Julian Stockwin - Tenacious

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.