An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “I’ll stand guard whilst you have yerself a nip’r two, and a go at their pockets,” Kitch volunteered.

  “Faith, but ye’re a kind man, for an Englishman, John Kitch!” Desmond declared. “And certain t’be rewarded in Heaven!” He entered the tavern, turned the French Sergeant over onto his back, and began to feel for pockets to slash open. Diagonal chevrons and shoulder tassels from the corpse’s uniform coat went into his own pockets, before he reached for the overturned demi-john to sample its contents.

  “Just don’t be takin’ too long, Liam,” Kitch hissed from the side of his mouth as he pretended to stand stern guard over the door. “I’ve a hellish thirst, meself.”

  * * *

  Marine Captain Whitehead halted his column once past the last sealed and silent row of houses that fronted the main road behind the village of Bova Marina, feeling the hairs on the nape of his neck go stiff, from a feeling that he was being watched from behind the shuttered windows of the houses. Some of his Marines faced rearward with their muskets aimed at those windows, where candlelight shone.

  Off to his left, Capt. Whitehead could see long, flickering shadows cast by the burgeoning glows of waggons set afire, and could almost make out soldiers of the 94th sneaking among the waggons that had not yet been set afire, weapons levelled, and bayonets shining amber and gold. In front of him, there were fields of scraggly crops of some kind, individual plots separated by low stone walls or woven branches of coastal scrub bush. To his right, off in the darkness beyond the flickering firelight, he could barely make out more waggons, what he took to be an entire second road convoy that had not yet been attacked. Were there people moving among them?

  HMS Vigilance carried a Marine complement of two Corporals, two Sergeants, and seventy private Marines. Such a complement rated three officers to oversee them all: himself, and two subaltern Leftenants, Venables and Kellett, both of them relative “newlies” aged twenty-four and nineteen, respectively.

  “Mister Venables, Mister Kellett, to me,” Whitehead hissed in the darkness, and sensed a shuffling and the tread of boots. “There’s Frenchmen among those waggons yonder. The Ninety-Fourth is advancing upon them from our left. Take charge of your platoons and incline to the right, forming two-deep ranks. Once formed, we will advance to take that waggon convoy in flank. Right? Go.”

  Whitehead stepped forward, then over a knee-high stone barrier into a field of some crop that swished and tugged at his boots, with an un-cocked pistol in each hand, wishing that he could shout to his men for quiet, for their separation into two elements, then the advance ahead and to their right made one Hell of a racket.

  “Cavalry to the front!” Whitehead heard some officer bellow off to his left, heard the jingle of saddle and bridle, harness, and the scrape of sabres being drawn. “Form ranks! Prepare to receive!”

  Capt. Whitehead thought that something was moving to his front, large forms half-guessed-at in the darkness, coalescing into almost recognisable shapes at they grouped together and approached the fires set among the first waggon convoy.

  “Marines! Halt!” he shouted of a sudden. “Cavalry to our front! First ranks, cock your locks … level and take aim! Fire!”

  Whitehead screwed his eyes tight shut as his men’s Tower muskets roared and spat long flames. He opened his eyes to search for the results of that volley, but heard more than he saw: horses screaming in sudden pain, their riders crying out in shock, the neighs of mounts rearing in panic.

  “Second ranks, level … fire!” Whitehead yelled, forgetting to shut his eyes this time. He heard another, much louder and sustained crash of musketry from the left from the 94th, then the unbelievable order of “Charge! Give them the bayonet!”

  “Huzzah!” Capt. Whitehead shouted to his men. “Infantry charging cavalry, lads? Reload, and … advance at the double!”

  That was much harder to do, almost comical, as muzzle-blinded Marines stumbled into low stone walls, sprawled and tripped over the dry branches that delineated individual plots, and, whilst the 94th was rushing forward over level ground and howling their battle cries, Vigilance’s Marines cursed aloud, yelped and stumbled, some going arse-over-tit when their feet met the obstructions.

  When closer to the burning waggons, it was easier to find their way, at last, out of the last scraggly farm plots and onto the main coast road, where the Marines could see the results of their volleys; there were at least two dozen horses down, most dead but some of them still thrashing and trying to get back on their feet. Among them were French cavalrymen, some shot dead, some clawing at their death wounds, and a few pinned under the weight of their dead mounts.

