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  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 F
rench 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?"