‘Between us, I am always more comfortable when our ship’s master is on watch before luncheon, what?’ Captain Follett swayed in his chair, as if drunk. This drew the expected chuckle from the young gentlemen and smiles of recognition from the other breakfast guests. Somewhere on the quarterdeck above their heads the ship’s master, Edward Booth, would be keeping watch in the dark. Clay felt a little sad for the elderly Booth, so easily the butt of the captain’s humour. It was true that he was a drinker, but Clay had always found him to be, when sober, a talented seaman.
‘Now we have much to get through, gentlemen,’ Follett continued, indicating the packed table with both hands. ‘Mr Preston, before you is a dish of mutton chops – do not let them go to waste, I pray. The dish beside it has salt bacon and eggs. I will wager this is better fare than you or Mr Croft will be familiar with in the gunroom? Lieutenant Clay, may I help you to one of these excellent smoked herrings? Lieutenant Munro, that dish over there contains a concoction of oat meal with sweet cream – it may pass for the native fare of Ulster at a pinch? And of course we have ship’s biscuit, butter and three kinds of jam. If Lloyd is too slow at serving you, please help yourselves gentlemen.’
Soon the pleasant buzz of small talk was joined with the steady rattle of silverware on plate as the group of hungry young men filled themselves. Over their months together his officers had learnt that Captain Follett kept a very well stocked pantry, and that his steward Lloyd was an excellent cook. The food was not only far better than that served to the midshipmen in the gunroom, but was also infinitely better than that served in the wardroom. When eventually the pace began to slow, Follett dropped his napkin onto his plate, ordered up a fresh pot of coffee, and waved Lloyd forward to clear the table.
‘Gentlemen, let us proceed to our principal business for the day.’ He smiled round at the group as Lloyd removed the last of the breakfast dishes, and returned with a large chart which he placed before the captain. Follett unrolled the map and spread it out on the table in front of him.
‘Lieutenant Munro, will you weight down your side with that candelabra? My thanks to you. Lieutenant Clay, you are not too inconvenienced by the chart being upside down for you? I know that you and I made a study of it last night, so I live in hope it may still be passing familiar for you.’ They all pulled their chairs up to the head of the table, and crowded around their captain. The map before them showed a long, flat coastline punctuated with occasional ports and inlets.
‘I have been through most of the particulars of the operation with you all already, but as we have a little time before we go into action, I want to make sure you all have your parts well understood. Also there are sundry small changes that Lieutenant Clay and I resolved upon last night,’ Follett continued, once they were all settled again in their chairs.
‘To reprise the situation, the coast we are standing in towards is mostly made of sandy beaches – where it is to be hoped that the landing of troops can take place with convenience. Here is Ostend, fortified as you would imagine, but said to be weakly garrisoned by the French and therefore vulnerable to a descent from the sea. That attack will be the chief part of the enterprise. The commodore with the rest of the squadron will land Major General Graves and his men just to the east of Ostend, about here.’ He indicated a point on the map.
‘Once ashore, they will take the city and burn any vessels that they find in the harbour. Having accomplished all that they can, the troops will be re-embarked; it is hoped by tonight, before the enemy can be reinforced.’
‘Is that all clear so far, gentlemen?’ Follett looked around the group again, and received a rolling murmur of agreement. He was pleased to see that most of the eyes that met his gaze glittered in the candle light with suppressed excitement at the prospect of action. The exception was Alexander Clay, his first lieutenant. He is a deep one, thought Follett, as he returned his attention to the chart.
‘Excellent. Now let us turn to our part in the enterprise. You will observe that some twelve miles west of Ostend is another substantial port, this one here named Nieuwpoort. It too has a small garrison of troops which will attempt to march to the aid of their compatriots at Ostend, once it is clear what we are about. It is this ship’s duty to ensure that those men never arrive. The quickest route between the two ports is naturally the coast road that runs parallel to the sea about a mile inland. Near to this little village here,’ Follett indicated a point about half way between the two ports with his finger, ‘eh, Middekerke, or however it may be pronounced, the coast road crosses an inlet from the sea on a stone bridge. It will be our task to land a force of men under the command of Lieutenant Clay near to this village. They will use their strength and ingenuity to seize and destroy the bridge. Any questions?’ Follett sat back from the chart and once more looked around at his officers. Again he received a round of agreement.
