A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  The whole, to anyone observing it from out at sea, and it was safe to say there would be French gunboats out there, must look formidable, as if an imposing force had now cut off the forward elements of the Army of Italy; in darkness the enemy could not know it consisted only of men from Nelson’s squadron. They were well aware that the Royal Navy could land where they wished and transport their allies to such locations as well, which must induce caution when they reacted.

  He came into the arc of his own fires to find his men sitting round chatting and smoking their pipes, wondering what plans were being formulated to counter their presence, with only the one mystery: where was their captain? Pearce was told he had not shown his face, with an air that they were grateful for the fact.

  ‘Gone back to the ship most like, John-boy,’ was Michael O’Hagan’s quiet opinion. ‘To yell at his bulkheads and sleep by his lit stove, dreaming of salvation.’

  It had been a far from warm day and naturally the night was cold and getting more so, it being one, even sat around a fire, in which an extra covering was needed to warm the back. Yet it was not the weather that froze a seated John Pearce, to make him spin round, this while the men rose to their feet. It was the unmistakable sound of ragged gunfire, and if the flashes were faint and distant, he was certain they were from the area around the bridge.

  ‘Muskets, lads,’ was the command. ‘Get them primed and loaded but keep away from the fire as you do so. Mr Conway, check that very man has the required cartouche of ammunition as well as the weapon.’

  The weapons, stacked in interlocking piles, were grabbed and loaded, Pearce was seeing to his pistols, this as Michael voiced a bit of a complaint. ‘Seems we’re a mite out ahead of the main here. Sure it was better on that beach.’

  ‘Do we move to help the Lobsters?’ Conway asked, which saved Pearce from answering his friend, who was looking to have his swear at Digby.

  ‘Not in darkness and if we were to carry torches, it might be we would make ourselves targets. We have no idea of who and what we might face so no, we wait here to see what develops.’

  The frigates out at sea tried to provide illumination, firing blue lights and aiming them to burst over above the land. This was only partially successful, certainly not strong enough to show what was happening in the area where fighting was taking place, located by muzzle flashes. But those rockets did cast the shoreline in an ethereal glow, enough that it might allow men to move forward. There was one party that did not disdain to employ torches: a gaggle of officers led by Hallowell and when he got close enough, he immediately asked Pearce, in his American twang, for an appreciation of the situation as he could see it.

  ‘I think that falls to me, sir,’ came from Henry Digby, stepping into the arc of torchlight, his eyes wide with suppressed indignation. ‘I command these men.’

  ‘Mr Digby, you were surely not present prior to your joining with me?’

  There was an implied question in that: if they are encamped here, why not you? Another rattle of musketry came floating across the flat landscape to leave that query in the air, with Pearce butting in, despite Digby’s claim to seniority.

  ‘There’s not much to see, Captain Hallowell. You would have to get much closer to know what is happening.’

  ‘Which I suggest you do, Mr Pearce,’ was Digby’s bitter rejoinder. ‘Indeed, I find it hard to understand why you are still here.’

  ‘I’m looking to the needs of our crew, sir, and happy to go forward when there is clear reason to do so.’

  McArdle might be a boaster in Grey’s estimation but he knew that anything breaking the peace of the night was going to cause alarm. He sent a messenger back and it was fortuitous for the fellow, a corporal, that Hallowell, the man he needed to so inform, had come halfway to meet him. He had been required to move along the old Roman road in a mixture of darkness and the intermittent glow from the blue lights.

  ‘A small party of the enemy sought to cross the bridge, sir,’ the marine reported. ‘Captain wants me to report they will be held, though he lacks the means or the desire to drive them off, which would only cost us dear. We’re safer behind our defences than out in the open.’

  ‘Does he require support?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  Digby piped up. ‘If I may suggest, Captain Hallowell, my men are close to what is happening. It would do no harm that I should lead them forward so we are near to the centre of activity, just in case this fellow’s officer is mistaken.’

