Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  ‘It’s not really about numbers,’ Reynolds had assured him. ‘We will catch them by surprise.’

  When Williams suggested that Topaze’s early morning reconnaissance of the port may have put the enemy on their guard, the naval lieutenant was dismissive. ‘Oh, we are always cruising along these coasts and peering into harbours. It makes them nervous, I am sure, but is no sign that we are actually coming for them. No, my dear fellow, I only wish I was going with you,’ he had finished, eager to be about his duties. ‘Good luck!’

  The eight boats rowed on, the lines between them hanging limply because it was never intended for the leading boats to tow. A big moon began to rise, and at first its brightness seemed to dim the stars. Williams knew that it was an illusion. He could still see the silhouettes of the other boats clearly. Captain Hope was still standing in the prow of the pinnace, staring through his glass, and in the nearer boats he could recognise other faces – there was Jones of the marines, mouth open. Ahead and to the right Williams began to make out the masts of some of the vessels moored in the bay. It was hard to believe that the raiders were not clearly visible to even the drowsiest sentry on board ship or guarding the batteries. He tried not to imagine gun commanders blowing softly on the match held in their portfires, the rods which allowed them to fire off a cannon at arm’s length, avoiding the recoil savage enough to shatter flesh and bone. If the batteries opened now, then it would be at long range, but it was also a very long way for them to row back.

  The boats rowed on, the push of the river growing stronger, and he guessed the tide had turned. The moon climbed higher, its distorted reflection long on the smooth water, and the whole world became tinted with silver. Williams could hear the little noises of men shifting in their seats, adjusting equipment or trying to get comfortable, and all the while the steady sound of the oars.

  The familiar excitement was growing now, as was the equally familiar fear. Williams had seen shot and shell mutilate horribly, turning a healthy man in the blink of an eye into a tortured remnant, dying, or doomed to long years of helplessness and suffering. He dreaded the thought of losing his eyes, almost as much as losing his manhood. Suddenly an even more immediate fear of drowning seized him. There would be the thrum of a cannonball, the shattering of timbers as the gig was holed, and then the darkness of the cold water dragging down and down, lungs bursting as he tried not to breathe in.

  Waiting was always worse, and this slow progress towards danger was unnerving. On land, he would have duties to perform, and would know the men he commanded, which somehow made it easier to remain calm, for their esteem mattered to him. Most of the men in the boat were still strangers. It was tempting to whisper encouragement, but that would too easily sound nervous, and nervousness was contagious. The same was true of obsessive checking of his weapons. He knew that the pistol tucked in his sash was loaded, and that his sword was ready to slide free of the scabbard. Its blade, and that of the boarding axe resting on his lap, was honed to a wickedly sharp edge. The axe was short and heavy, and some sailors liked to call them tomahawks because they were much like the weapons used by the savage tribes of America. Its job was to cut rope and tackle as much as to fight, but he suspected it would be a brutal and effective weapon if the need came.

  ‘Prepare to cast off.’ The voice came low from ahead of them. They were getting close.

  ‘Cast off.’

  The first gun fired.

  5

  The flash came from the top of the headland, the crack of the shot following a little later, and Williams thought he saw a flicker of movement in the air some way behind them. He did not hear the ball tearing through the air, which meant that it was not close.

  There was an instant of hesitation, a collective drawing of breath. ‘Row! Row!’ Captain Hope’s voice was clear, but the spell was already broken and men bent their backs, pulling harder at the oars. The pinnace led the central division towards the vessels anchored in the bay. These were close now, especially a big shape which was most likely the schooner. Beyond them, the rightmost division split, some making for the battery, others the privateers. Captain Pringle kept on towards the harbour, but Treadwell shifted the tiller so that the gig veered towards the beach further to the left. Williams could see a white, almost glowing line where the surf washed against the shore, and above it the pale line of sand.

  A cannon flamed again, quickly followed by another. He heard the thrumming as one of the balls punched above their heads, but the shots were still going high and long. Perhaps it was hard for the gunners to see down from the hill, and the sea looked darker than it seemed to him.

