Midshipman Duncan Graham found himself once again up on the fore topmast yard, but this time he was on punishment. He had been involved in a squabble with his arch-enemy Tewksby, another midshipman. Nothing unusual about quarreling young men, but this had been too public for Lt Bowles to tolerate. Now they were perched on the cross trees of the main mast and the mizzen mast respectively.
Duncan still seethed at the unfairness of the punishment. He had ably demonstrated his familiarity with the sextant — he’d had a hard task master in his uncle and knew how to take the sun — such that he had calculated and predicted their point of arrival far more accurately than Tewksby, who, although his senior, was not a good hand at navigation. Duncan had spent many a long month at sea with his uncles on the Banks, where navigation without very much sun was a crucial part of their survival.
Tewksby had made the mistake of sneering at Duncan’s figures. The ship’s master had opened his mouth to correct Tewksby, but an incensed Duncan had opened his first and sworn at his tormentor. Lt Bowles had been on the quarterdeck at the time and had overheard.
He’d summoned the master and they’d held a short conversation, whereupon the two midshipmen had been ordered up the masts for the next two hours.
“In order that you will contemplate your impetuous words, Mr Graham. I shall not tolerate foul language on my deck. And you, Mr Tewksby, may contemplate your inability to navigate with any accuracy,” he had told them and sent them aloft.
Duncan gloomily scanned the wide bay where they were anchored. Larnaca was a small town of only about five thousand souls, located towards the south side of the wide bay. It was an ugly jumble of mud-walled, flat-roofed mud brick houses with the occasional cypress tree or palm to break the brown monotony. He could see the tall tower of the Church of Saint Lazarus, an old Byzantine church, and the minarets of the mosque. The town had the only functioning dock yard in the entire island, so it was at the pier of this port that barges and the gun boats were tied, being repaired or re-supplied. The land around the bay was relatively flat, but somewhat greener than the desert countryside he had observed in eastern Egypt.
With the arrival of the British ships the ancient port had come alive. The Greeks, being ardent merchants, were not about to let this opportunity pass them by. There were dozens of lighters and small boats plying between the ships, carrying all manner of supplies, from iron balls and powder, to barrels of beef and great sacks of biscuit. Fresh vegetables were being hauled aboard in huge baskets, along with cages of hens and even several goats. Where they were going to put the live animals, Duncan had no idea. The already crowded main deck had little room, the quarterdeck was off limits, and the gun decks barely had room for the men, let alone a herd of bleating goats and noisy chickens.
He noted with wry disappointment that Larnaca would not be supplying women, as could be found in Spithead and other ports of England. The behavior he had witnessed by the boat women in those ports had been entertainment in of itself, without the need to explore their presence any further. Duncan had a shyness of women that was common enough among his mess mates. He was not unused to girls, but they represented an opaque and mysterious species of whom he had not had much experience. The Greek women, it would seem, were not inclined to mix with foreigners of any ilk.
He noticed idly that a small cutter was making its way deliberately and speedily between the traffic towards his ship. Peering down towards the deck he noted that an alert midshipman, Standforth he thought it might be had notified the quarterdeck. There was some bustling about as the marines lined the opening to the starboard side and the two bosun’s mates, in white ducks, stood ready to pipe an officer aboard.
Soon the boat had pulled alongside, dropping its sail in one smooth motion that allowed it to bump gently against the gangplank hanging off the side of the ship. A man dressed in some kind of military uniform, Duncan could not tell what, jumped off the boat and clambered up the side of the ship to the shrill pipes of the bosun’s mates and the crash of Royal Marines presenting arms. The man was met by Lt Bowles and immediately led below. Duncan wondered what was going on.
He looked about him. Off to his left in the distance he could see the foothills and the high rising mountain of Trudos, a green jumble of foothills that clung to the side of a significant peak, hazy in the heat of the summer day. He was sweating despite a light sea breeze and wondered if he had spoiled any chances of going ashore to enjoy the few taverns that lined the harbor front.
