I must be there by now! he assured himself as he passed the last of the pale tan-painted lower gun deck wale. Left foot down, and scrabble, right hand lower, right foot down, and left hand …
The Ferguson rifled musket almost slipped off his shoulder once more, and when he shrugged it back into place, the barrel knocked his hat off. But, a grope with his left foot found something solid under the rough, tarred boarding net, and he dared a peek, discovering that his boot was on the barge’s starboard gunn’l.
“’At’s it, sir, ‘at’s th’ way,” a sailor encouraged, reaching up to steady him as Lewrie stood with both feet on the gunn’l, with the boarding net’s squares sure hand-holds at last. A long stretch of one leg and he was standing on a thwart, his leg muscles trembling. He stumbled to a seat on the after-most thwart by the tiller.
The bow man reached overside and retrieved Lewrie’s hat, shaking water off it, then passed it aft. Midshipman Chenery took it, poured the last water out of it, and handed it to him.
“Your hat, sir,” Chenery said, trying not to laugh.
“Ah, thankee, Mister Chenery,” Lewrie replied, clapping in on his head despite how damp it felt, “Been having fun ashore, have you?”
“Immense fun, sir,” Chenery said with an impish grin. “Wait ’til I write my sister of it,” drawing a warning glare.
“Right, show of hands,” Lewrie said, “How many of you are in a gun crew? Good. We’re going ashore up by Siderno to save the Army from themselves. They’ve found some guns in their depot, and none of ’em know a bloody thing about ’em. Let’s shove off, and row along the coast.”
“Why would the Army need artillery, sir?” Lieutenant Grace asked him as the bottom of the boarding net was let go, the bow man pushed his gaff against the ship to make room for the starboard oarsmen to work, and the barge’s Cox’n ordered larboard oars rigged.
“They sent some scouts out over the nearest ridge and found an enemy force, no idea how big, coming this way,” Lewrie told him, “and they want t’give ’em a bloody nose before they fire the depot. That will take guns, and they didn’t land any.”
The barge was clear of the ship by then, stroking for Siderno, so Lewrie could shout over to Lieutenant Rutland to repeat his explanation.
“Twelve-pounders, sir?” Lieutenant Grace asked. “I believe that’s what the French prefer.”
“Don’t know their calibre,” Lewrie told him, “but they’re not guns, exactly. They’re howitzers. Short, stubby barrels like a wee carronade. They throw fused explosive shot at higher angles than a proper cannon. Where there’s howitzers there must be fused shot, so … that’s what we’re t’play with. There have t’be fuses.”
“How far off are the French, and how much time do we have to figure the guns out, sir?” Lieutenant Grace asked with a furrowed brow.
“That I don’t know,” Lewrie confessed, “but once I see the Brigadier, I’ll know more. And why he hasn’t set the depot alight, and why he wants a battle in the first damned place,” he grimly added.
* * *
Vigilance’s barges slithered onto the sands to the far right of the beach, as close as they could get to Siderno, and the inland road junction where the arms depot sat. Amazingly, boats from the brigade’s transports were still landing soldiers to re-enforce whatever it was that was in Brigadier Caruthers’s head.
Once ashore in the softer sand at the top of the beach, Lewrie took a look round. He could see why the third regiment had not been able to land their soldiers on the quays, for the harbour was choked with sunken, burned-out wrecks, and the waters littered with floating debris. Many had been sunk right along the quays, which were chipped and scarred by roundshot, too.
He looked seaward, and was gratified to see the 94th’s ships standing out to sea, and Vigilance slowly approaching Siderno under reefed tops’ls and jibs, over a mile offshore and feeling her way back to a fresh anchorage closer to the beaches, with leadsmen in the fore chains sounding the depth. No matter what happened, his part of the expedition would get away un-marked.
“No horses for us, it seems,” Lewrie said, pointing inland as an Infantry Ensign cantered by on a rather fine horse. “Let’s go see what the Army wants. Forward!” he called to his men.
It was only half a mile from the coast road and the shattered town of Siderno to the depot. There were some working parties of soldiers there, but the Lieutenant in charge of them informed Lewrie that the regiment proper was out beyond the vast depot, and that was where Brigadier Caruthers could be found.
