The King's Marauder

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Going half cross-eyed, but nothing yet, sir,” Westcott japed.

  Lewrie went back to the binnacle cabinet to stow away the night telescope, then bent over the compass bowl’s glim to consult his watch, and found that it was twenty minutes past 5 A.M., and ten minutes to Three Bells. He stood back up and peered shoreward once more. Those large windmills could now almost be made out, a bit more distinctly.

  “Three flashes, Mister Kibworth,” Lewrie snapped. “Let’s get our people on their way, before any sentries can spot ’em.”

  Both ships lay about a half-mile from shore, and it would take long minutes, perhaps a whole half-hour for them to ground and land the troops, uncomfortably close to the period of muted greyness, the arrival of false dawn, when those Arabic threads could be distinguished, and a watcher ashore could espy the two ships and the boats that beetle-crawled their way to the beach.

  Damme, did I leave it too late? Lewrie fretted to himself; Ye poxy fool, I should’ve sent the signal at Two Bells!

  Now that the operation was committed, he felt a frisson of dread, for, by the faint light of the stars, and a sliver of a moon that was just rising, he could make out the disturbed-water splashes from the boats’ oar blades as they dug in, rose, and trailed hints of phosphoresence!

  Lewrie knew that the soldiers, Marines, and sailors going ashore in the dark, their young officers also, would be feeling the same sort of icy, stomach-clenching dread of the unknown.

  I pressed for this, I planned it, arranged it, come Hell or high water, and if it don’t work, or I get a lot o’ people killed, it’s me that takes the blame, Lewrie fretted.

  If the whole thing went smash, it would be tempting to write a report to Admiralty to try and pass the onus of failure off on to someone else; Lewrie had seen that done too many times before. To do so, though, would force him to face the fact that he wasn’t clever enough, or smart enough, to manage senior command, and had spent his career in the Navy coasting by on supreme good luck!

  “Christ, but command is a vicious bastard!” he whispered.

  At that moment, he would much rather have been one of his Midshipmen in the landing boats, with but one simple task to perform and no responsibility beyond the gunn’ls of his boat.

  A simple task for simple bloody me! he thought.

  “I think I can make out…” Lt. Westcott intruded on his frets, “yes, I can see the oar splashes, sir. They’re in close to the beach.”

  Lewrie looked out over the bulwarks and spotted them for himself, finding that the boats were closing in on the shore, but not in the hoped-for single line-abreast.

  “Where the Devil are Harmony’s boats goin’?” he exclaimed, gripping the cap-rails. “Can’t they see the bloody lights on the bloody battery? They’re too far off to the left!”

  There was no way of signalling them to change course, and they were too close to shore to do so, without steering right, parallel to the beach, before turning again to make their grounding.

  This is goin’ t’turn t’shit! he grimly told himself; Even in this next-to-nothing surf, some are sure t’get overturned!

  If the operation failed due to that mistake, perhaps he would write that report to Admiralty, a blistering one!

  Lewrie dashed up the ladderway to the poop deck for a slightly better view, even though false dawn had not yet greyed the skies, but by then, even the oar splashes and faint phosphoresence had vanished. He realised that for good or ill, the boats and all those men were now ashore, and there was nothing he could do about it!

  Several long minutes passed with nothing happening, no blossoming of lights round the battery to indicate that the sentries had wakened and spotted the troops, then …

  “Gunfire, huzzah!” young Midshipman Fywell cried aloud, hopping up and down in excitement.

  “Still, young sir!” Lewrie heard Lt. Harcourt snap. “Bear yourself with the proper demeanour!”

  Wee red and amber fireflys were twinkling ashore, quite merry to observe, rippling along in a line in what Lewrie recognised as platoon fire. Long seconds later, after the first winkings, he could hear the faintest hint of twig-crackling as many weapons were discharged.

  “False dawn, at last, sir,” the Sailing Master, Mr. Yelland, called up to him from the quarterdeck below. “At, ehm … five fourty-seven.”

  Black threads, white threads … now it was dark grey land and white surfline, dull grey windmills and stone battery, and red tunics with white crossbelts, billows of gunpowder smoke, soldiers in tall shakoes in a long two-deep line fronting the battery, and another pack going round the right of it, disappearing into the rising smoke. One of the artillery pieces fired with a roar, adding more smoke to the confusion, and a roundshot moaned far overhead of Sapphire’s masts.

