Then a harsh, alien braying sounded from the breach. Kydd stared, trying to make out what was happening through the smoke and dust. Inwards, from each side of the breach hurtled a whirling frenzy of men in gold turbans and flowing trousers. All flashing blades and demonic screams, they fell in a murderous fury on the French grenadiers pouring in. The two sides met in the middle of the breach and as the grenadiers gave way they joined together—one line facing outwards, another inward.
These were Bosnian Chiftlicks, sent by Sultan Selim from his personal bodyguard; Smith had kept them for just this occasion. With a surge of hope Kydd saw how they had severed those penned inside from the support of their comrades outside. They had a chance! He rose with a shout: "Finish the bastards!" He kicked at a nearby seaman. "Move y'rselves, we have a chance if we move now!" Several looked at him as if he were a madman. "Get off y'r arses an' fight!" he yelled hoarsely, and leaped over the parapet into the dismayed Frenchmen, who now saw that they were, in effect, surrounded, their cohesion as a military unit demolished.
Seamen rose up and joined Kydd in the vicious fighting that spilled out, but now there was a change in the spirit of the invaders. Turning to retreat, they found their way barred. Ululations of triumph became howls of terror, for the Turks now had the enemy at their mercy and flooded into the area from all sides, slaughtering and mutilating without mercy.
Kydd's battle rage fell away at the sight and he stood back with bloodied blade as the last of the interlopers was hacked to death and the area cleared up to the breach. The line of Chiftlicks, facing out, capered and menaced with their strangely curved weapons at the demoralised columns, which fell back into the fire from the ship's guns.
Kydd pulled at the sleeve of one, gesturing up at the Cursed Tower and making suggestive motions with his sword. The man's eyes were glazed, uncomprehending, as though he was drugged. Then he grinned fiercely, shouted for others and rushed for the gaping ruin.
The wavering column began to disintegrate. Buonaparte's brave grenadiers had broken and they fled out of range of the merciless broadsides in a sauve qui peut —every man for himself.
Trembling with emotion, Kydd watched them flee but suddenly a dark, round object soared through the air to thump at his feet—and another. Grenades? His heart froze. But they were the heads of Frenchmen who had had the misfortune to be stranded in the Cursed Tower and found by the Chiftlicks.
His gorge rose, as much at the sight as at the sickening repetition of killing. He left the line and stalked back through the breach. There were now only corpses and those picking over the bodies. But where was Renzi? At last he saw him standing bowed at one corner of the killing field. Relief chased dread as he crossed over to him. "Nicholas! You ..." There was a tear in his friend's eye.
In a low voice Renzi pointed to a body and croaked, "Mr Peake—he must have got lost." He cleared his throat and continued, "Of all I know, he was a man of conviction, of courage and did not fear to stand for the cause of humanity over the world's striving for vanities ... a gentle man, and the world is now the poorer for his loss." Kydd walked away, leaving his friend to his grief.
"Sir—sir!" Bowden raced down the steps of the parapet. "Mr Smith's duty, and if you should cast your eyes to the nor-west you shall see such a sight as will fill your heart!"
Kydd mounted the steps to the top of the wall and looked out to sea. On the horizon, perhaps a dozen miles off, was a cloud of sail, sprawling over most of the west. "The Turkish fleet, sir." They were saved—Buonaparte was thwarted. Deliverance meant cessation of this madness. All Kydd could think about was his little cabin aboard Tenacious and the precious benison of sleep.
He snatched Bowden's telescope and saw about nine warships, the rest transports, presumably with soldiers. "That's them, sure enough," he grunted. Something made him raise the glass again: the image had suffered from the glare of the sun on water, but it was plain now that the whole fleet lay becalmed, helpless. There would be no quick end.
The first guns started, and others, until the whole enemy line seemed to be alive with the flash and shock of artillery. No longer were they battering at the fortifications: now they aimed at random: cannon balls, explosive shells, incendiary carcasses—all fell on the town of Acre, setting alight houses, mosques, camel stables, tenements. Screaming women ran about the streets. Buildings crumbled and burned.
Kydd got hold of Dobbie. "Get all th' men behind the wall an' on their hunkers." Ironically, the walls were now the safest place to be and, following his example, many rushed to flatten themselves against the inside of the wall.
"Sir, why?"
"I don't know, Dobbie. M' guess is that Buonaparte knows that if he c'n break into Acre afore the fleet arrives he's won. Some sort o' ruse to rush us in the confusion—trickery of some kind, for sure."
"Aye, sir. Then we'll stand to th' gun, by y'r leave, sir."
"Thank ye, Dobbie."
The guns pounded all afternoon. It was not until dusk drew in that the cannon-fire slackened and finally stopped for want of aim. Kydd peered through the breach at the darkening countryside now being speckled by the light of campfires; there would be no more suicidal assaults, but what deviltry would they meet tomorrow? The Turkish fleet still lay distant offshore, unable to come to their help if there was another mine or if the renewed bombardment set fire to the town.
He resumed his pacing at the breach, his mind a turmoil after the day. Dobbie came up with Laffin. "Stand down th' gun, sir?"
"Yes. I'd get y'r sleep while you can. Who knows what we'll be facing tomorrow?"
"Sir." Dobbie turned to go, but some trick of the light, the last of the sunset, touched the top of the Cursed Tower and Kydd noticed the French flag still hanging limply atop it. On impulse he told him, "Afore ye turn in, douse that Frog rag and bring it t' me."
Dobbie touched his forehead and loped off, emerging on the top of the ruined tower. There appeared to be some sort of difficulty, which Kydd guessed was that the flag halliards had been shot away. Dobbie lifted a hand to point up to the flag and began shinning up the bare mast, an easy feat for a seaman. At the truck he tugged on the flag until it came free, and stuffed it inside his shirt. Then he slid down the mast awkwardly and disappeared inside the tower. He emerged from its base and stumbled towards Kydd, the flag outstretched, a look of grim concentration on his face.
Kydd stepped forward in concern, but before he could reach him, Dobbie fell face forward to the ground and lay still, the victim of a sharp-shooter in the outer shadows. With a hoarse cry Laffin pushed past Kydd and dropped to his knees next to the un-moving Dobbie. "No!" he screamed blindly, holding up a bloody hand and staring at it. "He's dead! An' it's you, y' glory-seeking bastard," he choked at Kydd.
Kydd keeled over into his cot, shattered in mind and body. The death of Dobbie and Laffin's accusation brought an unstoppable wave of grief and emotion. He tried to fight it, but the weeks had taken their toll. A sob escaped him.
It had been a cruel taunt: Kydd knew only too well from his time before the mast that a glory-seeker as an officer was worse than an incompetent, inevitably resulting in men's lives sacrificed on the altar of ambition. He could understand Laffin's reaction, but how could he say that his order to Dobbie to take down the flag and bring it was only so that he could present it to Smith as a tribute for what he was achieving?
But was this more of a general indictment? Were his actions in leading from the front during the siege seen by the lower deck as an ambitious bid for notice, to their cost? Was he, in truth, a despised glory-seeker?
Kydd tossed fretfully in the close air of the little room above the headquarters. His motivations in stepping forward into danger at the head of his men were, he had believed, those of duty and understanding of their desperate situation, but could there be within him a hidden impulse to glory and ambition?