*****
Sir Sidney and his men had no choice but to abandon the redoubt and race towards the Pasha’s tent, which was placed just in front of the fortress walls. Glancing up, Sir Sydney and his men could see the Janissaries lining the walls of the fort, shouting and screaming defiance at the enemy. There were also men on the two small towers on either end of the short wall, and overlooking the entire fort was a single stone tower at the very back that abutted into the sea.
Major Bromley shook his head, and as though he had read Sir Sidney’s mind, he too glanced upwards. “This will be no real defense against the guns of the French if they get this far, Sir.”
Just as he said this they were stopped in their tracks by a huge roar from behind them.
“The charge has begun. It is too late!” the Commodore gasped. In a matter of a few seconds they were overtaken by Janissaries racing towards the elusive safety of the fortress. The remainder of the army manning the defenses had abandoned their posts and were running for their lives. The mass of men grew so quickly that it soon became impossible for Sir Sidney and his men to get anywhere near the tents.
“Sir, Sir! We must make for the boats,” Major Bromley called to Smith, his voice cracked with urgency. “They will trample us underfoot if we do not! I don’t think the Frenchies are in the mood to take prisoners, not even us!”
It was probably true. While British officers were quite valuable for the exchange of prisoners, the pursuing men had their bloodlust up, and it would not be the first time that potential hostages were slain in the heat and confusion of battle. The charge by the French cavalry had caught the Turks completely by surprise. The wailing and screaming came closer until finally swarms of Janissaries poured back over the redoubt to join those already running for their lives.
Sir Sidney and his men barely made it to the boats before the terrified mob caught up with them. They splashed into the shallow waters and were hauled unceremoniously on board by the anxious British sailors who wanted get away from the clawing hands of the Turkish men who were threatening to overturn their boats and drag them down into the sea with them.
Despite this, as they pulled away Sidney ordered them to haul on board a few more who had come close enough to save, joining those already huddled in the well of the boat. The British rowed away, casting anguished looks at the thousands who wailed and screamed for help that was not forthcoming. Before the horrified spectators’ eyes they began to go under and drown in their hundreds. To make matters worse the French mounted artillery once again found the beaches and hurled grape shot at point blank range into the backs of the stricken mob.
Chapter 14
Gunboats
On one of the gunboats manned by the British seamen, Graham and Lt Fellows were huddled with the gunner as he set the heavy 4-pounder in the bows.
“Grape for this one,” Lt Fellows said, as he peered over the shoulder of the gunner and his mate at the French who were themselves about to fire their own field piece in the direction of the boat.
“Grape loaded, Sir!” said the gunner almost huffily as though to say, “What else would we use under these circumstances?”
Lt Fellows ignored the tone and instead snapped, “Stop hopping about, Mr Graham, you are rocking the boat!”
Duncan had been hopping from one foot to another in excitement that an actual engagement was about to take place.
“Are they going to shoot at us or at the Turkies, I wonder,” said Lt Fellows.
As though in answer there was a puff of smoke that almost obscured the French gun, followed by an awful sound as the round howled through the air just above boat.
Everyone ducked reflexively, then they stared back at the puff of smoke and the light artillery who were reloading. Just then another of the field pieces fired and again there was a howl as the ball came right towards them, and this time the ball took Lt Fellows’ head off at the shoulders. The officer’s head disappeared in a red spray of blood, bone, and brains, while the body was tossed backwards in among the rowers.
There were exclamations of “Kerist!” and “Bugger this!” from the sailors as they tried to push away the inert body that still pumped blood everywhere. The tough sailors, well used to carnage in sea battles, shook their heads and helped to lay the twitching body on the bottom of the boat. “Poor bugger, anyone got somethin’ to cover ’im with?” asked one.
“Silence back there!” shouted the bosun’s mate. He automatically looked to the next officer in line.
Duncan had felt the wind of the ball as it killed his commanding officer; he stared in uncomprehending shock at the remnants of Lt Fellows body lying among the rowers.
