‘Sir! Mr Tarver! It won’t do, sir. It just won’t do!’ An officer of the Swiss stood in front of him, broad face puckered into a frown. ‘My men must stop for the night. What would we do if the French should attack? They would be too tired to fight!’
‘Pretend you’re British,’ Jack advised, ‘and fight anyway, despite your tiredness. The guns must get through!’ But the Swiss officers withdrew their soldiers and Jack was left with only the artillerymen.
‘We rest until midnight,’ Charleton decided. ‘And then we continue.’
Jack nodded, aware that his strength was ebbing and his legs were shaking with fatigue. Rolling under an ammunition caisson, he closed his eyes and dreamed of Swiss soldiers slicing shrubs and sorting shingle, but always there was a dark shadow behind the workers, with a rebellious curl of brown hair as she turned her back on him and walked away with a handsome man in a naval uniform. And still he hugged his telescope close and did not care that his eyes were moist, even though Wolvington men never showed emotion.
‘Bethany!’ He woke with a start, but it was a stocky corporal of artillery who proffered the mug of rum and coffee and handed him the ammunition loaf.
‘Sorry sir, but Lieutenant Charleton says you’re to drink this and join us whenever you can, if you still want to, sir. The French are a-coming to meet us, 8,000 veterans out of hell, so they say, with horse and foot and eagles, and some sort of regimental band.’
‘Eight thousand! And how many do we have?’ The loaf was so hard it could have broken his teeth. Jack dunked it in the coffee and allowed it to soften. Bethany would have teased him over that because no gentleman would give in to a biscuit.
‘About half that, sir, and some are foreign and of no account, and the Highlanders are only babes in arms, sir, so we’d better be off, Lieutenant Charleton said. Sir.’
So they were off. Jack raised himself to his feet, stuffed the barely softened bread into his mouth, washed it down with bitter coffee and continued working his road. It was still full dark, with a pricking of stars high in the sky and the eerie hush broken by the sound of insects and the peculiar grunts of near invisible men working to crash a convoy of cannon across Calabria.
The torches attracted moths and other flying insects, the ground was scented with sweat and flowers, the air soured by curses and groans of pain, but they thrust on slowly, inexorably, defiantly. With no labourers to make the road, the artillerymen used twice the effort, resorting to pure brawn and determination, swearing on the horses, pushing at the wheels of carts and caissons, falling, rising, sweating, bleeding, working, working, working. The world was all work and effort, but that was just normal life for most British soldiers, and nobody cared about their complaints, least of all Jack Tarver.
They pushed on, upwards and onwards, towards the oncoming French army, and the dark welcomed them with humid heat and fear of the morrow.
‘Keep going, lads,’ Jack urged, grunting at the wheel of a gun, and the artillerymen glared at him with mingled hatred and respect.
‘Nearly there,’ Jack said as he hauled at the harness of a recalcitrant horse, and the driver wielded his whip with more spite.
‘We’ll beat the bastards this time,’ Jack said as he staggered in front, and the men muttered bitter curses but kept on, ignoring the sweat and the agony.
It took them until dawn on 4 July to cover a hard ten miles and then Jack began to realise they were not alone.
There were voices through the morning mist, the slow tramp of marching men, murmurs of disjointed conversation and the whiff of pipe smoke, the jingle of bridles and creak of equipment. There was also a curious swish that he could not place but which sounded ominous through the ebbing dark.
‘What’s that sound?’
‘The Highlanders’ kilts,’ Charleton told him.
‘What’s happening?’
‘The British army is happening.’
Jack looked around. They had crested a small ridge above a plain that stretched as far as the breaking dawn. The sounds and smells of thousands of men multiplied into a constant background murmur, like a beehive from twenty paces, always there but hard to pinpoint.
‘This is as good a position as any. Stop here!’ Charleton’s breathing was as harsh as a steam boiler and sweat was gouging streaks down his filthy face. ‘We’ve arrived.’
‘Where?’ Jack collapsed to his knees. He had been concentrating so much on the journey that he had not bothered about the destination. ‘Where have we arrived? Where are we?’
