Kydd knew that Renzi spoke French, and-whispered to him harshly, 'Tell him he's our prisoner.'
'I rather think not,' Renzi replied.
'Damn it! Do as I—'
'We have no men to spare to look after prisoners.' To give point to Renzi's words, the youth struggled again. Three men were holding him down — three effectives who would be greatly missed later.
'You can't just . . .'
Renzi said nothing. The young man's eyes bulged: he seemed to sense what was being discussed, and tried desperately to reach out to them.
'Bugger wants ter talk,' Larcomb muttered hoarsely, and looked up.
Hesitating, Kydd shook his head - there was too much risk. Renzi's logic led one way, pity and humanity another. He gazed at Renzi in despair.
Renzi leaned across, and extracted the bayonet in a steely slither from Larcomb's scabbard.
'No!' breathed Kydd, held powerless in horror as the nightmare face returned.
The youth heaved and floundered, his eyes frozen on the blade. A rank, unmistakable odour arose. 'He's shit hisself,' Larcomb croaked, his voice thick with compassion.
'Make room,' Renzi said.
Kydd realised he meant Larcomb to move aside enough to enable the bayonet to do its work. Larcomb did so, his eyes down. The boy ceased his struggle, lay petrified and rigid. Renzi crawled over to him and raised the bayonet. There was an inhuman squeal of such intensity that it sounded through Larcomb's tight grip - then Renzi thrust the bayonet firmly into the chest to the heart. A dextrous half-twist, and the blade was withdrawn, the gout of bright life-blood hopeless and final.
Renzi wiped the weapon on the ground and handed it back to Larcomb. He looked up at the anguish on Kydd's face. 'Duty can often take a harsh disguise, my friend,' he said, in a low voice.
Kydd tore himself away from the sight of the fresh corpse, his mind a whirl of confusion. Nobody came to where he crouched, and there was no relief to his emotions. Away to the left, far in the distance, a trumpet bayed, its sound taken up by another, nearer. 'Tom!' said Renzi softly.
Kydd pulled himself together. 'With me!' he croaked. He cleared his throat. 'Let's give 'em a quiltin', then.' He broke out of the wood and stumbled up the rise towards the fort, hearing his men follow. Others emerged all along the fringe of wood. It seemed incredible that their drama could have taken place in such isolation.
They moved up the hill. The fort's palisades were topped with continuous gunsmoke in the soft dawn light, and attackers began to drop. The fusillade died away — they had succeeded in their surprise: there were not enough men on watch to maintain the reloading cycle for full defence.
Something seized Kydd's mind in a fierce, uncaring rage — a point of concentration for his incoherent feelings. His legs burned as he pounded on towards the focus of his madness. Behind him panted Larcomb — then Kydd realised he had gone. Renzi was away to his right and all the others he assumed were somewhere close. All the time the weakened enemy fire found victims.
The palisades rose up suddenly. Renzi appeared beside him. He carried a rolled Jacob's ladder, and coolly hurled it up, hooking it to the jagged top of the barrier. Faces appeared above, then quickly disappeared. Musket smoke came in gusts, the sound of the shots this time from behind him. Kydd seized the ladder and swarmed up. Other seamen had boarding axes and they were using them in the same way as they would to storm the side of an enemy ship. The seamen's agility told: they were quickly into the inner square and throwing wide the gates for the soldiers before the confused enemy could group.
Panting, hot and aching, Kydd stood watching the fluttering French flag jerk down, then rise again, surmounted by a Union Flag. A disconsolate group of
French prisoners flanked by marines began their march into exile. The last of the dead were dragged off and the wounded attended to.
The crisp sound of marching heralded the arrival of the light infantry, with a mounted colonel at their head. Lieutenant Calley removed his hat and awaited the Colonel. 'Well done, sir!' the Colonel spluttered, as he dismounted. 'Damme, but that was a splendid thing. Blast m' eyes if it weren't!'