“Sir! Sir! What do we do now?” Chauncey prodded him. “Orders, Sir?”
Duncan gulped for air and forced himself not to vomit. “Ready… ready to fire?” he demanded with a tremor in his voice.
“Aye Aye, Sorr,” responded the gunner, sliding sideways out of the path the gun would take on its recoil.
Duncan felt a rising anger. “Then fire the Goddamned thing!” he shouted, and pointed towards the enemy who had re-emerged from the smoke and were frantically reloading.
“Fire, Goddammit!” he repeated.
The gunner nodded, gave him a gap-toothed grin and jerked the lanyard. The 4-pounder boomed. The whole boat shuddered. Smoke from the gun briefly obscured the target and the cannon hammered backwards onto its stops. “Reload!” shouted Graham unnecessarily. The gunner and his mate had already leapt to the work.
Then they saw the effect of the grape. Their gun had been well laid. The packed shot from the gun had all but obliterated the French gunners. “Well done, Gunner!” Duncan exclaimed, contemplated with satisfaction the destruction they had wrought while the men cheered.
“That’s for Lieutenant Fellows, ye bastards,” he called out. The men behind him grinned. Duncan ignored for the moment the screaming and floundering Janissaries all around them who were now clamoring to get into the boat, but then Chauncey called out urgently, “Sir! Do we take them aboard?” He looked apprehensively at the splashing and screaming Turks approaching the boat.
“Later!” Graham called back. He glanced over to the right where more Turks were struggling in the water and several French artillery pieces were raking them with grapeshot.
“Get us out of here, Chan, and over there where we will give the Frenchies a taste of our lead, then we can pick up some of this sorry lot,” he waved his sword in the general direction of the Janissaries.
The oarsmen bent to the task with a will. They knew that if they tarried they would likely be swamped. The boat shot back out to deeper water and then was skillfully spun around to dart a few hundred yards in along the shoreline. Meanwhile the gunner turned to Duncan. “She’s ready, Sorr.”
Grahame nodded and peered through the smoke that was drifting over the sea towards the coastline. It appeared to be full of blue colored uniforms, while the sea was dense with the red of the Janissaries’ fezzes, many of which were drifting about in the water after their owners had sunk to the bottom. The noise of screaming and wailing Turks, the rocketing sound of passing shot and the distant boom of the guns all added to the chaos around the boat. It was hard to even think but Duncan could barely contain his own excitement. He pointed. “In there, hurry. We’ll give it to them and then get hold of some of those Turkies!” he yelled
The boat shot in among the Janissaries, who were splashing about more and more desperately as their comrades behind forced them into ever deeper water. Duncan dropped his hand, Chauncey bawled an order, oarsmen braked the longboat in a flurry of foaming water and Duncan shouted in the gunner’s ear. “Fire!”
Again the earsplitting bang, an acrid billow of smoke, and the boat jerked as the gun recoiled. “Back! Back up!” yelled Duncan, waving his sword in a circle over his head, and the oarsmen bent to the task.
There was some return fire but the shot rocketed overhead, causing the oarsmen to cringe as they rowed hard to get away. Duncan s
tood in the bows, high with exhilaration, refusing to flinch, feeling somehow invincible. His blood was singing. The bosun’s mate, Chauncey, nodded to his men and chuckled as he pointed to the young midshipman. He shook his head.
“Likes it ’e does, that one.”
There were chuckles from the rowers who were close enough to hear.
They picked up twenty of the soaked and bedraggled Turks, dragging some aboard who had almost given up and were resigned to their fate. These lay gasping and moaning in the well of the boat, babbling in their own language. Allah received a lot of mention.
The now silent oarsmen pulled hard for the distant ships. They could see the horror of death in the sea all around the peninsular as the vengeful French infantry and field gunners caught up with the fleeing Turks, who fled to the water where they drowned because they could not swim.