‘The Amato River,’ Charleton said. ‘On the plain of Maida.’
The names sounded flat, like an ancient curse. All Jack’s previous dreams about witnessing history or helping Great Britain achieve a victory over the French were gone. He no longer cared about anything save the agony in his muscles and the hammering of his heart. And Bethany, who had abandoned him for a sailor: that particular pain overwhelmed all the others. He knew that there was to be a battle, but he no longer cared. Without Bethany, there was no life. Without Bethany, death was no enemy and a French musket ball would only end unbearable pain.
Jack shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. He had not considered suicide since his worst days at Wolvington, and it had been Bethany who had pulled him through then. He must not allow himself to enter that terrible tunnel of despair. He must concentrate on the present, retain his sanity and help General Stuart win his battle with the French.
Bethany would have understood, had she been there.
Bethany would understand.
Bethany.
After years of sea battles and long-range warfare through various allies, at last the British army was squaring up to the French. Sir John Stuart had brought his few thousand redcoats to Calabria to face Bonaparte’s surging hordes, and General Regnier had been happy to march to meet him halfway.
‘Are you all right, Mr Tarver?’ Charleton asked, sounding concerned. ‘You looked quite flaky there for a moment.’
Jack forced a smile. ‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘Just a bit tired.’
‘Aye, roll onto the ground for a while, then,’ Charleton advised. ‘Grab some sleep until the ball opens.’
Jack shook his head. He knew if he closed his eyes Bethany’s face would haunt him. He looked outward towards the Plain of Maida.
As the light increased, the British formation became clear. They were on the broad of the plain, which a rising sun revealed as a valley extending the entire width of the Calabrian peninsula, at that moment hazed by morning mist. There were hills on either side, some covered in tangled forestry, others steep and ugly, with golden fields on the lower slopes. While the British formed up on the plain, the French occupied a ridge that intruded into the valley, above and to the south of the Amato River. Woodland protected the French flanks and they had superiority in infantry and horse.
‘They don’t have superiority in artillery, though,’ Charleton murmured, as he put down his telescope, with which he had been studying the French positions. ‘Thanks to you, Mr Tarver.’
Jack grunted. ‘I did nothing. Your men and the Switzers did the hard work.’
Looking at him, Charleton nodded but said nothing.
About four miles of plain separated the armies, with a mixture of bare land and cornfields, in which peasants worked to gather their harvest. Wandering around the plain were herds of grazing buffalo, which completely ignored the forming armies. With Bethany’s telescope, Jack could easily see the dark blur of the French uniforms against the brown and green of the hill.
‘We’re moving again,’ Charleton said wearily, as the British, keeping the Amato River on their right and formed into two long red lines, began to march forward, white trousers and dark kilts barely visible in the low-lying mist. ‘We’re going to the attack.’ He shook his head. ‘I hope Stuart knows what he’s doing.’
‘But they are in a strong defensive position and they already outnumber us.’ The reality of the coming battle hit Jack. ‘Is it advisable to attack
in such a situation?’ He remembered the reputation of the French troops. Since 1793, the French army had defeated every Continental force that had opposed it and had nearly contemptuously repelled every European venture of the British army.
Charlton sighed. ‘It is probably not advisable, but there are another 3,000 Frenchmen under General Compère marching to reinforce Regnier. If the two forces combine, they will far outnumber us, so we have to attack now.’ He raised a weary eyebrow. ‘Just thank God for the artillery.’ Lighting a long pipe, he leaned against the muddy wheel of his nearest gun and tapped the barrel. ‘Queen of the battlefield, these beauties, but now we’ll probably have to move forward again.’
Jack grunted. He was exhausted, his muscles ached and the loss of Bethany was tearing him apart. ‘Let’s do so, then.’ He lifted his head. He could hear, carried by a fragrant breeze, the sound of music from the French camp. ‘What’s happening?’
Charleton extended his telescope. ‘The devil! Regnier is moving! He’s leaving his position and coming to attack us!’
