. The boat went about smartly and returned the way they had come. As soon as they were out of sight of the riders Kydd said urgently, "Set me ashore, an' stand off 'n' on until they're past, then collect me."

The boat scrunched into the fine sand beyond the point and Kydd leaped off, scurrying to get into the fringing grasses of the sand dune. He crouched, waiting. There were no sounds of sighting or pursuit but he kept very still. At length came the soft chinkle of a camel harness and the murmur of voices on the evening air. A delicate, unknown but haunting fragrance warred with the dry pungency of the desert and the nearer salty sand of the dunes—he flattened among the reedy grasses, rigid with concentration.

He felt the thumping of camel feet through the ground as they drew nearer. The voices were louder—and it was not Arabic that was being spoken but French.

It seemed to take for ever for the camel train to pass. He heard muted laughter, sharp words and an occasional snatch of song above the rustle of shuffling feet and the leathery slap of harness. Finally the last one passed. Cautiously Kydd raised his head: they were receding along the road without looking back. He delayed for a while longer, then slid down to the beach and waited for the boat.

"Load with canister!" he growled at Poulden, as they shoved off. There was no doubt in his mind of what he should do—the sound of the cannon would be as good as a personal report to Smith of their presence.

The launch leaned purposefully to the wind; they passed the camel train once more, the riders took no notice of the little sailing boat offshore. Kydd chose his move carefully: if the boat took the ground they could expect no mercy from the enemy riders.

At a stipple in the line of dunes ahead he doused the sails and took in the bowsprit, using oars to rotate them shoreward. "Out kedge," he snapped. The little anchor plummeted and bit and the line tautened over the transom. He paid it out to allow the boat to nose close in, the deadly carronade trained steadily on the shore. Still the camel riders did not take alarm: in the uncertain light and against the setting sun it must have seemed a fishing-boat.

The line of camels came on, some heads turned curiously. "As they bear, Poulden," Kydd growled, "an' make it count." There was a great army following behind and he had no compunction about the blood he was about to spill, but his heart beat faster as the train of camels passed the cold black muzzle.

The carronade crashed back in its slide, the gun-flash nearly blinding in the fading light. The effect on the column was instant— sleeting balls tore into them, and with squeals and screams it dissolved into panic. One riderless camel fled back down the road as others shed their mounts and scrambled in terror over the dunes. Hoarse cries of command mingled with shrieks. Poulden reloaded, and Laffin deftly lined up the boat for another crashing discharge.

In total disarray, the camel train was no more, still dark forms and wildly scrabbling men and animals all that were left. Kydd recalled from the map that inland there was nothing but salt-marsh: the French would find themselves trapped.

"Secure the gun," he ordered. They had made contact with the enemy and alerted the defenders—there was no glory in useless bloodshed.

Smith arrived late for the morning conference, and wasted no time. "So Buonaparte's advance guard now has a bloody nose—well done, Mr Kydd." He grinned without humour. "We can expect therefore that they'll abandon the coast road and swing inland to come at us from the north. There's no time to lose. We're nearly complete with the fosse—that's our surrounding ditch—and all the gunboats I can find are anchored here in support."

He bit his lip. "Regrettably it would appear that the Muhammadans have got wind of Buonaparte's behaviour at the siege of Jaffa—he induced the garrison there to surrender, then took them all down to the beach and slaughtered the lot. Had the cold-blooded gall to use bayonets to save powder. Now half our own Mussulmen are streaming out of town and heading for the hills." Unexpectedly, he smiled. "But this means that those who remain will be staunch. We're well rid of the rest—useless mouths to feed.

"So! We expect Buonaparte on our doorstep directly. I have given orders concerning the illumination of the wall in the event of a surprise attack and other matters, do you both ensure they are carried out—" He was interrupted by a messenger. Unfolding the dispatch he chuckled grimly. "From Tenacious. Good news indeed, for once. In fact, magnificent news." Dancing a jig and flourishing the paper aloft, he grinned boyishly at the dumbfounded officers.

"This will take the shine off the morning for Mr Buonaparte. Tenacious fell in with a French convoy off Mount Carmel and took nine—nine o' the beggars, mark you!" Kydd and Hewitt politely murmured their surprise, but Smith continued, "And the best thing about it is, those were Buonaparte's entire siege train! He has no ammunition, no heavy guns—we're reprieved, gentlemen. Unless he gets another such, we have a chance."

Kydd felt an unworthy envy: he could visualise the convoy, within sight of safe harbour and then a ship-of-the-line, no less, appears from round the point. Boarding parties are sent away in every boat, seizing vessel after vessel, all under the helpless eye of the French army ashore.

"Count Phelippeaux will be exceedingly satisfied with this morning's work—we shall mount the guns ourselves and pound 'em with their own metal," Smith concluded.

Later in the morning there was a blurring of the horizon to the north-east, a broad ochrous veil of dust rising from the countless thousands of a great army. Kydd climbed the narrow steps inside the Cursed Tower to see for himself. His pocket spyglass added details of the serried glitter of bayonets, columns of dusty blue coats, cavalry, vast numbers of wagons, light guns, more columns.

In its creeping, menacing, unstoppable progress it was a sinister sight. It would take some time yet to reach them but when it did it would clamp a vice-like grip on Acre before an overwhelming assault.

Kydd went cold as he considered the larger scene and realised the stakes could hardly be bigger. Buonaparte was a ruthless, gifted general: there was no reason why he could not complete his march north by taking Constantinople from the weakened Turks. Then he would stand astride the route to India and the world. Only one thing was in his way: Acre.

If he bypassed it on his thrust north he would then have a port in his wake through which his enemies could pour troops to fall on his rear at any time. Even in his ignorance of military affairs Kydd could see that this would be intolerable. While Acre still stood Buonaparte's triumphant advance was halted. He had no alternative but to throw everything he had into its destruction.

Kydd descended the tower stairs slowly. This was no longer a simple duty in a far-off land: it was now the crux of the whole war against the French and he had been called to the fore at this critical hour. Acre must be held.

A sea mist over a calm sea was lifting as Kydd made his way back to the headquarters, but the road out of Acre was full of people, some on donkeys or camels, others in wooden wagons, all hurrying away from the doomed town.

Smith was still at the headquarters, crisply ordering the disposition of the captured guns. Kydd took up the order book to make sure he was aware of any changes. In addition to sentries there were outlying pickets who would be the first to catch sight of the siege army. They would retire quickly and sound the alert. A small force of gunboats would patrol to seaward from now on, not only to give warning of hostile naval forces but also to deny the attackers any seaborne supply.

Hewitt returned from his inspection of the northern flank with Tigre's gun, propping his sword in the corner and wiping his brow, ready to hear Smith's latest news.

"Ah! Now, gentlemen, let me apprise you of some intelligence that has come my way. It appears that while Tenacious dealt ably with the convoy, four vessels escaped. These, it turns out, are sailing barges laden with stores for the army. I don't have to tell you, if the enemy is denied these he will find it hard to forage hereabouts ..."

Kydd could see where it was all leading. "Sir, where are they?"

"In the port below Mount Carmel, which is Haifa. There's no doubt it will require a bold cutting-out expedition if we wish to take them from the enemy."

"Three boats enough, sir?" Kydd said casually. A smart operation would at the very least mean a mention in dispatches.

"I would think so," Smith said, with satisfaction.

The little flotilla set off in longboats and cutters in the last of the daylight, Kydd's boat in the lead, the other two under a senior midshipman on either flank. In all there were sufficient seamen to fight any reasonable waterfront opposition and work the captured vessels out to sea.

He had studied the charts: Haifa was a small haven, a lengthy quay enclosing an inner harbour. If the barges were alongside this quay on either side it would be a straightforward matter but if they were further in it would complicate things.

The Bay of Haifa was calm; a quarter-moon gave adequate visibility and there did not seem to be any other shipping about, apart from the lateen sails of the ubiquitous trading feluccas. Nevertheless things could happen quickly—he felt once more for the comforting presence of his fine fighting sword. There was every prospect that this night it would taste its first blood.

