A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

  ‘Perhaps it is your confession we must hear when next we dine, Mr Appleby,’ said Clay to general laughter. ‘Still, I think tales of pirate gold need not detain us overly, although perhaps it is best if such legends are not generally known. We do not want half of the crew to run ashore with notions of buried treasure in their heads, stealing all the expedition’s shovels.’

  *****

  The convoy had looped around the southern end of St Lucia during the night, out of sight of land, so as to approach the bay from the west at dawn. They had formed up in the dark, the bulk of St Lucia to the north of them now, the bay ahead. Captain Parker had ordered that the Agrius should lead the way into the bay. She was the largest warship, so best able to meet any opposition. Next came the four transporters, formed in a straggling line abreast. At the rear followed the Rush to guard against any interference from the open ocean. Both the warships towed their ship’s boats, like ducklings behind their mother, to ensure that a minimum of time would be lost in launching them. As the sky lightened to silver in the east, the dark shape of the land grew and resolved itself before Clay’s eyes where he stood in the bows of the Rush, his telescope in his hand.

  Stretched across his front was the wide expanse of the bay, the water a mirror to the sky. The back of the bay was made up of the long peninsula, low in the centre, but rising gently towards its seaward end to the right. It was only visible as a black silhouette against the light in the east. In the middle of the peninsula the horizon was feathery with palm trees. Long lines of cooking smoke rose up into the early morning air and drifted away, showing him where the town lay on the shore of the bay. On the top of the rise to his right was the fort. The land here was kept clear of palms and the silhouette was shaped by the harsh straight lines of walls and trenches. Over all was a tall flag pole, the flag black in the grey light.

  Clay looked next to the left, where the peninsula met the land. Here a spectacular sugar loaf mountain reared up like a tower of green, the domed top gleamed as the first rays of the sun kissed it. At its feet was the beach of silver sand where they would land Colonel Gordon and his men. He could see gentle breakers there, lines of white against the grey just now becoming visible in the gloom. Behind the sugar loaf mountain rose the hills of St Lucia, the lower slopes dotted with squares of cultivation, those above wild with bushy jungle. As Clay continued to study the approaching shore, the first blinding rays of the sun spilt over the top of the peninsula, and it was day at last.

  The ships stood on into the bay. In the growing light Clay began to see the detail of the land. The grey stone of the fortress walls, sharp and angled like the points of a star. A line of fishing boats was drawn up on the sand by the shore, their hulls bright colours against the white sand with heaped nets beside them. Now he could see the low buildings of the town, the walls coloured sky blue, burnt red and yellow ochre. Some houses were tiled but most had thatch. Above the roofs were lofty palm trees, bent into arcs under the burden of their fruit, and rising amongst the trees was the whitewashed tower of a church.

  ‘Mr Sutton’s compliments, sir,’ said Midshipman Preston, appearing at his elbow. ‘And he believes that the Burford may be in difficulty.’ Clay glanced across at the transporters. Three had carried on towards the beach, but the fourth was stationary in the water. He could see the crew busy taking in her sails; looking closely he noticed that the angle of the motionless hull was wrong.

  ‘Please tell Mr Sutton that I will come directly. If you please, Mr Preston,’ he said, ‘can you also signal the Agrius? Send “Rush to Agrius, Burford aground, submit I assist.” And have the jollyboat manned ready to be row across.’ It took Clay a less than a minute to reach the quarterdeck from the forecastle of the little sloop, by which time the signal had been prepared and flown.

  ‘Signal from Agrius, sir,’ reported Preston. ‘Signal acknowledged. Join operations when able.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Preston,’ said Clay. ‘Mr Sutton, kindly close to within hailing distance of the Burford. Mr Preston, find Mr Carver if you please, and ask him with my compliments to rouse out a cable suitable to take one of the transporters in tow.’

