An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  Men in the rear ranks just turned and ran for the rear in blind panic. Some men with loaded muskets fired back, but the French and British lines had only been about fifty yards apart to begin with, and the 94th was on them before they could blink.

  Men screamed, back-pedalling into their rear-rank mates, trying to fend off the bayonets with musket butts. More men screamed as they were thrust through their guts, and then it was a manic melee of swung musket butts smashing open French heads, men pinned to the ground with eight inches of steel in their bellies, jack-knifing their legs and arms upwards in Vees to fend off their deaths.

  And the French regiment broke, fleeing in dis-organised swarms and trampling over their own officers in their panic-driven haste. A finely uniformed officer on a horse was trying to rally the clumped mass of the refused flank to face the sailors, but someone with his musket loaded shot him in the chest, tumbling him to the ground. That great mass of men, facing two directions at once, saw what was happening to the rest, and began to flee, as well, still being shot down by the sailors’ line as they ran.

  When the French ran beyond the reach of an extended bayonet, it was the 94th’s turn to stop and pant for a second, then raise their loaded muskets and shoot more Frenchmen who were the last to break and run, the closest to them, and the easiest targets. They threw up their hands as bullets took them in the back, tripping and falling on their faces, and the field that led inland was littered with shakoes, fine French leather backpacks, muskets and cartridge boxes, canteens, and anything that could be discarded to let them run faster.

  And littered with French dead.

  “Loot!” someone in Rutland’s lines shouted, and all of them gave out a cheer.

  “Hold your places!” Rutland yelled, to little avail.

  Sailors began to dash forward to pick over the mass of Frenchmen who had been piled up in windrows where they had tried to re-form and refuse the flank, whooping with joy as pockets were turned out, producing cigarros, pipes and tobacco pouches, coins, wee leather bottles of ratafia or brandy, many rosaries, and the rare pocket watch.

  Sailors denied that deposit of potential wealth ran farther out in pursuit of the fleeing French to fall upon those who had been shot dead from behind. They didn’t get far with that excursion, though, for HMS Vigilance was speaking, again, her guns firing in broadsides, and raising great gouts of earth at the panicked French regiment, and the cavalry squadron which had trotted down from the low ridge, and no one wished to be killed by their own artillery.

  “Go on, run for your lives, you bastards!” Lt. Rutland yelled with hands cupped round his mouth, then ordered his greedy sailors to the rear before they got killed.

  “Junior officers and Mids, keep order here,” he gravelled, then began to walk over to speak with Colonel Tarrant, who was petting and calming the dead French officer’s horse, cooing to it and taking hold of the loose reins to lead it in a small circle to take its mind off its fear.

  “Colonel,” Rutland said, touching the brim of his hat in salute.

  “Ah, you’re … Rutland, that’s it,” Tarrant said, brightening as he recalled him. “You were one of Lewrie’s officers, I believe.”

  “Aye, sir,” Rutland replied, “now in command of Coromandel. My men and I will be returning to the beach, and will be ready to carry your people off as soon as you wish to depart.”

  “Ah, yes,” Tarrant said, stroking the horse’s nose, “I suppose we’ve done all we could this morning. Not the result the French wished, is it?” he said, pointing to the field littered with blue-clad dead and moaning, begging wounded. “I and my men owe you a great debt of gratitude for your timely re-enforcement, and your inspired move out to their flank. My report shall give you great credit, as will the able assistance from Sir Alan’s guns.”

  “Thank you for that, sir,” Rutland said, chin tucked into his shirt collar, and reddening a bit to be praised.

  “May take some time, our evacuation,” Tarrant went on, thinking to saddle up and ride back to his battalion, but decided not, after seeing the blood that streaked the saddle; his white breeches were already soiled enough. “Wounded to care for, that sort of thing?”

  “Aye, sir,” Rutland said, turning his head to search for the fallen from his own men, and frowning in concern.

  “We may not have burned a single waggon today, but I do think that we may call this engagement a victory, don’t you?” Tarrant said with a wee grin as he let the horse go, gave it a slap on the rump, and watched it trot away towards the distant cavalry squadron.

  “You could call it that, sir,” Rutland agreed.