  “I don’t suppose we should respond to that, hey, sir?” Westcott asked from the foot of the ladderway.

  “Not without killing our troops, no,” Lewrie said, grimacing. He had called his crew to Quarters, but had not issued orders to load or run out, and the only weapons from the arms chests had been given to the shore parties.

  That was the only shot from the battery, though, and the next sounds that could be made out from shore sounded like thin cheers and feral shouts. That thin line of red-coated soldiers could be seen as they swarmed up the slight slope to the parapets and scrambled over it. A moment later and a small British boat jack was being waved and wig-wagged over the parapet in vigourous fashion.

  “We’ve taken it, then,” Westcott said, with a whoosh of relief.

  “Thank God!” Lewrie said, with more emotion than was proper to a Navy Post-Captain. “That’s the first part done,” he added, returning to the correct calmness. “Now’s the mills’ turn, and all of the boats in harbour that we can reach. Assuming of course that there’s not a garrison that’s moved in since the last agent’s report.”

  “If so, the battery was the most important part, as you said, sir,” Westcott pointed out. “If they appear, we can retire in good order, with the morning’s honour intact.”

  “Keep your fingers crossed,” Lewrie cautioned. “And carry on, Geoffrey. I think I’ll go below and see if there’s any coffee.”

  * * *

  Thankfully, Puerto Banús had no Spanish military presence beyond the artillerists who had manned the battery, and the rest of the morning was spent merrily destroying as much as they could. The windmills were stone towers, but the upperworks, the rooves, mill vanes, and all the gearing that drove the grist milling stones were wood, and the landing parties turned those tall towers into roaring chimneys. The large granary, pitifully low on flour or un-milled wheat in sign of the devastation which Napoleon Bonaparte’s Continental System had wrought upon the Spanish people, was lined with several levels of wood storage racks, and they burned quite nicely, too, so hot a fire that the slate roof caved in and the granary shed slabs from its eaves.

  The smaller fishermens’ boats drawn up on the shingle for the night succumbed to boarding axes, their bottoms smashed in, then run into the slack harbour waters to sink. Wood rudders, oars, and fishing nets were gathered up to make a fine bonfire. Landing boats penetrated the inner harbour without a shot being fired, or a single Spaniard to be seen, and armed parties boarded the larger boats to tow them out to the middle of the harbour and set them alight.

  Lastly, all but a few of the troops were rowed back to their transport and the small number that remained ashore dealt with the battery and its guns. The guns were spiked at the touch-holes, trunnions blown off with borrowed Spanish gunpowder, and their wooden truck-carriages set afire. The long wooden barracks and the smaller officers quarters behind the battery were set afire, and a long length of slow-match laid to the powder magazine beneath the battery.

  When the last shore party was about a cable offshore, the magazine exploded, heaving stone blocks from the parapet and the thick flagstones of the battery high in the sky, flinging heavy guns aloft, and all in a great gout of flame and sickly yellow-tinged w
hite smoke.

  The boat crews and the Marines returned to Sapphire just in time for “Clear Decks And Up Spirits” to be piped for the rum issue, which raised a great, self-congratulating cheer. There was an even greater one when Lewrie ordered “Splice The Mainbrace!” for full measures for all hands, with no debts to be paid to “sippers and gulpers” for any favours rendered. The same signal was made to Harmony, with similar good cheer among the men of the 77th.

  * * *

  “Leftenant Keane t’see th’ Cap’m, SAH!” the Marine sentry at Lewrie’s cabin door shouted, stamping his boots and musket hutt.

  “Enter,” Lewrie called back.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Lt. Keane said as he approached the day-cabin portion, where Lewrie was sprawled on his settee with Chalky in his lap.

  “Good afternoon to you, Mister Keane,” Lewrie said, waving a hand at one of the chairs. “Take a pew, and let me express my congratulations, again, for a fine day’s work.”

  “Ehm, thank you, sir,” Keane replied, seating himself primly, with his hat on one knee, his expression stony.

