An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “He may be welcome to it, sir,” Farley said, raising his glass for another look. “Will we be anchoring the transports as we did at Catanzaro?”

  “I think not, Mister Farley,” Lewrie said with a shake of his head. “I intend to cruise by, exchange fire with the shore batteries, and see how many guns they have.”

  He craned his neck to look aloft at the set of the sails and the commissioning pendant, squinting in the early morning light, frowned, then looked astern to the transports.

  “No sense in risking the transports,” he said. “Make a signal for them to alter course and stay to windward of me by at least one cable. Once they answer, we will Beat to Quarters.”

  “Aye, sir!” Farley replied, turning to the nearest Midshipman on the quarterdeck to hoist the signal.

  Lewrie looked aft once more to see the signal flags soar aloft on the halliards and break out in bright colours. Moments later, a matching set of signals appeared on the lead transport, Bristol Lass, repeated right down the line to Spaniel at the rear of their column.

  “Strike it for the Execute,” Lewrie ordered, and the signal, two-blocked at the peak of the halliards, was rapidly run down. “Now you may Beat to Quarters, Mister Farley.”

  As Vigilance drummed to the rush of hundreds of crewmen going to their fell duties, Lewrie went up to the poop deck for a better view of Melito di Porto Salvo, still wondering what was so vital to Julio Caesare. In his day-glass the seaport town looked much of a piece with the many other coastal towns in Calabria. Hills, beaches, a snug harbour, and a rather neat waterfront lined with houses, stores, and warehouses, and a layer cake of more buildings and streets that marched up the slopes behind the sea, with public squares surrounded by grander houses and churches. That time of the morning, civilians and garrison alike were likely still at their breakfasts, which explained the faint haze of wood smoke that lay atop the town, drifting upwards and inland. If there was a palace or castle, he could not spot one right off, and he felt certain that there was no fortress near the waterfront to guard the harbour, though at the very top of the hills behind the last straggling town streets, there was a large stone structure with high walls that clung to the steep slope like a limpet or barnacle, with what looked like a fortified gate house at the end of a bare road that zigzagged up to it.

  Could be bad if it has guns, Lewrie thought with a faint wince.

  It was too far off to make out narrow arrow ports cut into the walls, and he could see no crenellations cut into the tops of the walls to make room for artillery. The place looked old, long abandoned, a relic of the days when boiling oil and large stones dropped on besiegers was in vogue. There were even narrow sheets of vines streaking the walls like green tears. Vandal, Goth, Norman, Spanish, or Turk? He didn’t know, and could have cared less … unless there were guns up there, which could drop plunging fire onto his decks.

  Instead, Lewrie looked more closely at the hills above the beaches, nearer the harbour entrance, trying to ascertain if French gunners had had time to erect stone redans to protect their guns … or if the enemy had had enough warning since his squadron’s sails had hove in sight to light off furnaces for heated shot. In the haze from cookfires were there thicker skeins of smoke?

  Time will tell, he told himself, lowering his telescope to look round once more. Aft and a bit off the larboard quarter, the column of transports was sidling seaward, hopefully out of harm’s way, with Vigilance ’twixt them and the foe, and the most tempting target for the French gunners. Lt. Fletcher in charge of Bristol Lass had shaken out a reef in her fore course for a knot more speed to take shelter behind Lewrie’s ship, just in case, and hands were aloft to do the same aboard the ships trailing Bristol Lass to maintain their one-cable separation.

  When Lewrie looked forward, he could see down into the waist, open to the sky below the cross-deck boat tier beams, and realise that the loud noises of preparation for battle had ended, and that the upper gun-deck 18-pounders were all manned, the guns’ tompions set aside, the guns standing run-in, with the gun-ports sealed, waiting orders to run out. Amidships, young powder monkeys were knelt with wood or leather carriers for cartridge bags, ready to serve up their charges for reloading, and amidships, the Marine boy drummer, and flautist, with a fiddler, were playing the lively tune, “The Jolly Thresher,” which brought a smile to his lips.

  What a fine, spirited crew I have, Lewrie thought with pride; Just let us get through this morning without casualties, so we still have the same spirit by Noon, please Jesus!

