Man Of War mh-9

by Allan Mallinson

  The first intimations of dawn towards Windsor, and the striking of Vanneck’s repeating hunter – a quarter before five o’clock – were the signal to mount. Hervey was up and eager, pistols blank-primed, cloak rolled and on the saddle, though the dewy morning had a chill to it. ‘Very well, Captain Vanneck: let us advance on the bridge.’ He gave back the canteen of tea to Johnson.

  ‘Sir!’ Vanneck saluted and rode forward into the darkness. The glorious moon had not reappeared, and it was back to night drills.

  First Squadron began throwing out scouts and flankers, to a good deal of sotto voce cursing from the NCOs. Hervey despaired at the falling away of the edge which the regiment had had in India, when to stand to and move off before first light was the merest matter of routine, accomplished with scarcely a word of command. Could they have captured the sluices at Bhurtpore in their present state of efficiency? He had better not think on it. He must hope that the Guards, devoted as they were to the parade ground in Whitehall, were likewise a blunter instrument than he had observed in Spain.

  In five minutes, when Vanneck’s squadron had settled to its business, there was a great eruption of noise and flame in the distance: carbines firing, bugles, whistles, rockets (always a handy device for such a show, and easily got for a few pounds in London), and then the roar of the Chestnuts’ nine-pounders. Worsley’s diversionary attack on the boats had begun.

  ‘A rude reveille for the good citizens of Berkshire, Mr Rennie,’ said Hervey to the RSM, who was riding on his nearside, the adjutant to his other.

  ‘And for the Grenadiers, I hope, sir.’

  ‘Oh, I imagine they’ll be awake. I hope at this moment their light company will be double-marching to the sound of the guns.’

  ‘There is news of Lord Holderness, sir, a message from the surgeon half an hour ago, the first I have had opportunity to inform you.’

  ‘Go on, Sar’nt-Major.’

  ‘The surgeon reports he has dosed the colonel with laudanum, sir. He’s bedded down at a place just outside Windsor – discreet sort of place, just as you ordered.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Good. We don’t want a word of this outside the regiment. Nor within, if it can be helped.’

  ‘No, sir. The colonel’s had one or two turns like this before, though I never knew it to render him unfit in this way.’

  The RSM’s tone was of concern; Hervey was warmed by the affection and loyalty evident.

  A corporal rode back up the column, turning as he reached the RSM. ‘Message for Major Hervey, sir.’

  ‘Corporal Davies, is that?’ asked Hervey, there being but two Welsh voices in the regiment.

  ‘Sir. Message from Captain Vanneck, sir. The scouts are halted at the bottom of the hill, in cover.’

  ‘Thank you, Corporal. Wait on the reply.’ Hervey reined to a halt. He had told Vanneck not to break cover until ordered, for once there was firing to their front he would not be able to hear anything from the bridge, and he could not rely on Fairbrother’s signal rockets working after a swim in the Thames.

  A quarter of an hour passed – anxious minutes, for it was now light enough to see the colour of the next man’s coat. The diversionary attack on the boats continued, the firing mounting (Grenadiers joining the fight in growing numbers, Hervey hoped).

  Another five minutes – the birdsong increasing, the sky lightening. Hervey began to lose hope.

  Up went a green rocket, from exactly where he had supposed the bridge to be.

  ‘There it is, sir!’ came a helpful voice behind him.

  ‘Thank you, Johnson. Ever obliged to you.’ It amused him to see how animated now was his groom, where the day before he had been all for a quiet time with the baggage. ‘Corporal Davies, my compliments to Captain Vanneck, and will he advance his squadron at once, and with all haste to the bridge.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Davies kicked furiously for the bottom of the hill.

  ‘Well, Mr Clarke, Mr Rennie, we have had some fortune, at least. Let us go and see if the gentlemen in red will let us through.’

  Hervey trotted slowly down the slope. There was no point his risking a stumble over a root he could not see, and no point in bustling upon the rear of First Squadron as they debouched from the covert. He had had an hour’s sleep, no more, but Johnson’s hot, sweet tea had done much to revive him; that and the thrill of . . . not battle, but the test of wits. He might almost suppose he were enjoying it. He was enjoying it! The regiment was under his orders, again, and he was with friends.

