He pointed up the steep street where the houses ended and the road continued up the hill.
Kydd knew it unlikely in the extreme that Poulden would lead the lads into temptation in some tavern or worse-had they gone into hiding at the sight of the uniforms?
“Stirk-give ’em a pipe.”
The gunner’s mate pulled out his boatswain’s call. The harsh shrieking of “hands to muster” echoed from building to building across the other side, stopping conversations in the square.
“Again.”
The expressions on the crowd went from astonishment to curiosity, then to suspicion. But no shame-faced L’Aurores emerged.
Kydd faced a dilemma. It could never be justified later that he, a distinguished and valuable post-captain, had gone ashore to rescue stragglers, even with the excuse that on the strength of a vague report of uniforms on the island he had gone to take a look.
But if he gave up on them now and sailed away, the Navy would then consider the men deserters. An accusing “R,” for “run,” would appear next to their name on the ship’s books and on recapture they would face a court-martial and the lash.
And if they were somewhere else? How far should he search in an increasingly hostile island? “Calloway, when you spotted your uniforms, what direction were they going?” he snapped urgently.
“Like I said, sir. From over that hill and down this side, and-”
“I see. Back to the boat then,” Kydd ordered crisply.
They stood out to sea, ostensibly returning to L’Aurore, but then altered as if to report to the flagship and carried on to mingle with the usual ship-to-ship boat traffic.
“We’re not looking any more, Sir Thomas?” Dillon asked.
“We’re not returning on board, are we?” Kydd said, with an arch expression, and nodded to Stirk. He thrust down the tiller, put the cutter about and they stretched out through the passage between Prota and the next island, but as they passed close to the southern end Kydd growled orders that saw them heading for a tiny sandy cove.
They scrambled ashore, leaving the bows on a kedge out to seaward. The boat’s crew, under Saxton, the senior master’s mate, readied the gear for hoisting in preparation for a rapid departure, if need be.
Where the diminutive beach ended to the right, a point of land jutted out. A tumble of brown rocks and scrub hid what was beyond.
Stirk was sent ahead, slipping and sliding up to the ragged crest of the point. He inched his head up-then ducked and beckoned furiously, a finger to his lips.
There were no paths and the pebble shale was loose and dusty, Kydd scurried as fast as he could to Stirk’s side. He raised his head cautiously.
Anchored offshore was an inoffensive merchantman, brig-rigged, the usual maid-of-all-work around the Mediterranean, but it was off-loading field guns on to rafts for the short trip inshore. The Turks were using the delay to secretly land weapons to mount on the summit of the island to menace the British fleet.
Every instinct urged Kydd to get back to his frigate and fall on them but there were larger considerations. If troops and guns were already ashore, destroying the supply ship would do little to lessen the threat to the fleet.
He scanned the side of the hill above and spotted a monastery of the sort so common in these parts, but there was something odd about it: the windows were narrow and vertical. Loopholes! As he gazed at it he saw a line of men coming up from the landing cove, too far away to make out in detail but certainly on their way to it, and they all wore red and grey uniforms.
His duty was to alert Duckworth that his fleet was now under grave threat.
He turned to go-but there was a faint tap of a musket. He looked back: high on the hillside the tell-tale white puff lazily drifted away. Some hawk-eyed individual with a view over the point had seen them.
Kydd snapped, “Back to the boat!” but even as he said it, he saw a craft under sail put about and head their way. It was full of uniformed men and would get to their cutter before they could.
Heart thudding, he looked about desperately. “Follow me!”
He scrambled up the slope, around the side of the hill. After a few minutes they were above the boat and he signalled frantically to them. Saxton caught on and had the cutter under way as the other came around the point.
The officer in command chose to chase the boat instead of landing his soldiers to go after those ashore. They had a chance.
It was brutal going, struggling along the stony hillside, ankles twisting, legs burning with effort.
Then they crashed through thorny scrub, cutlasses swinging, down into a gully, heaving and gasping.
They found themselves on the bare slopes above the little village. It was what Kydd had been hoping to see: beyond the huts, the fleet was anchored majestically in line across his vision.
“We’re safe!” he gasped.
No Turk in his right mind with a boat full of soldiers would come into view of the fleet.
Breathless and hot, they ran on to the jetty and, with perfect timing, Saxton brought the cutter curving in.
“The damned rascals!” roared Duckworth. “They’ve broken the terms of the cease-fire!”
He paced the cabin and stopped. “They can’t be allowed to get away with it. Flags-orders. To Canopus: ‘Land strong reconnaissance party of marines and report.’”
To Kydd, he said gruffly, “Thank you for bringing this villainy to notice, sir. Leave this to me and get back to your ship. There’ll be hot work to do before long, I believe.”
“Sir?”
“This is the last straw. I’m going against Constantinople as soon as there’s a wind fair for that blasted place.”
“Will Mr Arbuthnot agree, do you think?”
“Ha! Mr Ambassador has just taken ill again and begs to be excused any further involvement. We’re on our own at last, Kydd.”
As soon as he was decently able, Kydd returned to the sanity of L’Aurore. He had done what he could for his missing men. A strong body of marines was going to land on Prota; hopefully, they would sort it out.
Now, however, the last check on Duckworth was gone. What lunatic scheme would he dream up to salvage his reputation?
Shortly after midday signs of battle could be seen arising beyond the hill-crest on Prota.
Kydd guessed they were coming up to the monastery on the other side. It raged on-they must be in a stiff fight. A little later one of the landing boats left the jetty and made for the flagship under a press of sail.
“‘Ships to send reinforcements,’” a signal midshipman reported. “Pennants include ours, sir.”
L’Aurore’s contribution mustered in the waist. Twenty Royal Marines with accoutrements in impeccable order. Kydd went down to inspect them, taking a quivering salute from Lieutenant Clinton. He passed down the two ranks slowly, and at the end turned to him and said loudly, “Take care of these men while you’re on shore, Lieutenant. They’re the finest we have.”
He watched as they landed and formed up on the jetty, heading off smartly in a spirited display of scarlet and white. But it failed to lift his heart. Were they marching to disaster, trusting in their superiors to make winning plans and decisions? In his bones he knew they would fail-and good men would pay with their lives.
From Whitehall’s interference to Duckworth’s irresolution in the face of the ambassador’s conflicting advice, he had seen the all-too-human side of high command.
He chased Dillon out of his cabin and took up his favoured chair by the stern windows.
In the past Renzi had sat in his place on the other side with a quizzical smile as Kydd shared his doubts and hopes.
But now came the dawning realisation that he no longer had need of advice, comforting reassurance, the logical perspective. If he felt the necessity for any of them, he would find it within himself. As was right and proper for a leader of men.
The afternoon wore on with no news, but as the shadows lengthened the boats began returning. One of them L’Aurore’s.
In it, a bandaged figure lay full length. Kydd didn’t need to be told. It was Clinton.