‘Come in, then!’ Tyrell was at the head of the table, getting his papers in order. He looked up sharply. ‘Sit down. We’ve no time to waste.’
Kydd took the last chair, which was on Tyrell’s right-hand side. He found himself so close he could feel the man’s animal ferocity radiating, but Tyrell ignored him.
Kydd held rigid and forced himself to an icy cold.
‘Right. The assault on Marie-Galante.’ Tyrell sat forward aggressively, glaring around the table. Apart from bloodshot eyes, he seemed untouched by the night before and had once more the tight, dangerous air of a ravening leopard.
‘As senior, I’m in command. Therefore you’ll obey my orders without question. Is that clear?’ he rapped.
He seemed oblivious to the hostile atmosphere building. ‘Now listen. My strategy is simple. If we secure the capital of this miserable island the rest will fall. That’s Gron’ Borg. It’s defended by a fort that commands the harbour so we can’t go in and take it from the front. But I have a plan.’
He looked about him, as if inviting argument, then snapped, ‘And it’s this. Red Party will land to the north of Gron’ Borg, Blue Party to the south. And then?’
‘They advance from both sides?’ Lydiard drawled.
‘No!’ Tyrell barked triumphantly. ‘They head inland, both. When in the damned forest and out of sight, they turn inward, meet, and come in on the town and the fort from the land side. Clear?’
‘While the fort is being engaged from seaward?’ prompted a captain lower down the table.
‘Of course!’ Tyrell bristled.
‘Who shall command the landing parties?’ another asked. If there was to be any glory and distinction it would be for those facing the enemy. The rest would be mere spectators offshore.
‘Why, the hero of Curacao for one!’ Tyrell turned and gave a beaming smile.
Kydd jerked back and stared. Was this a clumsy attempt to make up for his blunder of the night before?
‘Um, thank you, Mr Tyrell.’ His voice sounded thick and unnatural.
‘Mr Kydd will be leading the Blue Party and …’
He waited for their full attention. ‘… and I will lead the Red Party.’
There were indrawn breaths but Tyrell went on remorselessly, his deep-set eyes restless. ‘We have seamen and marines in each party, but only as many as can be transported in our fit of boats. The Crapauds can be relied on to put up a fight, but we’re more’n a match for any Frenchy trooper! Cold steel and a willing heart, that’s how we’ll win, and be damned to it, that’s what we’ll do or I’ll know why.’
Lydiard interjected quietly, ‘Rufus, I understood this operation to be something in the way of a strike to extirpate some kind of secret naval base, not a grand invasion.’
‘Yes, yes, that’s being taken care of by Kydd’s party. Your worry is to stop interference in the landings from Guadeloupe or similar. Hannibal will be off Point-a-Peter and after recovering boats the frigates cruise at the four corners of the island, three leagues to seaward. Shouldn’t be too hard an assignment,’ he added sarcastically.
‘It seems not,’ replied Lydiard, with the barest hint of irony.
‘Good! I’ll bid you all farewell. We sail in an hour. Mr Kydd to remain.’
He watched them leave, then turned abruptly to his right. ‘You’re taking the Blue Party,’ he growled. ‘You can do it?’
Kydd mumbled an acknowledgement.
‘What’s that?’
‘I said, I can do it.’
‘You’ll have to make up numbers from your own ship. We’re short of volunteers.’
‘Yes.’
‘This damn-fool secret base – I take it you’ll detach a flying column the same as failed in Curacao?’
‘I will,’ Kydd bit off.
Tyrell sat back and fiddled with a pencil.
Kydd waited. Was this going to be a grudging apology for his behaviour? Should he accept or …
‘You wondered why I chose you for the Blue Party?’
‘I did.’
‘’Cos you’ve a way with your men. Don’t know why, and don’t really care, but you seem to know ’em better than most.’
Slowly it dawned on Kydd that Tyrell wasn’t going to offer an apology because he didn’t remember what he’d said in his drunken state. His burning anger began to cool. The man was a sot, lost to drink ashore – but his inexcusable behaviour was not driven by malice.
Tyrell’s brow furrowed as though trying to recover a lost thought. ‘I’ll confide to you now, Kydd, this is my first chance at distinction in a major action this war, and I’m going for it with all my heart. At the end we’ll see the white ensign atop the biggest damn building in Gron’ Borg and m’ name will be right up there as conqueror of Marie-Galante.’
Kydd, a Trafalgar veteran, had his views on what constituted a major action but he held his tongue.
He’d never forget what the man had done to him but for now there were bigger issues. ‘Right enough, Rufus. It’ll be your name as will be talked of wherever men remember Marie-Galante.’
That pleased Tyrell. ‘And pity help any who don’t top it the tiger when bid!’ he growled, his face like thunder.
Kydd stood up. ‘I’ll get back aboard. Good fortune to you, Rufus.’ He did not hold out his hand, and Tyrell seemed not to notice. He turned on his heel and left.
Ignoring the nakedly curious looks on the upper deck, he signalled for his boat and told them to stretch out for L’Aurore. Oakley’s pipe shrilled loudly and he came aboard to a set of faces agog.
‘Get those men to work!’ he roared, incensed. ‘The barky’s like a pig-sty.’
There was a great deal to do to complete for sea inside the hour. The naval system of divisions saw to it that each lieutenant had a fair share of every talent the ship possessed: topmen, midshipmen, gunners, those capable of bearing a musket or swinging a cutlass and even artificers. A landing party, however, had to be fit for purpose; this was a fight ashore and the Royal Marines would figure highly.
It had to be assumed that their assault on the fort from landward would not be protracted. Any sensible garrison commander, seeing himself surrounded, would not be inclined to hold out for long enough to warrant taking ladders and siege kit. Likewise, the artillery: with the countryside entirely in British hands, it would be foolish to await a formal battering before yielding.
For the flying column, it was a different matter. Thankfully, they had Renzi’s detailed description, carefully sketched out, with his estimate of its defences. How it would be protected was any man’s guess but if they moved fast and advanced on it from inland they had a good chance of surprise.
Renzi stood at his side as Kydd received his stream of reporting officers. ‘Nicholas, I’m giving you Mr Curzon and a midshipman, with Mr Clinton and eight of his marines, and a dozen armed seamen. Look after them, if you please.’
‘You’ll be requiring Mr Gilbey to head the shore party?’
‘Not on this occasion. Tyrell leads his party so it’s to be expected I shall do likewise.’
‘Interesting. That Tyrell is taking a party himself, that is. Will it be his own men he leads? I wonder if they’ll follow …’
Kydd raised an eyebrow. ‘We’ve both seen him in a tight corner before, against the revolutionaries in Brittany. There’s many a man owes his life to his bloody-minded leadership.’
‘Umm. We shall see, I think.’
On the hour a gun banged in Hannibal and her colours rose. They were on their way.
The assault was planned for dawn, allowing the expedition to pass in clear waters by Guadeloupe in the hours of darkness, to appear out of the mists of daybreak directly before the island of Marie-Galante.
As sunrise tinged the sea with pink and gold, the inhabitants of Marie-Galante and their defenders watched with disbelief then fear as a battleship and four frigates closed in to less than a mile offshore and boats, too many to count, started towards them, in each scarlet and gold, blue and white – and the glitter of steel.