“When do you set it on fire?” Lewrie asked, waving an arm to take it all in.
“I was told that it would be set afire as we evacuate, sir,” the Army officer said, “but I have no idea when that would be. We are ah, helping ourselves to whatever might be of use to us, at the moment,” he said with a wink.
“Hmph!” was Lewrie’s comment to that.
Once out beyond the last rows of tent-sheltered matériel, it was a brisk five-minute walk to where Lewrie could see the signalling yard standing erect, with the red broad pendant atop it fluttering. A clutch of officers stood round a man on horseback nearby; Caruthers was mounted, and looking rather grand and commanding, sitting stiffly upright in the saddle, and pointing at various things much like commanding generals had been portrayed in paintings of famous battles. Someone in the group spotted Lewrie’s party, said something, and Caruthers reined his horse about to face his approach, a broad grin on his face.
“Ah, you’re here at last, with your gunners!” Caruthers cried out. “Topping!”
“And you’re still here, no matter how daft that is,” Lewrie re-joined, tapping fingers on the brim of his soggy hat instead of doffing it in salute. “Why?”
“There’s a French column coming, and I intend to give them a battle, sir,” Caruthers archly stated.
“How many, how far off are they, and if they’re too strong for you, how do you intend t’get your troops off, and fire the depot? I believe its destruction was the main idea for this expedition in the first place?” Lewrie said, equally arch. “Not offer battle?”
“The enemy, sir,” Caruthers shot back, “consists of at least one regiment of infantry, a troop of cavalry, and a battery of cannon. As you can see, I’ve two of my regiments ready to receive,” he said with a wave of his arm to indicate the troops out half a mile inland below the nearest ridge, sitting or napping on their backs in long lines. “We estimate that they will be coming through that draw atop the ridge in two or three hours … sufficient time for you to emplace the guns we found. I would have all my brigade, but for your Navy clogging the port,” he accused.
“That’s because their orders were to sink, take, or burn every hull in sight, sir, as their part of the operation,” Lewrie replied. “Two or three hours? You expect to waste the rest of the day, fight them round dusk, then get your troops off in the dark? Perhaps if you can do that by the light of the burning depot, you might pull it off, but I doubt it. If you march your men back to the beaches, you might get them all off before the French arrive, but you’d have to start now!”
“I fully expect your ships and their boats would aid in that endeavour, after we’ve bloodied the enemy’s noses … sir,” Caruthers snapped, abandoning genteel conduct, seething, hissing through his teeth.
“My transports, and my boats, are back at sea, sir,” Lewrie told him. “The 94th achieved all their objectives without loss, and their part of the operation is also over. I came here imagining that the French were at your throats this instant. I am not of a mind to hang about for hours so you can re-stage the Battle of Maida, sir.”
“You would sail away and abandon us, sir?” another officer spat.
“You’ve almost fulfilled your orders, sir,” Lewrie turned to say to him. “Fire the depot, get your troops back aboard their ships, and you’ve achieved everything asked of you.”
“There is always something more to be done,” Caruthers snapped, “a golden opportunit
y discovered that must be exploited.”
“Fine, get yourselves knackered,” Lewrie growled. “Mister Severance?” he called to the signal party. “Head back to the beach and set up to speak to our ship. Nothing more for you to do here.”
“Aye, sir,” Severance said, looking relieved to be freed from the Army.
“And would you abandon us, sir?” Caruthers demanded.
“If you won’t take my advice, Brigadier, there’s not a lot the Navy can do for you,” Lewrie told him. “I could provide fire support to cover your evacuation. My ship’s gunners are hellish-good, but we have only roundshot. Broadsides of eighteen- and twenty-four-pound shot might pin the French on the back side of the ridge whilst you withdraw, but the last thing I wish is to encourage your folly.”
“Let me make this plain, Captain Lewrie,” Caruthers said as he shifted in his saddle, placing both hands on it to lean forwards. “I am senior officer ashore. Your command ends in the shallows along the beach. I order you to remain ashore, and man the guns my men have discovered. If you do not do your utmost to aid me, I shall prefer court-martial charges, no matter how this turns out, and if I do fail, your refusal will be to blame for it! You, alone, sir!”
