An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Nothing left to guard, now,” Mr. Quill commented, pinching the bridge of his nose, “and that plan scotched, so there might not be a permanent garrison, as you say, sir.”

  “I’m fair starving,” Col. Tarrant announced. “Let us break for dinner, before my eyes glaze over.”

  “Amen to that,” Lewrie seconded with enthusiasm.

  “Just so long as it ain’t fish,” Quill dared to say. “The fish market at Messina? My poor stipend? Ah, me. Why, I may be growing gills by now, hah hah!”

  Don’t … do not … laugh! Lewrie implored, dreading another bout of Quill’s donkey-like hee-haws as they made their way out to the front gallery, sunlight, and fresh air. Lewrie had been on his feet for the better part of an hour before he’d cleared a chair for himself, bent over the dining table, and he had a faint crick in his lower back, which he bent and twisted to relieve.

  “I wonder, though, sirs,” Quill began once they were all seated in much more comfortable collapsible campaign chairs round a locally obtained farm table, and sipping on fresh glasses of fruity white wine, “Are you gentlemen a bit daunted by the presence of German allied troops at Melito?”

  “The terrain, the narrow beaches, the prevailing surf,” Lewrie ticked off on the fingers of one hand, “and the six twelve-pounders that cover the beaches. One’d think Don Julio’d realise that it’s indeed too daunting, at present, even if he isn’t a soldier.”

  “That, and the fact that, so far, we’ve spent far too long in camp…” Tarrant added.

  “Swingin’ round our anchors,” Lewrie stuck in.

  “Waiting, idling,” Tarrant went on, with a slight bow to Lewrie, “and totally dependent upon news of places that Don Julio wishes us to strike. He’s picked all our targets, save the big raids on Locri and Siderno, where these vast supply depots were, and I’d much prefer choosing for myself. You must feel the same dependence, sir.”

  “Oh, indeed, Colonel Tarrant, I have!” Mr. Quill answered him with almost world-weary resignation. “He, and the services he offered, literally fell into my lap, within a month of my arrival at Messina. Quite dear services, mind. Fifty guineas here, an hundred guineas there, ‘Such a risk will cost you, signore.’ I need more boats, more guns, more time, more everything! Now the arms I requested ages ago have finally arrived, their delivery to the partisans over there in Calabria will cost me even more! If I can find him.”

  “What, he’s disappeared?” Lewrie gawped.

  “Off somewhere on his own criminal enterprise,” Quill groused, “out of touch for the present. I’ve spoken with some of his men … all those damned ‘’Tonios,’ and none can say where he’s gone, or when the scouts come back from Melito di Porto Salvo, either. Did I hear from Mister Silvestri through Don Julio’s men? No, sirs. The partisans sent a little fishing smack cross the Straits to Messina and delivered his letter themselves. They even named a beach where they can accept the arms, the dark of the moon coming up, but … without Don Julio’s boats, I can’t make the delivery.”

  “Ehm, how many?” Lewrie idly asked.

  “Two hundred stands of arms,” Quill lamented, “Is that how you describe them? Two hundred refurbished French Saint Etienne arsenal muskets, French cartridge boxes and belts, and twenty thousand rounds of pre-made paper cartridges.”

  “Well, Sir Alan has boats aplenty,” Col. Tarrant tossed off. “He could deliver them, surely.”

  “Eet weel cost you multi gold, signore,” Lewrie japed, though he secretly thought it high-handed of Col. Tarrant to volunteer his services so blithely.

  “You could, Sir Alan?” Mr. Quill gushed. “That would be just capital!” They’re stored at the Castello in Messina for the nonce, all crated up, ten to a box, One, perhaps two, of your rowing barges could carry them nicely!”

  “And Mister Silvestri and the partisans could begin to curtail supply convoys in the mountains!” Col. Tarrant enthused.

  “Ahem,” Tarrant’s orderly announced, “dinner is served, sirs.”

  “Topping!” Tarrant cried. “What are we having?”

  “Sardines and mussels in wine sauce, sir, with rice and beans, and a loaf of that nice, crusty ciabatta bread with seasoned olive oil dipping sauce, along with a crisp lettuce salad.”

