A Sloop of War

by Philip K Allan

  The following day saw no further extension of the British earthworks, but the French defenders still noticed a considerable amount of activity. The tops of numerous fresh gabions could be glimpsed as they were hauled along behind the parapet. The sound of coordinated heaving drifted up towards the fort, the objects in question were invisible, but the effort involved was clear to hear as heavy items were dragged forward. As night approached, the number of British in their trenches seemed to be on the increase, rather than reducing as had happened on every previous night. A worried French ensign reported all this to his captain, who in turn went to see the major, who sat down to discuss matters with the commandant of the fort.

  ‘My sincere apologies, Claude,’ said the grey-haired commander to his young subordinate. ‘But I can only offer you rum. Since the English began their blockade of the island, cognac has become almost impossible to find. I do have one bottle left, but I shall keep that to toast our victory over the Roast Beefs.’

  ‘No matter, sir,’ said the major, lifting the glass to his nose. He took a cautious sip, and his face cleared. ‘Actually it is very good.’

  ‘It has been aged for ten years in the barrel. I get it from a small producer I know near Fond St Jacques,’ said the commandant. ‘So, mon ami, what have you to report?’

  ‘A strange day, sir,’ replied the major. ‘The enemy completed all their repairs to their trenches last night, yet today they have made no further progress. Their second parallel is now close enough to the wall for them to site their siege guns, but none have appeared. There has been a lot of activity, and the trenches have many more men in them tonight than we have seen before.’

  The commandant thought for a moment, and then reached towards the bookshelf that rested against the office wall behind him. He found the volume he wanted, which he pulled out and placed on the desk in front of him. From his top pocket he produced a pair of wire framed reading glasses which he hooked with care over his ears and then he opened the book.

  ‘It is Thursday, is it not?’ he asked, peering at the officer over the twin discs of silver.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ replied the major. The commandant leafed through the pages of the almanac, found the entry for that day, ran his finger along the line, and tapped the page.

  ‘Very interesting,’ he mused. ‘Tonight Claude, there will be no moon,’ he said. ‘Do you think the English would be foolish enough to be planning a surprise attack? An assault on the walls with siege ladders maybe? Perhaps that is what you heard being dragged along behind their parapet?’

  ‘Well, it is possible,’ said the major, running a hand through his thinning hair. ‘But if that is the case, they have concealed their intentions very poorly.’

  ‘Yes they have,’ said the commandant. ‘In which case, let us insure they receive a nasty surprise. Have the guard doubled tonight, and arrange for the occasional flare to be tossed out into the ditch. Also make sure that at sunset you train our guns on the end of that second parallel, and that they are fired blind at intervals through the night. I am to be woken if any attack develops, and in any case an hour before dawn.’ He picked up his glass and clinked it against that of the major.

  ‘Victory to the Republic,’ he toasted, and both men drained their glasses.

  All through the night the French troops waited, expecting to be attacked at any moment. The darkness was full of strange sounds, overlaying the more usual rasp of tree frogs and hum of insects. There was the jink and scrape of numberless shovels and the clatter of dropped timber. Hoarse cries of ‘Easy all!’, ‘Belay that!’ and ‘Handsomely there, for fuck sake!’ echoed in the dark. Jumpy sentries fired their muskets into the night, but drew no return fire. When the cannons roared out, the tongue of flame caught the glint of steel, and the briefest glimpse of activity. The flash of light captured a moment of disturbed movement, like the mouth of an ants’ nest, washed away by the returning night as fast as it had appeared.

  As he had ordered, the commandant was woken before dawn the next day. He groaned a curse at his servant, for he had just fallen asleep, what with the night filled with trigger-prone sentries, and the periodic roar of the cannon. He washed and dressed himself and then crossed to the north wall of the fortress. There he stood near the front of the parapet and faced towards the British trenches with the major by his side. The enemy were quiet now, as if they too waited for the dawn. No surprise attack had been launched in the night, for which the commandant was grateful, but he also knew that his industrious besiegers would not have been idle either. Away to the east a tiny blush of rose showed where the sky met the ocean, but here on the walls all was still dark. A sea breeze flapped at the tail of the commandant’s coat, the movement echoed by the tricolour above his head.

