An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “It wasn’t Captain Repair On Board, was it?” Lewrie asked with a scowl.

  “Oh, no sir! It is Request, and Conference, spelled out, sir,” Ingham declared.

  “They’ve learned their lesson, anyway,” Lewrie said, getting to his feet and tucking his wife’s letters into his desk drawer for later. “Show them Will Comply, and pass word for my boat crew.”

  “Aye aye, sir,” Ingham crisply replied, eager to escape whatever snit had prompted that “Oh, balls!”

  “Shove me into my everyday, if ye please, Deavers,” Lewrie bade, “and warn Yeovill that I don’t know how long ashore I’ll be, so I may be havin’ a very late dinner, if one at all. Charts? Might as well take ’em along, too,” he said, patting himself down for the needfuls in his breeches and waist-coat pockets as Deavers fetched his hat and undress uniform coat.

  * * *

  He was greeted at the makeshift pier along the beach by Colonel Tarrant, and a large, wet, and shaggy dog just paddling ashore with a stick in his mouth.

  “Welcome, Sir Alan,” Tarrant said. “You have no doubt heard?”

  “About the new ship, and your re-enforcements, I take it?” Lewrie asked, his head cocked to one side.

  “Exactly so, sir,” Col. Tarrant agreed with a grim nod. “What the bloody Hell are those fools in London playing at? Or those in Peterborough, too, to be specific. As soon as I got through tearing my hair out, I thought we should confer.”

  “Aye, no time like the present,” Lewrie said. “You’re not happy about the number of troops they’re sending you?”

  “Let’s go to my quarters, where I can rant in private,” Tarrant suggested, turning seaward for a moment, “Here, Dante, here pup!” and the dog gave himself a thorough shake, creating a cloud of water droplets, and sprang to his master’s side, tail wicking, the stick still in his mouth.

  “You’ve a dog, now?” Lewrie asked.

  “Yes. Dante just turned up one morning, whining and begging for breakfast. I tossed him some bacon and bread, and he’s been glued to me the last week entire. Yes, I’ll throw your damned stick for you. There, go fetch ’em up!” as he flung it a good fifty yards inland, and the dog took off in a tear, pouncing on his prize, shaking it between his teeth with happy growls, then came prancing back to rejoin them.

  “He’s a shaggy cur of no particular breed,” Tarrant said as the dog dropped the stick, tongue lolling and tail thrashing for another throw. “Smells better after a dip in the sea, I assure you.”

  “Good dog, Dante,” Lewrie cooed, “and aren’t you a big’un?”

  A second later and Lewrie was pounced upon, with the dog’s front paws nigh on his upper chest, a tongue licking his face, and a strong doggy breath up his nose. He tried shoving him off and down, but that transferred the odour of wet fur to his hands and coat.

  “Bad boy, Dante!” Col. Tarrant chid him. “Bad dog!” Which, of course, meant little to the dog, who whirled round in an urgent circle to have his stick thrown again. Tarrant picked it up, flung it, and the dog was off at a gallop to chase it down.

  “He must have been some working dog on a farm round here,” Col. Tarrant said as they got to the canvas-covered gallery in front of his quarters and took seats. “He didn’t know what ‘play’ was for the first four days, and now he’s insatiable at it. With luck, he’ll wear himself out in a bit. Wine, Sir Alan?”

  “Aye, that’d be welcome,” Lewrie agreed, taking off his hat but not sure where to put it down in case the dog found it as tempting as his stick.

  “Didn’t understand much about petting, and affection, either,” Col. Tarrant went on, “and now he simply can’t get enough. I swear I don’t know why people treat dogs so dismissively.

  “Now, sir,” Tarrant went on, crossing his booted legs to turn and face Lewrie. “This one new transport they’re sending you … how many of my men can be put aboard?”

  “She’s said to be able to accommodate all two hundred, and that’s how they’ll sail them here,” Lewrie told him, “though she has only six barges, the same as the others, so I couldn’t get all two hundred of them ashore at one go. There’s simply no room in the barges for all of them. That’d be two full, hundred-man companies?”

  “Well, no,” Tarrant told him. “There are enough officers for two more companies, but I thought to use some of the replacements to flesh out the six that I have. Say, eight companies, each of sixty-five or seventy men. Your barges might be crammed arsehole to elbow, but you might be able to get them all landed at once, if we don’t push it.”