  “The ship is at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Farley reported from below on the quarterdeck.

  “Very well, Mister Farley,” Lewrie replied, turning grim. “How far off are we, Mister Wickersham?”

  “Mile and a half, I make it, sir,” the Sailing Master answered. “In eight to nine fathoms of water, so far. At the angle we’re closing the shore, we’ll be in about six fathoms when we’re a mile off.”

  “That’ll be close enough, sir,” Lewrie told him. “And there are no surprises marked on your charts?”

  “None ’til we get within four fathoms, sir,” Wickersham assured him. “Old ship wrecks here and there.”

  “Very well,” Lewrie said, nodding, then raised his telescope to take another long look at the hills where they had seen batteries. Those hills were three points off the starboard bows, slowly sliding more abeam when the guns in their narrow ports could fire without any risky angling of the truck carriages which might put too much of a strain on recoil tackle and breeching ropes.

  The enemy had no restrictions. As Lewrie watched, thick blossoms of gunsmoke burst ashore, followed a second or two later by the distant Crumps! of their discharges, and Lewrie’s stomach muscles tightened as he listened intently for the keen of approaching shot. There was no sound, but there were large splashes where roundshot hit the sea at least half a mile short, bounding up from First Graze to skip and create weaker, smaller splashes before the balls lost their momentum and left disturbed patches of foam where they sank.

  “Count the guns!” Lewrie snapped, as the enemy reloaded.

  “One mile offshore, sir,” Mr. Wickersham cautioned.

  “Thankee, Mister Wickersham,” Lewrie said. “Mister Farley, you may open!”

  “Aye, sir. All guns to aim for the right-hand battery,” the First Officer told waiting Midshipmen. “We will fire by broadside.”

  Off they scampered to relay the order to the officers in charge of the gun-decks, who shouted the command to gun-captains and Quarter-Gunners, which delayed firing ’til truck carriages had been aligned, quoin blocks adjusted, and rough aim had been determined.

  At last, word came to the quarterdeck that the guns were ready.

  “On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” Farley yelled.

  Vigilance trembled to the titanic roars, and felt staggered and pushed seaward a foot or so by the force of recoil, shuddering to the weight of metal and wood truck carriages rolling back to the extent of the stout breeching ropes. The view of the shore was blotted completely out for a long minute before the dense fogbank of smoke blew away. Lewrie trotted aft to the flag lockers and taffrails to peer through its remnants.

  There! Three, four, five, six spurts of powder smoke blossomed ashore from the right-hand battery as he watched, and this time there were moans of disturbed air rising in pitch as roundshot approached. Six tall feathers of spray leaped skyward within a cable of the ship, skipping up from First Graze and skipping to within one hundred yards before sinking.

  A whole battery of six, Lewrie thought; That means another full battery on the other hill, a lot more then we first thought. This may be a very warm morning! They’ve re-enforced since the first scout was made.

  “On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” Farley shouted, and the world shook and howled once more.

  Despite the smoke and the reduced view, Lewrie paced back forward to the corner of the poop deck where the starboard ladderway led down, remembering to take his time and look ster
n as a proper Captain ought. Over the roar of gun carriages being run out on the oak decks, there were distant Crumps! as the French guns replied. Among the drifting pall of smoke from Vigilance’s guns, feathers of spray leaped into life, even farther away from her sides.

  “On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” Farley yelled again.

  All Lewrie could do was listen in such a cloud, cocking his head to one side. Three, four … and that was it? A long moment later, and there came the thuds of six more, as regular as a metronome.

  Six from the further battery, but only four from the first? he puzzled; Are we doin’ some damage over there?

  “Check fire, Mister Farley!” he shouted down to the quarterdeck. “Let the smoke clear a bit so the gun-captains can adjust their aim!”

  In the sudden, relative silence, Lewrie could even hear the mews of frightened seagulls as a swarm of them crossed Vigilance’s stern on their way to safety farther out to sea, and he watched them fly away for a moment before returning his attention landwards.

