We came upon a lone French 74, crossed her stern to deliver a devastating Rake which brought down her mizen, came along her stabd. side at close range, & traded shot for nigh an hour before lashing to her & boarding. We’d never seen our gallant Capt. Charlton, usually the most phlegmatic of men, get so lively & excited! Despite the volume of musketry, which took my hat, and the Capt.’s hat and one of his epaulets, we boarded her, my brave gunners among the first to gain her gangway, cheering & shouting like Billy-Oh, which spurred my courage to be ever in front. Thank you and Grandfather for the pair of Pistols you gave me, which, along with a cutlass and my dirk, I put to good Practice. The carnage aboard was unbelievable. We cut our way to the quarterdeck before her Capt. called for Quarter, lowered her Colours, and she was ours!
“Good God, I’ve raised a real scraper!” Lewrie whooped with delight.
Hugh had gotten a scratch or two, though his ship had paid a steep price in killed and wounded. And, by dark that evening, the weather had gotten up, so fiercely that they had had to cut the tow, and had lost their prize. Theirs, and many of the already-damaged prizes, had been cast ashore on the Spanish rocks, reefs, and shoals.
And, there was the death of Admiral Lord Nelson, which Hugh had learned of hours later. The rumour was that the Nelson had been dressed in his finest, with all his foreign decorations, and some French Marines in one of the fighting tops had shot him down.
Hugh closed by reckoning that he had acquitted himself main-well in his first true action, if he did say so himself, and that Pegasus was off to Gibraltar to make repairs and re-victual, and that he would write more, later.
“Thank God,” Lewrie whispered, faintly smiling as he laid the letter aside. “He’s safe, he’s blooded, and he did do damned well … but Lord, what a way t’learn t’fight!”
Lewrie wondered if he’d even recognise Hugh the next time they met, whenever that might be. He’d seen him off by the King’s Stairs in Portsmouth as an active, lark-happy thirteen year old in 1803. Though only sixteen now, he sounded as adult as any “scaly fish” in his twenties! He’d crossed swords with men out to kill him, fired his pistols, stabbed with his dirk, and had slain men in furious, face-to-face battle! Sixteen or not, he was a man, now.
Lewrie turned to Lydia’s letter, and it was certainly not the plaintive expressions of longing that he had expected! It had been written and sent before news of Trafalgar had reached England, for she made no mention of it. No, her news was of her brother Percy’s wedding to Eudoxia Durschenko, at long last!
They’d planned to marry last summer, when Lewrie was still in the Bahamas, and he’d doubted they’d ever go through with it, but here it was, daft as it sounded.
Lydia had been enjoying late summer in the country at their estates near Reading and Henley-On-Thames, riding daily over their acreage (which consisted of miles and bloody miles of land), dining al fresco with childhood friends, relatives, and neighbours, when she’d gotten an invitation from Hawkinge in Kent, where Percy’s self-raised cavalry regiment was posted to guard against the threat of invasion by the French. Just before the annual London Season, when Parliament re-convened, she and several others had coached down in a gay train of equipages, lodging together each night at the same posting houses, and having a quick round of shopping in London to look their best, when the time came, and the trips each way had been the jolliest.
The church at Hawkinge, near Folkstone, had not been all that grand, but the officers of the regimental mess had decorated it and turned the “happy occasion” into a grand military affair. A troop of horse had escorted Eudoxia’s carriage to the churchyard, another troop had brought the groom. Trumpets had blown fanfares, the band had been boisterous, accompanied by some new-fangled tinkly bell-draped thing called a “Jingling Johnny”, and they had made an arch of swords as the newlyweds left the church, and the wedding breakfast had been held close by under canvas pavilions, all to the delight of the locals.
Eudoxia’s father, Arslan Artimovich, that vicious, sneering, eye-patched old bird, had turned out in new suitings, rather grandly, Lydia wrote, with no muttered curses in Russian, and no sign of his wicked daggers.
The old fart saved his curses for me, whenever he saw me and Eudoxia together, Lewrie told himself; He likes Percy’s horses too much t’curse him! Arslan Artimovich might still despise aristocracy, but Percy comes with too much “tin” attached.
