The Trojan Horse

by Christopher C Tubbs

  “Lieutenant Andrew Stamp, of His Majesties ship Formidiable, commanding officer of this prize crew,” he introduced himself, standing as straight and tall as he could.

  “You will come with me,” the officer ordered and went to take his arm but stopped when with a growl the men stepped forward. He stepped back in surprise, his hand going to his sword then motioned Andrew to precede him, glaring back at the men threateningly.

  “He better come back un’armed or yer will pay matey,” a voice called as they left the tent.

  Looking around, Andrew saw that their tent was well guarded and that the sentries were alert even if they were stood out in the rain in long-oiled capes. He was taken to a large tent in the centre of the compound and ushered inside. A moustachioed, elegant man sat behind a desk with a glass of red wine in his fist as he watched them approach.

  “This is the officer?” he asked mockingly as he cast an eye over Andrew’s dishevelled appearance.

  “I am a lieutenant of His Majesty King George the third’s Navy; an officer and I demand to be treated as such!” he snapped.

  The officer looked at him in amused surprise and said,

  “The puppy has teeth! Well, young man you obviously speak excellent French. I am Commandant Pierre de Lyon. Now I need to ask you to give me your version of the story the captain has told us.”

  Andrew took his time and tried to remember everything Captain Stockley taught them about what to do if they were captured. ‘Don’t tell lies; they will always catch you out. And remember, a skilled interrogator can piece together intelligence from the most innocent seeming replies.’ He took a deep breath,

  “We captured the Céraiste after she was damaged by the explosion of a ship in her convoy. We think it was carrying gunpowder. She was disabled and drifting when we found her and was in no position to resist. I was given the task of sailing her to Gibraltar, but we got caught by the storm and driven into Bilbao estuary. We made it in, but she had sprung some planks below the waterline and sunk. The rest you know.”

  The officer compared what he said to a paper he had on his desk.

  “That is close enough to what the captain told me. Now, where is your ship?” he checked the paper again, “The Formidable.”

  “I have no idea. We left her before the storm and that could have driven her anywhere,” Andrew replied, noticing the mispronunciation of his ship’s name.

  The commandant gave him a long flat look and Andrew knew his omission of the honorific in the reply was the cause, but he chose to ignore it and kept his eyes front and centre.

  “How many ships did you capture?” de Lyon asked once he realised he wasn’t going to get a ‘Sir’.

  “I do not know. We left before they captured any more.” He knew he was on safe ground there as the French captain couldn’t contradict him.

  “What is the name of your captain?”

  Andrew decided that was none of his business and didn’t answer. He was asked other questions but continued to refuse to answer.

  “You are lucky I am not of a mind to beat information out of you. Take him back to his tent.”

  When he was pushed through the tent flap, the men rushed to gather around and make sure he was alright. He was flattered they cared so much and reassured them he was fine.

  A guard entered and asked who was second in command. The Bosun’s Mate stepped forward and was led from the tent.

  He returned after only a quarter of an hour with a big grin on his face.

  “I just told ‘em I don’t talk French. In the end, they just gave up.”

  They were left alone for the rest of the night and the following day, but the third morning they were loaded into a cart. The whole camp was being packed up and the Lancers were moving out. Andrew overheard that Bilbao had resisted the French attempts to capture it and the brigade was decamping to Santoña.

  The trip was wet and the road a muddy quagmire, which meant they spent about as much time pushing the cart as riding in it. In the end, it took three days to travel the forty miles.

  The road followed the coast and they could see that the storm had died down and the seas quieted. The sailors looked at the sea longingly and wondered if they would ever see their shipmates again.

  The Formidiable continued to follow the coast to Bayonne and Biarritz with no sign of the other horse transport.

  “They either weathered the storm or made it into either the river Adour or the port down at Saint-Jen-de-Luz as they are the only places along this coast,” the master told Wolfgang Ackermann.

  “Well, if they made into the Ador, there was no sign when we passed. There wasn’t a single ship in the estuary,” Ackerman responded.

  “And if they made it as far as Bayonne, it would be a miracle in that wind,” Grey frowned.

  “Let’s have a good look into Saint-Jen then,” Ackermann concluded.

  Marty was called up on deck at just after six bells in the afternoon watch. He’d left the running of the ship to Wolfgang while he caught up on his reports and paperwork first with Jonathan Fletcher and later with Quinten Shelby.

  “What have you found Wolfgang?” he asked as he came up on the quarterdeck.

  Wolfgang pointed to the West and said,

  “That is the bay of Saint-Jen-de-Luz and behind it is the port tucked into the mouth of the river La Nivelle. The lookout says there are a number of masts visible one of which could be our transport.”

  “And the others?” Marty asked.

  “Barges and single masted coastal craft.”

  They were sailing very slowly past the entrance to the bay, which was about fifteen hundred yards across with a large fort on a promontory dominating it. Marty scanned it and decided that there was no way they could just sail in as the fort was fairly bristling with forty-eight-pound guns. Even as he thought it, there was a puff of smoke and a very large ball flew towards them to splash in the sea about a cable short.

