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

by Andrew Wareham

  The lieutenants and midshipmen scurried through their sections, pointing to targets and calling the gun captains to fire.

  “Out of range for the carronades, sir. Iris is busying herself, I see.”

  Iris had men in the chains, the lead busy, and was working under topsails only a bare cable offshore. Frederick could see Lieutenant McGregor dashing along the deck, Captain Dench himself pointing out targets to the quarterdeck carronades. They were aiming at individual platoons running off the road, hoping to escape, using grape very effectively. The long chaser was working with ball at a greater range, seeking out individual wagons in the baggage train and then spotting a group of officers on horseback who had not had the sense, or possessed too much dignity, to run, and loading grape over ball.

  “I think that was the brigadier, Sir Iain.”

  “Used to be, certainly, sir!”

  The officer at the masthead shouted down to them. They could not hear him over the noise of the broadsides; he sent the lookout running down to them.

  “Beg pardon, sir. Mr Patey says they is coaches among the wagon, sir. Civilians or wives, maybe, sir.”

  Sir Iain passed the message to Frederick.

  “Could just as likely be loot. Can you see civilians, Sir Iain?”

  Mr Popper put his glass on the coaches, was sure that he could see soldiers in uniform driving them.

  “Continue the action, Sir Iain.”

  It was not uncommon for soldiers to take their wives and children to war; it was up to them to protect them in time of battle.

  The third battalion had fled by the time they were in range. The roadway was littered with packs and muskets and the soldiers were running as hard as they could up the low slopes away from the road. The half-regiment of cavalry bringing up the rear had preceded them, could not be seen.

  “About ship, sir?”

  “If you please, Sir Iain.”

  They tacked, necessarily a distance offshore, before pointing up as hard as they could and trying to close the beach again. They could do very little other than to aim the occasional gun at a distant fleeing group of soldiers.

  “Return to the fortress, Sir Iain. We can achieve no more here. What count did you make, Sir Iain?”

  “Three full battalions and a regiment of cavalry dispersed, sir. Twelve guns and their limbers destroyed. At least forty of wagons hit, and their teams commonly killed. Three hundred, I must imagine, of horses and oxen killed, and not easily to be replaced in Spain, which was a poor country even before the war. In effect, sir, the brigade has been removed from the French Army List – its officers gone, its men demoralised, its guns destroyed and much of its baggage train broken up.”

  “I agree. Signal my congratulations to Norge and Iris, particularly on the quality of their gunnery.”

  Sir Iain gave the orders.

  “What of Lieutenant Fox, sir? He must be replaced.”

  “We know that Mr Warren has no young man ready to rise in the world. What of Vereker or Dench?”

  “I shall enquire, sir. I believe in fact that Mr Kent has a young man on Stour who could take his commission.”

  It was probable that Kent had spoken to Sir Iain about the young man, Griffiths by name, drawing his attention to him as a special case.

  “Through the hawse-hole, Sir Iain?”

  “Very much so, sir. Pressed man originally, Kent tells me, who has made master’s mate by dint of five years of unremitting application. The word is that he could neither read nor write when he was plucked from the gutter of a Welsh village not so far from Cardiff. He had, it would seem, run away from a coal mine and was busily walking his way to London when he found himself short of food, the distance being greater than he had imagined, and was quite possibly found begging by the constable and passed over to the press as a cheap way of getting rid of him.”

  “And now he is to be an officer and a gentleman. Can he put a uniform together?”

  “It can be arranged, sir.”

  “Good. Bring him across, Sir Iain – he is your officer, of course, so the decision is yours.”

  “Yes, sir, but it is always best to confer on the more controversial sort of gentleman.”

  Frederick grinned and agreed.

  “Kent is one such, after all. He seems to be making a job of Stour.”

  “He has the knack of command, sir. Six months and he can take a sloop, if the opportunity arises. I shall keep him with me, if I can.”

  “Your flag-captain in the making, Sir Iain?”

  “That is to look far into the future, sir – but, why not?”

