A sharp intake of breath.
‘Neither are either pleasant or easy choices, but you will find that most fighting is done in a fog of ignorance, wherever you are. To act as you think right will make those who love you proud and the men you lead safe.’
‘I would very much wish to make you proud, sir.’
‘Mr Conway, you did that by your eagerness to accompany me.’
Pearce moved away slightly, determined to call to his Pelicans to join with him. He knew the rest of the party well, men who had sailed with him all the way from Buckler’s Hard the previous year, yet there were none as familiar to him as that trio. He reckoned what he might need was Michael’s strength, Charlie’s sharp wits and as for Rufus, well, he had grown from a freckled, diffident youth into a fiery ginger battler.
‘Mr Conway, one last instruction. Whatever happens, the need for subterfuge will likely have gone. If retiring, make good use of the lanterns to speed your progress.’ Pearce tried to convey humour as he added, ‘There’s not a demon born that takes to a lit candle. O’Hagan, Taverner, Dommet, to me.’
That he had a special relationship with the trio was no secret aboard HMS Flirt, certainly not to those he had selected to accompany him, who were all good fighters. Would the others see it as favouritism? He reckoned not, on reflection; half of them would have jitters for the same reason as Conway, having not anticipated what they now faced.
The break in the cloud cover came over them and if it was not daylight, it was possible to move without difficulty. Pearce did so quickly, for already that sea shimmer was gone, returning the bay to its inky blackness, meaning the overhead light would soon go for him, also. That said, movement still had to be as silent.
The sparks shooting into the sky just ahead brought them to an abrupt halt, and within the spill there was billowing smoke. The effect did not last long, added to which the light above evaporated at the same time, leaving Pearce and his companions stood stock-still in a situation where the use of a lantern would be unwise. That brief spray of rising orange cinders had been close by.
‘I would say,’ whispered Michael, as the now strong smell of smoke wafted past them, ‘that was some soul throwing a log on a fire.’
In retrospect, John Pearce wondered at the conclusions he drew and the speed at which he did so, yet they came to him naturally at this point. A fire indicated a piquet of some kind; one man or several? If the latter, what was being guarded? It could only be because there was something to defend. They had a fire but there was no reflection of it on the overhead canopy, which meant no trees, which suggested a clearing. Given the depth of woodland he had observed along the coast, such a clearing might be man-made. If so, for what purpose? A quiet explanation was necessary prior to instructions.
‘Rufus, back down the track and ask Mr Conway to bring up the rest of the men. Charlie, you hold here till they come and tell him what we suspect. Michael, we must be on our bellies and going forward.’
‘Sure, there are times I wish I was back in Ireland.’
‘Whatever makes you say that now?’ Pearce hissed.
‘Blessed St Patrick got rid of the snakes, did he not, and I doubt this land has had his like.’
Pearce wanted to laugh, even if what Michael was saying had truth in it. The temptation had to be suppressed. He tapped the broad shoulder and got himself down on hands and knees and began to move. It needed fingers held out to feel their way, a touch on the bushes either side making progress painfully slow, sore on elbows and knees. The sound of a loud snore brought a halt, then a touch more progress showed the path ahead opening up, but only by the faintest light, and that unsteady coming from flames, which had Pearce drawing Michael to him.
‘A fire, right enough.’
‘Numbers, John-boy?’
‘If they are many, we must rely on surprise.’
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, preserve us.’
That was not fear but a sure sign the Irishman was crossing himself again. This was no time for Pearce to make a comment, which he frequently did, on the excess of superstition. Instead, he whispered that Michael should stay still and crawled forward a few paces more, though being on an upslope this did not afford him much other than his assumption of a clearing was correct, judging by the distance to the treetops, the upper branches of which he could now see.
He tried to visualise how to attack while being determined he must do so. There seemed to be before him too good an opportunity to miss. Even if all he did was cause panicked flight, it would resound through the French forces that it was not safe to sleep at night. With command of the sea their enemies could strike where and when they pleased. There was another side to that, of course: what he had in mind could be reversed; perhaps it would be he and his men stumbling down a winding trail, trying to get back to those boats with Grey’s marines aiming to shoot above their heads.
Time seemed to stand still, the only thing to break it another shower of sparks as what he assumed to be another log thrown onto a fire. The same one or another, for the more fires the more bodies and it would not be necessarily for heat, but more for the need to cook in the morning without having to ignite a fresh blaze.
The sound of scrabbling was faint but with every nerve stretched taut it was audible. Soon Michael was by his side to whisper that the men of the raiding party were close by and ready. Pearce thought it unwise to have them crawl up to him, it would be difficult to do that in utter silence. Better to pick a spot from which to rush into action, so he tapped O’Hagan and began to crawl back until he felt safe enough to get up and walk.
‘Gather round, you all. Form a circle so we can use a lantern.’
There was much shuffling but eventually Pearce gave the instruction to illuminate the gathering, the light shining upwards making his party look more like ghouls than tars. Soft words were employed to tell them what he thought they faced and how they were going to go about it, pleasing that none, not even young Conway, hinted at hesitation.
