Enemies at Every Turn

by David Donachie

  Powder monkeys ran from the gunner’s stores, set well out of range for safety, bringing up fresh charges, now of a regular weight – the range had been set – while a line of seamen kept the gun crews fed with the heavy iron balls, all chipped and painted black.

  The fire went on all day and throughout the night, setting up a hellish glow of red from muzzle flashes as well as the fires that had long been started behind the walls, and there were captains and lieutenants on hand to explain to the youngsters what was being sought – something heartily encouraged by the commodore.

  Ricochet fire was designed to skim over the parapet, either directly or off the glacis, to kill anyone foolish enough to show their head and take out the masonry as well. With luck they would breach an embrasure and destroy an artillery piece; if not, they would pass overhead to send crashing to the ground what walls or buildings were left standing, the debris of which went in all directions, forward and back, to fall upon the men working the guns, this while the high-firing mortars sent shells into the air to drop on the heads of the defenders.

  That they were dismounting guns and killing the men manning them was not in doubt, but to totally destroy a cannon was rare. More often it was human flesh and the wood and ropes required to move and work it, and that could be repaired, while fresh blood was brought forward once it was remounted.

  So it was not all one way – the French replied in kind and six of Nelson’s gunners died from one well-placed ball. A Corsican guide and the brigade major of the 69th also died when the commodore led forward an observation party, foolishly getting to within a thousand yards of the walls, exposed to both grape and round shot, his aim to get a greater impression of how the bombardment was progressing.

  Nelson did not escape himself, taking a sharp cut in his back from a rock splinter that sliced though his broadcloth coat and shirt. The wound bled copiously, though he was able to get back to a safer place without aid. It was while he was sitting, stripped to the waist, being bound up by Surgeon Roxburgh, that Toby found himself called forward.

  ‘Mr Burns, this fellow I am about to introduce you to is Lieutenant George Andrews, who, apart from being a fine officer, has a very lovely sister, whom I am sure he will tell you all about. Mr Andrews is to construct a new battery much closer to the town and higher up the slope: a pair of nine-pounders, which can put shot right down the throats of the defenders. Since I promised Sir William that I would give you opportunity, I have selected you as one of the fellows to go with him, Mr Farmiloe being the other.’

  ‘I fear my preparations will not go unnoticed, sir,’ Andrews said, ‘and at seven hundred yards distance I will need protection from a sally.’

  ‘I shall ask General Paoli to launch a series of attacks to keep the enemy infantry honest. The guns, however, I cannot silence. That task falls to you and your men.’

  It was only while on the way to that forward position that Toby found out what was afoot, this from Farmiloe, who he had been sent to fetch.

  ‘We must press hard. The Foot Guards have arrived at San Fiorenzo and once they have organised themselves they will come on to aid the siege. The commodore is anxious that Bastia should fall before they get here. It would be too maddening if they turn up just as the town is ready to seek terms when the navy had done all the toil.’

  ‘Surely bullocks are better at such assaults than tars.’

  ‘God Almighty, Toby,’ Farmiloe responded, ‘don’t let Nelson hear you say that.’

  The gun position being further up the slopes than the original batteries, they were too steep for the massive lower-deck cannon, but at a shorter range nine-pounders would be very effective and it was possible to manhandle them into position. Farmiloe and Burns arrived to find Lieutenant Andrews supervising the Corsican labourers working with shovels to flatten the ground so that the cannon could be properly worked.

  Others, using the dislodged stones, were building a drystone parapet that would be backed by the dug-up earth, seemingly impervious to the musket balls seeking, albeit at extreme range and from careful skirmishers, to kill them. More worrying, from this elevation they could clearly see a pair of cannon being shifted to a position from which they could respond; they would be under a barrage before they even got their guns in position.

  ‘Mr Burns, take a party of Corsicans and help clear the way for the men bringing up our cannon.’