  “A glass of something for you, sir?” Lewrie offered. “Wine, or might ye try my cool tea?”

  “I believe I will assay your tea, sir,” Keane decided. “I have not tasted it before.”

  “Pettus, a glass of tea for Mister Keane,” Lewrie called out to his steward. “Now, why the long face, Mister Keane? You look as if ye have something serious in your mind.”

  “You have not begun your report to Admiralty, sir?” Keane hesitantly asked.

  “Not yet, no,” Lewrie told him. “I thought I’d do that once we get back to Gibraltar, and combine our part with Major Hughes’s.”

  “Upon that head, sir…” Keane said, then paused as if summoning up his courage. “Things did not go quite as well ashore as it may have appeared. The Army lot…”

  “Landed too far left of the battery, aye,” Lewrie finished for him. “Even though all they had to do was row for the lanthorns on the parapet, and had to run t’get in the right place.”

  “Well, there is that, sir,” Keane allowed, “but, once there, and in place alongside us, they just … stalled. There were no more than three or four sentries on watch in the battery, and the rest were asleep in the barracks. Hughes could have crept up and taken them at once, or he could have sent his companies in at a rush, and the battery would have been ours with hardly a shot fired, and the Spaniards in the barracks captured. Instead, he ordered his men to form line and load, the sentries heard him … I think the town could have … the sentries fired at him and his men, ran to wake the rest, and then the 77th began to volley by platoons, trading massive fire with only a few, no more than four or five, enemy soldiers, sir.”

  “Damme, just blazin’ away at nothing?” Lewrie said, frowning. “How long did that go on?”

  “Long enough for the Spanish to load and fire one of their guns and turn out of barracks, sir,” Keane said, looking angry, appalled by poor tactics. “We did not fire on the Spanish, so I doubt if they were even aware my party was there, it was still so dark. I took my Marines round the right side of the battery, fixed bayonets, and made a charge into them after serving them a volley. We shot a few, skewered a few more, and the rest of them threw up their hands, and some dropped their weapons or gun tools and ran off. At that point, it got quiet enough that I could shout, ‘take the bloody battery, charge’ and the soldiers finally moved.”

  He spat “soldiers” like a curse.

  “Good, quick thinking, Mister Keane,” Lewrie said, “as I will say in my report.”

  “I fear that Major Hughes was none too pleased with my action, sir,” Keane said, allowing himself the faintest grin. “After we rounded up the Spanish prisoners, he made it plain that it was he who was in command ashore, and that I should have kept my men in line with his and … ‘what the Hell does a Marine know of infantry tactics?’ was how he put it, placing a great emphasis upon the difference between a Major and a mere Leftenant.”

  Lewrie stroked his cat slowly, mulling that over for a minute or two whilst Keane got his tea and took a few sips.

  “What Admiralty wishes to know is whether the attack was successful, Mister Keane,” Lewrie finally said. “Not the tactical, or personal disputes. It may be a good idea, though, once we’re back in port, to get Hughes, his company commanders, and you together for a re-hash, under the guise of what worked, and what we could do better. Just how big is a platoon, anyway, Mister Keane? How many are there?”

  “Well, in our case, I’d say the same number as we have boats, sir,” Keane informed him. “For the 77th, that would be about eighteen or nineteen men plus non-commissioned and one officer. As many men as can be crammed into each of their larger boats.”

  “So, their two Lieutenants, two Ensigns, and two senior Sergeants could command their six platoons, the Captains could oversee them, and Hughes would direct them all?” Lewrie asked.

  “Lord, you speak heresy, sir!” Lt. Keane exclaimed, laughing and making a mock shiver. “The Army would never give such responsibility to Sergeants or Corporals, nor to boy Ensigns, either. That duty is for gentleman officers only, and experienced ones of proper rank. They drill, march, and fight in well-ordered battalions, regiments, and brigades. A light company can be sent out ahead of the line on their own, but only to skirmish for a while before returning to the left of the regimental line. They might form foraging parties in small lots, but that’s about it.”

  “Damn!” Lewrie groused, and gave out a sigh. “My fault. When we planned the raid, I didn’t stress going round the battery by companies, or the companies acting on their own.”

