Vendetta: The Dorset Boy - Book 6

by Christopher C Tubbs

Sir Sidney stopped pacing and looked out of the window.

  “Against my advice, General Stuart has decided not to liberate Naples but to consolidate his hold over Calabria by taking a few minor fortresses in the area and then maybe having a go at Capri! He feels he needs to ensure the protection of Sicily!”

  Marty felt there was more to come, so just waited, then the Admiral spun his top half around so he could look at Marty over his shoulder.

  “Did he discuss it with you?”

  “Not at all Sir. Never mentioned it,” Marty replied.

  The Admiral sighed, walked over to his desk, and slumped down in the chair. His honours glinted in the sunlight on his uniform jacket.

  “Please, take a seat,” he said and waved at one of the comfortable chairs.

  “His report of you and your men’s conduct is exemplary. He said you managed to wing the commander of their 42nd Infantry?”

  “I took a pot-shot at him at around one hundred and twenty yards, didn’t see if I hit him as the front rank gave forth with a volley at around the same time. The smoke you know.”

  “Hmmph, well at least you got to see action. Do you have your report?”

  “Aye Sir.” Marty said, and handed over the packet.

  Sir Sidney read it from end to end. `

  “Are you normally this modest? You will never get a mention in the gazette writing like this,” he remarked as he finished it. “You don’t even mention shooting the French colonel.”

  “Didn’t kill him Sir, so didn’t think it worth mentioning,” Marty replied.

  Sir Sidney looked at him and remembered what Collingwood had told him. This unassuming young man was a renowned killer, merciless in pursuit of his mission, had been behind enemy lines more often than any other member of the Navy and had run up more prize money than most of the other frigate captains in the fleet.

  He was frankly jealous of him if he was honest with himself. To make matters worse, he had an independent command, he wanted to bully him but had the distinct impression that wouldn’t work, a gentle touch was probably the best idea.

  Marty was watching him carefully, reading his expression and body language. He saw the conflict in him and saw him force himself to relax.

  “Collingwood informed me you report to Admiral Hood; how does that work?” he asked in the end.

  “The Flotilla is independent from the Navy proper,” Marty explained and went on to tell him that they had general orders and cooperated with the Foreign Office intelligence branch to identify targets and missions that would disrupt and otherwise inconvenience the enemy.

  “You also carry out missions at the request of the local commander?”

  “If it doesn’t conflict with an ongoing mission,” Marty explained, “and they usually ask us to do something that the regular Navy won’t or doesn’t have the skills to do.”

  “And those skills are?”

  “Oh, the usual things for undercover and ‘dirty’ jobs. Subterfuge, assassination, robbery, that kind of thing,” Marty said with a smile.

  “I shall bear that in mind,” he replied with a shudder. “Sounds thoroughly dishonourable. What will you do next?”

  Marty ignored that; he didn’t give a fig for the overblown and, in his opinion, overrated honour code that most ‘gentlemen’ adopted when it suited them.

  “General Stuart has asked me to drop into Tropea and have a look at a couple of Polish companies that ended up there after running from the field.”

  “Good lord! And what will you do when you get there?”

  “Ask them to surrender,” Marty smiled gently.

  “And if they don’t?”

  “Then we will have to persuade them,” the smile turned feral.

  The Admiral dismissed him and after he left turned around his chair so he could see the Formidiable through the window, his brow creased in thought. He couldn’t help but like Martin even if he was unfathomable to him at the moment. He obviously had his own honour code that was very different from the norm and was everything that Collingwood told him. He sighed; he would make a point to get to know him better. He turned back to his desk and wrote a note inviting General Stuart to visit him for dinner.

  Marty was greeted in the prescribed manner when he got back to his ship and by Blaez in his way with paws on chest and an overactive tongue.

  “Mr. Ackermann, is everyone back on board?”

  “Aye sir, the last of them came on just fifteen minutes ago.”

