Somewhere, amidships of all that there were heavy cargo nets, and keg after keg of gunpowder sacrificed from the ship’s magazines, along with a quarter-mile of slow-match fuse, and a Gunner’s Mate and one of the Yeomen of The Powder to see to it all, go ashore with the Marines, and set and light the fuses when the time came.
“Deck, there!” the main top lookout shouted, again. “Wee lights, dead ahead! And another’un, one point off the larboard bows!”
Lights dead ahead? Lewrie thought, the sudden loud voice like to make him jump out of his skin; One off to larboard, aye, that’d be the beacon on the beach, but … what the bloody Hell are lights doin’ smack on the bows?
* * *
“Mister Peagram, we will fetch the ship to,” Lt. Fletcher cautiously ordered, after a long peer forward with his night-glass.
“Helm down, Quartermaster!” Sub-Lieutenant Peagram shouted to the helmsmen at the wheel aboard Bristol Lass. “Hands to the sheets and braces, ready to flat aback the fore course and tops’l!”
“There’s your beacon, Colonel Tarrant,” Fletcher said to the man standing near him. “I think I can just make out a cutter-sized boat drawn up ashore, some sort of canvas lean-to shelter, and some men pacing about.”
“Very well, Lieutenant, we’ll be off, then,” Col. Tarrant said as he hitched at his sword belt and accoutrements hung about his waist and shoulders. “How far is it to the beach, do you think?”
“I make it about a mile, or a little less, sir,” Lt. Fletcher replied. “There’s very little surf, I believe, so you and your men should land without getting your legs soaked to their knees. Do you hear, there!” he shouted forward. “Draw the barges up from astern, and prepare to man them!”
“Ehm, sir,” Captain Wiley of the Light Company intruded, “The lights down by the bridge … any idea what they signify?”
Tarrant raised his small pocket telescope for a better look.
“Looks to be a campfire, and torches, either end of the thing,” Tarrant said at last. “The guard detail had to eat and keep themselves warm, and most-like needs torches to see anyone, or anything, coming along the road at night. Rejoin your company and make ready to get into the damned boats. God, I hate the bloody things!”
“Boats alongside, sir!” Midshipman Mabry reported.
“Boat crews, man your boats!” Fletcher snapped. “Haul taut to the nets and be ready to take the soldiers aboard!”
“The ship is fetched-to, sir,” Sub-Lieutenant Peagram called out. “Only a very slight lee drift, less than one knot.”
“Thank you for the yachting, sir,” Col. Tarrant said, shaking hands with Fletcher for a moment, “We’ll see you in the morning.”
“Aye, sir. Piping hot gruel for all after we pick you up.” Fletcher japed.
“Ninety-Fourth, board your boats!” Tarrant shouted, leaving Bristol Lass’s small quarterdeck, bound for the nearest net.
“Where we goin’, then?” one of the soldiers cried.
“Inta bloody boats, ye idjits!” dozens shouted back the old saw from their first days of training. “Tarrant’s Tadpoles, huzzah!”
* * *
“Aye, sir, that’s a large campfire on the beach north of us, no error,” Lt. Farley said as he peered hard with his night-glass. “And I can see a boat drawn up on the shore. Just one, so far. No sign of the boats from Bristol Lass.”
“Then what the Hell are those, then?” Lewrie fumed, peering just as hard at the lights on or near the bridge. “Tarrant and his troops simply can’t have taken it already! They’re s’posed t’show a light when they do, but so many? Shit!”
Stoic, dammit, stoic! he chid himself; Act like a proper Post-Captain, at least! But his talk with Mr. Quill about Don Julio’s trustworthiness, dis-loyalty, and betrayal had him flustered, expecting that they’d sailed into a clever ambush.
“How far offshore are we, d’ye make it, Mister Wickersham?” Lewrie asked, after taking a deep, calming breath.
“Still two or three miles seaward, sir,” the Sailing Master estimated.
“Well, then, steer for the lights, Mister Farley,” Lewrie said, “and, I’ll have the main course drawn up in ‘Spanish reefs’ to get a bit of way off her, and the fore course reduced one reef.”
“Aye, sir!” Farley replied, stepping forward to the hammock stanchions to shout orders forward.
