The King's Privateer

by Dewey Lambdin

  “At once, sir.”

  That taken care of, Sir Hugo found himself a fallen palm log on which to sit and await the results of his scouts. He amused himself by drawing designs, which he could not see, in the sand with a walking stick.

  “Sir?” Captain Chiswick whispered, having been led to him by Chandra after a quarter-hour had passed.

  “Good morrow, Captain Chiswick,” Sir Hugo grunted. “What have you to report?”

  “Forward of where we stand, sir, the jungle continues for about three hundred yards, thinning out as it goes, and the footing is much firmer. Firm enough I adjudge for artillery. Beyond that, there are flooded rice fields and other crops,” Burgess said with a shaky tone.

  “Damme!” Sir Hugo spat.

  “But there are some sort of firm dykes surrounding the fields, sir, that are wide enough for gun carriages, and for troops marching three abreast,” Chiswick offered. “And the flooded fields are more inland, beyond our right flank. If we stay close to the beach with our left flank, we could extend across the dry fields, and use the flooded portion as a shield for our right.”

  “How much of a front?”

  “I estimate about four hundred yards, sir,” Burgess reported, his body trembling with anticipation and feeling as if he had already spent all of his strength in scouting and pacing off the area.

  “Too bloody wide for eight and a half companies,” his colonel muttered. “Look here, where’s the bloody village, then? How much of it do we threaten if we form as planned?”

  They paced out into what little moonlight was left to draw a map on the beach sand with Chiswick’s sword tip, using dry palm fronds that could be more easily seen.

  “Once we incline right, sir,” Chiswick stated on his knees, “the beach here west of the village is rather wide. I saw what I took to be pirate boats beached, starting here. They’d have artillery in the bows that could enfilade us. Thin undergrowth and trees for cover above the beach, extending south for about one hundred yards. Open fields with knee-high plantings, God knows what, all around it. If we come in from the west instead of striking north, we’d have three hundred yards frontage before our right flank brushed up against these dykes and rice-fields.”

  “Chandra-ji. Summon officers here to me,” Sir Hugo commanded, then rose and paced while Chiswick continued to draw out a more elaborate plan of the village and its environs. “Palisades, captain? Any batteries your scouts could discover facing inland?”

  “Bamboo or palm logs for a palisade, sir, quite low,” Chiswick replied, intent on his model that he was now adorning with fronds to represent the jungle, the dykes and the palisade. “We saw no guns on the inland wall, sir. There is a French battery on the point.”

  “Right about here, where the coast trends east?” Sir Hugo asked, using the toe of his boot for a pointer.

  “Yes, sir. Dug in as a three-sided redan made of palm logs and sand. It’s been planted with bushes on the seaward side to conceal it. Two, perhaps three guns, my scouts told me, sir,” Chiswick went on, intent on his model. It felt so much like playing soldier, childish and silly, to be on his knees once again, re-creating his little fields of battle, moats and entrenchments out of the clay or sand soil of his native North Carolina. He’d stolen clothespins off the lines to be “troops,” and they could be anything—Romans, Indians or Grenadiers.

  “How big is the village?” Sir Hugo asked, kneeling down slowly so his joints didn’t creak and pop. “How far does it extend, sir?”

  “About a quarter-mile, sir. On the far side, there is more jungle, much thinner than here, and some dry fields. And another battery of guns, about a mile farther on,” Chiswick said, gathering more material for his construction. “There’s a quarter-mile of open lands beyond the far palisades and the last native houses, pretty much the same as this end. The rice-fields don’t extend that far, though, sir. They approach the center of the village’s back walls.”

  “Which would funnel us down as we fight our way in,” Sir Hugo mused. “And if we came up from the south?”

  “We’d have to split the regiment on either side of them, sir. Or get channeled into the dykes.”

  “Damme if I’ll play that game,” Sir Hugo snorted with derision as the white officers and their native subadars came to hear their orders.

