A Battle Won

by Sean Thomas Russell

  ‘Then this plan, in which Paoli and Moore and Kochler have invested so much energy, will not procure the bay for us?’

  ‘Not if the French have been employed as I have suggested. The plan will need to be adapted somewhat but I have utter faith in Moore. And General Paoli had a most sound grasp of all matters military – we all thought so.’

  ‘You did, did you?’ Hood paced a few steps, head down, then turned back to Hayden. ‘That old rascal could talk a viper out of her eggs. I have never met his like. But Paoli commands the Corsican militia – we cannot hope to prevail without him… alas. I have little faith in these army men and even less in Paoli, I will tell you. If we hope to see the French driven out of Corsica – in our lifetimes – our own service may be called into action… and sooner rather than later.’

  It was a scene of great industry and order, Hayden thought. The ships’ boats ferried ashore soldiers or provisions, guns or equipage; all landed in the small surf without calamity. Tripods – often to be heard called ‘triangles’ – were erected to sling the guns out of the boats and onto carriages that rolled up tracks hastily constructed of makeshift fascines laid upon flour-soft sand. The Royals and the 25th and 51st regiments were all under the command of his friend, Lieutenant-Colonel John Moore, who attempted to meet every boat as it landed and direct its cargo, human or otherwise, to the appropriate section of the beach. Seven hundred men – 120 of them sailors under Hayden’s command – formed into orderly companies.

  A bright, Mediterranean sun illuminated this scene, while to the east, a press of clouds streamed rain in ribbons down upon the mountains’ green slopes. Three weeks had passed since Hayden had left Corsica with Moore to report to Hood and Dundas. It astonished Hayden. A naval attack would have been prepared in hours, if necessary, though one must admit that ships of the Royal Navy left their home ports ready to clear for action at any moment. The army did not have the luxury of a vessel of war for each of its brigades – in this, Dundas was correct.

  Out of the ordered chaos appeared Major Kochler, who did not seem to be regarding the scene with the same sentiments as Hayden. He stood, hands on hips, and was clearly judging the spectacle rather severely. Glancing to his left he noticed Hayden.

  ‘Can we not land men in one place and equipment in another? I should like to see the crews engaged in unloading guns not tripping over the men packing victuals.’

  Hayden took a deep calming breath to little effect. ‘It is only this single boat,’ Hayden explained, waving a hand at a cutter drawn up to the beach. ‘All others have landed on their assigned plot of sand.’ Hayden was chagrined to have his efforts criticized. Kochler would happen by when this single boat landed out of place!

  Kochler seemed rather unimpressed by Hayden’s claim, and went back to watching the operation with apparent disapproval.

  Remembering his decision to follow Moore’s example and attempt co-operation with all officers of the army, Hayden said, ‘I had been told you still kept company with General Paoli?’

  For a moment Kochler did not answer, and then finally replied, ‘I have only just arrived… and brought your Mr Wickham with me.’ The officer looked around and then shrugged. ‘I don’t know where he has gone.’ He paused and Hayden thought he had finished speaking when Kochler offered. ‘Are you ready to bear our guns up onto the hills?’

  ‘One in each pocket, sir.’

  Kochler turned and gazed at him. ‘What pockets you must have, Captain’, and with that he marched off down the strand.

  ‘Ah, there you are, Wickham.’ Hayden spotted the young man stepping out of the way of sailors bearing eighteen-pound balls ashore. ‘How went your shooting with the general?’

  Wickham looked very pleased to see Hayden, breaking into his boyish smile. ‘It went well, sir. To have been given an opportunity to spend time in the presence of that great man is something I will always be thankful for.’

  ‘Well, your shooting holiday is over. I am going to put you in charge of landing the powder. Do not blow yourself up and spoil everyone’s high opinion of you.’

  ‘Aye, sir,’ the middy replied, suppressing a smile. ‘Once a man’s character has been blasted it is almost impossible to remake it.’