  Lewrie looked to Quill, who at that moment was heaving a sigh that it would be fish, after all, and hid his smile of glee that the man was to be dis-appointed once again.

  * * *

  “I was quite impressed with the mien of the partisans that I met the night we took the bridge,” Col. Tarrant said as his orderly fetched out grapes, apricots, and sweet bisquits for “afters,” and a fresh bottle of that white wine. “Quite fearless. Swashbuckling, even. Now you’re in contact with them, Mister Quill, grand things may be afoot.”

  “As I have dearly wished, sir,” Quill replied, savouring his wine, “though the Italians seem as spirited as any, I cannot in good conscience put too much trust in their resistance.”

  “Oh? Whyever not, sir?” Col. Tarrant asked, sounding let down.

  “Well, consider their history, sir,” Quill began, looking skyward to gather his thoughts for a moment. “The history of Iberia, rather, in the first instance. The Spanish and the Portuguese were for hundreds of years at war with their Moorish invaders, the Gothic Vandals before them, and with each other, at times. The various kingdoms were able to unite, though, and co-operate against the Moors in the Reconquista. El Cid? All that martial glory, in the name of God? Then, when they packed the last Moors off in Fourteen Ninety-Two, and Ferdinand and Isabella united all the kingdoms under one banner, there was relative peace within their own borders, under one monarch, with a sense of themselves as Spanish or Portuguese, so … when the French marched in and their gutless Francophile ministers sold them out, they were livid!

  “The Italians, though…” Quill went on, leaning back in his chair, toying with a knife and an apricot, “once Rome fell, and the Empire in the West fell into chaos, the Italians have known nothing but war, invasions, one new tyrant after another, city-states like Florence, Padua, Naples, and others invading other city-states nigh as often as one changes shirts. Occupation, rape, robbery, murder, pillaging, starvation? Vikings, Normans, Moors, Vandals, Spanish conquerors, Ottoman Turks, and now the French, and it’s all of one piece to the Italians.”

  “Better to sit back and hope they’re left alone ’til the next conqueror comes marching in, d’ye mean?” Lewrie asked him.

  “Occupation by the French, Sir Alan, is nothing to get offended by. They’re just another plague of locusts to be borne ’til they go away, and someone else takes their place, yes. Why take up arms, why resist, after so many centuries of supine complacency? They see their dukes and counts and leaders collaborating, so … why bother? I fear, sirs, that the Italians can be excitable, but only over a horse race, or a festival. There will be some who rise up, but … don’t count on the same scale of resistance as we’ve seen in Spain.”

  “Then why do you wish to give them arms, Mister Quill?” Lewrie demanded.

  “Upon the belief that, perhaps, this time they will, and that with our arms and encouragement, this time the spark will take light and kindle real rebellion,” Quill sadly told him.

  “Good God,” Col. Tarrant commented, “I do not envy you your mission, Mister Quill.”

  “I might have better luck separating Spanish colonies from the home country, indeed, sir,” Quill answered. “But, I must try, and hope, that my efforts will be rewarded.”

  “Ah, well,” Tarrant said with a sigh. “Back to the mining of your papers, I fear. Shall we, gentlemen?”

  * * *

  By four that afternoon, they had found what they had searched for, and yes, it had been one company of a German regiment that had garrisoned Bova Marina when it had been an invasion port for the taking of Sicily, there to guard the many boats, but there had never been any artillery emplaced there, and most-likely would not be any, now that the small, sleepy seaport contained nothing in
need of protection.

  To Col. Tarrant’s chagrin, Lewrie decided that they would not sail directly down the Strait of Messina to make the raid, in full view of enemy watchers ashore on the mainland, but would go North, then West-about Sicily, to strike from the open sea. By now, his ship and the transports were known to the French, and the sight of them would alert the whole Calabrian coast.

  To atone for that, Lewrie invited them to dine aboard Vigilance that evening, promising them that his cook, Yeovill, would provide a succulent repast. He assured Mr. Quill that it would most certainly not be fish!