“That’s grossly unfair, sir!”Lieutenant Grace exclaimed.
“I did not speak to you, puppy!” Caruthers snapped.
He’s got me, Lewrie miserably thought; I should’ve stayed aboard and let him get beaten. No, he’d say I didn’t send him gunners, and he’d see me court-martialled for that! Fuck it. We’re here, so …
“A court-martial could find you reckless, too, sir,” Lewrie told him. “Remember Buenos Aires, and General Whitelocke?”
That stung the man! Whitelocke had been so inept, so foolish, and had lost an entire British army to gauchos and un-trained volunteers, and had been ruled out of any further military service in any capacity as a total incompetent.
“Very well, I will stay, and I’ll man your bloody guns,” Lewrie said in surrender, seething though he was. “I’ll say for the record, though, that you’re a damned, glory-huntin’ fool. Now, where’s the fuckin’ howitzers?”
* * *
There were twelve of them, lined up at the back end of the vast depot, stubby bronze barrels, wooden wheeled carriages, limbers and caissons that held propellant cartridges and explosive shells together as if readied for inspection. On the wide trails behind the barrels sat more boxes for ready-use ammunition. As Caruthers and his staff sat and watched Lewrie and his men inspect them, Lewrie opened one of the boxes to peer inside.
“There’s a plate on the carriage, sir, “Lieutenant Rutland grumbled. “It says, ah … Systeme AN XI … eleven. Fourteen cent-i-metre, whatever the Devil that means,” he said, stumbling over the strange word.
“Dumb-arsed French measurements,” Lewrie scoffed. “I think it’s close to five inches, maybe five and a half? Anyone else know Frog mathematics? No?”
“Maybe higher numbers to measure length make the French think their members are longer,” Lieutenant Grace sniggered.
Lewrie hefted one of the heavy shot from the ready-use box with difficulty, for it felt as if it weighed more than twelve pounds. He turned it over a little to look at the plug in its side.
“Where’s the fuses?” he asked.
“Right there, sir!” Caruthers snapped, jabbing a finger at the plug.
“No, that’s a wood plug t’keep the gunpowder from spilling, and to protect the charge from anything that might set it afire,” Lewrie contradicted. He sat the shell on the trail ahead of the box, pulled the plug, and held it up. “Wood. Solid wood. I’ll ask again. Where’s the bloody fuses?”
“Uh,” was Caruthers’s response.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
For a hopeful moment, Lewrie wished that there were no fuses in the depot; Caruthers couldn’t prevail against the French without artillery, and he’d see sense, and Lewrie could go back to his ship with not a shot fired. But, no, tons of explosive shot were found marked AN XI 14 Cm, and boxes of fuses, at last.
Nothing for it, then, he told himself.
With no draught horses, eight of the howitzers were wheeled out by hand, all that Lewrie thought his sailors could manage. He placed them in a line well behind Caruthers’s infantrymen, and well apart from each other to avoid return fire from that rumoured French battery hitting something vital that might take out two or three guns at once, and killing or wounding too many men.
Soldiers were ordered to dig pits for the flannel cartridge bags, and canvas was fetched from the depot to cover them ’til needed. The explosive shot had to be piled into French army waggons and hauled to the howitzers to be piled up with a supply of at least fifty rounds per gun. Empty shot boxes were placed well behind it all, where the fuses would be cut before being inserted into the shot, just before it was rammed home down the barrels.
Lewrie gathered reliable men with some education to handle the fuses, patiently explaining and demonstrating the markings on the fuses. Ignore the Froggish millimetres painted down one side, measure the seconds on the other side, and cut off the fuses straight across with their clasp knives. He would call how many seconds of flight were required when fired. The exploding powder in the bores of the howitzers would light them … hopefully.
They had to try them out. Lewrie decided on three seconds, and had the fuses cut, inserted, and the shells carried to the guns.
“Charge your guns!” Lieutenant Rutland roared in a voice that would carry in a full gale, and flannel cartridges were fetched, inserted, and rammed down. “Shot your guns!” and the shells were rolled down the barrels and rammed snug.