  The commandant made small talk in the dark with the major, until a moment came when he realised it was light enough for him to be able see his face. He contemplated his subordinate’s features, his tired eyes, the bristle of stubble on his chin, the silky arms of his moustache. He then broke of his conversation and both men faced towards the enemy. The morning light had just gilded the top of the sugar loaf mountain at the start of the peninsula. In the gloom at its base, where he knew the lines of his enemy’s tents to be, the first of the day’s cooking fires glowed red in the dark. Closer at hand were the British trenches, the line of them now clear in the grey light. He saw immediately what the British had done during the night. The second parallel now ended in a substantial gun emplacement, two gabions high, and several thick. As the light grew he could make out some of the large timbers and trunks of felled palm trees used in its construction.

  ‘Merde!’ exclaimed the commandant. ‘So that is what the English have been up to. It is really quite marvellous what they have achieved in a single night. They must want to capture our fortress very much.’ He looked towards the major. ‘Well, Claude, can you batter it down?’ he asked. The major examined the structure with care through the small spy glass he had pulled from his pocket.

  ‘It is very well made, sir,’ he replied, passing the spy glass across. ‘Much too solid for the few cannon we have that will bear on it. The only weak points I can see are the gun embrasures. Of which I count three, but they have made them as narrow as possible.’

  ‘Yes, I see them,’ said the commandant. ‘Two are empty, but do you see? The one on the right has a gun in it already.’

  ‘You’re right, sir,’ replied the Major. ‘It looks big. Twenty four pounder at least, I should say, perhaps even larger.’

  The two men inspected the thick black muzzle of the siege gun, and as if in response a huge tongue of flame erupted from it. Almost before they had registered that the gun had fired, the officers felt a blow like a hammer strike the fortress beneath their feet, and fragments of broken cannon ball and stone were sent shrieking through the air. They both walked forward and leant out to look down at the base of the wall. There was enough light now to show where the stone had been struck. They could see a small blister of damage with cracks radiating out from it, and a few grey flecks of stone dotting the grass floor of the ditch below it. Both men ducked back behind the wall, and the commandant stroked his chin.

  ‘How long do you think it will it take them to make a suitable breach in the wall?’ he asked. The major shrugged his shoulders before he replied.

  ‘If they really have three such guns, they might have a narrow breach in as little as two days, sir. It depends on how well the wall has been constructed. The outer stone appears to be good, but one can never tell what the local contractor who built it may have filled it with. Whoever he was, you can be sure he was no Vauban.’

  ‘Alas that is true, Claude. Only two days you think?’ mused the commandant. ‘We will need to act soon then, before the wall is too badly damaged. For now concentrate what fire we can on the gun embrasure that is firing. It will be difficult, as you say, but we may get lucky. Meanwhile have the garrison officers join me in my office at ten. It is time for us to make the next move in this ga
me.’

  *****

  ‘Stand clear,’ yelled Rosso, as he brought the linstock down onto the touchhole. The crew around him were all within a few feet, but he still needed to shout to be heard. Like him they had their neck cloths tied in tight bandanas around their ears to protect them from the noise. The powder took, spluttered for an instant and then the cannon roared out. The recoil sent it slithering back across the floor of timber beams and the crew hurried to reload it. Evans swabbed out the barrel, steam hissing from the wet sponge, and then stood clear while a fresh charge and ball were rammed home.