  “Who goes there?” a loud voice demanded.

  “Whitehead! Marines!” he shouted back.

  “Oh, Whitehead! Good show!” Col. Tarrant called out. “A damned good show! Came up through the town, did you? But of course you did, good fellow! Took them in flank and shot the courage out of them, I dare say, hah hah! They might have managed to charge us had you not, and with us unable to form square, things might have gotten a touch grim, but…”

  “No one’ll ever believe it, sir,” Whitehead managed to say, elated to receive such praise, and still in awe of the results. “Infantry charging cavalry, and driving them off?”

  “Yayss, well it makes our foes look rather lame, don’t it?” Col. Tarrant crowed, sheathing his sword at last. “They must have been Italian, not French. Take any prisoners, did you, Whitehead?”

  “Ehm, no sir,” Whitehead had to admit, cringing at the image of his men and their own laughable “charge.” “I believe I saw some of them galloping off to the right, to the east, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

  “We managed to nab a few,” Col. Tarrant told him, “though God knows what we’ll do with them. Strip them as naked as Adam and turn them loose, I suppose. Good fellow, Wiley!” Tarrant turned to shout to one of his officers who was directing his company to set fires on waggons of the eastern convoy. “Plenty to do ’til dawn, sir,” Tarrant said, turning back to the Marine officer.

  They both started of a sudden at the sharp barks of gunshots as men of the 94th put wounded, screaming horses out of their misery.

  “I would admire, sir,” Col. Tarrant bade, “did you, along with one of my companies, set out piquets to the east of town to alert us of any French response.”

  “Of course, Colonel, gladly,” Capt. Whitehead responded.

  “Now will come the nasty part,” Tarrant said with an unhappy sigh. “All these animals … cavalry mounts, horse and mule teams, the yokes of oxen, must be slaughtered. No sense burning the waggons and the supplies in them, else. The French in Calabria must be deprived of everything that can feed or support them in any fashion.”

  “Piquet duty suddenly sounds delightful, sir,” Whitehead said. “I grew up in the country, where my family breeds horses and mules.”

  “Off you go, then, sir, and the blood will be on my hands, as much as I care for horseflesh myself,” Tarrant said with a shrug of his shoulders. “Perhaps I may find a bowl and a pitcher of water, and emulate Pontius Pilate, and wash the guilt away? Who knows?”

  * * *

  “Now, what the Devil is happening?” Lewrie snapped to the men on the quarterdeck. Six Bells of the Middle Watch sounded from the belfry up forward and he began to grope for his pocket watch to tell the time, even though it was still too dark aboard to see. He cursed his enforced idleness and ignorance of what was transpiring ashore for the hundredth time. There had been what sounded like a pitched battle behind the town to the western edge, then minutes of silence before some fires were lit, so he could hope that Tarrant had seized the field and was carrying out his plans. But then, there had come another crash of musketry, shorter but just as intense as the first behind the town, with hundreds of muzzle flashes in two directions!

  Now, there were two growing, spreading seas of flames ashore, where Lewrie had imagined the waggon convoys had laid up for the night, which sight should have assured him t
hat the landing force had gained the desired results, but … every now and then he cou1d hear firing, as if the French were staging a last-ditch battle on the fringes of the town and the convoys to save even a scrap of the supplies, or a smidgeon of their honour.

  He raised his telescope to his eye yet again, and there was the seaport town of Bova Marina, its buildings, church steep1es, and its waterfront silhouetted starkly black against the rising sea of flame. But, it was still too dark to spot the signal post which Lt. Rutland would set up, or make out any flag messages.

  Even semaphore wouldn’t work! Lewrie thought, exasperatingly; Lanthorns against all that fire? Shit! Maybe if they wig-wagged from the quays, where it’s dark?

  Then, of course, there was the problem that only one or two of the officers in the 94th even knew the proper positions of a semaphore tower’s arms to spell out anything, and only one or two people aboard Vigilance who knew how to read them! And that in broad daylight!

  “I do believe there’s a hint of greyness to the skies, sir,” the Sailing Master dared speak up, knowing Lewrie’s black mood.