  ‘There goes our night’s rest,’ hissed Charlie Taverner, even before Digby had finished his offer.

  ‘You’re sure your men are up to it and willing?’

  The reply was angry. ‘They will do as I command, sir, or face the consequences.’

  Hallowell addressed the marine corporal. ‘Very well, you lead them forward and ask Captain McArdle to deploy them as he sees fit.’ Then he turned to address Digby. ‘It goes without saying, Mr Digby, that in this situation McArdle has the seniority.’

  It was a tight-lipped Digby that replied, ‘Sir.’

  ‘Are the men ready to move immediately?’

  Answered in the affirmative, Digby then took a torch from one of Hallowell’s attendant tars and set off with McArdle’s messenger, the Flirts on his heels with their muskets slung. There was much muttering behind him; not averse to a fight, this was not the natural element to men bred to the sea and if they were minded to raid ashore in boats, this smacked of being too much like proper soldiering for them to be at ease. Added to that, they were, for the second time that day and on the impulse of Digby, abandoning a camp they had made near to comfortable in order, it seemed, to spend a cold night away from any hope of warmth.

  If their commander was aware of it, he paid no heed and neither could John Pearce. Right at Digby’s heels, his nose assailed with the odour of burning pitch, he was deep in conjecture. Was Digby, with his offer, genuine in his desire to aid the marines or just showing away to impress? If he declined to share a rough bed with his men, he certainly seemed to be overeager to be seen as heroic, nothing showing this more than the pose he had adopted when he came ashore.

  He was under a cloud for what had occurred with those Turks so he would need to pull off some stroke to counteract it and bolster his reputation as an enterprising officer. This had Pearce hoping it would not be something rash and including him, only to feel he was being selfish and to extend that wish to the rest of the crew. As they made their way, the sky, hitherto cloudy, began to clear, not yet enough to see easily but with a hint of night sky overhead and stars appearing through a sort of haze.

  Up ahead there was still musket fire but it had come down to discharges by sporadic individuals, these appearing to emanate from a small number of French weapons. From what could be observed, it was being ignored by those defending the western exit of the bridge, no doubt unwilling to waste powder and balls on what appeared to be pinpricks.

  ‘Sir, I reckon we are getting too close to be waving a torch, and the cloud cover is breaking enough to see without it.’

  The marine corporal had certainly thought so; he had run on ahead as soon as he was sure of his route.

  ‘Fearful, are we, Mr Pearce?’

  ‘Only of folly, sir.’

  If that response had any effect, it did not show. Digby strode on, seemingly impervious to the fact that he was bound, when he got within anything like range, to make himself a target. Proximity to his person would endanger the members of his crew; the torch would invite a ball, and given musket inaccuracy – and it made no difference if the weapon was French or British – it was just as likely to hit someone to Digby’s rear. Pearce got right behind him and what he thought was the likely line of shot and it was obvious he was not the only person to discern the risk: everyone was shuffling to get behind their captain, all except one.

  ‘Mr Conway, might I suggest you walk behind me.’

  ‘Not much point in bein’ behind that one,’ came a voice from the rear, ‘too much the
titch.’

  The defenders had been obliged to douse their fires – the glow made them targets – which made Digby’s torch even more obvious and that applied to his attire: blue coat and scraper and so clearly an officer. He was bound to attract attention and, sure enough, a series of distant flashes had everyone ducking, this added to a shout from ahead in that accent of Ulster to cease to be an idiot and chuck away the flame.

  All Digby did was drop it forward so it lit the ground ahead of his feet, which was a partial victory for common sense, if not the full requirement. When a hunched McArdle appeared within its glow, it was to remonstrate with Digby for his folly. He took it with some force out of his hand, then threw it behind the wall constructed earlier. That was followed by a command that everyone who had come forward should do likewise, this obeyed with alacrity.

  ‘And you too,’ was McArdle’s final command, to a still erect Digby, or so he assumed.

  ‘I cannot see it serves to look shy before an enemy.’

  ‘To whom am I speaking?’

