“I say, sir,” Lewrie hopefully began, “but are you familiar with a certain, ah … trading company here on Malta that might be able to provide information on what’s acting over in Naples and Calabria? The Falmouth Import and Export Company, Limited?”
“Trade, sir?” the Colonel said with a dis-believing sniff, and flicked some ash off his smoke. “And what would an English gentleman wish of a trading firm, what?”
“They’re more than a trading firm, sir,” Lewrie blundered on in fading hopes, “more like an ah, information gathering…?”
“Oh, you mean the spying lot!” the officer barked, understanding. “Bless me, sir, but I don’t know which is worse, spies, or mere money-grubbin’ tradesmen. Yayss, I know of them, though I have no dealings with them, no no, none at all, sir! They just ain’t … criquet, are they? If one must, I do believe that one would have to go to Messina, where the General commanding on Sicily has been known to listen to the rumours they gather. Good luck to you if you must sully yourself with their sort, sir!”
“Thank you for the information, sir, and a good day to you,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat once more, then turning to watch the fellow stroll away with a scissoring-legged gait, blowing aromatic clouds of smoke at the sky.
Messina, my God! Lewrie thought; Sufferin’ Christ on a crutch! I told ’em, I made it clear as day in my proposal that without information, any landing we try could set us in a hornets’ nest! No spies? No good targets t’hit! Mine arse on a…!
Lewrie found himself a patch of shade and watched soldiers hard at their square-bashing. He recognised some from the 94th in their single-breasted coats trimmed with gilt button holes either side of the joinings, the odd dark green stiff stand-up collars and dark green cuffs with the gilt-laced white button holes and shiny brass buttons. They did drill smartly, for all he knew of soldiering, their shakoes were stiff stovepipes, with flat leather brims over their eyes, with large regimental plates on the front that were well-polished. Blue-grey trousers and decently blacked ankle boots stamped below them.
A shoddy, half-strength cast-off unit or not, they looked as if they’d do. And it seemed a damned pity that the whole experiment was scotched from the outset!
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Wot in ’Ell’re we gettin’ into, den?” a soldier shouted.
“Int’r bloody boats, ya idjit!” came the reply which was quickly becoming a semi-humourous refrain as harbor training went on for days on end. Down to the quays they marched each morning, got into waiting boats, and were rowed out to the transports, where they scrambled up the boarding nets and mustered by companies on deck. A brief quarter-hour belowdecks to stow their equipment for the day, then they formed above the channels of the fore, main, and mizen masts to practice dis-embarking down the nets and back into the barges to be rowed ashore and formed up atop the stone quays. After a while, the 94th could perform in mostly good order, and with creditable speed. They would share the Navy’s rum issue at Seven Bells of the Forenoon, dine aboard, then return to practice ’til the second rum issue in the First Dog Watch, which they much admired, compared to the Army’s over-zealous caution of their “scum of the earth” soldiers even getting a whiff of more alcohol than the one-a-day dole.
Lewrie could hear the gripes, though, over the abuse that they suffered each morning and evening when they marched out of the fortress, and when they returned to it. Other garrison soldiers and artillerymen hooted and called them “duckfeet”, the “mer-men”, jeering questions of how wet they got, and deriding a battalion that had low morale already as “Tarrant’s Tadpoles”.
Lewrie sent his clerk, Sub-Lieutenant Severance, riding about the island on a lowly donkey to see if there was any sort of beach that could serve for more useful practice, and Severance returned with news that a beach in Mellieha Bay on the Nor’west corner of the island might be sandy enough, and deep enough, to allow all the boats to land at once, and that there was a rocky slope behind it that the soldiers could scale without too much difficulty. At that welcome news Lewrie hoisted Captain(s) Repair on Board and made plans to sail there just as soon as the wind and weather allowed. Once the Captains of the transports, and his own First Officer, had been briefed, he rushed to share the news with Colonel Tarrant and his officers at the fortress.
* * *
“Will you be coming ashore with me, Captain Lewrie?” Tarrant asked as he re-adjusted his rucksack to a more comfortable position after all ships had come to anchor about a mile offshore of the beach in Mellieha Bay.