The land was dark and anonymous; occasional lights flickered but nothing to show the presence of a great army. They had diverted inland, Kydd reasoned, and were probably close to taking up their positions around Acre. His resolution firmed—their action would bring results out of all proportion to their numbers and justify risks.

They approached the end of the bay, the bold bluff of Mount Carmel easy to make out; the small port of Haifa was at its base. Kydd strained to see into the harbour—there were some lights, but not enough to reveal the situation, and the quarter-moon was now veiled in high cloud. "Keep together!" he hailed to the others.

The barges were probably inside the long quay, but where? The further in they were the longer they would be under fire as they sailed out with their prizes. But on the other hand there did not appear to be formal defences—in fact, there were neither gunboats at the entrance nor soldiers guarding the quay. Could they be so lucky?

Closer, there were no sudden shouts or signs of alarm. Tense and ready to order an instant retreat, Kydd took his tiny fleet round the end of the quay and into the inner harbour. The barges came into view—at the far end, rafted together, probably to unload in the morning into the tall warehouses that lined the wharf.

It was quiet—too quiet? The cheery splash of their passage could be heard echoing back from the tall stone of the quay. The waterfront buildings were in complete darkness, the nearest lights in the small town on the slopes above. He could not see anything of concern but the silence was unnerving.

Kydd felt uneasy with the long passage they were having to make up the harbour. If they had encountered opposition, even just well-placed muskets on the quay and the inner shoreline, they would not have been able to penetrate more than yards towards their prizes, so close to were they on each side.

Barely two hundred yards away Kydd looked about for the easiest way to board. One or two curious Arabs glanced their way, and on one of the barges a curious head popped up. "Red cutter t' larb'd, longboat th' other side," Kydd called quietly to the other boat crews. They would fall on the barges from each side, working inboard.

The order was barely uttered when Kydd's world tore apart. A single hoarse shout came from somewhere, then the crash of muskets, screams and violent movements in the boat slammed into his perception. The stroke oar took a ball in the head and jerked before slithering down, his oar flying up and tangling with the next. A shriek came from forward: a man rose, then fell over the side.

Kydd's mind snapped to an icy cold, ferocious concentration. The firing was coming from behind and it was coming down from the upper storeys of the warehouse and the quay. The soldiers had done well to lie concealed while the boats, with their lower line of sight, had gone right past them, the trap well sprung. There could be no return the way they had come. Kydd realised bitterly that the source of Smith's intelligence had also betrayed them to the other side.

There was only one course. "The barges!" he bellowed. There was just a chance that the enemy would be reluctant to fire on their own vessels. It was only twenty or so yards, a dozen frenzied strokes ... A young seaman clutching his cutlass was struck in the throat by a musket-ball with a splutch that sounded curiously loud above the general uproar. He fell forward, kicking, into the bottom of the boat with a strangled bubbling, gouting blood. Kydd could feel the constant slam and thud of bullets into the boat's side as he fought the tiller to counteract the wild slewing as more oarsmen were hit.

The boat thudded woodenly into the side of the outside barge—its freeboard was lower even than that of the longboat. "Take cover on board!" he yelled, clambering over the side to the deserted deck. Others crowded after him. On deck he drew his sword for the first time in deadly earnest and ran forward.

Any hopes that the French would slacken fire on their own ships were proved false—the lethal whup and strike of bullets continued about him with no diminishing. There was no cover on the upper decks of the ungainly barge and with its hold full there was no shelter there either.

With a wrench of the heart Kydd saw that the other boats had loyally made the longer distance round to the other end of the rafted barges in accordance with his last orders and the sailors were clambering up, white faces and bright steel in the moonlight.

"Go f'r the warehouse!" He had to buy time. They rushed forward and over a rickety gangplank to the wharf. Panting hard, Kydd dashed to the doors of the nearest building. He drew his pistol, shot off the padlock and swung the door wide. Inside a musket fired and he saw two or three soldiers frantically reloading. Maddened seamen got to them and slaughtered them in an instant.

The rest of his men threw themselves inside and the door was slammed shut. The darkness was lit only by a single lantern. Kydd shouted at a petty officer to search out any remaining enemy hiding in there and tried to force his mind to a cool rationality. He had probably about thirty men left, far too few to stand up to a regular army force, and only a handful of muskets. Most seamen were equipped for standard boarding with pistols and tomahawks and, of course, a cutlass; their main task was to get sail quickly on the prize.

Peeping through cracks in the door he could see the aimless drift of their abandoned boats and, worse, out of range he could detect enemy soldiers assembling for a rush on them. There was no more time.

His men, seamen he had known through long night watches, out on the yardarm in a gale, at a cannon in the titanic battle of the Nile, were looking to him to make a decision, take firm action and save them.

A lump grew in his throat as cold desolation flooded in. Trapped in an old warehouse with soldiers closing in, they could only burst out and meet the enemy in a last desperate stand—or was it time to call a halt to the killing and dying?

Slowly he turned to face his men. "I do believe—it's not m' duty t' throw away y'r lives," he said thickly. "Hang out some-thin' white, if y' please." There was a rustle and some murmuring, but no argument. A seaman shinned up to a high, barred window, worked through it a white waistcoat, then shook it awkwardly.

A single voice called loudly several times. Kydd could not understand the words but their import was plain. "Open th' door," he said, then stepped outside.

The voice called again from out of the darkness, this time in a more commanding tone.

"L'tenant Kydd, Royal Navy," he replied, and waited. The soldiers advanced warily, their muskets trained on him. They stood in a semicircle while a French officer in high boots and cockaded hat stalked forward.

"J'exige votre reddition," he snapped.

Kydd had no idea what he had said. "Sir, I ask terms f'r my capitulation," he said wearily.

"You surrender, ees it?" the officer said, smirking.

"What are y'r terms, sir?" Kydd repeated stiffly.

"Terms? You surrender, you safe your lifes. You not, then ..." He shrugged.

"Very well. We, er, surrender." It was done.

"C'est excellent, Lieutenant." He held out his hands. Kydd was at a loss to understand. Then he realised. He unbuckled his fine sword, still unblooded, and gave it to the officer. Bitterness threatened to choke him as he watched the man put the cherished sword under his arm, then turn to give the orders that must send them into captivity.

CHAPTER 13

KYDD WAS IMPRISONED in a former office above some sort of trading floor. Two sentries stood guard outside. As far as he knew, his men were below, crowded into the odorous basement room he had seen briefly as he mounted the stairs.

There was an echoing quiet in the barely furnished room, which contained a table, two chairs to one side and some untidy rubbish in the corner. A palliasse had been thrown on to the floor with a grey blanket. Moonlight entered through the window, which was barred, ironically, to prevent entry rather than exit. The view outside was limited to the slab side of another building. Kydd had no idea where he was.

He crossed to the palliasse; it was going to be a long night. Using an old seaman's trick, he thumped it several times in the centre with his fist and saw dots scrabbling in the indentation. He kicked it aside and sat moodily in a chair. He felt shame at surrendering, giving up in the face of mere musket fire when at sea he had stood firm against decks of heavy cannon. It was hard to accept in a service where hauling down one's flag was a rare and final humiliation.

His mind raced over the events, probing mercilessly for evidence of stupidity, neglect, cowardice—had he done his duty as a king's officer to the full? Would he be able to stand before a court-martial and swear he had done all that was possible?

Hot, accusing images of men screaming at their death-wounds flooded in. Did the survivors blame him? What did they think of him as an officer? What did he think of himself?

But he was torturing himself to no purpose. He fought down the whirling thoughts but his feverish mind found a new tack: these soldiers were the same troops who had recently taken out three thousand surrendered men and massacred them on the spot. Would they do the same with them? It made little sense to guard and feed them in the middle of a full-scale siege. And probably Smith would not have heard of their fate ...

The night passed slowly for Kydd, full of phantoms and dread of the unknown. With the first grey light came another question: what lay in store for the day—for the endless time that lay ahead? Smith had endured years in a Paris prison before his dramatic escape. Escape! But as soon as the thought had flowered, it died. Kydd had no mysterious friends to help him, no funds and, above all, he could not abandon his men to the French army. He vowed to share their fate, whatever it might be.

