The Invasion Year l-17

by Dewey Lambdin

  “A beetle?” Lt. Westcott deemed it, sounding awed. That was a fair-enough first guess, for near its forward third there were wide-bladed oars jutting to either side, at least half a dozen on the larboard side that faced them, and they were being worked like scoops to crawl it forward, just like a water-beetle that had lost most of its legs!

  “Qui vive? Heu, mort de ma vie!” the lone Frenchman aft at the thing’s helm wailed. Just aft of him at its taffrail stood a staff, from which a small French Tricolour windlessly dangled.

  “Mister Spendlove!” Lewrie yelled to the gun-deck. “Take that… thing under fire!”

  One of the big’uns, I think, Lewrie adjudged after a dash for the starboard bulwarks for a better look; fourty-five or fifty feet in length… the type Peel said could carry an hundred French troops!

  “As you bear… fire!” Lt. Spendlove cried in sing-song.

  Even with the wood quoins fully inserted under the breeches of the guns, the odd French invasion barge lay so low to the water that half the shots only scythed away the two masts and lug-sails, crashed clean through that long centreline box that should protect French soldiers and let them re-load in shelter, carrying most of it away in a whirl of shattered lumber! It was the carronades on the quarterdeck with their screw adjusters under their breeches that could be depressed low enough to score solid hits, and they were awesome! They were 32-pounders firing solid shot, and they punched huge holes right through the carapace of the “beetle’s” back and, from the parroty Rrawk-screech sounds which followed the initial timber-screams on entry, carried on at a shallow angle out the boat’s starboard side!

  The French boat’s helmsman, before being cut in two by roundshot, had put its helm hard-over, and though the rest of its crew that had been manning the paddles had abandoned them and come rushing on deck, the strange craft swung its bows shoreward, coasting along on a scant momentum. What little wind there was that moved the banks of fog blew the gunsmoke back into the faces of the gun crews as they swabbed out and began the ritual of re-loading, blinding everyone for long moments with thick yellow-white clouds of sulfur-reeking smoke.

  By the time the guns were run out in-battery once more and the gun-captains could take aim, the range was just long enough for surer aim.

  “As you bear… fire!” Lt. Spendlove screeched again.

  “That’s better!” Lewrie cheered. “That’s the way, lads!”

  Before a fresh bank of gunsmoke blotted out their view again, Lewrie could see shot-splashes all round the boat, close aboard its waterline, and more holes punched into her larboard side and stern-quarters!

  “Overhaul tackle… staunch and swab out!” Lt. Spendlove was hoarsely ordering. “Cartridges up!”

  “Sir! Sir!” Midshipman Munsell shrilled, still at his post in the main-mast shrouds. “She’s sinking, sir! She’s sinking!”

  The French build ’em out o’ papier-mache? Lewrie wondered as he leaned far out over the quarterdeck bulwarks to see for himself.

  Damned if the boat wasn’t sinking! Instead of an up-turned soup tureen, the thing now more-resembled a large-holed colander, with shot holes riddling its stern and larboard side. There was no sign of the other French sailors who had dashed to the deck. It was both down by the bows, most-likely dragged by the weight of the rumoured 24-pounder bow gun, and heeled over to starboard, the result of the 32-pound shot from the carronades, the “Smashers,” that had gone completely through her hull to her starboard side below the waterline.

  It rolled onto its beam ends, revealing a clean, new bottom but without the normal protection against barnacles, weed, and wood-boring worms; the French had not coppered her bottom! The curve of the lower hull was shallower than the upperworks, and most of its length was flat-bottomed, like a river barge.

  “They think to dare the open sea, the Channel, in that?” Lieutenant Westcott hooted in derision as the odd, alien-looking boat went down by the bows, cocking its riddled stern in the air for an instant like a feeding duck, then sank in a welter of foam and released air.

  “Pray God they do, Mister Westcott!” Lewrie said, laughing out loud with his arms outstretched in joy. “Fetch ’em up to half a cable in clear weather, and one broadside’ll do for each. When they come we can make a meal of ’em!”

  “What was that, sir?” Mr. Caldwell asked.

  “A French secret weapon, Mister Caldwell,” Lewrie happily told him, “one that doesn’t seem worth a tupenny shit. They’re supposed to paddle themselves right onto a beach, use that twenty-four-pounder in the bow t’clear the way, and land about one hundred Frog troops each.”