Duncan, after watching for a while, felt the high of battle drain away and turned away, sickened. He didn’t want to watch as the ranks of wailing Janissaries slowed and subsided beneath the small waves, leaving their red fezzes and turbans to float away on the current.
They dropped off their sodden and demoralized charges at one of the Turkish transport ships, then made their way back to the HMS Tigre where, upon being informed of the death of Lt Fellows, the crew above dropped a canvas sheet to the men in the boat below. They wrapped his body in the canvas and tied it well before having it hauled aboard the ship.
Duncan clambered aboard and saluted the quarterdeck to find Second Lt Bowles waiting for him.
“What happened?” he demanded brusquely of the powder-blackened young man standing before him.
Duncan told him of the event and what he had done following the death.
Bowles looked grudgingly pleased. “Go below and clean yourself up, Mr Graham. I will want a written report by Six Bells this evening.” Then, knowing how hard that would be in the gloomy cave that housed the midshipmen, he said, “Get the Purser to provide you with paper and ink, and write it in his cubby.”
“Yes, Sir.” Duncan saluted and staggered off.
Bowles turned his attention to the corpse and the hovering crew of the boat. He wanted to know from them what had occurred.
“Just as the young gentleman told you, Sir. A ball took off the lieutenant’s ’ead and then the Middie just took over as though nothin’ had happened. Gave them Frenchies something to think about ’e did, Sir.” Chauncey shook his head and grinned. “Seems to like a fight, does that one, Sir.”
Bowles noted the approval in his voice. He turned away to pass along the sad news of Fowler’s death to his superior.
*****
Such was the rout of the encampment that the Pasha was almost alone when Murat arrived at his splendid tent. Curious to see who might still be there, Murat dismounted and handed his horse off to one of his men and strode into the tent. There he found the Pasha standing quite alone and confronted him. “Surrender! You are my prisoner,” he called to the overweight Turkish leader facing him. “Your army is defeated.”
At the very moment that Murat called upon the Pasha to surrender, the Pasha pointed a small pistol at him and fired it. The ball ploughed a furrow on Murat’s jaw, inflicting a slight wound. Ignoring the pain Murat wasted no time; he lunged forward and struck back with his already bloody saber at the Pasha’s hand, removing two fingers and the pistol. Murat called upon his men. “Seize him and take him to Général Bonaparte.” Then, fingering his wound, he remarked, “The women of Paris have no need to worry, my lips are intact!”
His men, who admired and loved their commander, roared with laughter, and then some of them escorted the Pasha — none too gently — away to present him to Napoléon, while the rest of them set about chasing the remainder of the Turks, either into the sea or back into the fortress at the end of the peninsula. There was plenty of looting along the way to keep them busy.
In front of the fortress, the battle was all but over. The Turks were routed and fled in all directions, again abandoning their weapons and equipment. Supposing that they would be subjected to the same treatment that they had meted out they were in no hurry to surrender to the coldly ferocious French, but instead tried to flee to wherever they could.
Unfortunately there were no good exits, only the sea or the fortress, where a few thousand managed to gain entrance before the rest were stopped as the gates were slammed shut in their faces. They beat on the doors, frantically pleading with and cursing the occupants as they contemplated their imminent fate, staring over their shoulders in terror at the implacable blue and green uniforms coming ever closer. The grim, powder-blackened faces and bloody bayonets spelled their doom.
Captain Clément had not heard any bugles calling for a halt and was not inclined to listen for any either. Nor were his men. Caught up in a frenzy of killing they butchered anyone in their path. The humiliation of the long and terrible march back to Egypt, harried and picked off by the marauding Arabs, and then the senseless killing of their comrades here in Abukir were sufficient reason for these men to give no quarter.