A breakfast of flavoured rice and gruel arrived, but it was not until the morning sun had come to full strength that he received a visitor, the officer who had accepted his sword in surrender. "Ah, bonjour, mon brave," he said, gesturing to the guards to wait outside. He took a chair and sat. "I am Lieutenant d'Infantrie Cadoux. An' you are Lieutenant Keed, n'est-ce pas?" He smiled. "Of ze ship-o'-ze-line Tenacious?"

Kydd remained silent. The French could only have known this if his men had been interrogated.

"Alors, eet is of no consequence. Do you know, Monsieur, zat you are famous? No? Then let me tell you, ze great General Napoleon Buonaparte 'imself knows of you. 'E wish to offer 'is condolences on your misfortune, but regrets 'e cannot receive you at zis moment. 'E is engaged on an important matter."

Kydd said nothing. No doubt Buonaparte had heard of him— his capture would have been quickly reported by the triumphant officer in charge, but whether the general had any real interest in him he very much doubted.

"Ze general wonders if you can be of service to 'im. 'E would be much oblige eef you are able to assist 'im with 'is unnerstand-ing of ze geography of Akker. For zis 'e wants you to know zat 'e will be grateful. Very grateful—eef you unnerstan' me?"

"No," he said defiantly.

Cadoux drew his chair closer. "M'sieur—you do not comprehend! One does not refuse ze general's politeness. Did I not express mysel' sufficiently?" He tried again. Then, frustrated at Kydd's lack of response, he stood and left.

The day drew on. Clearly the defences of Acre were of vital interest to the French and there was little they would not do to secure the intelligence. Kydd's capture must have seemed a godsend. His stomach was in a knot and he could not bring himself to eat; he wondered what his men had been given, but seamen were inured to poor food when victualling declined and would probably eat whatever was put before them.

He paced round the shabby room trying not to think about what must follow his stubbornness. The sun gentled into evening and Cadoux returned. He entered slowly, his right hand concealing something behind him. Kydd went cold: if this was the end he would not go meekly.

"Lieutenant Keed, you are a very fortunate man."

Kydd tensed. Then Cadoux whipped out his beloved fighting sword from behind his back. "You are to be exchange. General Buonaparte graciously agree, you may return to your ship." He bowed elegantly and proffered the scabbard as though Kydd had absentmindedly left it behind.

Hesitating in disbelief, Kydd reached out for his sword.

Another figure entered the room, Smith's secretary. "True enough, sir," the man said drily. "As soon as he heard, Sir Sidney sent me to Gen'ral Buonaparte, flag o' truce. You—and your men—are to be exchanged for two Frenchmen we hold. If you'd come with me down to the quay ..."

"Fortunate? I'd say you were damn lucky, Kydd!" Smith, in his cabin in Tigre, did not seem to share Kydd's relief at his deliverance. "You know that you've cost me my only two French captives of worth?" With a sigh he stared through the stern windows. "Buonaparte taking up his positions, bombarding me with demands to turn over the town to him immediately—I can do without these distractions." He turned to Kydd. "Now, pray tell me, sir, what the devil happened?"

Kydd swallowed. "Sir, there was no sign o' the enemy—he must've lay down atop the quay."

"No doubt. In the event you couldn't be sure, perhaps you should have first thought of sending a man to peer over the top?" Kydd held his tongue. "And your retreat. Whatever possessed you to go to ground in a warehouse? Why did you not put about immediately and return?" he added in disdain.

"I lost five men, just in making f'r the barges," Kydd said. "The firing coming fr'm behind, I would've lost far more going against 'em until I got t' open water." He felt Smith's scorn at his words and added forcefully, "Someone tipped 'em off. An' that can only be y'r precious source of intelligence."

"That's as may be, Lieutenant, but I'll trouble you to keep your temper in my presence," Smith said acidly.

"Sir."

"In war, casualties are inevitable. I'll have your written report before sundown, if you please. I imagine you'll want to get back to your ship now?"

"No—sir. If you will oblige me, I should want t' go back ashore an' finish the job."

"Very well," Smith said, with a slight smile. "Let it be on your own head, sir."

Hewitt looked up from some Arab dish he was eating off a chipped plate. "Well, I can't say that I find your good self unwelcome." He went to the window. "See there?" He indicated to the north-east. Just out of range a city of grey tents in three main blocks, regular as a chessboard, was springing up row by row and covering the terrain facing them. "I've been watching 'em. And I believe we are looking at General Buonaparte's headquarters in the centre, with the engineers to the left and artillery to the right."

Kydd took his telescope and slowly traversed the ridges. "I can see 'em," he said, in a hard voice. "Any word on th' relief army?"

"Smith heard that the Turks are taking time to mass a huge force, one that'll outnumber Buonaparte's by far. We just have to resist until it arrives."

Kydd lowered the glass. "Do ye know what we c'n expect next?"

"According to the Count, they'll establish their advance lines within range of us first. Then they'll push forward and start their parallels—that is, trenches matching the line of our walls—and it's from these that they'll begin digging saps, deep tunnels, direct towards us. The idea is to bring up guns near enough to pound a breach in the walls."

His expression hardened. "If a practicable breach is made, it's customary for the defenders to seek terms. If they insist on fighting, it's equally customary for the attackers to put the entire population to the sword without mercy."

"What does he say are our chances?"

Hewitt shrugged.

"I'm going t' see my gun," Kydd said, and left him to finish his meal.

The experience of being captured, possessed by the enemy, had shaken Kydd's confidence. And although Smith had not directly criticised his conduct, how could he be sure he had done everything possible in that situation? In a black mood he made his way through the malodorous alley to the corner of the wall where the Tenacious gun was sited. It was fully in place, complete with wooden runners cunningly inclined upwards to slow the recoil and help bring the gun back to the firing position.

Dobbie stood to greet him and touched his forehead. "Good ter see you again, sir. An' Black Bess 'ere's all ready 'n' correct fer your inspection." He slapped the long muzzle of the big gun affectionately. Some seaman artist had embellished the sides of the carriage with an heraldic ribbon bearing the name.

Kydd looked at Dobbie closely. He had not been on the cutting-out expedition but would know about it. However, his face showed only honest satisfaction at his return. "It's going t' be a hard fight before it's over," Kydd said, then felt uncomfortable that he had perhaps sounded pompous and affected.

"Aye, sir, but we'm ready f'r when the beggar shows 'imself at last." Dobbie's gun crew had prepared faultlessly, handspikes and rammers neatly against the inner parapet, powder cartridges stowed in a case out of sight below.

"When it starts I want every man t' wear a cutlass even when working th' gun," Kydd said. "I'll see about pistols." He looked out over the broken ground. "They'll be moving t' their advance lines afore long—then you'll have work t' do."

There was no point in waiting about so he walked back slowly to the headquarters. "Don't much fancy kicking my heels here,"

Hewitt said. "Shall we go to the Cursed Tower and see what there is to see?"

The antique square tower stood at the corner of the wall: they climbed the old stairs to the top room and Hewitt trained his telescope towards the French encampment. "Busy enough," he grunted, and brought it further round. "Ah, what do we have here? Well, well—I do declare!" He passed the glass to Kydd. "Do you mark the mound to the nor'-east? That is Richard Coeur de Lion's mound. Now, tell me what you can see."

There was general activity around the mound but at the highest point a solitary group was looking directly towards the tower. In the centre, in plain dress contrasting with those on each side, stood a single figure. Even at that distance Kydd could sense a presence, a maleficent will. "General Buonaparte," he said, in a low voice, and handed back the glass. In the same view he had seen a dozen or so big field-pieces being hauled forward across the uneven ground. On all sides there were ominous signs of encirclement, entrapment. In its slow but certain progress, it held a deadly fascination.

That night Kydd paced along the walls. This ancient, foreign land was not the right place for a sea officer—he was completely out of his element. But he had accepted this duty, and it was here that he would prove himself. Or ...

