Deadly Shores (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 11)

by Andrew Wareham

  Lord Turner found himself invited to take a part in the fleshing out of foreign policy in London. It was all very well for the brilliant young men of the government to say that Britain must support Spain – but what did that involve in practice? What must the men in Whitehall and in the various embassies actually do and say?

  The Austrians were much in favour of the British supporting their cousins in Spain, which they thought to mean to discover a Royalist faction and nurture it. Russia felt much the same, but would have no objection to Spanish kings who were less in Austria’s pocket. The Emperor of Morocco was inclined to support legitimate governments against any and all revolutionaries, but he really would not be unhappy to see Spain a fraction less rabidly Catholic; it was easier, he had discovered, to talk to Protestants. The Sublime Porte was concerned to consolidate and rebuild the power of the Ottoman Empire, which involved a reduction in the capacity for harm of both Russia and Austria, with, simultaneously, a strengthening of Spain vis a vis Morocco. The Kingdom of the Two Sicilies was not insignificant in the Mediterranean and was probably in favour of buttressing Catholic Spain against further French incursions, without assisting Austrian pretensions, and whilst slapping down the Moors; it was, however, impossible to make any firm predictions about the Two Sicilies, due to the drunken incoherence of King and Court.

  British policy must be to encourage the friendship, and hopefully alliance, of all of those kingdoms and empires, supporting their pretensions in all honesty. Being utterly opposed to each other, this was difficult.

  “It can be awkward, Lord Turner, when one must ensure that the left hand does not know what the right is doing. When one has in effect five hands, the task becomes almost impossible.”

  “Very true, sir. Might it, just possibly, be feasible to draw off the Ottomans and Morocco? Was we, as a thought, to encourage both to bring Egypt under their wing, they might find themselves with little energy available for the problems of Spain.”

  “But, Lord Turner, we want Egypt. It is an aim of our policy to bring Egypt under our influence so that we may have a controllable passage to India with an overland section between the Mediterranean and the Red Sea. It is flat, that part of the desert, and must eventually lend itself to a canal, which must be ours.”

  “Then surely, sir, it must be desirable to ensure that Egypt is a bone of contention between the Turk and the Moor – so that neither may actually gain a secure hold.”

  That, they thought, must be a very crafty policy – what a clever man Lord Turner was!

  “Wise indeed, my lord! What of Russia?”

  “Must we perhaps support Russian pretensions to Poland? Austria, of course, will wish to carve off pieces of the Ottoman Empire, particularly around the Black Sea – with our unspoken support. While we encourage our dear friends to help themselves to large and indigestible chunks of Eastern Europe, they may leave us a far freer hand in Spain.”

  “That sounds very cynical, sir, and the government may choke on such large doses of reality. Let us frame the policy in appropriate words, Lord Turner!”

  Long experience had shown that the best way of pulling the wool over politicians’ eyes was to tell them everything, down to the last pettifogging detail. Briefing papers of fifty or sixty close-written sheets of quarto would inevitably defeat their powers of concentration and lead to testy demands for a summary – which could be provided in very short form indeed. The originals could then be sent to the King, who, poor man, was driven by a sense of duty to read everything that arrived on his desk; his magnifying glass was made stronger each week, but he still could not make his way through all that was sent him, and was unable therefore to argue logically with his Ministers, was forced sometimes to insist on his right to rule, which was automatically challenged by the Cabinet and Prime Minister.

  “Not to worry, Lord Turner. The old fellow is losing his marbles again – two years at most and he will be in the hands of the mad-doctors, and he will not escape them a third time!”

  Mr Critchel seemed relieved at the prospect, was moved to explain himself.

  “It’s the Americans, Lord Turner. Our good King still cannot accept their independence, you know, and refuses us permission to sit down with them and rationally discuss our mutual grievances. The Americans have legitimate complaints about the behaviour of the Navy – and the Navy has grounds for objecting to the Americans for encouraging desertions. A month at the conference table and all could be solved, for the Americans do not want war, and we have enough on our plate at the moment. Was the King to be locked up and given a few trees to talk to, then we could make a far better fist of governing the country than we currently manage.”