While he seethed another hour went by. Then he heard a noise from directly below his perch and a young face, surmounted by a mop of dirty blond hair stuffed under a naval hat, poked itself over the edge of the crosstrees. “Hello, Graham,” said Standforth, the youngest of the midshipmen on the war ship.
“Hello, Minnow. How are ye?”
“Mr Fowler said you can come down now, as he wants to see you,” Standforth said, as he settled himself next to Duncan.
“He does, does he? What’s going on down there?” Duncan pointed at the abrupt activity below. Marines were assembling on deck and the boats were being prepared for launching.
“I have no idea, and if you don’t hurry you might be spending the night up here,” Standforth stated. “Come on, I’ll race you down!” he called out cheerfully as he seized a line and began to descend to the deck, disdaining the shrouds. Duncan jumped for another line and, at the risk of burning his hands, sped down to the deck behind him.
They arrived almost together, whereupon Duncan checked his coat and hat, which had fallen askew, and then reported smartly to Lt Fowler.
“Ah, there you are Graham. You are late. You are coming with me in the jolly boat. Sir Sidney is going ashore.”
Duncan glanced around at the assembled marines and armed seamen.
“May I ask respectfully why we are going ashore with so many men, Sir?”
“You might well ask. Sir Sidney, in his capacity as the commander of the Sultan’s land and sea forces on the coast of Syria and Egypt, is responsible for representing the authority of the Sultan in that region and maintaining order. There appears to have been a mutiny.”
“Does that mean,” Duncan was excited, “that we are going into action, Sir?”
“Yes, quite possibly, now stop asking questions and get in the boat. The seamen have pistols and a cutlass for you there. Hurry up, now. You are holding us back.”
“Yes, Sir!” Graham almost shouted. He cast a glance upward at the mizzen mast to check if Tewksby was still there but couldn’t see him. “Pity that. I’d enjoy seeing him eating his heart out,” he muttered to himself as he rushed over to the port side and the waiting crewmen, one of whom, Bosun’s Mate Chauncey, grinned at him and tossed him a pistol and a cutlass in a sheath.
“Glad to see you’re comin’ with us, Sorr,” he growled with a gap-toothed smile.
“Very glad to be going along, Chan.” Graham grinned back as he checked the priming of the pistol.
The flotilla of boats crossed the water and the passengers made haste to disembark on the narrow wharf of the town. Lt Fowler, with Midshipman Graham and about twenty crewmen, represented the Navy. The men men formed up and waited for the officers to decide where they had to march. Sir Sidney Smith and his Royal Marine officers, Colonel Douglas of Marines, Major Bromley off the Tigre and two other junior marine officers from the Alliance huddled around a small, well polished bronze field gun that men were hitching it to some horses. Several saddled horses were being held in waiting off to the side.
Once the field gun was secured, Sir Sidney addressed the assembled men.
“We have been informed that there has been a mutiny by a certain number of Janissaries who have turned on their officers and are running wild. The information we have is that they are in the area of the villages of Aradhipou, and just beyond that the village of Alampra and Lympia. In other words, Gentlemen, they have cut off the town of Larnaca from Nicosia and are looting and pillaging the countryside.”
He looked aro
und at the officers. “In my capacity of Commander of the Land and Sea forces for the Sultan in this region, I am responsible for the good order and lawful behavior of the Sultan’s forces. We are going to march to Aradhipou and persuade these men to surrender, then we will decide what to do with them.”
“How far away is this village, Sir? Do we know?” Colonel Douglas asked.
“Only a couple of leagues and furthermore we have a guide in the presence of Captain Williams here, who has recently returned from there. Captain Williams is well known to myself and several of you here.” Sir Sidney motioned Captain Williams to speak. The officer stepped forward and addressed the gathering.