Dobbie and his gun crew lay about their post. Some were sleeping, others spun yarns, much as they would in a night watch aboard Tenacious. Kydd nodded to Dobbie and passed by. At four points along the walls watch-fires blazed, throwing ruddy light over the open ground. He looked out into the black of the night, aware of the line of marine sentries placed within sight of each other along the walls.

The Turkish and Arab troops chattered noisily together within the wall. The seamen were there only as gunners and it was these soldiers who would repulse any assault. They seemed outlandish, with their turbans and scimitars, and were an unknown quantity in close combat, but Kydd would lead them and the marines into battle. The seamen would act as a reserve if fighting came down to close quarters.

His thoughts were rudely interrupted as a musket went off near the centre of the wall, then another. Out in the darkness, at the extremity of the light thrown by the watch-fire, he could see the suspicion of a moving shadow, then several more. He ordered the oil fire lit, which flared up with a satisfying whoomf.

Caught in the sudden light, scurrying figures darted about. Muskets blazed up and down the parapets, the first shots of the siege, but with little effect. "Cease fire!" roared Kydd. It had probably been a reconnaissance party, spying out the terrain. His men had achieved what they wanted: there would be no more French creeping about at night. He gripped his sword. They knew what to expect in the morning.

At dawn Buonaparte's cannonade began. During the night his guns had been drawn up in a breach battery directly opposite the Cursed Tower and they opened up in a continuous roll as the light strengthened. Through his feet Kydd felt the vicious thump of solid hits. Some stray balls tore through the air above him, while others struck noisily but ineffectively off the slope of bastions and casemates.

He could distinguish the deep smash of twelve-pounders above the more strident eight-pounders and the bark of lesser pieces, before their own artillery replied. Their siege mortars were now turned on the besiegers, antiquated bronze guns of Djezzar's own and, most satisfying of all, the twenty-fours landed from Tenacious and Tigre.

Dobbie needed no special instructions. He laid the gun calmly himself, then sent ball after ball into the French positions, making them pay for the privilege of coming within the range needed for their own guns. Kydd could see the earth parapets before the enemy guns flung aside, leaving broken muzzles pointing skywards.

But the ancient Cursed Tower, built at a time before modern iron guns, suffered. The French had correctly estimated it the weakest part of the wall and concentrated savage fire upon it. Under the remorseless battering the masonry started to crumble, then fall. For five hours it endured bombardment before the last French gun was destroyed.

The facing wall of the tower was now a gaping ruin. Kydd left the gun and hurried to the scene. The tumbled stonework had left the lower part of the tower a dusty cave, a wide pathway to the interior of Acre—a breach in their defences.

Among the babble of excited Turks Kydd caught sight of Phelippeaux, clambering over the fallen rubble. If the customs of war were to hold, they should now treat for a capitulation and withdrawal or later suffer the carnage of a sacking. But if they did, what would be the fate of this brave and resourceful royalist Frenchman?

As the dust settled, all sounds died away in the enemy direction, then came the thunder of massed drums: the chamade, a demand to parley. A white flag appeared above the enemy earthworks and waved to and fro. Then a single figure appeared, standing erect with the white flag on a banner staff. Kydd noticed that Smith had arrived next to him.

The figure began a rigid march towards them, stumbling occasionally on the broken ground. At a point within shouting range the man stopped and demanded something in French. Smith stepped forward and replied with a bow and mild words. The man came on: he was an officer of proud bearing with scarlet sash and feathered cockade. His eyes flickered rapidly from side to side as he marched.

Gawking onlookers made way for him as he stalked through the breach. He halted, then began a staccato tirade but was interrupted with a gesture from Smith, who turned contemptuously to Hewitt, speaking in English: "The rogue came without a blindfold—he thinks to come as a spy!" He turned back to the officer and barked a command; Turkish soldiers seized him and dragged him away.

"Well, that's settled," Smith said. "I'd be obliged, Mr Kydd, if you'd give a reply to Mr Buonaparte on my behalf with your twenty-four?"

"Aye aye, sir!"

The die was cast. Buonaparte would never forgive the insult.

The breach was stopped up hastily with baulks of timber and rubble. At noon there was a sinister movement across the whole width of Kydd's vision. Unseen trumpets blared at each end of the line, colours were raised and drums began their volleying summons to the flag.

Kydd looked along the wall to the soldiers at the ready. Obviously frightened, they were calling to each other and looking about them as if to escape. Kydd brandished his sword and strode down the walls. This steadied them to a degree but then the skyline erupted into a mass of advancing troops, Buonaparte's finest, who had defeated a hundred thousand Mamelukes in an hour at the Pyramids, been victorious at the siege of El Arish and butchered in cold blood the survivors of the Jaffa siege. Firing wildly, many Turks and Arabs broke and fled. Kydd shouted himself hoarse and some hesitated, but most tumbled off the parapets and ran. Kydd returned hastily to the gun, shaken.

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 Phelippeaux'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.

"If you'd been in the eastern Mediterranean as long as I have, you would have your concerns. It could soon be a nor'-westerly," Hewitt told him.

Kydd nodded gravely. Any wind of force from the north-west would place Tenacious and Tigre on a lee shore. Anchored as they were, as close to the scattered rocky shoals as was possible, they would have to weigh and proceed to sea to make an offing until it was safe to return. And while the ships were away they could no longer maintain their broadsides—Buonaparte would have his chance.

"I hold to my small hope that Buonaparte is as much a seaman as my sainted aunt Betsy, and will not in anticipation plan a descent, and will be caught off-guard. Is that too much to pray for?" Hewitt said.

The wind strengthened: it blustered and the first raindrops fell. Soon curtains of rain squalls were marching in from seaward, laying the dust and forming myriad rivulets in the drab, yellowish-brown dust but turning the dull iron of cannon to a lustrous gleam. Those who could pulled on rain slicks; others endured. The squalls passed but behind them the wind set in from the north-west, hard and cold.

"Stand to! All hands, get on th' wall!" Kydd roared, driving wet and bedraggled Turks to their stations. An assault would come, it was certain; it was only a question of when.

They stood to for an hour—then two. Hewitt had been right. As dusk approached it was certain that Buonaparte was not going to mount an assault that day. Now everything depended on the weather: if the wind shifted back during the night the ships could return, but if it stayed in the same quarter the defenders of Acre would face an assault.

With the dawn came the wind, relentlessly in the north-west. Before the day was out, they would be fighting for their lives, and Smith was still somewhere out at sea in Tigre and could play no part. It was entirely up to themselves.

The enemy came without fanfare, a sudden purposeful tide of attackers. The defenders' guns blasted defiance, but without whole broadsides from the ships there was no deterring their deadly advance. Kydd lost no time in placing himself at the breach, now choked with hastily placed timber and rubble.

On the tower above him the muskets banged away but against such numbers they had little effect. Then a deep rumble sounded. The front ranks faltered. Kydd's heart leaped: if the ships had returned they stood a chance. But a crash gave the lie—it was a thunderstorm.

As the French bore down with scaling ladders to throw up against the walls from the fosse, blustering and chilling rain squalls came. The open ground grew slippery with sticky yellow mud. Firearms were useless in such conditions yet still they came on—hurrying lines, the dull glitter of wet steel, a sea of anonymous faces and a continuous shouting roar.

The first wave reached the fosse. Ladders were thrown down awkwardly, but Phelippeaux had designed well: the width of the ditch did not match the height necessary to reach the parapets and the ladders ended in a tangle of bodies and bloody corpses.

The first breathless Frenchmen arrived at the breach, hard, brutal faces in sketchy blue uniforms, bright weapons, the cutting edge of Buonaparte's will. Pistols banged out and they scrambled over the rubble to close at last with the defenders.

