Deep in the hull of the Bidewell, Quartermaster Sergeant Pearson had his men preparing for the invasion, numbering each item, whether bundle or barrel, by their order of priority, so that the most important would be landed first. He made good use of Sedgwicke when it came to reading the manifest and establishing identity, then, where possible, the stores were re-arranged, those with priority moved under the hatches. Sedgwicke had established a good working relationship with Pearson and now, with emotions high, he felt able to converse with him on the a rough level of parity, himself up to a superior and Pearson down to a subordinate, that being.
“Is this your first campaign, Sergeant? First on a foreign shore, that is?”
“No, Percy, it ain’t. I went to Flanders in ’94 with the Duke of York. I was a ranker then and part of that bloody mess of Tourcoing. ‘Tween you an me I don’t relish goin’ up against the French again, yet ‘ere I be. Still, at least as Quartermaster I got a better chance of keepin’ out of it. Then, we got kicked out with our tail between our legs and I expects the same ‘ere. The only bright spark be the absence of mud and rain, like there was there.”
Sedgwicke said nothing, but reached out a hand to steady himself as the Bidewell took a rare lurch in the gentle sea as the coast of the mainland came steadily closer. On the evening of the 30th in the last light that remained in the Western sky the horizon changed from the level blue of the ocean to the gentle brown and green of the hills Calabria. The Endymion had cracked on and made the correct landfall whilst there was still light and, guided by her lights, they joined her. The signal light shone from the Apollo, “Land at first light.”
oOo
Captain Roul Linois was enjoying himself. They had descended on the small village at just the right time, their evening meal, and he was helping himself to bread and fowl taken from the table of a terrified Calabrian family, now cowering in the corner of their single room. All around, out of the half dark, came screams, shouts, and shots as his Voltigeurs searched the hovels from top to bottom for food and anything else of any worth. Several villagers lay already dead, their peasant blood staining the hard packed earth of the village centre, and some bleeding out their lives in their own doorways. Between mouthfuls he yelled orders at his enthusiastic men, giving instructions as to where a special search should be made. Another peasant met his untimely end, blasted out of his own house through the back door by two shots from close range muskets. The light was growing, not from anything celestial, simply from burning houses. This was satisfaction indeed for the past trials of partisan warfare.
His men assembled back in the square, carrying what they had found. It was a good haul, including livestock, but Linois knew that it wasn’t all there was. He ordered the family to be brought forth and lined up against the wall. The family consisted of a husband, his wife, two sons and an elder daughter. Linois took a swallow then a swig and looked at the family.
“Tirer la femme et les garcons. Marque la fille”
The wife and sons were summarily shot and the daughter staked out, and spread-eagled on the hard earth, her dress ripped open from hem to bodice. Linois turned to the translator.
“Demande’ a lui. Ou’ est la nourriture il haez cache?”
The interpreter asked the question and the Father, in a state of shock and hysteria, motioned the interpreter to follow him. Linois motioned to four soldiers to follow. After a few minutes they returned with five sacks of grain. Linois looked at the interpreter.
“C’est tout?”
The interpreter nodded. Linois walked over to the Father, drew his pistol and shot him through the head. He then walked over to the girl, unbuttoning his trousers. Rank had its privileges.
oOo
Chapter Nine
The Field of Maida
Moving by touch, as much as by sight, the two companies assembled on either side of the main deck of the Tansy. Little could be seen despite the best efforts of two candle lanterns at either end, the most that could be utilised in the face of the order that no lights were to be shown. In the poor light that fell more upon their shoes rather than their faces, the orders were read to both Companies, Carr’s words forming a precise echo to those of Captain Moresby.
“Once you are out of the boat, if we are under fire, get up the beach and find some cover. If not under fire, form up in skirmish order.”
Over the side there was nothing to see, no colour, neither sea, nor sky, nor any tone even to the ship’s side, as both Companies descended ladders and netting into the waiting longboats. A bashful moon, away to their left, low down and but the sickle of a new phase, did nothing to add any light. Dawn was but a suggestion on the Eastern horizon, as they felt their way down, reaching out a tentative foot to engage reassuringly with the gunwale of the mercifully stable boat below. Encumbered by full kit, they sank gratefully onto the benches within each longboat and more than one placed his hand onto the side of the goodship Tansy, as farewell to the sound and safe ship that had brought them there. As each longboat filled with soldiers they pulled off a short way to allow others to take their place and receive their complement and so, for those in the first boats, there came a long wait while the landing battalion assembled to enable them to set out all together. As a file, Miles, Davey, and Joe Pike sat a bench together, with three other Lights filling the bench to their right. Each gripped their empty musket. None were to be loaded as yet, there was to be no risk of an accidental discharge to warn any possible occupying force that they were on their way. As the most experienced soldier there, Tom Miles was the one that Joe Pike sought answers from.
“What’s going to happen, Tom? What’s it going to be like?”