  Minutes later came the first clash with the Grenadier pickets, Vanneck’s scouts moving cautiously in the half light lest they be counted out by an umpire (ever zealous to exercise their authority). At fifty yards a fusillade greeted them, but the dense white smoke, hanging heavy in the cold dawn air, screened the scouts as well as if they had made it for themselves, and they drove in the picket – a serjeant’s command – with loud whooping and the clatter of hoofs.

  Vanneck took advantage of the early success by putting the advance guard into a hand-gallop.

  The scouts rode on apace a mile and more down the road, unchallenged, sensing an open run to the bridge. It was daylight enough to see a good furlong, though a mist clung to the meadows on either side. Vanneck was about to order the flankers in when he saw the scouts pulling up hard ahead. Shots rang out down the road, but he couldn’t see from where. He held up a hand to halt the squadron, and kicked forward with just his coverman.

  Fifty yards on, and he saw the cause: a company of Grenadiers astride the road, a solid wall of red, at Vanneck’s rapid estimate a hundred muskets in two ranks, bayonets fixed, with one flank on the walls of a churchyard, and the other on a spinney. And with them was a mounted umpire: there was no letting cavalry pass in the face of formed infantry.

  ‘Skirmishers!’ shouted Vanneck.

  Hervey, riding close behind, hove left off the road to the cover of an orchard, and began searching the ground with his telescope. ‘I must compliment the captain,’ he said, as the adjutant reined up beside him and began his own observation. ‘Whoever he is, he’s chosen the position well, open ground to left and right, no covered approaches, and several cuts that would make it difficult to take at full stretch.’

  ‘Shall I get the rear troop to range further left . . . or right?’ suggested the adjutant (either direction seemed as likely).

  ‘We may have to, but they’re as apt to lose direction in that mist as not. Let’s wait a bit longer to see if Vanneck can turn a flank. At least this is one company that can’t counter-attack the bridge.’ But Hervey reckoned they had half an hour at most before the company would be reinforced, and then they would never be able to shift them. If only he had the Chestnuts’ guns with him! But that had been a calculated decision: he had to convince Colonel St Aubyn that his boats were under the heaviest attack . . .

  Vanneck’s skirmishers kept up a brisk musketry for a quarter of an hour, and made some progress, driving in the Grenadiers’ own pickets (there were numerous umpires, conspicuous by their white armbands, and scrupulously fair). But short of ordering the squadron to attack on foot (and he would only be able to muster fifty or so, accounting for horse-holders) he saw no opening.

  Hervey began to curse, since neither could he see a way round. If only he had kept a single gun . . .

  One of the flankers galloped up to the orchard, a smart young NCO from B Troop who had taken the prizes at the horse show the year before. He jumped from the saddle and saluted. ‘Major Hervey, sir . . . I’m sorry, I thought you was Captain Vanneck—’

  ‘What is it, May?’

  ‘They’re retiring, sir – doubling off to the rear and west, down the row of alders at the back of yon spinney; you can’t see them from here.’

  ‘You’re sure they’re not heading down the road, towards the bridge?’

  ‘Yes, sir. They’re hoofing it ’cross the meadow.’

  Hervey smiled, and nodded. ‘Very well. Smart work, Corporal May.’ He put his char
ger into a canter.

  Vanneck saluted as Hervey pulled up beside him behind a broad elm. ‘The firing’s slackening, Hervey.’

  ‘Corporal May says they’re withdrawing west. They’re using the smoke to mask it.’

  Vanneck needed no further orders. ‘Advance guard, dismount!’

  ‘But let us not press them too hard. We don’t want them turning and making a stand.’ Hervey reined about to look for B Troop Leader and the main body (he would not have interfered had not Vanneck been occupied with disposing the advance guard). He saw them, halted, fifty yards or so back down the road. ‘Trumpet-major!’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Call up B Troop if you please.’

  ‘Sir!’ The trumpet-major sounded the short, sharp troop call.

  B Troop advanced at the canter.

  Hervey cut to the road and held them up behind the reinforced skirmish line. ‘Mr Margadale, at any moment the enemy will break and run. On my order we will gallop like fury to the bridge!’

