"Mount Carmel—Elijah discomfits the prophets of Baal, two Kings something ..."
Kydd could not bring it to mind: this was half a world away from the boredom of the Sunday service in Guildford town where the dry words of a preacher speaking of the Holy Land bore no resemblance at all to this arid country.
"... the Samaritans, even. Christ passed by here on his way to Jerusalem ..."
"Um, that's right—an' I'm takin' a carronade in case they have gunboats out. Do ye keep a watch f'r gunfire, as will be y'r signal they're abroad." He left Hewitt to his Biblical musings and collected his sword belt from the corner. He favoured a shoulder carriage to spread the weight, leaving the belt loose for a brace of pistols. His fighting sword had a satisfying heft and in the warmth of the late-afternoon sun he strode down to the mole.
Laffin, the hard petty officer Kydd remembered from his "duel" in Canada, touched his hat at his approach; also in the boat was the lofty Poulden, forward at the stubby carronade, and several other Tenaciouses along the thwarts. A stout enough crew, he thought with satisfaction.
"Pistols an' cutlasses?"
"In th' arms chest, sir," Laffin said immediately.
He boarded the big launch and settled in the sternsheets, leaving Laffin the tiller. "We'll shove off now, if y' please," Kydd told him.
The soft westerly meant they did not even have to ship oars as the gaff-headed main was hoisted. "I'll have th' running bowsprit out with jib an' stays'l, I believe." The carronade would not bear forward while this was rigged but it would add considerably to their speed and could be struck in a hurry if need be.
The boat left the mole, slipped past the roiling white of the Manara rocks, then headed out to sea to preserve an offing before shaping course south. It was most pleasant, Kydd had to admit; the sun sinking out to sea in shimmering splendour, warmth still in the air, and in the other direction, the low, nondescript coast taking on the wistful indigo of evening. Along the endless virgin sands was the startling white of breakers, the purple of far mountains now a deep ultramarine.
Olive gardens and small clusters of the flat-topped dwellings were dotted along the shore. Several times figures stopped, watching them curiously. The cheerful splash of their passage and the occasional grunted conversation of the men lulled Kydd into a reverie—he pulled himself together. What did a great army look like, apart from thousands of bayonets? He had no idea, but knew that if he saw one his duty was to get the news to Smith with the utmost urgency.
The bay curved round. At one place he saw classical ruins enough to make Renzi stare—but he was not present: he was in distant England, resolving his personal life. A string of camels plodded along the skyline. Kydd idly counted nearly a hundred on the dusty road with their riders in flowing desert cloaks looking as if they had stepped out of a picture book of his childhood. He followed their advance, their riders rhythmically jerking forward as though in a boat in a rough sea—jerking? Surely a desert Bedouin had a more comfortable style of riding.
He looked about quickly. "Laffin—put about an' go beyond that spit o' land." They had passed a tiny headland, no more than a small twist of sand. The boat went about smartly and returned the way they had come. As soon as they were out of sight of the riders Kydd said urgently, "Set me ashore, an' stand off 'n' on until they're past, then collect me."
The boat scrunched into the fine sand beyond the point and Kydd leaped off, scurrying to get into the fringing grasses of the sand dune. He crouched, waiting. There were no sounds of sighting or pursuit but he kept very still. At length came the soft chinkle of a camel harness and the murmur of voices on the evening air. A delicate, unknown but haunting fragrance warred with the dry pungency of the desert and the nearer salty sand of the dunes—he flattened among the reedy grasses, rigid with concentration.
He felt the thumping of camel feet through the ground as they drew nearer. The voices were louder—and it was not Arabic that was being spoken but French.
It seemed to take for ever for the camel train to pass. He heard muted laughter, sharp words and an occasional snatch of song above the rustle of shuffling feet and the leathery slap of harness. Finally the last one passed. Cautiously Kydd raised his head: they were receding along the road without looking back. He delayed for a while longer, then slid down to the beach and waited for the boat.
"Load with canister!" he growled at Poulden, as they shoved off. There was no doubt in his mind of what he should do—the sound of the cannon would be as good as a personal report to Smith of their presence.
The launch leaned purposefully to the wind; they passed the camel train once more, the riders took no notice of the little sailing boat offshore. Kydd chose his move carefully: if the boat took the ground they could expect no mercy from the enemy riders.
At a stipple in the line of dunes ahead he doused the sails and took in the bowsprit, using oars to rotate them shoreward. "Out kedge," he snapped. The little anchor plummeted and bit and the line tautened over the transom. He paid it out to allow the boat to nose close in, the deadly carronade trained steadily on the shore. Still the camel riders did not take alarm: in the uncertain light and against the setting sun it must have seemed a fishing-boat.
The line of camels came on, some heads turned curiously. "As they bear, Poulden," Kydd growled, "an' make it count." There was a great army following behind and he had no compunction about the blood he was about to spill, but his heart beat faster as the train of camels passed the cold black muzzle.
The carronade crashed back in its slide, the gun-flash nearly blinding in the fading light. The effect on the column was instant— sleeting balls tore into them, and with squeals and screams it dissolved into panic. One riderless camel fled back down the road as others shed their mounts and scrambled in terror over the dunes. Hoarse cries of command mingled with shrieks. Poulden reloaded, and Laffin deftly lined up the boat for another crashing discharge.
In total disarray, the camel train was no more, still dark forms and wildly scrabbling men and animals all that were left. Kydd recalled from the map that inland there was nothing but salt-marsh: the French would find themselves trapped.
"Secure the gun," he ordered. They had made contact with the enemy and alerted the defenders—there was no glory in useless bloodshed.
Smith arrived late for the morning conference, and wasted no time. "So Buonaparte's advance guard now has a bloody nose—well done, Mr Kydd." He grinned without humour. "We can expect therefore that they'll abandon the coast road and swing inland to come at us from the north. There's no time to lose. We're nearly complete with the fosse—that's our surrounding ditch—and all the gunboats I can find are anchored here in support."
He bit his lip. "Regrettably it would appear that the Muhammadans have got wind of Buonaparte's behaviour at the siege of Jaffa—he induced the garrison there to surrender, then took them all down to the beach and slaughtered the lot. Had the cold-blooded gall to use bayonets to save powder. Now half our own Mussulmen are streaming out of town and heading for the hills." Unexpectedly, he smiled. "But this means that those who remain will be staunch. We're well rid of the rest—useless mouths to feed.
"So! We expect Buonaparte on our doorstep directly. I have given orders concerning the illumination of the wall in the event of a surprise attack and other matters, do you both ensure they are carried out—" He was interrupted by a messenger. Unfolding the dispatch he chuckled grimly. "From Tenacious. Good news indeed, for once. In fact, magnificent news." Dancing a jig and flourishing the paper aloft, he grinned boyishly at the dumbfounded officers.
"This will take the shine off the morning for Mr Buonaparte. Tenacious fell in with a French convoy off Mount Carmel and took nine—nine o' the beggars, mark you!" Kydd and Hewitt politely murmured their surprise, but Smith continued, "And the best thing about it is, those were Buonaparte's entire siege train! He has no ammunition, no heavy guns—we're reprieved, gentlemen. Unless he gets another such, we have a chance."