The sailors boarded the boat in a rush, making it pitch alarmingly. The sails were taken out to the brig, some seamen swarming into the tops, others locating the halliards and lifts.
'We go out under staysails an' mizzen,' ordered Jowett. There was a ragged hiss and a thump: a plume of water rose in the sea, the cannon ball going on to smash a beachside hut to splinters. 'They's shyin' at us!' growled Jowett. 'Time we wasn't here.'
Kydd felt an overwhelming urge to be back at sea where it would be calm and sane. From the shore came distant screams and cursing - the marines were having difficulty defending themselves. Jowett seized Kydd's arm. 'Get ashore, send twenty of 'em out ter me. Twenty is all!' A ball slapped through the fore topmast staysail as it rose up on the stay. 'Now!'
Kydd threw a glance at Renzi, who was just descending from the main-shrouds, and boarded the boat. He took the tiller and headed for the chaos ashore, swelled now by royalist deserters who had broken into grog-shops.
The marines had fear in their eyes - the mob was near uncontrollable. The boat bumped up against the stone wharf and Kydd fought his way up to the marines. 'Watch m' back, you lobsterbacks,' he yelled, and took an oar into the crowd, rotating it wildly to clear a space. It gained a minute or two: then what? To whom should he award life, to whom deny it?
One of the men on the oars came up courageously to help him. Together they held the oar as a barrier. There, around two rows back, a mother and daughter, they should go. He pointed them out and beckoned. Under screams of rage from the others, they forced their way under the oar and to safety. Kydd's eyes darted around. The grey-haired man with the proud but fearful expression, a royalist officer, doomed if he remained. As the man came forward, Kydd noticed he was trembling so much he could hardly steady himself. Others - the boat was filling fast. A sharp crack and rending of timber — some spar in the brig taking a ball; there was no time to lose. He made sure the oarsmen were clear — the gunwales were only six inches above the water; he would wedge himself into the stern. Kydd looked around at the crowd for the last time — and, with a shock, saw Louise on the fringes.
Without stopping to consider the consequences, he pointed and beckoned. The mob howled and tore at her, and she fell — but rose and fought her way through. Kydd tried to think what her presence must imply - whose blood had he seen at the house? Louise paused in front of him, and he pushed her to the boat. She clambered aboard over the transom into the place Kydd had intended for himself. The boat swayed, nearly dipping the gunwales under. Its passengers screamed in fright. There was no chance for him on this trip.
He watched the boat reach the brig as a cannon shot brought up a vicious plume of spray not five yards from it. The people scrambled for their lives up the side, and Kydd noticed the line of the morning sun lengthening down the brig's hull. Her cables had been cut. The fore and aft sails were shaken out and, with the empty boat drifting free astern, the brig caught the wind and put to sea.
Lieutenant Calley did not look up from his writing. The faint tap of muskets sounded - the French must be close. His shirt stuck to him in the close heat of the small room, and he muttered as he wrote.
Kydd waited patiently. They had made it back to the square and found it empty of friendly soldiery - in fact, empty of most inhabitants. They had only found their way to this 'headquarters' after a chance encounter with a hurrying party of infantrymen.
Calley looked up. Kydd was shocked by the dark rings around his eyes and the evidence in his posture of extreme tiredness. 'The town is in total disorder; the French are approaching from the east. There is no help for it - we must yield the capital.' He spoke generally, not at Kydd but into his immediate front.
'Aye, sir,' he said. So much had happened since that pre-dawn awakening. The noon heat was dire in this room and he longed to be out in the steady sea breeze.
'You, er, Kydd.' Calley seemed to have difficulty with his words. 'We — we must hold until Trajan returns, with, er, reinforcements.'
The sweat prickled down Kydd's back.
'What I want you to try to do — is take your party to Petit Bourg, our largest remaining stronghold. I shall withdraw into the mountains of Basse Terre and yield up the capital and eastern half of the island to the enemy.' His head lowered. 'God knows — I have done what I can.'
Kydd knew better than to voice his anxieties. 'Aye-aye, sir,' he said, the age-old response to a naval order, and made his exit.
Outside, the marines waited. No file of men presenting arms, just a group of three in dusty tunics, bowed with fatigue, but with muskets bright and gleaming. Why they should follow his orders he had no idea, but he saw them straighten when he emerged, looking to him. In that moment he understood — they needed from him that nameless quality that drove men on regardless through adversity and battle. They were joined by five seamen.
'We're meetin' our mates,' Kydd said decisively, 'at Putty Borg — over yonder,' he added. It had been pointed out to him earlier, an anonymous huddle of buildings just visible across the bay on the rugged Basse Terre proper.
'That's a fuckin' long way off, cully,' said an older seaman, in measured tones.
The group fell quiet. 'Y'r right - fifty miles if it's a yard,' Kydd snapped. 'So, let's be havin' ye.'
There would be no rations, no water until they made the safety of the fort, but in fact it could be no more than five miles away. 'On y'r feet!' Kydd barked. The men stirred, and got up in ones or twos.
'Marines, get into y'r line an' lead off.' They shuffled into file and stood to attention, staring ahead blankly as they always did. 'Right — march away!' Kydd shouted, not at all sure of the form of orders to start men marching. The marines, after a moment's confusion, stepped out, and the little band of men tramped off down the dusty road out of town. Kydd felt a swell of pride - his men, obeying his orders, going on a military mission of importance.
Some time later the gates of the small Petit Bourg citadel hove in sight for the footsore and dusty band; security, food, drink and, above all, the warmth of company of their own kind.
'Halt!' This was not a welcome: what had happened? For a moment Kydd thought that the French had reached here and were enticing them into a trap.
'The fort ahoy!' shouted Kydd. 'Party o' men fr'm Pwun-a-Peter, come t' join.' He could now hand over responsibility for 'his' men - he felt a slight pang.
A different voice came from high above, and Kydd saw the shako of an army officer. 'Well done, you men.' There was a pause, and the-head and shoulders of the officer showed. 'You should understand that we may have fever . ..' there was a stirring of alarm among Kydd's men '. .. and therefore you may not wish to enter.'
'Sod it! Any place 'as vittles, somewhere ter flake out,' said the older seaman coarsely.
'Hold y'r jabber,' Kydd told him briefly. 'Where else c'n we go, sir?' he hailed.
'Wouldn't advise you to remain here,' the officer called. 'I expect an assault any hour.' Kydd's heart lurched. 'Yet I do know where there are more of you fellows. You might wish to join them.' His tone became apologetic. 'It's all of twenty miles or so further along this road, around the south part of this island — Fort Mathilda.' Silence. 'I do believe you should make your dispositions soon,' the officer said, and indicated across the bay to where they had come from.
Pointe a Pitre was now a bleak scene, ruined gaps in rows of houses, smoke from burning buildings. The smell of devastation lay on the wind. The bombardment had stopped, which meant that the French were in possession of the town. 'No choice, is there, mates?' he heard from beside him.
He remembered Renzi's way with logic and forced himself to think. If they entered they would be safe for the time being, but at the risk of yellow fever. If they started on a march of twenty miles or more there was every chance that they would be overtaken by the French. Or they might make it, without exposure to the fever. The elements shuffled themselves in his head at vertiginous speed and came down on a course of cool certainty. They would march on. If there was a chance they could reinforce Fort Mathilda with some able-bodied men, then their duty was plain.