* * *
High Summer had drummed upon Southern Spain, browning it and drying it out. The forests looked dusted, and only the growing crops were still green. If there had been a paved Roman road along the coast, it had long ago been ripped up for houses, so the road was dry, packed earth. As HMS Sapphire slowly ghosted shoreward under tops’ls, jibs, and spanker, with her courses brailed up, the dust plume created by the demi-brigade on the march was visible even from the bulwarks. From the poop deck, Lewrie could begin to make out details with his telescope. There were a few mounted riders, which he took for officers and aides. At the rear, making higher and longer-lasting clouds of dust, he could espy several pieces of artillery, and behind them were many supply waggons, some canvas-covered, and some odd two-wheeled carts with wheels taller than a man. He assumed those had been taken from the Spanish and put to use to supplement French equipment. They were painted in gay, bold colours compared to the French waggons.
“Six fathom! Six fathom t’this line!” a leadsman shouted.
“We should be coming onto the five-fathom line soon, sir,” Mr. Yelland said, taking off his hat and mopping his face with a calico handkerchief. “Warm today.”
“And soon t’get warmer,” Lewrie promised. “Assumin’ we don’t touch the bottom.”
“Starboard guns are at Quarters, sir,” Lt. Westcott reported. “Think there’s a need to rig anti-boarding nets?” he joshed.
“Only when pigs, and Frenchmen, can fly, sir,” Lewrie hooted back. He raised his telescope again. He could make out the infantry, not marching but shambling along and scuffing the road, raising more dust. Blue uniforms on the bulk of them, with white, gold, green, or red sleeve markings and epaulets. Their muskets were slung any-old-how, by the hip, over the shoulder, or laid upon the back of their necks with their arms up-raised to hold them like a farmer’s rake.
He’d seen that before, recalling an ambush he made on the Côte Sauvage when blockading the Gironde River, and how the poor French soldiers about to die had shambled along, joshing and sharing tobacco, before his watering party opened fire. It had been a complete surprise for them then, and he hoped that Sapphire’s guns would be an even greater one today.
“Five fathom! Five fathom t’this line!” the leadsman called.
“Alter course to parallel the coast,” Lewrie ordered. “Stay in five fathoms.” The head of the long French column lay about one point off the starboard bows. “Mister Deacon? Enlighten me. How fast can infantry march?”
Deacon had been on the quarterdeck under the overhang of the poop deck, near the doors to Lewrie’s cabins. He poked out in sight and ascended the starboard ladderway to join him.
“March, sir?” Deacon said. “If those people yonder were really marching, they might do two or three miles an hour. Allowed to route-step as they are, maybe only two miles an hour, or a bit less. Hmm, that makes me wonder if they even know about the arms delivery. Did they know, they’d be going a lot faster. Major Azcárte may be safe as houses, after all. Is that smoke yonder, from Almuñécar? What have the French been up to?”
“Same as Bayazit the Thunderer,” Lewrie speculated. “A Turk general. The Turks marched all round Greece and the Balkans on a regular basis, massacring and burning, just t’keep the Greeks and Serbs fearful. Maybe yon Frogs’ve been up to some bad mischief, and deserve what they’re about to get.”
He raised his telescope again, taking in how steep and close to the coast road the foothills were along this stretch. Once he’d opened fire, there would be nowhere to run but back to Almuñécar, or on East for Salobreña. He looked aloft, pleased with the wind’s direction, and estimated that the head of the column was now two points off the starboard bows. “Cast of the log!” he called aft, and a minute later, Midshipman Carey reported that the ship was making a slow, sedate five knots.
“Five fathom! Five fathom t’this line!”
“Mister Westcott, the gun crews may load,” Lewrie snapped in rising excitement. “Double-shot with grape. The lower deck will open, first, followed by the upper deck, then the weather deck six-pounders. Keep the ports shut ’til we’re ready t’run out.”
“Aye, sir,” Westcott replied. “By God, this will be fun!”
Lewrie looked down at the quarterdeck to see Major Hughes come out of his cabins, yawning and stretching his arms.
“Sorry ’bout that, Captain Lewrie,” he said, looking up. “Had another glass of wine, and nodded off for a bit. What’s acting?”