  Despite the most concerted efforts of both services, the better part of a day was required to ferry all the men and equipment ashore. A frustrated Colonel Moore ordered the men to lie upon their arms that night. As there were no tents (these had either been lost in the retreat from Toulon or not yet located) the men slept in the open but the evening was so fair that no harm came of it.

  Hayden supped with the army officers and then sat by their fire afterwards sipping port and cursing the fickle smoke, which seemed to chase him wherever he moved.

  ‘At least we are ashore and ready to march at first light,’ Moore observed. Hayden noted that the man was unable to remain downhearted for any span of time but was soon finding something with which to be pleased.

  Hayden excused himself momentarily to see to a small matter and upon his return overheard the army men speaking quietly.

  ‘The general has given our plan his fullest support?’ Kochler enquired of his companion in the most discreet voice, though, betrayed by the stillness of the night, the words carried to Hayden.

  Burning wood cracked loudly, a spray of sparks exploding up among the cold stars. Realizing his approach had not been perceived, Hayden was about to make some noise, but instead stopped, perfectly aware that this constituted an unforgivable breach of manners.

  In the firelight, Hayden saw Moore take up a stick and begin rearranging some of the burning logs, his face appearing very thoughtful in the flickering light. ‘So I believed, until the final moment,’ he offered, lowering his voice, ‘but last night and this morning again I had to press him to land the troops, as he found every excuse not to do. The weather was not right, the plan should be reconsidered, were we certain of the French numbers?’ He shook his head. ‘But we are ashore now and let us hope we can conclude our business with dispatch.’

  Hayden thought Kochler looked more than a little troubled by what Moore had said; in truth, Moore did not look less distressed. As much as he might like to, Hayden did not dare reveal the conversation he had overheard between the senior officers of both services. It did satisfy him a little, however, to find that both Moore and Kochler appeared to share Hood’s perception of Dundas. When he went to his own blankets to sleep, Hayden realized that Moore was in greater need of his aid than he had previously realized. Not only did Dundas not support his efforts as he should, but he actually appeared to oppose them.

  At first light, Moore and Kochler went ahead with the Royals, the 25th and the 51st Foot, leaving Hayden to bring forward the guns. The track the Navy men took, much aided by the Corsicans’ knowledge, was nothing more than a goat path that twisted through the broken blocks of stone and coiled among stunted trees. Nowhere was it wide enough for the guns to be rolled upon their carriages, and Hayden was forced to have his carpenters build narrow sledges which were dragged by harnesses of men, and prised upwards by bars so that they went forward half a foot or a foot at a time. The path was so winding that only a few men could be sent to the ropes to pull, there never being enough length of path to allow more. Seldom could blocks be employed, though here and there a strap was wound around a rock and the ropes run off so that a purchase could be gained, making the whole frustrating enterprise, briefly, a little easier. A crew went ahead, clearing bush and trees with axes and filling in depressions, building the path up here, levelling there. Hayden hurried back and forth between the different parties giving instructions, mulling solutions to difficulties in concert with his officers. Always he was thinking that he wanted to acquit himself well so that the reputation of the Navy should not be injured, but the island of Corsica did not much care for the reputation of the Navy and thwarted him at every turn.

  Anywhere the path passed too narrowly between stones, the sledges had to be got over them, so fascines were
employed to make bridges. Here and there the stones were higher than a man and a path around had to found.

  Hayden took up a crowbar himself, in his turn, setting the bar beneath the sledge runner. ‘One, two, three… Heave!’ The gun grated forward three inches. ‘Again.’

  As Hayden was digging his bar in beneath the sledge runner, yet again, the boom of a distant cannon reached them, and then an almost constant fire ensued.

  ‘Ship’s guns,’ one of the men pronounced. ‘Attacking the Martello tower, I would imagine.’

  Wickham looked over at Hayden, question unspoken.

  ‘I do believe he’s right. But it is no concern of ours. We have our own task to complete.’

  Late in the afternoon, Hayden received a request from Moore to join him at the forward position. Leaving the guns under the able command of Wickham and a more senior lieutenant, Hayden took up his musket and field-pack and hurried forward to find Moore.