‘Attack us?’ Jack knew little about military tactics, but he did know that an army should not give up a strong defensive position unless they have to; General Regnier had only to sit tight and the British would come to him. It took him a few moments to focus his telescope, but when he did so he whistled in surprise. Rather than wait on top of the ridge for Stuart to attack, General Regnier had formed his men in columns and was snaking down to the plain. Three lines of Frenchmen were winding through the woods, their blue jackets and white trousers plain against the green, while one battalion wore a dark red, similar to British infantry.
‘That’s a sure sign of the disdain in which the French hold us,’ Charleton said softly. ‘He thinks he’ll brush us away, as if we were Neapolitans.’ He lowered his voice even further, as if the French, still some miles away across the morning plain, could hear him. ‘If he does, then what remains of the Third Coalition will disappear like leaves in an autumn gale and all Europe will view the British army with as much contempt as we regard the French navy.’ He shook his head, watching as the French coiled down the distant slope. ‘We will be chased from the toe of Italy, maybe even from Sicily too, and then the French will take over. French privateers will swarm from every port in Sicily, and our position in Malta might not be tenable.’
Jack glanced at the nearest British regiment. They were lounging, cracking jokes and somebody began to sing. He listened, hoping for a rousing song of war, but instead the words of ‘Tom Bowling’ eased over the plain:
His heart was kind and soft
Faithful below, he did his duty,
And now he’s gone aloft.
Sickly sentimental, the words were not calculated to stir martial pride, but then another song began:
I don’t want the sergeant’s shilling
I don’t want to be shot down
I’m really much more willing
To make myself a killing
Living off the pickings of the Ladies of the Town.
Sir Alexander’s words returned to Jack. Why can’t we use our own army, he’d asked, Because it’s a broken reed, I’m afraid. The British needed a victory, but the soldiers appeared to lack any martial valour, and the French had no fear of Sir John Stuart’s men. He watched the French advance, the infantry in the centre, the cavalry on both flanks, and a couple of artillery pieces in the centre. What else had Sir Alexander said? If Britain did not get a decisive European victory soon, she would have to expend more of her revenue to buy more Continental armies. But the revenue was already stretched and there were few Continental armies left to hire; there were only these few thousand redcoats singing defeatist songs and nursing a history of disaster. If they lost again, there would be at worst annihilation, at best an ignominious retreat to the beachhead and a mad scramble for the waiting ships. He swallowed hard and waited for the French.
Chapter Twelve
Facing the French
The singing died away as the British advanced in three separate formations. On the right was a light battalion composed of the best of the regulars. In the centre was a brigade made up of the Loyals, the 81st Foot, and the kilted and frighteningly youthful 78th Highlanders. On the left was a third brigade of Grenadiers and the Inniskillings, the 27th Foot, who had proved so helpful in searching for Bethany in Valletta. The final brigade of Swiss and the 58th Foot remained in reserve.
Despite their poor reputation, the British looked impressive marching forward, with the thin skirl of the pipes raising the small hairs on the back of Jack’s neck, but he knew they were mostly untried and they were advancing against the best veteran soldiers in the world.
With the sun dissipating the last of the mist, Jack in his elevated position could see the whole battlefield. The French marched in dense columns, fording the Amato in a flurry of spray and shining droplets of water and tramping on, white trousers moving remorselessly to victory as they had on a hundred battlefields across Europe. These were the men who had defeated the Austrians and Prussians, the Neapolitans and Russians, and they had all the confidence of sustained victory. Reaching the open ground to the north, they opened up into lines that matched those of the British, swaggering forward behind the skirmishers as their music combated the high pipes of the glens. Sunlight reflected on the steel breastplates, helmets and swords of the hundreds of Chasseurs in the centre, while the French infantry had already fixed its wickedly long bayonets.