  ‘Henry Digby, master and commander of HMS Flirt.’

  ‘Well, in my opinion, it makes less sense to be carried off a field of battle on a plank of wood,’ the Ulsterman spat. ‘So far I have lost no one even to a wound, so do as I say and get behind cover.’

  Just then one of the balls fired from across the bridge, ricocheted off the stones under which the Flirts were sheltering, scattering sharp pebbles. It was enough to make Digby obey.

  ‘I did not ask to be sent more men.’

  ‘Captain Hallowell thought it necessary,’ Digby lied, which tempted Pearce to contradict him, only to suspect it would be useless.

  ‘It would serve you better to go back from whence you came. You are not marines, so having you here only adds to my woes. If you elect to stay, remain silent and remain still.’

  ‘Where is Mr Grey?’ Pearce asked.

  He half suspected that McArdle, if he recognised the voice, would very likely refuse to tell him. It seemed he did not; if his response was of the same gruff nature he had employed with Digby, the answer was quick in coming.

  ‘Where his duty demands, behind the next defensive position closer to the sea.’

  ‘Then,’ Pearce asked, ‘may I suggest we are too crowded here and some of us should move to another position, which has the virtue, if anything does happen, of rendering us more useful.’

  ‘Declined,’ Digby replied sharply, only to have it countermanded by McArdle.

  ‘Which would matter, sir, if you were in command here, but you are not. The proposal is a sound one but I suggest it will be necessary to move quickly, lest our ships send up any more flares. If they do, even although the light is a glim, you will be caught in the open.’

  ‘Sir, I object,’ Digby shouted, in what was an inappropriate manner. ‘These are my men and I command them.’

  ‘To which I pay no heed. Whoever you are making the request, carry on.’

  Before Digby could object once more, Pearce reeled off the necessary names, which naturally included his Pelicans. In total, it amounted to half the twenty men brought ashore. Conway was left with Digby. A shout from McArdle required Grey to show a light though the sky was still clearing. Unshaded several times it allowed Pearce to lead his men to where his comrade was sitting, back against the stones, and chewing on an apple.

  ‘What in the name of creation are you doing here?’

  ‘Not my idea.’

  ‘I daresay I can guess who then. I saw him with that damn torch, John. He’s trying to get himself killed again.’

  ‘That or lay a ghost. To be more accurate, six million ghosts. Flirts, take turns to sleep.’

  ‘On what, your honour?’ came a querulous enquiry.

  With no fires to huddle round, the whole lot, Flirts and marines, spent an increasingly cold night as the sky above filled with starlight and a new moon, one not relieved by movement of any kind. Throughout, the enemy on the far bank kept up a steady if fragmented fire to keep them from sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The combination of a clear night sky, cold ground and even colder stones made sleep fitful at best, or shivering wakefulness at worst, not aided by Grey needing to change the men on patrol. Those so roused were not wedded to silence and their complaints tended to wake their forced companions, and being shipmates made no odds. This often ended up in dispute to which Pearce had to put a stop. He had some sympathy, not least because he was chilled to the marrow himself, dropping in and out of short dozes, one of which he was in when a shout of alarm rent the air.

  The two men out doing the duty were not going to stand and dispute. They fired off their muskets and ran for cover, this as the rolling murmuring sound of mass movement came from the direction of the shoreline. If there had been one point at which it was thought unlikely an assault would come, it was from that direction. With so many warships offshore, it was seen to be probably suicidal.

  It was Edward Grey who nailed the possible route by which they had got round the river barrier: that bar of sand that, in silting up the estuary, provided a possible crossing at low tide. How it had come about mattered less than that it was happening and there was no time for rumination. Behind their position, they could hear McArdle shouting to get his units into a defensive posture as, once more, rockets split the night sky. They burst open to show an outline of what they faced, an attack in some strength, added to which, the direction from which they were coming rendered the stone rampart defences close to useless.

  ‘Look to your weapons, 65th,’ McArdle shouted.

