Run Them Ashore

by Adrian Goldsworthy

  It was a shame about Brandt. ‘Still, saves me eight dollars,’ he said aloud, making the two soldiers in the room stare at him. ‘Talking of a wager.’ The men went back to stirring up the embers of the fire, which gave off enough smoke to make his eyes itch. These peasants never seemed to bother with chimneys.

  The corporal had claimed to hit another Frenchman during that nasty little fight at Mijas, hence the eight dollars. Hatch was inclined to believe him, for the man’s marksmanship was uncanny and he had taken to the British rifle with great delight.

  ‘I like Mr Baker,’ Brandt kept saying, when told that the weapon was designed and made by Ezekiel Baker of London. The corporal was a killer, no doubt about it, and although Hatch had been happy to encourage him in his trade, he had also found the man a disturbing presence. It was clear that he would kill anyone with very little thought, and the lieutenant had allowed him a loose rein, fearing a shot in the back in the next skirmish. Well, the man was gone, and good riddance. He enjoyed a brief fantasy of the corporal breaking free and shooting Williams through the heart, but dismissed it. Sergeant Mueller was a good soldier, too good to let that happen. He had always kept the corporal in check, and he was sure no love was lost between the men.

  It was not the first time Hatch had dreamed of killing Williams, or having him killed in revenge for the best friend he had ever had. Poor Redman was another officer from the 106th, and if not the brightest of fellows was a great sport. He and Hatch had been inseparable, two lively young ensigns making game of the world. Redman hated Williams from the moment he saw him, annoyed by his pious manner of living, his pompous ways, and most of all the ease with which he took to soldiering – too much like a tradesman or common soldier to be a real gentleman. Redman died in the battalion’s first engagement, stabbed through the heart with a bayonet, and Hatch believed wrongly that Williams had killed him. As months and now years passed, the hatred grew, made worse because he feared to call him out, and so he had taken every chance to blacken the man’s reputation. Little of it had stuck, and the hope that the French would end Williams’ life and career had proved vain.

  As he waited in the shelter of that smoke-filled hovel an idea took shape. It shocked him, at first, for he had never done anything like it before, but that made it all the more delicious. He would spite the Sir Galahad and the man would never know, unless one day he chose to tell him. Brandy played a part in his thoughts, for he had drunk even more than the sleeping woman.

  ‘Out,’ he said to the two chasseurs. ‘We must let the señora sleep. Both of you stand guard on the road. I shall sit here to protect the lady. Go!’

  The men were reluctant to leave the fire and roof over their heads, but sullen looks were the extent of their protest. Hatch barred the door behind them. Half of one board hung back from Williams’ kick. He unbuckled his sword and laid it down on the folded cloak which doubled as a blanket.

  The officer rubbed his eyes and moved to watch the sleeping woman. She had a nice face, even with the bruise and the short-cropped hair. Something in it reminded him of Jenny Dobson, that slut of a soldier’s daughter whom both he and Redman had taken to their beds for a very modest price. Hatch did not know that Sergeant Dobson had murdered his friend in the chaos of battle at Roliça, but then by this time his loathing for Williams was a thing in itself, so much a part of him that it no longer needed a reason.

  Paula Velasco slept soundly, sighing softly. Her left hand had slid from beneath the cloak and Hatch saw that the musket sling was still tied around it. Lifting it gently, he found that the other end was long enough for him to fasten it to the iron ring without pulling on the arm or disturbing her. The red scarf was on the ground, and he took it and pressed it against her mouth. Paula’s eyes opened, dull surprise changing in a moment to fear. She struggled as he looped the scarf over her head to keep it in place, and as she shifted her angry curse turned into a bitter cry of pain, but both were muffled.

  Hatch shushed her, but said nothing. Then he grabbed the cloak and whipped it aside.

