‘Boats, sir! Boats astern. Three of them. No, five!’ Clegg was up in the rigging and was pointing back towards the harbour. The boats were rowing towards them. They were small and brightly painted, and Williams recognised some of the fishing boats they had seen drawn up on the beach. None appeared to be the gunboat Mr Prentice dreaded, but even from this distance he could tell that they were crowded.
With a great splash and fountain of water the barrel of the remaining stern chaser was dropped into the sea. Leaving the tackle where it was, Caesar and his party rolled the carriage to the rail and pushed it overboard.
Liberté began to move. First it was slight, then the gentlest of pressures from the tide carrying them forward. The Sparrowhawks cheered, yelling from parched throats even as another shot slammed into one of the bales and sent up a shower of white cotton.
‘Keep her steady, Bennett,’ Williams shouted, remembering the coxswain’s name just in time, and hoping that the order was clear enough even with his hazy understanding of nautical language.
‘Aye-aye, sir.’ The man seemed happy enough, and surely had no need of firm instructions to steer clear of any more sandbanks.
Caesar cried out, blood bright on the side of his head, and then there was the sound of a musket shot.
‘Bloody Frogs!’ the able seaman yelled in a voice that spoke more of London than anywhere more exotic. ‘Bloody, bastard, bloody Frogs!’ The top of his left ear was a ragged mess.
Another musket ball smacked into the stern rail beside him, making the sailor duck down. Williams ran to the stern and crouched to see over before another ball flicked past an inch from his hair and he too dropped back. The leading fishing boat was barely one hundred yards away, the next fifty yards behind that and the other three trailing.
‘Marines!’ he called. ‘Dobson, Milne. Get half a dozen men loading muskets and you two fire back at them. Show them they can’t have it all their own way.’ As soon as he had spoken he remembered Milne’s injured hand, but then saw that the corporal was still holding his musket and had begun to load. It looked as if the man would manage, and it was better to have steady men firing regularly than looser volleys from the less experienced.
Liberté was gathering way and he was trying to decide whether they should work the sweeps or set sail. The wind had almost gone, but then he felt a faint breeze.
Caesar grinned, showing discoloured teeth and several gaps between them, but it was a smile of pure joy.
‘Wind has shifted, sir. It’s nor-nor-east. From the land, sir,’ he added, in case the soldier was as dim as many of their kind.
Williams smiled and stood up. ‘Clegg, get some canvas up,’ he shouted. Dobson and Milne fired the first shots at the fishing boat and then took cover as a spattering of musket balls smacked into the wooden rail. The four-pounder on shore barked out, the ball tearing through the air and missing the mast by a finger’s breadth.
Then another heavy gun went off, from the other side this time, and Williams looked to see two cutters rowing towards them, each with a gun mounted on the bow. The first – Topaze’s red cutter – had fired at the fishing boats. The range was long, and he saw the sea short of the leading French boat convulsed as the burst of grape landed, but it was enough to warn. Help had arrived, the only help that could be sent so close inshore in such still airs.
It was not quite over. The battery opened up from near the harbour, firing at the cutters rather than Liberté, but these were small, low marks at such a range and the shot did no more than soak the sailors with spray. On the beach, the four-pounder’s crew redoubled their efforts and sent a succession of shots, two of which punched holes in the raised sail. Too late the battery commander decided that the Liberté was lost and began to fire at it. One shot went home, shattering part of the stern rail and taking the foot off a marine. Another hit lower, making the hull shudder, but it was above the waterline and the Liberté kept moving, going faster as she was able to turn and run before the wind. The French kept firing for another ten minutes, but each shot fell a little further behind.
Mr Prentice stumped up.
‘Well, we appear to have made it,’ he shouted. ‘You know, I do believe we could make a sailor of you, Mr Williams.’
John Julius Caesar, his back to the gunner, and a bandage round his head, winked at the officer. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but the gentleman looks like he might be better learning to be a tailor.’