  While the three remaining ships sailed on towards the beach with the Agrius, the Rush bore down on the stricken brig. On board the scene appeared chaotic. The front part of the deck was full of lines of red-coated infantry, packs on their backs, muskets by their sides, ready to disembark. Further aft Clay could see frustrated army officers arguing with the seamen and gesticulating towards the growing expanse of blue water between them and the other three ships. Looking that way he saw the transporter nearest to the beach was taking in sail and preparing to drop anchor. Drifting across from the Burford came the sound of a sergeant bawling at his men, and officers shouting at the sailors. Clay tried to pick out from the mass of figures which was likely to be the ship’s master. He settled on a balding man in a plain blue coat who stood beside the wheel. He held one hand behind his back while he mopped his brow with a large colourful handkerchief gripped in the other. He also seemed to be the recipient of most of the army officers’ rage. Clay ordered the Rush to heave to just behind the transporter, and pointed his speaking trumpet towards the man by the wheel.

  ‘Burford, ahoy,’ called Clay. ‘How badly are you aground?’ The man by the wheel picked up his own speaking trumpet and turned away from his indignant passengers with relief.

  ‘Barely at all, sir,’ he replied. ‘We have gently run up on some manner of submerged sand bar. It has done us little enough harm. If we had been less heavily laden we might well have passed right over it without touching.’

  ‘Very well, I propose to send a boat with a line. I shall then bend a cable to that line and pass it across to your ship. Once all is made fast we can attempt to tow you off stern first,’ called Clay. ‘Will that answer?’

  ‘Exceedingly well, sir,’ replied the master of the Burford. ‘You might also consid—’ The rest of the message was cut off as one of the army officers seized the speaking trumpet.

  ‘Pray let us have no more of that nonsense, young man,’ bawled a gravel-voiced officer with grey side burns. ‘You damned naval coves may wish to yarn all morning concerning lines across, bent on wherever, and towed astern whatnot. Fact of the matter is that there is a damned battle about to commence, and my men need to be landed on that blasted beach over yonder!’ The furious officer pointed towards the end of the bay, where the first of the Agrius’s boats, heavy with red-coated figures, was nearing the shore.

  ‘And who might you be, sir?’ said Clay, a little frosty.

  ‘I am Major Grafton, of the 53rd Shropshire regiment,’ replied the officer.

  ‘Well, major,’ continued Clay. ‘Refloating your transport ship will be the most swift way to get your men ashore, but I do comprehend how provoking this all must be. Might I propose a solution? It would aid the operation to re-float the Burford if her displacement could be lightened by removing some of your men. I believe we might endeavour to slay a brace of birds with one shot. If I were to allocate two of my larger ship’s boats to ferry your men ashore, while we naval coves are preparing our whatnots, might that not address your chief concern? We could begin with you and your staff.’

  ‘Upon my soul, that is more like it,’ enthused the major. The ship’s master behind him beamed his assent, his relief obvious even at thirty yards. ‘Capital solution, what? Much obliged to you, Captain, Captain... ?’

  ‘Commander Clay. Pleased to make your acquaintance,’ Clay replied. ‘I will issue the appropriate orders directly.’ Clay turned away from the stricken Burford. ‘Mr Sutton, kindly have the launch and cutter manned, and start to ferry the soldiers ashore. It’s a long pull, but it will be worth it.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Sutton with a grin. ‘Starting with the noisier cargo, I understand.’

  ‘Quite so,’ said Clay. ‘Let us get the good major as far to leeward of the operation as possible. Could you also see how Mr Carver does with that cable?’ While Clay
waited for Sutton to return, he called over the ship’s master.

  ‘Mr Appleby,’ said Clay. ‘It would seem this bay of yours has more navigational hazards than we had assumed. Can you kindly take bearings to fix the exact location of this sand bank that has trapped the unfortunate Burford, and have it added to our chart.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Appleby, hurrying off to get his sextant.

