A Sea of Troubles

by David Donachie

  Toby obliged, easing himself down to look into a stony-faced superior, who merely gave a sharp nod, as Walker, still facing the stern, issued his orders to all.

  ‘You, Mr Burns, will take equal cognisance of what I am saying. On the tiller you will oblige me by grounding at an angle of forty-five degrees and on my command, which will be given when we have alignment with our confrères in the other boats. My fellows, you will stand and deliver one volley of musketry. As for you tars, you may cower in the bottom if you so desire but do not get in the way. My Lobsters will then disembark on the seaward side, for the water will scarce cover their ankles.’ His voice now rose and it was harsh. ‘No man is to get onto the dry sand and expose themselves until I give the order and I’ll break at the wheel any sod who disobeys.’

  He had to pause then, the bomb ketches had opened up, sending huge balls arching towards the shore, there to land and send up great plumes of sand close to the water’s edge that seemed to rest in the air before settling slowly down in the form of a cloud.

  ‘Useless,’ Walker spat. ‘More of a danger to us than John Crapaud, but it is not too much to ask that perhaps they will up their range and keep down French heads. Now, we are coming in long range, so prepare to receive fire.’

  Toby Burns was slightly taken aback; if Walker had previously addressed no words to him, seeming arrogant and taciturn, he was certainly employing enough now, while what he explained was in itself remarkable. Officers, both naval and doubly so marines, rarely explained anything to their men; they just drilled them and expected them to follow orders when engaged. Yet here was this fellow outlining in detail what he wanted to do, while seeking to keep them from unnecessary harm.

  ‘Mr Burns, the men rowing at the point of disembarkation become yours to lead, the boat yours to command. Once we have ceased to use it as cover and have begun our advance it will be entirely at your discretion as to whether the oarsmen take part in seeking to secure the beach or return to bring in reinforcements. You do not have to seek my permission on how to proceed.’

  ‘Sir.’

  The voice softened, as Walker added, ‘Orders which should have been issued to you by your superiors – I take it they were not?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Well, you have them now, so act as you see fit – and, Mr Burns, a piece of advice: valour does not come from what others wish of you but what you do yourself and unbidden.’

  Toby would have replied if he had not been forced to duck into his own body as the first musket balls fizzed into the water alongside, the captain still talking.

  ‘Steady lads, it’s all chance at this range, so pray to God that he wants you spared. Now hang onto something as we strike the sand.’

  Toby, looking left and right, could see others in line and seemingly setting their pace by Walker, who had just asked the oarsmen, politely, for extra effort, a request to which they responded by bending their backs. If the boat picked up a bit of speed it was, in open water, hard to tell, but the marine captain seemed satisfied and within what seemed like seconds, and still a goodly distance from the waterline, the keel grounded, bringing the cutter to a shuddering halt, at which point Walker did stand, to order his men up with him. They obeyed and with a sluggishness that amazed Toby – it was as if no one was shooting at them – they lowered their muskets as if they were in no danger, took aim and fired off a very disciplined volley at their officer’s command.

  ‘Wet your feet, lads.’

  The boat dipped heavily to one side as they leapt into the water, which in truth came up to their knees, setting about the ritual of reloading as soon as they were steady on their feet. Toby, cowering down now that he was fully exposed, found the voice of Captain Walker close to his ear, as were the cracks of passing shot aimed in their direction.

  ‘It never will do to have the men you lead in ignorance of what we are about, Mr Burns.’

  ‘Ready, sir,’ called his corporal, which had Walker ordering another volley, this as mortar balls flew over their head to land three-quarters of the way up the beach, the onshore breeze carrying the sand over the enemy defences to hide any success the marine fire might have achieved.

  ‘Damn me,’ Walker hooted, ‘we are going to drive them away with the discomfort of sand down their necks.’

  ‘Will we drive them off, sir?’

