A Treacherous Coast

by David Donachie

  The invitation to dine with Babbage came as promised and had to be accepted, to the clear irritation of Digby, which made the prospect somewhat more attractive. As usual, even before the port was in circulation, he was required to describe his previous exploits. It then took time and some subtlety to move on and get Babbage to tell him what Nelson had outlined.

  ‘It is to be hoped we are going ashore in numbers more for show than fighting. What information we have states that French morale is not of the highest. The hope is they might crumble faced with a counter-attack from the Austrians when they also know their supply lines are cut.’

  ‘Which means, surely, they will try to retreat by the road west?’

  ‘As a rabble, is the hope, in which case it is our task to pose a check and allow enough time for the Austrians to pursue and destroy them.’

  The available marines, many of them actually soldiers sent to sea service to cover for an endemic shortage of proper Lobsters, would set up a defence to the east centred on a bridge over the River Centa. To the west they would take up station at a point where the mountains came right down to the sea and left only a narrow space for the coastal road.

  ‘A proper Thermopylae, the fellow designated to occupy it insists. He says, as long as he’s supported, he can hold it with half the numbers led by Leonidas.’

  ‘I would point out, sir, the Spartans were ready to die,’ was the morbid response.

  ‘I am sure our marines will not let us down.’

  ‘Mr Grey is of the opinion, given the distances involved and the possible need for a quick re-embarkation, which of necessity might be messy, it would be better to take up a position away from the River Centa bridge, if one can be found.’

  ‘Does he now?’ Babbage asked, with a look that implied a mere lieutenant, and a young officer to boot, should do as he was bid.

  ‘Sir, I described to you his behaviour at the Gulf of Ambracia.’

  ‘So you did, Mr Pearce, and if it sounds exemplary, I also recall you telling me he somewhat exceeded his orders.’

  ‘In which case I described it badly.’ That was followed by a sly grin. ‘Grey is the kind of fellow who seizes any opportunity that comes his way – rather like our commodore, in fact.’

  Babbage had to ponder on that; a man who had got his command rather later than most of his contemporaries, he was not one to let pass what sounded very like a condemnation of a senior officer, that of course being tempered by the fact he was the host.

  ‘I think both you and I must defer to Commodore Nelson when it comes to the deployment of those he commands, your Mr Grey included.’

  Standing with the marine on the quarterdeck, as they passed the point at which the River Centa flowed into the Mediterranean, it was impossible not to remark on the very obvious sandbar which, covering the estuary and leaving only a small gap, made it, even at this time of year, impossible for any vessel with a deep hull to get upstream. Small trading vessels of the coastal kind could be accommodated but little else, which meant the bridge it was proposed to hold would lack close support from the fleet, a fact made much of by Grey. The notion of taking ashore barrels of powder and blowing it up fell on the very clear need that it would be required for any subsequent allied advance.

  ‘The fellow to command that part of the operation, and under whom I have been delegated to serve, is called McArdle, out of Brilliant. Not a marine but a Bullock by trade of the 65th Regiment of Foot. Bought his commission, of course.’

  ‘By your tone I sense you don’t rate him highly.’

  Grey smiled. ‘If he fights as well as he boasts we will drive all the way to Paris.’

  That brought a smile to Pearce’s lips. ‘Would it be remiss of me to point out you’ll be facing in the wrong direction?’

  Grey’s response was mordant, not humorous. ‘Highly suitable for an officer, I reckon, not to know his arse from his elbow.’

  Being the only vessel inshore, HMS Flirt was not going to cause alarm in the French; such a sight was commonplace along this coast. The enemy might not have been quite so sanguine, if they could have seen further out to sea, where the whole squadron was under sail, awaiting a signal from Digby to say that the landing was feasible, one which was sent within two bells of that sandbar.

  On receipt, Nelson closed with the shore and began to bombard the road, the sound of which alone would stop the flow of traffic from Nice: supplies and possibly fresh companies coming forward. Every boat was put to getting the marines ashore first, soon to be followed by a third of the men under Nelson’s command and such was the ferocity of the gunfire, for a time, there was no opposition at all.