  Grey was not about to stand on ceremony and demand recognition or rights. He had his lads up and made sure the tars from Flirt complied also. The captain of the nearest warship, HMS Inconstant, clearly had some sight of the problem from his blue lights. He fired off his cannon, which must have been at full elevation and the effect was telling: screams of death and destruction came from the enemy lines but more importantly was the fact that the French advance halted.

  ‘Form a line and present,’ Grey commanded, having been gifted the time to do so.

  McArdle retained only enough muskets to keep secure the bridge. He sent most of his men to join Grey, the numbers swiftly formed into three lines, sailors kneeling to the fore, so a steady fire could be maintained – two ranks loading while one fired a salvo. It had an effect, yet it was minimal compared to that of Freemantle’s cannon.

  McArdle shouted again. ‘Mr Grey, we must withdraw, but sting them as we go. Tell your tars they will need to load on the move.’

  ‘Hold there!’ The voice of Henry Digby was unmistakable, as was the obvious fact he was leading the other half of the Flirt contingent, including Conway. ‘We do not run from these trouserless scum. Look! They have stopped; they are beaten.’

  ‘Sir,’ Grey protested, ‘we are being asked to engage in a phased withdrawal, which we can only achieve as one and we cannot contest the numbers.’

  ‘The men I command do not run.’

  ‘You, sir, damn you, sir, what are you about?’ McArdle yelled. ‘I have given clear orders.’

  ‘Which we will ignore. Lads, what do you say?’

  ‘Sir!’ Grey protested; he was ignored.

  ‘Follow me,’ Digby cried, his physical posture like that of some actor in a heroic play, arm out, head up as if he was appealing as much to heaven as humanity. ‘We will write our names in the annals of the service. A single charge will put this rabble to flight.’

  Pearce wanted to say, ‘You are out of your mind.’ He did say, ‘We are obliged to follow Mr McArdle, sir, as Captain Hallowell outlined.’

  Digby was looking for enthusiastic heroism but it was in short supply; not a man jack had responded to his passionate cry, in fact, it set up a murmur of complaint, this as the look of utter confidence slowly died, a reaction no doubt triggered by the voice of his premier. It was replaced by a stony glare as those eyes, unnaturally open and forcing up the brows, swung round on Pearce. A pistol wa
s raised as well.

  ‘Go forward, you coward, or die where you stand.’

  ‘Tryin’ to do for ’im again, are you, with your bumboy Conway and your damn grapeshot?’

  ‘Stow it, Lambert,’ O’Hagan growled.

  ‘I had to obey the order,’ Conway squealed, sounding very young once more.

  ‘Hell as like,’ Lambert spat.

  ‘They’re regrouping, we must go now,’ Grey insisted, getting between Digby and Pearce to put a hand on the pistol barrel and press it down.

  ‘What are you talking about, Lambert?’ Pearce demanded without looking: he knew the voice. His attention was taken by a fellow in a black coat, high headgear and a tricolour sash to match the one round his hat. He too was waving his sword, exhorting his men to advance and enjoying as much success as Digby.

  ‘Ask the bumboy,’ Lambert growled, ‘who fired grape when you was on those Turkomen’s bulwarks? Killed one of our own, I reckon.’

  McArdle came bursting forward, his red coat visible now in a sky beginning to turn a light shade of silver, his rasping command larded with fury. ‘What are you about, Grey?’

  ‘Mr Grey, to you,’ Digby screamed, spit flying.

  ‘He’ll be meat for carrion if he does not move and that, sir, applies to you.’

  The French began moving forward again, albeit slowly, which drew another salvo from Inconstant. The frigate must have lookouts in the tops, ranging their fire, for the first fell in between Grey’s useless rampart and the enemy so another salvo followed quickly, dropped shorter, to cut great swathes of carnage as round shot sliced though soft flesh to halt the advance, this as the defenders saw another set of masts behind Inconstant and moving, a second frigate coming up to join in the bombardment; the situation of the enemy was deteriorating.