  The lieutenant-colonel was not with his men, who had reached the site of their proposed encampment near Mont Rivinco, but he was directed towards a neighbouring hilltop, where Moore and Kochler were discovered gazing through field glasses onto the French positions at Fornali Bay.

  This was not the first sight that struck Hayden, though; instead, his eye was drawn to the bay immediately before the stone tower on Mortella Point. Here a seventy-four-gun ship and a frigate – the Fortitude and Juno, Hayden believed – were anchored fore and aft so that they fired broadsides continually upon the tower, which, at a much slower rate, returned fire. From this distance Hayden could not perceive any damage to the French stronghold and the ships were so thickly shrouded in smoke from their guns that their state could only be guessed at. For a moment his eye lingered on this distant drama and then he turned his attention to the scene directly below.

  Hayden did not need to look through a glass to immediately perceive that the concerns he had voiced to Lord Hood had been more prescient than he had hoped. The French had not wasted the three weeks the English had been absent. All of their positions had been enlarged and strengthened. The small tower above Fornali Bay had embrasures in every direction and a closed battery had been thrown up in front of it. The battery below the tower boasted a mortar and several new guns. Perhaps the most changed was the Convention Redoubt, which lay across Fornali Bay from the tower and had been much enlarged, enclosed in the rear, and better armed. Men could be seen completing the earthworks even as the British officers looked on.

  Moore said nothing beyond the briefest greeting, his jaw tight and entire manner stiffly controlled. Retrieving his glass, Hayden examined the works below in some detail. With every moment he felt his frustration increase tenfold, and it was not moderated in the least that he had been proven right. Their carefully drawn plans had been made obsolete by the length of time it had taken to organize the attack and by the energies of the French. The urge to speak some ill of Dundas was almost irresistible.

  Hayden lowered his glass and addressed Moore. ‘I will defer to your more expert opinions in this matter, for war on land is not my province, but it does appear that our previous plans will no longer answer. Am I not correct?’

  Moore nodded. ‘You are absolutely correct. These positions are too strong for our small force and a single howitzer and six-pounder. What think you, Kochler?’

  Kochler sat down upon a stone and dug out his drinking water. ‘I should curse these bloody Frenchmen but of course we have no one to blame but ourselves.’ He looked up at Moore, frustration, even anger, contained in every gesture. ‘Our entire force shall be needed, and how we shall manage it even then I do not know.’

  ‘I will write to General Dundas and acquaint him with the situation.’

  ‘It would be best if he would come ashore and view the French positions for himself, if he can be so convinced,’ Kochler responded, not able to hide his consternation. ‘Perhaps that will galvanize his actions.’

  ‘I shall urge him to do so in the strongest possible terms. Our provisions will now be inadequate and we shall have to land and carry forward more food.’

  ‘I shall see it done,’ Kochler stated tersely.

  Moore turned to Hayden. ‘Bringing the guns forward will no longer be necessary. They will do us no good.’

  ‘Shall I return them to the beach?’

  ‘I am afraid the answer is yes. We are not ungrateful, however, for your efforts, Hayden.’

  Before he left to return to the guns, Hayden aimed his glass at the tower and the two British ships. Beyond, he could see the transports and other ships anchored and still engaged in landing men and equipment. He would much rather have been aboard ship, firing on the tower, but he reminded himself that at least he had employment in this matter. Many sea officers did not.

  Hayden hiked back to his men, wondering at Dundas’s apparent reluctance to come ashore. Hayden was used to the traditions and duties of the Navy, and this reluctance seemed peculiar to him. Certainly Moore and Kochler were perfectly capable, but even so, when fleets went into action, admirals put their own ships into the line of battle and stood upon the quarterdeck among the other officers.

  The rest of the day was committed to hauling ‘the damned’ guns back to the beach, which Hayden and his sailors managed sometime after midnight, whereupon they tumbled down upon the sand and passed into unconsciousness. Hayden himself fell into a stupor and did not wake until the sun was up and the crash of distant guns penetrated his dreams.