  EPILOGUE

  A light rain misted the anchorage near Milazzo, falling from the grey and featureless sky, and there were new leaks from the deck overhead plopping into wood or ceramic containers in Lewrie’s great-cabins as he completed his report on the action at Monasterace, and a gloomy report it was. So many Marines killed in action, so many wounded and ashore in the Army surgery. Sailors and a few Mids lost, funerals read over at the starboard entry-port for those recovered to be interred in the deeps, and those they had been forced to leave where they fell.

  Damage to the ship had to be noted, along with what repairs had been made after, and what it cost in lumber, Bosuns’ stores, and paint, tar, and pitch, which must be replaced from the stores ship at Valletta on Malta.

  Men and officers had to be praised, suitable for “Gazetting” in the London papers; Fletcher, Rutland, Greenleaf, Lt. John Dickson, and Marine Captain Whitehead, along with the brave doings of petty officers and individual seamen, as well as Midshipman Charles Chenery, who had ably assisted Lt. Greenleaf in repelling a French attack.

  Then came the hopeful conclusions which did little to assuage his chagrin over being bested; so many French guns on the ridge silenced, so many hundreds of French dead and wounded in thwarting a well-planned and well-laid trap that should have utterly destroyed his landing force, all due to treachery and betrayal on someone’s part that had informed the French not only of the where, but the how as well.

  And Lewrie was mortal-certain as to who had betrayed them. It was all he could do to keep his simmering temper in check as he wrote that part.

  I’ll go shop for a gig, a rowboat, at Milazzo, he told himself; I’ll pay for it out of my own funds, no matter how scruffy it is. I’ll not be left out of the next fight for the lack of a boat!

  He had never felt so frustrated and impotent in his life!

  It only cheered him a little to write that Col. Tarrant of the 94th had sent him such praise for his gun support that had winnowed the French before the actual engagement, had finished driving them off after they had broken, and daunting every French attempt to move that cavalry squadron and attack his battalion whilst they were busy with retrieving their wounded, burying their dead, and carrying off their weapons before the evacuation, and making that return to the troop transports pacific and un-bothered.

  Even if Tarrant had lost about 10 percent of his soldiers in the battle. When next they sallied forth on another raid, the troops would have much more elbow room in their below-deck berthing.

  At last, with nothing more to say, he signed his name and set the last page atop the others, leaning back in his desk chair with a heavy sigh, tossing his pen on the desk top to roll about, which made Chalky perk up in hopes of a new play-toy.

  Lewrie closed his eyes, feeling wearier than he could ever remember.

  Gettin’ older, I suppose, he told himself; Old as the Admirals I’ve known. Poor bastards. Make a bold plan, then have t’sit back and only watch what happens? Might as well carry a penny whistle at my hip, not a sword, or a pistol! Ain’t in my nature!

  “Mister Severance, my report is done,” Lewrie said, sitting up erect. “Two fair copies, if you please. Cool ale, as much as he wants, Deavers. His is dry work.”

  “Aye, sir,” his cabin steward said with a grin.

  “Thank you, sir,” Sub-Lt. Severance said.

  The Marine se
ntry at his door banged his musket butt and his boots to bawl that Midshipman Chenery wished to see the Captain.

  “Enter,” Lewrie bade, standing up and arching his back.

  “Beg pardons, Captain sir,” Chenery said, “but there is a signal hoisted ashore. It reads … Captain Please Attend.”

  Lewrie made a face, thinking of how wet he was going to get.

  “Very well, Mister Chenery,” he said, “do hoist a reply, Will Attend. At least it ain’t Captain Repair On Board!”

  “Aye, sir,” Chenery said with a wee laugh.

  “Pass word for my boat crew to assemble, and see that a barge is led up alongside,” Lewrie said, shrugging into his everyday coat. “How’s your head?” Lewrie asked, pointing to the white bandages that swathed Chenery’s head.

  “Not too hurtful now, sir,” Chenery sheepishly admitted. “It was only a bullet graze. By the time my hair grows back from where Mister Woodbury shaved me and sewed me up, I should be top form.”

  “Good,” Lewrie said with a firm nod, “I mentioned you in my report, but an honourable scar goes down well. Except with your sister.”

  “Aye, sir,” Chenery said, rolling his eyes. “I’ll go fetch your boat, sir.”

