“Dead, sir. Took two in the back, sir. Just in front of you, he was, sir.”
“And they were aiming at me, I expect – being dressed the most ornamental.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Take his body aboard. We will bury him properly, at least.” Frederick looked about him, saw the Captain of the Foretop who had evidently attached himself, illegally, to Andrews’ party, wanting to join in the fun, no doubt.
“Brown!”
Four men responded; there were almost as many Browns as there were Smiths in any crew, absconders from the law who had chosen to leave their names behind.
“Mr Brown, I should have said, perhaps. What did you manage to salvage from the ships’ chandlers.”
“Beg pardon, sir. Mr Andrews said as ‘ow we was mortal short of paint and varnish, sir, bos’n’s stores being damned nigh empty after they thieves in the Dockyard ‘ad finished with ‘er. Sacks of red powder paint, yellow and blue, with a helping of white, too.”
“Just paint?”
“No, sir. We got varnish, too, and a dozen kettles of that soft soap, sir.”
Unexciting, but very handy; a worthwhile use of their time.
“Well done – we need that stuff!”
The squeaking wagons rolled along the quay and stopped by the entry port.
“What did you come across, Mr Ross?”
“Salted and smoked hams, sir, got to be two hundred of them, enough for the men to feast at twice, sir. Some cheeses, sir – a bit manky if you ask me, sir, all soft and runny, but my coxswain, LeGard, is from Jersey and he says they’re really good. Two barrels of smoked herrings, sir, and a dozen sacks of rice, and some barrels of brandy, sir – some of it grape and some this local apple stuff.”
Inevitable, and at least they had brought it aboard rather than tried to drink it all then and there.
“Take charge of all of the foodstuffs, Mr Ross, and the brandy, and make sure that it is distributed equally among the whole squadron, every man to get equal dibs, sir.”
“Aye aye, sir. Can’t be made prize, sir, because it will all go rotten before we can get it to a court, sir.”
“Quite, Mr Ross!”
There was a crash of musketry from the top of the main street, powder smoke visible, both companies of Marines in action. Frederick swung round to MacDonald.
“Get your men aboard Pride of Lyme, sir, and order her captain to cast off from his mooring and anchor out in the stream. Mr Ross!”
“Sir?”
“Order your lieutenant to let go of Pride of Lyme, sir!”
Ross saluted, fighting the grin back.
Luscombe brought his men across from the shipyard, the party together, no stragglers.
“All afire, sir. Coaster on the stocks, sir, decked over and within a week of launch, I would estimate, sir. They were tarring her sides, rather than coppering her, sir – very old-fashioned! We hauled the tar barrels on board and tipped them over below decks, sir, before we set her ablaze. Two barges, lightly built for the river, sir. A good stock of seasoned oak and of deals, sir. All alight. Four of open sheds with cordage and sail cloth and barrels of paint, sir; on fire but we didn’t have time to do so good a job on them and they might salvage some there.”
“No matter, Mr Luscombe, the great bulk of the job done, and well done.”
Burford came walking across, quite rapidly but there was obviously no running in him – he was puffing at the exertion.
“Two barges, sir, loaded with grain. Used axes, sir, and sank them where they lay. Set fire to the warehouses as well, sir. At the back as well as the blaze at the front where Captain Ross was busy.”
“Well done, sir. Take Blackbird out now and signal to Señora and Bluenose to close on the brigs.”
Burford stumped off to cross Acheron’s deck and lower himself down the side to his own ship. He was becoming too stiff and unwieldy for a small ship, yet there was no possibility of making him post, moving him up in the world. He must be encouraged to half-pay, and as soon as possible – perhaps he might not fancy another winter of service in the Channel and the Bay.
The quay was almost empty, the landing parties from the ships all aboard; there was no gain to remaining. The firing was continuing, increasing perhaps, as if more French soldiers were arriving at the fish market.
“Back to Acheron,” he called, to the relief of his escort.
