An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  And a ruddy, bloody sky at sundown’d not go amiss, either, he wished to himself.

  * * *

  Four fully darkened ships ghosted along the shoreline, sailing under reduced sail, with men in the fore chains heaving their leads to feel their way into shallower water, groping almost blind for the five-fathom line indicated on the charts.

  “Five fathom, sir! Five fathom t’this line!” was relayed aft to the quarterdeck in urgent whispers.

  “Put your helm hard down, Quartermasters,” Lt. Farley snapped to the helmsmen. “Hands aloft, trice up and lay out to take in all sail! Stand by the anchor party!”

  Lewrie stood at the windward corner of the quarterdeck, wincing at the noises as the ropes round the drum of the double helm groaned, as the ship herself creaked and gave out weary, protesting noises as she came about, fearing that watchers ashore could hear them coming. Even with the light of a half-moon, occluded for long moments as the thin clouds slowly scudded shoreward, he could see topmen scrambling up the rat-lines of the shrouds and making their way out the foot ropes of the yards that still bore exposed canvas. Jibs and stays’ls came slithering down, their halliards singing in the blocks, and loosened sails fluttering and snapping as loud as gunshots.

  Down both beams, below the sail-tending gangways, Marines and sailors stood almost elbow to elbow, swaying and shuffling to adjust to the cant of the decks, and canteens and cartridge pouches, bayonet sheathes thudded against slung muskets and cutlass hilts, making him wish he could hiss a loud Sshh!

  “No helm, sir!” the senior Quartermaster on the helm told Lt. Farley as softly but urgently as he could.

  “Pass word forrud, let go the best bower!” Farley said, leaning over the cross-deck hammock stanchions, and the roar of the hawser as it rushed out, and the loud splash of the anchor was as loud as a broadside, to Lewrie’s ears.

  Blessed, covert silence reigned for a long minute as the quarterdeck officers waited for the snub and jerk in sure sign of the anchor biting into the seabed, even as more scope to the cable paid out from the hawse holes.

  “Ship’s at anchor, sir!” Lt. Farley reported, sounding almost breathlessly relieved. “All sails taken in, and ready to proceed.”

  “Haul the boats alongside, rig the boarding nets overside, and stand ready to debark the Marines,” Lewrie snapped back. He simply had to go up to the poop deck for a better view, and dashed upwards with one of the night-glasses.

  They had spotted the town lights of Melito di Porto Salvo as they had tiptoed past that seaport, and there were some lights lit ashore in Bova Marina, too. But not too many, Lewrie hoped. Rectangles of dim amber glows from windows in houses or taverns where a single candle was lit; barred, slitted windows where the shutters were closed, but someone stirred at that early hour; some weak lanthorns hung outside a wealthier house, or scattered along the quays to light the piers for pre-dawn fishermen preparing to set out for a morning’s catch; that was all he could see, and as yet, hopefully, none of these were wending their way to their boats.

  “Nets are rigged, and the barges are alongside, sir!” Farley hissed from the quarterdeck below him.

  “Very well, Mister Farley,” Lewrie replied, striving for a calm and reassuring tone, “Man the boats and prepare to shove off.”

  “Aye aye, sir!”

  Now, what the bloody Hell’s that? Lewrie asked himself as he swung his telescope about to either side of the little village. He strained to make sense of the odd lights a bit inland, damning the limitations of the night-glass, which showed everything upside down and backwards. There were dull amber and dim red lights that seemed to flicker.

  Campfires? he wondered, sucking air past his teeth; A French troop encampment? Mine arse on a band-box, what have we stumbled into, and how many?

  He looked aft, peering hungrily for any sight of the transports, hoping that they had not yet debarked their troops, but, to his alarm, saw the tiny specks from hooded lanthorns announcing that they were already sending off their loaded boats.

  “Boats manned and ready to shove off, sir!” Lt. Farley said as loud as he dared.

  Oh, Christ! In for a penny … Lewrie thought, groaning; It was too late to call it off.

  “Shove off, aye!” he snapped, with the forlorn hope that the French were sound asleep, and could still be taken by surprise. He raised his night-glass again, eyes straining.

  Well? Maybe? he thought, taking note that the campfires were burning low, as if nought but a few yawning sentries were tending to them. One fire seemed to erupt in a rising shower of sparks as someone fed it more wood, and beyond it…!