“We’re about to kiss a bunch of Frogs, Major Hughes,” Lewrie told him, jerking an arm to point shoreward. He liked what he saw; the head of the French column and the mounted officers were just at the bend of the road where the foothills shouldered it out closer to the sea, and they now lay five points off the starboard bows, coming slowly abeam, where the ship’s guns in their narrow ports could aim in broadside. Another minute or two more and the column would be only half a mile away.
“Someone see Bisquit below,” Lewrie asked. “Mister Carey?”
“Aye, sir,” the lad replied, sounding disappointed to miss the opening broadside.
“Hurry back,” Lewrie bade him as the Midshipman took hold of the dog’s collar and led him down to the orlop.
“Half a mile’s range, I make it, sir,” Mr. Yelland said after taking a sight with his sextant and some scribbling on a slate with a stub of chalk.
“And just about beam-on,” Lewrie agreed. “Mister Westcott, open the gun-ports and run out! Pass word for them to aim well.”
“Aye, sir!” Lt. Westcott said, then bellowed orders and sent Midshipmen scampering down to pass the word. Word came back, shouts of “Ready!”
In Lewrie’s ocular, he could see French soldiers looking back at Sapphire, mostly curious and unaware, so far; sweaty, dusty faces, mustachios and beards, heads turning to look seaward, then back, to speculate with their mates, as Sapphire rumbled and screeched as the guns were run out.
“Mon Dieu, merde alors, mort de ma vie—” Lewrie tittered with mockery of imagined French expressions of sudden alarm.
“Lower deck, by broadside … fire!” Westcott roared.
The discharge of all eleven 24-pounders shoved Sapphire a foot or two to larboard, and made her feel as if she squatted in the sea. A massive cloud of spent powder smoke jutted shoreward, spiked with reddish-amber jets of flame and swirling wee embers of serge cartridge bag remnants.
“Let the smoke clear a little!” Lewrie called out.
“Now, sir? I can see the shore again,” Westcott urged.
“Now, sir. Serve ’em another,” Lewrie agreed.
“Upper deck, by broadside … fire!”
Mr. Deacon had a short pocket telescope of his own to one eye and was gloating. “I can see horses and riders down, the head of the first battalion’s colour party down … Damn the smoke!”
“A glass, somebody!” Hughes demanded. “The bloody Dons stole mine!”
“Smoke’s clearing, sir!” Westcott pointed out.
“Fire away, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie told him.
“Weather deck guns, by broadside … fire!” and the 6-pounders crashed out, their discharges lighter and shriller than the others. Fewer in number, and their smoke dispersed quicker, giving everyone on deck a good view of what they had wrought, and it was devastation.
“Goddamned good shooting!” Lewrie cried. “Have we the best gunners in the Fleet, or not? Pour it on, Mister Westcott, skin the bastards!”
The leading regiment in the long, snaking column had sported a few flags, the Tricolour national emblem topped by a large silver bird of some kind, and company flags used as rally points. There was no sign of them, now, except for a few of the lesser ensigns being rushed back West. French soldiers were simply mown down in windrows and heaps of dead and broken wounded, and the rest were fleeing.
“Hah!” Lewrie laughed, turning to Deacon. “How many miles per hour can French regiments run, Mister Deacon?”
“Lower gun-deck, by bro
adside … fire!”
The massive 24-pounders belched smoke and fire, flinging solid shot and clouds of plum-sized grapeshot right into the heart of the fleeing mass of soldiers, scything down dozens more. The second regiment in line was engulfed by the frantic stampede, bringing it to a panicky halt.
“Upper-deck guns, by broadside … fire!”
That avalanche of iron struck all along the length of that seething mass of soldiery, and, when the smoke cleared, all three of the French regiments were in flight back to Almuñécar, over-running the artillery pieces and ammunition caissons, the panic making the horse teams rear and scream.
“Six-pounders, by broadside … fire!” Lt. Westcott screeched, and dozens of Frenchmen were tossed aside like lead toys. There were some cleverer soldiers who abandoned their packs, hangers, cartridge pouches, and muskets and were scrambling frantically up the hills that forced the coast road so close to the sea, sure that shipboard guns could not elevate that high. The rest were running, stumbling, shoving slower compatriots out of their way, trampling over the fallen in their haste to find some safety, and leaving wounded friends to their own devices.