Lydia wrote that the affair had become “soggier” and more exuberant than most weddings, and that Arslan Artimovich had gotten as drunk as only a Russian can, and had tried to teach the subalterns how to do a wild dance, which involved whirling about, turning Saint Catherine’s Wheels, and squatting with arms crossed and kicking legs straight out in turn, to the further delight of local witnesses, before the “happy couple” had coached off.
Despite her initial reservations, Lydia expressed that she had come to like Eudoxia, her outré past aside. Eudoxia had become a good influence on Percy and his penchant for gambling deep, finding her a level-headed, sensible, and clever young woman, and, with her sunny and amiably amusing disposition, she kept Percy distracted enough to submit to her wishes.
After that, Lydia had returned to London to stay at their house in Grosvenor Street for a few days, eschewing most of the public events where she would feel uncomfortable, but had attended some symphonies and new plays, done some shopping to see the new fashions, but expressed how relieved she would be to return to the country and take joy in the Autumn and the holidays to come. Percy, Eudoxia, and the regiment would march back to Reading and their permanent station once the winter weather precluded any attempt by Napoleon to cross the Channel, and be home for the harvest festivals and Christmas.
The rest of her letter expressed fondness, longing for his return, and concern for his safety so far away, at whatever it was that required him to be months away and thousands of miles off. Perhaps it might transpire, she wrote, that they could pick up where they had left off, and see what their relationship could be, in future?
“What a scandalous set we’d be!” Lewrie muttered to himself in wry humour. “Lydia and her un-warranted bad repute as a divorcé … Percy and his mad-cap ways, married to a foreigner who’d been a trick shooter, bareback rider, and actress with Dan Wigmore’s Peripatetic Extravaganza, her lion-tamer papa t’boot! Christ, scandalous little me would fit right in!”
There was a discreet rapping on the great-cabin door. Pettus went to see to it. “Master-At-Arms, sir,” he announced.
“Right, then,” Lewrie said with a groan. “Tell Mister Appleby I’m just retiring, and all the lights will be extinguished in five minutes … if he’ll give me that long, that is.”
“Aye, sir,” Pettus replied with a grin.
Lewrie put the letters away in his desk drawer, and rose to begin undressing, reminding himself to write replies, soonest, and one to Thom Charlton to congratulate him, too, once he was back aboard.
Once in his hanging bed-cot and under the covers, in the dark, Lewrie did feel a faint prickle of worry. As grand and adventurous as he and his officers anticipated their jaunt ashore would be, there was always the risk that he’d never get to write those letters.
He could drown if his boat was overset in the surf upon landing, for he, like many British tars, could not swim a stroke. He could put a foot wrong and meet up with all manner of venomous puff adders and mambas and cobras, rest under the wrong tree and be bitten by the slim green boomslang, be swarmed by scorpions in his sleep, and God only knew what-all. If the Dutch put up a fierce resistance, he could get his fool head shot off!
They don’t pay me half enough t’do what I do, he told himself; They really don’t.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Reliant’s Marines in the barges, and all the supplies in one of the slightly smaller cutters, were landed first. By the time the Navy complement had been put ashore on the crowded beach, it was half-past six in the morning. Blaauwberg Mountain cast the beach, the towering and widespr
ead piles of supplies, and the army encampment in shadow from the rising sun, and it was still pleasantly cool. The air was sour with the smells of burning wood in the many campfires, manure in the horse lines, and un-washed soldiery and their sweated wool coats.
Lewrie strode over the sand and shingle of the beach to higher ground, and the stubbly wild grasses and rock; careful where his boots landed, for there was a fair amount of manure right down to the back of the beach. He took a deep sniff, but it didn’t smell like the Africa he remembered!
“What a pot-mess our army’s made,” he commented to Lt. Simcock, who was amusing himself with his sheathed sword to flip a crab over and over, and herding it to prevent its escape.
“The horses and draught animals aren’t the worst of it, sir,” Simcock said with a faint smile. “They should’ve dug sinks for their own wastes, but it doesn’t smell like it. I have yet to see the waggon they promised us.”
“Well, keep a good guard over our stores ’til we do,” Lewrie told him. “Do soldiers think there’s un-guarded rum about, they’ll fight us for it. Ah, good morning, Mister Westcott! Have you ever seen the like?”
