“Get out and take cover. Wherever you can, keep firing, but await orders. Saunders, Pike, stay by me.”
He climbed some stairs to a half loft containing a high window that looked out over the French positions. Through his Dolland glass, what he saw, he didn’t like. The French were climbing the ridge in full column, two companies wide, and at least as deep, more than one battalion, with cavalry on the flanks. Another shot smashing into the walls drew the comment that confirmed his inevitable decision.
“A full Boney assault! So that’s that.”
He shouted down to his two messengers.
“Pike, you go to Lieutenant Drake, Saunders you to Lieutenant Rushby. At 100 yards, two ranks, ten rounds rapid, then retreat in files. Warn them of cavalry. I’ll try to organise the Masse’. Go.”
Pike and Saunders shot out the back door as a cascade of plaster and brick dust showered Carr descending the stairs. His two messengers had turned right, but he turned left. The hut was the join with the Masse’ irregulars and he ran behind their position, their firing places matching that of his own men, walls and earth embankments topped with hedges. He found the Masse’ Commander, Michael Sciarpa, looking intently through the trees at developments with the French. There was nothing of the brigand about him, in fact he was a lean, smallish man, dressed in a long black coat, who had more of the look of a schoolmaster, than someone who had been fighting the French as an irregular for almost two years. Perhaps he had been a schoolteacher, for he had an understanding of basic English. Because of the continuous roar of musketry, Carr had to tap him on the shoulder. Sciarpa turned round and laughed to see Carr. He started a greeting, but Carr cut him short.
“The French are making a big attack, with cavalry, cavalleria. Tell your men, fire ten, rapido, then retreat, ritirata, quickly, veloce.”
Sciarpa nodded, then slapped Carr on his upper arm, as though it were Carr that needed reassuring. Then he ran along his line.
“Dieci colpi, i compagni. Rapido, poi ritirata”
Carr ran to his men, first Drake, then Rushby. Both sections were ready, behind a chest high wall, muskets held at the make ready. He reached Rushby just as he gave the order to fire, immediately matched by Drake. 40 muskets roared out and the firing by ranks began. Carr looked over the wall to see the result, but had to wait for a gap in the smoke as it blew back. The column was taking punishment, from both sides, the Masse’ also were making their presence felt, but the progress of the dense column was inexorable. It would have taken the firepower of a whole battalion to stop it and all that Carr had was his Company and twice again of the Masse’. The equivalent of three companies were punishing the column, the rifles felling the Officers, but the drums in the centre were driving the men on. Despite the front rank being continuously stripped away, the ranks behind stepped over the dead and marched on. However, what pleased Carr was the fact that the punishment being given to the column was holding back the cavalry.
The ten rounds were finished and the order was being given that rifles were to load and hold fire. Drake and Rushby gave the order to fall back and soon it was just Carr stood at the wall. The column was maintaining its pace, but the cavalry was coming around its flanks. Time to go; and Carr ran after his men, passing through the riflemen holding their first position 100 yards back in the first cover, a thin line of trees. Carr held there with them, waiting. Seconds passed, then a minute, but no cavalry. Shots were still sounding over to the right where the Masse’ were, mixed with some screams. It seemed to Carr that the Cavalry had thought better of the wall and had turned left to the bank where the Masse’ were. Could he support them? He thought not. He motioned his men to fall back and felt reassured when the firing died away. The Masse’ must have escaped, melting back into the trees, rocks, and scrub.
With his men still spread out in skirmish order, Carr led his command down the hill to the town. They had just lost the last ridge before the town itself and now the French would be taking their first view of Scilla itself, albeit way beyond cannon shot. He was pleased to see the Masse’, still in numbers, moving down behind him from far over on his left, over to the South. They would maintain a picket line, the French would not have a free march down to Scilla. As there was no pursuit from the French, Carr called in his men and sent them to their billets and tents, some on further into the castle, where also went Drake, Rushby and himself. Carr immediately reported to O’Hare.