  17

  The twelve-pounder slammed back as it fired, the little wheels of its naval carriage rolling across the planking the sailors had laid during the night. Beside it the captain of the second gun pulled the lanyard, snapping down the flint to ignite the fine powder in the tube and an instant later the main charge. Flame belched from its mouth, followed by smoke, and the gun jerked back like its mate. The short-barrelled howitzer gave a lighter cough and Hanley was sure he could see the dark shape of its shell as it was lobbed high to drop down on to the castle. Men were already swabbing out the twelve-pounders, and even though it was several hours to noon the Royal Artillerymen were sweating into their blue wool coats as they worked.

  Lord Turney was beside the battery, standing with his staff and with Captain Harding, all trying to observe the fall of shot.

  ‘They will not take much more of this,’ the general declared, slapping his gloves against his leg. For a man who had spent the night being drenched by rain, Lord Turney cut a surprisingly elegant figure – no doubt thanks to the concerted labour of the two servants who had accompanied him on shore.

  They were some three hundred and fifty yards from the castle, and somewhat higher, and the guns had now been firing for over three hours. Out in the bay, the four remaining gunboats were pounding the east wall, supported by the gun-brig Encounter. The other brigs with their short ranged carronades kept further out, and today the Topaze’s crew was too busy rowing back and forth with shot and powder for the little boats to work their own guns. Captain Hall’s boats kept up a steady fire with their eighteen-pounders, working under the baking sun. There was only a light breeze and a gentle swell, and the practice was good. Undaunted, the Polish heavy guns replied, but whether through shortage of ammunition or exhaustion, the shots came less often and with less accuracy. Early on a sixteen-pound ball shattered the arm of a gunner in Boat Seventeen, and half an hour later two men died as another shot grazed at head height across the same gunboat. Each time it rowed back out of range, tipped the corpses over the side and passed the wounded on to one of Topaze’s boats, before moving forward again to resume its task.

  At seven minutes to eight, Gunboat Seventeen had its revenge when it struck the bastion just to the left of the main battery on the east wall. Weakened by the steady pounding and the crumbling of ancient mortar, a good ten feet of the stonework collapsed, tumbling down to drop outside the wall. Men fell with the stone, and there were several blue-coated bodies in the mound of debris. None of them moved. A cloud of dust added to the dirty powder smoke around the wall.

  ‘Bravo!’ Lord Turney cheered the sailors. ‘Keep at it, lads!’

  From sea and land the bombardment continued. Between the heavy blasts of the British guns and the higher-pitched replies of the Poles, Hanley could hear the cracks of rifles as the chasseurs crept as close as they dared and sniped at the defenders. The twelve-pounders were too light to make a breach and so instead worked on the parapet of the south wall, slamming shot after shot as closely grouped as they could, and over time the battlements were chewed apart and holed. Every gap gave more chance for the riflemen to catch one of the Poles exposed.

  ‘Beautiful! Quite beautiful!’ The general was watching through his glass when a shrapnel shell from the howitzer exploded a few feet above one of the two-pounders mounted on the wall. The thin iron casing split apart, spraying two hundred and eight balls of the size used in cavalry carbines. Lighter than a musket ball, they still spread out to form a lethal cloud which cut down all three gunners manning the light piece. ‘Well done!’ Lord Turney took the telescope from his eye to praise the howitzer’s crew. ‘Keep at it, my lads, the place will crack soon!’

  Hanley wondered whether he was right. Captain Hall did not appear quite so sanguine, and it was obvious that Williams was dubious.

  ‘Do you remember how close the French guns had to come at Ciudad Rodrigo before they really started to tear up the wall?’ the Welshman s
aid in a low voice.

  ‘The walls there were a lot bigger.’

  ‘Aye, and so were their guns,’ Williams said at the very moment there was a slackening of the noise.

  ‘Come now, Lieutenant Williams, I’ll have no croaking here.’ Lord Turney glared at the young officer. It was obvious that the general had taken a pronounced dislike to the Welshman, and Hanley found it odd that he should bother. ‘Reinforced or not, the inside of that place will be like a taste of hell for those Poles. They won’t stand it much longer – not for Boney’s sake.’

  Lord Turney had responded angrily when Williams brought the news of a fresh company of Poles moving through the darkness.

  ‘Damn it, man, why didn’t you fetch support and stop them!’