“Perhaps only at a Wapping hiring fair, sir,” Westcott replied. “It appears we’ve landed far South of the main beach, and the rest of the brigade.” He pointed North up the beach to where some large oared barges were struggling to fetch long and heavy siege guns ashore with one piece amidships of each. “Shouldn’t we be up there, sir?”
“Hmm … do you really wish to spend all day helpin’ ’em do that? Looks t’be warm work, to me,” Lewrie said, chuckling. “No, I’m more of a mind t’find ourselves a waggon, load up, and march inland with the regiments, or just a bit astern of ’em. Commodore Popham offered us as guards to the baggage train, and there’s sure t’be lots of ammunition and such close behind the leading regiments … more valuable than casks o’ salt-meat. Does that sound more palatable, sir?”
The army encampment’s sleepy breakfast came to an end with the blaring of bugle calls, the rumble of drummers playing the Long Roll, and the reedy shrieks of Highland bagpipes. In a twinkling, what had been somnolent dis-order turned to roaring chaos!
All of a sudden, the hundreds of tents were being struck and rolled up, mounts were being bridled and saddled, mules and horse teams were being harnessed, and thousands of soldiers rose to gather up their bedding, wash out their mess kits, stow bundles on the pack mules, and load waggons. Mules brayed in resistance, horses neighed and snorted, and got led to their places at the trot, raising great clouds of dry African dust that mingled with the steam and smoke as campfires and cookfires were doused.
Officers shouted orders to Sergeants, and those Sergeants bellowed sharp orders to Corporals and Privates, who raised their own voices to spur themselves along as they packed up. The bands of the various regiments began tuning up and were starting to play competing martial airs. The pipers and drummers of the Highland regiments seemed likely to win that contest. As to who could curse and scream invective the loudest, that was still un-decided!
“Here comes a waggon, sir!” Lt. Simcock pointed up the beach.
“Mister Rossyngton, see that’un? Go see if it’s empty, and seize it for us,” Lewrie ordered, and the Midshipman sprinted away. He back-pedalled near the right-side front wheel and got the waggoner to draw his team to a halt, conversed a bit, then dashed back.
“He says he doesn’t know what we’re talking about, sir, and he has orders to go forward and load up the officers’ personal goods from one of the infantry regiments, but he doesn’t yet know which. He was told to hitch up and wait for orders,” Rossyngton reported.
“Isn’t that just bloody typical,” Lewrie said, sneering and shaking his head. “It’s empty, then.”
“So far, sir, aye,” Rossyngton replied.
“Then it’s ours,” Lewrie snapped, and strode over to the waggon with his orders from Popham in his hand. “You, there! Yes, I mean you, Private! Stand fast!”
“Sir?” the soldier said with a gulp at the sight of some kind of officer tramping up at speed and bellowing at him.
Lewrie got to the right-hand wheel and laid hold of the box.
“I am Captain Sir Alan Lewrie of His Majesty’s Frigate Reliant. Part of the Naval Brigade?” Lewrie said with his stern face on.
Comes in handy, my damned knighthood! he told himself; If I can impress somebody with it when I need something!
“General Baird promised Commodore Popham that the parties off the various ships would each be supplied with a waggon and team, and I must get my stores loaded so we may go forward,” Lewrie spun on in a more conversational tone; he could save threats and roaring for a later time, if conversational did not suit! “Your waggon is empty … Private whom?”
“P-Private Dodd, sir,” the waggoner hesitantly said.
“Very good, Private Dodd, if you’ll be so good as to wheel over to yon pile of stores, my sailors and Marines can begin loading,” Lewrie said with a brief smile.
“But, Ah cain’t, sir!” the soldier wheedled. “Me Sergeant’ll have me back lashed open do Ah not wait here for orders, an’ he comes an’ tells me which regiment Ah’m t’go to! Ah cain’t let ye have it, sir.”
“So the brandy and wine, the silk sheets and silver tableware, of an officers’ mess is more important than ammunition, food, and rum? Tosh, Private Dodd!” Lewrie snapped. “The Dutch’re waitin’ up there, entrenched most-like, and there’s sure t’be a fight before the day’s out.” He jabbed his arm to point at the summit of the Blaauwberg. “I ask ye, will the officers of whichever regiment your sergeant had in mind need any of their luxuries before dark?”