Kydd braced himself, his sword warily at point. A soldier reared up with a short carbine and threw it to his shoulder, aiming at Kydd's face. It missed fire but he hurled it at Kydd, yanked a long bayonet from its scabbard and came at him. Used to the confines of shipboard fighting, Kydd whirled away and his blade flashed out and took the man squarely in the side. He fell and was immediately trampled by another whose bayoneted musket jabbed at Kydd's face. He dropped to one knee and as the man lurched forward he lunged for his bowels. The sword ran true and the man dropped with a howl, but his fall jerked the weapon from Kydd's hands. On his knees he scrabbled for it des-perately—but towering above him was a giant of a soldier. Before the man could plunge his bayonet down, bloody steel shot out of the front of his chest. With a squeal the man half turned as if to see who had killed him, then toppled, trapping Kydd under his wet carcass. Struggling to move Kydd felt the body shift. It was heaved aside to reveal the grinning face of Suleiman, his curved Ottoman dagger still dripping red.

Kydd shook his head to clear it. The fighting had moved down the rubble and into the ditch. He picked up his sword and looked about. Rain now hammered down in earnest on his bare head and his eyes stung with a salty mix of sweat and blood.

The well-sited guns from the ships were still tearing great holes in the waves of attackers. A musket ball slammed past his cheek with a vicious slap of air, but he could see that the rain and mud were severely impeding the assault.

In the fosse, grenades and infernal devices thrown at the hapless survivors exploded loudly in bursts of flame and smoke. Kydd saw a skull split and crushed by a heavy stone flung from the upper storey of the Cursed Tower. The attack was faltering. Then, as quickly as it started, it faded, leaving Kydd trembling with fatigue atop the rubble of the breach.

He stepped inside the tower out of the rain and wiped his sticky sword on a body. He looked at the now bloodied and muddy weapon, then slid it neatly into its scabbard: it had proved its worth.

There would be a reckoning when the weather abated; there would be no rest. At the Tenacious gun the men sat exhausted on the ground, heads in their hands. Dobbie looked up wearily with a smile of recognition. "Got 'em beat again, sir," he croaked.

Kydd could not trust himself to say the words that lay on his heart and ended with a gruff "No chance o' Buonaparte getting what he wants while there's a Tenacious in th' offing." It seemed to serve, for several of the gun crew looked up with pleased grins. "Don't know where I'll find it, but there's a double tot f'r you all when I do."

At the headquarters he found Hewitt slumped in his chair, staring at the wall with the map of operations spread out before him. "That damned relief army had better show itself before long or we're a cooked goose."

"Aye," said Kydd, and searched for words of cheer. "We came close t'day—but doesn't it tell us that Buonaparte is getting impatient, running scared, that he throws his army at us without he has a plan—an' in this blow?"

Hewitt looked up, an odd expression on his face. "Pray see things from his point of view. Before now he has taken the strongest fortresses in Europe, defended by the most modern troops. What does he see here in Acre? An ancient, decaying town ruled by a bloody tyrant and defended by a ragged mix of sailors and Orientals. No wonder he thinks to sweep us aside quickly and get on with his conquests."

"He's tried—"

"He has not yet! But I'll wager he's already sent for a second siege train to pound us to ruin even with our wonderful ships, supposing he is not at this moment up to some other deviltry! Remember, he made his name at Toulon at the head of the artillery—he is no stranger to such works."

They worked together on the defences, Hewitt's halting translations of Phelippeaux's schemes of fortification serving for them both. They divided between them the main tasks: Hewitt consulted Djezzar on matters concerning labour for the works and Kydd saw to the lines of supply from the victualling stores and magazines to the guns—but always many other details demanded their attention.

The winds blew themselves out and veered more easterly as the rain cleared. With the first blue sky all eyes turned to the French encampment for signs of a new assault. But the sodden ground remained impractical and, to the cheers of the defenders, the two ships sailed back cautiously to take up their positions once more.

Smith came ashore immediately and energetically visited all parts of the old walled town, demanding particulars of each. He finished at his headquarters. "Well done, gentlemen," he said, with satisfaction. "Yet I would rather you had kept a better eye on Djezzar Pasha—he is a man of decided opinions concerning his enemies, and I have just learned that in my absence he seized thirty of the prisoners, had them sewn into sacks and thrown into the sea, including our French officer spy. I shall have to be firmer with him in the future.

"And now I have news. Good news, believe me. You will be happy to learn that the Turkish relief army in Galilee has left Damascus and is even now on its way south. A mighty army indeed: seventy-five banners of Mahgrebi infantry and Albanian cavalry, two hundred Janissaries, Dalat and field cannon, Mamelukes and Kurds beyond counting—near eight times Buonaparte's numbers. They march fast and will reach the Jordan in a day or so. Then he must fight, or retreat and abandon the siege. I believe he will fight, and in that case he will be obliged to divide his forces. It will be an interesting time for Mr Buonaparte."

Kydd's heart lifted. Perhaps in a few days he could return to his rightful place in Tenacious—the warm fellowship and ordered sanity of the wardroom.

There was other news: Bedouin fighters were joining from the country—more exotic fighters to prowl the walls with their flowing robes and wickedly curved knives. And it seemed agents in India had discovered that Buonaparte had told the Sultan of Mysore, the scheming Tippoo Sahib, to prepare for a victorious host that would descend on his country from Persia in the footsteps of Alexander.

"However, we have a more immediate worry. Count Phelip-peaux has confided that he believes the French have begun a sap, a mine. Protected from our ships' gunfire they are tunnelling towards us from their forward trenches and when they are under the wall they will explode a great charge to bring it down."

Kydd and Hewitt exchanged a glance. In one stroke another dimension of war had started. While they walked and talked above, French engineers were driving their unseen mine ever closer. In a single instant they could be blown to pieces.

"Sir, does he know where it is? How far it's gone?" Kydd wanted to know.

"No doubt about it—he has seen an advance parallel grow earthworks and men go down into it. The closest trench to the Cursed Tower."

"Is there anything we can do?" Hewitt looked drawn and tired.

"The usual in these cases is for us to counter-mine, to drive our own pit towards theirs and stop them."

Kydd shuddered: he could not conceive of a worse scene than in this black underground the breaking through into an enemy mine and the savagery of hacking and stabbing in such a confined space that must follow.

There was no attack that day, or the next: it was becoming clear that Buonaparte was not going to risk another frontal assault in the face of the ships' broadsides and was either biding his time while his sappers did their work or was away, deploying his forces to face the Turkish hordes.

It gave Smith, Hewitt and Kydd precious time to repair and regroup. One thing they could be sure of, which Kydd kept close to his heart: they would never starve—the little feluccas bringing food ensured that. It was something their enemies could only dream of without command of the sea.

On the following day Smith brought grave news. "Gentlemen, I have to tell you now, the Turkish reinforcements are beaten— outnumbered many times. That devil Buonaparte won a victory over them at Mount Tabor in Canaan. They're fleeing north as fast as they are able and we can expect nothing from them now."

"May we then know your intentions, Sir Sidney?" Hewitt asked, in a low voice.

Without any relieving force in prospect their main reason for holding out was gone. Slowly but surely the mining was reaching their walls, and a victorious General Buonaparte was returning with his booty and no threat in his rear to distract him. When the news got out who knew how it would be received? An evacuation was the only real course left.

"We stay," Smith said calmly. "To yield up Acre is to hand Buonaparte a highway to Constantinople and the world. While we are still here he dare not proceed further with us in his rear. Therefore our duty is plain." It was the cold logic of war. "We bend every sinew to defend ourselves, every man to bear a hand in doing whatever Count Phelippeaux desires in the article of fortifications. We send away any who cannot hold a weapon. Let there be nothing left undone that can help us resist the tyrant."

Hewitt got to his feet and reached for his sword. "Then we had best be about our business. Mr Phelippeaux has the idea to place a ravelin outside the walls. I have no idea what species of animal this is, but I look forward to finding out. Good-day, gentlemen."

Kydd looked nonplussed. "Outside the walls?"

"Certainly. We raise an earthworks on each flank of the wall—this in the shape of an arrowhead pointing towards the Cursed Tower. Each will contain a twenty-four-pounder and they will have an unrivalled field of fire when they play upon the approaches to the breach." Building these ravelins in the open would be a bloody affair, Kydd mused.

"And I desire you, sir, to attend to our port. I'm sure there's much that can be done to dismay the French. Take what you need and tell me about it afterwards—and thank you, Mr Kydd."

