“The steepness of the terrain didn’t lend itself to landing the whole battalion, sir,” Tarrant explained. “About one hundred twenty men and officers, all landed at once in six barges, and gotten ashore within half an hour.”
“Barges? D’ye mean harbour scows,” Malcomb questioned, “like we see in the port of Messina?”
“Twenty-nine-foot Admiralty pattern, eight-oared rowing boats, sir,” Lewrie supplied, “not flat-bottomed scows or hoys; the largest in Navy inventory. Usually more suited to use by Admirals. Each of our transports tows six of them. They’re a bit too heavy to be hoisted aboard and stowed on the boat-tier beams.”
“Whatever all that means, haw haw!” Malcomb waved off with one of his laughs, which had begun to irk. “Half an hour, d’ye say? Hah!”
And both Lewrie and Tarrant had to explain about the boarding nets, and how the soldiers of the 94th went over the side all at once.
“Well, that’ll be a sight t’see, hey, Caruthers?” Malcomb asked.
“Indeed it will be, sir,” the Brigadier agreed, “and much faster than any of my regiments were got ashore, one boat at a time beneath the entry-ports of my transports.”
“I thought to employ two companies from one transport to demonstrate the technique later today, after dinner, sir,” Tarrant said.
In the co-ordinated raids against an host of small seaports on the toe and sole of Calabria’s “boot,” Caruthers had cobbled together many transports from God only knew where to put the three regiments of his brigade ashore, but his ships had been crewed by civilian mariners, very thinly manned, and with few cutters and gigs to ferry the troops ashore, forcing his soldiers to do their own rowing. Getting them into the boats had been time-consuming, to the point that one of his regiments was still dribbling onto the beach half an hour before a French column had marched down to the commotion, and the third regiment hadn’t gotten ashore at all, due to the many coasting trading ships and boats that the Navy had sunk or set afire, precluding the use of town piers as a landing place.
Caruthers had met and defeated the French column, anyway, and in fine fashion, with the Navy’s help with long-range gunfire support, and Lewrie’s knowledge of captured French howitzers, but even he had realised that it had been a damned close-run thing, and, instead of being hailed as a victor, could have lost his command and his place in the Army.
Had a taste o’ fame, did ye? Lewrie speculated as he watched the fellow sip wine and scan round as if looking for new ideas; Bored by garrison duty, and lookin’ for more notice in the newspapers? Want a part in what we’re doin’?
General Malcomb mentioned the bridge, again, and half an hour was spent in describing the laying of explosive charges, then the aimed gunfire from Vigilance that had taken out the supporting centre pillar, which led to further explanantion of how Lewrie had had crude sights filed into his guns, and where the idea had come from, to which Gen. Malcomb issued the occasional “Well, I never heard the like” several times. He was offered a tour of the ship to show him, but demurred with a shiver, and swore that he had already seen the interiors of troop transports, so there was no need to plunk his bum into a boat and be rowed out for an inspection.
By then it was time for the mid-day meal, a rather impressive repast that Tarrant had laid on; fish course, roast chicken, followed by lamb in lieu of roast beef, with fresh salad greens and vegetables purchased from local farms, and washed down with glass after glass of suitable wines.
Christ, can he stay awake enough t’see the demonstration after all that? Lewrie wondered as Malcomb nodded, belched into his napkin, and swayed on his chair, beginning to slur his words. At least his aides-de-camp, perhaps used to staying sobre whilst their superior drank himself to “snoring happyland,” still appeared capable of taking notes.
Once fresh fruit and coffee had been served, everyone, even the General, trooped down to the shoreline, and an Infantry Ensign given the signals chore, hoisted the two-flag hoist that Lewrie and Tarrant had agreed upon as their private code for Land Troops.
“Watch closely now, sir,” Tarrant told Malcomb. “The barges, which have been towed astern of the transport, will be pulled up alongside, three to each side by the mast shrouds…”
Sailors aboard Lady Merton sprang to their tasks doing just that, even as boarding nets were cast overside, and men assigned to the boat crews mustered at the bulwarks above the nets, scrambling down to man their barges the instant they were alongside, taking hold of the nets to keep close to the anchored ship. As Col. Tarrant narrated the procedure, soldiers in stove-pipe shakoes, red tunics, and white cross-belts appeared above the rails, muskets and field accoutrements slung over their shoulders and about their bodies, summoned up from below by their officers’ whistles.
