‘That’s the way!’ yelled Rogers, drawing this sword.
The next moment the launch bumped alongside the staithe and, as the oarsmen dragged their oars inboard, Rogers leaped from thwart to thwart, closely followed by Mount. Rocking violently the launch spewed its cargo of marines onto the quay as the other boats arrived and more and more men poured ashore.
There were far more soldiers in the demi-lune than had at first been apparent. Hidden by the willows were the bivouacs of the eighty gunners that made up the complement of the battery. They were forming into a rough line, led by a pair of officers on foot. Behind them another officer was struggling into the saddle of a trace-horse.
‘Drop that man!’ Rogers screamed to Mount, pointing.
Mount turned to a marine who was already levelling his musket, but the shot missed and the officer escaped down a lane that ran alongside the little stream.
‘Form line, platoon fire!’ Mount was drawing up his men and they began to fire volleys at the enemy. Behind the marines the seamen milled, those of them who had been rowing still getting their breath back.
‘Rush the bastards!’ roared Rogers impetuously, waving his sword at the other lieutenants, but Mount ignored him. He was advancing his line of marines platoon by platoon.
‘Come on, lads, charge them!’ Rogers began to run, leading his men through the line of marines.
‘Hold on, Rogers!’ Mount shouted as the first lieutenant began to block his field of fire, but there was no stopping him. Only a few of the seamen had followed Rogers and there were murmurs among the others, murmurs that, overheard on board, would have earned their makers a dozen at the grating.
‘Let the bastard go!’
‘Hope he gets a ball in his brain-pan . . .’
‘Better his balls . . .’
‘Good riddance to him . . .’
Mount stood for a second, furious, and behind him Quilhampton suddenly divined the intentions of some of the men.
‘Come on, Mount! Forward! Bayonets!’
‘Bayonet charge!’ bawled Mount as the artillerymen, taking advantage of the brief pause in the attack, loosed off a well timed volley. Several of the marines dropped, but Rogers, twenty yards from the French, was untouched.
‘The devil looks after his own . . .’
They were all running forward now, marines and seamen mixed together, all mad with blood-lust and tripping over their fallen comrades. Then suddenly they clashed with the enemy. The fighting became hand to hand. The artillerymen dropped their muskets and lugged out short swords which each man had slung on a baldric over his shoulder. They were old faces, almost faces they knew, dark with campaigning, slashed by scars, as moustached as their attackers were clean-shaven. They grunted, swore, cut, thrust, killed and died as well as their opponents, but they fell back under the onslaught, out-numbered by the British who fought with a maddened ferocity. For a few blessed moments they were free of shipboard constraints and could swear and stab and hack at anything that stood in their path. With every slash and lunge they paid back the cheating of the purser, the heartlessness of the bosun’s mates, the injustice of the lash and the venality of the Dockyard commissioners. In the merciless killing they found outlets for their repressed passions and frustrated desires. It was not the enforcers of Napoleon’s Continental System that they killed, but the mere surrogates for the rottenness in their own.
Lieutenant Quilhampton knew this and kept his wits about him. He had heard of men shooting their own officers in the heat of battle and kept a weather eye on Rogers. He did not fear for himself, for the constraints of naval discipline, once they had been laid upon a man, could never be entirely thrown off, even under such circumstances. Intuition told him he was perfectly safe, for he had long ago learned the wisdom of consideration and justice towards the men in his own division. But Rogers was at risk although he seemed safe now, surrounded by Mount and his marines as they swept the last of the gunners out of the battery at the point of the bayonet. The British did not pursue beyond the limit of the rampart. A few of the marines got up on the rough parapet and took pot-shots at the retreating Frenchmen as they ran stumbling over the tussocks of grass and boggy marshland of the water meadows beyond.
‘Keep an eye on ’em, Mount. That bloody officer will have gone for reinforcements!’
‘Very well!’
All around men panted for their breath. The dead and wounded lay in heaps, their blood soaking darkly into the dry earth. Little Frey with his toy dirk was trying to bandage a cut arm. Other men were attending to the wounded.