  As usual, when given an order, Toby Burns had to filter it through the many layers of his being, his first thought gratitude, for on that backward slope he was out of danger, which got a sharp response from a hitherto benign-seeming lieutenant. Andrews positively barked at him, and as he rushed to obey, with no idea of how he was supposed to achieve it with people who did not understand a word he said, he heard Dick Farmiloe excuse his behaviour.

  ‘Cut him a bit of extra line, sir, he’s always been a bit slow.’

  The cry that followed had Toby turn back, just in time to see Andrews spin away, his hat flying off and one arm grasping across his body with Farmiloe rushing to stop him from collapsing. Clearly he was wounded, perhaps seriously so, for he had dropped to his knees. Toby Burns could not help but harbour the thought that it served the fellow right for shouting at him.

  ‘In the name of God, Toby, attend!’ Now it was Farmiloe shouting at him. ‘Get a stretcher party up here and tell the commodore Andrews is wounded.’

  For the same reasons of security, this time Toby was all speed, skipping down the slope with the loose screed flying from under his boots, dodging past the labouring and sweating sailors who were sledging the guns up the slope. He found Nelson where he always stood, right under the Union Flag, a sure target for the enemy, and passed on the information.

  ‘Back at once, Mr Burns. Tell Mr Farmiloe the duty is now his and that you are to second him.’

  ‘A stretcher, sir?’

  ‘I will see to that and send Mr Roxburgh to attend to Lieutenant Andrews.’ Then those bright-blue eyes took on an extra sparkle. ‘You’ve got a double chance to find glory now, lad.’

  Halfway back up the hill, Toby came across a party of seamen from Agamemnon, working under a very competent gunner’s mate. Ahead of them some locals were already clearing the pathway and he suddenly had a notion to assert some authority in a place where musket balls could not reach him. Hands quickly thrust behind his back he assumed an air of command, careful, when he spoke, to merely support the man who had been in charge before he arrived. The stretcher-bearers and Surgeon Roxburgh passed him going up and, on their return, with a comatose and coatless Andrews as their load.

  ‘Ball in the shoulder,’ the surgeon called, almost gaily. ‘Not too serious, so let’s hope he had on a clean shirt.’

  ‘Beggin’ your pardon, young sir,’ came a gruff voice, ‘but would you shift, ’cause we can’t move the gun, you bein’ in the way like.’

  Turning and looking into the fellow’s eyes, Toby Burns could see no humour or understanding, while behind him the men on the ropes that led to their newly located pulleys were glaring at him; he was being told, even if the man could not say it, to sling his hook.

  ‘Carry on,’ he said, before making his way slowly up the hill, only breaking into a trot when he knew he would come in sight of Farmiloe, calling out with false breathlessness, ‘You’re to take command, Dick, orders from Captain Nelson.’

  ‘The guns?’

  ‘Not far off and I have given the men bringing them up a sharp order to shift.’

  ‘Right, Toby,’ Farmiloe replied, immediately removing his coat. ‘Let’s show these locals we can shift too, the earth and rocks, as quick as they do.’

  Toby Burns had no option but to do likewise; it was coat off and hard labour under a warm sun and no shade, though he found that the odd grimace got him sympathy for the arm that had taken a wound. Most of the time he made sure he was below that rising stone parapet, only occasionally allowing, and that was by accident, his head level to surmount it.

  But that did not stop him
shrinking into his neck every time a ball cracked overhead and he was far from grateful when Farmiloe called to say the first of the two nine-pounders was about to arrive. That meant putting on his blue coat again and standing up, making him a prime target for the French skirmishers hiding in the scrub between him and the town.

  ‘Can we not get some of the 69th to see to those fellows?’ he asked, as yet another ball cracked by his ear.

  ‘It would be to endanger them for mere pinpricks, Toby.’

  Which left the lad wondering how Farmiloe could say that when he had just seen Andrews near killed. Safety lay as far as possible from that drystone wall and fortunately it was the men who would work the guns, both of which had now arrived, who stood in most danger. They had to drive into the unforgiving ground steel stakes on which the restraining tackle could be rigged, this to stop the cannon recoil from taking the whole thing back down the slope behind.