  The fortress stood empty, apart from its burden of split guns; the irregulars had gone. The fishermen from the tiny village begged audience of a captain.

  The new interpreter, a frail young man who coughed occasionally, hacking consumptively hard, said that they were frightened to stay but knew not where they might go.

  “They say that the French will revenge themselves upon them when they return, sir. They cannot leave their families here.”

  Eight families with six fishing boats between them, flotsam of the war.

  “They must go, Sir Iain. They cannot hope to live if they remain here. Where?”

  There was no safe haven for them.

  “Tell them to make for Gibraltar, Manuel. There is no other place I can think of. I shall give them a letter of introduction, a laissez passer, sort of thing. They must sail down the coast for a month and then seek a place to live on the Rock. God help them, the poor souls, for they will be strangers there and can expect little of a welcome! Perhaps they can make their way to Ceuta.”

  The fishing boats were sent off and the squadron considered what was to be done with the fortress. It was ancient, solidly built and would demand many tons of powder to bring it down.

  “Impossible, Sir Iain, but it is a useful base for a garrison – walls and sweet water together in a rich land for foraging.”

  “We can deal with the water, sir…”

  “Easily, of course, Sir Iain. Have any of the French wounded died overnight?”

  There were two wells and three bodies, two for one, the single for the more distant, the work parties not wishing to carry the dead weight further than necessary.

  “They may drink that water, sir – but they will come to regret it very rapidly!”

  The lookouts called the alarm as soon as they were sent aloft next morning. There was cavalry to the north and a column of foot visible to the south.

  “Siege guns in company to the south, sir. A full train.”

  The French would wait out of range during daylight; sunset would see them digging batteries surrounded by thick earth walls. Three or four nights would see a dozen of eighteen-pounders or even larger guns untouchable and bombarding the ships.

  “How many men?”

  “Thousands, sir.”

  There would be no expedition on land to spike the guns.

  “Course south to Barcelona, Sir Iain. Let us see what may be discovered along the coast. There may be a convoy of victuallers, after all.”

  Unfortunately, there was nothing at all to be discovered at sea – the word of the squadron was out and the merchants and naval vessels alike stayed home. The only vessel to be seen was Pipsqueak, who rejoined from the north just off Barcelona itself.

  Lieutenant Dyke presented himself aboard, informed Frederick that he had made contact with the Mediterranean Fleet, though not with Lord Collingwood in person.

  “The senior captain off Toulon, sir, Captain Parker, had been informed of the squadron’s presence on the coast, sir. Apparently, Lord Collingwood had been told by the Admiralty and had sent his message in advance, sir. Verbal, sir, not written.”

  Frederick was not under the command of the Commander-in-Chief of the Mediterranean Fleet; Lord Collingwood could not send him orders and thus avoided writing to him as a colleague and conveying any impression of equality.

  “Let me hear it, Mr Dyke.”

  “Cruisers of
the Mediterranean Fleet will not venture to the coast of the Spanish mainland, sir. The islands of Majorca and Minorca remain theirs exclusively. The Admiral will not expect to hear of the squadron’s presence on the French coast except in immediate pursuit of ships of war. The squadron is at liberty to amuse itself on the Barbary Coast but the Admiral expects that it will not venture into Moroccan waters, other than in pursuance of specific orders to do so.”

  No words of welcome; no pledges to work together to wrest Spain from Bonaparte’s grasp; certainly no request to show the flag in any particular area of concern to the Admiral. A demand that they should not tread on their toes. To be fair, Frederick thought, the Mediterranean Fleet was dependent on the Moors for victualling and must be desperate to ensure that they were not to be offended.

  “I have been made more welcome on occasion, Mr Dyke. Rarely less so. Thank you for bringing me the message. Water and wood from Waldeman if you have the need, Mr Dyke. Remain in company for the immediate future.”

  Sir Iain escorted Dyke to the side, came back to discover Frederick quietly chuckling.

