The Guineaman

  ‘They’ve landed,’ snapped Barrington, rising. ‘We shan’t need your guns.’ Goodley and Kite saw him into his sling and then followed him over the side into the waiting boat. Spitfire’s seamen rowed them ashore in the wake of the troops and a few minutes later Kite splashed over the side of the boat into a few inches of water and turned to help Barrington.

  ‘Forwards! Forwards!’ Barrington insisted, waving them on.

  A highlander was left to assist the brigadier, along with a corporal and two privates as a guard. Goodley, Kite and the other gentlemen volunteers ran after the file of highlanders already tumbling ashore from Spitfire’s second boat. Passing a few local fishing boats drawn up on the beach, they made for a lane that rose steeply towards Le Gosier. From this position, all looked different. The horizon had closed in and the grand perspective of the view from the sea vanished. Now Le Gosier was a distant hint of roofs from which small clouds of smoke, some centred with a brief and fleeting flash of fire, produced an occasional whine as a spent musket ball passed them.

  A few hundred yards up the rough lane, the intensity of the fire was focussed. It seemed to have pinned down half the force of highlanders, who lay sprawled on the ground, poking their muskets forward and seeking opportunities to return fire. A young officer grinned at them, ‘Lieutenant Macdonald’s working round to the right, sir…’

  ‘Very well,’ Goodley nodded to the subaltern. ‘Keep ’em occupied’, then he turned and ducking down, beckoned to his own file and the volunteers. ‘Follow me. Sergeant?’ Goodley called to a large Scot with a red and white cockade in his bonnet. The man looked up. ‘Follow me with your grenadiers…’

  The party moved off to the left, taking shelter behind a low bank and then, moving on, a stony wall. At first they were unobserved, but then a ball struck a rock outcrop and whined past Kite’s ear. Goodley raised his hat on his sword; a fusillade of balls spun it away and then in the wake of the discharge the adjutant was over the low wall, followed by the 42nd’s grenadiers. Caught up in the breathless excitement of the swiftness of events, barely understanding what was going on and regretting his almost sleepless night, Kite followed. Armed with a ship’s cutlass and a pistol, he was conscious that he was the only one of the Antiguan gentry that moved forward with the soldiers.

  The rest, most armed with muskets, but without bayonets, threw themselves against the wall and gave the grenadiers supporting fire by firing wildly at the wooden buildings that appeared in their front behind a few trees. Kite found himself stumbling towards these and suddenly saw a face at an open window. The soldier was taking aim at him down the foreshortened length of a musket barrel. Running forward, he raised his pistol, but the soldier fired first. The flash and bang of his discharge were translated into a loud sucking of air as the ball passed Kite. He fired his own pistol. The next moment he crashed against the wall of the house and looked back. The heads of the Antiguan gentlemen volunteers bobbed where they reloaded, but the red tide of infantrymen had passed on and he seemed quite alone, leaning, gasping for breath against this alien dwelling. Somewhere in the distance, the crackle and rattle of small arms fire rent the air, accompanied by shouts and screams. But it all seemed strangely remote.

  Although temporarily deafened by the rapid and close discharge of the French musket and his own pistol, Kite thought he detected movement within the building. It struck him as faintly ridiculous that the two of them, intent on murdering one another, were separated by only the thickness of the planking. He looked at his pistol. The means to reload it were in his pocket, but the time taken would place him and his opponent back on an equal footing. Surely, the defending Frenchman would be occupied in reloading his own weapon now? Suddenly resolute, Kite jerked into action, moving along the wall to turn the corner.

  Here the noise of the fire-fight was suddenly all about him. The whine and thud of ball was accompanied by the shouts of excited men, some calling for reassurance, some blaspheming, some shouting instructions.

  ‘Watch yer flank, Dougal laddie!…’

  ‘Oh God, ma fuckin’ leig …’

  ‘Merde!…’

  ‘Eh bien, François, eh bien…!’