  “Hmm, that’d be possible,” Lewrie said after thinking that over for a bit. “We’ve cabins for one hundred and twenty, now, on each ship, so room for one hundred fourty’d be possible, so long as we don’t have to stay at sea much more than a week, or less.”

  The dog returned, prancing as proud as punch with himself for “bagging a kill.” He dropped the stick by one of Tarrant’s boots, sat on his haunches, and whined for more fun.

  “Haven’t you had enough by now?” Tarrant cooed to his new pet. “Come here, Dante, and sit close for a spell.” He extended his hands and the dog placed his head and front paws in Tarrant’s lap to get a petting.

  “Better your breeches than mine, sir,” Lewrie japed.

  “Yes, well,” Col. Tarrant said with a toss of his head. “Have you heard from Don Julio, or Mister Quill, yet, about our new raid?”

  “Nothing yet, but the officer of that brig that put in yesterday told me some about it,” Lewrie told him as Tarrant’s orderly appeared with two glasses of white wine on a silver tray. “Melito di Porto Salvo sounds a tough’un. At least six twelve-pounder field guns in redans either side of the harbour entrance, a German garrison, and the best landing beaches right under their artillery. Steep going, too.”

  “Damned good soldiers, Germans,” Tarrant said with a wince and sucking of his teeth. “Hessians in America, the King’s German Legion in Spain … they’ll be sure to put up a stouter defence than any we have seen yet, and a more alert watch. No surprising them. Canister and grapeshot? They could engage your barges even before they get on the beach. One would hope that Don Julio’s scouts report with better news … or Mister Quill’s agent finds us an easier target. Did Don Julio say why this particular Melito … however one says it … is so important?”

  “Large caches of foodstuffs for the French in Calabria,” Lewrie said with a shrug of puzzlement. “Or, perhaps one of his damned competitors is based there, who knows. God, Andalusia in Spain was much easier. The Foreign Office spy at Gibraltar had good connexions with the Spanish partisans, and we chose our own places to land, and when, had at least one fishing boat of our own to prowl with, and more men ashore to gather and pass information. Depending on mercenaries and smugglers as we are, well … one never knows what they might stick us in, or why!

  “I brought charts, though,” Lewrie offered of a sudden, “just in case we do raid Melito di bloody Salvo.”

  “Yes, let’s have a squint at them,” Tarrant suggested, “let us go inside, so we can spread them out on my table.”

  Tarrant’s dog prowled round the dining table, paws scratching, to see what the humans were so interested in, but, after a shooing or two, went to a scrap of rag carpet, circled himself several times, and flopped down with an audible Hmfph! over being ignored.

  “Moderate to heavy surf, there,” Lewrie said, pointing at the western beaches with a pencil, “and I expect the artillery is posted somewhere up-slope on the low hills either side of the harbour mouth. The town behind, well, I know little of it, yet, but the charts hint at a rather round-ish harbour, with good shelter from storms. A good place for the French to marshal coasting ships.”

  “It was bombarded from the sea back in the Spring, was it not?” Col. Tarrant asked, using a magnifying glass to peer closer at the chart.

  “Aye, but I’ve no idea how much damage our ships caused,” Lewrie agreed. “The narrowness of the harbour mouth limits how long a ship’s gun
s can bear before these low hills intervene. I do know that many fires were set, and some prizes were fetched out, but…” he said, tossing off a shrug. “From where we were anchored off Siderno, it certainly looked as if we’d burned the place to the ground.”

  Col. Tarrant set aside his magnifying glass, peered at the chart a bit longer, then went to his desk and rummaged round ’til he found a map of lower Calabria, brought it to the table and spread it out, a sly smile on his face.

  “Look here, Sir Alan,” Tarrant said. “There’s one decent usable road on the west coast, all the way from Naples to Reggio di Calabria, then down to Melito di Porto Salvo. All else are muddy, rutted farm tracks that struggle through the hills. That coast road runs all round the shore, to Catanzaro on the east coast of the peninsula. It’s only there that one meets cross-peninsula roads, and they are below Pizzo, and that bridge we destroyed. Were I a French general on short commons, I’d divert my supply convoys from round Filadelfia to Catanzaro, then west through all those little seaport towns we attacked earlier this year. Hmm, even shorter, did they divert cross the mountains on this road from Filadelfia to Monasterace Marina. Perhaps a landing, or a series of landings, from Monasterace to Bova Marina near Cape Spartivento would be easier. Perhaps not even right into the towns themselves, but raids along the road, to stop convoys, drive off their escorts, and set fire to the waggons, kill their draught animals!”