“Oh, I fear not, Colonel,” Lewrie breezily said, all the while taking note of the strength of the wind, the commissioning pendant and how it streamed, the readiness of Vigilance’s barges alongside the fore- and mainmast chain platforms, and the ship’s Marines, who would go in alongside the 94th. “I’ll observe from here, so I can shout, stamp on my hat, and curse in private. All ready, Mister Farley?” he asked over his shoulder.
“The Man Boats signal is ready to be made, sir,” Farley replied.
“Very well, sir, hoist it,” Lewrie snapped, frowning deeper as he glanced over the side at the wave height of the waters in the bay.
“Make the signal, Mister Acford!” Farley shouted aft to a Midshipman by the signals halliards. “You may man your boats, Mister Whitehead!” he called to the Marine Captain.
“And God help the wicked,” Lewrie muttered under his breath. Vigilance rumbled to the footfalls and shuffles of her Marines going over the bulwarks, and boarding nets groaned as they scrambled down to the waiting barges, but he was pretty sure that they would perform the evolution as well as, if not better than, the soldiers of the 94th, who were clambering down into their boats for the first time from a slowly rolling, bobbing ship, into barges that rose and fell and swayed to the scend of the bay’s waters. Lewrie’s attention was focussed upon his telescope, and their doings.
“How long, Mister Severance?” he asked as he pulled out his own pocket watch.
“Seven and a half minutes, so far, sir,” Severance replied. “I do believe they might be all aboard in ten, as they managed in port.”
“Good, good,” Lewrie said with a quick nod or two, impatient, but concerned that someone might slip and hurt himself with a fall into a barge, or fall in the water and drown, even under the reduced weight of their equipment.
Was it his imagination, or were the soldiers of the 94th managing better than his first tentative training exercises with those two borrowed companies off Gibraltar in 1807? They were in their boats and sitting upright, muskets erect between their knees, almost all …
“Ten minutes, sir!” Severance piped up, sounding triumphant.
“Mister Farley, hoist Form Line Abreast, and Land the Landing Force!” Lewrie said, breathing somewhat easier, sharing Severance’s enthusiasm. A few minutes later, though, and he was slamming his fists on the bulwark’s cap-rails. “Shit, shit, shit! Do half of ’em know what Line Abreast is supposed t’look like? Oh, Christ! You lack-wit, cunny-thumbed…!” as three boats swanned so close together that their oars had to be hoisted aloft before they snapped. They fell behind the loose row of barges stroking for shore, a line abreast that looked more like a snake swimming sideways, first one part far ahead, then the other end, or the middle, advancing further.
“Hmm, early days, sir,” Lieutenant Farley dared comment.
Lewrie’s reply to that was an inarticulate “Aarr!” He snatched off his hat to swipe back his hair, muttering.
“Mine arse on a band-box,” Lieutenant Grace mouthed behind his back, to which Lieutenant Farley grinned widely, and mouthed a silent “Just going to say” back at him.
“If not at the same minute, ye’d think they could all land on the same bloody day!” Lewrie fumed as one small packet of barges drove their bows onto the sand and shingle of the beach, followed by others in twos and threes. “Now, get outta the bloody boats and do something, you…! Gawd!”
He couldn’t hear the officers’ shouts, but he c
ould make out a flash of sword blades through his telescope, and soldiers tumbled over the bows onto the sand, into ankle-deep surf, and began to bunch up by companies. Lines were formed in two ranks, with the first ranks kneeling, and there were more flashes of sunlight as bayonets were fixed on their muskets. Boats were landing, driving their way between the ones already ashore, and, at last, the 94th colour party unsheathed their flags and shook them out to bare the King’s Colours and the Regimental Colours. Someone in a fore-and-aft bicorne hat waved his sword, and the front rankers rose to their feet, the Colours went forwards, and in two ranks, the six companies of the 94th began to scramble their way up the slope behind the beach, the orderly lines becoming ragged, but they were headed for the top.
“I wonder what the locals make of this, sir,” Lieutenant Grace said to Lieutenant Farley. “Did anybody warn them?”
