Free Seaflower by Julian Stockwin Page B

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