‘Good. Mr Clay, perhaps you would acquaint your subordinates as to the particulars of the landing itself?’ The attention of the group switched from their captain and onto Clay. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts, and then began.
‘We will be off the coast in good time for dawn. From the way that the coast shoals on the chart, you will collect that there is likely to be some surf, but the boats should be able to pass through it. The marines under Mr Munro will disembark first, together with myself and Mr Preston.’ Clay pointed to each officer as he mentioned their names. ‘We will secure the beach, while the boats return to the ship to collect a further party of seamen, armed with muskets under the command of Mr Windham with Mr Croft as his deputy. With this party will also come the gunner and his mate with the powder charges and material to destroy the bridge. The boats will then return to the ship, which will depart for Ostend to assist with the operation there.’ Clay paused for the group to take in what he had said, knowing it was one of the changes that had been made to the plan.
‘Your pardon, but can this really be the case, sir?’ Munro was the first to speak. ‘What are we to do if we are pressed by the enemy and yet have no boats on the beach with which to effect an evacuation?’ Follett looked uneasy as he replied.
‘Provoking as it may be for us, I regret that it must be as Mr Clay has said. The Commodore’s instructions are most specific on this point. He is in need of as many boats as possible to land General Grave’s forces. He commands almost two thousand men, and we need to be mindful that our actions here are but a side show to the main attack,’ he added, by way of explanation. ‘The ship will of course return to pick you up later. Carry on please, Mr Clay.’
‘When the whole party are landed, we will press inland. We lack any certain information as to the character of the terrain we will encounter, but we do know that the distance we need to cover is not great. Once we have secured the bridge, we will organise its destruction and then return to the beach. When we are gathered back at the landing spot we will signal by rocket for the Agrius to come and take us off.’ Clay sat back in his chair once more, and folded his arms.
‘A very creditable plan, Mr Clay, my thanks to you,’ said Follett, smiling at Clay with his mouth but not with his eyes. They held only warning. ‘Are there any questions?’ The captain’s gaze swept round the group. ‘No questions? Capital.’ Follett stood up, prompting the rest of the party to do likewise.
‘Mr Clay has the particulars as to which of the hands will form the members of each party, and what equipment needs to be issued to them. Kindly have the men mustered on the main deck in good time for dawn. All that remains for me to do is to wish the very best of good fortune to you gentlemen, and damnation to the French.’
Clay distributed the lists that he had prepared the previous evening for each of his subordinates, and they left the cabin one by one until only Follett and himself were left. Clay turned to his Captain.
‘Sir, I did not wish to express any discouragement in front of the others, but I do have some considerable reservations about this operation, some of which we touched on last night. Might w
e discuss them now we are alone?’
‘It is very late in the day, but very well, Mr Clay, let us hear them. Again,’ Follett replied. A look of discouragement and his folded arms expressed his true feelings.
‘Sir, I accept we have been ordered to land on a hostile shore, with little intelligence as to what awaits us. Given those known risks, I hold it to be a folly to engage in such an operation, with no immediate line of retreat back to the ship,’ Clay said. ‘Mr Munro expressed it well earlier, with no prompting from me. What will we do if we are sore pressed by the enemy, with our backs to the sea and no means of escape?’
‘And I do share your misgivings, Mr Clay,’ said Follett. ‘My hands are quite tied by my orders, but you have my word that the moment I see your signal of recall, the Agrius will fly to your relief. I cannot say fairer, and yet conform with my instructions. If you make sure that the recall is signalled promptly, I will be there.’
