From his own boat on its way to the end of the reef to the south, Kydd could see the Hannibals heading in a mile north towards Grand Anse. It was all going according to plan: they were both out of range of the fort above the town and could land unopposed.
The shoreline grew clearer. At Pointe des Basses the reef ended and he took in pale beaches and thick dark vegetation nearly down to the water’s edge. Ideal for the landing.
‘There, where the fallen tree touches the water,’ Kydd instructed Poulden, who obediently put over the tiller. The other craft were strung astern – it was going to be easy, just- But then he saw figures moving urgently among the thick growth and the first shots rang out in the still morning air, gunsmoke rising lazily. The four marines tasked in each boat got to work in the bows, firing at the origins of the smoke, methodically reloading in relays.
It was imperative to get men ashore, whatever the cost. Having the equivalent of five regiments’ artillery afloat was a dead card, however – the ships would be firing on their own men.
As they drew nearer the shore the whip of bullets was more insistent.
‘Pull, y’ bastards! Lay out and pull for your lives!’ Kydd bawled. The men heaved like demons and the boats flew; the firing fell off as they came in and the opposition melted away.
The boat hissed to a stop in the sand and the men scrambled out, following Kydd, army niceties like forming up lost in the urgency to gain a foothold. Fronds and branches whipped across his face as he led them on, nerves stretched to the extreme. He slashed at the vegetation with his sword until he came upon a semblance of a track that wound inland.
‘Move yourselves!’ he bellowed, and went along the path at a trot. He could hear the clink and jingle of the men panting behind him as they followed. Almost certainly the firing had been from a platoon hastily sent to delay them, but their expectation would be that the invaders would turn down the coast road to advance on Grand-Bourg, while of course they were heading inland.
After a couple of hundred yards Kydd slowed at a clearing and waited for his force to come up with him. ‘Well done, you men!’ he acknowledged breathlessly. ‘We head into the country, then hook around until we’re above the town. A mile or two at most. Where’s Mr Renzi?’
His friend, solemnly flanked by both Curzon and Clinton, the Royal Marines lieutenant, was in plain but serviceable civilian dress with a wide hat set at a rakish angle.
Kydd gave him a tight smile. ‘Nicholas, you know where you want to go. Stay with us until you’re ready to move on the base. March on!’
Almost without warning a rearing cliff, hundreds of feet high, loomed above the trees and palms. But they saw the path took a sideways loop following the contours and they made good speed, their altitude rising slightly and Grand-Bourg firmly in sight below.
Tyrell had been right: this route had taken the defenders completely by surprise and now they had only to meet in the heights above the capital, then together descend to victory.
The going got thicker as they neared the town. Sheltered depressions were covered with luxuriant growth, and at one of these Renzi decided to make his move. ‘The villa – it’s down further, about a quarter-mile. I’ll, er, leave you now, if I may.’
Kydd watched Renzi and his party vanish downwards into the lush green, then ordered his men onwards.
The joining up would be very soon now.
Bowden was in the second boat behind Tyrell and could hear the man’s roars as he urged on his rowers. It had been a fraught time in the lead-up to the landings; Tyrell seemed to have no idea of the knife-edge of feeling among the men. While the squadron was formed up there was no danger of a bloody mutiny, but there would be other times and places …
Tyrell’s bulldog character, aroused by the coming battle, was transforming him. Petty spite and vindictiveness was replaced by a towering eagerness to fall on the enemy. The moods, the suspicions, the menace were gone, leaving a roaring, raging warrior.
Away to the right L’Aurore’s boats were nearly in, white puffs along the coastline showing where they were meeting with opposition. It seemed to have drawn the enemy’s full attention for their own length of coast was quiet and the boats came to a rest in a sheltered sandy cove. Bowden remembered it was here that Columbus had landed to name the island.
There was an uncanny stillness but Tyrell stormed fearlessly inland and found a clearing. ‘To me!’ he bellowed, raising his naked sword.
The men came on warily, sullen. Bowden formed them up in a rough file and moved them to Tyrell, who was waiting impatiently. They tramped forward into the thickening growth after him, but from none came the customary joking and easy talk to be expected of Jack ashore.
Next to him marched Hinckley, an older captain in charge of the small detachment of the 69th Gloucestershires that made up a third of their force. ‘I mislike this quiet,’ he muttered. ‘I’d be happier were there scouts on our flank.’
Bowden glanced at him. Hinckley had seen service around the world and was much respected by his men. ‘We’d be slowed, surely.’
‘We’d be slowed more should they press home an attack while your men are strung out like that.’ He had his own troops in a tight formation, muskets a-port, alert for anything.
As they trudged on inland, from out of sight ahead came the occasional bull roar of Tyrell’s hectoring. Bowden fancied he could hear musket fire in the direction of the L’Aurore landing and, with a pang, wondered how they were faring – so like a dream had been his service in the frigate, utterly different from the sour moodiness in Hannibal.
But he had to accept that this was his duty … and with a turn of the stomach he remembered that after this action was over there had to be an accounting – a resolution to the dilemma the Hannibal officers faced.
Ragged firing broke out ahead. As one, the seamen dived for cover, wriggling into bushes and under broad-leafed ferns. The soldiers stayed in formation, nervously eyeing Hinckley.
‘I’ll go up and see what’s afoot,’ Bowden said, loping forward in a crouch.
They were not far from the join-up position, the ridge above the town, but it quickly became clear that something had happened.
‘God damn them for a parcel of old women!’ choked Tyrell, hunkered down and gesturing angrily at the strewn articles of abandoned kit on the path and his men cowering in the vegetation. ‘As it’s only a few Crapaud militia sent to delay us!’
There was desultory firing from positions off to the left and a stray bullet whipped through the branches and leaves above.
‘Get up and move!’ Tyrell roared in vexation. He stood up. ‘To the fore, advance, you mumping rogues – or I’ll have every man jack o’ you flogged to within an inch o’ your lives.’
None came out from their hiding places.
‘By God!’ he yelled. ‘I’ll have the hide off you for as cowardly a bunch of lubbers as ever I’ve heard on. We’ve an island to conquer – get on your feet and go!’
Still there was no movement and Tyrell’s face turned red. ‘To hell and damnation with you for a scurvy crew who know no discipline! If I have to go alone I’ll do it – d’ you hear there?’
He hesitated for a few moments more. Then, with a roar of frustration and with drawn sword, he raced forward across the seventy yards or so of clear ground ahead. There was no firing, and he made the ridge safely, flopping down at its crest. ‘Move, you chicken-hearted shabs!’ he yelled, beckoning urgently back at them. ‘Forward, or fry in Hell for ever after I’ve hanged the lot o’ you!’
There was a stirring but not one broke cover to join him.
Bowden’s every instinct was to urge them on to go up with him but where did his real duty lie? His own men were still on their way and his place was with them.
He turned and raced back to call for Hinckley’s soldiers.