  ‘Run up,’ shouted Rosso, and the sailors grabbed the wheels to roll the heavy piece back into position. He leant forward and jabbed his spike down the touchhole till he felt the barb at the end first push against and then pierce the thin canvas bag that held the charge. He filled the touchhole with a stream of fine powder from the horn around his neck, and peered down the barrel to check that the gun was run up straight. Through the thin slot in the embrasure he could see the grey wall of the fortress, pock marked now by impact craters. Cracks ran like canyons across the stone, and several large pieces had broken off the wall. Just above the point they were bombarding a pair of soldiers visible. As he looked one of them levelled his musket with care, pointed straight at him. Good luck at that range, Rosso thought. You and your mate have been trying to drill one through this gun port for the last hour. The soldier’s head disappeared behind a puff of smoke as he fired, again without effect. From somewhere out of view one of the defender’s cannon roared. There was a solid thud against the front of the gun emplacement to his left as the ball struck home, and a trickle of dislodged soil cascaded down onto the barrel of the gun.

  ‘Stand clear,’ he yelled again and the gun fired once more. He took a step back from the big cannon while the crew went through the routine of loading the piece, and looked around him. The gun emplacement was well built with a floor made of heavy timbers. Most had been taken from the church in Vieux Fort, supplemented by some from the ships in the bay. He stamped on it experimentally. It was far from the smooth oak deck he was used to but it was a fair surface on which to operate a gun although he could tell from the scarring beneath the iron rims of the carriage wheels that the recoil would eventually wear ruts into the wood. He looked to his left down the short second parallel of trench to where it switched back into the long first parallel. Two figures came hurrying around the corner. One carried a cannon ball, the other a fresh charge. Behind them a small group of 53rd Infantry soldiers sat with their backs in the shade of the trench wall.

  He glanced back at his gun, just as O’Malley rammed the wad home with the flexible rammer. The Irishman pulled the long rod free and Rosso stepped forward once more.

  ‘Run up,’ he ordered. The gun thumped back into place and he again pricked the charge, filled the touchhole with powder and sighted down the barrel. The same view as last time, with a little more damage to the wall. No wait, thought Rosso. Something in what he was looking at was different. He looked again, grey wall damaged at its base, ditch at its feet, blue sky above. What was it? There were two guns in action in the battery now, and the third was in the process of being hauled forward. He heard the gun captain of the other piece shout a warning, and his view was obscured with dense smoke as the gun fired. He thought of waiting for the smoke to clear, but he could sense the restlessness of the gun crew behind him.

  ‘Come on, Rosie,’ urged Trevan. ‘I know we ain’t on the barky, but it don’t seem natural not to fire as quick as we can.’

  ‘Stand clear,’ Rosso shouted, bringing down the linstock and the cannon fired once more. While the crew reloaded the gun, he stepped back again, picturing what he had seen through the narrow gap in the gun emplacement. Wall, ditch and sky. Wall, ditch and sky. What was it that was wrong? The men stepped back from the gun, and Rosso ordered it run up. He again pricked the charge, poured in the powder and sighted along the barrel. One of the dressed stones had been destroyed altogether now, revealing the softer rubble backfill that made up the central core of the fortress wall. He was about to fire again when he realised what was different.

  ‘Mr Preston,’ he called to the midshipman in charge of the battery. ‘Do we have any canister for these guns, sir? I think we are about to be attacked.’

  ‘Attacked?’ said Preston, exchanging glances with Captain Webb who stood next to him. ‘Why the deuce to you think that, Rosso?’

  ‘Cause the Frogs have stopped firing at us, sir,’ replied the sailor, ‘and there are no soldiers in sight anymore on the top of the wall.’

  The two gun crews stopped serving their guns and stood at their places. Most pulled their bandanas free from one ear to listen. It was certainly a lot quieter. For the first time in days they could hear surf as it crashed against the rocks on the Atlantic side of the peninsula. From behind them came sharp orders and the sound of grunted cries as the last of the siege guns was heaved along the trench. No cannon fire could be heard from the fort, no slap and whine of passing musket balls.

  ‘This does seem deuced peculiar, Mr Preston,’ said Captain Webb.

  ‘Evans,’ said the midshipman. ‘Jump up on the gun carriage, and let us know what you can see.’

  From his six and a half feet, combined with the height of the gun carriage, Evans peered towards the wall of the fort, shading his eyes with one hand and balancing with the other.