  “Gentlemen, we shall change direction right at the halt and go east, through the thin jungle south of these rice-paddies and fields,” Sir Hugo began. “Our ships shall be sailing into harbor from the west, so we must attack from the east, to create the greatest confusion. One gun battery here, Captain Fessenden, on the point ahead of us. Have your best jangli-admi emulate Kali’s Thuggees and silence them. Now.”

  “Yes, Sir Hugo,” Fessenden whispered back.

  “We shall form regimental front facing west here, in the jungle east of the village. Captain Chiswick, your light company to seaward on the new right flank. You get two of the light two-pounders. And I want you to silence this battery to your rear that your scouts discovered. Grenadier company in the center, with the bandsmen and the six-pounders spaced between companies. Coehorn mortars two hundred paces to the rear of the grenadier company and prepared to support either wing. Major Gaunt, your half-battalion shall form our left, with Captain Fessenden’s light company on your extreme left. Supported by one two-pounder. The other three two-pounders placed between line companies across our general front. Be ready, Captain Addams, to shift your pieces to repel any threat. Our front shall be between three and four hundred yards, so we shall have to form in two ranks only. With the rising sun at our backs, we should have good shooting and they should not. Caught between our ships and our attack, we ought to create a little confusion for them, and their only line of retreat will be to their boats on the beach, or across our front through the paddies, then south into the jungle. Major Gaunt, you shall decimate them should they retreat south. Captain Chiswick, you shall threaten their boats. Once in position, prepare torches so you may set fire to as many as you are able as you advance down the beach. Do not allow the bastards to put their bow guns into play. There is a low palisade about this village. I shall not wish us to actually enter the damned place and get cut up in their little lanes. Better we incline right and seize the beach, though it may be necessary to at least gain control of the eastern palisade. Questions, gentlemen?”

  “Once we incline towards the beach, sir, do we let the enemy flee into the paddies and jungle?” Major Gaunt asked.

  “If they seem to be in great disorder, sir. You may find it necessary to torch the southern palisade and houses, then form your half-battalion as a screen to prevent any counterattack from that quarter, facing south, once we’ve taken the beach and the east wall,” Sir Hugo stated after a moment’s thought. “The fire should guard your back well enough, and discourage anyone left in the village.”

  There were no more questions. Sir Hugo dug his watch from his breeches pocket and held it up close to his nose, swiveling in the faint moonlight to try and read it. “It lacks a quarter-hour to three, gentlemen. And the Navy tells me true dawn is at a quarter to six. False dawn, a quarter past five. I wish to be in position at least half an hour before that. Then let the Navy have first honors. Return to your companies. Good luck, God speed and let us be on our way.”

  Chapter 12

  “Time to do what they pay us for, Cony,” Lewrie said decisively, shoving away what was left of his cold breakfast. “Damme all Banyan Days.”

  Gruel, cheese, hard biscuit and small beer, with a banana for something sweet in place of a duff. Several days of the week were meatless, according to the strictures of the Victualling Board, and Lewrie felt no desire to end up paying for anything he wasn’t given permission to issue, even in foreign climes.

  “Seems t’ me, sir,” Cony said with a rueful expression, “if’n they warnts us t’ fight strong an’ all, they’d make allowance fer a battle, they would.”

  “Wish to God somebody would,” Alan grinned in return. He put on his coa
t, squared away his sword and donned his hat.

  He stepped out onto the quarterdeck, just forward of the sweep of the tiller, and leaned one hip against the after capstan-head. The crew had stowed their hammocks away already, and stood swaying to the motion of their little ship. Evidently, they were not very hungry this morning, either. The cook was shoveling coals into the sea off the lee side, and his assistant was hauling up a bucket of seawater to put out his galley fire.

  “Good morning, captain,” Hogue said from his station to leeward.

  “Good morning to you, Mister Hogue. Any signal from Telesto?”

  “Nothing yet, sir.”

  But even as Hogue spoke, there was a tiny, shielded light that appeared on Telesto’s taffrail far ahead of them, a tiny spark from a single lantern to show them where she was, followed by another from Lady Charlotte.

  “Mister Hogue, prepare to put the ship about onto the wind,” Lewrie ordered. “We shall tack in succession.”