  ‘Come on, put your backs into it,’ Treadwell said, keeping his voice steady. Men grunted as they pulled at the long oars, rowing faster, but keeping the practised rhythm.

  Another gun thundered, much louder than the others, and Williams turned to look ahead and saw two more flashes as the battery by the jetty joined in. Captain Hope had told them that each battery mounted three cannon and it was reassuring to see that his information was correct.

  A ball skimmed the wave, throwing up two spurts of foam fifty yards behind them before it vanished. The headland battery fired again.

  ‘Lively now! Keep going!’ Treadwell’s voice cracked for a moment. He was twenty-three, no longer a boy, and so dark was the hair on his chin that he looked permanently unshaven, but for a moment he sounded shrill. He coughed, clearing his throat. ‘Come on, lads!’ he called more evenly.

  Williams pointed. ‘Take us more to the left – I mean larboard.’ There was no sense in landing right under the battery. Treadwell either saw the sense or obeyed the tone through habit. As the boat turned the low waves rolled into it with greater force, but Williams scarcely noticed and his stomach did not complain. Fine spray washed over them and he tasted the salt on his lips.

  The jetty battery fired again, the noise even louder, and one of the guns rang as it went off, as if a bell chimed at the same instant. The balls ripped the air over their heads, and they felt the draught wash over them before plumes of water marked their strikes more than a hundred yards past them.

  ‘Why are they firing so wide?’ Williams asked Mr Prentice. The gunner cupped his hand to hear better. The headland battery fired again. ‘Why they all shooting so high?’ Williams asked.

  ‘Can’t see us properly, and don’t want to hit their own ships!’ Prentice shouted back.

  There were shouts now, more cannon and also the sharper reports of muskets. Williams looked to see flashes and movement around the outline of the schooner.

  ‘That’s the captain,’ Prentice yelled in the Welshman’s ear. Williams suspected that years with the guns had not helped the man’s hearing. A long, low rumble like distant thunder rolled over the bay. ‘That’ll be Topaze,’ the gunner shouted, attuned at least to that noise. ‘That’ll give the buggers something to think about!’

  The keel grated on sand as the gig ran ashore. Williams had not realised they were so close. He turned, pushing himself up, and saw that they were in the surf.

  ‘Follow me!’ he called, and sprang over the side, splashing into two feet of surprisingly cold water, and heading towards the sand. His legs felt sluggish as they fought their way through the weight of the water. The beach was a narrow strip of whitish sand, empty apart from themselves and three small fishing boats drawn up on to the land. Williams’ sword rattled as it rocked against his leg, and then the sound was drowned by the battery firing again. It was two hundred yards away, the shape clear against the sky. He could see an earthwork about six feet high, the rampart gently sloped and shaped like a half-circle. Another gun fired and its flame showed the deep-cut embrasure. The wall looked thick, intended to deflect or resist shot hurled at it from the sea and not face an opponent on land. Williams could not see whether there was a ditch in front of the rampart, but guessed that there was since it had surely provided most of the spoil for the wall. Even so, it did not look too difficult to climb.

  The offic
er led the party along the beach, keeping below the fort. There was no challenge. Every couple of minutes the three guns slammed shot out into the empty bay, but no one seemed to be watching them. Williams halted his men when they were fifty yards from the battery. Dobson and one of the marines knelt, muskets ready, watching the earthwork, while he divided the others into two groups. Treadwell, with the stolid gunner and the reliable Corporal Milne to back him up, would take the marines and work round to the left, looking for the entrance.

  ‘There must be one at the back. Even if it is closed off then a pound to a penny the rampart will be lower there,’ he explained. Midshipman Treadwell and the gunner simply nodded and did not question his right to give orders. ‘Once you find it, then go straight in.’

  At the same time Williams would take Dobson and five sailors and go over the walls, scrambling through an embrasure if it proved too difficult to climb elsewhere. If discovered then each party was to cheer, and that was the signal for the others to press their own attack as soon as they could. That was it, with a simplicity even the Navy might appreciate.