  “I had feared that Lord Collingwood would have proposals for the squadron to work with his people on specific tasks, that we would lose our independence as juniors in major assaults on the French. At least we do not have to worry about that consideration.”

  “No, sir. What are we to do, sir?”

  “Chase after the Frogs, Sir Iain, wherever we may discover them. I think we must show fierce off the port here, and be driven away, of course, and seek our fortunes to the south. Then take a wide circle out to sea and return to the French borders, hoping that there may be activity there, duped by our flight. The French cannot simply sit in port, you know. The roads in Spain are increasingly hazardous to them and they must try to send cargoes south by sea, hopefully under substantial escort. They will not be able to loose a battle fleet from Toulon, but there must be odd line-of-battle ships in the lesser ports, or they may be able to lay hands on a Spanish ship or two and man them for a short voyage. I have hopes that we may be able to smell powder in the near future, Sir Iain!”

  The first part of the plan was put into effect that evening, Waldeman and Norge sailing up to the forts surrounding Barcelona in the last light and offering battle, apparently expecting them to surrender, loyal to the Kings of Spain rather than to Bonaparte’s brother.

  The forts responded by firing immediately the ships were within extreme range; they missed, but were apparently delighted to see the Englishmen reverse course and hurry off to sea.

  “Why, Sir Iain?”

  “Damned if I know, sir. The Spaniards are competent in their gunnery and know far better than to do that.”

  Sir Iain turned to his new lieutenant, standing his first watch in the company of the master.

  “Well, Mr Griffiths? What say you?”

  Griffiths really wished to say nothing at all in such exalted company, gulped and mustered his thoughts.

  “Well, sir, I don’t know, really, do you see, but it seems to me that they ain’t much in love with the French, like. Had they wanted to destroy us, sir, they would have waited perhaps four minutes longer, until we was well inside the bay and in the wind-shadow of the headlands, sir, and hard-pressed to make three knots. As well, sir, we would have been well inside their range, so that they could have fired the more accurate-like and given us three or even more of broadsides. Big guns, they were, sir, and had even four or five struck the hull, then we would have been taking on water and possibly trying to tow out with the boats, sir, making us a target for the gunboats.”

  “Well seen, Mr Griffiths!”

  Frederick agreed.

  “They drove us off, Mr Griffiths, deliberately not attempting to sink us. The nearest water splash must have been a cable wide of the bows. I think, as do you, that they did not wish to hit us, and that means that they have no love for their masters. Such being the case, should we try to seize some of those juicy, fat merchantmen I saw tied up along the quays?”

  Griffiths was quite upset at such a prospect; he had heard of Fearless Fred as a fire-eater, a wild man capable of any extreme of audacity, but this seemed excessive even for such a man.

  “Begging your pardon, like, sir, but no! The Spanish gunners might have no wish to fight us, but there will be Frogs in plenty ashore, sir, and all alerted by the firing. If there was no overwhelming French garrison, sir, then the Spanish would have welcomed us.”

  “I agree, Mr Griffiths. The gunboats will be rowing patrol all night and there will be companies of soldiers sat on every quayside just hoping we may show our faces. Let them have a sleepless night, sir, and gain nothing else from the exercise. Let us be seen to be taking our southerly course, Sir Iain.”

  They ate together that night, as was their custom, both regretting the cook left in England.

  “Bright and alert, your new lieutenant, Sir Iain!”

  “Perceptive, sir. I am most pleased with the lad. Not a drinker, either, I am told. Very sober of an evening. The boy will do well, I believe. Provided only that the war has a few more years in it, he may be successful in the service. A pity, of course, that he is not fifteen years older – that would have given him the opportunity to become post. He will not now, but he may be able to find a good merchantman, or discover a job as a gentleman ashore. I shall look out for him when the Peace eventually comes. It should be possible to find something for him, sir. The Revenue Service always needs officers, as an example. The man could make his fortune in India, but I do not have influence with John Company.”

  “I do, and could use it if needs be, but there may be ten years yet in this war, Sir Iain.”