Finally the bugle did sound, but not before the men of the first column had almost reached the walls of the fortress. They had swept through the encampment barely noticing it, but now Captain Clément and his men realized what booty they might be giving up for the sake of their blood lust. The call came just in time for them to change direction, abandon the cringing enemy and seek loot instead. Incredibly, their discipline had held despite all the chaos. Their captain and sergeant merely ordered them into another direction and off they went.
In their place the light artillery swiftly took up positions in front of the citadel and proceeded to blast the Turks grouped at the base of its walls at close range. The terrified and demoralized Turks repeated what had occurred before at the first and second redoubts and fled en masse into the sea. Once again the shoreline was packed with men hurling themselves into the water only to die as they were trampled by those pushing up behind them or they sank out of their depth and drowned. The vast majority could not swim, so they perished in their thousands. The British boats plied back and forth as fast as they were able, picking up men still able to stay afloat, but this number dwindled and soon there were none left alive to save. The red plumed hats, turbans and fez of the Janissaries who had drowned left the bodies and floated to the surface to bob on the waves in a dense crimson mass, many hundreds of yards wide. It was a horrifying sight for the men on the ships who witnessed the whole event.
The British watched appalled as those left on land were shot or bayonetted by the French, who were in no mood to take prisoners, so several thousand more died. Very few were allowed to surrender. Captain Clément simply shook his head when his men looked at him with the question as they stood over yet another Janissary pleading for his life on his knees. The vision of the heads on the redoubts were too recent for any chance of forgiveness.
The battle was in all respects over by 11:00 a.m., leaving the French army in charge of the field in front of the fort of Abukir. The French cannon finally ceased firing, leaving an eerie calm to settle over the sand dunes and the area of the former redoubts. Slowly the pall of battle cleared; tendrils of gun smoke drifted off with the light wind, leaving a battlefield strewn with the dead. Corpses and abandoned equipment were piled high, and the vast majority of them were Turkish. Of an army of 15,000 men who had landed a few days before there were perhaps only 6,000 left alive: either in the fortress, saved by the British, or captured.
Chapter 15
Aftermath
The British boats rowed back to the ships anchored two miles away with shocked and silent crews. Sir Sidney climbed the side of his ship Tigre feeling too tired to pay much attention to the shrill sound of the bosun’s pipes that welcomed him aboard.
“Major Bromley, please accompany me to my cabin,” he said to the major, who followed him over the side and onto the deck.
Sir Sidney turned to the young officer on duty.
“Please ask Lieutenant Ca
nes and Captain Williams to come to my cabin as soon as is convenient, Lieutenant,” he said, and then without looking to his left or right he made straight for his day cabin.
Sir Sidney was standing by the large bay windows of the day cabin and Major Bromley was seated on one of the chairs in front of the desk when there was a knock on the door.
“Come,” he called.
Lieutenant Canes opened the door and advanced into the cabin, followed by Captain John Williams.
When Smith turned and faced the two men he looked haggard. “Gentlemen. Take a seat,” he said. “Can I offer you something to drink? I for one am in need of something to wash away the taste of today.”
He sat down heavily at the desk and drew the decanter and glasses towards him without waiting for their replies. In the silence that followed Sidney busied himself with pouring the sherry into the small glasses. They all took one and he raised his to them.
“Here is to one of the greatest disasters I have ever had the misfortune to witness, and I pray I never do again. I would say ‘Confusion to the French,’ but they do not appear to be confused. Indeed they have upheld their reputation for being one of the best armies in the world today, to the chagrin of the Turk and myself.”
Major Bromley nodded agreement, his face drawn and glum.
“What happened over there, Sir?” Williams asked his commander.
“Why John, the Turks landed their many men, butchered the defenders of the fort and encampment, as we all witnessed, and then would not listen to Colonel Douglas nor Major Bromley here, who both know the French well and tried to get the Turks to prepare for them. Boney arrived and with his usual discernment found the weak spots that we tried to warn the Turks about. He wasted no time in attacking those very points, and not long after the first redoubt was overrun. His men are utterly without fear and incredibly disciplined.
Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir Page 12