  “Then Bonaparte’s dafter than I thought, sir!” Caldwell replied, with a chuckle, though he shook his head in amazement.

  “You knew of them, sir?” Westcott asked.

  “Unofficially,” Lewrie admitted. “Some months ago before they saddled us with the torpedo experiments.”

  “D’ye hear, there! Strange boat off the starboard quarters!” a deck lookout aft by the transom shouted.

  “Hoy, Reliant!” a voice shouted from the fog. “Merriman here! Hold your fire! We’re returning with a prize!”

  Lewrie returned to the starboard bulwarks, clambering atop one of the carronades’ slides for a better view. Another of the strange boats swam slowly into view, its broad-bladed paddles clawing at the sea, all out of coordination… and the first part of it that seemed completely solid from out of the thick fog was that snout at the bows, that 24-pounder!

  “Ahoy, Mister Merriman!” Lewrie called back through his cupped hands. “Is that bow gun loaded?”

  “No, sir! There’s no shot or powder aboard!” Lt. Merriman gaily called back. “We’ve two prisoners, one of them wounded, and one of our Marines slightly hurt. Cox’n Desmond is ready to pass a towing line, when you’re ready!”

  “She’s an ugly bitch, ain’t she, lads?” Liam Desmond yelled to the ship as he stood just beside that large gun, with a heavy coil of line readied.

  “An’t worth half a crown in prize-money!” his mate, Furfy, just had to add, capering a jig on the boat’s sloping foredeck.

  The Hell she ain’t! Lewrie thought; There’s people in London, at Admiralty, who’ll turn Saint Catherine wheels t’see one, close up!

  The Surgeon, Mister Mainwaring, came up from his surgery in the cockpit on the orlop, accompanied by a party of loblolly boys bearing a pair of mess tables for stretchers as the odd boat, and the borrowed barge, came close alongside to transfer all the Marines, the two French prisoners, and Lt. Merriman back aboard.

  “We can take it under tow, but that may slow us to nothing,” Lewrie said, looking up hopefully at the sails and commissioning pendant, which still hung limp, only its free end being lifted. “Welcome back aboard, Mister Merriman, and congratulations on carrying out your action so briskly.”

  “Thank you, sir. It was simple, really,” Merriman said. “The thing loomed up, we scrambled up the slope of the hull, gave them one volley and cold steel, and it was done. The hardest part was climbing the slope. Whatever that thing is, it’s only sixteen or eighteen feet abeam, and it looks as if it rises about eight feet to the turtleback… or beetleback, ha ha! A bit slippery,” he said with a glad shrug.

  “Metalled hull, was it?” Lewrie asked, hoping that it was not. “That… box down the centreline. Armoured, was it?”

  “Lord, no, sir, just wood!” Lt. Merriman laughed. “The box is made of one-inch deal planking over four-by-four posts!”

  “D’ye hear, there!” another lookout cried from up forward. “A boat off the larboard beam! ’Tis another o’ the things!”

  “Stand by, the larboard battery!” Lt. Spendlove on the gun-deck warned his gunners.

  “Ahoy, Reliant! Barge number two, with prize!”

  “That you, Mister Houghton?” Lewrie shouted back, with a brass speaking-trumpet this time.

  “Aye, sir! Permission to come alongside? We’ve a wounded man, and a prisoner!” Midshipman Houghton called out.
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br />   “Very well, Mister Houghton!” Lewrie agreed. “Pass us a line, and we’ll try t’take you under tow. We’ve a second prize t’deal with as well.”

  “The fog’s thinning to seaward, sir, and there’s a bit of wind from the West,” Houghton informed him as his capture solidified from the fog; she could be made out nearly two hundred yards off, about the range of Lewrie’s breech-loading Ferguson rifle-musket. With any luck, the sea-breeze would spring to life and would be strong enough for towing both prizes out on larboard tack, one bound to Reliant’s stern and the second bound to the stern of the first barge!

  And alter course, at last, a bit more Nor’westerly, and clear the French coast before the fog burns completely off, Lewrie schemed.

  “Listen, sir,” Westcott pointed out. “It seems we’ve upset the French.”