“No, they didn’t,” Lewrie answered for Farley, disgusted with himself for not thinking of it. “I hope they don’t take them for the French.” He raised his telescope once more and espied some sheep and goats grazing along the scrub atop the slope, and some Maltese talking with their hands in quick, alarmed gesticulations. A moment later and Maltese, goats, and sheep scattered as Colonel Tarrant had his soldiers load and fire by platoons at an imagined enemy, one volley, followed by a second, then they dashed out of sight down the back of the slope in a bayonet charge, leaving a low thunderhead of spent powder smoke to mark their passing, and the faint sounds finally reached Vigilance as a crackling like burning twigs, followed by something that might have been taken for a massed shout of “Huzzah!”
“Well, sir, they pulled it off,” Lieutenant Farley hopefully pointed out, “no one drowned or broke their neck, and they did … well, whatever soldiers do once they all got ashore. Wasn’t neat, but…,” he summed up with a shrug.
“Hmmf,” was Lewrie’s comment. “Let’s hope, then, that someone’s watching, and hoist the Recall signal. We’ll get ’em back aboard and have ’em do it, again.”
“Aye aye, sir,” Farley said, going up to the poop deck to speak with the signals Midshipman. A moment later, and he was back at the hammock stanchions to call down to the quarterdeck, though. “A signal from our shore party, sir.”
“From shore? What do they say?” Lewrie asked.
“It’s spelled out, sir,” Lieutenant Farley reported with an embarrassed cough into his fist. “It’s Tea, sir. They’re brewing tea.”
Lewrie looked up at Farley with a wearily tired expression, and slowly shook his head. “Tea. Mine arse on a band-box.”
* * *
All troops were back aboard their transports, eventually, after some manoeuvring ashore, just in time for the rum ration and the mid-day dinner, The embarking, forming up, and landing was practiced twice more that day, conveniently ending just at the start of the First Dog Watch, the second rum issue, and an hour or so of idling about on deck in the fresh air without tunics, crossbelts, shakoes, or their stiff collars, before the evening mess was doled out. Lewrie’s boat crew was busy, rowing him from one transport to the next during the First Dog to speak with the Army officers and the transports’ officers, holding quick conferences as to what went right, what went wrong, and how they planned to correct their faults on the morrow.
To get the soldiers used to future duties, just after supper was served out, he hoisted the signal to up-anchor and make sail, taking Vigilance and the transports far offshore to stand off-and-on for the night. At last, he and his supper guests could sit down to take their own meals, with Lieutenant Farley, Colonel Tarrant, Major Gittings, and Captain Whitehead of his Marines attending, along with the Sailing Master, Mr. Wickersham. Between them, Tarrant and Whitehead had “liberated” a lamb from shore, had brought it bleating to the deck, and had generously offered to share it with the Captain’s table and the wardroom, and Yeovill and the wardroom cook had done it to a fine, tasty turn, along with succulent shore vegetables and fresh bread.
“I trust your soldiers will sleep well tonight, sir,” Lewrie offered to Colonel Tarrant, lifting a wine glass in his direction to encourage a toast between them. “Something to get used to, rocking to sleep aboard ship instead of a thin cot in one of those fortress galleries that won’t move.”
“Oh, I wager they will, Captain Lewrie,” Tarrant allowed with a smile of satisfaction. “We put them to it rather vigourously, today, so I’m certain they are ready for a good rest. Do it all again tomorrow, Hey?”
“Thought we’d close the coast in the dark, if the wind remains moderate,” Lewrie told him, “and start just after breakfast. We could get in three or four landings, then stand out to sea for another night before we return to Valletta Harbour.”
“And the Colonel and I might round up a stray kid goat for our table, what, sir?” Captain Whitehead said with a laugh.
“Amazing how they stroll up to be adopted, yes!” Tarrant agreed with a hooting sound. “Don’t know if it’s done in the Navy, Captain Lewrie, but … how do you assess our performances today?”
“Well, the first’un I’d not write home about, Colonel,” Lewrie replied, “but, we seemed to sort things out main-well on the others. Another day at it, so long as the waves and surf in the bay stay moderate, I’d say your people did well.”