  The door to the dwelling swung half open on Kite’s right. For a split second he saw the soldier in a white linen uniform with pale yellow facings, saw the astonishment in his eyes change to anger as the long, gleaming barrel of the musket again foreshortened. But they were too close, almost stumbling over each other as the soldier made to fire. Savagely Kite swept the clumsy cutlass upwards, feeling the bite of the blade as it hacked halfway through the French infantryman’s extended left arm. His right hand fumbled the trigger and the flint sparked. The weapon discharged itself alongside Kite’s left ear.

  Kite could hear nothing, but he saw his antagonist gasp with the pain of his wound. The French soldier dropped the musket with a clatter, reeling back into the darkness. Kite followed, the impetus of the heavy cutlass swing drawing him into the house after the collapsing infantryman. As the wounded soldier fell back, his companion, sharing the same billet and still in his shirt-tails, swung his own musket towards the intruder. The gun barked and the ball stung Kite’s left shoulder with the searing sensation of a burn, but then the formidable horror of the extending bayonet stabbed at him.

  Kite put up his hand, uncaring if the blade severed his fingers, eager only that the evil point was deflected from his face. By the greatest good fortune, the lunge of the enemy soldier took the muzzle of the musket past Kite’s extended hand, and though the point of the steel nicked his left cheek, his hand struck the barrel and parried the thrust aside. Kite dragged his right hand back, trying to raise the cutlass for a cut; instead the back of the blade, two-thirds of which was blunt, drew up between the infantryman’s legs. The unfortunate wretch gasped and dropped to his knees as Kite recovered his blade and drove it forward, running the soldier through. Gasping Kite withdrew the cutlass and swung round, half aware of a movement behind him. The man he had first wounded had fallen back onto his haunches and squatted nursing his wound, watching the outcome. Seeking an opening to kill the Englishman, the Frenchman grabbed his dropped musket and thrust it between Kite’s legs.

  Kite stumbled, but now mad with blood-lust, Kite flicked the cutlass blade by sharply pronating his wrist. The heavy blade caught the infantryman under the chin, driving his lower jaw upwards. Kite crashed into the wall as the Frenchman’s head jerked violently backwards. Bracing himself against the wall, Kite swiftly extended his hand no more than an inch or two, and the cutlass point penetrated the Frenchman’s neck. Blood poured from the soldier’s throat as he scrabbled desperately at his punctured windpipe; Kite stepped past him and into the open air. Less than a minute had passed since he had sensed the faint movement of the enemy soldier through the wall.

  Kite could see the red jackets and dark blue-black kilts of the bare-kneed highlanders as they ran about, their claymores gleaming, or fired their muskets into dwellings along the street of the village as they flushed the defenders out. A few lay inert, alongside the dead and dying enemy in their white coats, corpses prepared for death long before by their master, King Louis and his sepulchral colours.

  He ran on, spurning the horror he had left in the house, yet eager for more blood. Turning a corner, he came upon the main street of Le Gosier and his way was blocked by a line of red coated highlanders, their backs to him, formed up in ranks three deep. Across the entire space of a small square beyond, Kite caught a glimpse of an opposing line, the now familiar white coats topped by black tricornes. As he came up behind the highlanders, he heard Goodley’s voice barking orders, then the almost simultaneous snap of flint on frizzen and the ripple of musketry from the white coated ranks spewed flame and smoke. The balls smacked into the adjacent walls and gaps appeared in the ranks ahead, as the highlanders fell backwards and the men in the rear, urged by the sponsons of the non-commissioned officers, moved forward into the gaps. The highlanders responded with rapid, platoon fire, mowing down
the French before they had discharged their second volley. The British musketry was relentlessly efficient, blasting the enemy line before the line rolled forward. Drawing their claymores as they cheered, the kilted highlanders, grenadiers and line companies, fell upon the wavering French. The white-clad infantry broke.

  Kite ran with them, and butchered with them, and chased the last remnants of the enemy from the square and in and out of a few houses until either they were dead, hidden, or had surrendered. Finally exhausted Kite answered the call to reform as Barrington hobbled into view on the arm of his attending soldier.

