Carr saluted and left. He re-entered the town, still echoing to the sound of heavy shot demolishing roofs and walls, and hurried to Sciarpa’s headquarters. The greeting was the same, also the fierce libation, but Carr soon got them down to business and the interpreter passed on O’Hare’s orders. Sciarpa sat back, then sat up, then narrowed his dark brown eyes, his expression showing an affront to both his honour and dignity. He began a rapid dialogue with the interpreter, who nodded rapidly. Sciarpa finished by pointing at Carr.
“Cio gli dire.”
The interpreter began.
“Signore Sciarpa says that the Masse’ have taken too many backward steps and they do not quit their sacred soil to leave the French to, how you say? Burn and pillage. The Masse’ will attack them once more. We that break through will continue the fight in the hills. We will not go. This night we attack.”
Carr was astonished, almost horrified. He began a reply, speaking urgently.
“If we take you off in ships, we can land you anywhere, all of you, to continue the fight behind the French lines. Translate.”
The interpreter did so and Sciarpa’s face changed from outrage to interest. Carr continued.
“You will have all your men, and the more men the more damage you will do. The fight will go on.”
Carr motioned in the direction of Sciarpa for the translation and the interpreter obliged, but this time Sciarpa replied, at length, with much pounding of the table. The interpreter turned to Carr.
“Signore Sciarpa says that he likes what you say, but they must make one more attack. They will not walk quietly away, like cur, dog, how you say, with tail between legs? We now make plan, and the plan is to be done, or the Masse’ will attack to break out. The honour of the men of Calabria says it must be so.”
At the finish Sciarpa nodded vigorously. Carr looked at him and could do no more than offer his hand across the table. Sciarpa took it, then they started talking.
oOo
It was a half hour before dawn and three British Officers stood on the high bastion that overlooked the town. It was still dark, but a keen February wind came out of the full blackness that closed in on all sides. O’Hare, Simmonds, and Carr had instinctively huddled together for warmth.
“I hope this plan works, that you’ve cooked up; Captain.”
“So do I, Sir, but they were adamant, I’m afraid, Sir. A matter of honour. One more attack, if not on our terms, then on theirs. I don’t think we had much choice, Sir, and I think we’ll do the French some damage, if we get the timing right.”
Major O’Hare replied, scepticism seeping through his Irish brogue.
“Ah, yes, you’re right there, Captain Carr. As in so many things, timing is everything.”
Carr looked at his watch, then to the East. A clear streak showed just above the horizon, his watch showed 15 minutes before the due hour of dawn. He fired his pistol and the instant reply was a cannon report and the reply to that, although not so immediate, was an outburst of firing, explosions, and shouts at the French lines opposite Carr’s Light Company. The Masse’ had sprung forward, out of the dark, one massed attack at one point, launched just yards before the French lines from positions they had silently taken up an hour before dawn. The sounds of the conflict grew fierce, but nothing could yet be seen apart from the flashes and explosions that seemed to be progressing up the slope. Were they pushing further? Carr looked again to the East and saw that what had been just a streak was now a whole section of illuminated sky. The ground of the attack was in the shade of the hills behind, but soon that same light would reach the slope that was taking the force of the Masse onslaught. He looked again and anxiously watched, his pulse rate as high as though he were up there, immersed in the fight with them. Minutes passed as the light grew. Fires were burning and frantic shapes could be seen manically entering and leaving those areas of dancing light. O’Hare raised his own glass, the rapidly breaking dawn had given him the amount of light he needed.
“They’re in, Carr, no doubt about that. They’re capering about on his gun line.”
He raised his glass a little.
“And they’re up to and firing the French camp. I do believe many French are running back beyond that. Pray God, many don’t follow them.”
He closed his glass.
“Enough, Carr, sound your guns.”
Carr again fired his pistol and the signal guns began, at fifteen second intervals. Carr lay down his pistol and took up his own glass and focused it.
