Clay hauled the gunner to his feet and pointed at the long column of approaching enemy soldiers. The faint sound of a drum could now be heard on the brisk westerly wind. The gunner went to run his hand over his chin, but stopped when he saw the look of steel deep in Clay’s grey eyes.
‘Aye aye, sir. Quickly it is,’ he conceded.
The two small kegs were lowered with care into place at the bottom of the hole and packed in with loose stone from the heap left by the men’s digging. The gunner fed the fuse passed down to him by Amos through the leather hose and into one of the kegs. Clay turned to Preston.
‘My compliments to Mr Windham, and we will shortly be demolishing the bridge. Can he bring all of his men back to this side of the river, and prepare to return to the beach.’
Clay turned back to the hole in the bridge. The gunner was now covering the powder charge with soil and stones, packing them down with care, whilst Amos made sure the fuse was not being damaged.
‘To be truly destructive, the explosion must needs be contained, as it is in the breach of a gun,’ he explained to Clay from his position in the bottom of the hole. ‘If not, the force it generates will simply rise upwards, looking grand, but not answering our purpose. We need the force to be driven down into the bridge, like.’
‘I understand, Mr Smith,’ said Clay. ‘And how, pray is that to be achieved?’
‘We shall pack as many of those stones and much of the spoil back on top of the charge, sir,’ said Smith. He turned from Clay towards the waiting midshipman.
‘Mr Preston, can you get your men to move those big stones and lower them back into place? Handsomely there! You don’t want to go breaking the fuse, now.’
Soon there was a pile of earth and dislodged stone in a mound over where the charge lay in the middle of the bridge. Windham’s returning seamen flowed around both sides of it, and formed up in a crowd at the far end of the bridge.
‘Mr Windham, take your men and make your way as quickly as convenient to the beach, where you are to wait for us,’ Clay ordered.
‘Aye aye, sir.’ Windham waved in acknowledgement, and headed off in the direction of the dunes, with his men in a long line behind him.
‘Mr Preston, will you ask Mr Munro to join me here please?’ Preston scampered off to find the marine lieutenant, while Clay turned back to the gunner.
‘Now Mr Smith, how long will it be till you can fire your charge, and what is a prudent distance for us to be from the blast?’
*****
The sound of the French troops was growing ever louder. In addition to the regular rattle of the drummer, Clay could now hear the faint tramp of their boots. He was lying down behind one of the dykes with Preston by his side at the base of the embankment. In the fields behind them Munro and his marines were deployed to cover their retreat, while up on the bridge he could see the gunner and his assistant crouched down next to the mound of stone and rubble. A wisp of smoke drifted up for a moment, and then both men turned to run back down the road, for once moving at speed. They jumped down next to Clay and cowered behind the earth bank. They lay on their sides with their hands over their ears and their legs drawn up close. Clay and Preston copied them. Like a row of foetuses, the four of them waited for the explosion.
Clay had almost decided that the fuse must have failed, when he was stunned by the huge explosion. Debris rained down all about them, the larger pieces of masonry splattering into the marshy fields and leaving deep craters in the soft mud. When the last few pieces had finished falling, Clay jumped to his feet and looked at the bridge. A thick column of smoke rose up from the centre, and spread out into a growing ball in the air. The centre of the bridge was little more than an island of rubble in the middle of the inlet. He could see the span on the far bank still stretched out towards him. It extended perhaps a third of the way across, before ending in a jagged line of broken masonry. The arch on this side of the inlet had collapsed completely. Clay turned to the gunner at his feet, and helped him up.
‘Well done, Mr Smith. You have done a very creditable job there,’ he said, a little louder than normal, the sound of the explosion still ringing in his ears.
‘Why thank you, sir. I do believe that we have,’ replied the gunner.
From farther down the road Clay heard cries of dismay from the approaching French troops. The sound of shouted orders drifted towards them on the wind and the call of the drum beat became more urgent.