  “Hmm? Oh,” Lewrie said, lowering his telescope and peering all about. He could almost make out a hand held up before his face. He pulled his pocket watch out, held it under his nose, and could make out the white dial, and make a guess at where the hands stood.

  “About bloody time,” Lewrie grumbled, still un-satisfied.

  “Oh, I say there!” the Sailing Master exclaimed as loud booms sounded from the shore, and billowing flame clouds soared aloft as some waggons bearing kegged gunpowder blew up. Another, then another, filled with pre-made paper musket cartridges, took light, sending up a shower of fireworks and a fusillade of pops that resembled a feu de joie on the King’s birthday.

  “Huzzah!” several Midshipmen cried out, waving their hats with delight, and making “Oohs” and “Aahs” as each new waggon exploded.

  All Lewrie could do was glower at them, and drum his fingers on the cap-rails in impatience.

  * * *

  Desmond and Kitch were quite pleased with their haul of loot by dawn. The three dead Frenchmen sprawled on the floor of the tavern had been carrying a fair amount of silver coins, and the Sergeant near the door had two gold Napoleons sewn into the cuff turnbacks of his coat, along with a wedding ring and a pocket watch.

  They had also found a squat glass bottle of peach brandy, which they had shared back and forth, sparingly, knowing that there would be Hell to pay did they go back aboard “three sheets to the wind,” but it was tasty, heady, and almost worth the risk to sip at, not guzzle.

  Once all the shooting was over, though, and the people of Bova Marina dared come out of their houses and hiding places, they found it impossible to keep the civilians out of their own tavern.

  One moment, they had the place completely to themselves, then the next, they were mobbed by revellers who flooded through the door, talking a blue streak, dancing round and clapping themselves on the back, and drinking like they had won a great victory, themselves.

  They clapped Desmond and Kitch on their backs, almost fought for the honour of shaking the Ingleses’ hands, all the while speaking loud and vociferously in an incomprehensible babble of joyous Italian. Some music was struck up from outside, and the band members pranced inside the tavern, setting all the crowd dancing, as well.

  “They’re takin’ all th’ wine an’ ev’rything!” Kitch bemoaned in a loud voice. “Liam, we’re bein’ robbed!”

  “We still have th’ brandy, arrah,” Desmond told him, shouldering his way toward the tavern door. “A last swallow or two, me lad, and I think it’s time t’ scamper, ’fore we’re up on charges.”

  This time they did guzzle, gave the still half-full bottle a sad eye, and set it down on a table before going outside and slinging muskets from their shoulders so they could pretend to stand guard. It was a good thing that they did, for who should stomp up to peer closely at them than dour Lt. Rutland.

  “Who placed you here?” Rutland demanded, scowling.

  “Mister Grace did, yer honour, sir,” Kitch replied, “t’keep our lads from drinkin’ th’ place dry.”

  “You two? Hah!” Rutland barked in dis-belief. “That’s a farce! You’ve been drinking?”

  “Not ’til th’ Eye-talians come, sor,” Desmond told him, trying to stand sobrely erect, “an’ started t’party, and ’twas them who forced us t’take a sip or two. Their tavern, sor, an’ we couldn’t stop ’em.”

  “None of our lads got in past us, sir,” Kitch pointed out.

  “Bein’ sociable, like, with th’ locals, sor,” Desmond declared.

  Rutland would have said more, even asked to smell their breaths, but several civilian men staggered out of the tavern arm-in-arm, and cheering fit to bust, with bottles of wine in their hands. A song was struck up, and the street began to fill with revellers. Then there was that bottle of peach brandy again, thrust at Lt. Rutland.

  “Bravo, bravo, il Inglese!” a man shouted close enough to sling spittle on Rutland’s coat. “Salute! Il Francesi … morto!” he cried with a slashing motion cross his throat, which caused many revellers to roar agreement and raise bottles to their lips.

  “Well, if I must,” Lt. Rutland said, frowning, and took a short sip of the brandy. As he handed it back, the civilians urged him to take another, then offered it to Desmond and Kitch.

  “Permission, sor? They mean well, and all,” Desmond asked, and Rutland allowed them a sip each. “Ah, right tasty that is, sor.”