  Williams had not answered so absurd a question, and simply explained that he had sent two out of his three men to follow the enemy. Hanley had not been there when Sergeant Mueller arrived to confirm that some fifty or sixty Polish infantry had found their way to the north wall of the castle, beside the river, and been admitted through the main gate.

  There was no one to stop them, for the general had not set outposts to encircle the castle, although Hanley confessed to himself that he had not thought of this until now. Williams obviously had, and Lord Turney seemed to sense this and took the implied criticism very hard.

  ‘They should not have got through. If my officers were about their duty instead of gallivanting around rescuing bloody women who should not have been here in the first place.’ Williams’ report of the attack on Paula Velasco had outraged the general when he heard about it, but that was soon forgotten in his annoyance that the castle had been reinforced. ‘A battlefield is no place for women, however brave, and her husband was a damned fool to send them. Asking for trouble.’

  Captain Mullins was shocked at this, and Hanley could sense Williams’ anger rising at this shifting of some blame to the victim. The brigade major’s insistence on the seriousness of the crime helped mollify the Welshman. He insisted on hearing again all the details, and the general’s temper snapped when he heard that the men had attacked an officer, and thus challenged military discipline.

  ‘Goddamned rogues! If we had time I’d try them and shoot them now. Serve us right for enlisting bloody deserters in the first place. Have them sent on board the Topaze and ask Captain Hope to clap them in irons. Pity you let the leader go!’ he added, renewing his open disappointment in Williams’ actions.

  Guadalupe rode up at this point, brought there by one of the other guerrilleros. As soon as she was told her face became savage and she slammed her big spurs into the side of her horse to hurry to her sister.

  ‘Go with her, Hanley,’ Mullins ordered before the general had reacted. ‘Do what you can to make sure that they are helped and protected.’

  A partisan gave the officer his horse, a strong and fresh Andalusian, and he was able to catch up with the young woman before long. She said nothing, and Hanley felt that silence was for the best. When they arrived two chasseurs stood guard some distance in front of the little building. Hatch was nowhere to be seen, which was odd since Williams had said that he had promised to stay. Paula sat hunched up in the heavy cloak, eyes staring blankly, and did not seem to recognise her sister.

  ‘I found some soldiers from the Toledo Regiment and a solid-looking sergeant to help them,’ he told Williams when he came back and they stood watching the bombardment with the rest of the general’s staff. ‘They are going to take her to a little convent a mile or so outside Fuengirola.’ He tried to spot the building, which was on the crest of one of the hills, but could not. ‘There are a few monks there skilled at caring for the sick. Her shoulder and arm look bad, and her sister worries that she is developing a fever.’

  ‘The general is right,’ Williams said, half to himself. ‘I should not have let Brandt escape.’

  ‘You cannot do everything. It was a miracle you came along in time to stop them.’

  ‘Do you know I was on the verge of killing the man, even though he had given himself up.’ Williams seemed ashamed of himself. ‘All of them. It would have been easy.’

  ‘I am sure you did the right thing,’ Hanley said, although in truth he had far less strong convictions about such matters of morality than his friend. ‘When I came in and saw the poor thing I was ready to slaughter the men to blame. Beaten, arm badly hurt, and left without a stitch of clothing apart from your cloak, and her sister with tears streaming down her face from her own terrible experiences. Who wouldn’t kill after seeing that?’

  Williams did not seem to hear, sunk in stern examination of his own soul.

  ‘Don’t worry, Bills.’ Hanley tried to sound confident. ‘We’ll get the rogue when the castle surrenders – that is if a cannonball hasn’t already knocked his head off!’

  ‘Well said, Hanley. That’s the spirit.’ Lord Turney was brimming with confidence. ‘Mullins, send someone to signal the Navy to cease fire. This battery is to do the same. Then you and Williams can carry over another summons to surrender. Pound to a penny they are ready to quit.’

  Twenty minutes later the British guns went silent, followed soon afterwards by the Polish cannon. The gentle wind came in off the sea and made the thinning clouds of smoke drift away from the walls and the battery position. It took another five minutes for the emissaries to go down the hill, cross the valley and approach the castle, and five more to return.