“Can’t tell you too much, boy, this be a first for me, an all. All I can say is, get off the beach, quick, unless you’m ordered otherwise, and get to some cover. Scrub, or dunes or something, then wait and see. “’Tis cavalry that worries me, on an open beach.”
John Davey joined in.
“We’ll be alright, Joe. We did alright on the Madelline, didn’t we? And this is on dry ground!”
A voice joined in from somewhere in the dark.
“Ah, but that was as sea fight, and you don’t get too many cavalry in fights at sea.”
The light was growing, a horizon could be located, dark below less dark, but a black square block, silhouetted, was clearly discernable in front but just off to the left. The order was passed around, in no more than speaking voice.
“Form line abreast.”
The sailor on the tiller gave the command, “Give way all” and the oars creaked as the manoeuvre was completed, then came the final order, “Ahead together” and “Give way all” was heard again. A look either side, even in the growing half light, would have shown a long succession of landing boats as Colonel Oswald’s advance battalion pulled for the shore, but few even glanced that way, by far the most were intent on the shoreline before them. The order came to load and all did, albeit awkwardly, whilst sat on the crowded seats. The pitch of the boat became more regular as they met the surf before the beach and then came the crunch of gravel under the hull. Daylight had arrived during their row in. The sailors leapt out either side to steady the craft and all stood up to disembark over the bows, which had driven up, out of the knee deep waves. One of the sailors joked with Miles.
“There you are soldier, you’ve not even got your feet wet.”
“Thanks, mate. If you’re ever in The Hatchet, in Bristol, look me up and I’ll buy you a drink.”
“Who shall I ask for?”
“Duke of Cumberland.”
Once out they formed up, in their threes, with Officers and Sergeants in front, all anxious, waiting for orders, staring at the dune grass that marked the end of the beach. Suddenly, from behind them, came the roar of cannon fire and they heard the rush of shot passing above their heads. Both the Apollo and the Endymion were firing at battle speed at targets inland. Oswald came to the centre and waved them all forward. Carr turned and repeated the order.
>
“In files, move forward.”
They advanced into the dune grass and through it, until it thinned, where they saw the object of their supporting cannon fire; enemy infantry. 150 yards ahead was a battalion of what looked like mixed troops, some in sky blue but most in a strange combination of dark green with a wide crimson centre. They were suffering from the accurate Naval gunfire directed from the mastheads, the grape shot ploughing up huge gouts of earth or smashing bodies to pieces from direct hits. The several prone bodies at their feet gave testament to the accuracy of the cannonfire just witnessed. Still no orders, so Carr gave his.
“Rifles to the front. Skirmish order.”
John Davey moved ahead of Joe Pike.
“150 yards.”
Some adjusted their sights. Davey had already done so.
“Make Ready. Present.”
Davey levelled his sights onto an Officer.
“Fire.”
The Officer fell. From the way he twisted twice, he was probably hit by two bullets.
“Advance to 100 yards.”
They ran forward and both companies either side followed, either from their example or their own order, it was impossible to know. The cannonballs were still singing over their heads, a lot lower than on the beach. At 100 yards Carr resumed the engagement.
“Two ranks.”
His men formed up.
“Front rank. Make ready. Present. Fire.”
45 muskets crashed out in response to the order, soon followed by the second rank. Drake took over, co-ordinating the fire, whilst Carr looked for Oswald, but couldn’t see him. Davey was looking for another enemy Officer to target, found one, but was annoyed when it took two shots to bring him down, whilst Miles and Pike loaded and fired at either side as rapidly was they could. A Major arrived that Carr didn’t know.
“Are you Captain Carr?”
“Yes Sir.”
“Oswald wants you now. Follow me.”
Whilst shouting to Drake to hold there, Carr followed the Major off to the right. After some time he found himself on the edge of the dunes with Colonel Oswald, the new Major and Captain Carravoy. Carr recognised that they were behind Carravoy’s Grenadiers, who were all firing furiously. Oswald gave his orders. He had a strong Scottish accent, and needed to shout above the din of the muskets, and the distant roar of the naval bombardment, but here there were no cannonballs rushing overhead.
“Carravoy. I want you to take that farmhouse to our front. Carr, I’m pulling you out of the line. A company of the 78th will relieve you. I want you to support Carravoy on his left by taking the barn and paddock of the same farm. Bring your men back to here when the 78th arrive.”
Carr doubled back, only part way with the Major, who soon angled off to the rear. Carr found his company continuing the fight and so far no just one dead, two injured. The 78th arrived, led by the same Major and they formed up behind, so Carr ordered his Company to follow him and they set off at the run, still in two ranks. Three minutes brought them back to Oswald where the Grenadiers had formed four ranks and they immediately began their own advance. Carr ordered skirmish order and in their three’s they advanced. When they came under fire they advanced by filing, the first fired, then the second advanced on, then the third, until they reached the fence. The paddocks were lightly held and soon cleared; also the barn, the enemy leaving five dead and wounded as proof of the accuracy of the Lights musketry. Carr ordered them to add what could be moved to the back fence as fortification, then take up firing positions and be ready to receive a counterattack.