  “Aye, sir!”

  “Second light, sir,” Murray pointed out. “Her helm’s down.” And the two weak glims swung slowly into line as one, then ghosted to the right across their bows. A minute later, Lady Charlotte did the same. And when Lady Charlotte’s faint glimmer was directly on their starboard beam, so, too, did Culverin.

  “Shake out our night reefs, Mister Murray. Mister Hogue, beat to Quarters,” Lewrie ordained. “And hoist the colors now.” Furniture, chests, provisions, livestock from the manger and any flimsy temporary partitions were struck below out of harm’s way. The decks were sanded for better traction for the gunners and brace-tenders. Fire-buckets were filled, and slow-matches lit in case the flint-lock strikers of their carronades did not function properly in the damp of a tropic dawn. The guns were run in on their wooden recoil slides, the tompions were removed from the muzzles and stowed out of the way. Serge powder cartridges were rammed firm, then heavy twenty-four-pounder solid shot were trundled down the barrels and seated with a thump from the rammers. Charges were pierced with metal prickers to give vent for the ignitions to come, and the secure lashings on the gunports were uncleated. They would wait to prime their guns until they had the enemy in sight, since the humidity might spoil the powder in the pans. With the pans empty, they check-snapped the flints to see if they had a good edge that would spark well against their checker-scored metal frizzens, then covered them with leather flaps to keep them dry.

  “Stand easy,” Hogue instructed from the gun deck. “Mister Owen, I’ll see to those swivel-guns now.”

  The night was still dark as a boot, with the island and its harbor a faintly heavier darkness ahead of their starboard bows. A thin line of charcoal grey heralded the false dawn to come, against which the masts and sails of the leading ships could almost be seen now and again. For a lookout gazing to seaward, they would still be invisible, their wakes lost in the general roil of offshore waves, to leeward of the rising sun.

  “’Ope this last’un’ll do fer all, sir,” Cony muttered, fetching Lewrie one last bracing mug of coffee.

  “This coffee, or this battle, Cony?” Lewrie asked, amused in spite of the circumstances.

  “Be nice t’ see England agin, sir.” Cony smiled.

  “Be damned nice to see tomorrow’s sunrise.”

  “The battery to our rear is silenced, Sir Hugo,” Chiswick told his commanding officer, breathless from a quick jog-trot. “Mindanao pirates, mostly, with four Frenchmen to supervise. We lost four men.”

  “Oh, I am most dreadfully sorry, sir,” Sir Hugo replied, but it was a perfunctory sort of sorrow. He dragged out his pocket watch and read the face with more ease. “False dawn. Quarter past five.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No enemy to our rear? No scouts or sentinels along our front, to your determination, Captain?” Sir Hugo went on.

  “No, sir.”

  “Very well. Rejoin your company and stand by.”

  Sir Hugo paced out in front of his command. He could barely see most of it. The grenadier company lined up two deep, spaced out wider than he’d like, instead of shoulder to shoulder, but they would have to suit. The bandsmen with their drums and fifes, and Ayscough’s borrowed pipers, tricked out in cast-off red tunics. The six-pounder field guns, and behind them, the coehorn mortar crews. The color party nearest him. The other companies were too far away, too deep in the fringes of jungle.

  He could see them in his mind’s eye, though. Could imagine the formed ranks standing easy with their muskets, with their officers to the front. One word of command and they would be erect as ramrods, ready for what this bloody morning would bring.

  It was hot and close, the air like a steaming barber’s towel, and just as moist. There was no hint of rain, and the ground across which they would advance was dry and firm. It was simply the humidity of these climes making a slight mist that tried to hide the village from them. And hid his regiment from the foe.

  Willoughby paced farther out in advance, with his subadar-major, the senior native officer, and his bearer, Chandra, by his side, until he was about twenty paces forward of his color party.

  He consulted his watch again.

  “Sah!” his bearer gasped with a quick, indrawn breath.