He could just see up the road to the houses the Marines were holding, powder smoke from the windows, a hint of blue uniform to their front, French skirmishers closing on the houses.
“Broadside long guns to load ball, Mr Gentry. Carronades, grape. I think the forward four twelves could lay on the open square to the front of the Marines’ position, do not you?”
“I will aim them myself, sir, with your permission.”
“Do so. Open fire at will.”
The broadside guns fired, first bounce at the top of the low rise, cobblestones flying and dust rising in clouds. The musketry diminished.
Bosomtwi came on deck.
“Doctor says he not goin’ to cut the leg off, not today, sir. The bone ain’t broken, sir, down below he knee, but he badly cut up, sir, down in the muscle bit behind the front of the leg, isn’t it. Suppose he keep the leg even, he ain’t walking so good after, sir.”
If the mortification, the sepsis, did not take hold then Ablett would keep his leg – but he would be hard-pressed to go to sea again. In terms of actual mobility he might be better off to lose the leg below the knee and fit a wooden peg – but the chances of death were too high to amputate if it could be avoided.
“It’s the farming life for him, then, Bosomtwi?”
“He is not to go to sea no more, sir. He ain’t goin’ to like it none, sir.”
“His wife will be pleased enough, I think. She must talk him round.”
“She a good lady, sir. She do the job, sir.”
“Good. Time to look out for a new coxswain, Bosomtwi.”
“Two or three on Acheron, sir, what can do the job and fit in with us, sir.”
The new man must become part of the clan, a follower who would remain to the end of his days. It was better that Bosomtwi should make the choice – he knew the lower deck far better than Frederick could, divorced as he was now by his gold lace.
“Lobsters coming back, sir. Can see they behind them houses on this side, sir. They red coats shows up too easy, too bright, isn’t it, sir.”
The Marines were very visible and there had been talk of changing their uniforms so that they were less like soldiers. Frederick had heard that there was to be an issue of blue coats to those serving on the smaller ships, the bomb ketches especially where they normally served the big mortars and the powder smoke made it impossible to keep their scarlet clean. He was not sure that he approved of the change – it was too easy to destroy tradition, difficult to build new.
The long guns fired again, very precisely laid and serving notice that the main street was closed to the French. It meant as well that the Marines must clamber through the back gardens rather than run down the open road, but no doubt they would accept the inconvenience.
“Mr Horner, shout to Robin to join Mr Burford offshore and to look out for the brigs.”
It was a vague order, deliberately so. Ross could be trusted to use his sense in matters of seamanship.
“Runner coming down, sir!”
Midshipman Iliffe, crouched low and scurrying, making very good time, hurdling the low walls of the back gardens.
“Nothing like a few musket balls to make a midshipman get a turn of speed, Mr Hirst!”
“Highly effective, sir!”
Iliffe made a last sprint and reached the entry port; he saluted the quarter-deck on the run, but gained Frederick’s approval for remembering the courtesy and showing that he kept his head. It was quite unnecessary, but showed that his training stuck even under adverse circumstance.
“Major Campbell’s compliments, sir. Two battalions of infantry in
action, sir, and he can see horse artillery five minutes away. He is retreating, sir, and expects to be at the quayside within ten minutes, sir. The fires at the bottom of the hill mean that he must bring the men into the open to reach the quay, sir. He would appreciate assistance at that point, sir.”
“Are you to return to him, Mr Iliffe?”
“He told me to stay aboard, sir.”
“Sensible of him. There is no gain to telling him what he will discover in a few seconds for himself. Has he evacuated the houses at the top of the hill yet?”
“Yes, sir. They were coming out as I ran, sir.”
“Mr Gentry, a full broadside, sir. Knock the houses down and clutter the roadway, if possible…”
The guns fired, cutting off the rest of the order.
The houses at the top of the hill collapsed, sixteen twelve-pound balls making short work of their old stonework. Rubble spread part-way across the road, not blocking it but certainly making a bottleneck that would slow cavalry, if any appeared.