  Lieutenant Margadale, in temporary command of B Troop, acknowledged, and gave his own orders to the cornets.

  Vanneck’s skirmishers were fifty yards from the company when they let out a great cheer and raced forward. The last of the guardsmen turned and made for the alder line as fast they could, but not before the first of the dragoons could catch them. Umpires cursed foully trying to stop the brawling.

  Hervey drew his sabre. ‘Forward!’

  They sprang into a gallop, scattering blue and red coats alike, as they made for the bridge at full tilt. Two mounted umpires joined them, but nothing short of grape could have stopped them now.

  In a minute or so, through the remains of the smoke, and the mist, they gained the approaches to the bridge – and not another red coat to be seen.

  ‘Great heavens, what a work!’ exclaimed Hervey as he pulled up hard in front. There were barrels lashed to the parapet, the arches and the culverts – as many as he had seen the engineers place on the stubbornest bridge in Spain.

  Fairbrother, standing dismounted in the middle, touched his cap in salute.

  Hervey was as relieved as he had been at the Cape to see his friend safe and triumphant. ‘So much gunpowder this close to Windsor Castle, eh, Fairbrother?’ His smile was as broad as his friend’s.

  Lieutenant Margadale’s face was all astonishment, however. ‘But what . . . where did they—’

  ‘It is an interesting illusion, Margadale, is it not? You observe a bridge with barrels lashed to it, and you perceive they must be powder kegs.’

  Margadale looked no more enlightened.

  ‘If they are not empty – which I imagine they are – those barrels contain nothing more dangerous than Dorney’s best ale. That is correct, Fairbrother?’

  ‘They are, indeed, empty. But the landlord of the Rose and Crown is well disposed to supplying a thirsty regiment at a handsome discount.’

  Hervey smiled. This was not war, but it was close on the image of it – or, at least, on that heady prelude to the field battles, when wits were still superior to the butcher’s knife. ‘Tell me how the ruse went.’

  ‘Exactly as you predicted it would,’ said Fairbrother, serenely lighting up a cheroot. ‘There was a weak picket on the bridge, which we drove in easily enough. They seemed astonished that we came from that direction, as if the possibility did not exist. Then they brought up a reserve – not much of one – but the umpire judged our shooting to be effective. Once we’d got the barrels to the bridge it was all over. The umpire agreed we had the capability to destroy the bridge if it looked as if we would lose it, and then just as suddenly they – the Guards – were intent on getting to the boats.’

  Hervey nodded. ‘Capital; capital!’ He turned to the RSM. ‘Mr Rennie, the green rocket, if you please.’

  ‘Sir!’

  Hervey now observed they had elevated company: the deputy quartermaster-general of the London District was approaching, the same who had had charge of the action at Waltham Abbey. He saluted. ‘Colonel Denroche, good morning!’

  Colonel Denroche returned the salute, and to Hervey’s surprise, smiled. ‘Major Hervey! A most thoroughgoing success. I compliment the regiment.’

  ‘I thank you, sir. I shall convey your sentiment to the colonel at once.’

  ‘I would do so myself. Where is he?’

  A rocket streaked noisily into the sky and burst a hundred feet above the bridge, a pretty shower of green. It gave Hervey a few moments to compose a truthful but unhelpful reply. ‘I cannot say for certain, Colonel: the rocket is the signal for Second Squadron to withdraw.’

  ‘We-ell . . . I will see him presently, no doubt. He is due considerable accolade.’ He turned to leave. ‘The name of the officer who took the bridge?’

  ‘Cornet Blanche, Colonel.’

  ‘Very well. I bid you good day, sir!’

  They all held the salute as Colonel Denroche put his horse into a canter in the direction of the boats. Hervey dropped his hand, and looked about. ‘Well, gentlemen, I believe we may stand down and take some breakfast.’

  As the order passed down the ranks, there was cheering.

  Hervey was not for once minded to suppress it. Indeed, he felt like joining in.

  Myles Vanneck had by now come up, looking every bit as pleased with things as the rest of his squadron. ‘My God, Hervey, but that was a go!’ he declared, getting down from the saddle to check his charger’s feet.

  ‘Touch and go, rather, don’t you think?’

  ‘A capital ruse, though.’

