A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  ‘Please go back to the cabin and say that I ask permission to clear for action.’

  The reply that came back was negative; to clear would remove the bulkheads that formed the walls of his cabin and he was not prepared to countenance such disturbance on a mere rumour.

  ‘It’s more than a damned rumour,’ Pearce hissed.

  ‘What can it be, sir?’ Conway asked.

  Pearce wondered if the lad shared some of the crew’s superstitions, so obvious was the quiver in his voice, then reasoned he was just cold.

  ‘In the worst case it’s a ship of war, covering its lights as are we. I think that unlikely, for if you are correct regarding the first sighting, whoever is out there is on a northerly course. Sense, if they saw our lights, would have them close if they were powerful or run if they are not.’

  Aware that he was indulging in pure guesswork, Pearce had to reason there was no alternative to what they now had. Only Digby could order that they clear and it had been denied, which left the possibility he was indulging in wishful thinking, fitting the conclusion to his needs. If it was a warship and it was closing in this Stygian darkness, then the brig would not stand a chance.

  ‘Mr Pearce,’ said Dorling, after two hours of the chase. ‘My calculations put us close enough to the shore, enough to advise caution.’

  ‘Very well, prepare to heave to and while the men are on deck, get the guns cast off, loaded and run out.’ There was a moment then when Dorling thought on that; Pearce was acting in contravention of Digby’s orders. ‘My decision, my responsibility. One man to stay with the cannon, the rest to keep warm below, with a relief every bell.’

  HMS Flirt came to a halt very slowly, allowed to drift until she lost all way, by which time he and Conway had been joined by Edward Grey, asking to be brought up to date. A glance under the binnacle cover told Pearce which way lay north and thus the shore, while Dorling, efficient as he was, could only give him and the marine an approximate position on the part of the Ligurian littoral off which they lay.

  ‘Best guess, Mr Dorling?’

  Another pause was long enough to indicate he did not want to be precise but eventually he elected to name Voltri, on the road west from Genoa, which the charts examined off the deck indicated sat in a long shallow bay backed by mountains, indeed a typical location on this shore, albeit with a stone beach split by a narrow Alpine river.

  ‘There away, over the larboard bow.’

  Pearce was fortunate to be back on the quarterdeck to see it, the same brief flash and a certain amount of satisfaction was to be had. The light was, in relation to the brig, very much where he had expected it to be. That was rendered mysterious when two other pinpoints became evident, stringing southwards, though not visible for any longer than what had been previously observed. This left Pearce in a quandary. Did they come from a single deck, for if they did, given the distance from front light to rear, he could be facing a capital ship of seventy-four guns or more?

  ‘No sound, from anyone. No movement that is not necessary.’

  ‘Let’s hope the captain obliges,’ whispered Grey.

  The passage of time was a constant source of frustration at sea and one to which some became inured. Not Pearce; his impatience did not moderate, even if such a mood achieved nothing. What would happen would do so in its own good time and his under-the-breath cursing would gain nothing. His exasperation was finally mollified when half a dozen lights appeared, strung out along what he had to assume was a beach. He thought to ask Digby for permission but was unwilling to give him the chance to deny him the right to act on his instincts.

  ‘Mr Conway, get the men equipped for shore duty, including muskets. Mr Grey, your duty is plain.’ There was no need to say more: if the tars were going ashore so was he. ‘Mr Dorling, get the boats alongside. You and Mr Conway will have charge of the ship while we are gone.’

  ‘The captain?’

  Dorling asked this, his voice anxious, for not only was he being landed with a responsibility he would rather not shoulder, Pearce was taking upon himself another duty he should have cleared with Digby.

  ‘Is not on deck, Mr Dorling, and I am. The fact he has not appeared, even after we have heaved to, tells me he has little interest or concern for what we have witnessed.’

  ‘Begging your indulgence, I am not sure what that is.’