  The situation did not last; when it came to the service that had best survived the Revolution, it had to be the French artillery, numerous in the level of its ordnance and plied by well-trained gunners. Obviously, some field guns had been on the road and they were now deployed to engage in a duel with Nelson’s frigates, so the latter part of the landing was carried out to the sound of cannon fire, soon brought to a halt when the ships’ gunners turned to grapeshot, which forced the field guns to withdraw.

  Grey having already departed, Pearce and Conway came ashore behind the boat bearing Henry Digby, with his inferior marking the fact that in the presence of seniority there was no attempt at hiding away at all, quite the reverse. Digby was standing in the prow of the cutter, one foot on the forepeak like some Viking warlord, which, to the mind of the person watching him, rendered him absurd.

  Ahead was a small bay and a strand of narrow sandy beach that, given the numbers, looked as if it would be seriously cramped once everyone was ashore. On the eastern arm there was a sort of breakwater made of boulders, one that had probably been there and regularly replenished since ancient times, designed to stop storm waters from washing away fishing boats hauled up above the tidal limit, and he marked that as a place to set up camp. In addition, there was the usual straggle of peasant huts, few in number and no doubt full of vermin, the occupants now long gone with their meagre possessions, alarmed at the sight of what was coming ashore.

  ‘Mr Pearce, I leave you to see our men settled until I find out where they are to be deployed.’

  These orders issued as he landed, Digby strode off to join Captain Benjamin Hallowell, who had been designated as the commander of the enterprise. He stood with a group of other blue coats at the rear of the beach, not that such a garment showed. They were all well wrapped up to ward off the winter chill, this while a party of tars worked to set up for them a main tent. Chairs and a stove stood nearby, ready to be put inside so that these elevated officers could confer both seated, in warmth and free from fleas.

  ‘Stack the muskets and then firewood, lads, or we will feel it come darkness.’

  ‘Can feel it bitter now, your honour,’ came the reply from Lambert.

  The men, Conway with them, went off in groups to the nearby foothills, to collect the means to make a fire, which left Pearce standing looking out to sea with nothing but idle thoughts, soon interrupted.

  ‘Savin’ your presence, sir?’ He spun round to look into the cheerful face of Martin Dent, his own lighting up. ‘Saw you land and had to come and give a greeting.’

  ‘Martin, you look well.’

  ‘Same compliment to you, Mr Pearce.’

  ‘Does it gall you to call me that instead of John, adding a curse at my black nature, of course?’

  ‘Never in life. You have prospered an’ no doubt deserved to have it.’

  ‘There are few with a blue coat who would say amen to that. If you wait, Michael, Charlie and Rufus will be back presently.’

  ‘Daren’t. I reckon Mr Glaister will miss me and if he don’t, Captain Taberly will, not that he’s hereabouts.’

  ‘A lovely pair, Martin.’

  ‘None sweeter,’ came the reply, larded with deep irony. ‘They make Barclay, God rest his soul, look saintly. Best be off about my duties. It was good to see an old shipmate, if I may make so bold.’

&nbs
p; ‘For me too.’

  The boats were now coming in with food and small, empty barrels, knocked up by the ship’s coopers, which those on land could fill with water. Digby appeared once more, to announce in a rather sententious manner that Captain Hallowell had decided, the beach being too overcrowded and getting worse, the men needed to be spread. Given the hills backing the beach were a mite steep for encampments, that meant moving east along the coastal strip to where it opened out to provide space.

  ‘So let us make a virtue out of necessity, Mr Pearce.’

  If he used the name, it did not extend to eye contact: Digby was talking to the whole compliment, not his premier, and he did so with an unblinking stare and a look on his face, as well as an air that was, even for him, unusual enough to be remarked upon. He looked like one of those characters in a religious painting gazing on some unseen divinity, though his commands were crisp enough.