“Pleased to hear you say so, sir,” Tarrant said, puffing up with a touch of pride. “It’s been a long time since the 94th could imagine that they’ve done anything right, or anything to enthuse about. Time in garrison was wearing their spirits down to nothing. So! How soon do you imagine we might be doing it for real, sir?”
“I wish I could tell you, sir,” Lewrie replied with a sigh, and laying his knife and fork aside for a moment. “But it’s intelligence, or so far, the utter lack of it, that keeps us leashed.”
He gave Tarrant and the others a rough sketch on how he had had access to an active network of spies, informers, and Spanish patriots when he’d raided along the Andalusian coast in 1807, but so far no one on Malta would even admit that the British government had thought that Naples and Italy were worthy of a resident agent, none that he could discover at any rate.
“Most reports come from ambassadors and consuls, diplomats,” Lewrie said with a sneer, “too gentlemanly to dirty their hands with spying. They might lay out money to scoundrels and shifty sorts who’d do the actual risky work, skulkin’ about in enemy country, but they’d never. Foreign Office does have a Secret Branch, but if they’re operatin’ in the Mediterranean area, the closest agents may be as far away as Messina, on Sicily. At least, that’s what one Colonel I met in the fortress told me,”
“Don’t we have a consul on Malta?” Captain Whitehead asked. “I would have thought we had one.”
“I spoke to him,” Lewrie said, grimacing in memory of that meeting with a complete nullity. “We’re too far away from Italy to learn anything actionable, he said, and thought Secret Branch might be found on Sicily, which is much closer, and more subject to French invasion. Who to write to, he couldn’t say, and to wait for a real reply … my word!”
“Well, why don’t we sail for Sicily, then?” Tarrant suggested.
“Aye sir, why not?” Captain Whitehead seconded eagerly. “Even if there is no network such as you described, surely the Army there would be much better informed, and might run some smugglers back and forth.”
Lewrie took a tasty forkful of lamb dabbed with mustard to chew on while he considered that, washing it down with a swig of Rhenish.
“Hmm,” he said at last, “I’d have to leave a letter for Admiral Charlton, maybe send one off to the commander of the Mediterranean Fleet, Sir Charles Cotton, too, to let them know that we’re almost in business, and have swanned off looking for work. For the nonce, once we get back to Valletta, we’ll provision all ships to the deckheads, and prevail upon Brigadier Geratty to give you license to steal from the arsenals and store houses, Colonel. With luck, someone on Sicily will know where to send us.”
“Gentlemen,” Majo
r Gittings cried, raising his glass. “I give you Sicily, and an host of spies!”
“Sicily and spies!” the others chorused, then tossed their wine back to “heel taps”, and banged their fists on the table in exuberance.
“Hear that, George?” Dasher whispered wide-eyed. “Real, honest t’God spies, secret codes an’ ev’rything!”
“Fresh bottles, Dasher,” the older, more experienced lad said in a return whisper, nudging Dasher towards the wine-cabinet. “Aye, though. I’d care t’see that,” he admitted, losing his air of superiority over the younker.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
A final interview with Malta’s sole British consul assured Lewrie that he’d not have to make a port call at Palermo on Sicily’s Northern coast; that was civil government’s seat, whilst British military command, and a Foreign Office representative, could be found at Messina.
Not wishing to sail his three un-armed transports into reach of French warships and gunboats, and the remnants of the Neapolitan navy in the narrows of the Straits of Messina, with only Vigilance as their escort, Lewrie decided to shape a course along Sicily’s Southern coast, round the Western end, then passing Palermo and the Tyrrhenian shores, where many promising practice beaches lay, then to stand out to sea by Capo d’Orlando and get a glimpse of the fabled Aeolian Islands of Greek myth, finally coming to anchor East of Milazzo, near the West side of the peninsula on which Messina sat.
A last practice landing of troops was staged, and the 94th was allowed off the ships for a period of rest, setting up a tent camp and cooking facilities above a wide beach, in the shade of olive groves, and immediately swarmed by urchins, farmers with produce and livestock to sell, hand-carts loaded with barricoes and ankers of rough wine, and the inevitable whores.
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