Vendetta: The Dorset Boy - Book 6

by Christopher C Tubbs

  Smith’s eyebrows went up. He had seen the corvettes but burning a frigate?

  “Pray tell,” he said with a slightly disbelieving look.

  Marty recounted the attack on Naples Harbour, keeping it factual and leaving nothing out. He concluded by passing the written report to the Admiral.

  Stuart sat back in his chair and laughed.

  “It would seem, Sir Sidney, that our friend has removed all possible opposition to our landing,” he guffawed.

  “And as he’s under Hood’s orders, I don’t get to see a penny of the prize money!” Smith grumbled.

  Chapter 11: The Swedish Knight

  Admiral Sir Sidney Smith invited Marty to dinner. Marty couldn’t refuse, so at eight o’clock on the dot he entered the Admiral’s sitting room and accepted a glass of Madeira. Stuart was there, Smith’s Flag Captain William Tremayne, a Cornishman originally from Falmouth and, to his surprise, Captain Turner.

  Turner greeted him warmly and introduced him to Tremayne who was a florid faced, slightly overweight man of about five feet seven. Sir Sidney and Stuart were in deep conversation, so they were left to chat. Things seemed to be going well until a small man with a shock of sandy hair came in and whispered something in Sir Sidney’s ear whose head spun around as he looked at Marty in surprise.

  “Oh bugger! I think our host just found out something I would have rather kept quiet,” Marty said quietly to Turner who had also observed the exchange.

  They were saved from further speculation when the steward announced,

  “Dinner is served, gentlemen, if you would be so kind to make your way to the dining room.”

  Smith looked concerned and Marty pointedly sat below the other two captains in strict order of military rank. Turner took his seat with a smile and Tremayne looked confused.

  “My clerk has told me you are rather more than just a captain,” Sir Sidney broached the subject from the other end of the table, “a Baron and a Knight of the Bath as well.”

  “That is correct,” Marty confirmed. “But in the service, I am just Captain Stockley. It avoids awkward incidents.” He continued with a smile.

  “Quite, quite,” Sir Sidney agreed though it was obvious he was having trouble with the idea that the young captain at the other end of the table outranked him socially.

  Tremayne looked surprised and looked across the table at Turner who just grinned back at him.

  “How are Caroline and the children?” Turner asked Marty by way of diverting the conversation to something more mundane.

  “They are well, and last I heard they were down at the farm in Dorset,” Marty replied and then a look of realisation crossed Tremayne’s face.

  “Damned if I don’t know you now!” he cried, “you’re that chap who married Lady Candor!”

  The evening, Marty thought, had reached its low, that was until Turner gleefully recounted his adventures in Toulon. Then it hit rock bottom.

  Marty and Ryan were summoned to the flagship again the next day and this time all the commanding officers of Stuart’s army were in attendance. Ryan was asked to give his report again and copies of his maps were distributed. At the end, Stuart announced that the landing would take place on the thirtieth of June meaning, they would embark on the twenty-seventh.

  The majority of the troops were in Messina so the whole fleet would up-anchor and sail there with the tide on the morrow. Marty was ‘invited to attend’ as an extra frigate would do no harm. This meant he would have to leave his prizes in Palermo, he needed a full crew if he was going to have to fight.

  So far, his first encounter with Sir Sidney Smith hadn’t gone at all well in his estimation. The admiral had a reputation of being sensitive about his status and about how long it had taken the British to award him a knighthood. He was still known as the Swedish Knight because the Swedes were the first to award him the honour. His British one had come much later.

  He left the prizes with harbour watches on board and set sail, the Formidiable was ordered to scout ahead and warn the fleet if there were any hostile craft on the route to the landing. He took his time and made sure he was fully replenished with fresh before leaving as the slow-moving fleet had to get to Messina, embark the troops and their equipment and even with the best organisation in the world that would take a couple of weeks.

  A week later, they were patrolling along the invasion route, they sailed up as far as Naples and then back down to Sicily. When they saw the island, they turned around and repeated the exercise. Apart from the usual fishing boats and the odd coastal trader they saw nothing of interest.

  They would make a Southward leg to arrive to the North of the Straights of Messina on the twenty-seventh and meet the fleet just North of Sicily. Marty had the Formidiable sail up to within hailing distance of the Pompée and shouted a report across to Tremayne that the route was clear of enemy ships. He was told to scout out to the horizon ahead of the fleet just in case any had decided to sail down from Rome.

  Beware the ill will of Admirals, he thought to himself.

  The landings were unopposed but further North than Marty expected, by an old tower that must have been a lookout post in times gone by. Stuart got all his men and his supplies ashore and set up a base camp from where his campaign could begin.

  The Formidiable was again sent out to act as a picket, patrolling out to sea to spot potential threats. Then on the third of July they were summoned back to the fleet and replaced by one of Smith’s own frigates. Marty was signalled to attend the Admiral and as soon as they anchored, he was rowed to the Pompée.

  “Sit down Captain, make yourself comfortable,” Smith said as he was ushered into the cabin and after the usual pleasantries continued,

  “I would like you to accompany Major General Stuart on his campaign.”