  ‘Oh yes. Our aim is to clear the beach, not die trying to take it, though I daresay some fools, even if they know that, will earn themselves a Corsican headstone for their stupidity. The French cannot hold, they lack the numbers, and nor have they fetched out field artillery to impede us, not that we are sure they possess any. They will seek to hold us up, to make the landing as bloody as they can, then, when the situation ceases to be tenable, they will withdraw back to their citadel and outer forts where, in time, unless a relief force comes from the mainland to drive us away, we will accept their surrender.’

  ‘They should surrender now,’ Toby spat.

  ‘Nonsense, lad, even the French are careful of their honour.’

  ‘Main body coming in, sir,’ shouted someone from along the beach, by his tone another officer, which drew all eyes to a mass of boats heading for a point where the beach ended and the hills began, mostly men in red, but also several boats full of men in white, French Royalists come to do battle with their fellow countryman.

  ‘The Bullocks are heading for the northern section,’ Walker continued, ‘and once the Johnny in command of our enemies sees that they are about to succeed in securing it he will blow for the retreat to avoid being cut off from an easy withdrawal. At that point, and not before, my men and I will advance.’

  ‘Reinforcements, sir?’

  ‘Judging by the rate of fire I doubt we’ll need any. You’ll be fetching cannon ashore soon and my poor lads will be obliged to haul the damn things up that great hill you see to the north. Once over that we will then be set to filling bags for battery ramparts and a good month of looking down on our foes.’

  If Walker thought it was close to a finish it could not be discerned by silence; balls cracked overhead, others thudded into the side of the cutter to embed themselves in the strakes and every so often, regardless of using the boats as cover, somewhere along the waterline a marine would spin away having been hit in the upper part of his body or his head by a lucky shot. The mortars kept up their bombardment, mostly useless on such soft ground that just sucked the balls in to dissipate the effect. The odd one did land where it was needed, the screams of those it had hit rolling down to the shoreline, until from their left came the sound of cheering as the army units came ashore to rush those who lay before them.

  When, as predicted, the bugle sounded the retreat, Walker ordered his men out of cover and, after one volley and in extended order, they began to advance, this as flags waved out to sea to bring an end to the bombardment. But the French were not routed, they retired in good order, able to turn and subject those pursuing them to volley fire every so often, some of those missing and sending up founts of sand near the boats.

  ‘Man the oars,’ Toby croaked, his throat feeling as dry as sandpaper.

  ‘We’ll need bodies over the side to get us off,’ a voice called. It was, no doubt, that of the senior hand aboard, keen to remind a young gentleman – useless as a breed in most sailors’ eyes – of what he should have thought of for himself. That they did not respect him was in the next words addressed. ‘An’ since you ain’t rowing, Mr Burns …’

  There was no choice but to expose himself and as he leapt over the side two others followed, putting their shoulders to the prow and driving the cutter back till it floated. One man to his right, from being bent over suddenly became upright, then arched backwards, this before he fell forward with a moan, his hands clutching at a rowlock, the midshipman transfixed by the sight as the same gruff voice called out.

  ‘Get Tosh inboard, for the love of Christ.’ Hands dragged at the wounded man and the second sailor who had helped to free the boat secured his legs
and heaved, the inert body crumpling into the bottom followed by a less than respectful shout. ‘Get aboard, young sir.’

  At that very moment, holes appeared in the wet sand by his boots and Toby could not move; his legs were useless even as he mentally ordered them to comply. Was it collective or did that leading hand give another command. Whatever, the oars were dipped and the boat was moving, a voice floating back to the ears of the rock-still midshipman.

  ‘Got to get him to the surgeon, quick.’

  It took several seconds for Toby to realise that the distance between boat and shore was now too great to cover, to realise that he was stuck ashore in what was still a battle for possession of the beach. Running out of the shallows he threw himself down in the sand, praying to God to be spared.