“The French are within sight of us, Sir, they’ve got the Aquile Ridge which makes them about two miles away. They attacked in way beyond battalion strength, supported by cavalry. Ourselves and the Masse’ held them up and took a toll of them, Sir, but there were too many.”
O’Hare nodded.
“What’re your casualties?”
“Two dead and four wounded, Sir.”
“Seriously?”
“Two, Sir.”
“Arrange for their evacuation. There’s a transport in the morning. Now, get fed and get some sleep. Well done.”
Food and rest were also uppermost in the minds of Carr’s men. Miles, Pike and Davey filed in through the door of one of the abandoned houses that were growing in number throughout the town. Some of the Masse’ had followed them into the town and the word was spreading that the French had reached the last ridge and were now watching Scilla, causing even more families to abandon their dwellings and make for the hills. There would be no drinking, nor dancing, nor music in the town square this night.
Pike hung up his pack and musket and took himself off to the Castle to collect their rations, leaving Miles and Davey to occupy themselves, which meant giving priority to cleaning firearms, then checking the rest of their equipment. Each had little to say; it had been a long day, climbing the ridge, making a fighting retreat against heavy odds, then making their way back down, but Davey felt the need to ask something of his more experienced messmate.
“What’re our chances, Tom? This is lookin’ none too good.”
Miles was in no good mood. A dislodged stone from the wall had hit his upper arm and it was becoming numb and stiff.
“It don’t take too much figuring, does it? Sooner or later we’ll be holed up in that castle, with the Frenchers where we are now. Then ‘tis all about if the Navy can get us off, wind and tide permittin’. But I’ll tell thee one thing, John, they’ll not take I, I b’ain’t spendin’ years in some French prison, I’ll jump and take my chances with the sea. If I get ashore, I’ll join the Masse’. The French b’ain’t collarin’ me.”
Davey made no reply, he busied himself with cleaning his Baker rifle. Both were content with the silence, and both looked forward to Joe Pike returning with the days rations.
A similar gloom had settled over the evening Officer’s conference in O’Hare’s quarters; himself, with Major Simmonds and his three Captains sat around the perimeter of a small table that held a map spread out on its surface. The progress of the French was clear, the pencil marks on the map, with the date of their addition, told their own story. The latest was the rectangle drawn on the Aquile Ridge and the date, 1st January 1808.
“A happy New Year, Gentlemen.”
“And to you, Sir.”
All smiled at the irony.
“Not too much happiness, it would seem, except, of course, amongst the French. Perhaps they are doing the occasion justice. No matter, to work. We are making them pay for their gains, but they are closing us in. However, be not downhearted; remember our objective, to vigorously resist as long as it remains prudent. So, I’m looking for our next chance to give them a bloody nose.”
He leaned over the map.
“I’m told, via the telegraph, that the French are moving battalions down to Favazzina and Calabra, both on the coast to our North East. ”
He pointed to each in turn, on the map.
“Intelligence also says that they are moving up to Porticello, on the opposite coast, to our South West, between here and Reggio. From what I’m told, it looks like one battalion.
&n
bsp; His finger followed the coastline and passed over Scilla, to reach Porticello, midway to Reggio.
“I propose an attack on both Calabra and Porticello, not Favazinna. At Calabra the French will feel themselves protected by Favazzina, and at Porticello they have seen that all our operations against them so far have been on the opposite side of Scilla. A night attack on both will hit the French and delay their operations. My only concern is our access to Calabra, with the French forward at Favazinna and now up on the Aquile Ridge. Captain Carr.”
“Sir.”
“Get in touch with Sciarpa. Ask him to scout the gap between Favazinna and the French positions on that ridge. Could a column get through and get back? Also ask him to scout the road to Porticello. Can we use the high road, or are there French, so that we should use a side track?”
“Yes Sir. And so’s you know, Sir, we’ve found some boxes of French Navy grenades down in what was their armoury. They could prove useful.”
O’Hare nodded indulgently.
“Yes Carr. It’ll give them a headache at least.”
Carravoy now asked the question that he anxiously wanted an answer to.