  “Set more sail and get us out of range before they decide that we would make a good target to practice on,” Marty ordered. “Let’s see what the coastline is like for the next few miles South.”

  The coastline turned out to be sheer cliffs, and Marty ordered them back to the North of the bay where there were beaches.

  That night, boats pulled up on the sand, and twenty men got out. They looked like fishermen and spoke a mixture of Basque and French. They laughed and joked as they made the forty-five-minute walk to the Port, crossed the bridge to the South side where there were hotels and cafés in a variety of architectural styles, chose a café that overlooked the harbour, and ordered wine.

  They started a party celebrating their survival of the storm, and soon other fishermen and sailors were joining in drinking cheap wine and singing along to a tambor and pipes. As these things do in a place where men lead a hard and unforgiving life, it soon took on a life of its own. Nobody noticed that the initiators slipped away in twos and threes after midnight.

  On the transport, the harbour watch looked at the café enviously and cursed their captain who was probably over there in the thick of it. The ship was separated from its companions when the British had attacked the convoy and was far enough away from the powder ship to avoid being damaged, unlike the other horse transport. They scattered to the Southeast and ran ahead of the storm as it came in and made the port by complete accident.

  It was as if the angels smiled on them and even though they couldn’t join in the fun onshore, that didn’t mean they couldn’t have a celebratory wine or two. The horses had been fed and watered and the captain was planning on getting them to Santander once he was sure the British frigate was nowhere to be seen.

  The glass of wine turned quickly into a bottle then two so when they heard men coming up the gangway, they assumed it was the rest of the crew returning. After that, they slept the sleep of the unconscious, courtesy of Blackjack. When the rest of the crew returned worse for wear and very happy, staggered aboard and down to their berths. They also fell into deep,
unconscious sleep.

  The captain fell into his bunk and was snoring without noticing that there was a figure sat in the shadows behind his desk, but in the morning, he was shaken roughly awake at dawn.

  He looked down the wrong end of a double-barrelled pistol, behind which was the cheerfully smiling face of a young man who he vaguely recognised.

  “Good morning,” Marty greeted him cheerfully, “How’s your head?”

  Captain Delphine opened his mouth to say something, but Marty continued,

  “The tide is turning you need to make sail immediately.” He pulled the captain to his feet and pushed him out of the door.

  On deck, there was a full complement of sailors. The only problem was he didn’t know any of them. Marty had his pistol pressed to the Captain’s lower back and whispered,

  “Give the orders to get us under way, nice and clear now.”

  The captain hesitated until Marty prodded him with the barrel and he started bellowing orders. The crew worked with amazing efficiency, far better than his own, and he started to have a worrying suspicion grow in the back of his mind. If only he didn’t have such a hangover, it would all become clear, he thought.

  The ship drifted out of the harbour carried by the tide and as soon as they made the bay. They raised sail and worked their way out to the open sea. Once well out, they were joined by the Formidiable, and Marty gave Stanley Hart the command and a fresh set of sailors as a prize crew with Wilson as his Bosun.

  Content, he set course for Santander.

  Chapter 14: Rescue and Reunion

  North of Santander, they spotted the Eagle, Alouette, and their prizes. Marty noticed immediately that the Transport commanded by young Stamp was missing.

  “No, we haven’t seen him,” James confirmed at the ‘all captains’ meeting Marty called as soon as they were all together.

  “Do you think he was lost in the storm?” Ryan asked.

  “His ship was pretty beat up so he might, but he could also have made one of the estuaries along this stretch of coast,” Marty replied as he looked over the map. “With the prevailing wind, I think he could have made for Bilbao.”

  He sat back in his chair, thought for a moment then continued,

  “You two take the prizes back to base. I will take the Formidiable down to Bilbao and have a look in to see what’s there. Transfer one of the army officers and ten of the other ranks, including a couple of warrants, to the Formidiable.”

  He noticed the puzzled look on the others faces and smiled,

  “Bargaining chips in case they are in enemy hands.”

  The Formidiable ghosted into the Bilbao estuary flying a Spanish flag. Marty interrogated the French officer and was told, after the application of a number of glasses of brandy, that Bilbao was still in Spanish hands. It was early in the morning and there was a light mist covering the water, so they didn’t see the mast of the wrecked ship until they ran into it.

  Marty sent a team ashore to look for flotsam and jetsam to identify the wreck and they came back with some crates with French army markings. They told him there was body on the shore that was unidentifiable but was dressed like a British sailor.

  As it had been raining incessantly for the last few days, he knew they wouldn’t find any tracks that would tell them anything. As they were about to leave, after recovering the body with the intention of giving the man a proper burial at sea, Antton spotted a fisherman sculling towards them.

  Marty stood back and watched as his three Basques gathered at the side and held an animated conversation with the man. Basque was a language he didn’t try to learn and as far as he could tell, bore absolutely no resemblance to any other, so he had no idea what was being said.