“Light your linstocks!” and the slow-match was ignited with some flint fire starters, with more long lengths of it coiled round the top of the swab-water tubs, as it would be aboard ship, though the lack of flintlock strikers was troubling to the experienced naval gunners’ routine.
“Prime your touch-holes!” and fine-milled gunpowder from copper flasks was poured over the vents.
“Let’s give it a try, Mister Rutland,” Lewrie said, wishing for some cotton or candle wax to stuff in his ears.
“Aye, sir. By broadside … fire!” Rutland yelled.
Some howitzers were slower to take fire, so the guns stuttered out a salvo, rolling back from the recoil, but seeming to squat upon their carriages, as well.
“One one thousand, two one thousand, three…,” Lewrie counted aloud, waiting for the results. “Whoo! They work!”
High above the ridge, too high really, and almost behind it, a row of shells cracked in ugly black smoke flowers, shattering the iron shot into jagged shards of death.
“Let’s try lowering the barrels a bit, Mister Rutland,” Lewrie ordered, “and let’s cut fuses for two and one-half seconds.”
“Swab out your guns, stop your vents, and crank the elevation screws to lower the aim,” Rutland yelled.
The second salvo all exploded, too, the bursting shot this side of the ridge, and the draw through which Caruthers expected the French to come, lower in the air, where shards would cover a troop-killing area.
“I think that will do quite well, Mister Rutland,” Lewrie said.
“Wheel position, sir,” Rutland said, frowning, and pointing to the nearest howitzer carriage. “They roll back each time we fire, and we need to mark where they must be pushed back before firing again. On ship, we run out to the port sills, but here, we could end back by the depot after ten or twelve rounds.”
“Hmm, empty boxes in front of the wheels, and we’ll roll ’em back against ’em. Send men t’find some,” Lewrie decided.
“Speakin’ o’ lookin’ for things in the depot, Cap’m sir,” Kitch intruded, snatching off his tarred straw hat. “We were wond’rin’ if th’ Frogs have food stored yonder. We’ve eat up what little we came away with, and it’s well past mid-day mess.”
“Aye, sor,” his Cox’n, Liam Desmond, chimed in. “There must be some o’ those waxed cheeses, hard
bisquit, and such like we found off Spain when we took their supply ships.”
“Water’s runnin’ low, too, sir,” Kitch added with a hopeful look. “The wells back in Siderno…”
“The ratafia, the brandy, the wines,” Lewrie skeptically said, with a wry grin. “Mister Grace? Form a working party to fetch water from town. Take all the canteens. And root round the depot for food, in the town shops. There must be hundreds of sausages there. But … any man who gets drunk will pay a stiff price when we get back aboard ship. Hear me, Desmond? Kitch?”
“Aye, sor,” Desmond answered, sagging in defeat, “though it’s a hard thing to ask of sailors, Irish or no.”
“Handling gunpowder and fuses drunk is a good way t’blow your fool heads off,” Lewrie said. “Didn’t ye hear the Brigadier? There’s to be a grand battle in a few hours! Get ye gone with Mister Grace, and no spirits!”
Once the working parties had trudged off, Lieutenant Rutland returned with some broken wood crates, which he placed snug against the front of all eight howitzers’ wheels, explaining to the gun crews why they had to “run-out” to them as they did aboard ship, then came over to join Lewrie, who was scanning the ground out beyond the idle infantry lines, and up the slopes to the ridge, and the draw.
“They’re said t’have artillery, six guns at least,” Lewrie said with his telescope to his eye. “But, I don’t see where they could put them ’til they’re down on the flat … that shelf to the right of the road would suit. Cavalry? Once they get down to the foot of the ridge, there’s little our howitzers can do to ’em.”
“Rain, sir,” Rutland said in his usual pessimistic way. “It’s almost a full overcast, and smells like water. If rain sets in, there is no way to fire the guns if the priming powder turns to slush. How dearly I miss flintlock strikers!”
Lewrie looked at the sky, and pulled out his pocket watch; Lieutenant Rutland was right, it was gloomy, overcast, and dimmer than the skies had been when they went ashore earlier in the day. There was nothing to say, nothing to do, but wait it out, and pray for the best.
A Fine Retribution Page 39