More worrying for Clay was the ground between where he stood and the coast road. What appeared at first to be just flat land was revealed by the telescope to be a network of little fields caught in a mesh of drainage ditches and dykes. Small stretches of open water gleamed in the early morning sun. What he searched for, but could not find, was any sort of straightforward path from where he stood to the bridge. He passed his telescope across to Munro.
‘What is your opinion of our route to the bridge?’ he asked the Irishman. Munro examined the area with care, before he passed the telescope back to Clay.
‘Not good, sir. There is a damn lot of marshland to cross before we even draw close to it.’ He thought for a moment, and then pointed a little way down the beach. ‘What if we were to start from that wee fisherman’s house we saw. I would expect it to be served by a track of some sort that may provide us with an easier way.’
‘A good suggestion, Mr Munro,’ agreed Clay. ‘Very well, let us start from this house of yours. You can lead the way. I have heard that the Irish have some experience where the crossing of bogs is concerned.’
Munro laughed. ‘Being named Clay, would you not be having some expertise in that area yourself, at all, sir?’ he retorted.
Back down on the beach they formed up their small party and set off through the dunes. In the distance, over the continuing sound of cannon fire from away to the east, they heard the sharper clang of a church bell. The alarm was being raised in Middekerke.
Chapter 2
Flanders
‘Why is it me what has to carry this barrel again, Mr Fletcher?’ asked Sam Evans, looking over the top of the small, but heavy powder keg and down at the petty officer.
‘Coz I fucking told you to, and if you don’t stow yer noise right now, I will give you some of these crowbars to carry too. Is that clear enough for you Evans?’ snarled Fletcher.
‘Aye aye, Mr Fletcher,’ replied the sailor with just the bare minimum of servility.
‘The rest of you pick up the other kit, and fall in. Do it now.’ The petty officer waited till the other three sailors had picked up the various tools, which combined with their muskets, cutlasses and ammunition pouches made for a considerable load, before he stalked off to see what the rest of his men were doing.
‘He has a point, Sam,’ said Sean O’Malley, a twinkle deep in his dark eyes, ‘you are fecking huge. Closest thing to a carthorse I have seen since I left Drumgallon.’
Evans sniffed at this. It was true, at six-foot-six he was the tallest man on the ship, and built like a colossus to match.
‘Aye, and don’t I bleeding know it. I always get lumbered with carrying bloody stuff. “Evans haul on this, Evans clap on to that”.’ He spat off to one side. ‘But I ain’t carrying it the whole bleeding way.’
‘I am sure there will be occasion for us to exchange loads,’ said Joshua Rosso, his more cultured voice contrasting with the oath-edged talk of his fellow sailors.
‘Easy for you to bloody say, Rosie. You ain’t got no barrel to carry,’ muttered Evans.
‘Pipe down lads, or the Grunters will hear us,’ said Adam Trevan in his strong Cornish accent, indicating where Munro, Clay and Windham stood, deep in conversation at the head of the column.
Their journey had begun well enough. Following Munro’s suggestion they found the faint track that started behind the fisherman’s cottage and wound up into the dunes. However, now that they had crossed the dunes, they could all see that the path veered off in the wrong direction, running along the back of them towards the west.
‘What’s the hold up?’ whispered Evans, setting down the powder keg once again. ‘The bleeding road is just over there.’ From where they stood they could see the coast road, obvious on its embankment, with at best a mile of flat land between them and it. Admittedly there was a wide ditch of muddy water between the track and the first little field, but Evans could see a small plank bridge ahead of where the officers stood that led to the top of the narrow dyke surrounding the field. The officers seemed to have been reassured by the apparent shortness of the journey across country too, and after a brief consultation soon waved the men forward.
Adam Trevan was the first to cross the narrow bridge. He ran over it with the light-footed ease of the trained top man he was, familiar with balancing on wet yardarms infinitely higher above the water than this. When he reached the embankment at the other side he sprang lightly down into the field and surprisingly vanished from view. A barrage of invective followed, in a guttural language that was not English.
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Rosso as the others followed him across the bridge. O’Malley shrugged his shoulders.
‘Not any Christian tongue I know,’ said the Irishman. Once they reached the far end of the bridge it became clear what had happened.
‘Ah, right you are now,’ said O’Malley. ‘I think it might have been Cornish for “where are my fecking legs?”.’
The reason for Trevan’s disappearance was now obvious. He had fallen clean through the thin surface of the field, and now struggled thigh deep in thick blue/grey mud. Much of it had splattered his upper body, including a large mass that was smeared into his blond hair. The comical appearance of their shipmate, combined with the irony that it was one of the Agrius’s agile top men that was hopelessly stuck was not lost on his three companions, who all roared with laughter.
‘Silence there!’ bellowed an outraged Fletcher, as he too crossed the bridge to find out what had happened.
‘What is going on, Fletcher?’ asked Clay from the track.
‘Eh, Trevan would appear to be stuck in the mud, sir,’ replied the petty officer, peering over the edge of the dyke.
‘And I have lost my bloody shoe! Beg pardon for my language, sir,’ supplemented the disembodied voice of the unfortunate Trevan.