‘Ah yes, the signal,’ said Clay. ‘Must we use such a dramatic method as a rocket, sir? Surely it will alert the general coast line, and not just the Agrius, to the location of the landing party?’
Follett spread his hands wide to express his lack of control. ‘Again, I do not disagree,’ he said, ‘but by the time you return to the beach, the Agrius will be far away at Ostend, hence the need for a signal visible at such a distance.’
Clay felt rising frustration at the circularity of Follett’s arguments. If the ship were not so far away in the first place, a dramatic signal like a rocket would be unnecessary, with its attendant extra risk. But he could see that he would get nowhere with his intransigent commanding officer, who in fairness was himself bound by his orders. He had learned long ago that in his universe it was ultimately captains who told lieutenants what to do, just as in Captain Follett’s world commodores and admirals issued his orders. He had made the case that he was duty bound to make, and would now have to accept its rejection.
‘I trust you will not see my observations as overly negative, sir,’ he compromised, ‘but I hold it to be my duty as your deputy to bring your attention to where I believe the plan stands in need of improvement.’
‘No, Mr Clay,’ replied the captain, magnanimous in victory, ‘I do not hold it ill of you, I would expect nothing less. Do try not to be excessively worried, Mr Clay. I am sure all will end very well. Now, if you have completed your observations, I too have a matter that I wish to raise. It concerns my nephew.’
‘Mr Windham? What is it you wish to discuss, sir?’ replied the first lieutenant.
‘I would take it very kindly if you would keep a weather eye on him,’ said Follett. ‘Unusually for a man of his rank, I believe this will be the first such landing party that he has been engaged on. My sister fair dotes on him, and the family have high expectations that he will rise quickly in the service. While I appreciate there may well be risks in this enterprise today, it would be a shame if his career was to end at such a tender age.’
Clay was not sure how he should take the captain’s request. What about Munro or the midshipmen, might they not have doting mothers too? His own mother was a widow, reliant on the small portion of his pay he was able to send home. The resentment of Windham that he had felt earlier returned at this fresh news that he was being asked to nursemaid a fellow lieutenant, but then he realised what might stand behind his captain’s words.
‘Did I hear that you lost a son who was also a lieutenant in the service, sir?’ he asked, his voice more gentle.
‘Yes, Mr Clay, I did.’ Follett’s face lost a little of its patrician grandeur, and he grew sad at the recollection. ‘My only son and heir. He was but recently promoted then. He led a boarding party onto the deck of French merchantman at the start of the war. It was a routine prize taking, but one of the crew was resolved on some heroic resistance. He armed himself with the only working pistol on board the ship, and as my son was the one leading his party of men over the side... ’ Follett’s voice trailed away, his face creased with the effort of controlling his emotions.
‘I will naturally do what I can to bring Mr Windham back, sir,’ Clay promised.
*****
It was just before dawn now. The dark grey sky overhead mirrored the lumpy grey waves that rolled all around the launch as the men at the oars drove them through the water. In the east the first light of the new day lent a wash of pearl to the sky. Ahead of them they could just make out the silver line of breaking waves that showed them where the beach was, before the view was cut off by another rain shower, like a streaked veil drawn across the sea.
Clay was in the stern of the boat, squashed into one corner. William Munro was huddled under his cloak in the other corner, his sword held upright in front of him between his legs. Crushed between them and steering the boat was the gangly Preston, all joints and long folded limbs like a spider. It made for a tight squeeze, but at least their shared body heat was welcome against the chill of early morning. In front of him the rowing sailors swung backwards and forwards with hypnotic regularity, their movement in contrast with the motionless double row of marines who sat stiffly down the centre line of the boat, stony-faced beneath their officers’ gaze. Most of them seemed to be staring at a point several inches above Clay’s left shoulder.