  Lord Turner laughed, expressed then his loyal sorrow that the King’s problems should be resurging – one never knew who might be listening at the door.

  “That, of course, Mr Critchel, must involve offering some degree of authority, and even actual power, to Prinny. It would be difficult to refuse him the Regency on this occasion, when it is a certainty that his father can never regain his sanity and physical health sufficiently to exercise his functions. Our good Prince will not be temporarily on the throne, but will be there until the day he dies, I fear.”

  “He will be amenable to reason, Lord Turner. That, one can absolutely guarantee. It has been made abundantly clear to him that the Duke of York is an able man, and one who is actually respected in Downing Street. Should Prinny choose to misbehave, and seek political power, then the proofs of his bigamy would be publicised and he would be declared unfit to rule. It would be simple to pass an Act of Parliament that struck him from the Succession; we could discover a majority in both Houses for such an instrument and the Archbishop of Canterbury would be pleased to cooperate as well. There would be sermons in every church in the country, deploring the disgraceful misconduct of the Prince. He would be sent to the Cape, to join his half-brothers and sisters there; growing grapes, no doubt.”

  Lord Turner was left silent; he knew of no bastards of the King.

  “Hannah Lightfoot, the Quaker girl, Lord Turner?”

  “Good God! Do you tell me that was true, sir? Before my time in the service, of course, but I had heard and dismissed the rumours as just another nonsense.”

  “No. The FitzGeorges are an actuality, and have one of the greatest vineyards producing the Constantia wine, and flocks of merino sheep over many thousands of acres. They are very real, and very loyal – not a word said of who and what they are. There are those who much regret that it was impossible for the King to wed his Quaker – the Royal Family would have been far the better for it.”

  “His Majesty wished to marry her, according to the stories.”

  “He did. He was much in love, one is told. The enforced separation may well have contributed to the poor man’s problems. Possibly he would not have succumbed to the madness, had he been permitted to follow his heart. Might have beens, Lord Turner – of little value to us today!”

  Mr Critchel seemed rarely sympathetic, which struck Lord Turner as peculiar, but not at all a thing to be commented upon or further examined.

  “Thus, Mr Critchel, we will carry on our daily business, whoever shall sit the throne. What do we plan for Spain?”

  “Nothing, Lord Turner. We know only that we shall land an army in Spain, and another in Portugal, and fight Bonaparte on the European mainland. What will become of Spain itself, the Lord alone knows. We have no policy, other than to probably wish to maintain the country, and as a kingdom. That policy is not set in tablets of stone, I might add. All could change.”

  “I think a letter to Sir Frederick, Mr Critchel, suggesting that he must take great care in all that he does. Particularly, he must strengthen the Spanish forces in their resistance to the French invaders, if that be at all possible, and probably offer arms to the legitimate army, rather than to ad hoc forces that may spring up.”

  Captain Fastun brought representatives of the Army of Catalonia and of the Regiment of Catalonia – rather puz
zlingly distinct organisations – to meet Frederick on the third of the four days before they were to attack the fortress.

  The gentlemen were of the rank of major, or its Spanish equivalent of cavalry; all had gained their appointment by the Spanish equivalent of purchase and were distinguished by their gentility of birth and manner and nothing else at all.

  None could speak English, but Frederick could hardly complain, he thought, having no Spanish.

  They sat in Waldeman’s great cabin, drinking coffee with great satisfaction, the bean having almost disappeared from Spain in the past year of commercial disruption.

  “Captain Fastun, can you confirm with the major of the Regiment that he will be to hand to complete the taking of the fortress at the agreed time?”

  There was an exchange of conversation in Spanish.