Lewrie made a quick trip to the poop deck to sense the winds, swivelling his head back and forth to feel it on his cheeks, determining that the wind was out of the West by North, very fine on the larboard quarter, but light, and steady, as night winds usually were. From that higher perch, he raised his telescope, again, straining to make sense of those shore lights, just as Five Bells of the Middle chimed; half past two in the morning.
He saw four wee glows at what he took for the ends of the span, a pair at each end, and a larger blob of light he took for a campfire at the north end of the bridge. The rest of the coast immediately ahead was utter blackness. A mile north or so, the beacon lit on the beach drew his attention, and, with a whoosh of relief, by its light he could barely make out boats—barges!—grinding ashore onto the sand and shingle. At least Tarrant and his men where ashore, at last!
Better and better, he thought; Well, a little better. He and his men’ll go cautious, scoutin’ and skirmishin’ in pairs and fours. I’ve seen ’em do it! They’ll not get caught in a trap.
But, if they did, there was nothing he could do to help them.
* * *
“Everyone up top, Captain Wiley?” Tarrant asked, breathing hard after a tough scramble up the so-called easier slope, clinging to any immovable rock or stoutly rooted shrub on his way.
“Yes, sir, all up.” Wiley told him, un-corking his canteen for a welcome “wet.”
“Right, then, first section out forward, and advance with twenty yards between sections.”
“Yes, sir,” Wiley replied, trotting out to join his company and order the first section of twelve men to scout in skirmish order, two pairs to either side of the road and four men behind them down the middle, one pair on the roadside sprinting forward to kneel to cover the advance of the next.
“Meacham,” Tarrant hissed into the dark for the officer in command of one of the Line Companies. “You up? Still have all that damned rope with you?”
“Yes, sir, here,” Captain Meacham reported.
“Skirmish order down the road, with one section to keep a sharp eye on our rear,” Tarrant ordered. “I’ll go with you. Carson, do you stay close, ready to run messages,” he said to his orderly.
“Roight on yer ’eels, sir,” Corporal Carson whispered back.
The last section of twelve from the Light Company passed by, and Tarrant counted under his breath to let them get at least ten yards in advance of Meacham’s company, then snapped “Let’s be about it” and stepped off to follow.
Try as they might to go silently, the soldiers could not avoid making noises; stumbling and feeling with their feet along the stone verge along the seaward side of the road, barely eight inches above the dirt of the road. The pairs on the landward side had scrub brush to deal with, and a ditch between the road and the steep slope that led up-slope above them, into which they kept sliding or stumbling, and hob-nailed boots clinked against loose stones in a continual clatter.
Col. Tarrant’s breezy estimate of a quarter-hour to land and seize the bridge was right out; it took the better part of an hour before the lead section scouts knelt as they espied the two torches standing at the north end of the bridge, whispering urgently for an officer to come forward, and to warn the column to halt.
Captain Wiley stumbled forward to their summons, bent over at the waist in a furtive crouch, clutching his sword hilt with one hand. “’Bout a hundred yards, sir,” one of the scouts told him. “But I can make out people stirrin’ about.”
“Damn,” Wiley spat. “Half of them should be asleep by now.”
“A lot of ’em, sir,” the soldier hissed. “Goddamn!�
��
Muskets blasted the night in sharp barks and long, stabbing gushes of red-amber discharge! Men whooped like Red Indians, shouted, and by the light of the torches, Captain Wiley could see the flashes of swords slashing, bayonets stabbing … someone!
“Goddamn right!” Wiley exclaimed.
* * *
“Firing ashore, sir!” Lt. Grace shouted. “The Ninety-Fourth is taking the bridge!”
Lewrie snapped his telescope to his right eye in time to see muzzle flashes, rather more of them than he’d suspected. But, they were happening at the south end of the bridge, too, and there was no way that Tarrant had snuck his men past the sentries before attacking them from both ends.
“Mister Farley, man our boats, and let’s get our shore party on the move,” Lewrie decided, not waiting for some wig-wagged light. “Off you go, Captain Whitehead, off you go, Mister Rutland!”