  ‘And neither am I, but when what I can now assume to be more than one boat steals ashore in darkness, having sought to hide their presence on the way, I feel it is safe to assume they are up to no good. Even by your limited ability to give me a true position, they are landing on a shore occupied by our Austrian allies.’

  ‘So the lantern flashes were—?’

  ‘Checking their course, Mr Dorling,’ Pearce interrupted, ‘which is, I am sure, the same conclusion as you have reached.’

  Michael was beside him with his sword, a pair of pistols with the belt that would hold them, that having a small cartouche for shot and another pouch for powder. He also had Pearce’s hat.

  ‘Reckon you’d want this on your head, your honour, lest they take you for a passing tinker.’

  Strapping on his weapons and looking towards the hidden shore, he observed the string of lanterns heading inland, which had him chivvy everyone to get into the boats. He intended to take the cutter, Grey being in command of the jolly boat.

  ‘Mr Dorling, if you judge there is any point in it, you have my permission to fire off the cannon, singly or a broadside, as you see fit.’

  ‘How will I be sure there is a point, sir?’

  ‘You will have to guess, as I am now, but you have shown yourself resourceful before. All I ask is that you do so again.’

  He went over the side and called the oarsmen to haul away. Initially, Pearce had them do so strongly in what he might have called a fine calculation – in truth, it was more guesswork – to ease off once he considered the proximity to the shore demanded it. Men arriving in boats could not take them along and nor would they leave them unguarded.

  There was no sign of the actual beach but there were a few pinpoints of lantern light from what he assumed were dwellings, both spread out and numerous enough, elevated in a few cases, to indicate a place of a greater size than a mere hamlet. A town probably, so Dorling’s guess at Voltri seemed accurate.

  ‘Ahead, sir,’ Conway whispered, which had Pearce drop his gaze to see what looked like an odd-shaped outline, very faint but becoming steadily more obvious. There was a shore party alright and they had rigged a bit of canvas to shelter from the cold wind as well as hide them on the seaward side; sensible for their comfort but not if they had failed to set a lookout.

  The hissing of the water was a sure indication of the shoreline, which, according to the charts, shelved hardly at all, a series of dipped oars employed to test the depth. Sure it was safe, men went overboard to push the boats in, the only sound the gasps of their being up to their thighs in cold water. No reaction came from up ahead, which led Pearce to believe he was about to achieve complete surprise.

  The level of the water ankle-deep, Pearce ordered everyone out, but to stay still so he could get in a position to lead. He wanted Grey’s marines at his heels. There being little chance of subterfuge once they were on the stony beach, it was a whisper and a rush that had Pearce slashing with his cutlass, cutting into that canvas screen to reveal two men huddled round a piddling little fire.

  Their cries of alarm told him right away they were French.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Terror, coupled with shock and surprise, makes interrogation easy. So these two sentinels, already roughly handled, were only too willing to answer Pearce’s questions, his sword at the throat of one being an extra inducement. They were from the French frigate La Brune, seen by himself and Nelson in Genoa harbour. The shore party, under their captain, had indeed headed inland, though to what purpose these crewmen had no idea.

  Given they were well armed, and he and Grey having counted three cutter-sized boats,
Pearce assumed it to be a raid designed to destroy the Austrians’ defences of the same kind he had mounted on Monte Boroni. He left two men to tie them up and act as guards, and using their fire to light his own lanterns, all but one shaded, he led his party up the gently sloping beach.

  Grey and his marines were close behind, but Michael O’Hagan was at his shoulder; he would not surrender the protection of his friend’s back to anyone. Soon they passed from easy to traverse gravel to encounter increasingly large stones and eventually boulders of a size that necessitated that they use all the available lantern light to find their way.

  Up ahead they could hear the furious barking of disturbed dogs, one no doubt having set off the others, with no canine being willing to miss out on the chorus. If they were guard dogs it did not bring out their owners from their beds or parlours, this proved as they found the way off the beach, using the edge of a thin watercourse. This led them into the narrow alleys that dissected the shoreside dwellings, seen to be shacks when a light was used to check their dimensions.

