An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Well, actually, Captain Repair On Board is more of an order from a senior officer to a junior, Colonel,” Lewrie informed him.

  “Oh my word, how clumsy of me!” Tarrant exclaimed, aghast at his error. “Do pardon the wording, sir. And my ignorant insult.”

  “Nothing of the kind, Colonel, don’t worry about it,” Lewrie said with a grin and a wave of one hand. “Now, what’s more promisng?”

  “There’s a better way up to the coast road, for one thing,” the Major said with a faint grin. “Don Julio’s man, that ‘’Tonio,’ walked from Pizzo to the bridge, and actually crossed it, then went another mile or so farther on, and found a much easier slope down to a wide sand and gravel beach, much wider than the one at the foot of that gorge. Wide enough, too, for all the barges to land abreast at the same time. We could put two companies ashore there, out of sight of any watchers or sentries on the bridge. A quick march at the double a mile or so to the bridge, and we’d have it in our hands in a twinkling, hah!”

  “Whilst I land my Marines with the explosives and fuses below the bridge?” Lewrie presumed.

  “Well, not at the same time, Sir Alan,” Col. Tarrant said with a wee chuckle. “That would give the game away, especially if we land in broad daylight. Is there any way to get the transport off that beach, there, in the dark, and land my men before dawn? You and your ship could lurk offshore, and only sail in after we show a light to signify that we hold the bridge.”

  “At night?” Lewrie gawped. “We made a couple of landings off Southern Spain in the wee hours, but something always went wrong.”

  Boats had gone ashore at the wrong places, troops had swanned about, lost in the dark, and they had both been damned close-run things full of confusion, and hot fights with Spanish soldiers who should not have been there, with nought but muzzle flashes and the sparks from the pans to mark where anyone was.

  “Well, we can’t land during the day, sir,” Tarrant objected. “There’s too much military traffic cross the bridge, in daylight, and all the convoys have escort. I expect the mere sight of our ships closing the coast would bring half the French Army in Calabria down on us. Night would be best. There is only a small guard detail at the bridge after dark.”

  “Sentries?” Lewrie gawped again, feeling a twinge of alarm.

  “A small party, Don Julio’s man reports,” Mr. Quill spoke up. “A dozen, perhaps, at most, under a Sergeant, not a mounted officer.”

  “And half of them will most-like be fast asleep, wrapped up in their bedrolls,” Major Gittings said dismissively. “Easily overcome.”

  “A night landing’s a great risk, sirs,” Lewrie told them. “If there’s a moon, or a clear night, we could be seen for miles away, and if it’s overcast and really pitch-dark, it’s good odds the transport will not be able to find the beach, and if they do spot it, the boats can still go astray. Christ, I might not be able to find the gorge, or the beach at its mouth. My boats might go astray and land in the wrong place, adding hours to the work. Two pieces of the puzzle, on their own and unable to support each other? This sounds a bit too complicated, sirs.”

  Must be drunk on their recent praise, Lewrie told himself.

  “So, you see no way to accomplish it?” Col. Tarrant asked with a sad frown of dis-appointment.

  “Ehm, what if Don Julio’s men could light a campfire on the beach in question, Sir Alan?” Mr. Quill proposed.

  “Yes, what about that?” Tarrant exclaimed, grasping at the offered straw.

  “Hmm … well, if one of the ‘’Tonios’ could pretend to fish off the coast there during the day,” Lewrie mused aloud, “and go ashore to cook supper, or sleep for a few hours, hmm. The transport could fetch-to instead of anchoring, get your troops onto the beach quickly … that could work. And, if the night’s dark enough, I could sail Vigilance in within a couple of miles offshore ’til I see your light on the bridge. Would Don Julio do it, Mister Quill?”

  “With Don Julio, anything is possible, for an additional fee,” Quill dryly agreed. “Some of his men are still loafing about in Messina. I will put the matter to them and see what they say. It all will depend on what night you intend to land.”

  “That’d help,” Lewrie said, feeling only a tad relieved. “But … these sentries. Cavalry or infantry? And, where do they come from?”

  “Foot soldiers, was what I was told,” Mr. Quill replied. “No more than a dozen. With a Sergeant in charge, call it a ‘baker’s dozen,’ hah hah.”

  There’s that damned laugh, again! Lewrie thought, cringing; Someday he’ll strangle himself with it, and nobody’ll know t’try and help him!