  ‘Good, now let’s let those gunners see their worst nightmare!’ He grinned. Treadwell smiled in response, but the other men’s faces showed nothing apart from the tautness of anticipation.

  He gave the other party a minute before he stood and gestured for his own men to come on. Williams had his pistol in his right hand and his axe in the left. Dobson had his musket, the long, slim bayonet already slotted around into place on the muzzle. Two of the sailors also had muskets, two pistols and the other man one of the short pikes designed for boarding actions. All had cutlasses in their belts.

  They walked forward. A big gun fired from the nearest embrasure, and for an instant the red light was almost as bright as day and the line of men cast long shadows behind them. His eyes adjusted slowly back to the night, but Williams was sure he could see something moving above the rampart.

  ‘Come on,’ he said, and jogged forward, boots crunching in the sand. Flecks of sand were stuck to his soaked trousers, and he hoped none had got into the lock of the pistol. There was definitely something there, a man kneeling on top of the rampart, and surely he must see them. The dark figure seemed to be waving his arms.

  ‘Charge, boys! Charge!’ Williams bellowed the order and then turned the shout into a yell of anger. He ran, flailing his axe with the left hand. The men were beside him, screaming out a challenge to the enemy. The man on the rampart fired, a sudden flash before the puff of smoke blotted him from view. There was a thin mist of dark, stinking smoke from the big guns drifting slowly towards them and they ran through it.

  Williams did not know whether anyone had been hit, but had heard no cry. He ran on, reached the ditch and jumped down. It was shallow, flat-bottomed, and not well maintained because there were grass and brambles growing in it. The man on the rampart was gone, so he must have dropped back inside, and Williams’ momentum took him up the sloping side of the main earthwork. The top was flat and four or five feet wide. One of the big guns fired and in a flash he saw the teams of seven or eight men toiling to serve each of the three big cannons. They were in uniforms which looked black, but most wore shakos and had epaulettes on their shoulders, which meant that they were regular gunners and no privateers. Men with bayonets glinting were coming towards him. A man just a few feet away stared up in horror, his ramrod thrust down into the barrel of a musket. Beside him another pulled the hammer back to cock his own firelock and raised it.

  Without thinking Williams straightened his right arm and fired his pistol, the flame so close that it touched the Frenchman’s face just as the ball punched a neat hole in his forehead and flung the soldier backwards. Men were rushing up on to the rampart either side of him, Dobson closest, and Williams leapt down, knocking the other soldier off his feet as both of them fell into the dust.

  ‘Shoot the buggers!’ Dobson’s voice was loud over the chaos. ‘Fire!’ The sergeant’s musket went off, and sailors on either side fired muskets or pistols. One of the Frenchmen charging towards them dropped forward, another cried out in pain and let his musket fall as he clutched at his shoulder.

  Williams rolled on top of the sentry on the ground, and then slammed the heavy pistol down on to the man’s head, feeling his nose break. Blood gushed over the Frenchman’s face, as Williams spun the pistol to reverse it and hit the man with the brass of the butt. The soldier went still. Men were leaping down and around them, but the French were still charging, and Williams saw the point of a bayonet jabbing at his face. He rolled sideways, turning on the ground near the man’s legs, and swung the axe to slice through the top of his boot. The soldier was screaming, and Williams jerked the axe head free and chopped at the man’s other leg, slicing deeply into the back of his knee. He pushed himself up as the man fell, shrieking.

  A sailor was down, clubbed by the butt of a French musket, but another of the tars chopped down, slicing across the soldier’s face and destroying one of his eyes. A third Sparrowhawk appeared, the man with the boarding pike, and he stood over his mate, jabbing with the spear and driving the enemy away. A sailor with gold earrings and tattoos all over his bare forearms was fighting wildly, his blows not connecting, but driving the enemy away. The gunners were leaving their pieces now to repel the attackers. Dobson twisted his bayonet free of the soldier’s stomach, letting the man slump down moaning, and then parried the cut of a short sword and stabbed the gunner in the throat. Williams was up, and sprang back as another gunner scythed a heavy trail-spike at him. The man was big, not wearing his jacket so that his white shirt was very bright in the darkness. His party were no longer cheering, each absorbed in the space a few feet around him, and the only sounds they made were grunts of effort or pain.