  “And, if there are bands of partisans in the mountains, they’d have to divert their troop strength farther afield than all of these little seaport towns,” Lewrie said, liking the idea at once. “Though, I’d have to land you in the dark, then sail off, so the French don’t know you’re there ’til you’ve struck, and there’s no way for you to signal me to retrieve you. And, if you run into trouble, I’d not be there in time to extricate you.”

  “Hmm, there is that,” Tarrant said, plumping out his lips in a deep frown. “The risk might be better than attacking Melito di-what-ye-call it. You’re quite right, that’s a tough nut to crack, no error. Even with eight fleshed-out companies, and your Marines as a ninth, and all my re-enforcements as trained and experienced at what we do as the troops I have now, I’d still not wish to try it on.”

  “There are notes and sketches,” Lewrie realised, all but slapping his forehead. “Mister Quill has ’em, and I think I have some of them. The results of all the scouting Don Julio’s men did along the coast before Admiral Charlton’s big raid. We’d not be going in completely blind.”

  “Yes!” Tarrant exclaimed. “Troop strengths, warehouses, if any artillery’s present, the condition of the landing beaches, and how the towns are laid out! It may not be as much information as we need, but it’s enough to allow us to begin planning our own raids, and not be totally dependent on Don Julio Caesare.”

  “Well, it’s said that ‘a little information is a dangerous thing,’” Lewrie quipped.

  “Hah! Being led round by the nose is a deal worse!” Tarrant hooted. “I’ll get a note off to Mister Quill in Messina this afternoon, to see what he’s retained from that earlier mass raid, and I’d admire did you dig into your desk to see if you can turn up anything useful, Sir Alan.”

  “With pleasure, Colonel,” Lewrie gladly agreed. “Perhaps Mister Quill can also tell us if he’s heard from his new agent over there, and if and when he wishes his arms to be landed.”

  “Gad, yes!” Col. Tarrant went on with enthusiasm, “Can Mister Silvestri assemble a larger partisan band, with the weapons he plans to give them, the local Italians could harass the supply convoys in the hills, all along that poor secondary road, as well! Hah! Quite a productive morning, sir!”

  “I’ll drink to that,” Lewrie said, hinting for a refill. He’d even throw a stick for Tarrant’s dog, and give him some “wubbies” too, if it got them back into action.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Perhaps it was Mister Quill’s nature, having been a long-term student and librarian at college before his recruitment into Secret Branch, but he was like a “pack-rat,” and never threw anything away that caught his fancy, or he thought might be useful in future. He turned up in a light two-wheeled cart the day after Col. Tarrant’s request, accompanied by his boy message runner, Fiorello, with a chest crammed full of papers, maps, old letters, and writing materials.

  Once ensconced in Col. Tarrant’s quarters, and the chest opened, the Colonel’s dining table, the sideboard, and the chairs were soon piled high with loose, untidy, and perilously balanced stacks of the stuff, and it didn’t help that Dante the hound found it all so intriguingly scented that he had to be shooed out and the doors closed after several collapses and avalanches.

  “Fiorello, play with the dog!” Mr. Quill ordered, exasperated, tugging his shirt cuffs and waist-coat back into order. “Sorry about this. My lodgings are just by a sausage shop, and the fish market is not fifty yards off. I expect my papers have taken on aromas simply too tempting. Melito di Porto Salvo, ah … it’s here, somewhere,” Quill said as he roamed from one stack to another, lifting a part of a pile to thumb through.

  “We’re thinking more about Monasterace Marina, or the villages east of there,” Col. Tarrant prompted, while trying to be helpful bent over to scoop up fallen pages and such.

  “Don’t like the looks of Melito,” Lewrie told Quill. “Too tough a nut. The convoys along the roads…”

  “Ah, the detours, you mean,” Quill said, breaking out a smile. “Yes, I’ve had a letter from Silvestri, which tells of the supplies now going over the mountain roads from Filadelfia to Monasterace and Siderno, then back along the main coast road. The partisans have been watching closely, but haven’t been able to do anything about them, so far … lack of arms, and numbers. About the arms shipment…”

  “We want to ambush the supply convoys along the coast road once they cross the mountains,” Col. Tarrant reminded Quill, though in a cooing voice; he looked as if he’d save loud shouts for later if the fellow didn’t stay on point.