  ‘Do Frog soldiers wear black hats with small pompoms on the top, sir?’ he asked, ‘because if they do, the ditch is full of the bastards.’

  ‘Damnation!’ exclaimed the engineer officer. ‘They must have a sally port in the fortress wall that opens into it. There are a few rounds of canister stored over there, but what we chiefly need is to be reinforced.’

  ‘Sedgwick, run like the wind down the trench,’ ordered Preston. ‘Send every trench guard and soldier you come across up here, especially the ones shifting that last gun. When you reach camp, raise the alarm. Go man!’ Sedgwick set off like a hare, and Preston turned to the waiting gun crews. ‘Load with canister, lads. Ram it down on top of ball like we would on the ship, and wait on my order to fire.’ He clambered up to the top of the wall of the redoubt, from where he could see the fortress ditch. With his head on one side he could just hear the sound of muted orders as the French deployed themselves for their sortie.

  It took two men to lift the heavy copper cylinders and slot them into the barrels of the guns. Each made a heavy rattle as the musket balls they were packed with settled into place.

  ‘How many balls do you reckon each of these has in it?’ asked Evans, as he helped O’Malley ram the cylinder home.

  ‘I don’t know for sure,’ replied the Irishman. ‘I reckon hundreds from the fecking weight. This will give them Frogs something to think about.’

  ‘Run up!’ ordered Rosso. Behind him he heard the first group of the trench guard arrive, their boots clattering across the timbers.

  ‘Right, corporal,’ he heard Captain Webb say. ‘The navy boys will give them a whiff of grape, and then it will be all hell. Can you post your men in a line back here ready to fire, but keep well clear of the cannons’ recoil.’

  As Preston watched, he heard the bark of an order from the ditch, followed by the steady rattle of a drum. He glanced back down into the emplacement to check that both guns were loaded and ready. The two gun captains held their smouldering linstocks high, eyes fixed on him as they waited for the order to fire. He thought how vulnerable the emplacement looked. There were only sixteen sailors, some with cutlasses and the odd pistol, but most would have to fight with whatever weapons they could improvise from the rammers and hand spikes they were using to serve the guns. Perhaps a dozen soldiers had arrived with muskets so far. He looked back towards the fortress ditch. A line of ladder tops appeared, followed by streams of soldiers as they came boiling out. They ran to their places, forming up in a three deep line under the urging of their officers. Christ, thought Preston, there must be at least two hun
dred of them.

  ‘Ready?’ he called down.

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ shouted back the two gun captains. Preston drew his little midshipman’s dirk. The shortness of the blade seemed to emphasise the weakness of their position.

  The French soldiers were now a solid block of white-cross-belted figures. The sun glinted off their needle sharp bayonets. The officer in the middle of the line waved his sword, the drummer next to him began to beat his drum, and the line moved towards the gun emplacement. Preston suppressed the urge to fire straight away and forced himself to wait for the line to come within fifty yards of them. The beat of the drum and the steady tread of the advancing line seemed to mesmerise him. With a huge effort he tore his gaze from the soldiers, and instead chose to concentrate on a small patch of bare earth about the right distance away. When he saw the first French boot stamp down on it he turned to face his men.

  ‘Fire,’ he yelled. Both guns went off together, like the twin barrels of some monstrous shot gun. The cones of musket balls tore two holes in the line, each blast sweeping a dozen attackers away. The line hesitated for a moment, the soldiers shocked by the sudden onslaught, but then they surged forwards once more, closing ranks as they came. Preston dropped down into the emplacement.

  ‘No time to reload, men,’ he yelled. ‘Grab what weapons you can.’ From outside the emplacement a French cheer rang out as the line broke into a charge. A yelling head with a bicorn hat appeared above the parapet. The sound abruptly stopped as Evans punched the end of his rammer into the soldier’s face, but no sooner had it disappeared than a dozen other heads replaced it as the attackers clambered up the wall of gabions.