  Marty looked up at the pennant and saw the wind was from the Northeast.

  “Let’s get the ship underway, take us out of here and get us down to Tropea. We have some Poles to talk to.”

  He left Ackermann to up anchor and get the ship away from the fleet. They fired a salute to the Admiral and managed the manoeuvre without bumping into any of the other ships.

  It wasn’t far to Tropea, and three hours later they were anchored off the beach. Marty studied the coastline; it was lined with cliffs and the main part of the town was built at the top. There was a small fishing port in a cove and what looked to be steps cut into the cliff leading up to the town and a track that wound its way up as well.

  There were a lot of men in grey uniforms visible at the top of the cliffs who were watching them in return.

  “Bring around the barge Sam and have the boys man it. They need to be fully armed and ready for a fight if we need to. Have Franco bring that volley gun he is so fond of and something to fly as a flag of truce.”

  “Do you want them dressed in their best?” Sam asked.

  “No, I want them to look like killers,” Marty replied.

  Sam smiled; they were back to business as usual.

  “Mr. Ackermann, if we are not back in the barge in an hour, I want you to demonstrate our fire power against that building on top of the cliff there,” he said, pointing to a large building built close to the edge of the cliffs. The carronades could be elevated high enough to hit it.

  The barge rowed up to the dock and pushed in between two fishing boats and tied on. Four of the men and Blaez jumped ashore and made a show of checking that it was safe. Marty stepped onto the dock followed by the other two shadows. They were fairly bristling with weapons, Franco was carrying a nine barrelled Nock volley gun and looked like he was looking for an excuse to use it.

  Marty had his weapons harness with his two Manton double barrelled pistols clipped on, his fighting knife on his right side and his hanger on the left. He also had knives very visibly in the top of his high boots.

  Blaez stood on his right, fully attired in his battle collar with its one-inch spikes, Sam on his left armed with a short broad headed spear he had the armourer make him, and a pair of Sharpe’s pistols that Marty had gifted him clipped to his belt.

  They left two men with the barge and the rest formed up behind Marty as he walked off the dock. The fishermen who were mending their nets decided to go home for lunch at the sight of them.

  As they got to the area where the steps led upwards and the track started off inland, a mounted group of nine men in grey uniforms trotted to meet them.

  The leader saluted when they pulled up. “I am Lieutenant Pietrzak, who do I have the pleasure of greeting?” he said, haughtily in French.

  “Captain Stockley, Royal Navy, I wish to talk to your commanding officer,” Marty replied, standing casually with his hands behind his back.

  “What do you wish to discuss with the Colonel?” Pietrzak asked, looking disinterested.

  “Do you always talk to a superior officer from horseback?” Marty replied in a dangerously low voice.

  “I think I can talk from wherever I like as you have foolishly come ashore with so few men.”

  Marty’s hand flashed forward as he threw the knife he had ready behind his back. The blade sunk deeply into the lieutenant’s shoulder with a wet thud and suddenly the Polish troops were confronted with a dozen cocked pistols and a volley gun.

  “If you would all kindly dismount,” Marty asked with a
wave of one of his pistols. “We don’t want any more misunderstandings, do we.”

  They disarmed the soldiers and the two officers and mounted their horses. There were enough for them all to ride and one spare they put the wounded lieutenant on after Sam retrieved Marty’s knife. Blaez walking behind the Polish soldiers; herding them forward with the occasional growl, they started up the track. It was slow going, and it took fifteen minutes to get to the top where they were confronted by a double rank of grey uniforms with their muskets at the ready.

  At the centre stood a man that Marty assumed was the Colonel. He stopped his horse, dismounted, stepped up beside the Lieutenant and indicated he should dismount.

  Once he was down, he took him by the arm and led him forward until they were a scant five yards from the Colonel.

  “You are the commanding officer?” Marty asked.

  “Colonel Warovzki, 19th Polish Infantry,” he replied in strongly accented English. “Do you always assault officers sent to greet you?”