  Marty was surprised to hear that but held his tongue and waited for Sir Sidney to continue, after a moment he stood and turned to stare out of the transom window.

  “The army doesn’t appreciate the interference of Admirals in their operations and I cannot go ashore personally to observe his movements.”

  Marty had a glimmer of what was to come. “But you, with your peculiar role could offer the assistance of your marine sharpshooters without causing him offence.”

  “And provide you with an unbiased report of what goes on?” Marty concluded.

  “Quite,” Sir Sidney replied and waited expectantly.

  “A squad of twenty marines and teams of gunners with some smaller Navy pieces that can be transported easily?” Marty offered.

  “Why yes, that would be perfect!” beamed Sir Sidney.

  Marty thought for a minute and then added,

  . “Four six-pound guns should be enough. I saw a couple of old four wheeled waggons on shore, we can take the wheels off them to make field carriages

  Sir Sidney’s smile got even broader. “Absolutely! I would be obliged if you would make it so, Captain Stockley.”

  “I will send a message to General Stuart immediately; can I impose on you for paper and a pen?” Marty asked.

  Thirty minutes later the message was on its way to the General and Marty was talking to Tremayne about borrowing four of the six-pounders he had on the quarterdeck of the Pompée.

  “You only have carronades?” he asked in surprise when Marty told him why.

  “Apart from the main battery of eighteen-pound longs we carry; four sixty-eight pounders on the quarterdeck and two more on the fore.”

  “Remind me not to get into a fight with your ship at close range,” laughed Tremayne.

  The midshipman who had carried Marty’s message to General Stuart returned with a written reply. Marty was more than welcome to join him as were his sharpshooters and guns.

  There followed an intense period of activity where the guns were barged over to the shore and several ships carpenters and their mates turned them into field pieces by building improvised carriages with wheels from the carts. Yeovilton came over to oversee the whole operation and
was like a mother hen with a clutch of chicks.

  A pair of handcarts were ‘borrowed’ from the Army to be converted into limbers to carry the powder and shot. The guns and the ammunition would be hauled by the gunners under the command of Lieutenant Trenchard. The Marines would join the Army skirmishers and were resplendent in their red coats and gleaming pipe clayed belts. Captain la Pierre took the opportunity to get some shore time and took personal command of them.

  So it was on the fourth of July when scouts reported that the French Army under General Reynier was advancing down the North bank of the River Maida. The Army, a Special Operations Flotilla contingent of Marines and a battery of four, six-pound cannon, marched to confront them.

  They followed the coast south fording the two small rivers between the camp and the Amato, the marines have gotten the better of it, Marty thought as he watched his gunners hauling the guns and ammunition along at the rear of the column.

  Ropes were attached and were run out behind the gun and limber for the men to haul on. The big wheels made it easier, but the dust kicked up by close to five thousand troops was making their lives miserable.

  Marty was better off as he was riding a horse loaned to him by the General and was with General’s command party off to the side of the column. Blaez trotted along beside him. He was more than impressed with the performance of his men who manoeuvred the guns as if they did it every day and would make sure they would be rewarded when they got back aboard...

  A scout arrived and reported that the French were about three miles inland on the same side of the river then turned and dog trotted back the way he came. He was dressed in an odd uniform and when Marty asked about it was told that he was a member of the Royal Corsican Rangers a light infantry unit that specialised in skirmishing.

  “Damn fellows do everything at a trot,” Stuart observed.

  Stuart had chosen his ground carefully and ordered his units into echelon left formation as soon as they caught sight of the French. The French formed up in a similar formation but unlike the British, who were formed up in line, they formed up in columns with their light infantry leading on their left.

  Marty scanned the field with a small pocket telescope he had brought with him. He could see the skirmishers advancing ahead of the main body of troops and exchanging fire with the French Voltigeurs. He looked for his marines but couldn’t see any red coats, but then he spotted the familiar figure of Paul la Pierre dressed in a nondescript grey jacket and black marine hat. It looked like the boys had taken a leaf out of the Corsican’s book and dressed for the occasion.

  The skirmish turned into a hand to hand brawl as the two groups made full contact. There was evidently no love lost between the Corsicans, Sicilians and Marines on the one side and the French on the other as they fought with a savage intensity.

  A command must have been given as the allied skirmishers suddenly fell back in an orderly retreat supported by elements sent forward from the Advanced Guard who held the British right flank. Marty scanned the line with his telescope and saw that the forward French column of Light Infantry was advancing on the British right.

  His guns were positioned on the British left flank with the First Brigade and opened with their first salvo of the day. The echo of the shots was dying away when the French opened in reply.

  “Damn, but they have us outnumbered!” General Stuart exclaimed after scanning the French formations with his telescope.

  “Keep steady we can thrash them yet!” he shouted, but Marty wasn’t sure anybody in the line could hear him.

  Stuart turned in the saddle to look to the rear. “Where the hell is the 20th Foot?” he asked

  The 20th had been sent out on a diversionary raid earlier and had failed to get back in time for the main event.

  The French light regiment had advanced to within one hundred and fifty yards when the British, under Colonel Kempt, opened fire with their first volley. The front two ranks fell but the column reformed and kept marching forward, stepping over the wounded and dead.