  “The major states that it is the intention of Don Esteban Murphy to bring his regiment to the walls before midnight, sir. Provided there is an open gate, sir, he will assault the fortress.”

  “Please express my thanks to the major, Captain Fastun.”

  This was done and they turned to the part to be played by the Army of the Junta of Catalonia.

  “There is a problem, Sir Frederick, inasmuch that the Junta and the Count are currently in some dispute over the supply of powder and ball and victuals. The Army has only one day of supplies at the moment and may well be forced to withdraw from this coastal region to an area where it may more readily be catered for.”

  “There are substantial stores in the fortress, one understands, Captain Fastun.”

  “Probably, Sir Frederick, but the Count has no certainty that the fortress will be taken, and would be left most unpleasantly exposed was the assault on the castle to fail.”

  “Endeavour to persuade the gentleman that we are not in the habit of failing, sir.”

  Long discussion ended with no absolute commitment, but an assurance of the Count’s everlasting goodwill to Britain and to King George.

  The Spanish officers were piped over the side with full honours and taken ashore.

  Captain Fastun returned in the company of the Professor, the Butcher, the Goatherd and the Priest, the leaders of the armed bands choosing to come in person.

  Captain Fastun pulled Frederick to one side when he came aboard.

  “Problems, Sir Frederick – the majors were offered identical honours on leaving the ship. The majors of the Army of Catalonia were offended, said that they were slighted inasmuch that the Count, who they represented, is senior in rank to Don Esteban and that they should therefore have been granted precedence and a greater show of respect.

  “Send them my apologies and assure them that the honours granted were the greatest authorised by the Admiralty to any person other than a crowned king. Is it important?”

  “It may serve as an excuse, sir.”

  “Too late now. What of these four?”

  “They will fight, but their people are short of food. The whole of Spain is short of food, sir.”

  “Nothing I can do just now, Captain Fastun. I ran our stores down earlier in the month and have nothing spare just now. They will get first call upon any victuals in the fortress. Give them my word as well that if we are forced to retreat then they and all their people will be taken aboard the ships and will be put down at a safer place along the coast.”

  Discussions with the four were brief and confined to the plans for the assault on the fortress.

  Frederick inspected the four; all were lean, carried no reserves of flesh, unlike the officers who had preceded them.

  “They have been out in the field while the officers have sat in barracks, by the looks of them, Captain Fastun.”

  “They have been fighting, sir. Brutally. There will be a problem when the fortress is taken, sir. They have no notion of quarter or prisoners, sir. They will slit every French throat during the fighting; afterwards, if any remain in their hands, they will be more inventive. The hatred for the French is outside of anything I could imagine, Sir Frederick, and I do not know in fact if we should permit ourselves to be allied to such barbarians.”

  “They will fight, Captain Fastun. That is all and the whole of my requirement of them. Is that a cassock that man is wearing?”

  “It is, sir. The Priest is just that. He survived the destruction of his village, sir. The French left him nailed to the church door in a mockery of the Crucifixion, and he was taken down by survivors who returned. He watched the French spend a night entertaining themselves with the women and children of the village and his hatred for them is intense. He truly believes them to be devils incarnate and has no mercy for them. The others are much the same, sir – though perhaps less spiritually driven – and desire only to kill the French. What we are to do when the war in Spain is won and we are driving into France itself, I know not, sir, for they will leave a desolation behind them, a desert empty of every trace of the French nation.”

  “I doubt I can find pity in me for the French, Captain Fastun. Their behaviour is utterly inhuman. Let them die. Better them than us, sir!”

  “Can we answer their uncivilised behaviour by lowering ourselves to their level, sir? Surely, we must show them that we are superior in our ways and understanding!”

  “Bugger that, Captain Fastun! Kill ‘em first. Preach to the survivors afterwards if you must, sir! Inform the four gentlemen that we shall not let them down – we shall be there on the hour unless there should be a sudden gale at sea. The belief is in fact that we have no reason to expect any storm for days – so we shall attack with the rising of the moon.”