  ‘And some excellent work by your squadron, I may say.’

  ‘I will convey that sentiment to them. But tell me, Hervey: I don’t understand why you ordered Worsley on no account to capture the boats. It would have been a most complete victory.’

  ‘But it was not necessary, and it would have humiliated Colonel St Aubyn.’

  Vanneck looked doubtful. ‘Would not that have served?’

  ‘My dear Myles, who has lately become colonel of the Grenadiers?’

  Vanneck’s face spoke of his realization. ‘The Duke of Wellington.’

  ‘Quite.’

  XI

  THE RED ENSIGN

  The second morning at sea, 30 September 1827

  Peto wiped the condensation from the eyepiece of his telescope, and took another look. ‘Slow sport, a stern chase. I wonder who she is?’

  Six miles or so on the starboard beam, towards the southern horizon, was what looked like a brig sailing a good two points free of the wind, and beyond, but evidently within gun range, a second, indeterminate sail chasing her.

  There was another puff of smoke from the second sail’s bowchaser. Several seconds later came the muffled report. Peto did not see the fall of shot, so he had no idea whether it had struck the brig or fallen short.

  ‘Another merchantman running from pirates?’ suggested Lambe, likewise searching with his glass.

  Indeed, every midshipman on or off watch was now on the quarterdeck with his telescope, the sound of a distant gun sweet music to a young man who had only ever heard it at practice.

  ‘And the pirate has not seen us? It’s possible.’ None but the coolest would risk his work with a man-of-war to weather. But Peto was not convinced. ‘I rather think the chasing sail may prove the friend. See, the brig’s holding her course when it would be easier for her to bear away. It will bring her well astern of us. So perhaps she seeks to evade us too?’

  Midshipman Duguid, a wiry, red-haired boy from Moray, had climbed the main mast at the first shot. He now hailed the quarterdeck with unconcealed delight. ‘Frigate chasing, sir, with a red ensign!’

  Peto lowered his telescope with the satisfaction of a man who had just proved his wits. But a frigate in the Mediterranean would fly a blue ensign, the commander-in-chief’s colour; red meant that she sailed under Admiralty orders. That surely meant she was cutting out slavers. ‘Heave to, Mr Lambe!’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir!’ Lambe cupped a hand to his mouth. ‘He
ave to, Mr Shand!’

  The master raised his speaking-trumpet: ‘All hands, shorten sail!’ There followed half a dozen more precise instructions to the captains of the tops.

  The off-watch came scrambling to the upper deck – those who had not already come up at the prospect of action. The starboard watch could easily have shortened sail and trimmed the yards, but with an order to heave to within earshot of cannon (rather than merely to lower a boat), the master would lose no time where there was no need.

  ‘Run out starboard middle- and upper-deck batteries!’

  ‘Starboard middle- and upper-deck batteries, ay-ay, sir!’

  Lambe took up his own speaking-trumpet and relayed the order.

  ‘Mr Pelham, signal to Archer, “come about”!’

  ‘Archer to come about, ay-ay, sir!’

  Peto saw no call to beat to quarters yet, nor to clear the whole ship for action. It ought to be enough merely for Rupert to run out the lighter of the guns to convince a brig to strike her colours. But if the slaver did try to run astern – and she would have to be remarkably fine handled to sail so close-hauled – Rupert could simply turn to starboard, and with the wind comfortably abeam rake her as she bore. A single broadside would smash her to smithereens. No master, even of a slaver, would dare it. What Peto feared was that she might cast the evidence overboard. It was not unknown, as the despatches from the Preventive Squadron on the West Africa Station revealed only too well.

  ‘Let us serve her notice. A signal gun, if you please, Mr Lambe.’

  ‘Ay-ay, sir.’ Lambe put his speaking-trumpet to his lips again. ‘Middle deck, one gun to fire unshotted!’

  At such a range there was nothing to choose between guns: no shot, upper-deck eighteen-pounder or middle-deck thirty-two, would reach even half-way to the slaver. It was the noise and smoke, the signal, that counted, and a thirty-two would make the most of each.

  A minute and seven seconds ticked by. The aft gun fired.

  Peto put his telescope to his eye again to observe for a change of course. In five minutes there was no sign of it.