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.
He was hoisted aboard, those near hearing him moan softly at the pain as he was taken below to the surgeon. There were other wounded-and Kydd counted only seventeen in the party.
Later he had the lieutenant brought to the coach and placed in an officer’s cot.
Kydd sat with him but it was well after dark before he came back to consciousness and some time before he could recognise his captain.
“How goes it for you, William?” Kydd asked.
“S-sir, what … am I doing here?”
“Never mind. Ship’s company at their grog, too noisy for a sufferer,” he answered gruffly.
The field guns Kydd had seen landed had been turned on the British and a six-pounder ball impacting near Clinton had driven shards of rock into his body and caused a concussion.
The marine had stood at Kydd’s side in the climactic last days of siege in Buenos Aires and other adventures too numerous to recall. His heart wrung with pity at the thought of the young officer leaving his bones to rot here-and for what grand cause?
“Surgeon thinks you’ve a good chance, William.” It wasn’t quite what had been said.
“My r-report, sir.” The voice was weak and slurred but piteously determined.
“Not now, dear fellow,” Kydd said.
But Clinton was going to do his duty. It came out painfully, with pauses to gather his strength.
The first to land had not known the extent of the enemy infiltration until they had rounded the hill and come under fire from concealed gun emplacements protected by the fortified monastery.
They had held their ground until the reinforcements from the fleet had reached them. Jointly it was decided that the guns were too big a threat to be ignored. Mounted on the crest overlooking the fleet, they could place it under a pitiless onslaught of steady, aimed fire.
The problem was that any advance on the gun-pits would be dominated by musket fire from the loopholes of the monastery. One course would have been to land their own guns for an artillery duel but that would take time.
It had to be a frontal assault with no wavering and this had been bravely accomplished. The monastery was taken, the guns spiked and the enemy in full retreat. But before it had ended Clinton had lost three men killed and much of his detachment wounded.
Then orders had come to return on board.
Without knowledge of events on the island Duckworth had obliged them to break off and leave it to the Turks.
“Thank you for your report, Lieutenant,” Kydd said softly. “You have done your duty most nobly, sir.”
Dawn came, and with it, what Kydd had been most dreading. The wind had veered during the night and now was fitfully blowing from the northeast. A broad reach to Constantinople in one board.
It was fair at last for the bombarding of the ancient city.
Like the tragic conclusion of a Greek drama, each of the main players stepped through their parts to the inevitable climax.
A signal mounted in the flagship’s halliards: “Weigh and proceed as previously ordered.” Obediently the warships of the squadron raised anchor and ensigns rose in the ships as they manoeuvred into line-of-battle.