  There! In the thinning haze of his ship’s gunsmoke, six feathers of spray leaped to life, closer to her side this time, scattered like birdshot. One ball skipped from First Graze off the sea to the Second Graze, bounding along slow enough to almost be seen, before it slammed into the ship’s timbers below the black, tarred gunwale and bounced off.

  “Gabions or fascines, sir!” Lt. Farley shouted triumphantly.

  “Is that even English?” Lewrie snapped back.

  “The gun batteries, sir,” Farley said, pointing with his telescope in one hand, “I got a good look at them, and they appear to be dug in, with a berm of earth in front of them, and bundles of tree branches and wicker baskets full of earth for protection! Fascines and gabions, sir! Little protection at all!”

  Lewrie took a look for himself, now that most of the gunsmoke had blown clear, and made out fresh earth, horizontal wooden bundles, and fat baskets either side of the enemy artillery pieces, much like a crenallated wall … but a most insubstantial wall.

  “Resume fire on the near battery, Mister Farley,” Lewrie said, adding “and thankee for the explanation.”

  “Aye, sir! Pass word! On the up-roll, by broadside, fire!”

  Vigilance rolled to starboard several degrees, then rolled back to decks-level, then a few degrees to larboard, then hung there, on the up-roll long enough for the jutting black iron guns to speak one more time, and jerk back in recoil, some now hot enough to leap from the decks a few inches and thud down with audible crashes. After a few more broadsides, barrels and carriages could leap almost a foot as they careened inboard, landing off-angle as the breeching ropes snubbed them, and threatening feet and legs of the men who served them!

  Lewrie looked down into the waist where gunners were swabbing out with water-soaked rammers, and gun-captains laying their leather thumb stalls atop the vents to choke off any air that might ignite what powder and smouldering flannel cartridge bags remained from creating a smaller explosion that could shoot the rammer out the gun-port and snap the rammer man’s arm like a twig.

  They worked in bare feet for sure grip on the oak decks, those gun crewmen, with scarves round their heads to cover their ears, and the glim candle wax they used to save their hearing; bare chested, some of them, for early mornings in Autumn in the Mediterranean were hot. Ship’s boys came forward with their containers, delivering the fresh cartridge bags to be rammed down snug. Two roundshot went in for double-shotting, then a damp oakum wadding.

  Gun-captains pricked the cartridges with spikes down the vents, then drew the flintlock strikers to half-cock and primed their pans with fine-mealed powder from the flasks hung round their necks. Then, the men tailed on the run-out tackles, heaving their massive charges to thud against the port sills, carefully arranging the ropes of the run-out tackles and recoil tackles so they’d run smooth, and not take a man’s foot off. Strikers were drawn to full cock, crews shied away, and gun-captains drew the trigger lines taut.

  “On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” And the guns leaped and stampeded back to be re-fed all over again, and it was like watching a robotic raree-show about the miracle of steam power and many moving parts, as regular as clockworks.

  There was a thud as another French ball struck the hull, and this time, Lewrie clearly heard the whine-humming of a roundshot as it soared high overhead, right through the maze of rigging and sails, and passed far out to sea beyond.

  Two, then six, Lewrie told himself as he counted the far-off Crumps! of enemy artillery; We’re hurtin’ ’em! We’re shootin’ them t’pieces!

  “Sir!” Lt. Farley exclaimed, “I think we’re drawing level with the western battery! Should we shift fire?”

  Lewrie peered hard with his day-glass, eyes watering from the bitter gunsmoke, and, as the smoke thinned once more, saw that the ship had sailed beyond the first battery, which now lay two points abaft of abeam, and the one to the west was now coming up abeam.

  “Check fire and shift aim, aye, Mister Farley!” Lewrie crowed. “I think we’ve hurt the first’un bad enough!”

  He spared a glance at the eastern battery, delighting to see that protective gabions had been split and spilled, and that half of the openings between them no longer showed artillery pieces.

  “Ready below? On the up-roll, by broadside … fire!” Farley yelled, his voice going raspy from the smoke and over-exertion. And twenty-six guns on both upper and lower decks roared almost as one.