Williams looked down at himself. His breeches were filthy, torn at the knees and stained with blood and tar. His jacket – his good jacket, he realised, for he had not remembered to change after the conference with Captain Hope – was in even worse condition, covered in filth and ripped so badly that most of one sleeve was gone.
‘Get Clegg to see to it, sir,’ Caesar suggested. ‘He’s a dab hand with a needle.’
Williams smiled then began to laugh. It was probably relief, but at the time he could think of nothing more amusing than the thought of being given sartorial advice by Julius Caesar.
7
‘There are opportunities, definite opportunities.’ Hanley concluded his long report, fleshing out his written account of their mission to Granada. ‘We saw everywhere indications of considerable enthusiasm.’
‘But perhaps a want of organisation?’ Rear Admiral Sir Richard Keats’ tone was blunt, but his round face had a ready smile and his eyes were perceptive.
Hanley considered his answer for a while. ‘Certainly. However, I doubt that much organisation would be practical with the serranos. They are peasants, angry at the invader and ferocious, but wholly without discipline.’ He remembered the wild pursuit of the French hussars and the massacre as the cavalry had turned and charged. ‘Short of conscripting them into regular units and moving them elsewhere, I cannot see any prospect of changing this, sir.’
There was a sudden lurch of the deck beneath them, the big ship stirring even though it was at anchor. The swell of Cadiz’s outer harbour was often considerable, but the calmer, inner harbour was too dominated by French batteries to be altogether safe.
Daniel Mudge, confidential clerk to the governor of Gibraltar, looked positively green as the ship rolled again. The stern cabin of HMS Milford was vast compared to the cramped little brig-sloops which had taken Hanley, Pringle and the others down the coast and then brought them back. The ship was a ‘Seventy-Four’, the mainstays of the line-of-battle warships of the fleet, crewed by some six hundred men, and with two gun decks mounting heavy thirty-two- and eighteen-pounders.
‘My apologies, Mr Mudge,’ Sir Richard said generously. ‘I fear we are at the mercy of one of Monsieur Barrallier’s bright ideas.’
‘A Frenchman?’ Major General Lord Turney’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘I did not know this was a captured ship.’
‘Indeed it is not. Barrallier was a royalist and made ships for us.’
‘No wonder it is a tub,’ the general declared, although Hanley was unsure whether his scorn was directed at royalist refugees or Frenchmen in general. It would not have been at the suggestion of aristocracy, even foreign aristocracy. Lord Turney must have been fifty or more, but this was clear only when he was seen from up close. No more than average height, he was broad shouldered and trim waisted, and active in his movements. His face showed the darkening of long service in India and Egypt, but the wrinkles were few – at least the visible ones, for there was a hint of make-up about the man. The general cultivated an odd mixture of elegant and genteel complacency and vigorous military masculinity. When they had looked at the maps earlier on, Hanley had noticed that Lord Turney leaned back and twisted to odd angles when he concentrated – eyesight going, almost certainly, but too vain to wear spectacles, at least in public.
‘My lord, the French have built many beautiful and fine sailing ships,’ the admiral replied, concealing any distaste felt at the soldier’s scorn of this ship. ‘Sadly the old Milford is not one of them, and rolls like a dog in the lightest winds. Therefore we should press on an
d come to our purpose for the sake of Mr Mudge as well as our own pressing duties.’ Sir Richard delivered a series of precise, pertinent questions as if they were a rolling broadside, and Hanley did his best to reply in the same style.
Yes, the serranos would resent any attempts to make them more regular. No, the bands of guerrilleros were not united. No leader seemed to have more than two or three score followers. Yes, the chiefs sometimes were willing to work together, but no, it seemed unlikely that the bands would unite more permanently.
‘Their proud and independent spirit is their great strength, and if it hinders concerted effort it is the reason why they fight, and will continue to fight,’ he said.
‘And what of the enemy?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘Major Sinclair insists they are weak and dispirited. Is that not right, Wharton?’