  ‘What are you about, Mr Burns?’ called Captain Walker. ‘Can you not observe that the enemy are now in full flight?’

  The first boats bringing in the heavy cannon, their wooden and wheeled trunnions, as well as powder and shot, provided Toby Burns with a way back to HMS Britannia and he left a beach now full of men, strangers to him, constructing tripods to get them ashore with ropes and pulleys, and slatted roadways to get them across the soft sand to the base of the hills. He had declined Walker’s invitation to join in the advance of the marines, shepherding the French back into their pen as he called it, on the grounds that it had to be dangerous, only to find when he came back aboard he was being praised, not too fulsomely, for staying ashore when he could have departed.

  The boat crew, or whoever had taken charge of them and had elected to leave him behind, did not tell anyone in authority that the Midshipman Burns had been abandoned, that they had sought succour for a wounded sailor above both his needs and his position of command. Instead they had reported Mr Burns as insisting on remaining where there was fighting, which left the youth – who could have seen the grating rigged for what they had done – in no position to dish them, without likewise doing the same to himself. Later a hand, taking advantage of the lack of anyone else close by, spoke behind Toby’s back, to point out that it would do him no harm to drop by the sickbay and look in on the fellow who had taken a ball in his back.

  ‘Name’s Feathers, an’ he’s in a bad way. Might never have the use of his legs again, young sir, which you has to say is a foul jest played by a spiteful God, seeing it did not need a ball in the spine to brace your’n’s rigid.’

  Toby turned to remonstrate only to find himself looking at the back of a checked shirt rapidly moving away and beyond him the quarterdeck, where stood the officer of the watch and, unfortunately, Sir William Hotham, who was glaring at him. All Toby could do was touch his hat, note the flash of very apparent disgust and wonder what it was he had done to deserve it from a man who had so recently given all the impression of smiling upon him, Toby being unaware of how much of the admiral’s time had been taken up thinking of a way to deal with the problem he presented.

  ‘You see, Sir William, if you read this Lucknor fellow’s letter, it is plain that he has never corresponded with Burns prior to this.’

  ‘I do not see how that changes matters, Toomey.’

  The admiral’s senior clerk had on many occasions been obliged to suppress his frustrations, working as he did for a man who too often seemed incapable of seeing the obvious, and that had to be kept from his tone of voice as well, for Hotham was just as prickly of his honour.

  ‘He has no knowledge of the lad’s hand, sir, so if he was to receive another letter, penned by me in the same style but with a vastly different list of responses, how is he to know it is not genuine?’

  ‘What if your letter and Burns are together in one place, eh?’

  ‘The chances of that are slim, sir. This Lucknor is in London, Burns out here with us.’

  ‘But it is possible, for that lawyer is not airing a grievance of his own, he is acting on behalf of a client.’

  Toomey knew the import of that, for he had in his possession the depositions made by that fellow Pearce and the trio of sailors who were attached to him. Given they and Burns served in the same navy, who knows what might happen. Matters were bad enough and if forgery was added to his suspect court martial it could become an even steeper slope to perdition. Hotham merely wanted to suppress what Toby Burns had written – to not forward his reply – but there was strong argument against that. The affair could not just be left to stew for, if he was not a lawyer himself, he suspected that this fellow Lucknor, in the absence of a response, would write again, and how could they be sure of the same level of interception a second time? This, slowly and tactfully, he explained to his superior.

  ‘You said, sir, I admit in some passion, that you were damned if you could keep Burns within sight.’

  ‘I want to swat the treacherous little toad every time I clap eyes on him and, damn me, I might lose myself one day and do it in front of the ship’s officers.’

  ‘So it is your intention to have him shift to another berth?’

  ‘It is, and damn soon, but not before he has had a few weeks of service before the guns of Calvi. I intend to send him to the siege batteries where he can share whatever risks that popinjay Nelson affords himself. Given his stupidity that will be right with the foremost guns.’