  Williams wanted to switch the axe to his stronger hand, but, for a big man with a heavy iron bar in his hands, the gunner moved quickly. He swung the pistol as a club, brushing the man’s arm, but with no real force, and the gunner managed to avoid the slice of the axe. The Frenchman raised the trail-spike, and Williams flung the heavy pistol into his face, forcing the man back a pace, and giving him time to shift the axe to his right hand. Another gunner came from his left, jabbing the butt-end of a carbine into the officer’s face, and Williams leaned out of the way, grabbed hold of the firelock with his left hand and then swung the axe into the soldier’s head. The blade sank in with a ghastly thunk, the resistance less than in a block of wood. It was stuck fast, and Williams hefted the dying soldier, pushing him hard into the big gunner.

  There were cheers from the edge of the battery, shouts of victory which snapped the will of the French to fight on. They stepped back from the fighting and the British came on after them. Gunners screamed as Dobson and the sailors stabbed and sliced at them. Half a dozen of them fell in as many instants, the man with the tattoos almost slicing a gunner’s head from his neck in a clumsy and brutal stroke of his cutlass. Midshipman Treadwell stared on appalled as the marines bayoneted as many more. Then the French were gone, jumping out of the embrasures and fleeing into the night, leaving behind a stillness that felt unreal and was broken only by the sad moans of the wounded.

  ‘Dobson, Milne!’ Williams called. ‘Two sentries on the entrance and another three on the walls. Make sure they keep a good watch.’

  The two NCOs went about the business.

  ‘Mr Prentice?’ Williams shouted for the benefit of the gunner. ‘How many men do you need to spike the guns?’

  ‘Two will be adequate, thank you, Lieutenant Williams. You, Dickinson, and you, McClean, come with me.’

  Williams looked around. The noise of the other battles all round the bay was growing again, or perhaps he was simply noticing it. There seemed to be fighting on several of the vessels. He looked out through one the embrasures, careful in case any enemies were watching, but no shots came from the night. Just to the left of the last gun position was the wide mouth of the harbour and the sea wall and jetty beyond that. Shots flashed out from on board the nea
rest of the craft moored there, and there were shouts and the clash of steel on steel. With an effort he put his foot on the corpse and worked the boarding axe free.

  ‘The captain will handle them all right,’ Treadwell said, appearing beside him. The midshipman was still struggling for breath, and paled when he saw what Williams was doing. ‘Hot work,’ he gasped.

  Williams finished and straightened up, looking back into the battery. The remaining sailors and marines had carefully lifted the wounded French. The tar who had been knocked down had a growing bruise, but seemed otherwise unscathed. He did a quick headcount, did not believe the result, and so went through it again.

  ‘Truly remarkable,’ he said at last, unable to resist the evidence of his eyes. ‘We have no one badly hurt.’ He looked out again. The sound of fighting coming from the craft moored alongside the jetty was slackening. Out in the bay, there was movement up in the shrouds of several ships. Then a jet of flame erupted from the top of the headland, a big explosion that could only be the powder magazine of the battery up there.

  ‘Bravo,’ Treadwell said, tiredness gone in his enthusiasm for destruction.

  ‘Waste of good powder,’ Prentice declared with clear disapproval, having come up behind them. ‘Old Jonas, the gunner on Topaze, never can resist making a din.’ Behind him one sailor drove a long nail down the touch-hole of the cannon, hitting it again and again until it would go no further. Then he hit it from the side bending the nail, before his mate sawed quickly through the weakened metal. ‘All done, sir,’ the gunner reported.

  ‘Excellent, Mr Prentice,’ Williams said. ‘Now, I believe we can be going. Mr Treadwell, if you would be so good …’