Joseph Wharton, the admiral’s chaplain and it seemed a good deal more, stepped forward. The man had an uncanny knack of blending into the surroundings, as well as a jovial character when he chose to draw attention to himself. Hanley liked him, and suspected that most men would, particularly clever, sensitive men.
‘Sinclair states that the French garrisons are spread very thinly across the south. Marshal Victor’s corps is entirely devoted to the siege here at Cadiz. Marshal Mortier’s and General Sebastiani’s are either in garrison or forming columns to chase the partisans. They must always be ready to meet any attack from General Blake’s Spanish in Murcia.’
‘Yes, but if they catch him, they’ll have him for breakfast,’ Lord Turney cut in, more scornful now of the Spanish than the French. Hanley found his dislike of the general growing ever stronger, as did his despair at the folly of selecting such a man for a campaign which would rely heavily on working with Britain’s allies. Yet in truth this opinion was not uncommon. Blake survived in Murcia, at least for the moment, and there were other Spanish armies further east in Catalonia, but elsewhere they had been swept from the field. There were forces here in Cadiz, others sheltered under the guns of Gibraltar and a handful of other coastal fortresses, and the Marquis de Romana kept his army together in southern Portugal. None had the discipline, training and numbers to match the French in the field and so they raided and fled, surviving only because the enemy could not be everywhere at once.
‘If you will forgive me, my lord.’ Wharton sounded like a country parson gently chiding an old friend among his parishioners for some minor misjudgement. ‘The essential point is that they have not caught him, and show no signs of doing so.’ Blake was not a gifted general, was jealous of rivals and showed as much sensitivity as Lord Turney in expressing his opinion of his allies, but he did seem to have a talent for survival.
‘The French certainly have more problems with which to deal than they have soldiers available. Sinclair makes a good case for their being dangerously scattered and exposed, especially along the coast.’ If the Allied armies were few and weak, the British controlled the seas. ‘Furthermore, the major claims that most of the garrisons consist of Germans, Poles, Italians and other foreign corps, and that these men feel little commitment to Bonaparte’s cause. Unless the circumstances are very favourable, he does not believe that they will fight well.’
‘The major expressed much the same opinion to me,’ Hanley commented.
‘And do you believe him to be right?’ Sir Richard fired another question.
‘In truth I cannot say, sir. We were there so briefly and had no time to observe any of the garrisons. However, I should say that the guerrilleros seemed to hold most of Bonaparte’s troops in wary respect.’
Lord Turney was dismissive. ‘Don’t signify. They are irregulars and will never stand against drilled troops in the open field. With us, it is a different matter.’ The general and Mr Mudge had come up from Gibraltar to urge the mounting of a raid on the coast, to be led by Lord Turney and consist of British troops and ideally some Spanish as well. Gibraltar’s governor was keen, but nothing could be attempted without the active assistance of the Navy, which only Admiral Keats could provide.
‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Richard said, attempting to draw them back to the main issue. ‘All in all it is reasonable to assume that the enemy is vulnerable, especially along the coast. The more that we can do to keep them spread out the better, for it will help us here at Cadiz, as well as the partisans in the country and Blake in Murcia.’
‘And Wellingon outside Lisbon,’ Lord Turney cut in.
‘Indeed. He would not want any troops here in the south free to march north and aid Marshal Massena’s invasion of Portugal.’ He paused for breath. ‘Our purpose is a sound one, the opportunity is offered, but that does not in itself help us to decide where to strike.’
‘Malaga,’ Mudge said, struggling with another wave of nausea. Hanley suspected that the choice of one of the bigger ports was intended to lure the admiral into accepting the enterprise. Like all the harbours it was a nest of the privateers who plagued the sea lanes and tied the Navy down in the dull necessity of escorting convoys. There was also the prospect of prize money, for if enemy vessels were taken and auctioned then naval officers benefited and the admiral most of all.
‘What do we know of its defences?’ The admiral looked once again at Wharton.