‘I am not sure we shall be able to cross these here fields, sir,’ said Fletcher, ‘the going looks to be a might soft.’
‘What of the next field along?’ asked Clay as he too strode across the bridge to join the growing group of men on the far side.
‘Flooded with water and full of reeds, sir,’ replied Evans, able to see into the field from his superior height.
‘Damnation!’ cursed Clay, looking down at the upturned face of the Cornishman. ‘Get that man pulled free, Fletcher.’ He turned back towards the rest of the party.
‘Mr Munro, we will need to progress using the tops of these dykes in single file. I would be obliged if you would lead off with your men. Have a care, for they are slippery.’
Once they recovered the unfortunate Trevan, the sailors set off, following the line of red coated figures strung out like beads as they skirted the edge of the fields with care. It was tricky going along the tops of the mud dykes, each one narrow and treacherous. On one side was the still brown water of the ditch, lined with reeds in which numberless frogs croaked to each other. On the other were the reassuring green fields they now knew to be almost impassable.
*****
‘Handsomely there, Evans!’ shouted Fletcher his voice growing hoarse now with constant use, as the big man struggled with his footing. ‘If that powder ends up in the ditch, Mr Clay will have you dancing at the grating.’
‘Aye aye, Mr Fletcher,’ replied Evans. ‘I believe I may be uncertain of my footing on account of my weariness. Might it be an idea to have one of the others carry the keg for a stretch? In consideration of the mission, like.’
The others smiled, enjoying once more as Evans sailed as close as he could to the edge of authority. Fletcher simply waved him on with a snarl, saving his voice to chivvy on some of the other hands.
The men came to yet another halt at the corner of the next field as the officers tried to work out the best route across the marsh. These halts had become increasingly frequent. This time they had chosen a dyke that seemed to run in the right direction, only for it to turn ninety degrees as it followed the edge of its field. Once more the ditch that ran parallel to the dy
ke was between them and the road, now tantalising close. The last time this had happened to them they had found another plank bridge they could use to cross the ditch, but now their way forward was barred by yet another stretch of still brown water. What progress they made was in a series of knight moves, like pieces on some vast chessboard.
In spite of their growing tiredness, the sailors were still able to take simple chattering pleasure in the novelty of their surroundings. After weeks cooped up on board ship there was much that was unfamiliar for them to stare at.
‘Rosie, you being a man of letters an’ all, what manner of creature would those big birds over there be?’ asked Evans. Rosso’s ability to read and write, unique among his companions, apparently elevated him to the status of a natural philosopher. He followed the direction of the big man’s pointing arm to where a large heron was regarding their progress with suspicion.
‘That would be an ostrich, big Sam,’ he replied, his face a mask of immobility.
‘An ostrich,’ breathed Evans, quite taken in. ‘Now that’s not something you see every day in Seven Dials.’
O’Malley and Trevan, rural men both, choked with laughter. Disturbed by the noise, the ostrich spread its heavy wings and laboured into the air, heading across the silver water of its flooded field.
*****
By the time that Clay’s tired and muddy band of men finally climbed the embankment up onto the coast road, the novelty of marsh crossing had quite worn off. Early morning had long passed and the road was now in use. In one direction a horse and cart could be seen as it moved away from them. Closer at hand, on the road by the village, groups of inhabitants stood and watched them from a wary distance. The sound of gunfire towards Ostend seemed to have momentarily died down now, but nearer at hand the church bell still tolled on in the village.
Clay let his men get their breath back, while he checked the powder kegs with Smith the gunner. He had fretted over them like an anxious nursemaid during the crossing of the marsh, terrified that one slip would send the precious little barrels plunging into the water and ending any hope of the mission succeeding. There had been some close calls, but they seemed to have got them across the marsh without getting them too wet. Satisfied, Clay stood up and got his men moving again along the road towards the bridge. He led the way, with Preston the midshipmen next to him. The marines followed in a block of scarlet, swinging along in unison as they marched. Lastly came the sailors in a rough crowd, their good spirits renewed once more at having an honest road to walk on.
The bridge, when they got to it, was substantial. It was at least thirty feet across with a central pier and two arches. The inlet it crossed was deep and obviously tidal. Shiny brown mud lay exposed along its steep banks. If they could destroy the central pier the road would be effectively cut for weeks. Clay looked up at the sky.
‘Damnation,’ he swore again, for the second time that day. It was late morning now, and they had still not started on the destruction of the bridge. When he planned the mission yesterday he had expected that they would be back on the beach by noon, the bridge destroyed and awaiting rescue. Fortunately he had not shared this optimistic timescale with any of his men.
‘Lieutenant Munro, can you deploy your men on this bank to protect us from interference from the enemy approaching the bridge from the west,’ Clay ordered.
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Munro touched his hat in salute, the gravity of the gesture spoiled by the smear of mud that ran across one side of his face, and hurried away.
‘Lieutenant Windham, leave ten of your men to form a working party here on the bridge, and with the rest deploy them on the far bank to prevent any approach from that side of the river. Oh, and send a party directly to the village to stop that bloody bell, if you please.’