  “You two get down to the quays, now, and wait there for the Marines to return,” Lt. Rutland ordered, then called out to their backs as they made a quick escape, “And keep the hands from getting drunk in celebration with the damned Italians, hear me?”

  “Aye aye, sor!” Desmond sang out.

  “Good God, Liam, we forgot the dead men’s shakoes!” Kitch said of a sudden. “There’d be money in those!”

  “Ah, but we’ve got a pocketful o’ their buttons t’sell, John,” Desmond reassured him, “and we got ourselves a snoot full, hah hah!”

  * * *

  At last! Lewrie thought as black night gave way to pre-dawn greyness, enough light by which to make out Bova Marina’s buildings and the low stone quay, now crowded with fishing boats and Vigilance’s barges. Armed sailors strolled or sat at ease all up and down the seafront street, and halfway up the centre of the three streets that led inland from it. Up that main street which led to the public square and the church, there was a horde of civilians, all dancing round a bonfire of some kind. Beyond the church steeple, the coastal road and anything behind it was a sea of foul black smoke rising from the fires. Some men came rushing from that ebon stage curtain of a smoke pall with some heavy burdens, the arrival of which set the mob into cheers and whistles that Lewrie could almost imagine he heard. He raised his telescope, a day-glass this time, and smiled in relief.

  “They’re roasting whole sides o’ beef!” he marvelled aloud. “I believe we’ve won completely, gentlemen.”

  If soldiers and Marines slaughtered draught animals, and local Italians felt safe enough to butcher an ox or two, that meant that the French had been killed, made prisoner, or driven off … long enough for a feast, anyway. All that was wanting was the return of the 94th and his sailors and Marines to the ships, perhaps within the next two hours, and his wee squadron could up-anchor and clear the coast before the enemy could respond from Melito di Porto Salvo or Brancaleone Marina. Then, Lewrie assured himself; Then! Someone would tell me what had happened ashore, and show me a list of casualties.

  He knew that they had won, but won what?

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  A half-hour out to sea, steering Sou’east to leave the coast behind, and there had been too much to see to for Lewrie to take the time to listen to Captain Whitehead’s verbal report. At last, he turned the deck over to the officer of the Forenoon Watch, passed word for the Marine leader, and went aft to his cabins for a late breakfast and a welcome hot
cup of coffee.

  “You sent for me, sir?” Whitehead asked minutes later after he was admitted to the great-cabins.

  “Join me for breakfast, sir, and tell me all that transpired,” Lewrie eagerly insisted. He set aside his bowl of oatmeal and got out paper and pencil to make notes for his report.

  “Oh, sir, it was a complete rout!” Whitehead began, as Deavers and Turnbow set out oatmeal, butter, treacle, and bisquit for him, and poured the Marine his first cup of coffee.

  He could not speak for what Colonel Tarrant’s troops had done in the first minutes, not ’til they had met up after taking the second convoy’s waggons, delighting again to relate the novel act of infantry charging cavalry, and how the first convoy’s escort troop had been run off horseless and weaponless, and the second troop of cavalry had been decimated by the combined volleys of musketry.

  “As the sun began to rise, sir, when we were standing piquet to the east of town,” Whitehead said, “we could see thirty or fourty men on horseback, just sitting there watching us, but, even as we and one company of the Ninety-Fourth were recalled to the boats, they didn’t make a move towards us. Colonel Tarrant’s men took several prisoners, and they turned out to be French escorting the eastern convoy, and were Italians guarding the second.”

  “Did he fetch any prisoners off?” Lewrie asked, impatiently signalling for a refill of coffee.

  “A few officers, I believe, sir,” Whitehead told him. “As for the rest, we left their wounded in the care of the town surgeon, and let the rest go, after they surrendered their boots and accoutrements, which Colonel Tarrant had burned, along with every saddle we could find, and all the waggon harnesses.”

  “Quite thorough, good,” Lewrie commented, making quick notes. “Now, had we any casualties?”

  “Light injuries, mostly from stumbling round in the dark, and tripping over things, sir,” Capt. Whitehead said with a laugh. “Among the armed sailors, none, sir. You may have to wait ’til we’re back in port to ask Colonel Tarrant about his losses, though. I did not see any as the regiment came off, but their beaches were too far off for me to take note of much.”