“Mr Gentry, two guns at a time at twenty seconds interval. Rolling fire, sir.”
Four louder explosions from the battery as the twenty-four pound coastal guns fired across the road, having waited no doubt for a worthwhile target. Frederick turned to watch in time to see the fourth fire and recoil across the artillery platform and crash through the low wall to the side. There was a drop of some thirty feet, sufficient to smash the carriage and dislodge the barrel. It would be several days before the barrels could be remounted, but it was probable that they would be undamaged and reusable – iron barrels were remarkably robust.
Marines appeared below the battery, stretching out for all they were worth. The slow match to the magazine had been lit.
Frederick wondered just how much powder there might be in such a store, at a distance of three hundred yards from the ship. Far enough, surely…
He clasped his hands behind his back and watched with cool interest as the red-coated figures drew nearer. How long a fuze would they set? Three hundred yards for men in heavy boots and carrying musket and packs – five minutes at the double? Marines spent so much of their lives in the confines of a ship, they could hardly be expected to march any distance, so give them extra time. A ten minute fuze would be sensible, and slow-match was within reason reliable, or so he had been told.
The first pair of broadside guns fired, loaded in just over two minutes. Not brilliant time for a ship tied up and on a level keel; he would have preferred no more than ninety seconds. If Acheron remained in commission over the winter then there would be some lengthy gunnery drills.
Well pointed though and very good for range; he must remember to commend their accuracy even as he slated their speed.
Campbell’s men had made good time, the first were appearing in the shelter of the last houses. It looked like the reserve company gathering, forty or so men, an officer at their head; one officer only and short a score of men, they had taken heavy losses. They formed up into lines and began their run across the open ground; none fell. The guns were doing their job, it seemed.
The Marines filed up the gangplank and looked around for orders.
“Below decks! Clear of the guns. Casualties to the Doctor.”
The galley fires would be out and it would not be possible to get them a hot drink, which was a pity. In the circumstances no doubt rum would be an acceptable substitute for cocoa.
“Mr Hirst, an issue to the Marines, please. Thin on the water and long on the spirits, if you would be so good. We can make arrangements afterwards.”
Another anker of rum destroyed in action – it was amazing how often it happened.
The musketry had died away – the Marines in retreat and the French unwilling to venture into the fire of the big guns. There was a distant explosion, muffled over the crest, a thin line of smoke curving high into the sky and falling among the houses nearly a hundred yards short of the quay, then a louder bang.
“Mortar fire?”
“Howitzer, sir. Much smaller than a mortar, but same sort of principle. Most batteries of field guns include a howitzer, sir.”
Hirst seemed disturbed.
“Saw them at Toulon, sir, in the last war. Drove the ships out of range in short order, sir. Explosive shells on deck soon set fires, sir. They will have a man hidden up on the top, sir, in the houses and flagging back corrections. The next one should be closer, sir.”
Major Campbell’s company came in sight, started their run. The second howitzer shell fell close to them, a dozen men going down. They ran on, dragging their wounded.
A third shell landed on the stone flags of the quay, stone fragments rattling across Acheron, seamen falling.
“Topmen aloft, Mr Hirst, and cast off as soon as the last Marine is aboard.”
The party from the battery arrived and made a run for the gangplank, getting under cover before the fourth shell landed in the water a few yards beyond Acheron’s side.
“They have a straddle, Mr Hirst.”
Campbell’s Marines started to board and the battery blew, the roar of several hundreds of pounds of powder almost deafening them. The blast followed the line of the hillside, fanning out into the town, roofs stripped of their slates, glass shattered, the nearer houses almost destroyed. The stonework of the battery slumped, the firing platform unusable.
“Highly effective, Mr Hirst. I am glad we were no nearer.”
Hirst pointed.
The tail of Major Campbell’s party had been in line with the blast, had been hard hit by flying rubble. Perhaps ten men were unhurt and were trying to rescue wounded.
“Mr Luscombe! Your men to their assistance, sir!”