“Do my eyes deceive me?” Major Hughes shouted, pointing with one arm as he held a borrowed telescope to his eye. “They’re un-limbering their artillery, the damned fools!”
“Brave fellows,” Lt. Westcott commented, his voice raspy from shouting orders.
“Damned idiots!” Mr. Deacon spat.
“What might they have, Mister Deacon?” Lewrie asked. “You’re my expert on military matters.”
“I’d think that they have six or eight twelve-pounders, Napoleon’s favourites,” Deacon surmised, “and at least a pair of howitzers.”
“No bursting shot? No shrapnel ‘specials’?” Lewrie pressed.
“The latest intelligence in our possession says not,” Deacon assured him.
“Lower-deck guns, by broadside … fire!” Westcott yelled, and the horrid scene was blotted out by a thick fog of powder smoke. As it cleared, Lewrie could see fresh heaps of bodies, round which the lucky survivors fled on.
“Pass word below to target the French artillery, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “We can’t allow them a single point of pride.”
“Aye, sir. Mister Fywell, pass word to the gunners to target the French guns,” Westcott said, sending the Midshipman dashing off.
“God, it’s wondrous, sir!” Midshipman Carey, who had taken the dog to the orlop, marvelled. “Horrible, but wondrous all at the same time.”
“Soldiers just can’t fathom a ship’s firepower,” Lewrie took time to tell him. “Our twenty-four-pounders are the equivalent of an army’s entire siege train, only used to knock down fortress walls. They can’t imagine them turned on them! Why, one of Napoleon’s armies fields only half our number of barrels.”
“Ooh, look at the pretty ship,” Deacon quipped, “so harmless, and—ack!”
“How’s Bisquit?” Lewrie asked.
“Curled up and shivering in Pettus’s lap, sir,” Carey replied. “And Mister Tanner’s much the same, between three kegs of salt-meat.”
Tanner, the Ship’s Cook, a veteran Greenwich Pensioner with a leg missing, had no role at Quarters, and was allowed to hide below.
“Shivering?” Lewrie scoffed.
“It’s hard to say which whines louder, sir,” Carey said with an impish grin.
“Upper gun-deck, by broadside … fire!”
The French guns had been detached from their limbers and caissons, the horse teams had been led behind, and men were hastily ramming bagged powder and shot down the muzzles. Officers and gun-captains were bending over their crude sights, adjusting the elevation screws, and gunners were lifting the trails of the carriages to adjust their traverses. They were just about to step back and apply their burning linstocks to the touch holes when Sapphire’s eleven 12-pounders lit off at the top of the up-roll, when the ship poised steadiest. When the smoke thinned and wafted alee, half the battery was wrecked, the barrels knocked off their carriages, wheels smashed and carriages lying at odd angles. Several team horses were down, and many of the others were screaming, kicking, and dashing off among the panicked French soldiers who had been streaming West behind the guns.
“Six-pounders, by broadside … fire!”
That finished the horrid work, slaying dazed gunners, dis-mounting or disabling the rest. A lucky hit on a powder caisson caused a great explosion and a massive yellow-white blossom of powder smoke. Burning embers of the waggon landed on the others, setting them on fire, and the gun battery’s powder supply and all its limbers and caissons were destroyed. Even if the gun barrels could be salvaged and carted away later, the French would have to force some Spanish arsenal and its unwilling artificers to build new ones before those guns could be used again.
“Take on the supply train, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie ordered. “Let’s make it a clean sweep. Let ’em starve.”
“Aye, sir,” Lt. Westcott happily agreed. He and Lewrie shared a look, and both men’s faces were wolfish with success and feverish delight; “gun-drunk.”
“Five fathom! Five fathom t’this line!” a leadsman intoned.
“Alter course a mite to starboard,” Lewrie said. “I recall that this five-fathom line takes a turn seaward, and a four-fathom line lies ahead. Do you concur, Mister Yelland?”
“That should be about two cables afore the bows, sir,” Yelland told him. “Aye, it’s a good time to edge seaward.”
“See to it, if ye please,” Lewrie bade. “I will tend to the smashing. Shift aim to the waggons, Mister Westcott.”