  Clay returned to looking across the bay towards the beach. The first parties of redcoats were ashore now. He could see where a little block of red showed clear against the white of the sand. Further up the beach individual red figures were dotted like flowers against the green foliage of the land. They must be skirmishers, Clay decided, pushed out to protect the bridgehead from any surprise attack. The ship’s boats were returning to collect a fresh load of troops to reinforce those already landed. Now would be the time for the French to attack, while the numbers of men on the beach was still tiny, but looking towards the fort, he could see no sign of activity. No column of troops sallied out, hurrying forward behind a fluttering standard, their drums beating. The only flag he could see was the tricolour drifting on the breeze over the fort, the colours now obvious in the bright morning sun.

  ‘The cable is ready, sir,’ reported Sutton. ‘One end is made fast to the stern bits, the other has been brought to the rear gun port, and has already been bent to a line.’

  ‘Very good, Mr Sutton,’ replied Clay. ‘Kindly have the line sent across in the jollyboat, if you please.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said the lieutenant. Clay went over to the stern rail with his speaking trumpet. He looked across at the Burford. The cutter had just left the side of the ship, full of soldiers, including the indignant Major Grafton. On the far side of the ship Clay could see other soldiers making their way down over the side, presumably to the launch that was out of sight behind the hull.

  ‘Burford, ahoy,’ he called. ‘Line coming across now.’

  Clay leant over the side of the Rush and looked down. Below him he could see the end of the thick, eighteen inch cable, protruding like a snout from the gun port. A line was wound about the end, like a muzzle and then led down into the jollyboat below. As the small boat rowed across to the Burford, a hand in the stern paid out the line. The curve of rope rested briefly on the now blue surface of the water, and then sank beneath it. When the boat reached the stricken transporter the balance of the line was handed up, and the crew of the Burford began to haul the thick cable across the expanse of water between the two ships, watched by the large numbers of waiting soldiers. The cable rose up the side of the Burford, and disappeared through an open port. A few minutes later the ship’s master waved his colourful handkerchief in Clay’s direction to gain his attention, and then brought his speaking trumpet to his lips.

  ‘Rush, ahoy,’ he yelled. ‘The cable is made fast.’

  ‘Very well,’ replied Clay. ‘Prepare to be towed.’ He turned back towards the quarterdeck. ‘Foretopsail only, I think, Mr Sutton,’ he said. ‘We do not want to pull the guts of the ship out.’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ replied Sutton. Clay hailed the Burford once more.

  ‘Burford, ahoy,’ he called. ‘I am getting under way.’ He turned his attention back to the lieutenant.

  ‘Mr Sutton! Put her before the wind.’

  The Rush slowly gathered way and the dripping cable rose out of the sea, the arc growing ever flatter.

  ‘Steady,’ called Clay to the helmsmen. ‘Here she comes.’ With a volley of groans from under his feet the cable became a solid bar, water spraying from between the fibres as the strain compressed the weave of the rope. For a moment the Rush seemed to falter, the men at the wheel struggling to hold her to the wind, and then with a dip and a surge the Burford slid off the sand bank, and drifted backwards across the bay.

  Chapter 11

  Digging

  ‘Dirt, Mr Preston, is shortly to become your most valued acquaintance,’ said Captain Webb of the Royal Engineers, allowing a fist full of the precious substance to crumble through his outstretched hand and drift away on the gentle sea breeze.

  ‘You don’t say, captain,’ said the midshipman. ‘And why might that be?’

  ‘Because it is the only thing that we have to hand that will answer to stop a cannon ball,’ the engineer explained. ‘For though all may seem to be quiet as we stand here now, the moment that your men start to dig, the French up there in the fortress will throw their deuced shot amongst us, and it is dirt that will save our precious hides.’

  The two men were standing on a smooth field of short, scratchy grass that led up to the ditch and outer wall of the fort. It was odd to be on an area of ground that was so empty of vegetation, thought the midshipman. Every other square inch of soil he had seen on this tropical island burst with tumbling green life.

  ‘It’s because we are standing on the glacis of the fortress, Mr Preston, within range of the enemy guns,’ explained Captain Webb, noticing his puzzled look. ‘The Frogs keep it nice and clear to deny us the comfort of any cover. That way they can shoot at us with much greater convenience.’