A brass eighteen-pounder was found and, in consultation with the gunner of Tenacious, mounted on a platform high up in the lighthouse. This gave a deal of grave joy to the seamen, who were employed to rig complicated sheer-legs, parbuckles and all manner of tackles to raise the long gun to its final eminence. When finished, the height provided a most satisfying range into the French camp.

Kydd turned his attention to the mole: here was a potential hostile landing place. Remembering his first success in the dunes, he moored a barge there with spring cables to bow and stern. A thirty-six-pounder carronade was mounted in it, the ugly muzzle capable of blasting hundreds of musket balls at any who were brave enough to attempt a landing.

There were fishing-boats, gunboats, every kind of small fry— why not use them? Capable of clearing the shoal water inshore they could render the entire southern approaches impassable by soldiers. Each craft could be equipped with the smaller guns of the ships anchored offshore, then spaced close around the walls, ready for immediate service at any point.

When dusk brought a halt to the work Kydd returned to the headquarters. Smith had the map laid out and courteously enquired what steps he had taken. Kydd told him, puzzled that Hewitt was not present as was their usual practice when setting the night watch. Smith's expression did not change. "I'm grieved to say that Lieutenant Hewitt was gravely wounded in the discharge of his duty and has been returned to his ship. I have asked for another officer." Kydd's heart went out to the dry, sensitive Hewitt, who had suspected from the first that his own blood would join that of others in the history of this ancient, holy land.

"Therefore I will assume the first watch," Smith said, in a controlled tone.

"Aye, sir. May I ask if the ravelins—"

"They are secure and their guns will be in place tomorrow."

Kydd tossed in his cot. The endless striving, the blood-letting, and the knowledge that under the ground a mine was advancing that would end at any moment in a deadly explosion—all this, and the exhaustion of days and weeks facing the worst that the most famous general of the age could throw against them—was bearing down on his spirit.

At daybreak he went to the parapets to scan the distant French encampment with his signal telescope. There were no signs of untoward activity: perhaps today would be quiet.

At breakfast the new lieutenant was announced. Kydd lifted his eyes—to see Renzi standing there. "Have I lost m' reason in the sun—or is it you, m' dear friend?" he cried, lurched to his feet and gripped Renzi's hand. He broke into a smile—the first for a long time.

Renzi greeted his friend warmly, and Kydd brightened. "Why, Nicholas, but I had hoped you were safe in England," he said. "How is it I find you in this place o' misery?"

"And leave all the sport to your own good self?" Renzi said lightly. "Besides, I am only returned these two days, and seeing this is set fair to be the most famous siege of the age, I could yet find myself noticed ..."

They paced slowly along the scarred walls of Acre, Renzi blank-faced as he learned of the perilous state of the siege and the imminent return of the victorious Buonaparte.

"Did your visit to y'r family go well?" Kydd asked, after a space. Renzi had said nothing to him before he left, other than that a family concern required his attention.

They walked further before Renzi replied quietly, "It was a matter involving a decision of great importance to my future and, I confess, it is not yet resolved."

Kydd knew his friend to be one who cared deeply about moral issues and worried at them until he had drawn all the threads into a satisfactory conclusion. Perhaps this was one such instance. "Should you wish t' debate a little, Nicholas ... ?"

"That is kind in you, dear fellow, but the nature of my dilemma does not readily yield to the powers of rational philosophy."

"Then I shall no longer speak on it," Kydd said firmly. Renzi would come out with a fully reasoned decision when he was ready, and at the moment they had other more pressing concerns.

"Did I mention," Renzi said, in quite another voice, "that our good chaplain Peake comes ashore shortly? Knowing his extreme distaste for the effusion of blood I tried to dissuade him from this charnel pit but he is a stubborn old horse." He considered for a moment and added, "Do bear him with patience—he's been aboard an anchored ship for an age while he knows that there are men here dying without comfort, and he devoutly wishes to do his duty in some way."

The morning conference opened with the news that Buonaparte was drawing close, and the dismaying intelligence that because he no longer had to look to a threat from inland he could bring up and deploy every resource to the one object—the reduction of Acre.

"This, then, is the climax," Smith declared. "Buonaparte has all his forces present and if he cannot triumph over us with these he never will. I recognise this as our supreme moment. My intention is to deny him his victory and, to that end, I am stripping our ships of every man that can be spared and bringing 'em ashore to fight. Gentlemen, we shall not be beat!"

It was crazy—a few hundred seamen, a handful of ship's guns and the Turks and Arabs, who could at best be only a few thousand against the might of Buonaparte's army.

"We must hold," Smith went on. "I have word from Constantinople that a Turkish fleet is on its way to us, and troops are summoned from Rhodes. We have but to hold and we're assured the final victory."

He felt for a satchel under the desk and swung it up. "Taken from a French supply vessel yesterday. See what our devilish friend is up to now."

Inside were leaflets. Renzi picked one up: " 'To all Christians! I am come to deliver you at last from the unholy practices of the Muhammadans ...'"

Smith grimaced. "And the other?"

"'... am the Defender of the True Faith; the infidels shall be swept away ...'"

"You see? Very well. I will not stand in the way of such devout protestations. I will have these delivered to Christian and Muhammadan alike. However, the Muslim will read that this general is a champion of the Christians, while the Christian will read it was the same Buonaparte who bore away the Pope to captivity."

Chaplain Peake came ashore by one of the boats streaming in with the reinforcements, an unmistakable figure. Kydd went to meet him and was struck by the peculiar mixture of reverence and disgust playing on his features. "Mr Peake, I'll have you know we expect hourly t' have the French about our ears, an' this will not be a sight for eyes as cultured as y'r own, sir. I beg—"

"And have me sit on the ship in forced idleness, hearing the dread sounds of war at a remove, knowing there are wolves in human clothing rending each other—"

"Have a care, sir!" Kydd said tightly. "Such words aren't welcomed here. If you wish t' remain, you'll keep y'r judgements to yourself." Peake kept his silence, but his expression was eloquent. Kydd sighed. "Be aware I have nobody t' look after ye, Mr Peake. They all have a job t' do. Keep away fr'm the walls, sir—you'll find th' wounded in the town. And, er, the Djezzar will not welcome instruction on the conduct of his harem. Good luck, Mr Peake."

Rawson and Bowden found their way to the headquarters and saluted smartly. "Our orders, sir?" Rawson said, his eyes straying to exotic sights: the Bedouin with their swaying camels and veiled ladies, fierce Turks with scimitars and turbans, the ruin of bombardments.

"Do you stay here until you understand th' situation, if y' please." Kydd made room at the table where the situation map lay open. "Then I shall want ye to take position inside the walls here, and here, at opposite ends, with a parcel o' pikemen and cutlasses. There's a breach at the Cursed Tower here, where we've been takin' the assaults. If the French get through an' into the town, you close with 'em from your side. Clear?"

Bowden looked absurdly young—his hat was still too big, but now there was a firming of his shoulders, a confidence in his bearing. "One more thing. Leave aside y'r dirks an' ship a cutlass. This is men's work. And—and remember what you've been taught ... and, er, good luck."

Kydd left for the guns with a sinking heart. The French encampment had swollen, and rumour had it that the unorthodox Druse sect was siding with the French against Djezzar Pasha to settle old scores. Now hundreds more were against them. Hurrying along the wall, Kydd placed his men alternately with the Turks and Arabs; if some broke and ran there was a chance the seamen could hold for a time, but there were among their ranks some whom Kydd had seen fighting like demons—their harsh cries had stiffened the others.

He could not suppress his forebodings. It was possible that he might not survive to see the night. And what of these men, who had to take his orders as an officer and obey? Whether wise or ill-conceived, they had no choice. Would his orders be lucid and reasoned or would he, in the chaos of the moment, waste their lives?

Along the wall he saw Renzi shouting to the gun crew in the redoubt. "Nicholas, I—I just wanted t' say ... the best o' luck to ye," he said gruffly, holding out his hand. "I have a brace o' the best claret waiting f'r when we get back, an' we shall enjoy 'em together."