“I do believe they’re obeying, Sir. I see them coming back. Now, the part with the most concern. It’s full light and they’re out in the open, but, if it works!”
He moved his glass up slightly.
“Well, this is it, it’s started.”
Carr, as had O’Hare, had seen the inevitable cavalry coming down the slope to counter-attack. The Masse’ were now highly vulnerable, a disorganised crowd, streaming back in retreat, with several hundred yards to cross before reaching safety. Carr saw his own command advance out in files of three to give some covering fire, but the distance was yet great. The cavalry were at full gallop, eating the ground between them and their intended victims. However, few French troopers noticed some white posts in the ground beside them as they rode past, so intent were they on the hated Masse’. At that point every cannon in the castle that could bear opened fire and maintained a barrage as fast as the gunners could load. The smoke hid much, but through the gaps they could see that the cavalry charge was now a forelorn hope. The British gunners had used the range posts perfectly and the grapeshot had hit the French horsemen at just below maximum range, turning men and their mounts into bloody rags. The first lines had almost all fallen, hindering the passage of the remainder, whilst the incessant grape shot continued to take its toll. Many of the Masse’ had stopped their running to turn and observe, then striking contemptuous gestures at the suffering French, but soon all had run between the covering files of the Light Company The few cavalry that survived were either brought down by the riflemen or scared off by the formed up company. Carr turned to Major O’Hare, but he couldn’t hide his pleasure.
“Well, I think that worked, Sir. At least after a fashion. I better go down and see Sciarpa. I expect he’s quite pleased with himself.”
O’Hare nodded his assent and Carr descended through the castle. The Masse’ were all back in the streets, forming a very lively jumble of elated men, all shouting and congratulating themselves, pummelling each other’s backs and shoulders, whilst waving both weapons and trophies in the air. Carr was at a loss to decide where Sciarpa was, but his headquarters seemed as good a place as any, and indeed that’s where Carr found him, not inside but out, sharing the triumph with his men. As soon as Sciarpa saw Carr he ran to him and dragged him over to wall, mounted it himself, then hauled Carr up beside him. He took a pistol and fired it. It did little to quell the noise, but all at least turned around, then Sciarpa started shouting, whilst gesturing towards Carr. The speech lasted for little more than a minute, but during the pauses, Sciarpa pointed at Carr and the crowd responded “Urra”. Carr knew when the speech had finished because Sciarpa seized him, kissed his cheek, just one; standing on a wall made kissing the other very perilous, then Sciarpa undid his own red bandana that was the Masse’ badge and tied it around Carr’s neck. Carr stood upon his wall, wholly nonplussed, but he regained enough presence of mind to shake Sciarpa’s hand and shout.
“You’re all brave men.”
Sciarpa, showing a better command of English than hitherto, translated.
“Il Capitano dice che siamo degli uomini coraggiosi.”
He beat his own chest.
“Courage, si?”
The result was an outburst of more “urras”, and they both descended from the wall. Carr felt in danger from all the backslapping, some from hands still containing weapons, but the interpreter had arrived. Carr took shelter behind him.
“Tell Signore Sciarpa that the transports are waiting. Please
lead his men to the beach and to the boats. The British are now giving up the town.”
Sciarpa listened to the Italian, then came and stood before Carr and seized his upper arms and shook Carr once.
“La buona fortuna, Carr di Capitano. You are molto uomo. Much man.”
Sciarpa walked away without looking back and that was the last Carr saw of him.
oOo
Chapter Thirteen
Full Siege
Storesman Percival Sedgwicke sat hunched in terror at his small table, trying to maintain accurate records of stores booked in and issued. His superior, Storesman Sergeant Pearson lay on his bed, hands forming a “dead Bishop”, his eyes staring at the ceiling. Sedgwicke did his best to concentrate, but his attention was drawn every half minute, or less, to small flakes of masonry falling down the wall at his side, in addition the accompanying dust was clogging his pen. Inside their store, beneath the level of the battlements, they had heard the beginning of the bombardment as loud thumps against the outside wall, but now, with the damage having penetrated deeper, the sounds of impact were louder and the signs of it more potent. Sedgwicke winced visibly as more thumps came in quick succession and the whole of the inner surface of a stone came away, to leave a neat indent half way up their stores wall. The debris falling onto a barrel added to the effect.