  The mournful baying of fog horns had turned urgent and rapid, more like a pack of hounds that had run a fox to its earth. Added to that baying were a couple of trumpets.

  “I didn’t know the French were much fond of fox-hunting, sir,” Lt. Westcott said with a laugh. “Hear that? ’Ta-tara-tara!! Yoicks, tally-ho! There must be one sporting fellow out there.”

  “It does sound like a fox-hunt, doesn’t it?” Lewrie mused. “Are you a hunter, Mister Westcott?”

  “We’re small-holders, sir… just fifty-odd acres,” Lt. Westcott said with a dismissive shrug, “so we only get invited the once each year, and I never saw the point. Steeplechasing at the gallop’s more to my liking, and I could do that any time. In fact, I’ve always felt sorry for the fox. Tried to make a pet of one when I was little, and you can imagine how that played out,” he added, chuckling.

  “Fox kits and otter cubs… my son Hugh was mad for either, or both,” Lewrie rejoined with a laugh.

  “Damn my eyes, is that a breeze, sir?” Westcott said, turning to look seaward, then aloft.

  “Not much of one, but it’s from the West,” Lewrie replied as he looked aloft to the sails, which were, rustling uncertainly, trimmed to cup the land-breeze and now presented with one from the opposite tack. “Hands to the braces and sheets, Mister Westcott. Let’s make the most of it and get a goodly way on her. Mister Merriman?”

  “Here, sir!”

  “Rig towing lines from the stern to one boat, and another to the second,” Lewrie ordered. “And have the prize parties take in those paddle things, with an experienced helmsman in each.”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  “Once we’re trimmed to the wind, Mister Caldwell, shape course Nor’-Nor’west, so we pass between Jersey and Alderney,” Lewrie told the Sailing Master. “Once we’re out in the Channel, we’ll take a bee-line for Portsmouth!”

  BOOK V

  Ye true honest Britons who love your own land

  Whose sires were so brave, so victorious, so free,

  Who always beat France when they took her in hand

  Come join honest Britons in chorus with me.

  Should the French dare invade us, thus armed with our poles,

  We’ll bang their bare ribs, make their lantern jaws ring;

  For your beef-eating, beer-drinking Britons are souls

  Who will shed their last blood for their Country and King!

  ~POPULAR TAVERN SONG

  CIRCA 1757

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Anyone who was anyone in the Navy wished to see the odd French contraptions once Reliant towed them into Portsmouth harbour. The Surveyor of the Navy, Sir William Rule, and the Deputy Controller of the Navy, Captain Henry Duncan, came down from London to gawk and wonder, in company with the Port Admiral, Lord Gardner, and the Commissioner of HM Dockyards at Portsmouth, Captain Sir Charles Saxton, Bart. The Foreign Office sent down a functionary, and there were some “redcoat” Army types rather high in rank who evinced great curiosity about what sort of threat the landing barges might make. There were representatives from the Pitt government, along with a select group of Navy captains charged with patrolling the Channel, so they could recognise the damned things should they run across them in future.

  Lieutenants Westcott and Merriman prepared detailed sketches of the things, several sets done by hand, for no one wanted to trust the drawings to even a government printer. And, Lewrie was “on show” for each curious visitor to explain their capture, and how they handled in the open sea, but, if he had imagined a hero’s welcome, he was greatly disappointed. There was no celebration dinner, no presentation sword or set of silver plate, no band, no parade through the streets with a cheering crowd, or several dozen sailors replacing the horse team to draw him in an open carriage, either. And a fireworks show and a Te Deum mass at St. Thomas A’Becket’s Church were right out, too.

  The pair of boats that Reliant had captured were hurriedly covered with great swaths of sailcloth and towed into an empty graving dock, then placed under armed Marine guard.

  “Well, damme, Captain Lewrie, but ye do keep popping up with one surprise after another,” Admiral Lord Gardner commented after making a clumsy, arthritic way aboard one of them in company with his Flag-Captain, Niles. “They’ve a lot of these things, d’ye imagine?”

  “The rumours say three or four hundred, my lord,” Lewrie said.

  “First that nonsense about torpedoes, now these,” Lord Gardner went on, peering down into the bowels of the barge where the soldiers would sleep, sup, and shelter. “Three or four hundred, did ye say?”