Renzi looked up with the familiar half-smile. "In the event, it will—" He was interrupted by a shattering roar from the bowels of the earth. A gust of super-heated air threw them to the ground and showered everything with debris. As it settled Kydd picked himself up, dazed and choking on the swirling dust. The mine had exploded! One half of the Cursed Tower lay in rubble and there was an opening in the wall wide enough for fifty men abreast to march into the town.

"T' the breach!" bellowed Kydd. It was crucial to meet the inevitable assault with as many as could be mustered until more effective resistance was ready. He dropped from the wall to the top of the rubble and faced outwards, his sword ready. Several seamen with boarding pikes and cutlasses joined him, then Turks and Arabs with their daggers and scimitars. Others arrived, until there were a hundred or more.

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.

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.

He snatched Bowden's telescope and saw about nine warships, the rest transports, presumably with soldiers. "That's them, sure enough," he grunted. Something made him raise the glass again: the image had suffered from the glare of the sun on water, but it was plain now that the whole fleet lay becalmed, helpless. There would be no quick end.

The first guns started, and others, until the whole enemy line seemed to be alive with the flash and shock of artillery. No longer were they battering at the fortifications: now they aimed at random: cannon balls, explosive shells, incendiary carcasses—all fell on the town of Acre, setting alight houses, mosques, camel stables, tenements. Screaming women ran about the streets. Buildings crumbled and burned.

Kydd got hold of Dobbie. "Get all th' men behind the wall an' on their hunkers." Ironically, the walls were now the safest place to be and, following his example, many rushed to flatten themselves against the inside of the wall.

"Sir, why?"

"I don't know, Dobbie. M' guess is that Buonaparte knows that if he c'n break into Acre afore the fleet arrives he's won. Some sort o' ruse to rush us in the confusion—trickery of some kind, for sure."

"Aye, sir. Then we'll stand to th' gun, by y'r leave, sir."

"Thank ye, Dobbie."

The guns pounded all afternoon. It was not until dusk drew in that the cannon-fire slackened and finally stopped for want of aim. Kydd peered through the breach at the darkening countryside now being speckled by the light of campfires; there would be no more suicidal assaults, but what deviltry would they meet tomorrow? The Turkish fleet still lay distant offshore, unable to come to their help if there was another mine or if the renewed bombardment set fire to the town.

He resumed his pacing at the breach, his mind a turmoil after the day. Dobbie came up with Laffin. "Stand down th' gun, sir?"

"Yes. I'd get y'r sleep while you can. Who knows what we'll be facing tomorrow?"

"Sir." Dobbie turned to go, but some trick of the light, the last of the sunset, touched the top of the Cursed Tower and Kydd noticed the French flag still hanging limply atop it. On impulse he told him, "Afore ye turn in, douse that Frog rag and bring it t' me."

Dobbie touched his forehead and loped off, emerging on the top of the ruined tower. There appeared to be some sort of difficulty, which Kydd guessed was that the flag halliards had been shot away. Dobbie lifted a hand to point up to the flag and began shinning up the bare mast, an easy feat for a seaman. At the truck he tugged on the flag until it came free, and stuffed it inside his shirt. Then he slid down the mast awkwardly and disappeared inside the tower. He emerged from its base and stumbled towards Kydd, the flag outstretched, a look of grim concentration on his face.

Kydd stepped forward in concern, but before he could reach him, Dobbie fell face forward to the ground and lay still, the victim of a sharp-shooter in the outer shadows. With a hoarse cry Laffin pushed past Kydd and dropped to his knees next to the un-moving Dobbie. "No!" he screamed blindly, holding up a bloody hand and staring at it. "He's dead! An' it's you, y' glory-seeking bastard," he choked at Kydd.

Kydd keeled over into his cot, shattered in mind and body. The death of Dobbie and Laffin's accusation brought an unstoppable wave of grief and emotion. He tried to fight it, but the weeks had taken their toll. A sob escaped him.

It had been a cruel taunt: Kydd knew only too well from his time before the mast that a glory-seeker as an officer was worse than an incompetent, inevitably resulting in men's lives sacrificed on the altar of ambition. He could understand Laffin's reaction, but how could he say that his order to Dobbie to take down the flag and bring it was only so that he could present it to Smith as a tribute for what he was achieving?

But was this more of a general indictment? Were his actions in leading from the front during the siege seen by the lower deck as an ambitious bid for notice, to their cost? Was he, in truth, a despised glory-seeker?

Kydd tossed fretfully in the close air of the little room above the headquarters. His motivations in stepping forward into danger at the head of his men were, he had believed, those of duty and understanding of their desperate situation, but could there be within him a hidden impulse to glory and ambition?

And what kind of leader was he? His capture, along with that of the men who had trusted him, still smarted in him for it had been only by the greatest good luck that Smith had had French captives on hand whom Buonaparte had needed. What was being said at the mess tables when they took their grog? What judgement was being passed on him? Perhaps he would be perceived as an unlucky weight around whom men seemed to get themselves killed and, indeed, many had since the siege of Acre had started.

Kydd knew that this was at the core of himself as an officer. If the seamen regarded him as square and true they would follow him through anything; if he was seen as a glory-seeker, he might one day find himself alone on an enemy deck.

He could not sleep—the torturing thoughts rioting through his mind made it impossible—and when the marine private arrived at midnight to call him for his watch he almost welcomed it.

Renzi was below at the operations table, staring at the map with its lines and erasures enumerating the many assaults and savage encounters they had endured. So tired, the friends spoke little more than a few words and, after the customary hand-over, Renzi left for his room above.

Kydd had the watch until dawn. If it was quiet it was usual to stay at the headquarters where any could find him, but his heart was so full of dark thoughts that he told the sentries gruffly he would be at the wall.

Hearing the burr and chirp of night insects he paced along the parapet past the occasional sentries next to watch-fires. Out there, in the vast unknown velvet darkness, their mortal enemy lay and plotted their destruction. In the other direction was the inky sea and anchored offshore Tenacious and Tigre, the warmth of golden light from the wardroom windows and clustered lan-thorns on their fo'c'sles so redolent of the sea life, but at the same time so remote from Kydd's place of trial.

He continued pacing, the cool breeze bringing with it the ever-present stench of death, overhead the calm splendour of stars in the moonless heavens. What would they face tomorrow? If the guns kept up their bombardment there would be ruin and panic. The only course would be evacuation and a suicidal rearguard action. His mind shied from the implications.

He heard someone approach in the stillness. It was Laffin. The seamen had no night watches: the man had no reason to be about at that hour. "C'n I talk, if y' please, Mr Kydd?" His expression was indistinct in the gloom.

"What d' ye want?"

"It's Bill Dobbie—sir."

"If ye want to say you're grieving f'r him, then I'll have you know—so am I."

"He were m' mate, sir."

Kydd waited warily.

"We was two-blocks since 'e came aboard in Halifax. 'E was 'appy 'n' did well in Tenacious, 'e did—wanted t' make gunner's mate but didn't 'ave 'is letters, an' so I learned him."

This was by no means unknown but spoke of a deep friendship born of common hardship, which Kydd recognised, with a stab of feeling.

"Has a wife in Brixham an' a little girl—"

"Laffin, why are you telling me this?" Kydd said sharply.

The man hesitated, then straightened. "Sir, I wants ye t' know that I was hasty wi' me words when I called ye a—"

"Aye, well, thank you f'r telling me."

"—an I think as how y' should read this'n. Comes across it while I was makin' up his gear t' give to his wife." He held out a paper, then disappeared into the darkness.

Kydd went to a watch-fire and realised, with a sinking feeling, that it was a letter. Back in the privacy of Headquarters he took the lanthorn across to the table and smoothed out the paper. The writing was strong but childish. Kydd remembered that in Canada not much more than a year ago, Dobbie had been obliged to make his mark on the ship's books, the tell-tale sign of illiteracy.

"My sweet Mary" it began. A letter home to his wife. "Anuther day in this god-blastd hole whi the bedoo like it I dont know for the lif of me."