Lewrie spent his time watching General Malcomb and Brigadier Caruthers and their aides to see what they were making of the demonstration, and how the aides were scribbling in ledger-sized books.
“At the command, troops from each company will go down into the boats by twelve-man sections…” Tarrant droned on.
Lewrie noticed Mr. Quill, and his new assistant, who had slunk down to the shore to stand apart to witness the doings, and, deeming Tarrant able to lecture without his help, drifted over to join them.
“Buongiorno, Mister Quill,” Lewrie said in a low voice, “and who’s your newcomer?”
“Allow me to name myself to you, Captain Lewrie,” the stranger smoothly said, doffing his hat, “I am John Silvester, late of Oxford, and London, formerly Giovanni Silvestri of Napoli, ’til King Ferdinand was ousted, when my family sought shelter and exile in England. I am come to aid Mister Quill in all things Italian.”
“About time, too,” Mr. Quill said. “Especially so, now that we seem to have discovered a band of partisans over on the mainland.”
“Aye, Colonel Tarrant told me a little about that,” Lewrie responded. “Pleasure t’make your acquaintance, Mister Silvester.”
Lewrie gave the new-come a good looking over, wondering if the young man would be any help at all; John, or Giovanni, Silvestri would not be out of place, or thought poorly dressed, in Ranelagh Gardens, the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane, or gambling at the Cocoa Tree back in London. Silvester, or Silvestri, was dark-haired, somewhat too good-looking, in an light-olive complexioned way, dark-eyed, and too full of seeming mirth to play the part of a paisano in Calabria, yet … his hand, when shaken, was as rough and calloused as any Jack Tar in his crew.
“I am looking forward to returning to my poor country, sir,” the young fellow further said, “as soon as I may gather the proper clothes to cloak my purpose, and find transport with this Don Julio that Mister Quill has told me about.”
“Are ye sure ye can play-act native, sir?” Lewrie asked with a deep scowl. “One slip, and…”
Silvestri slouched, launched into a long, incomprehensible palaver in Italian, replete with expressive hands, swiped his long hair into a tousle, and even spat on the ground as if to make a point.
“Well, you convince me, but what do I know?” Lewrie had to confess. “Just so long as you don’t turn into a Romney Marsh.”
“Ah, sì sì, Signore Marsh!” Silvestri enthusiastically cried. “Il agargiante, et fortunato signore, il leggenda!”
“Flamboyant and successful, a legend in our service,” Quill translated.
“A fellow my instructors speak of with awe, sir,” Silvestri said, in a bit of awe himself over reports of Marsh’s exploits.
“I’ve met him,” Lewrie responded, most definitely not in awe of the man. “He’s quite insane, ye know.”
“Well, that’s what they all said, sir,” Silvestri admitted, “but that’s what’s aided his charmed life.”
“Short, grandiose, and sure t’end in tears,” Lewrie gravelled.
“I am not his sort, sir, though I do intend to do my bit,” the young man promised. “Fisherman, farmer, peasant, labourer … whatever is needed.”
“Play the guitar, do you?” Lewr
ie scoffed.
“The mandolin, sir,” Silvestri said with a sly grin.
“Once the boats are in line-abreast, they stroke hard for the shore,” Col. Tarrant was continuing his explanations, “if necessary, we must launch as far as one mile out, but I’m told that the ships we use as transports can get within half a mile of shore, as we did at the latest landing, see? They draw less water than Sir Alan’s ship. In a few minutes more, my troops will be wading ashore, muskets loaded, and ready to skirmish, though the un-opposed landing in the wee hours, when the French are abed, is best. Do take note…”
“I see that Brigadier-General Caruthers is here,” Quill said.
“I expect he’s looking for a way to emulate us and win further acclaim,” Lewrie sourly agreed. “If he’d gotten his third regiment ashore at Siderno, I think he’d have marched on Reggio di Calabria after he’d beaten that French column.”
“Does he have influential patrons?” Quill wondered aloud.
“With our luck, aye,” Lewrie growled. “Bags of ’em.”
“Then you might get the ships you need, along with his,” Quill posed with a shrug.