  Laundry on a line? he puzzled as he espied several rectangular shapes briefly revealed by the flare-up of the campfire; Who in Hell dries bedsheets at night?

  Before the campfire returned to a sullen red-orange, it struck him that those supposed bedsheets were badly in need of a proper washing, for they seemed as parchment-coloured as old sailcloth.

  “Waggons?” he exclaimed, suddenly realising what he had seen. “Canvas-covered waggons!”

  Lewrie swung his night-telescope back and forth, searching for more rectangular shapes, and found them on either side of the town. There appeared to be two supply convoys encamped for the night, resting their draught animals, and sleeping off supper. Were there troops escorting them? He imagined that the guards might be cavalry, which caused a small, tight grin to spread on his face. They’d be asleep at that hour, their mounts un-saddled, the troopers bootless for the most part, and most weapons un-loaded, for safety’s sake.

  “Now, do we get ashore quiet, and surprise ’em!” he whispered. “Just thankee Jesus!”

  He looked for his landing force, but that was all but impossible to spot. Dark-hulled barges on black water were invisible … wait! In the few moments that the clouds allowed the waning moon’s light to glitter on the sea’s ripples, he could make out eerie greenish glints like widely scattered fireflies. Phosphorescence! he thought, a “break-teeth” word he doubted he could spell with a gun to his head. There were wee things in the seawater that would glow when disturbed, something he’d seen more often in the Caribbean or tropical waters, but it was High Summer in the Mediterranean, so whatever caused that glow was thriving now. He could almost conjure that he could hear the oars creaking in the thole pins as each long stroke created irregular gashes of green, and faery-like droplets from each blade as it rose to be swung forward for the next stroke. Each rudder, each transom, made a wee light as they passed through the sea. The clues were faint, and only dimly seen, but Lewrie could identify three gaggles of barges off to his left, loosely grouped, and nowhere in any orderly fashion, all bound for a boot-black shore. A bit to his right, barges from his ship seemed to be headed for the few lights lit in Bova Marina itself, as if Captain Whitehead meant to land his Marines right onto the quays.

  Lewrie fretted whether the Mids and tillermen, the Army officers, could also see where each of their barges roughly were to each other, and make adjustments. Could they see the shore and the beaches upon which they would land? Could they also spot where the supply waggons were? Once more, Lewrie cursed his rank and seniority, wishing that he could be right among them, urging the boats into proper line, giving alerts as to the presence of the waggons.

  Shrouded by the dark that swallowed his ship, Lewrie pounded a fist on the cap-rail of the poop deck’s bulwark, bemoaning the fact that he was in command of all, yet in control of nothing, and would have no word of success or failure ’til dawn or later, fearing the first sounds of gunfire that might mean anything!

  “They must be ashore by now,” Lt. Farley muttered, loud enough for Lewrie to hear.

  “I think I could almost see them,” the Sailing Master chimed in.

  “That odd, green stuff?” Farley added with a chuckle.

  “Sshh!” Lewrie hissed down to the quarterdeck, ready to curse the both of them. When he returned his intense gaze to the sea once more, everything had disappeared. The wee green fireflies
were gone, and the shore was a darker black than the sea. A wider bank of clouds made it even worse, smothering the faint moonlight.

  “Dammit!” he groused, pounding the cap-rail again.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Colonel Tarrant stepped onto the gunn’l of his barge to leap to the beach, but landed badly, taking a tumble onto wet, gritty sand and gravel, just as a wave broke and flooded inland, soaking his breeches to mid-thigh.

  “Right, then,” he said, getting to his feet. “A damned good thing that I didn’t wear my good boots, hah! Colour party? Where the Devil’s the Colour party, Corporal Carson?”

  “Next boat off t’th’ roight, sir,” Tarrant’s orderly reported.

  “All boats ashore?” Tarrant asked, looking up and down the beach, unable to make out much. He could hear his company officers and the senior non-commissioned officers, though, growling and swearing as they herded soldiers into company groups, then into sections. He could also hear wet boots squishing, musket butts thumping against canteens and accoutrements.

