The Admirals' Game

by David Donachie

  It was only when the sights and sounds of the battle moved on to the east that he took any notice, and that gave him cause to wonder what was happening. While not privy to every detail of O’Hara’s plan he knew it did not include a pursuit, in itself a dangerous ploy against a superior force and positively deadly in darkness.

  ‘Any sign of that fellow I sent to look for Mr Burns?’

  ‘Not a peep, your honour,’ a voice replied, ‘but there be someone else a’coming.’

  Moving to the forward breastwork Ralph Barclay saw the man was right, but the sight surprised him. The red coats of General O’Hara and his staff picked up every flicker of light, and soon the ruddy face was close enough to see it was one of a man in a thundering bad mood.

  ‘What in the name of creation is Dundas about?’ O’Hara yelled, which was pretty useless given that Ralph Barclay had no idea. Within a second he had been helped over the ramparts and had rushed to the back of the gun position, aiming a telescope into what was mostly Stygian gloom. ‘I distinctly said no pursuit, damn him. Destroy the guns and hold the positions till we could make a decision at dawn about defending them.’

  ‘Might I suggest, sir,’ said Major Lipton, ‘that you remain here and that we, your aides and I, go forward to see if we can find out what is going on?’

  ‘I can see what is going on now, Lipton,’ O’Hara snarled. ‘Dundas has lost control of the men under his command.’

  ‘We need to be sure, sir.’

  ‘The only way to be sure is for me to go forward myself.’

  Before Lipton could object, which he plainly intended to do, O’Hara was off, leaving the major no choice but to scurry after him, those young aides at his heels.

  ‘Bullocks,’ Ralph Barclay spat, as the soldiers disappeared into the gloom, ‘never met one who knew his job.’

  They went to work with levers to get the guns up to the earthworks, not easy on bare, soft earth which had suffered from heavy rain. Then Devenow stood up, cocking an ear. Holding that position for several seconds, he eventually spoke to the captain who was about to berate him. ‘Is it me, your honour, or is that there gunfire getting louder?’

  That concentrated his captain’s mind and Ralph Barclay became still, likewise turning an ear to listen. It was imperceptible but very apparent; the crack of musketry, which had faded as the allied troops moved forward, was not diminishing now, it was getting increasingly noisy. Peering through the darkness, Ralph Barclay watched the flashes from the muzzles, and it was telling that he could see too many and too much. Those of his fellow countrymen and allies should be pan flashes and faint from being aimed away from where he stood. But the numerous flickers he now saw were from muzzles pointing in his direction. The French appeared to be counter-attacking.

  Land battle was not Ralph Barclay’s natural forte, but he was well enough informed to know that the overriding attribute was a kind of fog which settled over the contested locale and confined each area of action to that which was immediately visible. It was like fighting on the lower decks of a ship, which only allowed you to see that right in front of your nose. He could be wrong about a counter-attack and even if he was not it might be contained. The task Burns had been set was to disable the French guns; outside that there was nothing for him to do. Could Ralph Barclay justify to himself doing something else?

  ‘Devenow, get back on those levers and turn those guns round. I want them facing the backs of our troops.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  By some method unknown to his superior, Devenow had exerted control of Toby Burns’s men – he probably threatened to belt a couple. That mattered not, what was important was that he was obeyed as he called for help. Levers were stuck under the still intact trunnions and the cannon were slowly but surely turned a bit at a time until they were facing out of the rear of the position. By the time they had achieved that there could be no doubt about what was happening: the allied troops were falling back!

  ‘Find anything you can, Devenow, balls included, and jam it down the muzzles.’

  ‘And still treble charges, your honour…’

  ‘We may need to slow up the enemy, but at the same time we must somehow destroy these cannon. Get some men to rig extra long lanyards on the flints. If need be I want to be able to fire them off when we are behind cover.’

  The first retreating troops were Spaniards, very obvious in their green uniforms and white bandolier straps, and they hesitated at the sight of Ralph Barclay yelling and waving his sword, but he could not stop them. Knowing they could not get past him they went round the redoubt in a wide circle, running all the while until their forms disappeared into the darkness. More followed, and as they did so the level of musketry aimed at their backs grew steadily, the powder flashes assuming a near-regular pattern which underlined that whoever was leading the counter-attack was doing so in a disciplined manner, and all the while ghostly shapes were slipping by their position making for their own lines and safety.

  General O’Hara did not slip by, he staggered, gasping for breath, into the rear of the position, needing Ralph Barclay to step forward and support him. Only when he grabbed his arm and the general yelled in pain did he realise the man was wounded, that the arm he had tried to take was not uniform scarlet but of a much darker, blood-red hue.

  ‘Devenow, help me.’

  ‘Lost the initiative,’ O’Hara wheezed, his breath being inhaled in great gulps. ‘Won’t hold this position, Captain. Spike the guns and get out of here.’

  ‘Get him to the other side of that breastwork, Devenow, and make sure he is comfortable.’

  The sailor lifted O’Hara with no difficulty, though not without causing him to gasp in pain, and then he eased himself and his charge over the rampart. There, he laid the general down, his head against a sandbag.