‘The walls are poorly maintained and large in extent. If there is only a battalion as garrison then they will be unable to man them adequately. The people are said to be restless under occupation, and ready to rise against the French.’
‘Sea defences?’
‘Sinclair maintains that they are weak, with only a few small batteries.’
‘And I wonder, is he fit to judge such things?’ Sir Richard pondered.
‘He says that he has been there in the last few months, and that the “French” in the garrison are really Poles and of poor quality.’
Sir Richard grunted, and Hanley was unsure what that signified. ‘We had better find out as much more as we can. Is there anyone else in the area?’
‘Captain Miller of the Ninety-Fifth is with the partisans a little further along the coast,’ Mudge said, his face pale and his eyes glassy. Hanley felt truly sorry for the man, but then the sympathy began to extend to his own innards and he tried to ignore the gently moving deck beneath them. He wanted to stand, but the admiral had sat them all around the table and it would be impolite to move.
Sir Richard nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘have him write with all he knows of the current situation in Malaga and the surrounding country.’
‘Perhaps somewhere else first, and then Malaga?’ Lord Turney suggested. Hanley guessed that the man did not really care where the expedition was going so long as he was given the command.
‘Perhaps,’ the admiral agreed. ‘Yes, I believe the chance is there and we should seize it. Anything to keep the French too preoccupied to notice that they are close to trapping us on a lee-shore.
‘Well, gentlemen, I believe that is all for today. My barge is waiting to take you ashore.’
They stood, and Hanley was about to leave when Sir Richard gestured for him to stay. The general was almost at the door, telling poor Mudge how eagerly he was anticipating the dinner waiting for him, with plenty of good fat mutton. When Lord Turney gave the clerk a hearty slap on the back, Hanley worried for a moment that the spotlessly clean deck of the great cabin was about to be defiled. It was close, but Mudge recovered and then shot through the door with the desperate look of a thirsty man heading for a cool spring. The general looked back, the briefest flash of irritation revealing his annoyance that the young captain was to be privy to secrets denied to him. Sir Richard was looking away, and after Lord Turney tried and failed to catch his eye, the soldier decided not to make a point of it.
‘Silly fellow,’ the general said, and swaggered out. They heard the marine sentry outside the cabin stamp to attention, and then the door was closed.
‘Now, Hanley,’ Wharton began, ‘we would like a few more words with you. I suspect it is necessary for you to go back, but in the meantime, what is your ho
nest opinion of Sinclair and his reports?’
‘The major took us to our meeting with Velasco’s band, sir. We saw him again the day after the ambush of the convoy, by which time we had been taken on to meet another leader. The major arrived in the company of a leader who styled himself El Lobo. I do not think the others cared much for him as the man was a bandit before the war.’ That was putting it mildly. There was great discomfort among the other leaders, but no one wanted to challenge El Lobo to his face. Hanley did not blame them, for the man looked as murderous a rogue as any he had ever seen. One of his followers had brandished a bag of ears, fingers and he had little doubt other things, cut from the bodies of his victims. ‘Sinclair was full of praise for El Lobo, and said that the French did not dare set foot in his territory unless they had a whole regiment.’
‘What did the other Spaniards say about him, Mr Hanley?’ Wharton asked. He was not a heavyset man, and had a thin face, but the features within it seemed bigger than they should be. His brow was heavy, his nose broad, and his chin prominent. It made him stand out and, combined with his kindly manner, made the man attractive rather than ugly. A failed artist, Hanley could not quite work out why this was so, but he wondered whether the attraction would prove stronger to a certain sort of man. Wharton displayed no sign of such an inclination, but then their acquaintance had been brief. However, even that short time had confirmed Baynes’ description of the man’s considerable talent.
‘They were grudging. They said that it was true that the French rarely went to El Lobo’s territory in the mountains, and then quietly added that like most wolves he preyed mainly on the weak.’
‘And what do they think of Sinclair the bad?’ Wharton smiled at Hanley’s surprise at the use of the nickname. ‘We hear things, my dear Hanley, even here at Cadiz.’
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