“Now what did I tell ‘ee, Percy? These Frogs be something special, you think you’ve knocked ‘em back, but they just springs back at you. We’ll be lucky to get out of here in one piece, you mark my words.”
He looked up to discover what Sedgwicke was up to.
“Why in the Lord’s Name are you doing all that bookin’ in and out for? No one’s going to check, nor nothin’. You’re wasting your time.”
Sedgwicke made no reply, he simply cleaned his clogged pen once more. The truth was that the familiarity of his routine was a huge comfort. He was more afraid now than at any time since setting foot on Calabria and he sought solace in the commonplace.
What Sedgwicke could hear, O’Hare could also feel, through his feet. On the highest battlement he could see the smooth operation of the French batteries and feel the impact of the shot through the ancient stone, but neither of these had his attention at that moment. He was not depressed, far from it, his men had, so far, given a very good account of themselves, but what he saw through his telescope told him that the “day of prudence” was now not so far into the future. From the direction of the South West, teams of bullocks were drawing heavy artillery along the coast road. What the French had captured at Reggio they had now brought up to use against Scilla. He estimated that these additional heavy siege pieces would be in action some time tomorrow; he had pondered the battery positions built in a prime position but held empty and now he knew their purpose. He turned to a Sergeant held in the role of aide de camp.
“Officers meeting in my quarters. 15 minutes.”
At the due time all entered close upon each other and took their seats. Their mood matched O’Hare’s, serious and somber but businesslike and confident, their performance so far against the French spoke for itself. O’Hare began.
“You may have noticed, as I just have myself, our opponents arriving with additional siege guns, undoubtedly to be slotted into the empty battery opposite. From then it will only be a matter of a short time before we must leave. Major Simmonds, your thoughts, please.”
“Well, Major. We have kept the French to a slow rate of fire. At first our riflemen made good sport amongst their gunners, and our batteries being on a higher level than than theirs, took a heavy toll also. However, our batteries are now slowly being destroyed. The sandbag reinforcements delayed this significantly and we’ve got some guns back into action, but our fire is slackening, whilst theirs is increasing. At first we forced them to build facines to protect their embrasures, which slowed them up having to roll them back and forth each time, but they have now perfected their technique and are firing at maximum. These additional guns will undoubtedly put all ours out of action within a day or so. Then we will be left only with the rifles as any method by which we can do them any damage.”
“What then?”
“With counter-battery fire no longer of any concern to them, they will concentrate on breaching, and with the number of guns that they will have this will take two forms. Firstly to create a breach and secondly to completely destroy the parapet above it, giving any defenders no more than an exposed platform to stand on, exposed to grapeshot from their guns as their assaulting parties scale the ladders.”
“How long?”
“We’re down to the last few days.”
“So, gentlemen, are we at the end of “prudent resistance”, do we evacuate now, or hold on a while longer?”
There was a moments silence, but during it, Carr leaned forward, looked at the others and saw that no-one else was going to start, so he did.
“We still have opportunities to do them damage, Sir. I’ve looked at the cliff and the castle wall they’ve got to scale to get up, and it’s a horror. We could at least drop our mortar shells onto their heads as they mill about down below, and also this castle’s concentric, I believe that’s the term,” he looked at Simmonds, who nodded, “so we give them the outside wall then carry on the fight from the inner.”
O’Hare grinned.
“Anyone else?”
Simmonds began again.
“We will not stop them getting in, when they come. They have the guns, they have the manpower. The issue is do we stay and fight the siege some more, then fight a rearguard, with the French at our heels and all the risk that entails, or evacuate now before they assault?
O’Hare looked from Simmonds to Carr.