  It was the French who had set off the dogs, which meant the party from Flirt could move with relative ease: the enemy would not know their continued barking was due to the presence of an enemy. Progress brought them to cobble-paved roads but not a sign of habitation; the locals were not venturing out to see what it was that was exciting their hounds, even those who had lamps lit inside and so could be assumed to be awake.

  ‘Where to now?’ Grey asked.

  Pearce could provide no answer. He had been following his instincts in keeping to a straight line of progress, hoping to get sight of the French by their lanterns, not now possible because they would be hidden, cut off by high buildings, while his own indicated they were entering some kind of large plaza. This brought them to a set of steps leading to what he thought to be a church – a cathedral, judging by the massive marble columns and a set of heavily carved but firmly closed doors showing in relief the passions of Christ.

  ‘I have to own it, Edward, I am at a loss as to how to proceed.’

  ‘If this is the way the French came, it is also the route by which they will return to their boats, which, whatever they are about, they must do and in no great time, if they want to get clear before first light. We must assume, surely, that they know our ship to be patrolling these waters.’

  ‘An ambuscade?’

  ‘It is that or a wander about and put our luck to the test. God forbid we should just bump into the enemy when they have the advantage.’

  ‘I have just realised something I forgot to ask our pair of captures.’ Grey did not seek to provide an answer, waiting until Pearce did so himself, this accompanied by a sigh at his own folly. ‘Numbers, Edward. How many men do we face?’

  ‘Three boats, John, so we should not be too heavily outnumbered.’

  ‘Three cutters, I counted, which if they were full would bear more than twice as many fighters as we can muster.’

  The crack of a shot had all heads turning, with cries of ‘Where away?’. It seemed to be everywhere as it echoed off stone walls, until Pearce silenced the whole party, calling on them to listen. The sound of shouting was faint but obvious, which meant whatever was happening it was close enough to be audible. To men who fought with enthusiasm when called upon to do so – and did so ashore on their own behalf if they felt the need – there was no doubt it was such taking place, this underlined when several more shots rang out.

  ‘March to the sound of the guns, John.’

  Pearce did not respond to Grey immediately; he was too busy castigating himself for his laxity. As willing to fight as any man he led, he was less eager to lead them into a situation in which too many factors were utterly unknown. He had no idea what the French were up to and even less about what they faced in the way of opposition. Yet he had to assume that if the enemy were attacking something, they had to have some prior idea of what it was. Had those boats been crammed or half empty? If the former, it would mean trouble.

  ‘I refer to numbers again, Edward, which means your suggestion preceding that shot is the best one. Let us make our way back towards the beach and seek a spot where we can catch our prey unawares.’

  ‘It has gone quiet, dogs apart,’ Grey said. ‘Either our Johnnie Crapauds have failed or—’

  ‘They have succeeded and are on the way back. Let us move.’

  There was another error Pearce was then obliged to face: his own failure to keep his men together. In the spacious plaza some of them had wandered away in a situation in which it seemed unwise to shout that they should regather. He was in the process of making that happen when O’Hagan, still hard by him, grabbed his arm and spun him round.

  ‘Look there.’

  It was faint but evident, the end of one of the streets that led off the plaza showing a faint but increasingly golden glow, which meant that the enemy was on the way back to their boats. To get ahead of them and have the time to set up an ambuscade was gone and even worse, Pearce reckoned, he had lost the time to get to the beach before they did with any degree of security. If they beat him, he could kiss goodbye to Flirt’s boats and two of his men, which had to be set against the greatest good for the greatest number. How many would he lose in an open contest? It was a risk he had to take.

  ‘Find cover and stay out of sight!’ he shouted, there being a reasonable hope the still-barking dogs would mask his voice.

  He ran for those marble pillars, each one large enough to easily conceal not just him but O’Hagan too, hauling out his pistols and cocking them ready to fire. Grey and his marines were spread out behind the other columns, the sailors he led nowhere to be seen, this as a line of lanterns carried by a body of men entered the plaza.