  The four briefly said that they would be ready and waiting – their word upon it. They refused refreshment, saying that they would not eat and drink while their own people were suffering short commons.

  “Honest men, Captain Fastun. I can imagine that Cromwell led the like of those men.”

  The Captain was a Cavalier by sympathy, was not impressed by the comment.

  Fatty Warren was delighted to have the command on shore on this occasion; despite his bulk he enjoyed skipping about with sword and pistol in hand. He had laid down that he would be in the first boat to land, and it would be a bold man in his barge who stepped ashore before he did. He marshalled his boats and the brigs and Glommen, ensured that every officer knew exactly what he should do and when, and then told them that if all went wrong, they should remember Nelson’s words, slightly modified – ‘no man can do so very wrong who lays alongside the nearest Frenchman’ – or, in this instance, cuts his bloody throat, gentlemen!”

  The boats cast off an hour after sundown, necessarily a distance offshore and with a long row ahead of them. The crews would change places after an hour, so as not to arrive with half the men exhausted by unbroken rowing.

  The sea remained calm and they were able to make their steady three knots and position themselves a cable off the quay. The midshipman in the boat opened the shutter on his lantern and flashed it three times to sea.

  “Brigs are making sail, sir, I can just pick them out.”

  “Good. Row!”

  Four longboats reached the quay and put fifty seamen on land before drawing clear for the brigs to complete their party and the sloop to deposit all of the Marines. They ran, following Warren, as soon as the sails became visible and alarm was inevitable.

  They burst through the open gate into the fort, shouldering aside a fisherman with a bucket of water and splitting into three pre-arranged parties, the bulk pushing directly towards the land gate while ten found the stairs left and right of the water gate that led up onto the walls and to the guns.

  The first minute was silent and then the normal howling pandemonium of a night action broke loose.

  Sentries yelled and discharged their muskets to give the alarm, and then found themselves with empty guns as an enemy in unknown numbers pushed forwards. A few remained to present a bayonet, but most ran to the nearest postern that would lead them inside the fortress, unintentionally showing the attackers the
way.

  Pistols cracked and the men with their bayonets discovered their unwisdom.

  Warren reached the land gates, found them loosely pulled to – the bulk of the French soldiers were bivouacked outside the fortress proper, in the outer bailey, while their cookhouses were inside the walls under cover. The men needed passage to eat and return to their rough billets, many of them lingering inside, talking in the warm for an hour or two before going out to sleep. Almost all were unarmed, not being in the habit of taking their muskets to the meal table; some surrendered; some ran; some tried to lock the doors inside the fortress or defend themselves with makeshift weapons.

  The sailors were outnumbered and could do no more than hold the gate for a few minutes while the Marines landed and formed up in their own good time. The Lobsters were not in the habit of dashing about in a disorganised mob and needed a little while to form their ranks before they stepped out in rigid order to tidy up. The crash of volleys told that sailors that all was in hand, and warned the French who were fighting to change their minds.

  An outburst of fire in the outer bailey told the French that the attack was in numbers, that there was a substantial assault from the land. Screams rose from outside, sufficient to persuade those in the fortress to surrender to the seamen before the Spanish could get to them.

  Twenty minutes saw the fighting over, but the noise and screaming continued.

  “Major Wakely!”

  Warren’s roar brought the commander of the Marines to him.

  “Get the prisoners down to the quayside, Major, under guard. Sir Frederick warned me that the Spanish irregulars would kill them out of hand if they could.”

  “Well, we can’t have that, sir. I shall take charge of them.”

  The Marine marched off, shouting his orders, emptying the buildings of all those who could walk.

  “Mr Kent!”

  The young lieutenant trotted across, his sword still in hand and dripping blood.

  “Been busy, I see. Well done! Take a party outside, discover what is happening, if you would be so good.”