“I hear you, Captain Carr, but my priority now is to get all the garrison away. I don’t see how we’re going to do them any more significant damage other than when we fight our way out, that means waiting for them to attack and then mounting a perilous rearguard action, which could jeopardise our chances of complete evacuation. However, the final decision isn’t mine. I will telegraph General Sherbrooke and inform him of developments and my forecast for the next few days. Meanwhile, do we ask our artillerymen to maintain the unequal contest? They’ve taken significant casualties. Major Simmonds?”
“For counter battery fire, no! That will only cost lives and delay the French very little from the inevitable. We can pull some light guns in off the parapet and hold them back, ready to re-deploy to cover the causeway, if, or more like when, the French attack. If we wish to at least mount some show of resistance I would suggest Captain Carr’s riflemen on the topmost embrasures. These are untouched and too high to make any difference if they were destroyed. Our cannon are gone, so it makes more sense for the French to concentrate on breaching. Johnny’s target is the assault walls. So, accurate rifle fire from above will keep them nervous, if nothing else.”
O’Hare turned to Carr.
“Captain Carr, can that be so?”
“Yes Sir. But, with respect, Sir, I do think that we can fight off one attack, at least, we’ve …….”
He was interrupted by O’Hare.
“Yes, Captain, I’ve heard you. You may yet get your wish, but from this moment, I am planning to avoid it. You have your orders. The matter’s closed. Good luck, gentlemen, dismiss.”
oOo
Joe Pike pressed the hard walnut against his cheek, closed his left eye, let the muzzle drop down, then squinted along the barrel. He waited for the two fascines to open and when they did he followed the edge of the left one across with his foresight, hoping to see a blue uniform, but none showed. The heavy cannon fired and all was enveloped in white smoke. When it cleared, the fascines had been rolled back. Another heavy ball had added to the almost total dismemberment of the parapet down on the left hand bastion below him. Pike shifted his aim to the window of a house behind and his perfect eyesight detected the suggestion of a pale face. He fired and withdrew from the embrasure, his place taken by another rifleman, ready and loaded. Jo
e Pike joined Sergeant Ellis and John Davey who were both cleaning their rifles after a long morning plus much of the afternoon at the battlements. Sedgwicke was close by, practically on his knees, giving out cartridges, and water. On the castle roof it was warm, despite the early month, and all were thirsty from the long session of firing. Davey gave him a cheery smile.
“Hello, old Parson. Delivering the necessary? It’s all right, you don’t need to crawl, the Johnnies can’t see you up here.”
Suddenly, the soldier who had replaced Pike jerked back with much of his head missing, dust and stonework flew up and back. Ellis gave him but a glance.
“That’s grapeshot.”
Davey’s face showed his surprise, besides his concern.
“Forget what I said, Parson, you may have the right of it.”
Sedgwicke was alternating between shades of white and green, overlaid by a look of utter horror. He took himself to the seaward battlement and was violently sick.
Ellis had reached the same embrasure, but peered carefully around the stonework. He saw the telltale cannon smoke swinging away from the upper windows of a house, one row back and higher than the main French battery. Their position was confirmed by significant holes in the wall beneath the windows.
“Those bastards have got some light guns up into those houses behind. Any of you scored a hit in the main batteries yet?
There was no reply, other than the shaking of heads.
“Right. When you see a muzzle poke out of those holes, send your shots through the hole and the window above. Concentrate on them; there’s more purpose.”
They answered the light cannon until the light failed with the growing dusk, then they were told to stand down and return to their quarters back in the castle. Whilst filing down the stairs they were passed by the Grenadiers going the other way, up to man the battlements, both as sentries and to be there to make the first resistance to any attack, now regarded as imminent. In their quarters, the Lights found Sedgwicke again, now recovered, and this time with the barrels of salt pork and sacks of dried peas. This time Tom Miles showed his appreciation, his words dispelling the impression created by his hellish appearance after hours on the firing line.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 55