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Windham touched the brim of his hat. Clay returned the compliment, and then faced the gunner.
‘Now Mr Smith, how do you propose to destroy this bridge?’
The gunner, it seemed, was not a man to be hurried. He considered both banks at length, running a hand over the heavy stubble on his chin in search of inspiration. Clay pulled out his watch in an obvious fashion in the hope of emphasising to the gunner that time was against them. Unperturbed, Smith moved slowly to the centre of the bridge, tapping the road bed with a crow bar as he went. When he stood directly over the central pier of the bridge, he called across to his deputy, the gunner’s mate who had accompanied him from the ship.
‘Amos, what do you think? Sixty pound of coarse grain set off here?’ he asked, pointing downwards.
Amos stroked his chin in careful imitation of the gunner as he considered the situation. Clay forced himself to remain calm. He reminded himself that these men were the experts, and that they had only brought sufficient powder for a single attempt to destroy the bridge. At last, Amos was ready to speak.
‘Maybe,’ he pronounced in his West Country burr. Was that it? Clay felt ready to explode.
‘Would need to be buried a couple of foot or so down,’ the lugubrious Amos continued, after what seemed an age. Both men indulged in a period of further chin fondling, before the gunner finally drew matters to a conclusion.
‘Best use all eighty pounds to be safe,’ he said.
‘Mr Preston, call your men, if you please.’ The midshipman summoned over the working party as Clay continued. ‘I would be obliged if your men would dig a hole in the middle of the road here, two foot deep and large enough to fit Mr Smith’s kegs of powder. You should keep the spoil you generate to hand as it may be required later to pack around the charge once it has been laid.’ He next turned to his two experts.
‘Mr Smith, in the meantime, I will trouble you and your assistant to prepare your charges as quickly as may be convenient. We need to be off this bridge and heading back to the rendezvous as soon as is feasible.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ they both replied, and turned away.
Clay walked off the bridge and over to where Windham stood with a group of his men. A keen wind was flowing up the inlet from the sea, ruffling the surface of the water and flapping the trouser legs of the sailors as they stood around leaning on their muskets.
‘All well here, Mr Windham?’ Clay asked.
‘Yes thank you, sir. We did encounter another horse and cart wanting to use the bridge, but I turned them away. I have also sent Mr Croft with Evans and Perkin to guard the church tower. The locals all fled at the sight of them, so we should have no more bells.’
‘I bet they ran like rabbits!’ laughed Clay. ‘Now which of that pair do you suppose the villagers found to be the more alarming?’
‘I am not sure, sir,’ answered Windham. ‘Evans is quite the giant, but then Perkin may well be the first black man seen in these parts.’
‘Well, at least it has served to spare us from the interference of troublesome onlookers,’ said Clay, turning back towards the bridge. The men seemed to be working well. They had already stripped the road surface back and were now levering out a block of stone. Running up to them came one of the marines. He paused by them, spoke to Preston, who then pointed in his direction. The marine continued his run, arriving eventually in front of Clay.
‘Mr Munro’s compliments, and would you come over to his side of the bridge,’ he gasped. ‘He says it is urgent.’
*****
‘If you direct your gaze over there sir, do you see them now?’ said Munro as he pointed down the road. Clay followed the line of the marine officer’s extended arm, and focussed his telescope. Moving along the road towards them was a long column of troops. The soldiers’ dark coats blended into the background of fields, leaving their white trouser legs and gaiters visible. The rhythmic rise and fall of these as the soldiers marched gave the column the menacing look of a huge millipede. At the head of the column Clay could just make out a pair of officers on horseback, the braid of their tunics twinkled as it caught the light. Clay shut his telescope with a snap.
‘How many do you think?’ he asked.
‘From the column length, I would say we are being approached by a force of half a battalion, perhaps more, sir,’ Munro replied.
‘As many as that?’ said Clay, with a sharp intake of breath. ‘Half a battalion would mean, what, three hundred men?’
‘Aye, at least that many, sir,’ said the Irishman. ‘And all told we are less than sixty.’
‘How much time do we have?’ asked Clay. Munro took a moment to gauge the distance before he replied.
‘I should say they will be up to us in half an hour, provided they do not pick up their pace.’
‘Thank you, Mr Munro,’ said Clay, his face impassive. ‘Can I ask you to consider how you and your men might be able to delay the French advance when we are forced to retreat back to the beach? In the meantime I will see if I can prevail on our gunner to get this bridge destroyed a little sooner.’
When Clay got back to the bridge, the hole was complete. Preston and his working party stood around the crater they had created, resting on their tools and breathing hard. The gunner and his assistant were laying lengths of fuse and leather hose on a piece of canvas spread out on the ground.
‘Now then, Mr Smith, we have a column of Frenchmen approaching from the west desirous of interrupting our little gathering. When can I expect the demolition of the bridge to be completed?’
The gunner looked up at Clay, aghast. ‘A tricky job like this cannot be rushed, sir,’ he protested.
‘That’s right,’ muttered Amos, from behind his superior’s shoulder.
The Captain's Nephew Page 3