It was hard to continue—he felt it a violation to read the precious words that would be all that the woman would know of her man's thoughts and feelings before ... Kydd wondered why Laffin had wanted him to read this.

I hav saved for you my dearist mor than eihtgteen gineas to this date. I doant know when wi will return it is a hard time wi are having but my dear it wuld make yuo smil to see the rare drubbing we ar giving the frogs and we not lobsterbaks but jack tar!

Kydd felt his eyes sting but he kept reading.

Wi will win, sweethart there is no dout of that. Yuo see we hav the best men and the best oficers and yuo may beleive that like sir sidny and mr kidd who I hav seen miself with his fine sowrd at the breech in the wall. He giv hart to us all to see him alweys there he is a leson in currage if we see him in charg of us wi will allways tak after him wher he tell us to go ...

The rest dissolved in a blur of tears. Any torturing doubts were now behind him for ever.

"Sir? One hour t' dawn."

Renzi was fully awake but politely thanked the marine, who touched a taper to a little oil-lamp. He lay for a few more moments, then, with a sigh of resolution, threw off the single sheet. He had barely slept and wondered at Kydd's stamina after the much longer perils and hardships he had endured.

Something had spoken to him during the night, a tendril of presentiment reaching out that the day would see a culmination of all their striving. For himself, Renzi had no doubts. When it chose to strike, death could come in so many ways—disease, shipwreck, a round shot. It really was of no consequence. What was of importance was the manner of leaving life. With courage, and no regrets.

In the mirror his face looked back at him, grave but calm. He raised an eyebrow quizzically and silently acknowledged that there was one matter, trivial in the circumstances, but a loose end that his logical self insisted should be resolved to satisfaction, if only to impose a philosophic neatness on his life to this date. It was the decision in the matter of his father's demand that he take up his place as eldest son and heir-apparent to the earldom.

The stakes were plain: if he acceded he would be in the fullness of time the Earl of Farndon and master of Eskdale Hall. If he did not, his father would have no compunction in taking the legal steps necessary to disinherit and disavow him in the succession.

Therefore, in this hour he would make his decision, before he and Kydd went together to meet the dawn and all it would bring. He knew too well the arguments—his life at sea had opened his eyes to the human condition and made all the more precious the insights he had gathered on his adventures. This would cease: the vapid posturings of society were a poor substitute.

Then there was the undeniable fact that he had matured in the face of calls upon his courage, fortitude and skills—he had become a man in the true sense of the word. And had about him the society of others who had been equally formed. Where would he find these on a country estate?

No, he was deluding himself. If he was honest, the true reason was that in essence he wanted excitement before security, stimulation before tranquillity, change before monotony. The sea life.

His instincts were telling him that he should refuse his father. But was this the proper course? He must examine the consequence.

Could he foresee his life as a disavowed son of the aristocracy? He was content to continue with his persona as Renzi. He had means, a small enough competence, but his needs were little as a sea officer. He valued his books far beyond a fashionable lifestyle—it would be sufficient.

This, therefore, should be his decision.

Why, then, was he not convinced of it? At heart he knew that there was one looming consideration that forced the issue, one that his father had used against him without realising its power to move him. His duty. It was his obligation and responsibility to prepare himself to inherit the earldom, and no consideration of personal preference or taste could be allowed to take precedence.

Therefore this was his proper answer, his determination.

"No!" The passion in his outburst surprised him. Hypothetical the argument might be, yet it was not a natural conclusion. It had been forced upon him and, with rising excitement, he saw another path of reason that led to a different decision.

The true meaning of his duty was not solely to his father— or even to his family. It was to the wider community: to those who would depend on him—tenants, families, the estate men of business. It was to the caring husbandry of the land, the enlightened management of the estate—it was to descendants unborn. Would he make a worthy earl to them all? Or would he be a crabbed, uninterested and ultimately miserable aristocrat of the species he had seen so often before? No, indeed—he would leave the title to Henry and may he have the joy of it.

A shuddering sigh overtook him. A burden had been lifted that had weighed on him since he realised his five-year exile had turned first into a blessing, then a fear that it must all end and he would be compelled to return to the claustrophobia of a sedentary life. He was free at last! He buckled on his sword in a glow of deep satisfaction.

Renzi found Kydd alone at the top of the Cursed Tower, staring into the void of the night even now delicately touched with the first signs of light. "Brother," he said softly, but he could not find the words befitting this time of supreme trial that lay so close for them both. Instead he held out his hand, which Kydd took solemnly. Neither spoke as the dawn broke.

After the ladies had withdrawn the gentlemen settled comfortably to their brandy and port, replete after as fine a dinner as ever had graced the table at No. 10. The guests looked appreciatively at the Prime Minister as he raised his glass.

"A splendid repast as always," Addington said affably, noting Pitt's evident contentment, "and, if I might remark it, improved upon only by the intelligence you have disclosed to us tonight."

"Indeed," Pitt said, with satisfaction. "And the damnedest thing it was too! At dawn Smith and his doughty mariners stand to, expecting to fight for their lives, but what do they see? Nothing but an empty landscape. Our glorious Buonaparte—crept away in the night. Gone!"

"Does this mean that Buonaparte is finished at last?"

"Umm. We shall see. We do have intelligence that's unimpeachable for once—I can tell you in confidence that we took the singularly aptly named La Fortune at sea, and aboard by extraordinary good luck we found the general's dispatches to Paris." He smiled boyishly. "And in them he tries so hard to find a victory in his ruination that I nearly feel pity for the man. Now he has to explain to France how his grand design for glory and empire has failed. How the fine army that he led to victory and conquest across all Europe is now lost to plague and starvation in the deserts of Syria. And also why he has cynically abandoned his men to their fate—it seems he seeks to flee secretly to Paris."

Pitt's smile widened. "But when he arrives, the hardest task he will face is to explain the fact that the army he vastly outnumbered yet who defeated him—for the very first time on land—was not in the character of the military at all, but common sailors!"

AUTHOR'S NOTE

It is one of those happy coincidences that Tenacious was first published in 2005, the year of the Bicentenary celebrations of Nelson's great victory of Trafalgar—and a time when we had the opportunity to value anew the achievements of such a great sea leader. This book is dedicated to Sir Horatio Nelson.

When I began the Kydd series, as I plotted out the general content of each book, I knew my central character Thomas Kydd would meet Nelson at some time. No writer in this genre can tell of the stirring events in the great age of fighting sail without being aware of Nelson at the centre. But it was not Trafalgar that I selected for this first meeting; it was at the Battle of the Nile—in my mind Nelson's finest hour.

In the course of my research for this book my admiration for Nelson—which was already considerable—has increased immeasurably. He was undoubtedly a true genius as a leader of men, but he also had a great humanity, and such respect for the lower deck that he insisted on adding common seamen to his coat of arms.

In terms of background historical material for Tenacious I was spoiled for choice. It was a time of titanic global stakes. If the Nile or Acre had been lost we would have seen Napoleon dominating a world which would have been very different today. And it was a time of deeds so incredible that they may seem like fantasy but are not—Nelson personally saving the king and queen of Naples at cutlass point, Minorca taken without the loss of a single man—and above all, the astonishing but little-known fact that Napoleon was first defeated on land not by a great army but a rag-tag bunch of sailors.

As usual, I do not have the space to acknowledge all the institutions and people I have consulted in the course of writing Tenacious but there are a number to whom I owe a special debt. The National Maritime Museum holds priceless material on the thrilling Nile chase, much of which is now going online. In Minorca, Roy Wheatley and his charming wife Mary took Kathy and myself under their wing when we were there on location research. The Admiralty Hydrographic Office at Taunton could not have been more helpful in sourcing charts of the time, including one of the actual maps used in the siege.

And, my deep thanks are due to my wife and literary partner, Kathy. As well as maintaining a strict and professional eye on my developing manuscript, she has contrived to become my "reality manager," keeping the intrusions of everyday life at bay to enable me to fully immerse myself in the eighteenth-century world I write about. It is a source of great gratification to me to know that so many of you share my passion for these fascinating times and I look forward to sailing with you for many books to come ...

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