  “Yes,” Major Gittings wondered aloud, “where do they spring from? There’s that cavalry squadron at Filadelfia, and there’s foot units at Vibo Valentia, but that’s much too far away to march a detachment twelve miles or more each afternoon to guard that bridge. Have the French established a small garrison at Pizzo?”

  “Don Julio’s man says not, Major,” Quill told him.

  “It would be nice to know if there is an encampment somewhere nearby,” Gittings puzzled, leaning over the land map, “perhaps only one company or so, say … an hundred men? If only one of the guards slips away from us…”

  “If they’re camped north of the bridge, he won’t,” Col. Tarrant pointed out, since that was the direction his men would land. “If they’re somewhere south of the bridge, ’twixt there and Pizzo, one might, and things might get dicey about the time that we’re laying the charges. We must look sharp that we round up all of them, and count all thirteen of your ‘baker’s dozen,’ Mister Quill.”

  “And hope that a French supply convoy doesn’t come rumbling down the road at the wrong time,” Major Gittings added.

  “Oh, they don’t, sirs,” Quill piped up. “Their convoys don’t move after dark. They encamp in some town or village along the way, and don’t set out ’til after their breakfasts, in daylight. You see, it turns out that there are partisan bands on the mainland, after all. The sentries on the bridge are there to deny any traffic at night, especially locals intent on mischief. They’ve only accomplished some few pinpricks, so far, but the French, and their so-called allied troops, are very cautious of late. Messengers now ride with strong escort, in company strength, and small parties of French out foraging, looting, or raping, are found most ghastly dead, with their weapons missing. Lord, how I wish I could converse with them to co-ordinate operations! Though, their Marshal Murat repays the partisans with mass executions, Don Julio’s men say that it only inflames the local fighters the more.”

  Wish t’God we had them on our side, ’stead of arch-criminals! Lewrie wished fervently; And I wager they wouldn’t cost us barrels o’ guineas in bribes, either!

  “That is most interesting to know, Mister Quill,” Tarrant said with a satisfied expression. “So, Sir Alan. Does Don Julio light a fire on the beach to guide us, do you now deem the landing practicable?”

  “In that event, Colonel, getting two of your companies ashore at the right place seems to be the most important part of the operation, so … if we get a fire to mark the beach, I’d say it can be done. Pick the day … or night, rather,” Lewrie said, looking at the eager faces cross the table from him, and assenting, even if he still had doubts. “I’ll send you off in Bristol Lass, under Lieutenant Fletcher, my most senior, and ablest.

  “Mind,” he went on, raising a hand to still their enthusiasm, “I’ll insist on some practice first, to get your men used to going into the boats at night, and some practice landings somewhere up the coast towards Messina, somewhere that’s darkest and least populated.”

  “Good fellow!” Col. Tarrant exclaimed, all but clapping his hands. “Let’s be about it, then, as soon as possible. Our men are eager enough, so even the practice you suggest won’t daunt them. I say, Sir Alan, might you stay for dinner?”

  “Ah, thankee for the invitation, Colonel, but I must beg off, this time,” Lewrie demurred, “my cook promises one of his experiments
with local wines, fruits, and spices over a batch of pigeons that we bought, and I cannot let him down. He’s much too talented to brush aside, d’ye see. Then, after my repast, I must have my officers in to bring them up to date. Some other time, perhaps. Better yet, I should dine you both in aboard so my man can impress you. With his skills.”

  Lewrie retrieved his hat and sword, and bowed his departure, to make his way down to the beach and the boat landing, but Mr. Quill came trotting after him, calling his name.

  “Something else, Mister Quill?” Lewrie asked once brought to a halt.

  “This all depends on me getting one of Don Julio’s men to light a fire, sir?” Quill asked, sounding fretful. “Without his approval, I wonder if he’d care for any of his under-captains getting money from me that he didn’t touch, first. If Don Julio doesn’t allow it…!”

  “But of course he will, Mister Quill,” Lewrie replied, “for you will slip him ten pounds, fifty pounds, whatever he asks! He knows who butters his bread!”

  “Yes, he is a man with his eye on the main chance,” Quill said with a sigh to acknowledge what a cleft he was in with their piratical scoundrel. “Recall, though, sir, how the drawing of the bridge came to us? How the son of one of his capos in Reggio di Calabria made it, passed it to his father, who passed it to Don Julio when he visited the man?”