Vigilance had crept shoreward since first spotting the boats from Bristol Lass grounding onto the beach, finally swinging her bows into the wind to fetch-to, jibs and spanker driving her forward, and her fore course and tops’l laid flat aback to deter forward motion. The leadsmen in the fore chains had found five fathoms in which to drift, and the ship now lay a bit over half a mile offshore, still safely hidden in the darkness.
“Light ’em up!” Lewrie shouted aft to the Afterguard, for them to kindle the two big taffrail lanthorns at the stern. Battle lanthorns along the upper gun-deck were also lit, revealing sailors and Marines swinging outboard onto the nets and scrambling down the sides. “And don’t forget your picks and shovels!”
* * *
“Who the bloody Hell are they?” Col. Tarrant said between deep gasps for breath after dashing to join the Light Company’s skirmishers as quickly as he could in the dark.
“Don’t know, sir,” Captain Wiley replied in a puzzled growl of uncertainty, “but they ain’t soldiers. And it appears that they do love killing Frenchmen.”
French sentries who had been awake, either end of the bridge, had been shot, then swarmed over, and, whether dead or not, were bayonetted over and over again, or slashed with butcher knives or old swords. The ones who had been asleep round their campfire, wrapped up in blankets, had been mobbed and slaughtered before most of them could get to their feet and arm themselves. There were two who had surrendered, a Sergeant and a Private, who now stood in a circle of civilians who shook weapons at them, stabbing and gouging, peeling their uniform coats and waist-coats off, and binding their arms behind them.
“My word, I do believe they intend to torture them!” Tarrant exclaimed. “Well, we can’t have that. It ain’t … soldierly.”
He stood up and waved his first four skirmishers forward to join him as he cautiously strode forward into the torchlight.
“Hoy, signores!” he shouted, arms spread wide to signify his peaceable intent. “Hoy, Italianos … Calabrians, sì?”
Armed men spun about, spread out to form front, some aiming their muskets or pistols at him.
“I am Leftenant-Colonel Tarrant, British Army! Inglese Colonnello! We have come to blow up the bridge, ehm … the ponto?”
“Che?” a large man in a grey coat with a sash about his waist asked, swishing a long cavalry sabre at knee level. “Il ponte?”
“Sì, Signore,” Tarrant declared, feeling a touch more confident. “We come, ehm … arrivare to, ehm … destruggare il ponto. Ehm, multi gunpowder, multi ah … kaboom!” he managed to say, flinging his hands into the air, spreading his fingers to show ruination. “Si? Ponto go boom! Grande boom!”
“Soldati Inglese?” the man asked, breaking into a tentative grin. “Tomasso, he parlare Inglese.” He sheathed his sabre, waving a short fellow with a captured musket forward.
“You come destroy the bridge, Signore Colonnello?” Tomasso asked.
“Yes, sì,” Col. Tarrant assured him, smiling himself, now that it did not appear that he’d be shot. “Royal Navy ship, just out there, is to land Marines, gunpowder, and blow it up. The French in Reggio di Calabria will starve if it’s gone.”
Tomasso turned about to translate that to his fellow partisans, which raised a mighty whoop and chorus of cheers.
“We help you, Colonnello?” Tomasso offered.
“If you wish, signore, though we have it well in hand,” Tarrant replied.
“Good! We help! Soon as we kill these bastard Francesi!”
“Oh, I say…” Col. Tarrant attempted to say, but half of the mob turned on the two French survivors, and prodded them to the nearest tree to be bound. Shirts and trousers were ripped away, baring them to knife slashes at groins and eyes, making them shriek.
“Carson, run find Captain Meacham, and have him bring all the ropes forward,” Tarrant ordered, “and tell him we’re secure.”
“Good Lord, how ghastly,” Capt. Wiley exclaimed as the partisans cheerfully went about their ghoulish task, “I’ve read accounts of how the Spanish and Portuguese treat French prisoners, but I never thought to see it.”
The French Sergeant, recognising British uniforms, screamed his plea for mercy from fellow soldiers, keening like a banshee as gashes were cut all down his body.
“We will not include this in our official report to London,” Col. Tarrant primly said, “and the least said of it to Captain Lewrie, the better, too.”
“Of course, sir,” Wiley agreed, “though I expect that that odd fellow, Mister Quill will be delighted.”