“Ah jus’ cain’t, sir,” Dodd wavered, looking up to the summit then back down, miserably torn. “The lashin’d half kill me.”
“If General Baird promised us a waggon, then he must’ve had one to spare, Private Dodd,” Lewrie went on, trying reason. “If he does, then he surely has one extra for that regimental mess. Just a matter of whistling up the spare for them! Besides,” Lewrie cajoled, turning mellow and friendly—it might work!—“if your officers or your Sergeant try t’give ye any grief, they’ll have me t’contend with, and a Post-Captain in the Royal Navy outranks ’em by a long chalk! And, they’ll have t’find ye first, and you’ll be with my sailors and Marines, sharin’ our rations, and our rum. The Navy issues twice a day, ye know … half past eleven of the morning and another in the evening.”
“Eh, ya do, sir?” Dodd perked up at that prospect, but then as quickly slumped in dread and indecision. “Ah don’t know, sir. I’ve me orders, an’ all. Yet—!”
“Just wheel over yonder and we’ll begin loading,” Lewrie prompted. “There’s a good lad.”
“Well, sir … iff’n they’s waggons enough for your lot, and that regiment’s mess, Ah s’pose they’s no harm,” Dodd surrendered, at last. “You’ve a heavy load, sir?”
“Salt-meat casks, large cooking pots…,” Lewrie began to tick off.
“Best they go ’tween the axles, then, sir,” Dodd said. “That’d be easier on the team, with the road up the mountain steep-lookin’.”
He clucked to his horses, shook the reins, and got the waggon turning round to clatter and rattle over to the shore party.
“Huzzah!” Lt. Westcott shouted. “Heave it up, lads, and hoist it in!”
“You can really protect him from his officers’ wrath, sir?” Midshipman Rossyngton asked in a soft voice once the waggoner was out of ear shot.
“If I have t’convince the poor fellow t’volunteer as a sailor or Marine, sir!” Lewrie told him with a happy bark of laughter.
* * *
More bugle calls sounded as the waggon was loaded and the load roped down against shifting, then covered with a large scrap of spare canvas. The army encampment was packed up, and the soldiers were now donning coats, shakoes, hangers and cartridge boxes, bayonets and the cumbersome and heavy chest-strapped packs. At another series of calls, and more shouts and curses,
thousands of men in the infantry took their muskets from stands and scurried into ranks and files, forming columns four-abreast. Cavalrymen swung up into their saddles and chivvied their mounts into similar order. Artillerymen with the light field pieces assembled atop the limbers and caissons, or astride the lead horses in their teams. King’s Colours and regimental Colours were un-cased and allowed to stream in the light wind, just as the sun rose high enough to banish the dawn’s shadows and spread warm light over the now-assembled army, and polished cross-belt plates, regimental shako plates, and weapons glistened brightly.
“I had lead soldiers when I was a boy,” Lt. Westcott mused at the sight, “but the real thing is grander by far.”
“Mister Simcock,” Lewrie said, turning to the Marine officer. “You and your men somewhat resemble redcoats, so it might be best if you march ahead of the waggon, and Mister Westcott and our sailors bring up the rear. I’ll come with you, at the head of our column.”
“Pity we don’t have Colours of our own, sir,” Simcock said. “If we’d thought to bring a Harbour Jack or boat Jack? Ah, well.”
“Perhaps we can steal one from another ship’s shore party,” Lewrie suggested, laughing. “The same way we stole our waggon. Let’s get our little company movin’ forward, Mister Simcock. Up close to the head of the baggage train, like we really are guardin’ it.”
He looked down the short length of his column.
We haven’t got bugles, so—? he thought; Might we need to pilfer one o’ those, too? Well, there’s Mister Wheeler.
“Mister Wheeler?” Lewrie called to the Bosun’s Mate. “Do you have a call t’get this shambles movin’?”
“Ehm…,” Wheeler replied, scratching his head for a moment. “How about ‘Stations To Weigh’, sir?” he said, lifting his silver bosun’s call.
“Aye, that’ll do. Tootle away!” Lewrie agreed, laughing.
Hostile Shores Page 24