  “My old hat and boat cloak, Dasher,” Lewrie bade his servant. “And … one of my pocket pistols, Turnbow. Just in case the traitor dares show his face to cry innocence.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  * * *

  Lewrie trudged up the now well-worn path from the beachside pier to Col. Tarrant’s headquarters and lodgings. Some attempts to spread sand and gravel to cut down on the mud looked to be an utter failure. He spotted Tarrant’s huge shaggy hound, Dante standing on the front gallery under the canvas fly, up on all fours, looking eager to greet and his tail thrashing impishly. Lewrie was going to get muddy, and thank God it would only be his stuffy warm wool boat cloak, too thick and warm for such balmy Mediterranean weather.

  He looked over at the small grove of sheltering trees, finding the sort of two-wheeled cart that Mr. Quill usually hired to fetch him out to the Army encampment, and another fine carriage drawn by a pair of sleek horses.

  Well, damme! he thought, stunned; That’s Don Julio’s coach! Is he here? I’ll kill him, swear to God! He swung his boat cloak back so he could reach into a coat pocket for the loaded single-barrelled gun, ready to draw.

  “Don’t even think about it!” he snapped at the dog in a black humour that Dante must have been able to sense, for he actually slunk to the far side of the front gallery.

  Lewrie opened the door, and Tarrant’s orderly, Corporal Carson was there in a trice to take his hat and cloak, and Lewrie walked into the room, where Col. Tarrant and Major Gittings, Mr. Quill, and two of Don Julio Caesare’s criminal confederates, only one of whom Lewrie knew, the “’Tonio” that had done the scouting for them in the past, stood.

  The other was a very lean, erect fellow with long black hair clubbed back at the nape of his neck, a pronounced Roman nose, and a startling pair of black eyes, dressed in burgundy “ditto” suitings over a gold silk old-style long waist-coat, filigreed with flowers.

  “Ah, Sir Alan, welcome!” Col. Tarrant greeted him jovially. “Do partake in this excellent white wine, which has been iced, courtesy of our guest, Signore Lucca Massimo. Ice from Mount Etna, of all the wonders. Signore ’Tonio you know, of course,” Tarrant said on. “It is my honour to introduce you to him. Signore Massimo, allow me to name to you Captain Sir Alan Lewrie, Baronet and Captain of HMS Vigilance.”

  ’Tonio had to translate that since Massimo did not have a word of English, but his gaze was direct, his hand firm as they shook, and his voice was a mild basso as he said something in Italian.

  “Signore Massimo is here to give us reassurances,” Tarrant said.

  “What sort?” Lewrie asked, his right hand still straying towards his right pocket.

  “It seems that the man who betrayed your latest landing is now known, Sir Alan,” Mr. Quill spoke up as Corporal Carson got Lewrie a chilled glass of wine. “Unfortunately, it was none other than Don Julio Caesare.”

  “I knew it!” Lewrie spat. “Felt it, rather! The bastard!”

  Signore Massimo spouted off a long palaver in Italian, sounding apologetic, and ’Tonio translated for him.

  Ten thousand French coins, in gold, though neither Massimo or ’Tonio knew the denomination, or what the French called them. It was just too tempting, and Don Julio had passed all that he knew of their plans to one of his capos in Reggio di Calabria, the same fellow whose artistic son had drawn the bridge at Pizzo for them. The capo had not been allowed to keep a single gold coin for his labours; all had been sent to Don Julio.

  “It would seem that our ah, confederates are a tad more patriotic than Don Julio,” Mr. Quill interjected. “Or, it was a matter of Don Julio’s insatiable greed, and his failure to share over the years, that resulted in a, ehm … change of management, shall we say?”

  “Signore Massimo assures us that he and his people will do anything possible from here on out to hurt the French any way they can,” Col. Tarrant said, “and help us in any way possible to make their lives as occupiers of all Italy as dangerous and uncomfortable as they can. There will be no more treachery, and we will be allies united to that end.”

  “Well…” Lewrie wheedled, feeling his indignation leave him like the rise of a covey of partridges, and disliking the sudden lack. Dammit, he came to rage like a mad man!

  “So, from now on, Signore Massimo will be in charge,” Mr. Quill said.

  “And what of Don Julio?” Lewrie demanded.

  Massimo said something in Italian, making wide hand gestures and sniggering a bit, and ’Tonio shrugged and translated.