‘Here we go,’ Charleton said quietly. ‘And may God save us all.’ He gave more orders and his battery mounted up and moved forward, lumbering down from the ridge and onto the easier ground of the plain. With nowhere else to go, Jack remained with the guns, hoping that Bethany was safe but glad she was not here to witness the slaughter to come. He felt sick and weak and light-headed, as the remnants of fever continued to burn in his blood, but strangely he did not feel afraid.
The worst had already happened: he had lost Bethany. Death would not be unwelcome.
At half-past eight, the sun was already oppressive, bearing down on Jack, as it glinted from buttons and accoutrements and musket barrels, but the Calabrian peasants seemed unconcerned, as they continued to work in their fields, oblivious to the two foreign armies that marched on each other. The pretty colours of war flowed across the brown-green fields of the Italian toe, its horror sugared by music and shielded by ideas of glory. Jack shook his head in a vain attempt to clear it and held on to the nearest artillery caisson for support, as his knees temporarily gave way.
‘Don’t you fret, Mr Tarver,’ said a young gunner, grinning gap-toothed to him. ‘We won’t let Boney get you. We’ll catch the devil and –’ taking hold of a ramrod, he demonstrated vividly what he intended to do, while his mates laughed crudely. Clearly, they either had not heard of Bonaparte’s invincibility or they did not believe the stories.
Both armies continued to march, but Charlton had been watching the ground ahead and he eased to a halt. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘This is will do.’ Unlimbering the guns, he placed them on a very slight eminence and gave orders for them to load. ‘We’ll be firing soon,’ he said, ‘and we could hardly ask for a better target.’ He pointed forward, where small puffs of smoke appeared from the centre of the French lines. ‘The Frenchies are inviting us to dance,’ he said. ‘But do they really think they can cause damage at a thousand yards? Boney was an artilleryman, so they say. Let’s see how well he’s trained his gunners.’
Jack tensed, expecting an immediate onslaught from cannon balls, but Charleton smiled and pointed behind him. ‘That’s poor shooting,’ he said, ‘over our first line and short of the second. Let’s hope we can do better than that.’ His smile broadened into a grin as he indicated the herds of buffalo that began to stampede between the two advancing armies. ‘The French have only managed to scare the cattle!’
‘Lieutenant Charleton!’ shouted a messenger, who looked about seventeen, with a sun-reddened face and a slim boyish body. ‘General Stuart’s complim
ents, sir, and you’re to open fire as soon as you like. General Stuart says that you’re to pick your own target.’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ Charleton said, spitting on his hands. ‘Right, my lads. Let’s see if we can’t send these Froggies back to Frenchland!’
Ramming home powder and ball, he quickly calculated the range: ‘Six hundred and fifty yards, so we’ll use roundshot,’ he shouted. He took his time in aiming, lining up his target with the long barrel, and touched the slow match to the vent-tube. The recoil was terrific, sending the cannon bounding back, as a jet of white smoke gushed out of the muzzle and the six-pound ball of solid iron hurled towards the enemy. Waving his hat in a vain attempt to blow away the smoke, Charleton gazed forward to mark the fall of shot. ‘There! Their right flank company! See the commotion? We knocked over a few of them. Keep firing, boys! Fire into the mass.’
To his right, Jack heard wild cheers and saw the Highlanders pointing and hallooing, indicating the casualties in the French ranks. He had always imagined Highlanders to be serious men, with heavy beards, but these soldiers looked only about fifteen or sixteen years of age, as they cheered like the schoolboys they would have been in a more sane world.
Across the river, in a patch of scrub woodland, the French had sent forward their light infantry, their Voltigeurs, to harass the British, and Stuart had responded with the Corsican Rangers and his own light troops. Within minutes, the constant crackling of musketry joined the deeper thunder of the artillery. Jack swallowed hard. This was definite war, a real battle, and he was smack in the middle of it.
He thought briefly of his real mission and of the Russian Pole he was meant to be tracing, and he wondered if Sobczak was already lying dead on the field, torn apart by one of Charleton’s cannonballs, and the key lost with him. Then something whizzed overhead and he forgot about treasure and keys, and concentrated on staying alive.
Tarver's Treasure Page 17