  “Hmm, ambushes, well,” Mr. Quill mused aloud, standing up and scratching at his chin. “If you can pull that off, more power to you. Don’t quite know why you’d wish to traipse about the countryside and play Red Indians, when the seaport towns are still there. Bova Marina, Brancaleone Marina, Locri, Siderno, and on east to Monasterace, they may not have warehouses any longer, but the supply convoys are only stopping for the night, then moving on in the morning.”

  “How do you know that, sir?” Lewrie asked.

  “What, I didn’t tell you?” Quill replied, then unfortunately for them breaking out into one of his bray-wheeze-gasping-drowning-man laughs. “Silvestri’s band of partisans is in contact with other bands all throughout Western Calabria, and when he asked that fellow ‘Spada’ or whoever he is about the convoys, he got an ear-ful. Well, there’s still stockpiles in each village, oats, grains, and hay for the mule and ox teams. That’s what the first convoys carried, d’ye see, so a convoy of waggons could feed their draught animals overnight.”

  “Quick raids on the towns, then,” Col. Tarrant realised, “where we already have information … burn the fodder, and whichever convoy happens to be in town at the moment, if luck’s with us. Hmm, I say!”

  “I would suppose,” Quill breezily said, “and if the fodder is lost, hmm … the French would have to waste waggons and animals restocking it.”

  “Delaying the carriage of food and supplies to their troops!” Lewrie exclaimed as if the battle was all but won. “And, if we burn waggons and slaughter the waggon teams, that makes things even more difficult for the French. I doubt the supply of horses, mules, and oxen in Calabria is in-exhaustible. Or decent waggons, either.”

  “And all for the destruction of a single bridge, haw!” Tarrant crowed. “Which would you prefer first, Sir Alan? Pick a village.”

  “Bova Marina, I suppose,” Lewrie said, pushing stacks aside to bare the sea chart beneath them. “It’s close to Melito di Porto Salvo, but the land is flatter, the beaches are broader, its har
bour is more open, and it’s only a long day’s march even for ox team waggons from Melito. Almost the end of a long, gruelling trek for the French with the convoy, teamsters and escorts, if any. They might be feelin’ a bit too cocky, by then. Garrison, though, and artillery,” he cautioned.

  “I’ve nothing new since the raids in the Spring,” Quill apologised, “but, all that information is in here, somewhere … copies of all I sent Admiral Charlton so his ships could prepare for it. Might we have some tea? It may take awhile.”

  Lewrie heaved a sigh and took off his coat and waist-coat, and hung them on a chair back. He looked round and realised that every chair was taken with stacks of material, so there would be no sitting as they searched for the hidden keys that opened Bova Marina to a new raid. He began to page through the nearest stack on the dining table, wishing that Quill had suggested wine instead of tea, for it looked to be a long morning and afternoon.

  * * *

  Two hours later, and they were still at it. They had found the sketches that Don Julio’s henchmen had made of Bova Marina; the town’s layout, the depths of water off the likely beaches, and a view from sea level. The warehouses were no longer there, of course, pounded to ruin by some frigate’s guns, along with half the waterfront dwellings, so that sketch was no longer to be trusted completely. But, so far, they could not find comments on Bova Marina’s garrison; how many of them, from which regiment, where they’d been lodged, their nationality, or whether the French had thought to emplace artillery in such a poor place.

  “It’s close enough to Melito di Porto Salvo,” Lewrie hesitantly speculated. “It wasn’t a storehouse for an invasion of Sicily like Locri or Siderno were, so … perhaps it had no garrison of its own, and that regiment of Germans at Melito just tramped through now and then.”

  “As I recall from our briefings, there were coastal trading ships and large fishing boats in the harbour, though,” Col. Tarrant said, leaning back in a chair that he’d finally cleared and now sat upon, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands. “Perhaps only one company would be necessary to guard them ’til Marshal Murat up in Naples marched his invasion force down to take ship. And, it most-like would have come from the nearest regiment, which would have been the Germans at Melito.”