  “Colour party, here,” Col. Tarrant dared order aloud, summoning those men to him. “Battalion will advance!” and skirmishers set out, up a slight rise from the beach, boots and legs thrashing through the low undergrowth above the hard-packed beach, into the softer dry sand, and onto the dirt coastal roadway.

  “’Tallion, halt!” he ordered, fetching a pocket telescope from the rough canvas rucksack slung on his right hip for a look-see. As he did so, he thought he heard a mournful dog howling from somewhere; in the town, perhaps, or somewhere ahead of them? No, it was a howl too faint to be anywhere close. “Oh, the damned hound!” he muttered with a chuckle; it was his dog, baying at being left aboard ship.

  Tarrant now could make out the splendid sight of a group of waggons, dozens of them, spread out in front of him and his soldiers, all lined up in neat rows, tongues down to touch the ground, with harness laid out upon the tongues and alongside them to speed the hitching of draught animals in the morning. There were low campfires burning, and some tents erected near them, for enemy officers he imagined. Round the fires, he could see supine blanketed forms. Only a few sentries paced about in overcoats or draping blankets, muskets slung off their shoulders, and most of them stayed close to the fires.

  “Ah, perfection!” Tarrant said in delight, drawing his sword, “Colour party, bare the Colours! ’Tallion!” he roared as loud as he could of a sudden. “Fix bayonets! At the double quick, advance!”

  Another sight delighted Tarrant; the gape-jawed stupefaction of the French sentries as they were frozen in their tracks for long seconds by the sudden appearance of six whole companies of Anglais infantry storming down upon them, with muskets pointing at them, and reddish glints of firelight on steel bayonets. Some shots were fired, aimed in the general direction of the British, hastily snapped off, half-blinded by the campfires round which they had huddled, instead of standing proper guard out beyond where their eyes could adjust to the dark, but who knew, or would even suspect, that such a sudden attack could come as if from the blue?

  Sleeping soldiers were flinging aside their blankets, groping for their weapons, cartridge pouches, and shoes, confused as to which they should tend to first. Un-loaded weapons were urgently clawed at, paper cartridges bitten, and powder poured down the muzzles, bullets spat down after them, and wooden butts thumped on the ground with no time to draw out their ramrods.

  “Skirmishers!” Tarrant roared. “Volley!”

  There were a few shots from the panicky French, quickly answered by British muskets as the skirmishers out in front of each advancing company slammed themselves to a halt, cocked their firelocks, and let off a storm of musketry that swept away harshly awakened Frenchmen.

  “Ninety-Fourth!” Tarrant almost screamed. “Charge!”

  What courage the French had fled them, and the quicker among them broke and ran, threading their way through the neat rows of waggons to escape. The slower ones, still trying to pull their boots on, or trying to gather their personal belongings, were prey for British steel, buttstrokes to the head, or a musket ball. Col. Tarrant saw a French officer stumble from one of the tents, hopping on one foot to draw up a tall cavalryman’s boot, with a drawn sword in one hand, shouting for his men to stand fast, Tarrant imagined. Before he had his boot pulled up, a soldier of the Light Company slammed him in the head with his brass-mounted musket butt, sprawling the officer on his back. Reversing the musket, he thrust eight inches of his bayonet into the man’s belly. The officer raised both arms and both legs to fend that off, shrieking, as he jack-knifed and died.

  “Cavalry, cavalry,” Col. Tarrant muttered, taking note of how many saddles were strewn around, used in lieu of pillows or headrests by the flung-aside blankets, and the badges on the front of the many abandoned shakoes. “Ware, cavalry! Ware, cavalry!” he warned his men. He could smell beasts, now, horses, mules, perhaps oxen, out of sight beyond the lines of waggons. “Root them out of the waggon lines! Go to it, Ninety-Fourth! And, light some afire, to see by!”

  * * *

  Bova Marina’s waterfront did have an ancient stone quay, but none too long, or high above the water. To either side of the oldest part, there were lower wooden piers, then gritty beach, where nondescript fishing boats were drawn ashore for the night. Capt. Whitehead led his Marines onto the stone quay, their barges bows-on to the quay, parting the few larger fishing boats that were tied up alongside.