  “Aye,” Lewrie said, intent on strolling on.

  “In Reggio di Calabria, Sir Alan,” Quill pointedly said, “where the French have their headquarters. Don Julio’s criminal activities reach beyond Eastern Sicily, onto the mainland. Your first raid at Tropea, we learned after the fact, eliminated his biggest competitor, and emptied his warehouses of his wealth and luxury goods. I begin to wonder how Don Julio flourishes on the mainland, without some collusion with the French?”

  “Good Christ, Quill!” Lewrie spat, “mean t’say ye can’t trust your own best source of information?” He said it a tad louder than necessary, forcing Quill to make shushing motions.

  “I’ve had misgivings from the start,” Mr. Quill confessed, all but wringing his hands impotently, “My late mentor, Zachariah Twigg, warned us that we might be dealing with scoundrels, rogues, and criminals in our work for Secret Branch.

  “He said there are patriots, eager partisans who will work for nothing beyond expenses,” Quill went on in a sorrowful voice. “There are some who will sham patriotism and demand money for their services, and there are some others who will serve the highest bidder. All of them will betray their countries, and if they become used to betrayal long enough, they will sell out our side as effortlessly as Judas Iscariot betrayed Jesus. I have no illusions about Julio Caesare, if that’s his real name, I still can’t determine, but now … the more I learn, the more dubious I become.”

  “You think he’s setting us up for a trap?” Lewrie asked him.

  “I don’t know!” Quill confessed. “Two companies, a party of Marines? What would their loss avail the French? Very little, I’d imagine. No, Sir Alan. This may not be his moment. Eliminating a whole specially-trained battalion and your squadron might be reason for him to accept gold napoleons ’stead of gold guineas.”

  “Now you make me wonder why he was so insistent that none of my officers, or officers from the Ninety-Fourth, went with him on that last scout,” Lewrie gravelled.

  “Well, it would have been too risky, as he said,” Quill allowed with a weak grin. “Someone who can’t speak Italian in either a Sicilian or a Calabrian accent, and play the part to the hilt? So long as Don Julio is my only source of information, he gets all my gold, with no need to share with anyone else. I dearly wish that there was but one patriotic bone in his body, but Don Julio is a mercenary right down to his toes. And if London ever did get round to sending me a fellow who could pass himself off over there, who could get in touch with a band of partisans, I expect he’d die under suspicious circumstances, so Julio Caesare remains my only source.

  “Believe me, Sir Alan,” Quill added, striving to make light of his burdens, “that library at Cambridge from which I was plucked … beguiled, rather … seems a paradise now, dry and dusty though it was. So many fascinating and ancient tomes to read, or hunt up for others.”

  “The best of luck to you, Mister Quill,” Lewrie bade him, “And do inform us instanter, soon as you make arrangements for that light on the beach. Back to Messina, are you?”

  “This very hour, Sir Alan,” Quill told him. “And yes, I shall let you know as soon as the arrangement is made. And the best of luck with you, too, sir.”

  Christ on a crutch! Lewrie thought; If I told Tarrant about Quill’s suspicions, would he just chuck it all and ask for return to garrison duty on Malta? When and where might we be betrayed to the French? Brr!

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Almost a perfect night for it,” Vigilance’s First Officer said as he looked aloft for any sign of the commissioning pendant, and how it streamed on the winds. “No moon, no stars, everything black as a boot, and a heavy overcast.”

  “And the coastline’s just as black,” Lt. Grace, the Fourth Officer added. “Not a light to be seen anywhere.”

  “Just about t’say,” Lt. Farley agreed with a snigger.

  “Captain’s on deck,” Lt. Grace warned, sensing a new presence.

  “How could you tell?” Lewrie quipped as he stumbled forward to the double-wheel helm, the helmsmen, and the only wee glim lit in the compass binnacle, mostly by memory, for the compass cabinet was covered with a folded-over jute bag, only peeked at now and then to see if the ship was still on course of East by North, Half East to stand into the Gulf of Saint Eufemia after a fairly short passage on East, Nor’east from their anchorage off Milazzo.

  Three Bells chimed up forward at the belfry, which was below the level of the ship’s bulwarks, allowing ship’s boys to watch their sandglasses by the light of a small lanthorn.