  “Only if they offend me by being rude. You should get him to a surgeon.”

  “Alas ours was killed in the battle, we only have a number of orderlies to tend our wounded,” he replied.

  “If we can continue in a civilized manner, I will have my physician come over from my ship, he is very skilled,” Marty offered and put away his pistol.

  The Colonel looked at him and decided he actually liked what he saw and nodded. He gave a command in Polish and the troops lowered their muskets to parade rest.

  Marty waved a hand to his men and there were clicks as hammers were returned to half cock and the pistols hooked back on belts.

  “Sam and Antton, stay with me, the rest of you get back to the ship and bring Mr Shelby, his assistant and his medical chest back here,” he ordered and then to the Colonel,

  “Can we impose on you for the use of the horses?”

  “Certainly. Come, we will go to my headquarters to continue in a ‘civilized’ way,” he replied, inclining his head and holding out his arm in the direction they would walk.

  He snapped some orders at the Lieutenant, who looked miserable and gave orders that dispersed the men.

  “If I hadn’t agreed and taken you prisoner, what would have happened next?” he asked in a conversational tone as they walked.

  “My ship would have demolished this town one house at a time until you released me, if you were still alive that is,” Marty replied without a hint of a smile.

  They continued in silence through the narrow streets until they came to a square with a tree in the middle of it where a half dozen cats loitering around as though they owned the place. There was a large house at the back that had been commandeered as the headquarters.

  Blaez tensed then shot forward, chasing cats was one of his favourite sports. The cats scattered; some went up the tree others headed to the houses. Blaez followed the ones that went up the tree and stood on his hind legs with his front paws on the tree trunk with a look that said, “Look what I dun boss!”

  “Is your dog grinning?” Warovski asked Marty as he eyed the dog curiously.

  “Yes, he is enjoying himself, makes a change from chasing midshipmen up the mast,” Marty joked.

  They sat around a large dining table while drinks were served. A plate of bread with some kind of meat paste spread on top was placed in the centre of the table. It had a distinct red colour and Marty eyed it suspiciously.

  “A local delicacy,” the Colonel explained, “it is nduja, a type of sausage the locals make with hot pepper in it. I like it but it may be too hot for you.”

  Sam stepped forward and took a piece before Marty had a chance to taste it for himself. His eyes widened after he put it in his mouth and then he grinned.

  “That’s some good stuff Captain!” he grinned as he picked up another piece before stepping back.

  Marty picked a small piece and took a bite; the heat of the peppers in the cured meat hit him and got hotter.

  “Strewth Sam! You must have a mouth made of old leather!” he gasped, his eyes watering. He gulped a glass of wine but that just seemed to make it hotter.

  Warovzki looked amused and said,

  “It’s an acquired taste, you get used to it.”

  Marty waited a minute or so until the fire damped down to smouldering embers and then continued.

  “The main body of our Army will catch up with you soon and I have been sent ahead to offer you terms for surrender. There has been enough bloodshed and we would like to prevent any unnecessary casualties if they can be avoided.”

  “Like my Lieutenant?” Warovzki asked pointedly.

  “I needed to make a point.”

  Warovzki looked at him with a flat stare and Marty prepared himself to react if needed, but then the Colonel sighed and said,

  “allying ourselves with the French was always a matter of necessity rather than choice. We have done our duty, what are your terms?”

  The discussion was simple after that. The terms were:

  Lay down your arms and you will be allowed to march back to the North under parole. You agree not to take part in any more hostilities towards the British or their allies.

  It was agreed. Shelby arrived, set up a field hospital and went to work. Marty sent a message to Stuart by the ship’s cutter and midshipman Longstaff and the marines came ashore to collect the Pole’s weapons. Marty never did get used to nduja, but Sam got his hands on a string of twenty or so and took them back on board as private stores. He let some of the men try it when they asked, and the result was a queue at the heads and some sore backsides.