“Pass word below to take on the waggons, Mister Fywell,” the First Officer ordered, and Midshipman Fywell, who had barely returned from his last task, knuckled the brim of his hat and dashed off, with nary a chance to witness or savour their destruction. Carey, who was still on the quarterdeck, shot him a smug look.
“Lower gun-deck, by broadside … fire!”
The carters and waggoners had long fled their charges as the three shattered regiments swarmed round them in their haste, some of the fleeing soldiers cut reins and harnesses to try to ride to safety, but most of the draught horses were also panicked, and not broken to the saddle, or the weight of a rider, and would have none of it. The colourful, high-wheeled Spanish carts sat cocked down on their tongues, and the French army waggons sat at all angles as their waggoners had tried to turn round or force a way through the fleeing throngs before joining the rout.
“Hah! Ah hah!” Major Hughes was shouting at the sight of the waggons or carts being smashed to kindling, of tents, blankets, spare boots, and cook pots being hurled into the air. Subsequent broadsides caused ammunition waggons to explode and burn, scattering burning bits among the whole close-packed train. “That’s the way! Oh, capital, look at that! Whoo! Burn, you devils!”
“Damn my eyes,” Lewrie groaned. “I’ve made him happy!”
“Well, that won’t last, will it, sir?” Deacon cagily said.
At last, Sapphire sailed closer to the seaport town of Almuñécar and ran out of targets. The French were surely taking refuge in the houses furthest from the shore, huddling in the town square, but the risk of killing Spaniards precluded.
“Cease fire, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie called down to the quarterdeck. “Alter course three points to larboard, and secure from Quarters. Fun’s over.”
“Look there, sir!” Midshipman Carey yelped, leaping and pointing shoreward.
The citizens of little Almuñécar had gathered along the quays and docks, and even with angry French soldiers a street or two behind them, were daring to wave caps, hats, bonnets, dish towels, and one Spanish flag in celebration! The daring demonstration didn’t last long, and most of them dashed or slunk away feigning innocence as a few French soldiers appeared in the side streets.
“Unfortunately, they’ll pay for that, in lives and torture,” Mr. Deacon sadly concluded. “The French will lash out, and there will be Hell to pay.”
> “Aye,” Lewrie agreed with a grim nod.
“Well, sir!” Lt. Westcott said, beaming his harsh smile. “We might emulate that Dutch Admiral, De Ruyter, and sail into Gibraltar with a broom lashed to the main mast truck. A clean sweep, indeed.”
“That’s a damned good idea, Mister Westcott, and I thank you for it,” Lewrie said with a laugh. “Inform the Purser, Mister Cadrick, that the second rum issue of the day will be ‘Splice the Mainbrace.’”
“Aye, sir!”
* * *
There had been no need to clear the ship for action, so the great-cabins were as Lewrie had left them. Pettus and Jessop were back from sheltering on the orlop, and so were Chalky and Bisquit. The dog was still shivering and whining his terror of loud noises, eager for stroking and petting from anyone who’d pay him attention. Chalky ran to Lewrie as soon as he sat down on the settee, leapt into his lap and clung to his coat, making fussing noises and butting his head on Lewrie’s chin. Bisquit quit his rapid circling of the cabins and came to the settee, too, hopping up on it and laying his paws and head in Lewrie’s lap, whining for assurance.
“Sometimes I wonder if it would have been kinder t’leave him on my father’s farm,” Lewrie said, stroking both creatures ’til their distresses had ceased. Chalky began to purr, rattling away, and the dog closed his eyes and slunk the front half of his body onto Lewrie’s lap and thighs. His bushy tail began to flit, lazily.
“Cap’m’s Cook, SAH!” a Marine sentry announced in the usual loud fashion.
“Enter,” Lewrie responded, remaining seated.
Yeovill came in, and Bisquit hopped down and went to him for pets, and a lot of snuffling; Yeovill smelled like good food and was liberal with treats.
“Scrounger,” Lewrie accused the dog.
“I was wondering, sir, if you had plans to dine your officers in tonight, in celebration,” Yeovill posed.
“Aye, I thought I might,” Lewrie told him. “Major Hughes will also be dining here. He’s a roast beef and potatoes sort, but … I wonder. What can you serve that ain’t, Yeovill? Something exotic or foreign.”
Kings and Emperors Page 18