  Willoughby looked up to see a woman and a boy child, not fifty paces off. They had arisen early, perhaps to fetch water or firewood for the morning cooking. They froze in place, almost froze in mid-step, as they might at the sight of a tiger. Then the woman gave out a shrill yelp and turned to run back to the village.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Sir Hugo groaned, “You brainless old bitch! They’re not even friends of yours, and you’d warn ’em?”

  “Mebbe jus’ frighten, sahib,” Chandra commented, outwardly calm though his luxuriant white mustaches quivered as he chewed the lining of his mouth.

  “Either way, she’ll give the alarm,” Sir Hugo sighed. He took a deep breath and opened his mouth.

  “Reg’ment!” he boomed out loud as Stentor, and could hear the bushes in the jungle shiver as his men awoke from their standing doze.

  “’Tal’ion!” came the answering shouts from Gaunt and the other half-battalion commander.

  “’Shun!” Sir Hugo roared as he drew his smallsword from its scabbard. Lush green stamping of feet, muffled by vegetation. “Uncase the colors!”

  Two color parties came forward from the jungle, the flagstaffs held low like pikes, until they were out in the open. The leather condoms were stripped off, and the colors rolled out to hang limp in the light breeze. Two British ensigns, one borrowed from a warship; the King’s Colors. Two Regimental Colors, one real, and one made up from light canvas and painted to resemble the pale yellow silk of an authentic regiment.

  “Light companies will advance, fifty paces forward!”

  The light companies left their extreme flank positions to trot out ahead of their line companies as skirmishers. Once in position, Sir Hugo turned to face the front, raised his sword on high and gave the decisive order. “The regiment will advance!”

  There was a ruffle of drums, an eldritch wailing moan, a thump of a bass drum, and then came music—of a sort. It would be the first time anyone on this island, any Lanun Rover, had ever heard it—perhaps the first time French seamen had ever heard it—as the pipes began “All the Blue Bonnets Are O’er the Border.”

  And the regiment emerged from the jungle. Two light companies. Two color parties. What seemed to be two grenadier companies massed in the center. And two ranks of men in red coats and white puggarees, with their muskets held at shoulder arms, legs moving to the lilting skirl of the pipes and the crash and roll of the drummers’ sticks, more urgent, more compelling than the stately one hundred steps a minute of a usual line battalion. As the ranks approached, Sir Hugo could see the expressions of his sepoys. First the same sort of alarm he wished to see on his foes, their eyes rolling at this strange new invention, and then the grins of delight. It wasn’t feringhee tootles on fifes, this strange new music. It was wild, heathen,
barbaric and brutally martial. They seemed to like it.

  A Lanun Rover was making water off the parapet of the low palisade. He had roistered with his fellow pirates all night long, drunk deep of coco-palm arrack. Had had his way with a frightened Filipino girl, who had known better than to complain, not if she knew what was good for the health of her family, and her own life. She’d warmed from fear to resigned sullenness to his play, and he’d left her one tiny Spanish coin.

  In the midst of his plashings, though, here had come a woman and child running for their lives from the forests. And he could barely see some strange men standing out in the open by the edge of the jungle. Oddly dressed men, but he had shrugged it off. There was no telling what the French would do next. And then had come a great shout. A series of shouts. And the most hideous screeching and howling he had ever heard in his life. A whole raped village or ship had never made such a noise!

  And then he could see men. A lot of men, all dressed in red, with muskets at their shoulders, and between groups, he could see a cannon or two! Just like the tale the survivors had told of the slaughter on the island. He realized he’d forgotten his original order of business entirely, and had pissed down the entire front of his pareu. He drew a trembly breath and gave a great shout.

  Capitaine Guillaume Choundas liked the Orient, liked Oriental women. They were so tiny compared to the Breton girls back home, or the languid cows he’d had in Paris, all beef to the heel as if they had to emulate some artist’s reproduction from the classics. Tiny, childlike and helpless. Chinese girls were all right, he supposed, but he much preferred the fine-boned slimness of these Filipino natives. Indian whores in Pondichery were fine, but sometimes too European in their features, too wide across the beam, and cursed with heavy thighs.