  Back in Gibraltar, Marty reunited with his team and was impressed at how well they had settled into their new home. His own quarters had been set up for him by Fletcher and were comfortable with a suite of rooms that included a bedroom, sitting room and a dining room. His Lieutenants had even adapted one room to be a communal bathroom but where they found the tin hip bath he never did find out.

  He paid his respects to Admiral Collingwood who read his report and thanked him for his assistance. He said he would buy in the corvettes as they were always useful. Even so he seemed distracted and worried about something and as Marty was about to leave asked,

  “By the way, how were General Stuart and Sir Sidney getting along when you left?”

  Marty sat back down and looked the Admiral in the eye.

  “To be frank, they were disagreeing on what the next step should be in the campaign. Sir Sidney believed they should go on and liberate Naples, but General Stuart wanted to consolidate his hold on Calabria and mop up the rest of the French garrisons, then maybe take Capri to exert some control over the bay of Naples. I think he is more concerned with defending Sicily.”

  “Which of them do you think is right?’

  Marty sighed; he had been afraid he would be asked this,

  “it is my belief you should not leave an enemy behind you unless they be dead or demobilised, and I think Stuart has the right approach at this time.”

  Collingwood looked at him for a long moment and Marty braced himself for a roasting for not supporting a senior officer, but the Admiral smiled and replied.

  “that was also my thought and that, as the General on the ground, Stuart would have a better overview of the situation.” He paused, and then continued. “I have had a letter from General Stuart asking that I relieve Sir Sidney from command due to unremitting interference in the land battle that is the sole responsibility of the Army.”

  “Unresolved frustration and a desire for a grand gesture on one side and a lack of tolerance to suggestions on the other,” Marty observed.

  “Quite, but as the General has formally made the request I don’t have any choice but to replace him,” Collingwood concluded.

  “May I make a suggestion?” Marty ventured.

  “Please speak your mind, Captain.”

  “They are scheduled to return to Sicily soon, anyway, so why not leave Sir Sidney there until they do and then ‘find him’
something else to do. That way you satisfy General Stuart and save Sir Sidney from a loss of face.”

  “Are you sure I cannot tempt you into becoming one of my Flag Officers?” Collingwood asked.

  Marty took that as a rhetorical question and held his peace. Collingwood took the hint.

  “Thank you for your assistance, I will let Mr. Ridgley know if I need your assistance again,” he said in dismissal.

  Marty had one last question.

  “May I ask Sir, if a regular source of information would help the defence of Sicily?”

  Chapter 12: A Spanish Cruise

  A visit to 17B Devils Tower Road planted the suggestion that they could probably set up a similar method of infiltrating agents into Spain and Italy as they had for France. Ridgley agreed to look out for likely organisations they could work with or take over. He informed Marty that he was already setting up a network of agents and this idea fit into his plans very nicely, thank you.

  “In the meantime, could you and your boys run up the East coast of Spain, disrupt their semaphore operations and burn any boatyards along the way? Oh! And by the way, Fox will be moving to Sicily to take over the defence of both there and Malta.”

  “Who will be taking over here then?” Marty asked.

  “Don’t know yet, but I should be informed in the next set of dispatches.”

  Marty wasn’t happy with his latest task, it smacked of a lack of imagination or even an attempt to get him out of the way for a while. He looked down at Blaez, who strolled along beside him.

  “Well, idle hands get into mischief. Let’s see what we can stir up while we are out there.”

  When he got back to base, he called an all-officers meeting.

  “Gentlemen, we have orders to go up the east coast of Spain, destroy semaphore towers and burn boatyards,” he looked around saw disappointment on their faces. “But as these ‘orders’ were couched as more of a request I intend to give the entire flotilla an outing and cause as much mayhem as possible.” That brought back the grins he noted.

  “I want everyone except a guard detail on board their ships and ready to go on the turn of the tide tomorrow morning.”