  ‘Just in time,’ he whispered to Michael.

  Pearce had previously harboured reservations about sailors and muskets. It was not a weapon they were used to and, as for accuracy when firing, that was even less likely in the weapons they carried. A Sea Service Brown Bess was shorter in its barrel than the infantry musket by six inches, making it possible to employ it when surrounded by ropes and rigging.

  It mattered not who had handled it badly, who had, in the act of cocking their weapon simultaneously pressured the trigger. What counted was that it went off, producing a bright flash from the far side of the plaza, followed by the familiar bang then a double crack, Pearce assuming this to be the fired ball ricocheting off stone.

  The effect on the French was immediate: hastily, they retreated back into the street they had been about to exit, but not before Pearce got a handle on their strength. This produced a feeling of trepidation, given he reckoned – albeit the calculation was a rough one – they were outnumbered by over two to one.

  ‘They must come back out, John,’ Grey called, ‘and when they do we shall pepper them a trifle.’

  That display of confidence did not last, nor the hope for Pearce that with his inferior numbers he could use cover to even up the contest and the odds. The lights in that street began to fade until they were no more and that condition was maintained, which left only one conclusion: the sods knew of a different route back to the beach.

  ‘To me,’ he yelled, coming out from behind his pillar and heading swiftly for the roadway that would take him to the same destination. ‘Michael, raise and wave that lantern so they can see the need for haste.’

  The air was soon filled with the sound of running men, the boots of the marines louder than the sailors’ shoes, none moving faster than the fellow in command. Lights mattered not at all now; he either had to get his party to the beach in time to set up a defence or, if that could not be achieved, to hole the French boats and get his men away and back to Flirt.

  What hampered quick progress was those boulders, swept down from the Alps on a river that must suffer an annual spring spate, to pile up and oblige him and the men he led to pick a way through, the arrival of their enemies further along the beach as obvious to him as British lanterns must be in reverse. As a race it was too close for c
omfort; indeed, he came to reckon, that with their short head start, it was one he might well lose.

  The shouting had two aims: to encourage those he led and also to alert the two sailors he had left to guard their captures, his hope being they would realise safety lay in heading towards his party, not that, at such a distance, he had anything other than a common language and indistinct yelling to tell them.

  Grey acted without any orders from Pearce; he called for his quartet of panting marines to stop, take up a standing pose, then aim and fire, the four streaks emitted from the muzzles the first indication of the act. If four balls were somewhat less than that which was required, the result was quick to arrive, as the muzzle flashes rippled out ahead of them.

  There was a temptation, as musket balls began to ricochet off the boulders, to ask Grey what in the name of damnation he was about. Against that it might be his action was the correct one, while the same applied to what was happening now, visible by the light of the lantern the marine officer was holding head-high to provide enough illumination for his Lobsters to reload, which they were busily engaged in carrying out, with all the skill and speed provided by constant practice. Soon they were up and firing another salvo.

  ‘Mr Grey, as soon as you are reloaded once more we must close up.’

  ‘Sir,’ came the cheerful reply.

  Pearce, as well as most of the sailors, had got through the boulders and onto the part of the beach where tide and time had worn away the bulk of the stones, making more rapid progress possible. It also allowed them to stand and fire off a ragged volley, with the marines joining them as swiftly as they could. That done, it still left the man who commanded them in a quandary.

  If he rushed for the boats, they might well get to them and aboard before they could be stopped. But they would never get clear without bloodshed. Muskets might not be accurate at much over fifty yards. Poorly maintained and with worn barrels, which was common, they were not even accurate over ten yards. Yet proximity would ensure that men barely off the beach and trying to row, able to retaliate with no more than one salvo, would pay a high price. Reloading even a pistol in a rocking cutter or jolly boat was difficult and such a danger applied doubly to him and Grey; their red-and-blue coats would mark them out.