  ‘Some of these water barrels being fetched ashore need to be taken to the River Centa bridge and it is in that direction we must shift, so I have assured Captain Hallowell that is the task to which we will see. Choose a spot to set up camp on the way and, Mr Conway, come back to me at the command tent so I know where to send up food and biscuit.’

  If he had set out to annoy his crew, Digby could not have done better and the glares aimed at his back when he departed said so. The Flirts had just got a fire going and elbowed themselves enough space, hard by that boulder breakwater, for a degree of comfort, while beside the blaze lay a heap enough of wood to get them through the night. Now they were being told to abandon both the comfort and their pile of kindling, which would be quickly appropriated by others, to carry instead empty barrels.

  There was no choice but to obey and they began to gather up their possessions and move, their spot being taken over by others before they were even out of sight, though for Pearce it had a positive, given he could see how Edward Grey was faring. It was no great distance they had to cover, not much above a mile, a spot to camp found about halfway to the bridge on the edge of the wooded hills. Conway, with a small party, was delegated to make it comfortable with an added injunction to the midshipman to inform the captain at his own convenience.

  ‘And find out how in detail we are to be fed, Mr Conway. I don’t wish to suffer grumbling stomachs as well as whispered cursing.’

  The approach to the bridge was over flat open ground and Pearce found a comrade far from happy. If one reason was his doubt about the position being held, the other was the man in command, pointed out to him as Captain McArdle from HMS Brilliant. Pearce was just as put out to find Taberly there as well, tempted to challenge the black look he received, only to rate it as unnecessary and more likely to please the sod than trouble him.

  The Flirt marines were fully occupied building defences, one of the drystone ramparts set back from the bridge and along the riverbank from behind which they would fire their muskets in some safety from retaliation.

  ‘I’ll have my lads fill the barrels, Edward,’ Pearce called, an order to do so given with O’Hagan in charge, which took them away to the source pointed out by Grey, a nearby well.

  ‘My captain tells me it is a duty for which your premier is well suited, sir.’

  This loud response emerged when Grey reported to his superior it was in hand. In the mouth of McArdle, the accent of Ulster was strong and ugly, a factor which doubly annoyed Pearce. It was one he had heard many times before and he knew it could be musical in its charming lilt. He turned to face McArdle and there behind him was a grinning Taberly, who had no doubt put him up to it. It was necessary this time to respond.

  ‘While you, sir, look to me as well-suited to employment as a night-soil man.’

  The ruddy countenance went an even deeper red. ‘Damn you, sir—’

  McArdle got no further as Pearce cut right across him. ‘I should leave cowards to fight their own battles, sir, and not let yourself be a foil for their concerns. If you insult me, I will insult you in return, though I do not know you and care not a farthing for the lack of my knowledge. But this I do need to point out to you: if you persist with your effrontery, then you must take the consequences.’

  ‘Happen when I have dealt with these papist dogs,’ he barked, nodding towards the east, ‘I will be obliged send someone to call upon you.’

  ‘At your pleasure, sir,’ Pearce responded, glad that Michael O’Hagan, away filling those barrels with the others, was out of earshot; the jibe against Catholics might have got McArdle a clout. ‘But perhaps you’ll find your papist dogs more than a match, given they have trounced everyone sent to contain them, including the Duke of York, the royal dolt who considers people like you suitable material for the army he commands.’

  ‘Come away, John,’ was the request of Grey, with a tug on his arm, an appeal he was happy to obey.

  ‘I reckon to have won in the denigration stakes, Edward,’ Pearce said, with a sly grin. ‘What do you think?’

  All he got in reply was a sigh to indicate that life would not be improved by his sallies.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nelson and HMS Agamemnon had gone off to chivvy the Austrians into acting as they had promised. In the area controlled by the now more dispersed navy, there was, besides gentle muttering, near silence. The French field guns having withdrawn in the face of the ship-board gunfire, it was assumed the enemy would be looking for a way round the obstacle set up by the marines on their so-called Thermopylae.