The marines snapped to attention; their sergeant needed no lessons in military honours. The 'present arms' was parade-ground perfect, yet these men, less than an hour before, had been storming the fort.
The Colonel marched across and inspected them, his gruff compliments making the sergeant red-faced with pleasure. Kydd felt awkward with his ragtag sailors, but the Colonel touched his hat genially in response to the individualistic salutes of the seamen, in no way disconcerted by the sight of their direct gaze and sea-fashion rigs.
'A fine body of men!' said the Colonel to Calley. 'And 'twould infinitely oblige me, sir, if they were in my column for the final push on the capital.'
'By all means, sir. Your orders?' Calley replied.
Within an hour the column was swinging along at a measured pace astride the road to Pointe a Pitre, the capital, soldiers four abreast in a serpentine column that stretched ahead of the seamen, with fifes and drums squeaking and rattling.
A sergeant of infantry dropped back from the rear of the column, and stared with frank curiosity at the seamen. 'Hoay - the sergeant ahoy!' called Kydd. The hard-featured man fell back to Kydd, still keeping step.
'How long to Pwun a-Peter?' Kydd asked.
The man sized him up. There was no clue for a soldier that might reveal his rank. He was dressed as the others in his usual red and white shirt with short blue jacket and white free-swinging trousers. Kydd sensed wariness and added, 'Tom Kydd, quartermaster's mate - that's petty officer.'
'Sar'nt Hotham.'
Clearly a 'petty officer' meant nothing either to this army veteran, who peered at him suspiciously from under his tall black shako. The voice was deep and projected an effortless authority that Kydd envied.
'An' these are m' men,' Kydd continued, gesturing - behind him at the cutlass-adorned sailors.
The sergeant's eyebrows rose: Kydd must be some sort of sergeant, then. 'Ah, yeah,' he said, easing his stock. 'Saw yez take the fort fr'm yer front - plucky dos, mate!'
Feet rose and fell, the rhythm of the march was hypnotic. 'Aye, well, how far d'we march afore—'
Hotham flashed a quick grin. 'Don't be in such a hell-fired pelt ter get there, m' lad,' he boomed. "That there's th' capital town o' the island, an' the Frogs ain't about to give it up without a fight.'
Kydd said nothing: the whole business of war on land was a mystery to him.
Hotham mistook his silence for apprehension. 'Not ter worry, we've drubbed th' French in every other island, can't see why not 'ere as well.'
'So . . .'
'We's three, four mile out, less'n an hour — but then we comes up agin the battery commandin' the town.'He sucked his teeth as he ruminated. 'We gets past that on this road, Mongseers'd be hard put ter stop us then.'
It was still mid-morning when the column came to a halt at the sullen rumble of heavy guns ahead. A flurry of trumpet calls echoing up and down the line; bellowed orders and earnest subalterns hurrying on important missions had the column quickly deployed in line.
The seamen mustered together in the centre of the line: they would have the road. With a clinking of equipment, a squadron of cavalry mounted on indifferent horses clattered off towards the battery, which dominated the skyline.
'Poor beggars,' muttered a sailor.
'How so?' said Kydd.
'O' course, they's bein' sacrificed to see 'ow far the guns c'n reach.' A single gout of smoke appeared at the embrasures of the battery and seconds later a thud came, but there was no apparent harm to the widely separated horses. They cantered further along the road, now even at the suburbs of Pointe a Pitre.
'Stand to!' Lieutenant Calley ordered. 'We march.'
The re-formed column, having tested their advance, resumed the march. Eyes nervously on the battery above the town, they tramped along the road unopposed. Kydd looked at the deserted houses and neat gardens. No sign of war, just a sullen silence. The squadron cantered back. It seemed the battery had been deserted by the French, and their other forces were in full retreat. The empty town echoed to their progress, only the odd dog or fowl left to dispute possession. By midday, the seamen were slaking their thirst in the fountain of the town square, and the regimental fifes and drums were bringing in the soldiers.