“To hear of murder?” Col. Tarrant archly said, drawing back.
“That we’ve found him some Italian partisans who will fight, sir,” Wiley said.
“Ah! And so we have,” Col. Tarrant said, perking up. “Hmm, I wonder if it’s too early in the morning to build a fire of our own. I could really relish a good cup of tea.”
CHAPTER NINE
If somebody doesn’t come tell me what the bloody Hell happened ashore, I’ll strangle someone! Lewrie fumed as he paced the bulwarks of the poop deck, peering first with his night-glass, then with his day-telescope, for any clue as to what was being done ashore. Fires were lit under the spans of the bridge, and once glowing hot, rags were wrapped round lengths of foraged wood as torches were scattered round the centre pillar. He could barely make out picks and shovels dully glinting by the torch lights, but he was too far off to hear the sounds of labour. The sea between ship and shore, and the light surf that cast up upon the gravelly beach, glittered with red-gold and amber flickers like fireflies from Hell.
“Hoy, the boat!” a Midshipman shouted to one of Vigilance’s barges emerging from the gloom.
“Rutland!” their laconic Second Officer growled back, and Lewrie clumped down the ladderway to the quarterdeck, then onto the sail-tending gangway by the entry-port to greet him, chiding himself to not appear too eager.
“Ah, Mister Rutland,” he said as that worthy clambered up the boarding battens to grasp hold of the bulwarks either side of the entry-port. “The Army had a brief fight for the bridge, did they?”
“Oh no, sir,” Lt. Rutland told him, heaving a brief gasp for air after his climb. “It appears some local partisans beat them to it. The Ninety-Fourth didn’t have to fire a shot, and no one even skinned a knuckle,” Rutland said in his usually gloomy way, as if he found the lack of bloodshed deplorable and dis-appointing. “We need crow-levers, sir.”
“Crow-levers,” Lewrie echoed.
“To pry the stones of the pillar loose, sir,” Rutland said, “the picks and shovels are of little avail. Very little soil for us to dig through, and the base of the pillar might as well be one with the rock on which it rests. We might grub enough room for charges to be placed by sun-up, or later.”
“You’ve spoken with Colonel Tarrant?” Lewrie pressed. “Does he know where the guard detail came from, where the rest of them might be encamped?”
“We’ve shouted at each other, sir,” Rutland told him, “he upon the bridge, me in the gorge, but he’s not mentioned that, yet.”
Lewrie felt a tearing urge to
go ashore with Rutland as soon as he gathered up some long iron crow-levers that gunners used to shift the traverse of their wood carriages, but for once, he forebore; he remembered the description of how one could get up to the bridge by scrambling from one boulder to the next, like a mountain goat, and he didn’t think it worth the effort.
Time I get there, Tarrant might not know much more than what I know now, he thought; Bugger it. I ain’t a goat, and I’ll not wear my lungs out, shoutin’ with him from the gorge.
“Right then, Mister Rutland, carry on,” Lewrie ordered.
“Aye, sir,” Rutland said, touching the brim of his hat.
Lewrie pondered where a French encampment might be in the area, close enough for a sentry detail to be sent each night to guard the bridge. The village of Pizzo made the most sense, but two scouts by Don Julio, then his man “’Tonio,” said not. If there was partisan activity in the area, he doubted if the French troop strength would be less than a battalion, but … where could they shelter and defend themselves? And if alerted, how soon might they come to defend the bridge? Lewrie dearly wished that Tarrant was thinking about it, for it sounded as if the setting of explosive charges was taking even longer than they’d expected, and if the soldiers were still ashore after daybreak, and his ships close ashore waiting for them, then this quick incursion might run into a hornet’s nest of trouble!
“Mister Wickersham,” Lewrie called out for the Sailing Master, “are we still in five fathoms of water? And do you have any way to determine the distance to the shore?”
“Aye, sir, still in five fathoms, the last casts of the leads,” Wickersham replied from a corner of the quarterdeck, “Though, if the wind picks up from offshore, we will have to anchor or brace round the yards to stay off. I think we’re half a mile offshore, but the sketches gave no height of the bridge, and in the dark, I’d just be guessing, sorry, sir. Trigonometry does not avail at the moment.”
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