‘Come on gentlemen, time for us to depart,’ Clay shouted to the others. They scrambled up to the top of the dyke, and ran away from the road as quick as they could. At the end of the dyke was a narrow plank bridge across one of the ditches. They thundered over it. On the far side Munro waited with a group of his marines, two with crowbars.
‘Right corporal, destroy this crossing,’ ordered Munro. The marines levered up the end of the plank bridge, and threw it down into the ditch. Back on the road the French troops clattered up to the start of the wrecked bridge. The two officers on horseback examined the damage, whilst the column halted on the road behind them. They could see the French soldiers staring across the fields in their direction. Munro turned to Clay.
‘Sir, I will organise a fighting retreat with my men across these fields,’ he explained. ‘We can detain the French for a while at these ditches, and we can throw down these wee plank bridges as we go. They can only really come at us in single file along these dykes, which will help to offset my want of men. I will do all that can be accomplished to restrain their advance, but in the end their superior numbers will count against us. Can I recommend that you get back to the beach with as little delay as possible and organise our rescue by the Agrius?’
As Munro spoke, one of the French officers turned his horse about and waved his sword at the infantry column. Across the field came the sound of shouted orders and several files from the leading block of troops broke into a loose line of skirmishers and came down from the embanked road. Once their sergeant was happy with their alignment they began to advance with careful purpose towards them.
‘Marines!’ shouted Munro, ‘Fire at will!’ A series of shots rang out along the line of marine skirmishers, each one accompanied by a puff of smoke. One of the French soldiers jerked back and fell. The others carried on their advance. Clay shook Munro’s hand.
‘I will organise the return of the ship now. Good luck William,’ he said and hurried away in the direction of the beach with his small party. Munro drew his sword, and turned to face the approaching Frenchmen.
The way back to the beach proved every bit as difficult as the way coming had been. Ahead of him Windham and his party of seamen picked their way along the dykes. This was helpful as it gave Clay some clue as to the best way back through the labyrinth. Behind him he could hear the steady bang of musketry from where Munro and his men held back the French. After over an hour of hard scrambling, they caught up with Windham’s party, just as they neared the dunes. The wind was now even stronger and settled into the west – dead foul for the Agrius beating down the coast towards them. Above the sound of the wind as it hissed through the coarse grass on the dunes, he could hear the steady thunder of the surf on the beach.
‘Come on men, grant me one last effort.’ Clay felt bone weary, but he forced himself to lead the way up the steep slope of the dunes. At the top he stopped to look around him. He could feel the force of the wind up here as it flapped at his coat, and sent a spray of stinging sand against the side of his face. The wind had built the surf on the beach up into larger waves than those they had come through when they landed at dawn. Unless it dropped, it would be much harder for the ship’s boats to take them off. He looked up the coast in the direction of Ostend. The wind had cleared away all of the sea mist now, so that he could see the cluster of shipping in the offing, and he even thought he could make out the tall masts of the frigate. With the wind dead foul like this she would have to beat well out to sea before she would be able to tack back in to take them off. He calculated the distance. It would take h
er at least three hours, perhaps four to reach them. Even then the Agrius might be little more than a helpless bystander unless the surf lessened.
He looked back the way he had come. Munro was doing a good job at holding up the French advance, but he had still had to retreat at least a third of the distance from the road to the dunes. He could not be expected to hold the French up for the length of time it would take the ship to reach them. Clay could see that he was taking losses too. Below him two marines helped a wounded comrade back along the top of a dyke, while behind the French skirmish line he could see at least two motionless red figures lying on the ground. Off to the right small columns of French soldiers worked their way around the marines’ flank. It was only a matter of time before they would have to fall back again.
The faces of the men around him looked grim. With the French closing in on one side and the sea on the other they knew they were trapped. He joined Windham, who stared glumly out at the empty sea.
‘Our position is utterly bleak, is it not sir?’ Windham asked. He received no reply from Clay, who was deep in thought. He swung his foot at a clump of dune grass, sending it spinning down the slope in a small avalanche of sand.