  Marines stood shakily on the gunn’ls, reached up and rolled to the top of the quay, then offered a hand to the others who followed. Ten men were directed to the left end of the street fronting the quay, ten to the right, as skirmishers, while Whitehead directed others to the few buildings where lights shone from the windows. At his nod, doors were smashed open and Marines dashed inside. There were civilian shouts and womanly screams of alarm from some, then gunshots from another.

  “Public ’ouse, sir!” Sgt. Daykin crisply reported. “Three Frog sodgers inside, drinkin’. Or they wuz. Cavalrymen by th’ look of ’em, sir.”

  “I hope they enjoyed their last brandies,” Whitehead sniggered. “The other houses?”

  “One wuz a h’ordinary, gettin’ ready fer th’ breakfast trade, sir,” Sgt. Daykin told him, “t’other’s a private ’ouse.”

  “Well, we seem to own the town, now, Sergeant,” Whitehead said.

  “Yes sir,” Daykin agreed, peering about for trouble.

  “Mister Grace?” Whitehead called out.

  “Aye, sir,” Lt. Grace, in charge of the boats and landing party spoke up.

  “The town’s yours, sir,” Capt. Whitehead told him with a grin, “for what that’s worth. I’m taking my Marines up through the town to see what’s beyond. Find the coast road, proper, see if…”

  He was interrupted by gunfire, first a flurry of muskets, then a crackling storm of it, and the roar from men’s throats as they were ordered to charge.

  “First honours to the Army, sir,” Lt. Grace said.

  “Guard my back, Mister Grace, whilst we go see what sort of Devilment we can get into,” Whitehead replied. “Marines!” he shouted to his men. “Loose column of twos up this street, past the church square, Leftenant Venables … ten men with you as skirmishers out front. Go!”

  Boots tramped on cobblestones, accoutrements rattled and banged, as the Marines trotted forward, muskets aimed at windows and doors as the little seaport of Bova Marina came awake, as window shutters were flung open, and candles and lanthorns were lit. Civilian heads popped into sight for brief moments, wide eyes and gaping mouths saw strange soldiers in red coats rushing by their houses, and voices called out in alarm and astonishment. Someone in the church began ringing the bell with an urgent clanging as the Marines tramped past it, through the square, and beyond.

  Lt. Grace watched them go, then turned to his own duties, posting armed sailors at either end of the waterfront, and in the mouths of the three narrower streets that led into the town. Some sailors he ordered to search the boa
ts along the quay, then remembered that Sgt. Daykin had reported a public house. He went to the door to the establishment, poked his head inside, and saw the sprawled corpses of three French cavalry troopers, took in the overturned tables, broken chairs, and a large straw-covered demijohn of wine slowly gurgling out its contents.

  “Ooh, too bad for them, sor,” Cox’n Desmond said from behind his shoulder, crowding up to take a look for himself.

  “Better them than us,” Stroke-oar Kitch agreed, beside him.

  “Here, this won’t do at all,” Lt. Grace said. “The men will get in here and drink themselves senseless. Desmond, Kitch, do you two guard the door, and make sure our people aren’t tempted. Can I trust you to do that?”

  “Aye aye sor, ye can!” Liam Desmond swore. “Me Bible Oath on’t!”

  “Cap’um Lewrie trusts us, Mister Grace,” Kitch seconded, “and so can you.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Grace decided, frowning as sternly as he could, “but be warned. No drink, hear me?”

  At their sobre nods, Grace took hold of his sword hilt and went on up the street to have a look-see of the town.

  “Arrah, but he’s a young’un, ain’t he, John?” Desmond whispered with a snigger.

  “Like foxes guardin’ th’ hen house, aye, Liam.” Kitch laughed. “Wonder if Eye-talians know what rum is?”

  “If they don’t, there’s sure t’be some brandy about, a bottle’r two o’ good wine, or some o’ that grappa,” Desmond speculated, peering inside the tavern.

  “Oh Christ, no,” Kitch objected. “Grappa’d be th’ ruin of us. I’d rather drink horse liniment, and not wake up blind. Hmm,” Kitch said, leaning in to scan the tavern. “D’ye think them Frenchies might have some coin on ’em?”

  “Souvenirs t’sell once back aboard, if there’s no coin,” Desmond said, perking up over a possible profit. “That feller there, he looks t’be a Sergeant or somethin’,” he said, pointing at the body that lay closest to the door. “His rank badges might be worth a penny’r two.”