  One forlorn Crump! from one French battery, then five from the other, and more shot splashes near Vigilance, then the Thonk! of a hit on her timbers, once more bouncing off, for 12-pounder roundshot fired from a mile away could never make a real impression on solid British oak.

  “On the up-roll … fire!”

  On it went, several more broadsides, double-shotted, keened cross the waters to slam into the hillside, the protective gabions and fascines, carom off iron barrels with loud clangs, shatter wheels and dis-mount gun barrels, and now and then cut French gunners in half.

  Even with candle wax crammed in his ears, Lewrie listened for return fire, leaning out over the bulwarks, trying to count the distant bellows from French guns over the cries of officers below shouting the litany of “Run out your guns!” then “Prime your guns!”

  He heard only four shots in reply, and they were no longer the metronomic steadiness of before, but stuttering; after two more broadsides from Vigilance, he could only hear three, then two.

  “Targets are well abaft of abeam, sir!” Lt. Farley reported.

  “Cease fire, Mister Farley,” Lewrie called down to him. “I do believe we’ve done a good morning’s work. Secure, swab out, and wash the barrels down.”

  “Aye, sir!” Farley replied, sounding pleased but weary.

  “Mister Wickersham, alter course seaward,” Lewrie ordered. “We will take position ahead of the transport column, and make a goodly offing.”

  “Straight up the Strait, sir?” Wickersham asked, making a lame joke of it. “Trail our colours to Reggio di Calabria once more?”

  “Aye, and glower at ’em most fiercely as we do so!” Lewrie told him with a relieved laugh.

  He left the poop deck, went to the starboard ladderway of the quarterdeck, and descended to the waist; his mouth was as dry as if he had been biting musket cartridges and getting gunpowder grit in his teeth. All round him, his sailors were securing the guns, cleaning them inside and out, removing flintlock strikers, inserting tompions in the muzzles, and running the carriages out to thump against the port sills, closed now, to bowse them securely.

  They were as blown as racehorses after a long course, squatting on the truck carriages, or sprawling on deck, weary from their labours and the repetitive demands of loading, running out, and firing, their slop-trousers and loose shirts smutted with gunsmoke, but they were cheerful, joshing each other after a hard hour’s work. Some queued up at the scuttlebutts to draw up a sip of water, and Lewrie joined one queue, telling the nearest men th
at they had all but silenced two entire French batteries, relating what he had seen from a better vantage post high above theirs.

  When it was his turn, Lewrie drew up the long, thin, test-tube-like dipper and tipped it up to swish round his dry mouth, swallowing, and japing that he’d just taken a gram of gunpowder aboard.

  “It’ll be a quiet day, lads,” Lewrie told them, “for we’ll sail up north for one more scare for the French, then it’s back to Milazzo.”

  “We gonna shoot up the bridge again, Cap’um sir?” a man asked.

  “No, that’s a dead’un,” Lewrie told him. “We’re going to look in at Eufemia Lamezia one more time, the place we cruised past before, then home. Unless they’ve placed guns up there, we may not even have to shoot the place up. No drills this morning, and enjoy your rum issue, and a dinner with meat, it bein’ a Tuesday.”

  With that, he returned to the quarterdeck and took his proper place at the windward corner, watching as the large main course, which had been drawn up to the yard against the risk of setting it afire by the blasts of their own guns, being lowered and filling with wind, feeling his ship begin to surge forward with more drive, creating a most welcome breeze to blow away the stink of powder smoke, and ease the day’s warmth. Soon, once Vigilance was at the head of the column once more, and all ships outbound from the coast to deeper waters, he would go aft to his cabins, sluice the powder smuts and gritty feeling from his face and hands, get a tall mug of ginger beer, cool tea, or ale, and really stanch his thirst as he wrote up the account of the morning’s action for his own log, Admiral Charlton, and Admiralty in far-off London.

  Well, I’ll write the first draft, and Severance can polish it up and do the copies, he told himself, feeling quite satisfied with the cruise so far; And after that, I may even take a wee nap!

  BOOK FOUR

  Maxime red effecta, viri; timor omnis abesto, quad superest!