‘Tom’s lost his bonus, then,’ said one man, staring down at a dead messmate. Quilhampton recalled the bonus Drinkwater had promised the men.
‘You lads start getting the wounded back to the boats now.’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’
Rogers was still bawling orders.
‘Mr Fraser, bring a party over here! You too, Mr Q! I want those three limbers over to the guns. We’ll blow the wheels off! And see here, these Frog bayonets are thinner than ours. You, Walmsley and Frey, gather ’em up and stick ’em in the touch-holes of these guns. Look . . .’
Rogers picked up a French bayonet and stabbed it downwards, into the touch-hole in the breech of the nearest gun. Then he jerked his hand sideways and the narrow blade snapped, leaving the hole neatly blocked. ‘See, that should fuck ’em up for a while . . . and stuff those shell carcases under the guns and they’ll blow the whole bloody shebang to kingdom come.’
Officers, marines, midshipmen and men ran about at his bidding, fetching and carrying. Kegs of powder, shell cases and combustibles were placed under each of the siege guns. The field gun close to the strait was rolled into the water and every gun was rendered at least temporarily useless by spiking.
At the height of this activity a strange officer was seen walking slowly across the open space behind the guns. Everyone had forgotten the Swedish gunsloop.
‘Excuse . . . you are British, yes? I must protest very much. There is no fighting . . . truce, between the forces of His Majesty King Gustavus and the army under Marshal Mortier.’ He approached Rogers who, from his activity and lively direction of affairs, was clearly the senior officer.
‘Will you get out of my way . . . hey, you! More powder over here . . . no, no, a keg if you’ve got one . . .’
‘You must not fight . . . not break the truce . . .’
‘Will you get out of my way?’ Rogers turned on the Swedish officer who suddenly understood he was being rebuffed and drew himself up.
‘I am a Swedish officer.’
‘I don’t give a damn if you’re the Grand Turk, fuck off!’ snarled Rogers, shoving the Swede aside. The man spun round and reached for his sword, as angry as Rogers.
Quilhampton hurried up. ‘Come, sir,’ he said civilly to the Swede, ‘I know you have a truce with the French, but regrettably we do not. I am sure you understand that we mean no offence to yourself.’
The Swedish officer looked down at his sleeve. The point of the iron hook that this tall, gangling English officer wore in the place of a left hand, had caught in the fabric of his uniform. It was covered in blood.
Shrugging his shoulders he allowed himself to be led away with as much dignity as he could muster. Quilhampton had hardly seen the intruder into his boat than another crisis occurred. On the rampart a sudden shout from Mount brought both the first lieutenant and Quilhampton running across the compound. Flinging themselves down on the earth beside him, they followed the marine officer’s pointing finger.
Jogging towards them, their pennons gay in the sunshine, was a squadron of lancers.
‘Jesus Christ!’ whispered Rogers and a thrill of pure fear ran through the three men. The thought of being speared by one of those lances was hideous.
‘I think it’s time for a tactical withdrawal . . .’
‘Get your men back to the boats to cover us, Mount,’ snapped Rogers.
‘I can keep some here and pick a few of those fellows off . . .’
‘Do as you’re fucking well told!’
‘Very well.’
‘Mr Q, get the men back in the boats, load up the carronade, tell Fraser . . . where the hell is he?’
‘I don’t know but I’ll find him.’
Rogers ran across the open space. ‘Hey, Walmsley, get that last powder keg and lay a trail back towards the boats. Make sure no stupid turd runs in it . . .’
‘Aye, aye, sir.’ Lord Walmsley picked up a keg and knocked out the bung. He bent over and scuttered backwards, spreading a liberal trail across the earth. ‘Mind your confounded feet, damn you!’ he shouted at some marines.
‘Into the boats, you men!’ Quilhampton was shouting at the seamen. ‘Get to your oars!’
‘They’re coming!’ Mount was yelling, running back from the rampart. ‘One volley, sergeant,’ he called, ‘then tumble into the boats as quick as you can!’