  * * *

  Once back aboard in his great-cabins, Lewrie sat at his desk, and slowly sipped on a mug of ginger beer, mulling over whom he would send with the arms shipment. His junior officers, Rutland, Greenleaf, and Grace had participated in all of the troop landings and fighting, so far, earning his praise in reports to Admiralty, which the papers in London had re-printed, most especially The Gazette. Advancement to higher rank or more-responsible postings depended on a man’s reputation with Admiralty, and the general public. In his own younger days, Lewrie and his fellow Mids, his fellow Lieutenants, had almost come to blows over which of them would be granted the opportunity to shine and make names for themselves. Bravery, skill, and “neck-or-nothing” daring gained a fellow honour, and glory.

  Aye, I relish seein’ my name in the papers, too, Lewrie admitted to himself; And I wish I could go with the muskets myself.

  He recalled how delighted Brigadier Caruthers had been during the battle with the French regiment at Siderno, back in the Spring, when he had crowed that he had had a horse, a captured French horse, shot out from under him, as if it was the grandest thing.

  Of course it was; it would look brave in the London papers!

  Sadly, though, Lewrie realised that he was too old, too senior, now, to risk life and limb chasing more fame, or satisfying his lust for action; no, that would be his junior officers’ place these days.

  Farley, he thought; He’s not had his chance, yet.

  As Vigilance’s First Officer, Lieutenant Farley held an elevated position, but an onerous one. His job was to act as second-in-command and present Lewrie with a ship ready to go to sea at a moment’s notice, a somewhat happy, well-drilled, and superbly organised ship, with her crewmen assigned to the tasks to which they were most suited. Under his eagle eyes fell the proper material condition of just about everything, a thankless, unending chore, but one which groomed him for promotion to his own command, someday.

  Lewrie recalled his impressions of Lt. Farley from their brief time together in the Thermopylae frigate, in the Winter of 1801, in the Baltic, and the Battle of Copenhagen. Farley and his old shipmate from their Midshipmen days, Lt. Fox had been quite a waggish pair, but nigh “tarpaulin men” and good leaders on duty, and Farley had distinguished himself during that cruise, especially after the frigate’s First Officer, Lt. Ballard had been killed in battle.

  Farley it is, Lewrie thought, making up his mind; And if I know him well enough by now, he’ll leap at the chance.

  “Dasher?” Lewrie said.

  “Aye, sir?” Dasher asked, looking up from feeding his bunny a lettuce leaf.

  “Go pass word for the First Officer, would you? I have need of him,” Lewrie told him.

  Aye, he’ll leap, Lewrie thought as Dasher left the cabins; And God help his hopeful arse.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  There had been wind, rain, and moderately heavy seas during the passage along the south coast of Sicily ’til HMS Vigilance and her transports cleared Cape Passero, the island’s extreme sou’eastern tip. From there on, the last afternoon of the voyage had turned smoother, a great relief to the men of the 94th, who, despite their experience with ships, boats, and landings, had yet to expose them to open seas for days at a time, especially in rough weather. For the most part, they had abandoned their dog-box cabins belowdecks and had clung to the bulwarks along the weather decks, green-gilled and “casting their accounts to Neptune,” to the amusement of the naval crews aboard the transport ships. Buckets were passed up from below to be emptied overside, then back down the hatches like a make-shift fire brigade, for those too ill to come up for fresher air, and the soldiers didn’t understand the admonitions to hurl over the leeward side ’til wind-whipped puke was blown back into their faces when attempting to use the weather rails.

  “Do you imagine our ‘Mer-Men’ will be recovered enough to make the landing, sir?” Mr. Wickersham, Vigilance’s Sailing Master, cordially asked Lt. Rutland, who stood the Watch.

  “Tonight’s a Banyan Day supper,” Rutland replied, “so they may be up for a bite or two. Nothing too greasy, nor anything that will scratch on the way back up.”

  “Hah!” Mr. Wickersham said with a bark of a laugh, half in appreciation for Lt. Rutland’s jest, and half in amazement that the dour man had actually made one.

  “Hallo, you’re early,” Wickersham commented as Lt. Farley came trotting up the lee ladderway to the quarterdeck.

  “Too stuffy in the wardroom,” Farley told him, taking a deep sniff of fresh air. “Ah, that’s better! Besides, up-dating the Muster Books began to pall. Plenty of time for those after we’ve made our raid and head home. And as soon as I set foot ashore, I hope that the local food vendors are open. Street food in Messina was eye-opening.”

