The guns ashore fell silent as the range widened and the predators closed in. It was close, vicious and bloody work—the invasion flotilla must be stopped and nothing would be spared. The first bateau dug in its steering oar and slewed around at Teazer—a field artillery piece was tied down with ropes on its clumsy foredeck but when it fired, the ball reduced Teazer's quarterdeck rail to flying splinters, and ended the life of the lively and willing Philipon, an able seaman who had been with them since the Channel Islands.
It was an heroic act by the Frenchman for they could not reload the piece: they must wait while Teazer stood off and destroyed them—except that her own guns on that side were useless. The two vessels faced each other defiantly but impotently until Kydd took his ship under the stern of the other and crushed the little craft with a single broadside.
The next bateau sheered away cravenly inshore, taking the ground a full mile out in a shuddering stop, the shock canting the long vessel's bow skyward. Tumbling over the side in a panic-stricken flight the crew stumbled away.
A chaloupe appeared from the smoke, her eighteen-pounders opening on Teazer as soon as she appeared. The shots went wild and it disappeared as quickly as did the bateau they had been ready to engage.
The din and acrid reek of powder-smoke drove in on Kydd— where was the next target? For a short time he could see Locust hammering away frantically at two chaloupes assaulting her but there was nothing Kydd could do for them and smoke drifted across to hide the scene.
An unknown vessel lay stopped ahead, only a single mast left standing. Men swarmed over the wreckage like ants—was it Bruiser? They had to take their chances for Kydd's duty was to engage the flotilla and there inshore was another bateau canonnière—but beyond lay the dour heights of Cap Gris Nez.
As if to mark the invisible boundary that had been crossed, a plume of water shot up—and another, and more as the ball skipped towards them. It was from the heavy guns on the dark heights of the iconic headland, and the mass of sails quickly converged on its deep-water flanks—it was now all but over.
Held off by the formidable ring of iron, the flying squadron stayed out of range but kept with the armada as it rounded the cape and, with the last of the tide, passed into the safety of the harbours of Ambleteuse and Wimereux, their goal of Boulogne just six miles further on.
It was not yet noon on a beautiful early-summer's day: from first to last the action had taken just a few hours, but now it was time to leave.
CHAPTER 5
THE SUMMER SUN WAS HIGH in the sky when HMS Teazer made her way home with the others to find her anchor buoy and pick up her moorings once again. It was still warm and beneficent when Kydd returned to his ship after an immediate conference aboard Actaeon.
Teazer was to be stood down from the flying squadron due to battle-damage—much of her larboard bulwarks beaten flat and guns dismounted—and it would be several weeks before she could look to active service again.
Kydd felt the need to stay on deck in the brightness of the day, with the pleasant sight of the town and its bustle, the constant to-and-froing of scores of ships about their occasions—reality, normality. But a captain could not idly pace among the men as they worked. Reluctantly, he went to his cabin and found Renzi at the table scratching away at papers, the interminable loose ends after any scene of combat.
"A hot action," he said, looking up.
"Yes," Kydd muttered, slumping into his chair. Only that morning his ship had been plunged into a desperate fight for survival and here she was, an hour or two later, battered and sore but lying to single anchor in sun-kissed tranquillity.
Seeing Kydd's drawn face, Renzi laid down his pen.
Kydd went on sombrely, "As it was necessary, m' friend." The sheer savagery of the encounter and the seemingly unstoppable determination of the vessels assembled for their grand enterprise had unnerved him. He had also found himself quite affected by the death of young Philipon, a gay, laughing soul now removed from the world of men, and by the sight of Locust's pinnace on its way past them to land the pitiful figure of her captain, writhing under a blanket and mortally wounded. Later, no doubt, others from the naval hospital would be making their last journey on earth to the austere St. George's church in Deal.
"'. . . these are times to try men's souls—but he that stands it now, deserves the love and thanks of men and women . . '" Renzi murmured.
"What?" said Kydd, distracted.
"Oh, naught but the rantings of an unfashionable rogue of fevered times now past."
Kydd sighed. "Who is your philosopher, then, Renzi?"
"His name, you may have heard it, Tom Paine."
Kydd allowed a twisted smile. He had borne the name of the revolutionary since birth, his parents having once heard the great man speak and been caught up in the fiery rhetoric. "So the villain can conjure some right words, I'm to say." He sighed heavily. "But its hard t' take. After as grim a fight as ever we've been in, what've we won? Naught but a handful o' Boney's flotilla. They say that, with this last, he's now above one thousand craft near Boulogne." So many vessels with but one purpose—and he had seen for himself how powerless they had been against mere scores.
"Mr. Hallum, I've a yen to step ashore. The ship is yours." Kydd picked up his walking cane and clapped on his tall yellow beaver. Renzi was delayed with ship's business and, anyway, he felt the need to walk alone, to let the calm tranquillity of the land work on his soul.
With a lazy surf hissing in the shingle, he was carried ashore safe and dry by his boat's crew. To the left was the King's Naval Yard, with its Admiralty telegraph to London even now clattering away, and the smoky fumes of the smithy spiralling up behind the high wall.
To the right, a long street faced the beach, the inns and taverns giving way to substantial buildings further on and the bright, hazy prospect of Pegwell Bay in the distance. Kydd struck out briskly, nodding to passing gentlemen and doffing his hat politely to promenading ladies, no doubt passengers from the Indiaman anchored offshore.
He turned inland towards the town proper, entering Middle Street: here, there were courts and passageways with cobbled streets and rich merchants' houses. He strolled on to High Street, with its bustling shops and markets, and his eyes caught a placard in one window:
. . . And our brave Sons invite the foe to come;
For they remember Acre's valiant fight,
When Britons put the vaunting Gaul to flight;
Remembering too, Nile's Battle...
He had been at both and felt a stab of pride. Then he noticed a recruiting poster:
Brave Soldiers! Defenders of YOUR COUNTRY! The road to glory is open before you—Pursue the great career of your Forefathers, and rival them in the field of honour. A proud and usurping TYRANT (a name ever execrated by Englishmen) dares to threaten our shores with INVASION, and to reduce the free-born Sons of Britain to SLAVERY . . . The Briton fights for his Liberty and Rights, the Frenchman for Buonaparte who has robbed him of both!