“Damn his eyes, he could, couldn’t he?” Lewrie spat. “And if my patron, Admiral Charlton, agrees to having more than one iron in the fire … but Admiralty tells me there’s little hope for only two more troopers rated as armed transports, with Navy crews, available for a long time in future. Other needs of the Service? Graft? Corruption?”
“Believe me, Sir Alan,” Quill was quick to assure him, “I, and Foreign Office, are pressing your case for your recent successes to be re-enforced to the hilt. And now that we have the possibility to have armed and eager partisans on our side, the need for more ships, and more troops for Colonel Tarrant, is even more vital.
“I’ve managed to arrange arms shipments be sent here for use by the partisans,” Quill went on, “both seventy-five calibre Tower muskets and sixty-three calibre French muskets, most of them captured over the years by the Royal Navy at sea … Saint Etienne pattern. Once I get Don Julio to land them for me … or, if you could discover a way to sneak them ashore some dark night, hmm?”
“More than happy to oblige, Mister Quill!” Lewrie exclaimed with delight, “Once Signore Silvestri makes the arrangements over there.”
They were interrupted by the whoops of soldiers from the 94th splashing shin-deep from the barges onto the beach beyond the wooden landing pier, assembling into four-man groups and dashing forward to screen the landing of the rest, kneeling, and pretending to fire at an imagined enemy in loose Chain Order, with two-man pairs running even farther and taking cover where they could serve as scouts.
“Huzzah, that’s the way!” a drunken Gen. Malcomb hooted. “Forth, and give them the bayonet, I say! Onward, you brave Mer-Men! Hic!”
“As you can see, sirs,” Col. Tarrant went on, raising his voice to drown out the drunken maunderings of General Malcomb, “the Ninety-Fourth has been trained along the lines of the Light Infantry, with the Line Companies capable of skirmishing as ably as the Light Company. Even the Grenadier Company, yes, them, as well, hah hah! Just as the late, revered General Sir John Moore wished all British soldiers to be. When my re-enforcements ever arrive, I intend to form a second Light Company, flesh out the Grenadier Company, and…”
“D’ye think they’ll take that as sacrilege?” Lewrie quipped.
“I’m sure that that Malcomb fellow will,” Mr. Quill rejoined. “He looks as hide-bound and conservative as Cromwell’s Roundheads. I do note that Brigadier Caruthers is lapping it all up like a kitten at a bowl of cream. Yes, he may very well re-train at least one of his regiments the same as Tarrant’s troops.”
“Now, you’ll note that whilst my men have advanced to the objective,” Col. Tarrant was telling the witnesses, “the Navy provides security at the beach, and the boats, ’til the raiding party returns after eliminating…”
“My cue, I believe,” Lewrie said, doffing his hat to Mr. Quill and Silvester/Silvestri. “Good afternoon to you, sirs. Will you be supping with us this evening?”
“Us, at-table with those worthies?” Quill sourly said, “Surely you jest, Sir Alan.”
“Oh well, I s’pose I always do,” Lewrie admitted with a wry grin and a cock of his head. “Later, then.”
“Ah, there you are, Sir Alan,” Col. Tarrant said as Lewrie strolled back to join them. “I was just explaining about your sailors standing guard.”
“At least nine hands per boat, sirs,” Lewrie told them, “and all armed with muskets, pistols, and cutlasses. Each transport will land at least fifty-five of them, Midshipmen and officers included, and my ship supplies seventy Marines, almost a full company, to either stand guard, or augment Colonel Tarrant’s soldiers, though they form a solid block in two ranks, in the older style. They’re not trained to skirmish in sections, fours, or pairs. Yet!”
The subject of artillery arose, and Lewrie and Tarrant had to confess that they’d found no practical way to get guns, caissons, and limbers ashore in any sort of boat that could withstand rough conditions at sea, and horse-drawn guns would be all but impossible.
“We are not designed, or equipped, sirs,” Col. Tarrant pointedly stressed, “to force a permanent lodgement ashore, but to raid and raise Hell, then withdraw.”
“And so far we’ve done it damned well,” Lewrie added with some pride.
“I’ll drink to that,” General Malcomb huzzahed, as if he hadn’t already.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Tarrant’s promised supper proved a dead bust. It was too late in the day for the inspection party to ride back to Messina in the dark, General Malcomb was by dusk so drunk that serving him a bowl of soup might have drowned him, face-down, and his aides were not in much better shape, either. They had to be lodged overnight, turfing subaltern officers from their lodgings in their mess, then roused out in the early-earlies and given an indifferent breakfast to speed them on their way, a breakfast that Lewrie pointedly skipped.