  ‘They refuse to surrender,’ Mullins reported. Williams whispered to Hanley that the Polish officer had been considerably more blunt in his reply, but that did not change the essence of the answer.

  ‘Well then, send to Captain Harding instructing him to resume the bombardment as soon as he has resupplied with powder.’ The general nodded to the Royal Artillery lieutenant in charge of the battery. ‘You may as well open fire straight away. Pound them, and keep pounding them and they will give in in the end. You and your men are doing excellent service.’

  Lord Turney looked grave, for a partisan had brought a note from Major Sinclair. The rider was a burly rascal, one of El Lobo’s men, who stared impassively at the scene of battle. Hanley recognised him from the night before, and similarly had no doubt about the authenticity of the message, or its seriousness.

  Gen. Sebastiani with a division of six infantry battalions numbering 4,700, two field batteries with sixteen guns, and a regiment each of Dragoons and Lancers, in total 800 men, is approaching along the Malaga Road. Anticipate he will reach you by 3.30 to 4 o’clock in the afternoon.

  yr obedient servant, James Sinclair

  Before the gunboats began firing again, the general led all of his staff away from the battery.

  ‘If they come, then we need to know where to hold them, Harding,’ Lord Turney told the engineer. ‘This is not good cavalry country, and that is something, but they have over three times our numbers, and until the fort’s guns are silenced we cannot take our own artillery off in the daylight.’

  The general went on foot, for there were not sufficient horses for the others, and he went with care, but even so they were fired at from the castle on several occasions. No shot came nearer than a ball which went over Williams’ shoulder and plucked the cocked hat from the general’s head.

  ‘Blackguards,’ he said cheerfully, and, picking it up, made an elaborate bow to the castle wall.

  They climbed the hills again, and spent five minutes looking at the remains of a stone tower on the western slope.

  ‘The walls are solid, my lord,’ Harding confirmed. ‘With a bit of work we could station fifty men here and they would be hard to dislodge.’

  ‘Good, see to it when you have a moment.’ As they headed back towards the battery, the general dictated a series of orders to Mullins. ‘I shall go presently to consult with Harding and Hope. The Navy must be aware that we may need to be taken off and that the gunboats will be required to give us protective fire.

  ‘The Eighty-ninth have been on duty all night and this morning. Stand them
down, send them to the beach where the enemy’s fire cannot reach and have food brought to them. In their place form all of the chasseurs save for the riflemen and station them on the flank of the battery to act as security. You take the order to the Chasseurs, Williams.

  ‘Are the companies from the Toledo Regiment returned from before Mijas?’

  ‘No, my lord,’ Mullins said. Hanley had not heard the general issue that order, but conceded that he may have been absent when it was done.

  ‘Send to them at once. Have them return here since we do not have the numbers to fight at such a distance and the position is not one to render it possible to resist for long. Bring them back to rejoin the rest of their regiment and ask the colonel to form up behind the Chasseurs as a reserve. You had better take that one, Hanley.’

  ‘My lord!’ It was Williams who interrupted with an excited shout. ‘The Rodney is here!’

  The general stopped and peered out to sea, squinting a little. Hanley was more than ever convinced that his eyesight was less than perfect, but it took him only a moment to see the dark shapes of the British and Spanish warships.

  ‘Thank God.’ Hanley was close and heard the softly spoken words. ‘This is splendid, truly splendid,’ he said out loud. ‘Could not have happened at a more opportune moment. Be good to see your battalion no doubt, Hanley. You too, Williams.’ The smile was warm, and for the moment his criticism of the Welshman forgotten.

  Lord Turney gestured to his groom, who led the general’s horse over. Neither a big man nor a young one, he swung himself into the saddle with practised ease. ‘Well then, we all have plenty to do. To your duties, gentlemen.’ The general gave a gentle tap of his heels and the horse willingly set off at a brisk walk down the side of the sandy hill. Behind him in the battery the twelve-pounders thundered out almost as one, and Hanley instinctively looked round and saw some more blocks of stone fall from the parapet.