  “Don Lucca said that Julio Caesare sleeps with the fishes, now,”’Tonio said with an eye roll and a bigger shrug.

  “Sleeps with the…?” Lewrie spluttered. “What’s that mean?”

  “‘Full fathom five our felon lies,’” Mr. Quill paraphrased from The Tempest, with a smirk, “‘of lead his bones are made.’”

  “Rope bindings, Signore Capitano,”’Tonio supplied, “an anchor at de feet? Somewhere-ah outta there-ah.” He pointed seaward.

  “Oh,” Lewrie twigged. “Mean t’say I can’t have the satisfaction of shootin’ him?”

  “No. Signore,”’Tonio said. “Too merciful.”

  “Oh, well … mine arse on a band-box,” Lewrie said, deflating. “I s’pose that’ll have t’do. Aye, I think I will have some of that iced wine. In celebration.”

  * * *

  The gathering broke up soon after that, with Signore Massimo—Don Lucca now … making his last vows of co-operation, and the other fellow, ’Tonio, who now seemed to have risen in their organisation to a higher level, saw him out.

  The air in Tarrant’s lodgings was stuffy and humid from all of the rain, and Lewrie stepped out onto the front gallery to sip some more iced wine and give a relatively dry and mud-free hound a pet or two.

  He watched as Don Lucca climbed into his carriage, which had been Julio Caesare’s, and extend a hand from the lowered sash window in the door. ’Tonio was quick to bow over it and kiss the back of the hand, as if Don Lucca was the Archbishop of Canterbury.

  Allies like these, Lewrie thought; They’ll be the death of us!

  * * *

  Lt. John Dickson was snugger and drier in the wardroom of HMS Vigilance, sitting at ease in old buckled shoes instead of Hessian boots, his coat and waist-coat off, and his shirt sleeves rolled up, though he had not undone his neck-stock. By the light of two candles he was writing a letter home, pausing now and then to listen for Lt. Grace to rattle the dice as he and Lt. Greenleaf played backgammon, and Lt. Farley the First Officer mumbled under his breath to alter the ship’s books to account for all the men who had been lost and put some other hands into tasks on the watch bills who might be able to replace them.

  “Dickson, what do you know about Landsman Ryan?” Farley asked of a sudden. “He’
s in your division.”

  “Strength of an ox, but the wit of a flea,” Dickson told him. “Best left on the foremast braces, the capstan, and lower deck-gun tackles.” He smiled a bit, feeling pleased that the First Officer would value his opinion.

  Dickson was writing another long letter home to his father and family, boasting a bit, and only slightly exaggerating his part in the derring-do of the battle ashore, tempering his account of his killing three Frenchmen with the requisite piety and regret that he secretly did not feel. But, it would go down well with the womenfolk.

  When he shot his first foe, he had been amazed that he had not been shot himself, first, and the sound of his pistol going off, and the way it had jumped in his sweaty hand, had startled him almost to inaction. The second French soldier he had shot had been more deliberate, and at such close range that the man’s dingy white waist-coat had been sooted with gunpowder. He’d had his hands up as if trying to surrender, and the terrified look on his face almost made Dickson titter with glee.

  His third kill had been with his sword, and it had not really been necessary; the fellow had already been shot and had dropped his musket, bouncing on the springy scrub bushes as if attempting to get back on his feet, and Dickson had swung his keen-edged sword into the side of his neck, severing an artery, creating a flood of gore, gore that had a distinct coppery smell, and so much of it, that Dickson had found delightful. The man had clutched his neck and throat with both hands as if to stave off his death, knowing he was dying, looking Dickson right in the face with wide, terrified eyes, choking, gurgling, those eyes going dull and lifeless, and Dickson had felt like howling aloud with the immense joy of it, like an ancient barbarian. Though, he had been careful to not let the others see his elation.

  Such exultant memories, Dickson thought as he paused with his quill pen an inch over the letter paper, almost as good as the moment of orgasm into a squirming, moaning girl!

  He shook his head and returned to more important matters, such as his conclusions about this way of making war, which his patrons had requested. Frankly, he thought that this “experiment” in amphibious warfare had come a real cropper, and that Monasterace had been a complete failure which they had escaped by the width of a hair, and that the officer in command of the landing was lacking in forethought.