‘We will move forward as silently as we can but it must be swift, for our best weapon is shock. I have not been able to see, but I reckon the men ahead of us to be asleep, with perhaps one or two on guard and they are staying close to their embers. Also, I say this, we have no time or numbers for quarter. You have your weapons, use them well.’
‘Ready when you are, sir,’ croaked Conway, his breaking voice rendering the words unconvincing.
‘We need a bit of light, Mr Conway. We move as soon as we have it.’ Looking out to sea, there were patches where the moon had broken through to create a circle of silver but nothing seeming to come their way. ‘We must wait, and those of you who have brought with you the means to drink, do so now.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
The amount of time it took for any kind of decent break in the cloud cover had Pearce wondering if the fates were against him. He required enough to both get back to the boats, as well as make a show of reconnoitring the head of the bay, in pursuit of Digby’s orders. Was there a time when he would have to abandon his own plan in favour of what were clearly instructions from on high? Given the notion went against everything he held to be sound, it was not one that held for long.
His party was getting restless and beginning to talk too much, which, soft as it was, became a collective noise he was required to terminate. He could only imagine the feeling of the marines on the beach, who, through ignorance, must be chaffing even more at what might be happening ahead of them. He did contemplate sending Conway back with a message, then reasoned it would not be a good idea to send him off on his own; he might get lost, and to give him a couple of hands as escorts would diminish his own force in the coming assault.
The hand that shook his shoulder was followed by an insistent whisper. ‘Wake up John-boy, my prayers have been answered.’
‘I fell asleep?’ was the blinking response.
‘Sure you did, and would have snored had I not pinched your nose. But look to the sky. We have a bit of light on the way
.’
‘Brought on by divine intervention, I suppose?’
O’Hagan paid no heed to the rasp of disbelief; his certainties were so strong he was ever able to ignore, or was it able to forgive, the doubts of his friend. Nor would he have cared that the man espousing them was more angry with himself for his inability to stay awake than bothered about celestial help. The excuse he could have used, of being overtired by the need to lead and think for all, would not wash.
If the break was visible, it did not come scudding towards them; throughout the night, the cloud canopy had moved even slower than the wind on their faces would indicate. But it did give Pearce time to re-examine what he was about, to check with himself that what he planned was sound, it being only sensible to entertain doubts. A quick question to Michael was enough to establish that nothing had come from up ahead to change the opinion that they would achieve surprise, so he called for another huddle.
‘No waving of blades until we are upon them. That approaching light might be enough to flash off the metal and alert anyone set to guard.’
‘Will there be one, sir?’ asked Conway.
‘Most assuredly, for there will be someone with rank in charge. For his own security, if not for that of his post, he will have detailed at least one sentinel, if not more. But it is to be hoped such people will struggle to keep their eyes open.’
‘Hard it is too,’ O’Hagan opined and there was enough lantern light to show a malicious grin.
Pearce wanted to time the actual assault to coincide with the arrival of better illumination. To try to close the distance in what was still near total darkness carried too great a risk, so his impatience was not in any way abated. As soon as he could make out the shape of the bushes closest to him he called for his men to move, unsheathing his sword, though keeping it low by his leg.
He could hear them behind him; for all their efforts men could not avoid scuffing their feet or brushing against vegetation, he being sure if it came to his ears it must run ahead to others. Moving at no great speed he felt his heart pounding in his chest, aware as well of a sensation he had experienced before, of his senses in a high state of alert, the prelude to combat.
Why was that so agreeable? What was it about him that he not only seemed to crave excitement, but to take positive pleasure in the kind he was about to engage in? Was he alone in this? Were those following him in a similar state of anticipation? Odd now to be thinking of Emily and her dreams of a bucolic country life. At this moment, even more than others to which he had been previously prone, he knew he could never abide such an existence.
Stopping at the point he had reached previously allowed his band to bunch up. They must burst on what lay ahead of them as a body and noisily, using screams and shouts to induce terror as well as panic. At that moment he felt himself to be like a dog straining on a leash, so it was disappointing that his first yell, as he began to run, came out as something of a loud croak, his throat being so dry.
Those following more than made up for his muteness as they burst into the circle of the low glow given off by a pair of fires, these several yards apart and no more than a red radiance. They must have appeared, to the men sat by those glowing ashes, like a vision of hell. One had a musket, promptly dropped in panic in the act of standing, which had him hold out his hands to plead uselessly for mercy. He was cut down by Pearce’s sword.
The act of dealing with him slowed their leader enough to allow the rest to rush past him and he was vaguely aware of Conway, young and fleet of foot, seemingly at the head of the pack. All around, men who had been slumbering on the bare ground were struggling to get out from their coverings, not too many looking to fight, it seemed. Yet two were so inclined and Conway was heading right into the arc of their hastily grabbed bayonets.
‘Michael, the boy!’ Pearce yelled.
This shout came as he was himself running, having seen Conway stop before two men who towered over him, the youngster’s cutlass waving uncertainly before he took up the kind of fencer’s pose he rehearsed daily on the foredeck of the ship, one unlikely to serve him in what would be a melee. This was proven as a jabbed bayonet slipped past his guard to slice down on his arm.