  A line of Corsican peasants were now bringing up balls and a barrel of powder, tars arrived with water butts slung on the swabbing and worming gear, this while men worked furiously to build around the cannon mouth a higher barrier which would form an embrasure. The notion seemed fine until the first French ball arrived and demolished one end of the parapet.

  ‘In the name of the Lord,’ Farmiloe yelled, ‘get those flintlocks fitted and let us give the buggers some of their medicine back.’

  The grins that accompanied the ‘Aye, aye, sirs’ told Toby what he already knew: Dick Farmiloe was a popular fellow and could josh the hands and they would smile; he could neither joke with them nor seem to get their respect, but he knew he must try.

  ‘Aye, it’s time to give them hell, boys,’ he called, not really loud enough to be a shout.

  Only Farmiloe responded, with a cheery agreement, leaving Toby to wonder how these men from HMS Agamemnon, whom he really did not know, were aware of the insincerity of his exhortation. Needing to show them he was as fearless as they, even if it was a lie and with his heart in his mouth, he stepped forward to stand by one of the cannon, as the gun captain fitted the flintlock, knowing in doing so he was exposing himself. All the saliva had disappeared from his tongue and throat. It took a great effort to speak, even more to smile.

  ‘Come along, man, quick as you can.’

  That got no more than a grunt; the lock was fitted, the long lanyard needed to fire it taken backwards and he watched as the gun was loaded, the charge, ball and wad rammed home, then the touch hole primed, until finally it was run forward, the muzzle peeking through the newly created embrasure. Speaking got no easier, especially when below him he could see the French gunners preparing to fire once more.

  ‘Time to try the range,’ Farmiloe called from his position beside the other cannon. ‘Toby, as a guest aboard HMS Agamemnon, I give you the honour.’

  The delay was like something in a staged drama – he could not speak, but someone else did: the gun captain, stood several feet away, line in hand. ‘Might I suggest, young sir, that where you is standing, when I pull this here lanyard, my beauty here, on the recoil, is likely to take off your leg.’

  Moving swiftly to one side, Toby croaked, ‘Fire.’

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Emily Barclay, in her hotel room, was a victim of troubled dreams in which her husband had her in his power and in this it was Ralph Barclay as a slavering ravenous beast of a man, worse than the kind who had so cruelly taken what he considered to be his marital due in the cabin of HMS Brilliant, the final act in a long strand of his misbehaviour. The vision, which made her wake with a start, was of a grinning husband eating the papers she had given to Davidson, thoughts which melded into the faces of John Pearce, her hated husband and a mob of indistinct people in the hotel lobby pointing at her for her moral laxity.

  Had she seen her spouse then she would have been more comforted, for Ralph Barclay did not sleep at all, pacing up and down his hotel room wondering if Gherson was about to succeed in the task he had been set, with the occasional discomfiting thought that the only thing saving him from blackmail was the complicity of the fellow, this mingled with forced asides as he tried to turn his mind to the needs of his forthcoming command, not least his shortage of hands.

  If he was awake, so was Alderman Denby Carruthers, back from his public dinner, he having set in motion what he hoped would be an end to both Gherson and Codge; Carruthers might not know the latter well, but he sensed the evil in the man, so the Runners were out, keeping an eye on him, for he would lead them to Gherson and the evidence they needed, once they met, to lay the pair by the heels and see them out of his life for ever.

  Sir Richard Ford had assured him as the sitting magistrate that they would come before him in the morning. His thanks for the information leading to their apprehension would see them both in a prison hulk waiting for the next transport ship to Botany Bay without a chance to speak to anyone.

  Codge was relaxed, happy to sit alone and sip the last ale he would have that night, for a pair of those foolish enough to believe in him and do his bidding were out and busy. In his mind’s eye he could see them digging with their jemmies at the mortar which held the bars on the attorney’s rear window, before employing them on the sash itself and finally the lawyer’s strongroom door, the contents of which they would sack up and take to the rendezvous.