  “He says that most of the men from the ship made it ashore. They were taken by a troop of French cavalry, Lancers from their description, South to where they had a base. The word is that they moved out West a few days ago with men in a cart,” Antton reported after they had made their farewells to the fisherman.

  “Get that officer back up here. I want to talk to him again.”

  The officer looked surly and was not inclined to cooperate as he realized that Marty must have gotten some information out of him when he was drunk.

  “I have men ashore that are probably in the hands of the French military and I need to know where they will have been taken so I can offer you and your men in exchange for them,” Marty told him bluntly as the sight of the dead man being brought ashore put him in a bad mood.

  “Where will they have been taken?” he demanded.

  “We will be exchanged if we find them?” the officer, a captain of artillery, responded.

  “Yes,” Marty snapped.

  The officer looked as if he was about to respond to this rudeness but instead said with one eye firmly on his release,

  “Santander, that is where the local headquarters is. They will be taken there for interrogation.”

  Marty wasted no time, and they set sail only pausing for an hour to bury the dead seaman in the depths and four hours later they hove to off the Punta el Higar.

  Marty had a boat manned and the mast stepped, upon which a white flag of parley flew above the Union flag. They sailed the one and a half miles to the docks where they were met by a contingent of French Naval officers. Marty was dressed in his best to impress.

  “I am here to negotiate the release of my men that I understand are being held here,” Marty announced after introductions were completed. “I have a French Army officer of artillery and other ranks to offer in exchange.”

  This prompted a messenger to be sent to the army headquarters and while they waited for his return, Marty chatted with the captain of a frigate.

  “We were caught in the storm and were driven to the coast where we managed to find shelter,” Marty dissembled when asked, “the prize crew were in charge of a second transport that we captured.”

  “That would be one of the convoy you attacked North of here,” the captain replied with a sly look.

  “The captain of the transport was also brought here and told us everything.”

  Marty gave a mock sigh as if he had been caught out but knew that the captain in question had no idea about the Eagle and Alouette.

  “That is true. We shot the wrong ship and suffered quite a lot of damage when it blew up. We captured his ship and another with troops on board.” Marty knew that once they exchanged the prisoners, the truth would come out, but there was no point in just giving the French the information at this point.

  An Army Major arrived with the messenger, saving him having to answer any more questions, and invited Marty to accompany him to the headquarters building. He gave his word of honour to Marty that the flag of truce would be honoured and he would be free to return once his business had been concluded.

  The headquarters was in a building next to a large circular arena that the major identified as the Plaza del Toros and described in lurid detail the bullfights that were held there. Marty listened with half an ear.

  Inside, they were met by a lieutenant and led to an office just off the foyer.

  “Captain Stockley, may I present Marshal General Soult, Commander of the Army,” the lieutenant said in almost perfect English.

  The man who stood behind the desk wore a dark blue uniform coat with gold epaulettes on the shoulders and braid around the collar and cuffs, his grey hair was tied back in a cue. He had piercing dark eyes and a long face with a high forehead.

  Soult gave the slightest of bows in greeting and indicated that he should sit.

  “You have greatly inconvenienced me, Captain,” he opened, “I have been waiting for that artillery for a long time.”

  Marty shrugged and said, “C’est la Guerre, I only did my duty.”

  Soult gave a smile in acknowledgement and waved a hand to the lieutenant, who went to a door at the back of the office and barked an order. The door opened, and Andrew Stamp walked through looking at first bemused then relieved when he saw hi
s Captain.

  “This is your officer?” Soult asked.

  “Yes, this is Lieutenant Stamp,” Marty replied and then to Andrew,

  “Have they treated you well, Mr. Stamp?”

  “Aye sir, fairly well.”

  “And the men?”

  “Them too, although the food could be better.”

  Marty smiled and turned back to Soult,

  “I have a Captain of Artillery and ten other ranks, including a sergeant who I propose we exchange for Mr. Stamp and his men.”

  Soult looked at him thoughtfully for a moment and then replied,

  “You are an officer who cares for his men, a rare thing, but one I admire. We have only eight men to exchange along with Mr. Stamp.”

  “Well, you have fed them for a week or so, please consider the extra men compensation for your hospitality,” Marty smiled.

  “You know there is a substantial reward for your capture,” Soult commented casually, looking down at a sheet of paper on his desk, “it’s been increased to twenty thousand Louis.” There was a sharp intake of breath from the Lieutenant who stood behind him.

  “The politicos would thank me for handing you over and I would be quite wealthy.”

  “And break the convention of the flag of truce? I think not. You are an honourable man and wouldn’t stoop so low” Marty replied softly.

  Soult smiled back,

  “Quite so! You must take your men and leave before they realize who you are. I will trust in your honour as a gentleman to return my men. But, be assured if we meet again, I will have you arrested and hand you to the department.”

  With that, Marty and Andrew were ushered into an anti-room where the men were waiting and from there back to the boat.

  Marty sent the French soldiers in exchange to the port then made all sail to get to Gibraltar. He wanted to see his family all of sudden.