  “I hope not, sir. I am growing a-weary of the existence, sir. Prize-money has much to recommend it, of course, but I might like to settle down ashore. But I cannot go to half-pay quite yet, not while there is still the opportunity of distinction – a baronetcy is far more than ever I imagined, sir, when first Sir Iain put me aboard your ship, but I could still use a few more acres. Of course, sir, with the prospect of a son or daughter, then the need for money and land and standing is less hypothetical, as you might say, far more of a reality. I do hope my lady is well!”

  Nid Elven finally joined them and brought long-awaited letters as well as Mr Otis, the Fat Intelligencer, as he became known to the whole squadron.

  “You are very welcome, Mr Otis, and must tell me of your needs, as soon as you have determined them. We are well off for small craft for making landings, if such is your desire – the schooner Pipsqueak looks local enough and the three barca-longas are very obviously Spanish gunboats and hence liable to be unsuspected. The squadron needs information, sir, and I shall be very grateful for all you can lay your hands upon.”

  Mr Otis beamed rotund joy at his welcome, showed himself full of hopeful plans.

  “I may have a name or two that may be called upon, Sir Frederick. I need as a first priority to put a letter into the hands of a man in a village along the coast here. If he still lives and is unsuspected – the two eventualities synonymous, one might say, for the least suspicion is commonly a death sentence in itself – then he will be able to make use of the various Catalan nationalist groupings to obtain word of much that is happening in Catalonia. Whether that will include the naval information that you desire – well, sir, that is to be seen. You may appreciate that I do not immediately intend to set foot on shore myself – I was never the most nimble of fellows and much fear that I am now rather slow on my toes!”

  Politeness demanded that Frederick should not laugh; courtesy struggled hard with natural instinct on this occasion.

  “I must agree with you, sir. In your opinion, which will attract most attention – the schooner or a gunboat?”

  “Gunboats carry little by way of stores or water. Was one to be on passage, then it would call in fishing villages in the nature of things. The sole difficulty would lay in the inability of the crew to speak Spanish.”

  “A problem indeed. One w
ould send an interpreter with them, naturally. What story might he tell? If he claimed the crew to be French, then they might have their throats cut overnight. What could he say?”

  Mr Otis shrugged; he had no answer.

  “Nothing that could be believed, Sir Frederick. The sole possibility would be to be honest – and that cannot be for fear of pointing a finger at my man when contact was made with him. A landing along the coast and a Spaniard to run the mile or two to the hut I would specify and deliver his message there… And if my man has been taken, then the effect would be to lose my Spaniard as well. Can we stop a fishing boat offshore, Sir Frederick, and ask questions of them?”

  “It is not unknown for us to purchase a boat’s catch against silver coin, Mr Otis. While doing that, we might offer a friendly tot or two of unwatered rum and talk a little. It would demand finding a boat from the correct village, of course. We would also have to put up with the smell of fried sardines hanging about the ship for days thereafter.”

  Mr Otis thought the sacrifice to be worthwhile.

  “I shall send word to be alert to Spanish fishermen, Mr Otis. You will specify which boats and where, sir. For the nonce, however, I have letters begging to be read, sir!”

  The choice remained – whether to read the missive from Lord Turner or the letters from home. Home won – they had been away too long already, he thought, and Lord Turner could have no idea of what month his letter might arrive, it could not be urgent.

  All was well at home, other than the state of the countryside, that was. The price of bread had risen still further and the families of the farm labourers were little removed from starvation. The tenants of the Abbey estate were all now supplementing their men’s wages with potatoes and milk and cheese, with an addition of bacon every second week so that the children might not forget the taste of meat. The other estates were, mostly, following Abbey’s example, though not necessarily with good grace, Mr Robinson particularly clutch-fisted, as always. The Poor Law precept was at its highest ever and the farmers were experiencing a degree of hardship, or so they said. Something must done – food must be found and the price forced down or there would be unrest, possibly even Revolution. The French business had begun with bread riots, if Elizabeth remembered correctly – she could envisage the same occurring in England.