  Goodley held out a sword taken from the dead officer commanding the French garrison. ‘Le Gosier is yours, sir.’

  Barrington looked about him and nodded. ‘See the wounded are taken back to the ships, Mr Goodley. The rest form up in column of march with two platoons out ahead under Lieutenant Macdonald. I intend to take the French siege lines before Fort Louis in the rear. By the bye, where’s Captain Kite?’

  ‘Here sir.’ Kite stepped forward.

  ‘My God, Captain!’ Barrington exclaimed, seeing the bloody state of Kite. ‘You’ve seen some service by the state of you. Your fellows by the wall said you’d run off! Well, well, ’tis as well you are still with us. If you’d been taken the French might have shot you as a spy.’ Barrington laughed, and was joined by the officers and men round about him. ‘Upon my soul, you might indeed!’

  Chapter Twelve

  The Widow

  Although Kite returned to Spitfire along with the wounded, who were withdrawn to the anchored transports, Barrington’s little column set out to march back to Fort Louis overland. As they approached the fort to attack the besiegers, more British troops sallied out, nipping the French between two forces. Having thus relieved his own position at Fort Louis, taking a battery of enemy 24-pounders in the process, Barrington waited for the return of Clavering and Crump from their raids on St Anne and St François. At this time there arrived in the road, the remaining transports which had been blown to leeward of Guadeloupe, bringing welcome reinforcements to the general.

  Then Barrington learned of the death of the garrison commander at Basseterre, the only other British toehold on Guadeloupe, on the other island. An accidental magazine explosion had killed several men, while the besieging French were in the final stages of erecting a heavy battery. Barrington immediately appointed an officer to replace the garrison commander and to expedite his arrival, Kite was asked to convey this officer aboard Spitfire. The schooner was got under weigh and stood south for Pointe du Vieux Fort as soon as the newly appointed officer clambered aboard. Rounding the headland and hauling her fore topsail yards, Spitfire made up for the Rade de Basseterre. As she coasted into the anchorage she exchanged a few shots at extreme range with a French gun, an event which was attended by hardly any danger but a great deal of self-satisfaction. Kite, however, took little further part in the action at Basseterre beyond making a demonstration before the enemy gun battery at closer range and firing a rolling broadside ashore. De Silva and his gunners cherished the moment long afterwards, but it did little damage beyond throwing up mounds of earth and stones along the beach, holing a fishing boat and killing three goats. This diversion was carried out in support of the sally made from Basseterre, and though its tactical significance was negligible, the breakout of the garrison drove the enemy from their lines, took their heavy artillery and raised the seige.

  Kite returned to Pointe-à-Pitre and waited upon Barrington in Fort Louis with the news of success. With the town of Basseterre secured, Barrington went over to the offensive. Having relinquished the shoreline to the British, the French force on Guadeloupe,was thinly spread and tied to the defence of strong points guarding the farms and plantations of the colonists, most of which lay in isolated valleys with rugged terrain between them. Barrington still retained a brace of bomb vessels by way of naval support and possessed the manoeuvrability conferred by the presence of the transports. He was therefore able to land his troops at will, advance into the interior and destroy the French positions at leisure.

  The strongest of these lay above Mahaut Bay, where the French had been receiving supplies from the Dutch on the island of St Eustatia. Thirteen hundred men and six guns under the command of Brigadier Clavering were landed on the shores of the bay. Fighting their way through dense undergrowth and turning the French positions in rapid succession, the 4th and 42nd Foot drove after the enemy, the highlanders wielding their claymores as they closed with their opponents, hand-to-hand. Clavering never gave his enemy a moment’s rest, even at night, when his guns played on the French to keep them under constant pressure. Falling back, setting fire to the sugar cane fields and breaking down bridges, the French attempted to delay Clavering’s advance as he struck south, over the narrow quasi-isthmus that lay between the twin massifs. In an energetic pursuit that brooked no obstruction, Clavering’s men outflanked the French, who again retired towards another strong defensive position at Petit Bourg.