  “So I was told by a friend in Secret Branch, my lord.”

  This tour was the fifth that Lewrie had given to various officials, and it was getting old, by then. The lack of praise beyond the usual “Good show!” was irksome, too. He imagined that if Nelson had come across them, that fame-hungry fellow would have commissioned special editions of all the London papers, with illustrations to boot!

  “Damned waste of good artillery, packing a twenty-four-pounder in the bows,” Lord Gardner went on in a grumble. “Do the French think they can use them as gunboats, too? Wheel them round with those huge paddles? I saw armed galleys in the Mediterranean in my youth, but… it looks iffy to me.”

  “Concentrating all the paddles in the forward end, too,” Captain Niles added. “I suppose they work well enough in a river but not at sea. Has anyone tried paddling them about?”

  “Once we made port, sir,” Lewrie told him with a grimace, “to shift them alongside. They don’t row worth a damn, nor steer, either. They’re fitted with a tiller to the exposed rudder, and my helmsmen about wore themselves out on the way here under tow, tryin’ to follow the stern posts of the leadin’ barge, or my frigate. A handful o’ lee helm, then a handful o’ weather helm. We did hoist their sails, to steady ’em, but that didn’t help much. I’d imagine that did one try ’em under sail, without bein’ towed, they’d wallow from beam-to-beam, be slow as cold treacle, and with their flat bottoms, they’d make lee-way like a wood chip.”

  “Heh heh heh,” the Port Admiral, softly, evilly cackled, bending down to survey the interior more closely. “How many soldiers might it carry, Lewrie?”

  “These large versions are said to carry an hundred, my lord. A shorter one may carry about eighty,” Lewrie told him.

  “One hundred Frogs, cooped up down there on those benches, or in those slat beds, my my!” Lord Gardner said, enjoying the image. “Cold rations. I see no galley facilities. No ‘heads,’ either.”

  “Rations for five or six days, I heard, sir,” Lewrie supplied. “Though, part of that might be for after they landed in England before they could loot and pillage the countryside… or hope to.”

  “Bonaparte must not have much regard for his soldiers, milord,” Captain Niles imagined, “if he expected them to use wooden buckets as their ‘necessaries,’ then have to pass them up from below. The reek would be horrid,” he said with a sniff, as if reeks already existed.

  “The staleness of the air,” Lord Gardner happily fantasised. “The reek of their ‘cess,’ as well, Niles, and the stench of sea-sickness, which would naturally enge
nder even more sickness! Why, after a day or two of that, with these daft things wallowing like hogs in the mud, and rolling like logs, it’d be a bloody wonder that they could fight at all! Right, Niles?”

  “Stagger ashore reeling like tars off a whaler that’s been at sea two years running, and be so crop-sick even our militia can round them up, milord!” Captain Niles hooted. “They’re a completely daft idea, and if the French really mean to employ them, they’ll pay an ungodly high price in dead, and in prisoners.”

  “Drown nigh a quarter of their men, should the Channel whip up rough during the crossing,” Admiral Lord Gardner estimated, looking highly pleased with his conclusion. “What was it that Bonaparte was reputed to have said, sirs? ‘Give me six hours’ mastery of the Channel, and we shall be masters of the world’? Bah! Bah, I say!”

  “Lord Keith in The Downs estimates so large an invasion armada would take two tides to get across in sufficient strength, milord,” Captain Niles gleefully pointed out. “Twenty-four hours with the sea and tides scattering them, sickening them, and our ships clawing at them like so many tigers? Let them try, is what I say!”

  “Congratulations to ye, Captain Lewrie,” Lord Gardner said as he stood erect, going so far as to offer his hand. “It was a brave thing to snatch them up, in such a thick fog, with no thought for the presence of escorts… and, to get them away for study!”

  “Well, it seemed a good idea at the moment, my lord,” Lewrie replied, shaking hands with the old fellow and trying to sound modest.

  “Damme, Lewrie… had you not already been granted a knighthood, this deed surely would have earned you one!” Captain Niles said in praise as well.

  Well, damned if it might’ve! Lewrie thought, feeling for the first time as if he had done something worthy of the honour, instead of secretly scorning his sash and star as a sop given for his usefulness, and the usefulness of his late wife’s murder, to ignite revulsion and hatred of the French, and Bonaparte.