If Lewrie expected a quiet morning and a good breakfast aboard his own ship, though, he was wrong, for Mr. Quill and his new-come assistant were still in camp, and, not an hour after the inspection party had clattered away, Don Julio Caesare showed up, as if he had been in the vicinity, watching, for just such an opportunity, and Lewrie was summoned ashore once more, un-shaven, with only a sketchy sponge-down.
“Ah, Signore Capitano,” Don Julio amiably cried, arms out wide in greeting from Col. Tarrant’s shaded gallery, “You have the visit from il pezzo grosso from Messina, hey? Sorry I miss them. I come to speak with Signore Quill, Colonnello Inglese, and you. I have news of a new place you might wish to strike, heh heh! Congratulaziones, about the bridge! The traffico is at a complete stop! Nothing is move! Though,” Don Julio added with a scheming look and a rub of his chin, “with multi timber, they might re-build it.”
“Sir Alan has thought of that, Signore,” Col. Tarrant told him with a confident smile. “He’s written his superior, Admiral Charlton, to suggest that a smaller warship cruise close ashore of the bridge every fortnight or so, and take it under fire to daunt the workers on the project, and knock down what they’ve accomplished. Wood timbers will shatter a lot easier than old stonework, hah!”
“Traffic’s backed up either side of the bridge, you say?” Quill eagerly asked.
“Oh sì!” Don Julio expansively told him. “Multi waggons full of supplies north of the bridge, at Maida and Filadelfia, and empty ones at Pizzo and Sant’ Onofrio, hah hah! Tempting, but, povero me, multi, multi Francesi soldati with them. Alas, I meaning.”
“And too far inland for us to hit,” Tarrant said with a grim nod, as if he was indeed tempted to try it on, anyway.
Tarrant’s orderly made the rounds to refill coffee cups with a fresh, steaming brew, and, whilst Don Julio expounded on what some of his men had learned following the raid, Lewrie gave him a look-over.
He’s even more prosperous-lookin’ than a London banker, Lewrie thought; Comin’ u
p in the world, are we? Crime does seem t’pay!
At their first encounter in Messina, Don Julio Caesare had been the epitome of a wharf rat, pirate, or poor fisherman, but now he was garbed in fine red-brown boots, dark green corduroy trousers, a white silk ruffled shirt, and long, old-style waist-coat of supple black leather, lined with red silk. Beside his chair, a wide-brimmed tan beaver hat sat. And, of course, he still sported a red waist sash in which he wore his chased pistols and bejewelled dagger sheath.
“Long ago, I mention a place where il Tedeschi soldati camp, sì, Signore Quill?” Don Julio resumed after spooning several spoonfuls of sugar into his cup and stirring it up. “Germans? Bastardos brutale!”
“Where, Signore?” Quill eagerly asked.
“At Melito di Porto Salvo, west of Cape Spartivento, Signore,” Don Julio informed him, sitting more upright with his elbows on his knees, and getting a crafty look. “Like Tropea, there is the regiment, but only half are in town at any time, the rest looting the paisanos in the countryside, collecting the taxes, and storing things of multi value in the town’s pierside warehouses. Much grain, pasta, wine, and cured meats, which the Francesi in Reggio di Calabria now need even more, sì?”
“You and your men have scouted it, sounded the waters, and such, sir?” Quill asked him.
“Not yet, Signore,” Don Julio said with hands spread wide in apology, “but if it interests you, I can send ’Tonio to do it.”
“Which ’Tonio?” Lewrie just had to ask.
“The ’Tonio who scout your bridge, Capitano Inglese!” Don Julio said with a sly look, and a hearty laugh.
“Well, alright then!” Lewrie exclaimed happily.
“In the meantime, though, Don Julio,” Mr. Quill suggested, “I’ve a wee chore for you to perform for me. Colonel Tarrant ran into some partisans who, quite by chance, attacked the guards on the bridge at the same time as his men were launching their attack. They are led by a fellow who styles himself ‘Spada,’ the Sword, and I would dearly love to establish connexions with him and his band. The Colonel promised them aid and arms, which I hope will soon arrive.”
An Onshore Storm Page 10