  “That could be raised during the review, sir,” Keane allowed, “but you may find it hard to impart. The Army simply doesn’t think that way. We might have been better off with an all-Marine force.”

  “If wishes were horses, we’d all ride thouroughbreds,” Lewrie scoffed. “We’re stuck with what we have, and lucky t’ve gotten them. And, it ain’t as if they’re a bad lot. I gather that most of their officers have gotten the hang of what we’re doing, and we’ve taught their men new skills. Perhaps we can bring them round to a little more … flexibility.”

  “Perhaps, sir,” Lt. Keane said, though he didn’t sound all that hopeful. “More flexibility in their thinking and reacting to the situation is wanting.”

  “You mean in Major Hughes’s thinking,” Lewrie countered.

  “Indeed, sir,” Keane solemnly agreed. “If only to limit casualties.”

  Sapphire’s Marines had not suffered any hurts beyond some minor scrapes and bruises, though the 77th had had three wounded, none too seriously, or so Surgeon Mister Snelling had reported once he had returned from Harmony. If Major Hughes had thought to rush the battery at bayonet-point, quietly, the whole operation could have ended with no British casualties, Lewrie imagined.

  Keane finished his cool tea, pronounced it a fine concoction, and took his leave, Lewrie remained on the settee, stroking Chalky, and frowning.

  “We were lucky this time, cat, d’ye know that?” he muttered to his pet. “The next’un’ll take a lot more planning before we set it in motion, and I’m going to ruffle even more feathers before we do.”

  Chalky looked up at him slit-eyed and beginning to purr.

  There were Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton to speak to as to why two experienced, well-salted young men had gone so far astray from the proper stretch of beach. There was a harder part awaiting him over how the detachment of the 77th could move more quickly if the situation warranted it. The hardest part of all, Lewrie suspected, was getting Major Hughes to explain his actions, and mend some of his ways.

  “Hard-headed, blusterin’ bastard,” Lewrie muttered aloud.

  “Mister Keane, sir?” Pettus asked as he retrieved Keane’s empty glass to rinse out.

  “Not him, an Army officer,” Lewrie corrected him.

  “Oh,” Pettus said. “But aren’t they all that way, sir?”
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br />   “God, let’s hope not!” Lewrie said with a laugh, while thinking that Major Hughes was a harder nut to crack than most. He recalled his boasts to Maddalena that first dinner at the seafood chop-house about the proper way to win the war, and how he’d go about it if only given the chance.

  A very bloody thick nut, indeed, Lewrie thought.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  “Feeling ambitious, Captain Lewrie?” Mr. Thomas Mountjoy asked him once they had gone over the results of the raid on Puerto Banús.

  “Depends on what you have in mind,” Lewrie replied, wondering what he was getting at. “Another raid?”

  “Two, actually,” Mountjoy responded, slyly grinning, “Within a day’s sail of each other. Look here,” he urged, fetching out a chart to spread on the marred old dining table in his lodgings. “There are semaphore towers all along the coast, in grovelling emulation of those that Bonaparte has built all over France.”

  “In grovelling emulation of the British semaphore system that we built, first!” Lewrie interrupted him, with a scornful hoot.

  Years before Napoleon Bonaparte had come to power, Admiralty had erected long chains of signalling towers from Whitehall to every major seaport, from Falmouth to Dover, the Downs, and the Goodwin Sands and Great Yarmouth. Signal towers were really an ancient idea, mentioned in recovered Roman texts; they had used large flashing tin mirrors by day, and torches by night, and could send complex messages further and faster than the quickest despatch rider. Unless blinded by a blizzard or pea-soup fog, the wig-wagging vanes atop the Admiralty building could whirl like a dervish’s arms and transmit orders to the Nore or to Portsmouth in ten minutes or less. Lewrie didn’t know exactly how the code worked, or what the many positions of the vanes meant, but was smugly convinced that the semaphore system was a marvel.

  The French system put up all along their coasts he’d found useful, too, it must be admitted, especially at night, when the French hung large glass oil lanthorns on the vanes, replacing the black-painted pig bladders; Lewrie had been able to determine where he was along the coast at night by spotting the first one in a seaport town, then keeping count as he sailed along. They were as good as lighthouses!