  There was no need for Hotham to elaborate on that; Burns would be put in a position of maximum danger as he had in the beach landing. That this was an act of pure vindictiveness did not trouble Toomey, his task was to serve his master and keep his own position, which was about to be much enhanced. Lord Hood could not remain in command for much longer and his admiral was in line and had the political backing to succeed him. That would take Toomey to the pinnacle of his trade; to be the senior clerk to a commanding admiral was a position from which a man could make a fortune and such a notion was just as appealing to him as the actual role was to Hotham.

  ‘Then that gives me time, sir, to put my mind to a solution.’

  ‘More than your mind, Toomey, I want your heart and soul engaged in this.’

  The solution was not long in being presented. Toomey would write a letter of his own to Lucknor and, as he pointed out, any further immediate attempt to contact Burns would come to the flagship and could thus be intercepted, which would be rendered especially safe if the youngster was shifted to another vessel, preferably one where the captain had a strong attachment to Hotham and one who could be primed, with a made-up tale, that any correspondence that Burns undertook should be passed first to HMS Britannia.

  ‘Shifting mids is not easy, Toomey, a captain likes his own cho`ices aboard ship.’

  ‘I am aware of that Sir William, and I point out to you that Lord Hood has called for an examination after the fall of Calvi so that the high number of midshipmen acting as lieutenants should have a chance to attain the actual rank.’

  ‘You’re not suggesting that I put up Burns?’

  ‘I am, sir.’

  ‘Won’t work, dammit, I doubt the little bugger would pass.’

  ‘He would if he knew what the questions were going to be and had the answers. After all, I daresay if you offered to relieve Lord Hood of the burden of arranging the examination, to which I think given his great responsibilities he would accede, the choice of captains to sit on the judging panel would be yours.’

  Hotham was now toying with a nut and a pair of crackers, though one showed no sign of being placed in proximity to the other and as usual he was applying his less than rapid mental processes to the suggestion. If it was not a commonplace for an admiral to stuff the board about to test the skill of a relative it was not unknown and a hint to those sitting, no less than it had been at Barclay’s court martial, that a certain result was required, was one that would be taken on board. The only difficulty came from those same captains having sons or nephews of their own; the day would come when a favour granted would be one called in.

  ‘And what then?’

  ‘Then he could be placed aboard another ship as the most junior lieutenant, out of your
sight but still under your supervision, given there are no plans to change the make-up of the fleet.’

  ‘That will not pertain for ever.’

  ‘I am proposing an immediate solution to an immediate problem. No one can know the future, but if we can kill off enquires now, that argues we may choke off the whole affair.’

  A gleam came into Hotham’s eye then, for he thought Burns would make a poor, indeed a terrible deck officer – the boy had no spunk in him – that would expose him to the wrath of his captain, especially if another hint from him indicated that would be permissible. What he would really like was for the sod to stuff a cannonball down his breeches and jump over the side on a dark night and at that moment he was fancying a fellow could be driven to that.

  ‘That seems to me,’ Toomey pressed, ‘to be the only alternative to keeping him on the flagship. After all, we cannot send him home.’

  Another long pause ensued and Toomey knew not to press; Hotham had no ideas of his own and also little choice but to accept those put to him and that eventually penetrated his thinking.

  ‘No. Write your letter and send it off.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And send Burns to me so I can give him news of his new appointment and his future prospects.’

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Pearce had become accustomed to sleep being short but the same could not be said for spending the night on bare boards and his bench seemed harder than deck planking. He awoke stiff and in an ill temper, caused as much because of what he might have to face as his limbs, well aware that he felt grubby and needed, before he faced anyone, a wash and more particularly a proper shave. The inn was up and buzzing with activity, preparing for the day and at last he and Michael could retire to a room where hot water was provided, not that O’Hagan was interested: he dropped his boots on the floor and lay down to continue his slumbers, despite the loud ringing of the bells from the nearby cathedral.