  Behind them were the clustered streets of Vieux Fort town itself, now occupied by the British. Amid the trees and small fields, Preston could see lines of tents appearing like mushrooms as Colonel Gordon established his little army for the siege ahead. Just off the beach the four transporters swung at anchor with their sails furled while farther out were the warships, their black hulls picked out by a band of yellow that ran the length of each gun deck. The long hull and soaring masts of the graceful Agrius was easy to distinguish from the smaller, squatter Rush.

  Preston noticed that even with all the expedition’s troops now on shore, the ship’s boats were still busy at work. They were rowing this way and that, crossing the calm blue water that lay between the transporters and the white sandy beach. Now they were ferrying all the masses of other items the expedition would need in the days and weeks ahead. He could see casks of beef and sacks of provisions being swung down into one of the boats. In the shallows a block and tackle had been set up, and a crowd of men were clustered around the pinnace of the Agrius, the largest boat available. Something of enormous weight, presumably the first of the siege guns, was being gingerly lifted out. Guns and stores, these were familiar items to Midshipman Preston. What was quite new to him was the large pile of wicker cylinders, like giant waste paper baskets, that his men had dragged up to the edge of the glacis.

  ‘What would those strange panniers over there be all about then?’ he asked.

  ‘Those are what we engineers call gabions,’ explained Captain Webb. ‘They will form the principal part of the trench. Do you see the line of pegs my sergeant has placed in the ground?’ Preston followed where the engineer indicated.

  ‘The line of stakes that point across the slope,’ said Preston. ‘And look as if they are going to miss the fort?’

  ‘Quite so,’ said the captain. ‘That shall be the line of our first trench. It will bear us closer to the enemy, but in an indirect fashion. Once we have it dug, we shall swing around and dig in the other direction. First we zig and then zag if you will, until we shall arrive nice and close to the fort.’

  ‘Oh,’ said the midshipman with sudden clarity. ‘Why it is just like a ship tacking up into the wind.’

  ‘Eh, if you say so, Mr Preston,’ replied the land based engineer. ‘You see a siege is a beauteous matter with a craft and science all of its own. How it proceeds is well understood by we engineers, and it all begins with a prodigious amount of digging. So, I would be obliged if your men could dig the section of trench from this peg here, to that one over there.’ Preston looked at the section, about twenty yards long, and nodded.

  ‘That seems clear enough,’ he said. ‘How do we set about the task?’

  ‘Gabions, Mr Preston,’ said Captain Webb. ‘It is all about the gabions. Till they are in place, filled up to the brim with good honest dirt, none of us shall be safe. Place the first one by that pe
g, nice and upright. Then your men dig the trench behind it and use the spoil they generate to fill her up as quick as ever they can.’

  ‘And that will protect them from a canon ball?’ queried the midshipman.

  ‘Once it is full of earth, you have my word upon it,’ said the engineer.

  ‘And when it is full?’ asked Preston.

  ‘Why you cower behind it and use its protection to fill the next one,’ said Captain Webb, ‘and then the next, and the next, and so by this means our trench will progress. As I said earlier, Mr Preston, your siege does involve a prodigious amount of digging.’

  ‘We had better get started then,’ said Preston. He raised his voice to the one he reserved for moderate gales, and summoned over his men.

  ‘Right, you lot, over here with your shovels, and bring one of those big wicker baskets with you. Look lively now!’

  *****

  ‘So why did we want to volunteer for the bleeding shore party again, Sean?’ asked Evans, ducking his head down as another cannon ball whistled past them. A fountain of red earth shot up farther down the glacis as the ball struck the ground and spun away onwards down the slope. O’Malley paused for a moment, leaning on his long-handled shovel, and wiped the sweat from his brow. He looked across at the tall Londoner, and then down at the broken ground at their feet. Evans followed his gaze but saw nothing beyond more of the red-coloured soil they had been frantically shovelling into the top of the gabion. He shrugged his shoulders to show his incomprehension, turning the gesture into another duck as a fresh cannon ball flew past. When he looked up O’Malley mouthed a word at him.