‘God, what a fool I have been,’ he continued, muttering to himself now, almost oblivious to Clay’s presence. ‘To think I pressed my uncle to allow me to be a part of this damned expedition.’
‘Come on lads, the Frogs haven’t got us beat yet,’ came the voice of Preston behind them, his boyish enthusiasm in sharp contrast to Windham.
Clay looked out to sea, searching for inspiration. He felt many of the same fears that Windham did. Was his career to end here, at the point of a French conscript’s bayonet? But within him his fear was also tempered by calm determination. Come on, think, he urged himself in an echo of Preston’s words to the men. There must be some way out of this trap, if only he could find it. What was the solution to the problem? He scanned the beach below him in the hope of inspiration. Sand, some shingle, seaweed, waves. There was something else down there too, if only he could grope his way to it. What had he seen but discarded from his thoughts as unimportant? At last the idea came to him, half formed and by no means guaranteed to succeed, but something he could work with. He turned back to the men with a renewed sense of purpose.
First he turned to the gunner. ‘Mr Smith, you and Amos are to go down to the beach and fire the blue rocket to signal to the Agrius. Directly you have performed that, you are to go along to that fisherman’s cottage we saw earlier. You are to search the place thoroughly. You are looking for barrels, boxes, cork floats, fishing nets, coils of rope, beams, spars and any tools you may find. Pull them out of the house, and organise them on the beach. Is that clear?’
It was obvious from Smith’s face that he was far from clear about the strange order, but he managed to repeat his instructions, and set off down to the beach. Clay next turned to the two midshipmen.
‘Mr Preston, you are to take ten of the men, together with their muskets, and go and reinforce Lieutenant Munro. Bring all of the other men’s ammunition with you. Give him my compliments, and tell him that I need him to shape his withdrawal in the direction of the fisherman’s cottage close to where we landed, and that I need him to delay the French for at least two hours. Mr Croft, you are to take the remaining seamen directly to the cottage, and assist Mr Smith. Is that clear?’ The two midshipmen replied together, ‘Aye aye, sir,’ and turned away to divide up the party of seamen.
‘Now Mr Windham, would you step over here please.’ Clay led the second Lieutenant out of earshot of the rest of the men. When they were alone, he rounded on him. He kept his face expressionless for the benefit of the men, but there was no mistaking the anger in his voice.
‘Mr Windham, you are a King’s officer, and I require you to act like one. You are to set a proper example to the men, displaying cheerful confidence and not sulking as you were doing just now. Even young Preston appears to understand his duty better than you. Is it to be wondered at that the men are sullen when they perceive a deficiency of confidence from their officers? If we are to get out of this bloody mess, it will require diligence on the part of all, not least you. Now, can I count on you to help me by leading the men properly?’
‘Yes sir,’ replied Windham, a look of anger in his eye. Clay waited for him to say more, but the second lieutenant remained mute.
‘Very well, Mr Windham,’ he said. ‘Please come with me and I will explain the duty that I require you to perform.’ As Clay spoke there was a sudden rush behind Windham’s back. The signal rocket shot up into the sky from the beach below. Its wavering trail of smoke drifted past them, while high overhead a flash of blue light exploded across the low clouds.
*****
Down by the fisherman’s cottage, the beach was strewn with material that the men had recovered from inside the building and from its outhouse. This included a number of small barrels used for storing fish, still redolent with the odour of previous catches. Clay brightened up at the sight of them.
‘Excellent – these will do very well,’ he said, beaming at the men. A thought came to him, and he picked out one of the seamen.
’Brown, were you not once rated as a cooper’s mate? Can you make these watertight for me?’
‘Aye, that I could, sir,’ replied Brown, twisting one of the little barrels between his hands.
‘Splendid! The rest of you, see if you can get me some beams and planking from inside the house. You can tear it down if you need too. Carry on.’
‘Aye aye, sir,’ they replied.