Carravoy led his men straight at the farmhouse and was relieved at little opposition, just some ineffectual fire that seemed to come from elsewhere. Two of his Grenadiers stove in the wide frontdoor and they entered to find the family disappearing down into the cellar via a large trapdoor in the floor. He turned to one of his Lieutenants, Josiah Berkeley
“What’s hello, in Calabrian?”
“Haven’t a clue. Blessed if I know. Bon something.”
Carravoy had to satisfy himself with grinning at the anxious face of the farmer as it passed out of sight beneath the floorboards. His men were arriving.
“Get to the back, man the windows and doors. We are required to hold this place.”
He took himself upstairs and the first view he had was to the side, seeing Carr’s men lining the walls and fences of the paddocks; this he liked. The view from the back window he did not like; something of the order of two Companies, in French blue, were advancing at his building in thick skirmish order, they would get to him first, not to Carr, the farmhouse was plainly their objective. A view from the remaining side he liked even less. There were no British troops there; he was the far right flank. This was his first engagement and the weight of command was suddenly very heavy. What happened with the Madelline didn’t seem to count. Should he hold, or retreat? He decided that he had to make some attempt to hold the building, if only to delay the French attack, and then hope. He issued his orders and his men increased in number at the windows and lined the back garden walls. At less than 100 yards he gave the order to fire. A ragged volley came from all around. The French took their casualties, but then came on. Carravoy’s men reloaded and kept up the fight, but the French were not stopped, they were creeping forward in threatening numbers. He called for Berkeley.
“Go back around the front to the paddocks and find Carr. Tell him I need support. Tell him three Companies are attacking us. Go now.”
Carr was looking to his front. There was nothing, just some fugitives that they had just ejected. The main conflict was off to his left, and then he heard the eruption of musketry from the farm on his right. He could see nothing of their assailants, but plainly there must be some. Berkeley arrived, anxious and breathless.
“Captain Carr. We are under attack. Three Companies. Captain Carravoy asks that you give some support.”
“Three Companies? That’s nearly half a battalion.”
“That’s what Captain Carravoy said.”
Carr looked over the paddock wall. Still nothing in front, just the odd remaining fugitive. He took his decision.
“Tell Captain Carravoy he can count on my support. Go now.”
Berkeley hurried off.
“Drake. Take your section forward then right, around to the back of the farm. Two ranks. Pitch into any French you see. Keep a lookout to your left. If any French appear on your flank, retreat back to here and hold. Understood?”
“Sir.”
“Rushby, your section to follow me.”
Drake took his men over the walls and off to the right, but they were soon lost to Carr’s sight as he led Rushby’s section past the front of the farm building. In its shelter he halted his men.
“Two ranks. Reload.”
This was quickly done and Carr led them out beyond the building where immediately he saw what he was up against. The French had pushed right up to the farm walls in numbers and were pulling at the gates and fences, but a force nothing like three Companies. Carr led his men further on to form at 50 yards range on the flank of the attacking French and then he heard the controlled volleys coming from the other side. Drake was in action and Carr commenced volley by ranks from his own command. Several blue figures collapsed like rag dolls. An Officer tried to lead an assault towards them, but this died before it began when his chest collapsed with the impact of two musket balls. Opposed from in front and assailed from both sides the French broke and ran. Carr ordered a ceasefire and walked to a garden gate, but to use it he had to pull away a dead Frenchman. He walked up to the back door and knocked politely.
“Anyone home?”
The door was opened by Carravoy, with Berkeley in attendance. Carr spoke first.
“Thought I’d better check and ensure that everything was alright. Using the tradesmen’s entrance seemed appropriate.”
“Thank you for your trouble, Carr, but in the end there was no need. We were seeing them off comfortably.”
“Be
rkeley here made it sound rather urgent. Three Company strength.”
“Well, he’s a worrier. Come the end, things were well in hand.”
“Yes, I’m sure, but whatever, there’s a few less Frenchmen that we all no longer have to concern ourselves with, and that made it worth the trouble. So, if there’s nothing further, I’ll get back to my own paddock.”
He tipped the rim of his shako with the pommel of his sword and left, taking his men with him. Back in position they were all drinking water and sheltering from the now hot sun, when the Major arrived he looked around and saw the French dead and the wounded prisoners. The Lights had dragged them into the shade and were doing what they could, including sharing water.
“Right, Carr. Job done, I see. Hold here and await further orders. The 78th have pushed into St Euphemia and so we are now consolidating. Most of the army are coming ashore. Well done.”
“Thank you, Sir.”
The Major then took himself into the farmhouse by the front door and, after passing through, he saw the extensive remains of the fight on the other side when he looked out from a back window.
“Well done, Carravoy. Things plainly got very hot on your side, the fiercest action of the landing. But you held them off, as I can see. With no support?”
“Almost, Sir. The Light Company did appear around the flanks, but we largely did the job ourselves.”
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 35