“Gentlemen, just as Sir Sidney stated these are disaffected Janissaries. For the most part they are from Albania. The Turks have a law that takes the eldest child from each family for service in the ranks of the Janissaries. It is not a popular law, however, it is generally highly effective. In this case it would seem that the officers were too high-handed and indifferent to their grievances, so the men butchered them and are now running loose in the aforementioned villages.” He paused to let this sink in. “It is important that we contain these men before they run wild all over the island and cause incalculable trouble. If they get among the foothills of Mount Trudos we will never winkle them out of the villages there and we cannot have that, as then they will threaten the entire island.”
“We must make haste and nip this in the bud,” Sir Sidney stated. “Gentlemen, to your places. We march at once!”
The column of Redcoats wound its way out of the port and along the single main street of Larnaca, which was lined with nervous but curious Greek inhabitants who cheered the men in a desultory manner as they passed, even throwing a few flowers in their path. Some shouted what seemed to be encouragement to the passing troops.
“It’s somewhat ironic that we are marching to help these people against their own occupiers when we would prefer that they were independent of the Sultan,” remarked Lt Fowler in an undertone, as he led the Naval contingent at the rear of the column.
Assuming his remark was directed at him, Duncan asked, “So all these people are Greek? Not Turks, Sir?” His voice was muffled. They had wrapped cloths over their noses to ward off the dust raised by the marching marines ahead of them.
“Yes indeed, Graham. The vast majority are Greek. They have been occupied since the Ottomans arrived, back in the fifteenth century. I doubt very much that there is any love lost on either side, and this situation doesn’t help at all.”
Duncan began to notice that there were native people traveling in the opposite direction. Laden donkeys led by very poor-looking men and their families trudged by, heading for the relative safety of Larnaca. Some women were carrying wailing children; older women clung to the backs of the over-loaded donkeys and hand carts being pushed by boys. They looked frightened.
It was less than an hour later when word moved along the line to halt. Leaving the sailors and the gun in Graham’s charge, Lt Fowler made his way forward to where the officers were grouped. They had been marching through cultivated land almost all the way; but the road, if it could be called that, was simply a track wide enough for a small carriage.
Sir Sidney, now wearing the badge of a Commander for the Sultan of Ottoman on his hat, was staring at the low buildings of a village through his glass. A column of black smoke was billowing slowly into the sky, lending a desolate look to the place. The flat-roofed outlying hovels indicated it was a poor village.
“Not a very prepossessing place is it? We shall parley,” Sir Sidney stated, wiping his neck with a handkerchief. “Ugh, it’s hot!” He peered up at the remorseless, pale blue sky from which the sun burned down. “Wish it would rain,” he muttered. “I don’t see much activity, but there are some of the Janissaries if I am not mistaken. If they do not wish to surrender then we shall take the place and move along. I shall go with Captain Williams here; we’ll need a white flag. I suppose they should respect a white flag, eh, Captain?”
“One might hope so. I would much prefer it if you did not go forward, Sir. I can go myself and take one man with me.”
“No, I shall accompany you. They will see my badges of rank and there might be some hope that they will respect that.”
Reluctantly, Captain Williams shook out a white handkerchief and tied it to his sword, then led the way forward towards the village.
They had not gone more than sixty yards when there was a puff of smoke, a report, and a ball hummed by, followed by a shout from one of the houses.
Captain Williams halted his horse and indicated to Sir Sidney that he should, too.
There followed a voluble exchange of words that only Captain Williams, who spoke Greek, French and several other languages, understood; but within a minute he turned to Sir Sidney and said, “They are not interested in surrender, Sir. They know only too well the penalty for mutiny. It is impalement. They told us to go away or they would shoot us.”
“Bother. Do they understand that they will be under my protection if they do surrender?”
“I pointed that out to the man I was talking to, Sir. He sounded belligerent and not interested in anything we might have to offer.”