In his heightened state of alert, even as Pearce noted the danger Conway was exposed to, he was also aware that Frenchmen were dying in numbers, cut down by swinging cutlasses or brained by clubs, enough to discourage many of their fellows from offering resistance. The lad had recoiled from what was clearly a wound and, in the act of falling backwards, half impeded Michael O’Hagan from closing with the men seeking to skewer the lad.
Never one to be shy of clouting a body, that was what Conway got, a swipe that sent him tumbling out of the arc of danger and those intent on harming him; they now faced a towering giant carrying a cutlass in one hand and a marlin spike in the other. They quickly lost a great deal of their enthusiasm for a contest, doubly so when Pearce took station on the Irishman’s shoulder.
What followed was no fancy swordplay. The weapons were swung furiously to drive these two Frenchmen back until Michael’s greater reach got the point of his sword slicing through a neck, to produce a fount of spurting blood, sign enough to have the dying man’s confrère drop his weapon and fall to his knees, with Pearce, blood boiling, swinging his to sever neck and head, the blade stopped less than an inch from contact.
‘Où es votre commandant?’ he shouted.
The arms opened in futility, but the question was answered by another shout, this time from the edge of the clearing where, for the first time, Pearce observed a dun-coloured tent under a canopy of trees, outside it a fellow in night flannels furiously waving his arms and yelling, this just before he headed for the trees and disappeared, followed by those who were close enough to what had to be another track. For the rest they were either dead, seriously wounded or begging for succour.
‘What the hell was he saying?’ Michael gasped, his chest heaving.
‘“Save yourselves”, Michael.’
‘So we have beaten them.’
The truth of that was in the comparative silence, so different from the banshee yelling that had preceded it from both sides, French and British. Pearce turned to where Conway was on his knees, close to one of the dying fires, one arm holding onto the other, which was pressed to his body, his pained face reflecting the light. A strong hand was used to raise the boy up.
‘You have taken a blow, Mr Conway.’ The youngster tried not to sob but failed, his head nodding to the sound of snuffling. ‘Then it is best examined, is it not?’
The arm came out as Pearce called for some light, Charlie Taverner crossing to him quickly with an open lantern, miraculously, given it had been tied to his belt, still alight. That showed the gash in the uniform coat and the wetness of blood but not the wound itself, and if Pearce knew it needed attention, he also knew that he had other more important things to do.
‘Your coat, Mr Conway, you must ease it off, and Charlie, bind the wound and if the flow of blood is strong, tie a tourniquet.’
‘Will do, John.’
Conway reacted to that lack of respect by uplifted eyebrows, which reassured Pearce that he was not too badly hurt. ‘Pay it no heed, young fellow. If you are lucky, when you are older, you too will have men fighting under your command happy to use your given name.’
Those captured, some half-dozen, were in a huddle, the ones killed just heaps lying where they had been slain, with the odd fellow wounded and moaning. Pearce noted they had no uniforms to speak of; indeed, the men seemed to be clad in rags, while even the sentinel who had died first was barefoot, though one was bandaged and showed, when quickly examined, a seepage of blood. A few abrupt questions established the wound as very recent – he had stood on a piece of sharp flint – which had Pearce wonder if the cry that had alerted them to this outpost had been caused by this fellow.
‘Somers should see this,’ he said.
This got an enquiring look from several of his sailors, but no elucidation. There w
as no time to tell them about an interdicted cargo of boots. Since those sparks had flown into the air, Pearce had wondered why he had seen no evidence of them on entering the bay, not even a reflected glow. The answer was soon established. At the point where the ground sloped away to the shore there was a high rampart made of tree trunks, with openings cut through which the muzzles of the cannon could be pushed, masked with canvas to conceal their presence in darkness.
The cannon themselves, four in number, were the very heaviest of field pieces, still capable of being wheeled. They were pulled back from the rampart and around them stood stacks of balls as well as charcoal-filled braziers with powerful tongs. The way they would be employed was obvious and provided another good reason to keep alight the campfires at night. That charcoal could be quickly lit.
From this elevation, under a normal sky, any unfriendly vessel seeking to enter the bay would be seen long before it could make and clear the narrows, giving ample time to heat the shot, a weapon to be feared aboard a wooden warship. Contact with canvas would set that alight and the tarred cordage with it; if not immediately, if embedded it would eventually smoulder the start of a fire in the scantlings or the deck, which untended would ignite.
The narrows imposed difficulty for an attacker, the lack of sufficient sea meant less room to be able to respond, to be able to draw back enough to elevate their own guns in reply to a battery placed so high on the slopes of Monte Boroni.
‘Do we have any spikes?’ Pearce demanded.
This was a query to which he received no affirmative reply and nor was there any sign of shame. No one had thought to bring the nails needed to spike the touch holes of a battery not known to really exist and, in truth, it should have been an order from him to include them. Grey might have brought some, the marines more accustomed to the need. That being true, there was still no way he could just leave them be, yet the notion of sending for heavy nails was no more feasible. He had no idea of how long it would be before those fleeing Frenchmen met with more of their kind and in numbers he could not contest with.
A Treacherous Coast Page 7