  Wickersham and Rutland shared a look behind Farley’s back, as if to roll their eyes and sigh, sure that a fresh account of his covert mission would be forthcoming.

  “Toothsome, and hellishly cheap, too,” Farley said, unaware of their looks. “Arancini. They’ve the colour of oranges, which is why they’re called that. Rice balls, stuffed with meat and vegetables, and a dash of saffron, rolled in bread crumbs and fried in olive oil, so tasty and satisfying! Muesa something or other, couldn’t catch its full name? Organ meats, but lighter than liver, with sprinkles of strong cow milk cheese on bread! Just marvellous!”

  “And did the partisans serve those, too, Mister Farley?” the Sailing Master asked him, tongue-in-cheek.

  “Uhm no, not a morsel, sir,” Lt. Farley said gruffly, aware that he was being twitted. “How do we fare, Rutland?” he said, turning his attention to the Second Officer for the particulars of course, speed at the last cast of the log, the Captain’s orders for the evening, and whether sail would be shortened after full dark.

  “Cap’um’s on deck!” one of the Midshipmen of the Watch called.

  “Don’t mind me, sirs. Carry on,” Lewrie told them all as he went up a ladderway to the poop deck with his telescope. He scanned the skies, the sails aloft, and the stream of the commissioning pendant, then extended his telescope to look aft at Bristol Lass, the largest transport ship and the one closest astern.

  Think they’re done heavin’, he told himself as he espied soldiers on the weather deck, bareheaded in their shirt sleeves, strolling or idling, and no longer bent over the bulwarks in misery. Aft upon Bristol Lass’s quarterdeck, he could make out men still in red coats; Col. Tarrant and the officers of the two companies carried aboard her, conversing with Lt. Fletcher. And Col. Tarrant’s large dog, Dante, frisking about them all, hungry for “pets” and attention. Tarrant had told him that Dante might run off if he left the dog in camp whilst he was away, for he’d only had the beast such a short time, unsure of its loyalty, and he would be heartbroken if that happened, for where could his new dog find a better, surer home?

  Hope he leaves it aboard, Lewrie thought; It was hard enough hoistin’ the dog aboard in the first place.

  As he lowered his telescope, Lewrie thought of Bisquit, the dog that had become the Reliant frigate’s mascot, then his own dog in all but name aboard HMS Sapphire. He felt a sudden ache of longing for the silly beast, and a pang that he’d left him in London with his wife. It was the kindest thing to do, for drills on the great guns had always made Bisquit shiver and whine in fear, even if the drills were without live firing. Bisquit had loving people to look after him, and he and Jessica�
�s cocker spaniel, Rembrandt and the kitchen ratter terrier, Bully were inseparable now, but … Lewrie felt a sense of loss for those loving brown eyes, that whisking tail, and a prompting muzzle against his knee. Chalky, and all of his previous cats, were just as adoring and affectionate, but there was something different about a dog, and most specially, Bisquit.

  He shook that feeling off and raised his telescope again for a look at the trailing transports, then at the western horizon and the skies above it. He and Tarrant, when laying their plans, had taken the phase of the moon, and its expected rise, into consideration, even if the weather on the night of landing was unknown to them, and beyond their control. He heaved a tentative sigh of relief that the clouds were thinning as the heavy weather of the previous days were blowing inland on gentler winds. Seven Bells were struck up forward at the forecastle belfry; half past three in the afternoon, and almost the end of the Day Watch. Two Mids, Malin and Charles Chenery, cast the chip log aft at the taffrails, and turned the half-minute glass.

  “Eight and one-half knots!” Midshipman Malin called out to the officers on the quarterdeck. “Eight and a half, sirs!”

  Lewrie had pored over the charts in his cabins, and in the chart space off the quarterdeck, for hours already, and grunted with satisfaction that, if the winds remained constant and steady, they’d be off Bova Marina well before dawn, and, according to the ephemeris, the moon, a waning half-moon, would have risen round half past eleven tonight. With clearing skies, perhaps a partial overcast scudding by, there would be just enough light to see by to get the ships anchored and the boats manned in the dark, and if God was just, the soldiers, Marines, and armed seamen could sneak ashore un-noticed, and all four ships would be almost invisible.