Julian Stockwin - Command

Kydd could feel time slipping—with nothing in view that would give any kind of opportunity to win recognition and secure him in his command. He forced himself to patience.

News from the interior was slow and confused: there was talk of a general rising among the population against the French, but that transmuted into a petty insurrection against the Mamelukes. Word then came that Hely-Hutchinson had reached Cairo and had had the gall to demand the instant surrender of General Belliard and his army. With double the English numbers it was hardly surprising that the French had refused. The stage seemed set for either catastrophe or headlong retreat.

Returning gunboats appeared and made straight for the little harbour at Rosetta with the news that, by an astonishing mix of diplomacy and bluff, Hely-Hutchinson had persuaded the French general to capitulate. The price? That his troops would be shipped safely back to France. Shortly thereafter, a flood of vessels of all sizes converged on Rosetta from upriver, each packed with unarmed French soldiers.

It was a brilliant stroke: in one move the British had driven a wedge between the French, eliminated one side and forced the other to draw in their defensive lines around the city and port of Alexandria. At last it appeared that, after a miserable start to the war, the Army could now feel pride in themselves.

With the return of the victorious Hely-Hutchinson, plans could be made for the investment of this last stronghold. A council-of-war was ordered, Commander Kydd in attendance with Sir Sidney Smith and the other naval captains.

Smith made a late entrance: in a room dominated by the gold frogging and scarlet of army field officers, he appeared dressed in Turkish robes and a blue turban, with side-whiskers and moustache in an Oriental style. In scandalised silence, he took his place, remarking offhandedly as he sat, "The Grand Vizier calls me 'Smit Bey.'"

With a brother the ambassador in Constantinople, and his consuming interest in the Levant, Smith was known as an authority on the region and Kydd had heard him speak easily with the Arabs and Ottomans in their own languages. Perhaps, Kydd concluded, his outlandish appearance was Smith's notion of a gesture of solidarity with them, the lawful rulers of Egypt.

An ill-tempered "Harrumph!" came from Hely-Hutchinson. "Why, Sir Sidney, I had no notion that you meant to be a character," he added, and without waiting for reply took up his papers. "The reduction of Alexandria. We have been attempting that very object since the first. Some say 'impregnable' but I say 'vulnerable.' And this is the reason: Lord Keith tells me that the twin harbours are not to be assailed in a frontal manner from the sea—but offers us a landing place on the shores of Aboukir. This I reject out of hand because we would be constrained to fight our way on a narrow front all the way to the city. Nonsense.

"So here is what I shall do. It has come to my attention that the low region to the inland side of Alexandria was known to the ancients as a lake—Mareotis, if I recall correctly."

Kydd stole a sideways glance at Smith, who caught the look and rolled his eyes furtively. Not knowing how to respond, Kydd gave a weak smile and returned his attention to the general.

"I am going to cut every waterway, every canal and every rivulet and send their waters cascading against the French—Lake Mareotis will live again! And by this means I will be empowered to trap Menou and his troops in an impassable enclave. They may neither be supplied nor can they run away. By my reckoning, with the timely assistance of the Navy, it can only be a short period before we entirely extirpate the French from this land." A stir of interest rippled about the stuffy room: this was more bold thinking, the kind that won wars—or cost men their lives.

Smith leaned back in his chair. "Sir, you may be assured that the Navy is ready to play its part," he said languidly. "In fact, such is the urgency of the matter that I have this day placed Commander Kydd in a position of absolute authority over the plicatiles."

Cold grey eyes bored into Kydd, who quailed. What, in heaven's name, were the plicatiles?

"I have always placed the utmost reliance on Mr Kydd's technical understanding and take the liberty of reminding the general that this is the same man who fought by my side so valiantly in Acre."

The meeting moved to details—troop movements, lines of advance, field-sign colours for the order of battle—but Kydd was in a ferment of anxiety concerning his role with the plicatiles. The developing plan gave no further clue: the Army would advance on Alexandria but at the same time there would be a determined and noisy diversion from the sea, the squadron commanded in person by Sir Sidney. Yet another element would be the clandestine transfer of troops around the rear of the French made possible by the flooding of Lake Mareotis.

At least the Navy's role was clear enough—and who knew? There might well be chances in the deadly scrimmages likely at the entrance of the port—a great deal of shipping lay at anchor inside, including frigates, and Teazer would not hang back.

The meeting broke up. A worried young lieutenant tried to ask Kydd about his role in a gunboat but Kydd brushed him off: he had other things on his mind. Smith was deep in conversation with a Turkish field officer and he waited impatiently for it to end, then the two began to move off together.

"S-sir! If y' please—"

Smith broke off and turned to Kydd.

"Sir, about y'r plicatiles . . ."

"And do I hear an objection? Let me remind you, Mr Kydd, that I've gone out of my way to accede to your evident desire for the opportunity of distinguished conduct by an independent command—are you now about to renounce it?"

"B-by no means, sir!" Kydd stuttered. "I shall bend m' utmost endeavours. It's—it's just that . . ."

"You find the service too challenging?" Smith's eyebrows rose.

"No, sir!"

"Then I can safely leave the matter with you." He turned his back and resumed his animated conversation with the Turk.

"Be damned t' you, sir!" the elderly colonel spluttered, his fist waving comically in the night air. "I'm not about to risk m' men in that contraption! What kind o' loobies d' ye think we are?"

A seaman patiently held the blunt prow of a boat for the milling and distrustful soldiers to board. But this was no stout and seaworthy naval launch—it was a flat, awkward beast built in sections joined with leather seams, a portable boat that had been carried across the desert on the backs of soldiers: a plicatile. It was now ready to take to the waters of the rejuvenated Lake Mareotis to catch the unsuspecting French in the rear. And it leaked like a colander.

Kydd took a ragged breath. It had been a nightmare, ensuring that there were enough reliable seamen to conn the hundreds of craft and that each had a boat compass and dark-lantern, repair kits, balers and so on as well as the right fit of army stores. The tedious and bitingly cold night march through the anonymous sand had been preceded by days of Kydd's organisation and planning that had taken its toll on his stamina, and he was in no mood to debate the wisdom of embarking the troops in the transport provided.

"Then, sir, I'm t' tell Gen'ral Hely-Hutchinson that his regiments refuse t' move forward?" he retorted. "Th' colonel says he might get his feet wet?"

"Have a care, sir!" the officer spat dangerously. "I'll remember your name, sir!"

"Aye, Kydd it is—meanwhile . . . ?"

All along the reedy "shore" of the new lake more and more of the plicatiles took to the water. It was vital that a credible force was assembled ready at the appointed point on the opposite shore at dawn. This implied a departure time of not later than two in the morning if they were to avoid being revealed by a rising moon. They had to board now.