“Which companies, Sir?”
“Captain Carr’s Lights attack Calabra, your Grenadiers go for Porticello. You can count on Masse’ support sufficient to double your numbers, or at least close. Number Three will hold the castle.”
“When, Sir.”
“When we hear back from the Masse’.”
oOo
Carr, Drake and Sciarpa lay at the top of a steep hill overlooking Calabra. Whilst the rest of his command slept, for they had used the night to get there unseen, he studied the objective, making notes and drawing a map. Whilst drawing he passed his Dolland Glass to his companions to enable them to make their own study and perhaps make their own suggestions. One good thing he had noticed; the main road both exited and entered the town almost at the beach, furthest from them, whilst the houses, being nearest to them, rose up the slope in a semi circle. Any French on guard and awake would be at the road, so the attack should go in between the houses where any French occupants would be asleep. He crawled to Sciarpa.
“Any French sentries, sentinelles, you can take care of, yes?”
Carr drew his hand across his throat in the obvious gesture. Sciarpa grinned.
“Yes, Capitano Carr, we can take care. No problem.”
Sciarpa grinned again. The more Carr saw of him and his men, the more he liked. Friendships had grown between the men, also. They were tough and skilful, their knowledge of irregular warfare honed over the years of fighting the French occupation. Carr had sent half the Masse’ up into the hills, to hold their flank against the French up on the Ridge, the remainder would join in the attack. Carr looked again through his glass and found what he wanted. A large building in the middle of the town, which was the object of much French attention, with supply carts arriving and leaving. Carr turned again to Sciarpa.
“Do any of your men know Calabra?”
“Si, Capitano. Many lived here before French arrivare.”
“Can they guide us to that big building in the middle, nel centro?”
Sciarpa looked through the Dolland, took it from his eye and nodded, repeating his reassuring gesture of slapping Carr on the upper arm. Carr laughed, then turned to his Lieutenants.
“Right, Firstly, we go in as three columns, down the centre three streets. Nat you on the left, Barnaby you on the right. Fan off and do as much damage as you can. I’m taking the Masse’ in through the centre to fire that big building, so give me two minutes to get there before you open the Ball, but I want two files, six men, from each of your sections. A five minute action, no more. When you hear the bugle sound recall, you get back and regroup on your entry points as a two deep firing line. Clear? Secondly, each man to have one of those French grenades we found, and I want three haversacks of cartridges for my column. If we’re going to burn that building, that’s what we use. Now, get some sleep.”
Simultaneous to this moment, Captain Lord Charles Carravoy was attempting a similar reconnaissance but without anything like the success. If anything, they were lower than the town, for they had needed to quit the highway some way off to avoid French eyes and take to a track that petered out into a field of reeds. These provided good cover for his sleeping men, but the edge of the reedbed was a ditch, then it rose to the road. Carravoy and his two Grenadier Lieutenants were lying sprawled at the road edge, legs down into the ditch, with Carrvoy warming the eyepiece of his spyglass against his eyebrow, it growing hot from agitation. His two Lieutenants, Ameshurst and Berkeley, were down the bank from him, heads besides their removed shakoes, the frontplate of which showed them to be “ex Holyboys, old Ninth”.
“I can’t see a damned thing, and somehow we’re to make a successful attack, somehow, with no idea of the geography of this place.”
Berkeley spoke up.
“Can I make a suggestion, Sir?”
He didn’t wait for an answer but carried on.
“If you discard your red jacket, Sir, and put on a coat and hat borrowed from the Masse’, then you could walk on a mite further, Sir, looking like some kind of farmer. Perhaps go into one of the fields to get a better viewpoint.”
Carravoy looked at him, but it was Ameshurst who built upon the idea.
“Yes, Sir, even better, Sir, perhaps one of the Masse’ knows this place and can draw a map, then you’ll have a better idea of what you’re looking at, Sir.
“I have no paper. Either of you?”
Ameshurst answered.
“Yes Sir. Here’s some, and a pencil.”