As they approached the shore, the silver light of dawn sharpened. Clay could now see the beach, a faint pale strip in the gloom, backed by darker grass-covered dunes. The waves changed around them, swelling and combining into the rollers they could hear ahead of them, beating on the sand. In the growing light, the colour of the sea had turned without his noticing from grey to green, the wave tops flecked with foam. The officers at least could see what was coming, unlike the men at the oars and the marines with their backs to the ever louder sound of waves. Clay waited for the critical moment of their approach, and then shouted a volley of orders.
‘Mr Preston, keep her head pointing straight at the beach. You men, put your backs into it. Come on! Pull! Pull! Marines, hold on tight!’ The men responded well, knowing the moment of greatest danger was at hand. The boat surged forward, lifting as a roller passed under them, and then they were tipped forward as they slid down the breaking wave, surrounded by a welter of boiling water. The boat shot up the beach, and ground to a halt as the keel ran into the sand.
‘Over the side, lads,’ Clay ordered. ‘Pull us up as far as you can.’
The seamen tumbled into the shallow water and ran the lightened boat farther up the beach. Clay jumped over the side too, soaking his feet and stockings, and scrambled up onto dry land. He looked to his left just in time to see the pinnace making the descent of its wave and arriving on the beach in a mass of foaming white water. Behind the waves, out at sea was the Agrius, hove to with her topsails backed. The towering masts and straight lines of her rigging were black against the soft grey of the sky.
There was now enough light for Clay to see his surroundings. He was on a long straight beach of sand that stretched away as far as the eye could see in both directions, until it was lost in the gloom. Behind the beach was a chain of modest-sized sand dunes, covered with tufts of coarse grass that waved in the stiff breeze and dotted with the occasional scrubby bush. The beach itself was mainly sand, mixed with some banks of shingle. The high water mark was shown by a dark line of rotting seaweed. There was no sign that Clay could see of either the inlet that Captain Follett had spoken about, or the village of Middekerke.
In the improving light Clay noticed a small timber house set back from the beach. Beside it were a pair of up turned fishing boats, dragged high above the tide line. As he looked he noticed a man watching him from in front of the house. He waved, trying to reassure him, but the man stared past him and then turned tail and ran off through a gap in the dunes. Looking behind him Clay could see the marines forming up on the beach, their distinctive red coats and white cross belts visible in the growing light. Clay cursed the luck that had brought them to this section of beach. The fisherman was sure to report their presence. It was now only a
matter of time before the enemy would know about the landing.
*****
Clay stood on the highest point of the dunes with Munro beside him. The boats had made the successful return trip to the beach, bringing with them the second party of seamen. He could see their insect-like progress as they rowed back towards the frigate. Once the Agrius recovered them, she would set sail up the coast to join the operations around Ostend. Clay could see a few mast heads protruding from the haze, and the occasional tiny orange tongue of flame in the murk as the squadron bombarded the coast. He hung his head to one side and found that just over the mumble of the surf he could hear the sound of distant gunfire.
Drifting up from the beach at his feet came the sound of Lieutenant Windham barking orders to his party of seamen as he tried to organise them. Nearby, Smith the gunner checked through the material he had brought from the ship. He had packed the small kegs of powder they would need to destroy the bridge in as much oilskin as possible to protect them from the surf and he was now seeing if this had been successful. Clay took out his small telescope, and studied the land beyond the shore.
The belt of dunes was only a hundred yards wide at this point. Behind them a flat dreary landscape of grey and green stretched away into the distance, relieved nearer at hand by the bright red splashes of the coats of the marine pickets thrown out by Munro. Across his front ran the pale brown line of the coast road. It was a little more than a mile away, and was raised up above the level of the surrounding coast on an embankment, presumably to protect it from flooding. He could see the bridge they had come to destroy clearly enough. They had landed perhaps a couple of miles too far to the east, but this was still a lot closer than Clay had feared, given that the Agrius had approached the land in total darkness. Beyond the bridge, on a rise of land by the road, he could see a little hamlet grouped around a small church. Lines of smoke drifted up into the air from its chimneys as the inhabitants of Middekerke started their day.
The Captain's Nephew Page 2