‘Sah!’ Sergeant Blixoe lined his men up. ‘Steady now, lads. Take partiklar aim and shoot the lubbers’ horses in the chest . . . make ready . . .’
The boats were a confusion of legs and oar looms as men tried to sort themselves out. They were stumbling on the wounded whose shrieks and curses lent a nightmare panic to the scene. Somehow the word had spread that they were about to be ridden down by lancers. Round shot and cutlass slashes were one thing. Lances and horses quite another.
Walmsley’s powder trail had stopped several yards short of the quay. Rogers stood over him as he tipped the last of the powder out of the keg. ‘Get to the launch. Back it off the quay and point the carronade ashore. Leave your cutter alongside for me.’ Rogers drew a pistol from his waistband and looked quickly round him. He could feel the earth shaking under the advancing hooves of the horses.
‘Get down, Rogers, let me fire over your head,’ Mount was shouting at him.
‘Damn you, be silent! Fire and get your men in the boats.’
A wild and magnificent feeling swept over Rogers. He stood alone in the middle of the enclosed space. Behind him the boats were full of men and the edge of the quay was lined with Mount’s marines, their muskets pointing at the end of the rampart where the little track wound round the battery’s defences. All eyes were on him. The humiliation of his confinement, the long-standing and corrosive effects of disappointment and missed opportunity seemed to coalesce in one moment of sublime defiance. Like the men, action had given Lieutenant Rogers the means of defying the system whose injustices had tormented him in proportion to his rank. He was filled with a hysterical disregard for the danger he was in.
The cavalry swept into the battery. Confined to a narrow front of six or seven horses they spread out, their red and white lance pennons lowering. They were in green, wearing tall crested brass helmets, and their horses snorted and plunged as they advanced across the compound.
‘Fire!’ yelled Mount and then waved his men backwards. A cutter pushed off, so did the barge.
‘Come on, sir!’ yelled Quilhampton.
Rogers turned. ‘Fire that boat gun!’ he roared as though bawling out the topmen in a gale. The lancers came on, only yards separating them from Rogers. Mount’s men had only succeeded in knocking over one horse, so distracted had they been by the defiant spectacle of Lieutenant Rogers.
‘What is the silly bastard doing?’ agonised Mount as he turned and watched from the safety of a boat.
‘Bein’ a fuckin’ hero, sir,’ a man muttered.
‘Gettin’ ’is name fair an’ square in the Gazette,’ said another, but Mount ignored them.
In the launch the gunner’s mate jerked the lanyard of the carro-nade. Full of men aft and backed off from the quay, the gun took better effect than it had when they had made their approach. The canister tore through the cavalry and threw back three lancers who were within feet of Rogers.
‘It’s bloody unbelievable,’ muttered Mount, half in admiration of the madness being displayed by an apparently fearless Mr Rogers. As if knowing the three men who most nearly threatened his life would be blown away by the shot from the carronade, Rogers bent over the pile of powder, levelled the cocked pistol and pulled the trigger. The spark landed on the powder, grew dim and then suddenly the powder trail took fire. There was a brief searing light but Rogers felt nothing from the burn on his hand. He stood for a second staring at the leaping flame and then seemed aware of the danger round him. He dodged the next lancer who was trying to rein in his horse as he approached the edge of the quay. Rogers ran for the cutter, bending low as the marines stood in the boats and fired over his head. Behind him the powder fired and sputtered and the horses jibbed at the demon under their hooves. There were shouts and plunging horses and then the launch carronade got off another shot. Rogers leapt for the cutter which backed swiftly off the quay.
The cheated cavalrymen were pulling their horses up at the edge of the water. An officer had jumped off his horse and was trying to stamp out the burning train. Some of his men had slung their lances and were levelling their carbines. The little sputter of flame could no longer be seen. Perhaps it no longer threaded its way over that patch of beaten earth.
The shouts and popping of carbine and musket were suddenly eclipsed by the deafening roar which broke into several subsidiary explosions as limbers and carcases and powder kegs took fire. The redoubt was suddenly transformed into a lethal rocketing of wood, iron and flame among which horses reared in terror and men fell amid the stamping of hooves. Heavy axle-trees, wheels and spokes, even the massive barrels of the cannon themselves were hurled into the air. Pieces of shell-case whistled into the blue sky, then the boats were being showered by black debris which fell into the water alongside them with a hiss.