The field artillery were silent; possibly the howitzer’s crew had been in range of the explosion.
Five minutes saw Acheron working out of the river mouth, tacking towards Blackbird and Robin. Pride of Lyme was at a distance, joining the three brigs under full sail.
“Course for Portsmouth, Mr Hirst. Plenty of sea-room, if you will, sir, that may be a nasty storm blowing up.”
Hirst glanced at the sky, was dismissive.
“Not a real Biscay blow in that, sir, and the clouds heading inland, besides. Reefed topsails is all, sir, though the brigs might feel it a little more.”
Frederick was put in his place, nodded meekly, left the sailing of the ship to the man whose job it really was.
“Mr Gentry, have you the butcher’s bill yet, sir?”
The bill was huge for so trivial an action.
Major Campbell was dead, head crushed by flying rubble, together with his lieutenant and ensign and one of his sergeants; only twenty-five of his men remained uninjured from an original company of more than seventy. The reserve company had lost thirty, left behind dead or too severely hurt to move and almost certain to die; two of them had been young officers. Another score of them were wounded; fewer than half would return to service in the general way. The battery company had taken one man wounded in the assault, and he no more than shaken by a glancing blow from a musket butt. They had heard nothing from the cove, assumed they had lost none of their people.
“Fifty known or supposed dead, sir. Almost as many wounded. The senior captain will make his report, sir, by the morning.”
“And of ours?”
“Mr Andrews and two of his party dead, sir. Four wounded and in the doctor’s care, including your coxswain. All from that one volley from the fishermen’s cottages. Besides that, a dozen men bruised by flying stones, sir.”
“Mr Doolan to act in Mr Andrews’ place. I cannot make him, not in Home Waters, but I shall ask the Port-Admiral to do so. The other master’s mate, Harman, is young yet, I think, might not even be of lawful age for a commission. Overseas that would not matter, but one must obey regulations when no more than a day out of Portsmouth.”
“I know that he is of seventeen years, sir. He is marking time, if you will, sir, waiting to be made on his birthday and then accept a commission in a ship of the line under
the eye of a family friend – of whom there are many.”
Frederick shrugged; he would not be made on Acheron.
“Let us look at the positives, Mr Gentry. What have we to show for our butcher’s bill, the other side of the accounting?”
“One shipyard; one coaster and two barges; all utterly destroyed with stocks of timber besides. Three warehouses full of military stores – rations and uniforms primarily - and four ships’ chandlers – burned to the ground, sir, razed by fire, with their entire inventories. One battery, four long coastal twenty-four pound guns, and its magazine, destroyed, sir.”
“It will cause an annoyance to the French, cost them some money, I would imagine.”
“Yes, sir. As well, sir, there is a squadron of cavalry well cut up and casualties to two at least of battalions of infantry. The Marines will detail them in their reports.”
Admiral Girton was very pleased, determinedly so – successes were thin in the winter months.
“Very good, Sir Frederick. I shall forward your reports with pleasure. A brigade of infantry, cavalry and artillery rendered unfit for service for some weeks. Their stores destroyed almost in their entirety. The battery that protected them obliterated. Massive damage done to a ship-building town, workmen killed, for certain, in the flattened cottages; the yard and its slips unusable. I have no doubt that our masters will be pleased with us.”
“The losses are not small, sir.”
“Fewer than one hundred, Sir Frederick! There is thought being given to the creation of Marine Battalions, specifically to make assaults such as this. Better than to put together ad hoc units made of Marines from a dozen different ships, such as we did for you. As for the Marine officers, lost, well… when all is said and done, they are a lesser breed, you know, Sir Frederick!”
“On another topic, sir, I find that Acheron is leaking at an alarming rate. It was used to be the case that pumping for thirty minutes of a watch would keep her dry, but this last twelve hours coming into Portsmouth saw men working the handles for nine of them.”
“Survey, do you think, Sir Frederick?”
The Odd-Job Man (The Duty and Destiny Series, Book 7) Page 11