  ‘Now you just set there an’ take it easy, your honour, and we’ll be right back.’

  ‘Spike those guns.’

  Devenow just tapped his good shoulder and went back to where Ralph Barclay stood, staring into the night, trying to work out the range between the cannon and those rapidly approaching muzzle and pan flashes. There were still a few pointing away from him, but they were useless against the dozens aimed in his direction, and in no time the balls they discharged were whistling, thudding into the sandbags by which he stood.

  ‘Time to fetch them a surprise, Devenow.’

  ‘Ready when you are, your honour.’

  ‘Get the men with the lanyards behind cover and join them.’

  ‘Best I wait for you, sir.’

  There was no rancour in Barclay’s voice as he said, ‘Do as I tell you, for I will join you presently.’

  ‘Aye, aye, capt’n.’

  Looking around the cannon before him, ignoring what shot was coming his way, he reckoned all was ready, and he took in his hand one of the torches that had illuminated the ground in front of the position. The men he had put to the powder had laid a trail for him to ignite, and he was pondering how to get the powder barrels to blow when the French were close enough to suffer by it, when the musket ball took him, shattering his left elbow.

  Ralph Barclay spun away, feeling no pain but a deep degree of shock, the torch dropping from his other hand as he hunched over. But his mind was still alive to his duty and he screamed for Devenow, grateful that Brilliant’s bully boy was with him in a second.

  ‘Light the powder, Devenow,’ Barclay hissed through clenched teeth. ‘Then get us over that damned earthwork and fire the cannon. You give the order.’

  Devenow never let go of his captain as he complied, watching for only a second as the powder took the flame and the line of sparking fire fizzed away towards the stacked powder casks. Helping Ralph Barclay over the rampart was not easy – he declined to be lifted, but as soon as their heads were below the parapet the sailor gave the command to pull on the extended lanyards.

  They could not see, but the flints produced proper sparks. So deafening was the sound, it seemed that po
wder and cannon went off together. Two of the men from Britannia nearly perished as one of the recoiling guns, bereft of restraining tackles and blown back by the blast, rammed itself, trunnions and all, back into the breastwork and demolished it, they managing to jump clear just in the nick of time. The air was full of sound and fury, bits of metal and wood, sand and earth, though there was no sight of any bodies. The only human shapes to be seen, once the dust had settled, were the sailors who made up his party, running as fast as their legs would carry them back towards Toulon. Ralph Barclay yelled, but it was too feeble to stop their flight.

  ‘The general, Devenow, look to General O’Hara.’

  Glancing back to where O’Hara lay, his eyes closed and his arm limp, and then looking at his captain bent over an elbow that was now obviously giving him excruciating pain, Devenow knew where, for him, his duty lay.

  ‘General’s not here, your honour,’ he whispered. ‘Must have made off.’

  Ralph Barclay nodded without looking up, and Devenow helped him to his feet, getting him upright just as he passed out. Dropping his shoulder he let his captain fall on to it, then, standing up, he began to trot after the other sailors, Ralph Barclay over his shoulder.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Ralph Barclay was still unconscious when Devenow carried him into the hospital, stepping, as he did so, over the numerous casualties laying in the corridor from the earlier part of the assault, men moaning with wounds trivial, or so serious they would not survive the night, the light of the dozens of oil lamps helping to create a scene from hell. He found Emily Barclay, her mob cap and apron heavily stained with blood, her face covered in a slight sheen of sweat, bandaging the chest of a man who looked to have had a musket ball removed. She did not become aware of him standing there for some time, so fixated was she on what she was about, but eventually she did look up to see the dangling legs in what had been white stocking breeches, over the shoulder of a fellow whose face was hidden by the upper part of the body.

  ‘There is no priority for officers. Go back to the corridor and wait your turn.’

  The turn Devenow took was just enough to show his face, so blackened by the night’s exertions that for a moment Emily did not recognise him, though that was short lived as the grating voice provided the clue.

  ‘A special case, Mrs Barclay, I would say.’ She was about to protest there was no such thing, when he added, ‘I don’t know none more deserving of that than your own wedded husband.’

  The work on the wounded lasted all night, and still they were coming in, this time those who needed to be stretchered, so it was near to midday before Emily could pay a visit to the bed in which her husband lay, which had been Lutyens’s place of rest and then her own. He was asleep, or in a state of deep unconsciousness, it mattered not. His eyes were closed and his face peaceful. Lutyens had operated as quickly as he could but the arm could not be saved, and the stump, with the ligature in place to alert for corruption hanging from the end, lay in its bandages above the coverlet under which he rested.

  Gently she touched his face, so peaceful in repose, so unlike the last furious glare it had held in her presence, and tears pricked her eyes as she saw him as he had been at their wedding: full of joy, even surprise when she consented with the words, ‘I do’. That was gone now, never to return, but he was and would be for some time an invalid. He would have to be cared for and it fell to her to be his nurse, a duty she could not pass to another. If society would not forgive her readily for her separation from him it would treat her with contempt if she deserted him now.

  ‘Is he going to be all right, ma’am?’

  Devenow’s bulk filled the doorway, and for all his well-deserved reputation for being an oppressor of his fellow man, his face looked very different now: concerned, as a parent might be for a sick child.

