Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

Kydd had refused a horse, feeling unable to ride while his men marched, but after the first hour he regretted the decision. It was good to swing along to the stirring music, seeing the soldiers moving ahead economically and fast but he was unused to the discipline of the march and felt increasingly sore.

After five miles they reached the small market town of Alayor. The inhabitants watched them pass, some with grave expressions, others fearful. On the far side they stopped for fifteen minutes' rest. The soldiers joked and relaxed, some not even bothering to sit, but the sailors squatted or sat in the dust.

A cheerful sun was abroad when they got under way once more; there were no disturbances or threats of attack and after another five miles in a countryside of sinister quiet they were pressing close to Port Mahon. A halt was called while the town was still hidden in the low hills ahead, orange orchards and neat garden plots betraying its proximity.

But there was no sign of the enemy. Could it be that they were lying concealed, waiting for the whole column to enter before springing their ambush? The soldiers did not appear unduly concerned, and Kydd reasoned that as the detachment was only about three hundred strong, it was more a reconnaissance in force than an assault and could withdraw at any time. His worries subsided.

Then his mind supplied a new concern: was the main body for the real assault approaching from another direction? The anxieties returned—not that he had any doubts about his courage, but as an officer of rank what would be expected of him should the army "beat to quarters"? He forced his eyes closed.

"Sir."

Kydd opened his eyes and saw a youthful subaltern saluting him in the odd army fashion with the palm outwards.

"Colonel Paget desires you should wait on him."

At the head of the column Paget was at the centre of an animated group of officers, each apparently with a personal view on recent events. Kydd took off his hat and waited for attention.

"Ah, Mr Kydd. Developments." He looked distracted and barely glanced at Kydd. "Scouts have returned, they report that the Spanish in Mahon want to parley."

"Sir?" It could mean anything from abject surrender to an ultimatum—or a Spanish trick, Kydd told himself, to control his sudden rush of excitement.

"I'm inclined to take it at face value. I shall go forward under flag o' truce and see what they want. I should be obliged if you would accompany me in case they try any knavish tricks concerning sea matters." He glanced at Kydd. "Kindly remain silent during the proceedings unless you perceive anything untoward at which you will inform me, never addressing the enemy. Do you understand?"

"Aye aye, sir."

Paget heaved himself up on his horse, which was patiently held by a soldier. "And get this man a horse, for God's sake," he threw at an officer, as he looked down on Kydd's rumpled, dusty appearance.

The little group of officers walked their horses down the road, preceded by a mounted trooper holding a pennon with a vast white flag attached. Ahead, in the distance, a blob of white appeared, resolving by degrees into a group, which to Kydd looked distinctly non-military.

"Halt!" A trumpeter dismounted and marched smartly to the exact point of equidistance and sounded off an elaborate call. There was movement among the figures opposite but no inclination to treat that Kydd could discern.

They waited in the sun: Kydd could hear Paget swearing under his breath, his horse impatiently picking at the ground with his hoof. At length there was a general advance of the whole mass towards them.

"What the devil!" Paget exploded. "Stand your ground!" he roared back over his shoulder to his officers.

It was apparent that any military component of the Spanish group was conspicuous only by its absence. The florid garments and general demeanour of the leading members seemed more municipal than statesmanlike as they nervously approached. "Tell 'em that's far enough," Paget told an aide.

"Ni un paso más!" The group stopped, but a man stepped forward uneasily with an old-fashioned frilly tricorne in his hands. Words were spoken and the man regarded Paget with a look that was half truculent, half pleading.

"Sir, this is Antonio Andreu, alcalde of the councillors of Mahon. He wishes you a good day."

"Dammit! Tell him who I am, and say I'm expecting three more battalions to arrive by the other road presently."

"He desires to know if there is produce of the land that perhaps he can offer, that you have come such a long way—red wine, olives, some oranges."

"Also tell him that our siege train arrives by sea tonight, and before dawn Mahon will be held within a ring of iron standing ready to pound his town to dust and rubble."

"Mr Andreu mentions that Minorca is famed for its shoes and leather harnesses, which we English will have remembered from the past—I believe he is talking about our last occupation, sir."

"What does the man want, for God's sake? Ask him!"

"Sir," said the lieutenant, very carefully, "on behalf of the citizens of Port Mahon he wishes to surrender."

"He what?" Paget choked.

Andreu's face was pale. He spoke briefly, then handed up a polished box. "He offers up the keys to Mahon, sir, but deeply regrets that he is not certain of the ceremonial form of a capitulation and apologises profoundly for any unintended slight."

Taking a deep breath, Paget turned to his adjutant. "I can't take a surrender from a parcel o' tradesmen."

"Sir, it might be considered churlish to refuse."

"They haven't even got a flag we can haul down. There are forms an' conventions, dammit."

"An expression of submission on their part, sir? Purely for form's sake ..."

"Tell 'em—tell 'em this minute they're to give three hearty hurrahs for King George."

"They say, sir—er, they say ..."

"And what do they say, sir?"

"And then may they go home?"

At the head of his seamen Kydd moved through the town. They padded down to the waterfront, past gaping women leaning from windows and curious knots of townsfolk at street corners. Most were silent but some dared cheers at the sight of the English sailors.

The dockyard was deserted: there was a brig under construction but little other shipping. That left only the boom, set across the harbour further along. Helpful townsfolk pointed it out, then found them the capstans to operate it.

There was little else that Kydd could think to do. It was a magnificent harbour with its unusual deep cleft of water between the heights where the main town appeared to be. It was long and spacious, its entrance flanked by forts. Out to sea were the men-o'-war of the Royal Navy.

Once more the two frigates put about and beat upwind outside the harbour. The Spanish flag flew high over the forts that made the harbour impregnable to external threat. The army was going to have a hard time when it came to the siege.

"Boat putting off—flag o' truce, sir."

The captain of HMS Aurora held up his hand to acknowledge. It was a rare sight, as the blockade around Minorca was as tight as could possibly be. Still, the diversion from duty would be welcome. "Heave to, if you please."

Under sail out in the open sea the boat made heavy weather of it but came on stubbornly in sheets of spray. As it neared he could see only a few figures in it. It was one of the straight-stemmed Minorcan llauds that he had seen fishing here. The boat rounded to, the soaring lateen sail brailed up expertly as it came lightly to leeward.

"Aurora, ahoy! Permission t' come aboard!" hailed the deep-tanned figure at the tiller in a quarterdeck bellow, to the great surprise of the frigate's company agreeably passing time in watching the exchange.