  Here, however, Barrington had sent a bomb-vessel from Point-à-Pitre, offering Kite a contract as a hired vessel if he would take Spitfire in support. Kite declined the offer, since he would be obliged to submit command of his beloved schooner to a naval officer, probably a superannuated lieutenant transferred from the Orford Castle or one of the other transports, but he volunteered Spitfire on exchange for a new letter-of-marque, to be issued in due form at Antigua on the general’s written instruction. Having attracted Barrington’s notice at Le Gosier, the general was delighted to reach this economic expedient and placed marines aboard Spitfire, making her a naval auxiliary.

  Thus Kite watched through his glass as the first shells began to burst among the lines and redoubts round Petit Bourg. The bomb vessel’s huge 13-inch mortar, situated amidships boomed out every few minutes and the shells could be clearly seen, arcing up into the air with their faint trail of sparks thrown off by the fizzing fuse. At first the shells burst prematurely in the air in the last split-second of their trajectory; then they landed and there was a brief hiatus before they blew apart. But after these ranging shots, the fuses were cut to the correct length and the shells landed and blew up at almost the same instant, driving the unfortunate French from their positions. Under this distant bombardment against which they were impotent, the enemy abandoned their entrenchments before they could withdraw their cannon.

  Clavering arrived shortly afterwards and cleared Petit Bourg of the last tenacious defenders of the little town. Then he rested his men during two days of torrential rain. During the downpour Crump and a further seven hundred soldiers had been on the move. Following Clavering round to Mahaut Bay, they had completed the destruction of the French depôt there before joining Clavering. Waiting at Petit Bourg for the rain to ease, the reinforced Clavering prepared to move south again, along the coast of Cabes Terre towards Sainte Marie.

  By now the entire French force on Guadeloupe had rallied at Sainte Marie, where a strong position had been prepared. But the French placed too much reliance upon the impassable nature of the river and the narrow paths leading round the inland flank of the redoubt and its outlying trenches. Having suffered continually from suddenly finding the enemy’s red coats flitting through the forest in their rear a moment before opening their withering and rolling musketry, the French officers’ improvident neglect proved fatal.

  A large party was sent to turn the French position, while the British artillery was moved up to confront the enemy lines. The guns had fired only a few rounds when the French abandoned their position as the word spread that British infantry were once more in their rear. This retreat was less precipitate than at first appeared, for a second prepared position lay on the heights above the little port. This was flanked by ravines and dense rain-forest, its approach congested by undergrowth, but the British moved their guns steadily forward, while once again, flanking parties moved up on either wing.

  Seeing the British attempting yet another encircling movement and in an attempt to t
ake advantage of the extended nature of Clavering’s little force, the French left the shelter of their position and, covered by the fire of their own artillery, moved down the hill to engage the British centre and decide the matter. But Clavering was equal to this crisis and gathered the remnant of his troops. These were hurled against the French and drove them back towards their entrenchments, and then in disorder from their works. The following day the local planters, fearing their rich lands would be set on fire, asked for terms. Barrington granted the French inhabitants a liberal capitulation and the wealthiest French island in the West Indies transferred its allegiance, for the time being, to Great Britain.

  Hardly had the instrument of surrender been signed, than a cutter ran into the bay with the news that General Beauharnais and French reinforcements had arrived at Martinique, but this did not prevent Barrington taking Marie Galante. He then securing the new colony, appointed a government and a few days later received word at Fort Louis that a discouraged Beauharnais had sailed away. Crump was appointed as governor and the troops redeployed: three battalions were left as a garrison, the others dispersed. Barrington took a further three back to England with him and the 42nd Foot, the Black Watch, were sent on to North America.

  When Barrington and the transports left for England and the highlanders embarked for America, Kite resolved to return to Antigua. It was the end of May and before the hurricane season was upon them, he wished to decide his future. Squaring the fore topsail yards and paying out the fore and main sheets, Spitfire headed for St John’s. Astern of them the island of Guadeloupe was left in the possession of the British army. The soldiers, however, were yet to suffer from their most implacable enemy; in the remaining seven months of the year, eight hundred were to die of yellow-jack.