  He propped himself up on one elbow and, with dirty fingers, rubbed at his eyes, causing one to sting terribly for a moment. The army was in motion, food being prepared and consumed in orderly fashion. His own men were not quite so smart – an exhausted, bedraggled-looking lot, to be honest – but they were mustered and then went about breaking their fasts, lieutenants and midshipmen bringing order to what might have been chaos, though of a rather subdued nature. Taken off a ship and out of their usual routines the sailors appeared a little lost.

  ‘There is news, sir,’ Wickham said, arriving with a cup of murky black liquid that smelled vaguely like coffee. ‘The Fortitude and Juno were forced to sheer off, sir. Fortitude was set afire from hot shot, and she lost above sixty men. Juno was not nearly so badly mauled but hauled herself out of range as well. Very little damage was inflicted on the tower.’ Wickham took a seat upon a little stool. ‘I would not have expected them to have a furnace for heating shot, sir. It had not been the case previously.’

  ‘Clearly, the French were better prepared, on this occasion,’ Hayden answered, glancing around at the soldiers, embarrassed that the Navy had failed. He then tasted his coffee, which was more bitter than he had expected.

  After a spartan breakfast, Hayden retrieved his glass and hurried off to the distant hill overlooking the French positions. As he expected, he found Moore and Kochler, with some of their senior officers, all staring off towards the tower of Mortella. Smoke blossomed up from the low hill behind the tower, and a fragment of plaster or stone was blown away from the stronghold.

  ‘They’ve established a battery ashore,’ Hayden said, realizing immediately that he was stating what everyone already knew.

  ‘Yes,’ Moore told him, ‘and to damned little effect. Our only advantage appears to lie in the fact that, even if our guns are not inflicting perceivable damage, the French cannot traverse their guns to fire upon our position at all. A small comfort.’

  ‘Has General Dundas agreed to come on shore?’ Hayden asked.

  ‘We hope that he might arrive this very morning,’ Kochler replied. ‘If we show you a position not too distant from this place, Captain Hayden, can you tell us in perfect honesty if you believe large guns could be got up there?’

  ‘How “large” do you mean?’ Hayden asked.

  ‘Eighteen-pounders.’

  Hayden was stunned by this. ‘Naval eighteen-pounders?’

  ‘The army has no guns of that size, Captain,’ Kochler informed him.

  ‘Hauling a six-pounder and a how
itzer over this godforsaken landscape was almost more than we could manage.’ The idea of eighteen-pounders being brought to even the base of the hill, let along carried to the top, seemed absurd to Hayden: they weighed forty hundredweight! His professional pride, however, silenced his immediate objections. ‘But, by all means, let us look.’

  Although the hike was not far, the roughness of the landscape made progress slow. It was some time before they had traversed the half-mile. A slightly down-sloping shelf of brown-grey stone seemed an ideal place to mount a battery.

  ‘It is perfect,’ Moore muttered.

  Hayden knew from dragging small guns along the path behind this ridge that the landward slopes of these hills were steep, rugged in the extreme, and an arduous climb for men unencumbered by anything at all, let alone guns weighing 4000 pounds. Certainly a plunging fire from this place would soon drive every man from the Convention Redoubt or the batteries of Fornali. It was difficult to imagine that any gun could be elevated to return fire, but even if it were possible it would be dismounted by the British guns in moments.

  Moore was gazing through his glass at the redoubt. ‘Eight hundred yards,’ he announced. ‘Do you agree, Hayden?’

  ‘Within half a cable’s length, yes.’

  Hayden turned away from the view across the bay of San Fiorenzo, and walked a few yards over the crest. Traversing a little to the north he found a promontory from which he could inspect the greater part of the hill’s vast, arcing back. The landscape on this side of the bay was all of one piece – ubiquitous lichen-stained, greyish-brown stone, much of it broken away from the mother rock and tossed about in blocks. Over-spreading this, a sparse underwood of myrtle, and what appeared to be stunted arbutus. It was no wonder the French, and the Genoese before them, largely abandoned the inner mountains and the west coast to the inhabitants and left them to govern themselves. Moving troops over such difficult terrain was all but impossible and ambushes could be laid anywhere.