The boats were swinging into the channel now, the men settling into the rhythm of the long pull back to the ship. They swept past the Swedish gunsloop and Rogers stood and raised his hat in a gesture of arrogant and exaggerated courtesy.
‘Bye the bye,’ he said to no one in particular as he sat down again, ‘did any of you fellows catch a glimpse of Stralsund?’
7
June 1807
Nielsen
Drinkwater sat in his cabin in a happier frame of mind than he had enjoyed for weeks. Although the butcher’s bill for the boat action was heavier than anticipated, there was no doubt that the attack had been a success. The real damage to Marshal Mortier’s Army Corps was not great, but the unexpected destruction of a battery showed the long arm of the British Admiralty, and could not fail to have its effect upon the general morale of the French corps.
There had been a little necessary diplomacy at the protest they had received from a Swedish officer who had come on board as Antigone entered Sassnitz Bay; but it had been passed off easily enough with a glass or two. Most important to Drinkwater was the effect the action had had upon Rogers and the people. He had heard several versions of the affair and gathered that a sneaking admiration had been aroused for Rogers, on account of his coolness under attack. It was undoubtedly only a temporary lull in the hostility between the lower deck and the first lieutenant, but it was a lull nevertheless, and Drinkwater was relieved to see that Rogers himself seemed to have recovered some of his old self-possession.
But it was not merely the raising of the morale of his own ship’s company that occasioned Drinkwater his present good humour. On their return to Sassnitz Bay and the Swedish fleet, they had found a flying squadron of British frigates. Supposing at first that he was to place himself under the orders of the senior captain, Drinkwater found to his delight that special orders awaited him. Taking the opportunity to send mails home, including a highly laudatory report on the affair before Stralsund, he had hurried back to Antigone to digest the import of his written instructions. It was clear that Horne of the Pegasus was somewhat jealous of Drinkwater’s independence and had wished to include Antigone in his flying squadron.
‘You seem to enjoy a kind of privilege,’ Horne had lisped. ‘I have to give you written orders of your own.’ Reluctance was written plain on the
man’s face and even discernible in the way he handed over the sealed package.
‘The forward berth ain’t always the most pleasant,’ Drinkwater replied, happy to escape from the constraints of serving under someone young enough to be his son. Horne would be a rear-admiral by the time he reached Drinkwater’s age, but that was not Drink-water’s concern at the moment; he was more interested in the other news newly arrived at Sassnitz Bay.
‘I heard one of your officers mention Dantzig when I came aboard,’ he prompted.
‘Dantzig? Oh, damn me yes, the place has fallen to the French.’
It seemed inevitable that, failing a major Russian victory, the French would mop up the resistance in their rear. Making his excuses as early as he could, Drinkwater had returned to Antigone, set a course to the eastward and retired to his cabin to open the package Horne had given him. Slitting the fouled anchor seal of the Admiralty Office, he unfolded the papers and began to read.
His instructions from Mr Barrow, Second Secretary at the Admiralty, were a mere repeat of those he had left the Nore with. The same stock phrases: You are requested and required to cruise against the enemy . . . to examine all vessels and in particular those of neutral nations . . . detaining those whose cargo is of advantage to the enemy . . . and so on. In short, there was nothing to suggest that he had earned Horne’s envy or that his ‘independence’ had much advantage to it. But appended to Mr Barrow’s formal instructions was another letter, similarly sealed but not signed by the Admiralty’s civil administrator; this document bore the scrawled and familiar name of the Director of the Secret Department. It was brief and undated, typical of the writer’s economy of style when using plain English.
My dear Drinkwater,
Until you are able to ascertain the outcome of military operations in East Prussia, you are to cruise to the eastward of the Gulf of Dantzig and inform London the instant you learn anything of significance. You should afford any assistance required by persons operating on the instructions of this Department.
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