Soon the sound of smashing and splintering came from the interior of the cottage as the men set to with a will. After months of repetitive naval routine they seemed to enjoy the novelty of the task. If their first lieutenant appeared to have lost his senses, and wanted them to demolish a perfectly good house, who were they to question him?
‘Evans, try and get that door off in one piece please,’ Clay called over, before he turned back to Windham and Smith.
‘Now gentlemen, in spite of the sterling work that Mr Munro and his men are performing, the French soldiers will arrive on this beach in less than two hours. With the westerly wind we have at present, the Agrius will take at least three hours, probably longer to reach us. It follows then that we need to be off this beach and waiting rescue some distance out at sea beyond the surf before the French arrive.’ Clay looked at his two subordinates. They both still looked troubled. Windham spoke first.
‘That is clear enough, sir, but how will we achieve that? The ship’s boats we arrived in are on the Agrius,’ he asked.
‘We will use the two fishing boats we saw earlier dragged up by the cottage.’ Both men turned to follow the line of his gaze.
‘They are not nearly big enough, sir,’ said Windham with a shake of his head. ‘At best you might get a dozen men in each boat. I am not being difficult or sulky,’ he added.
‘You are right, Mr Windham, they are indeed too small. That is why I need you and Mr Smith here to deploy all of the ingenuity you possess, together with the materials that the men have found, to fashion us a raft. You will need to build it with spars lashed between the two boat hulls that we have. Use those barrels to help it float, that fishing net over there may serve to hold the whole thing together, and it will give those on board the raft a means of clapping on. Make sure you leave room on the outsides of the two boats for the few oars that we have to be able to work as sweeps in order to propel us out through the surf. Can I rely on you gentlemen to build such a craft? In less than two hours?’ Clay added.
Windham indulged in an interval of chin-pulling the gunner might have been proud of. The gunner himself stood too open-mouthed at the audacity of the plan to join in.
‘Yes, I think it might be done, sir,’ Windham conceded at last. ‘Well, Mr Windham, “might be” is no good to us in our current predicament. I need you to make it so.’ Clay held the lieutenant’s gaze for a moment.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Windham
said at last.
‘Good, carry on then. Mr Smith, you will help Mr Windham. I am going to inform myself as to Mr Munro’s progress. I will take Mr Croft with me to carry any messages,’ said Clay, turning away to climb back up to the top of the dune once again. He smiled to himself for a moment as he made his third ascent of the dune since he arrived that morning. He was just like one of the soldiers in that new song that had become popular of late, mocking the commander in chief of the army. How did it go? “When they were up, they were up, and when they were down... ”?
Back up on top of the dune, Clay could again see all the pieces of the unfolding drama. The ship he had identified as the Agrius was now very distant, beating her way out to sea. He stared at her through his telescope till the image became blurred as his eye started to water, counting the seconds and trying to calculate the ship’s progress. It would still be at least another hour before she would have made enough progress to windward to be able to turn in for the long run towards the beach and then two more for her to reach them here.
He next looked inland. Munro’s men had retreated perhaps half way between the road and the dunes, and the fight had warmed up. The marines were now supported by Preston’s party of seamen and were holding up the French advance at one particularly wide ditch. Frequent puffs of smoke marked where individual muskets fired, the sound of each shot arriving seconds later. He could just make out Munro, his sword hung loose in this hand as he looked towards the far end of his thin line of troops. Looking farther that way Clay saw what he was studying. A long line of French soldiers was moving along a dyke, around the flank of the British line. Munro was waiting for the moment when he would have to pull his men back once more.
Below him on the beach he could see a scene of organised urgency. On a flat area of sand the framework of a platform was coming together. Some sailors were sawing or hammering with the tools they had found in the house, while others brought fresh material down to the worksite from the now devastated cottage. Windham stood nearby, his arms gesticulating as he encouraged the men. The two fishing boats had been turned the right side up, and dragged down to the water’s edge. A fan of oars lay on the beach near them, and he could see Amos and a party of seamen lashing some of the small barrels to their thwarts to help the boats survive their passage through the surf.
The Captain's Nephew Page 4