All three withdrew and found their interpreter who quizzed their leader, Nicolo Di Ui, Sciarpa’s Second in Command. An ex inhabitant came forward and a crude map was drawn. There was nothing special about the town, a main road, a church beside the square, some houses. Carravoy debated within himself the need to get closer and the need for the disguise. In the silence Berkeley spoke up.
“Looking at this map, Sir, it seems our points of entry are here, and here, Sir, assuming we don’t go straight up the main road.”
Ameshurst continued.
“No indeed. For our first attack, bad idea, but we need to see what’s there, Sir. There could be fences and pig pens. Geese! They make a hell of a row. I’ll go if you prefer, Sir.”
Carravoy looked at them both, from one to the other.
“No. I wish to see for myself.”
He turned to the interpreter.
“Can you get me some clothing? A coat and a hat?”
A hat and coat came forward and Carravoy looked at both with utter distaste. The hatband inside was a greasy circle and the coat was torn and filthy, worse inside than out. Nevertheless, Carravoy took off the jacket, put it on and then the hat. He was about to depart, when Ameshurst stopped him.
“Sir, those breeches, Sir. They are, well, rather white and clean; they stand out in huge contrast to the rest of you, Sir. Any Officer putting a spyglass on you would immediately smell a rat, Sir. A bit of dust rubbed on, Sir. To take the edge off, as it were.”
Carravoy did the dusting himself, then took himself onto the road and forward, carrying a pole found nearby. The two points of entry matched the map and were easily identified, one, over the far side of the main road in line with the church tower, the other on their side by a large birch tree. Both were clear exits to the fields in which he stood. French uniforms grew in evidence and so he poked around with the pole and decided that enough was enough. He itched all over and his head was sweaty. He shouldered the pole and returned, but he had enough sense to go way past the waiting men before he turned into the reeds and walked back up to them, having already discarded the hat and coat.
“Right. Seems simple. The entrance beyond the road is distinguished by the church tower, that’s yours, Berkeley. On this side, the other entrance is shown by a big tree, with trailing branches, that’s yours, Ameshurst. I’ll be with the Masse’. When I hear you enga
ged, I’ll go in down the main road. We attack when its dark, but whilst there is still enough light to see our navigation points.”
Berkeley looked at Ameshurst.
“What do we do when we get in there, Sir.”
“Shoot as many as you can, what else? Do you have any grenades?”
“Some, Sir, but not many.”
Carravoy made no reply. He knew that he had made no requisition.
“Well, use what you have. So, into the reeds and wait.”
This proved to be unpleasant; mosquitoes and crawling insects created much discomfort which intensified with the dying of the light, but eventually the tree and the tower were just discernible on the grey horizon. Dimly lit windows beckoned along the edge of the town, but gave little light outside. Carravoy went up onto the road, followed by Berkeley and Ameshurst and their men. Berkeley and his section crossed the road and entered the fields, Ameshurst took his along the verge between the road surface and the reeds. Carravoy waited five minutes, then led the Masse’ along the road, with Di Ui just behind him. Shouts and musket reports soon came to him from either side, followed by explosions. Grenades were being used. The Masse’ filed past him and split into two lines as they progressed on close to the walls on either side, jogging into the town, muskets at the ready, moving faster than Carravoy felt prudent. French uniforms emerged from the houses closeby to be clubbed, knifed and bayoneted by the eager Masse’. The sounds of fighting were ahead on both sides, both his sections were penetrating deep into the town.
Eventually Carravoy and the Masse’ entered the square. There were no French apart from a few fugitives running across to the far side, two were dropped by a volley of shots from the Masse’. Shouting in French grew in volume. Carravoy peered forward into the pitch dark, but his ears told him more than his eyes. Many running boots were coming up the road that entered the square on the far side, and it seemed that they would soon reach where they were. Uniformed shapes moved through the poor light from the windows of the houses they passed on the road they wereplainly using.
Worth Their Colours (105th Foot. The Prince of Wales Own Wessex Regiment.) Page 52