  At eighty yards the British fired their second volley. More troops fell and through the smoke Marty saw an officer who was obviously wounded urging his men on. He raised his Durs Egg Carbine and took aim; the range was about one hundred and twenty yards. His horse fidgeted throwing his aim off and he patted its neck to calm him and tried again.

  The French were just over twenty yards from the British line when he pulled the trigger just before the British fired their third volley. Now there was so much smoke he couldn’t see if he had scored a hit or not.

  The third volley was all the French could stand, the column broke and started to run away. The British charged, bayonets glinting in the sun, howling and hollering their challenge and blood lust. Marty expected them to stop once the French left the field, but they just kept going; their commander had lost control.

  It wasn’t over yet! The two French columns to the right of the defeated light infantry were advancing on the British 2nd Brigade under Colonel Acland who fired their first volley at around three hundred yards and kept up a withering fire after that. The French knew their left flank had run and, disheartened, stalled in their advance. The French commander realised what was happening and ordered the next two elements, that Stuart told Marty were Polish brigades, up in support.

  But it was to no avail the Poles were routed by a bayonet charge and the French Cavalry were sent into the fray along with the Swiss. The British immediately performed a parade ground evolution and went from line into square which was good against the cavalry but not so good against the French artillery that took its opportunity to make a real nuisance of themselves.

  “Can your pieces target the French guns?” Stuart asked Marty, “if you can silence them, the 20th Foot are approaching and can flank the French.”

  “Aye Aye Sir!” Marty replied and spun his horse to gallop over to the left flank and the battery. Blaez ran along beside him enjoying every minute.

  “Mr Trenchard, General Stuart would be mightily obliged if you would target the French artillery and stop them annoying our boys fighting those Chasseurs,” he shouted as soon as he reached them.

  “Aye Sir!” came the reply and the crews levered the pieces around towards the enemy right flank.

  “Five hundred yards Sir?” Ackermann asked as Marty had the advantage of the extra height from the saddle of his horse.

  Marty stood in the stirrups and stared as the French position for a few seconds.

  “More like five hundred and fifty,” he replied.

  Trenchard made the adjustment and the guns roared. Marty was surprised that they didn’t sound as loud as they did on ship, but the smoke was just the same. When it cleared he reported,

  “Short twenty yards.”

  No adjustment was necessary as now the barrels were hot; they would throw a little further. The guns roared again.

  “Oh! Good shooting, that landed right in the middle of them. Give them another!”

  Meanwhile, the 20th Foot had made their ground and were pouring flanking fire into the French who broke and ran. It was all over.

  Marty sat with the other commanders and General Stuart enjoying a celebratory meal.

  “Damn fine shooting by your men, I will mention it in my report,” he congratulated Marty.

  “Thank you, sir, I will be in your debt,” Marty replied.

  “Not at all my boy!” Stuart laughed and slapped him on the shoulder.

  “What was the butchers bill in the end?” Marty asked.

  “Not that bad at all!” Acland replied, “forty-five dead and two hundred and eighty-two wounded.”

  That still sounded like a lot to Marty, but the Army fellows seemed to think they had gotten off light.

  “We estimate the French lost around five hundred killed and another thousand or so wounded,” Stuart explained with a satisfied grin.

  That puts it into perspective, Marty thought.

  “Where have the French run to?” Marty asked, wondering
where the majority had gone as they had only captured around seven hundred and a few cannons so far.

  “Scattered to different towns,” Stuart replied, sipping his wine and looking thoughtful.

  “I say, Captain, would you do me a final favour?”

  “If it’s in my power, of course Sir.” Marty replied.

  “I’ve had a report that that part of the Polish Brigade has buggered off down the coast and is holed up in some town called Tropea. Do you know it?” Stuart asked.

  “Why yes Sir, its south of here,” Marty replied.

  “Don’t suppose you could run down there in your ship, put the fear of god into them with your guns and persuade them to surrender, could you?”

  Marty grinned at him. “It will be my pleasure Sir.”

  Stuart raised his glass, which had been discretely refilled by his stewards along with everyone else’s,

  “A toast! To the Navy, may their winds be fair and their aim straight and true!” he proposed.

  “TO THE NAVY!” shouted the rest and downed their glasses to heeltaps.

  Marty had his men barge Tremayne’s guns back to the Pompée. As they were being lifted aboard, Tremayne invited Marty up to the quarterdeck.

  “His Lordship would like to speak to you. I will take care of getting my guns back where they belong, unless you want to trade your sixty-eights for them?” he said with a grin.

  “Not a chance,” Marty replied as he set off for the Admiral’s cabin.

  “Captain Stockley Sah!” bellowed the marine crashing his musket but on to the deck where the timbers showed signs of a lot of previous abuse.

  “Come,” called the brisk voice of Sir Sidney.

  Marty entered to find the Admiral pacing up and down in front of the transom windows reading a letter. Marty stood in the centre of the room with his hat firmly under his arm.

  “Damn the man, what does he think he is doing?” he finally blurted out in exasperation.

  “My Lord?” Marty asked.