Sir Sidney stared at the village for a long moment, then he lifted his reins and turned his horse. “Very well then, we shall assault the village and move on to the next one. We will have to be as careful as we can not to cause injury to any civilians who might still be left inside the village.”
After a short conference, the orders came for the sailors with the field gun to come forward while the Royal Marines were formed up and marched to the flank. There the marines were divided up into two companies and formed up on either side of the gun, which was unlimbered from its horses and prepared for firing, while the animals were led to the rear. There were a brief few minutes of feverish activity, then the gunner turned to the colonel and raised his arm.
“Ready to fire, Sir!”
Lt Fowler came running back to the small group of sailors standing with Duncan, who was wondering what they were going to do.
“We follow the marines in and help with prisoners and wounded,” he told his men. “Check your arms and prime weapons,” he ordered.
The men saw to their arms while Duncan stood alongside Lt Fowler and stared at the impassive houses to their front. “Our job is to protect Sir Sidney and also to deal with any of the enemy who try to slip by,” Fowler said. His excitement at the impending fight communicated itself to Duncan. He took a deep breath to still his rapidly beating heart and followed Fowler to stand near to Sir Sidney Smith and Colonel Douglas. Major Bromley was going to lead the marines into the village with the first wave of men.
Duncan heard the command, “Fix Bayonets!” followed by the sinister snick as the long bright blades were affixed to the barrels of the muskets. “Prepare to march!”
On a signal from Sir Sidney, the small field cannon boomed. A house wall disintegrated as the ball smashed into it, leaving a small landslide of rubble and a cloud of dust. When the smoke cleared Duncan could see some of the enemy moving into the opening and preparing to fire.
“Forward march!” Major Bromley called out, and started forward. The marines began to march in line abreast towards the houses, only about seventy yards away, their muskets at the ready with the bayonets glittering in the sun.
There was a spattering of shots, but the Janissaries aim was poor and the shots simply buzzed overhead.
Major Bromley shouted an order and the marines closed ranks, then the NCOs called out another order. There was a crash of musketry and some of the brightly-dressed insurgents fell, while others, seeing the firepower directed at them, turned and fled for better cover.
In response to Major Bromley’s next command, the marines gave a cheer and ran forward. By now they were among the outlying hovels of the village. Major Bromley ordered the men to take advantage of cover but to keep moving forward. A general firefight ensued, where red-coated marines in small g
roups ran from house to house kicking in doors, yelling as they did so. The insurgents put up a stiff fight. Their backs were against the wall and they had nothing to lose, so they fought as hard as they could, but the discipline of the marines and their inexorable forward momentum made it very hard for the Janissaries to respond in kind. Casualties mounted on both sides, but before long the marines had gained the middle of the village and could pause.
“What a miserable place to fight over,” remarked Lt Fowler as he and his sailors crouched on the corner of a dirt street. Musket balls smacked into the wall and chipped the corner nearby or hummed overhead.
“They do not impress me with their musketry,” he remarked dryly.
They had been left behind by the marines who had galloped ahead in their enthusiasm to take the village. Sir Sydney had finally dismounted, due to the pleading of Lt Fowler, and was peering around the corner of the mud brick wall with the lieutenant.
“Wonder where they’ve gone?” he mused.
The first indication that they were in trouble came when one of the sailors uttered a yelp of pain and collapsed with nasty-looking knife sticking out of his leg. There followed a bloodthirsty yell and five insurgents charged out of the sun-dried wooden gates of a nearby house.
Within moments it was hand-to-hand fighting, but there were more of the sailors and they were protecting their Commodore who, not to be outdone by his men, was fighting alongside them, his sword flashing in the sunlight. Men hacked and stabbed at one another, screaming and yelling; the sailors were armed with pistols, which they used at close quarters then using them as clubs because there was no time to reload. Despite the fog of smoke that sometimes obscured targets, they were used to close quarter fighting so it was not long before they began to gain the upper hand.
Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir Page 3