  ‘I cannot tell you, Devenow. All I can say is that we must wait and see what develops.’

  ‘Seein’ you hard by will help him mend.’

  ‘Are you so sure of that?’

  ‘Never been more certain, ma’am.’

  Toby Burns reappeared aboard HMS Britannia with his head swabbed in a thick blood-stained and untidy bandage, though he had managed to ram his hat on to contain it, reporting to the premier to tell how he had fallen in the dark and hit his head so severely he passed out. Given the mood on the ship was gloomy – everyone knew the attack had not gone well and a number of the flagship’s marines were known to be dead, others badly wounded – the first lieutenant had other things on his mind.

  ‘I was so busy encouraging the men to go forward—’

  The premier interrupted. ‘I have been told that a post captain was doing likewise.’

  ‘My uncle, sir, Ralph Barclay, who was kind enough to offer me his assistance.’

  ‘No doubt, Burns, he thought as I did, that you were a trifle wet behind the ears for such a duty.’ Suddenly recollecting from where the orders to send this midshipman ashore had emanated, the lieutenant recovered himself. ‘Mind, I am sure you were up to it, otherwise the admiral would not have recommended you.’

  ‘He did say he would provide me with opportunities to distinguish myself.’

  His superior was looking at him, obviously wondering why. Toby Burns knew: the supposed reward, which he would most happily have forgone, was presented to him after he had sat with Sir William Hotham and his secretary, listing what he knew of the true story of the night John Pearce had been pressed, and giving as full an account of the lies he had told on behalf of his uncle.

  ‘It is as well the guns were destroyed without spiking.’

  ‘I feel very keenly my failure there, sir.’

  ‘Are you fit for duty, boy?’

  ‘I think I am, sir.’

  ‘Best run along to the surgeon and get him to have a look at your wound. Let him decide.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Toby Burns left the wardroom and made his way back to the midshipman’s berth. There was a scrap of mirror there and he examined his reflection to see how his bandage looked. It had been damned hard to wind it on himself, the blood more easy to come by with so many wounded staggering back to the allied lines. It would stay on his head for as long as he could manage and he would look to replace it with something clean. No surgeon would be permitted a look at his head to observe there was no wound, and when asked, as he was bound to be, about how it had come about, well, he would tell his mess mates, in sorrow, how mortified he was to have missed his proper part in the battle.

  The attack had been a fiasco, starting well but descending into chaos as Dundas lost control of his troops. The retreating, indeed routed French gunners, had tempted them into pursuit. Someone, and it was suspected it would be the new general in charge, had rallied a defence, then brought forward enough men to halt the attack and then send the allied assault tumbling back to their start lines. General O’Hara had been captured, though the French had obliged by sending a note over to say he was wounded but well, proving that, even in a revolutionary rabble, some standards of military courtesy remained.

  ‘O’Hara was not supposed to be anywhere near the action, sir,’ Hyde Parker said to a melancholy Hood. ‘He has only himself to blame.’

  The last word stirred Hood, who knew very well where blame would lie. The table before the commanding admiral was laden with after-action reports, none of which made pleasant reading: casualties were high, but it was the effect on the morale of the remaining troops which featured most in his thoughts. He had sanctioned the action on the very clear instruction of the limited nature of what could be destroyed, taken and held, and that directive had been ignored. The notion had been to bloody the nose of the enemy and make them careful in their progress; to gain time. The result would be exactly the opposite.

  ‘Best call a conference of the commanders, Parker.’ He then waved his hand over the reports. ‘We need to fully review our position in light of this.’

  ‘To include Admiral Hotham, sir?’

&nb
sp; The eyes blazed for a second and the grey eyebrows twitched, but the look of defiance that went with it was brief and it was an angry admiral who hissed, ‘Oh yes, let the bugger come and gloat.’

  ‘The failure is not yours, sir,’ Parker insisted. ‘It is the fault of the soldiers.’

  ‘God forbid that one day, Parker, you find yourself in command of a combined operation. For if you do, you will discover that whoever fails, the blame will be laid squarely at your door.’

  Routine has a habit of asserting itself over all other concerns, and sailing north through the Tyrrhenian Sea, with the faint outline of Sicily on the starboard quarter, John Pearce’s thoughts of the plight of Ben Walker eased somewhat. The man was not forgotten, but he moved from the front of his concern to that area of speculation about what might be done in an unforeseeable future. Pearce had also begun to see how he had suffered from a rush of blood to the head, and also to appreciate what Henry Digby had saved him from; and not only him.

  The idea of a swift rescue had been madness, and he was uncomfortably aware that he was becoming a victim of his own hubris. Everything he had so far attempted in this naval interlude, barring getting his Pelicans free, had been a success, so much so that he could not even consider the notion, and more tellingly the consequences, of failure. He was watching the crew airing the sails when Digby came on deck, the lifting of hats and the stiffening of bodies alerting him to the captain’s presence, and he turned to raise his own. Digby looked at him in a deliberate way, seeking some sign – for he had been wary of too close an approach – and Pearce was happy to oblige. Time for an olive branch!