  That the thief-takers were out worried him not at all, for he had alerted them to the person of Gherson and his aims, who, just after matters were concluded, would be apprehended in possession of documents known to be stolen – any protest made would be ignored until Studdert, alerted to the theft if he did not already know of it, had attested they were his.

  Codge would have the promise of the alderman’s money and in his pocket the payment of twenty guineas; the rest, given there was bound to be more, would be purloined from Gherson’s purse by the Bow Street Runners before they reached the basement cells, men who would deny such monies existed and claim it as a common lament of the collared villain to accuse of larceny those who had taken him up.

  Codge might have a wealthy city alderman, maybe even a future Lord Mayor, at his beck and call, and in his criminal bank a slice of Bow Street’s very valuable goodwill. Already his mind was turning to ways to profit from that, so all in all, it looked set to be a good night’s work!

  Cornelius Gherson was pacing too, nervously so, in an upstairs room before a fire he had not ordered in need of more coal – not that he intended to call for any, for he was not in the least cold; if anything he was too hot, his mood not aided by a bottle of foul-tasting wine. He had picked the place of rendezvous carefully in an area he knew well.

  It was a tavern called the White Swan close to his father’s place of business just to the south of the fashionable area of Clerkenwell, with its spas and theatres. That there were also prisons like the Bridewell and Coldbath Fields close by meant that it was also home to a less salubrious kind of folk and thus it was a place with which Codge was familiar.

  These were streets he knew like the back of his hand, for it was here that he had grown up and played as a child; should trouble ensue, he was confident of being able to get away. Barclay’s man, Devenow, who had done nothing but glower all the way from Brown’s Hotel, was below in the busy taproom with an admonition to stay sober and another to keep out of sight the heavy cudgel he had brought along in case of violence.

  The White Swan was surrounded by Bow Street Runners, hiding in doorways or set to watch the approaches, Sir Richard Ford having ensured that every one of his thief-takers was on hand for this major collar, their impatience, as well as their ache for a pipe to smoke, matching Gherson’s.

  Meanwhile the one in charge could not stop looking at his watch, even though the time was not right for Codge to arrive. That a felony, the break-in, was being executed not far away in Holborn just had to be let pass; the greater prize was here and after several cold hours news came that Codge was on his way, bringing with him two of his companions carrying large bulging sacks, which brought in
to the open a pair of the thief-takers to let Codge know they were, as arranged, in place.

  The rest made sure they were out of sight as he passed under the flickering gaslight that illuminated the doorway of the White Swan, which, being close enough to Smithfield meat market, was open all hours for the porters and traders. They closed with the place once he was inside – not to enter, for that would be precipitate, but to wait for this Gherson fellow to exit. Once he was apprehended and the papers were found on his person, Codge, who would still be inside with the remainder, was doomed.

  Men with bulky sacks in a tavern close to a meat market did not even merit a glance in the taproom, such a sight being a commonplace in an area where a shouldered side of beef was not unknown, meat purloined by the leather-hatted men who worked Smithfield – no one in London ate better than the family of a market porter – well paid, no more honest than any other fellows, given opportunity and doing jobs handed down from father to son in which the illicit take-home was considered a perquisite of the employment.

  Codge was careful to keep his own hat pulled well down while Gherson was enquired for – not, of course, by name – and on the nod they made their way up the stairs to the private room above. As their legs disappeared, Devenow moved closer to the base of those stairs, easing the club under his cloak, thinking to himself that if anyone needed a belt with it, Gherson would get one too.

  ‘Codge,’ said Gherson, as they entered, which got him a scowl.

  ‘Don’t you know better than to name me?’

  ‘There’s no one in this room who does not know you.’

  ‘Makes no odds,’ he growled, before turning to his two companions and indicating they should close the door and empty their sacks. This they did, bundles of papers tied with red ribbons tumbling out onto the floor, that followed by an order to get back downstairs and wait, empty sacks included.