  The flotilla had finished landing everyone and everything required, including barrels of salted beef, sacks of peas and a number of cannon as well as the necessities that went with them. So, on a beach still crowded but not excessively so, as night fell, it was to the east that minds turned for there, beyond the River Centa, lay a French army that, if all went to plan, should soon be in desperate straits.

  Closer to the bridge than others, the Flirts had made the best of their discomfort. Having fetched ashore double hammocks, these were stuffed with brushwood on which to sleep, though Pearce, using skills he had learnt in the company of his father, rigged up cut timbers into a frame that allowed his to swing clear of the ground.

  Cooking pots had also been landed and were fetched up from the beach with which to boil beef and duff, though food had to be consumed seated on the ground and not at a mess table, washed down with water rather than local wine. Nevertheless, an air of contentment prevailed, John Pearce quite taken, and not for the first time, with the adaptability of those he led.

  Aware of his own endemic discontents, he was somewhat shamed by the stoic nature of the sailors he led, men who seemed to expect little and to accept their lot whatever it was; these were fellows who took what life threw their way. Once fed, they had set about making themselves as comfortable as possible in places where they could rest and talk, as well as lay their heads for the night, watches employed to act as sentinels. This was not a precaution taken against the French but rather the locals plus their own. It was fully expected that tars from other ships would be looking to pilfer if they could, which had Pearce issue a stern warning to his own to stay close to their campfires.

  On a cloudy night a sky that should have been filled with the flashes of discharged ordnance, this as the Austrians bombarded the French lines, stayed resolutely blank. There came no distant boom and reverberation of cannon fire, which must echo at the very least to the men holding the bridge. Indeed, had it not been for the anticipation, it would have seemed as if the world was at peace.

  McArdle had set flaring beacons on the far bank to put light to any approach, which if extinguished also served to alert the marines. This Pearce observed, having come forward in twilight as much out of boredom as interest. Mentioning the lack of noise had Grey advancing a strong opinion: it was only partially the case that the Austrians must attack.

  ‘There is no food out there at this time of the year, John, so living off the countryside, if you take out what folk have stored to get them through to the next harvest, will not
sustain an army. Monsieur Kellermann, as long as he is held on his front, must eventually retreat or see his forces fall apart, and that will secure for our allies the repossession of Loano.’

  ‘So we need not concern ourselves at all,’ was Pearce’s sardonic response, the tone missed by a deeply serious marine.

  ‘If I have a worry, it is that stuck out here we lack the means to stop him should he retreat in good order.’

  ‘Which I have been assured will not happen,’ Pearce joked. ‘Captain Babbage claims they are a rabble going forward, never mind back.’

  The jesting tone was missed. ‘Which sounds to me like a dangerous notion, in which Babbage underestimates our enemy. He may be right, but if he is not, we are too few to stop them, even with every sailor we can muster. All we can do is put a check on their retreat, which does mean if the aim is destruction, our allies have to be part of the action. Only they have the numbers to fully pursue and engage.’

  The soldiers/marines had made a reasonably comfortable encampment, probably more accustomed to the need than sailors. Those drystone ramparts, not much more in height than that required to protect a man kneeling to fire his musket, provided a degree of shelter from the wind coming down off the mountains, as well as reflecting the heat from their fires.

  Before the light faded, Grey had been sent to reconnoitre the river upstream, another officer following it to the shore, both able to pronounce that the Centa, though not in the spate that would come with the spring thaw, was, thanks to recent rains, running fairly strongly. It was enough to make a crossing without boats very difficult, that being an article the enemy would struggle to assemble. Nevertheless, two-man patrols were going out regularly to sweep the riverbank and ensure there was no threat.

  Having lingered too long and aware that he must look to his own, Pearce, using a pitch-dipped torch, made his way back to the Flirts’ encampment. He came with the knowledge that, in Grey’s opinion, if anything was coming their way, it would not arrive until first light. Ahead of him lay the endless fires of the various contingents, all to the west of where he had set up camp, including the most numerous: the party from the commodore’s departed sixty-four.