  Dumb habit, Lewrie chid himself as he groped for his pocket watch to confirm the striking of Three Bells; half past 1 A.M. in the Middle Watch. Instead, he raised his head to sniff the wind. It had rained in the afternoon before sailing, from a complete overcast sky, but the winds that drove the clouds had not been overly strong, so it was possible that somewhere over mainland Italy, perhaps on the bridge or beaches, the rains might have lingered, presenting problems for the soldiers who would scramble up to the coast road. It had not been a hard rain, so Lewrie could yet hope that the gorge under the bridge would mostly be dry, so his Marines could dig and plant their charges, and the kegs of powder would not get damp while they did so.

  He thought of feeling about the binnacle cabinet racks for one of the night-glasses, which could gather some light, but shrugged and told himself that there could be nothing to see, even upside down and backwards; black was black, and so was Italy.

  “Deck, there!” a lookout in the main top shouted down. “There’s some sorta light ahead! Two points off th’ starb’d bows!”

  “That’d be somewhere Due East?” Lewrie asked. “You here, Mister Wickersham?”

  “Aye, sir,” the Sailing Master spoke up from somewhere over to larboard. “Perhaps a bit below Due East. Chart space, sir?”

  “Aye, let’s have a look,” Lewrie agreed, leaving his rightful place at the weather corner of the quarterdeck to join Wickersham at the door to the chart space. The Sailing Master opened the flimsy door, swept back the dark wool blanket hung to hide the light, and they both stepped into the glow of two bulkhead candle sconces that illuminated the pertinent chart.

  “Ah, roughly Due East of our track by Dead Reckoning, hmm…” Wickersham mused aloud, stepping off their course with a pair of brass dividers, “that would most-like be the village of Pizzo, sir. Tropea’s Sou’West of us, by now.”

  “And with Pizzo two points off the starboard bows, that’d put us almost directly headin’ for the beach by the bridge,” Lewrie said. “And, with any luck, we’re well clear of the coast twixt Tropea and Pizzo. Ehm … say ten miles to our landing place, sir?”
r />   “Aye, about that, sir,” Wickersham gruffly agreed.

  “Think I’ll go to the poop deck for a look-see,” Lewrie told him, brushing the blanket aside and standing between it and the door before leaving the chart space.

  This time, a night-telescope availed to reveal a weak and dim constellation of lights ashore, right on the horizon, and sometimes dipping out of sight as the sea scended and the ship rolled over it.

  Lewrie didn’t think that he was seeing lanthorns round Pizzo’s small fishing harbour; like most coastal villages on that coast, what lights he could make out would be up-slope in the upper town. Lewrie paced over to the larboard side, breasted into the bulwarks to steady himself, and swung the night-glass in hopes of spotting Bristol Lass, but she was still invisible. The last the two ships had seen of each other had been hours before, when taffrail lanthorns had been doused. He could only imagine that Lt. Fletcher was firm on course for that beach where he would land Col. Tarrant and his two companies.

  If there’s a bloody beacon, Lewrie thought; If the French don’t bag Caesare’s men. God’s Balls, what a cock-up this could be, yet! Just t’be a bit safer…!

  “Mister Farley, a quarter point to larboard, if you please,” Lewrie called down to the dark quarterdeck below him. “A spoke or two.”

  “Aye, sir,” the First Officer replied, “a spoke or two to larboard, Quartermaster,” he relayed to the helmsmen, and there was a brief wink of light as the compass was bared for a second to peer into the bowl.

  Lewrie went down the ladderway to the quarterdeck by feel in the stygian blackness, step by careful step, then made his way to the cross-deck hammock stanchions at the forward edge, so he could look down into the waist.

  During a normal night at sea, only half the crew would be up and standing watch, and all the Marines who got “all night in” privileges, but for those who stood sentry, would be asleep below, swaying, snoring, and breaking wind in their hammocks. Not tonight, no.

  Everyone was astir, and Lewrie could sense their presence more than he could see them. Boat crews were already mustered, boarding nets were already slung overside, and Marines assigned to each boat were clustered by the nets, fully uniformed and armed, rucksacks, canteens, and sheathed bayonets rustling and clinking now and then. The men could not be silent, though their conversations were muted into whispers, broken here and there by bad jokes, almost gallows humour, and the groans or laughs forced from the listeners.