An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  Whistles blew and sergeants roared as the barges full of troops came alongside the chain platforms of Coromandel, three to each beam, and sailors who had boated their oars reached out to take hold of the boarding nets. Soldiers’ faces looked upwards, fearfully, as they were urged to step on the gunn’ls and begin to climb up hand over hand.

  “I don’t suppose it’s worth the effort timing them,” Tarrant said, lounging back against the transom of his boat. Lewrie just laughed.

  “Up ye go, laddies!” one particular Sergeant loudly roared over the rest. “Grip with two hands, step up, foot at a time, then shift yer grip higher!”

  For this initial exposure to how they would get aboard or ashore, the new soldiers of the 94th did not sling muskets over their shoulders, or wear cartridge pouches, rucksacks, or even canteens, to ease their burden. Even so, their slow progress upwards put Lewrie in mind of the oozing of cold treacle on his oatmeal, or the old saw about “Church Work—It Goes Slow.”

  “By Noon, ye clumsy rascals!” the Sergeant fumed. “By Saint Geoffrey’s Day? Git a bloody move on! You, too, Captain Wellman, sir!”

  “How do you like your new company officers?” Lewrie asked.

  “Eager … young … raw as fresh beef,” Col. Tarrant commented. “Were we a proper two-battalion regiment, I’d have had a chance to vet them first. They’ll learn, once their shine wears off. Yours?”

  “Early days,” Lewrie told him, unwilling to voice his worries about Coromandel’s officers before his sailors. “We’ll just have to keep our fingers crossed ’til they catch on, as you say.”

  “Ehm, sor?” Cox’n Desmond piped up. “Permission t’tap the water barrico? Th’ day’s gettin’ warmish.”

  “Aye, go ahead,” Lewrie allowed. “And no laughing at the new soldiers, right lads? They’ve enough on their plate at the moment. Even if they are amusin’.”

  “By the way,” Col. Tarrant said, “there was a letter from Brigadier Caruthers waiting for me when we got back. It seems he’s now quite enthusiastic about our doings, and was full of questions about procedures and such requirements.”

  “Caruthers?” Lewrie queried. “Why? Is he hopin’ t’turn one of his regiments into ‘tadpoles’?”

  “I suspect so,” Col. Tarrant said with a faint frown. “Just to get back into action. His victory at Siderno, and the whiff of fame it brought him, must have given him the itch to do something more than drilling and garrison duty round Messina ’gainst a French invasion that’ll most-like never come.”

  “Faint hope of that,” Lewrie spat. “Where’d he get the ships for it, when it was like milkin’ stones for us to get one new one!”

  “Well, I gather that he has the ear of his Commanding General at Messina,” Tarrant breezily said, “staff officers who can bask in the warm glow of Siderno, and family and political connexions. Recall, he had no difficulty dredging up more than a dozen merchant ships for his brigade. Wasn’t all your Admiral Charlton’s work, don’t ye know. Even if they were the wrong kind, with too few boats to get his men ashore, even in dribs and drabs, he obtained them, somehow.”

  “Perhaps he’s rich enough t’hire them,” Lewrie snidely drawled, “or buy them outright.”

  “If he does possess that much wealth, more power to him,” Col. Tarrant replied with a wee laugh, “and if he finds the transports, and converts just one of his regiments, he’s more than welcome to. For my part, having two landing forces, able to strike two places at once, would drive the French to utter distraction.”

  “He’d need an escort like Vigilance, or a large Fifth Rate, for gun support,” Lewrie pointed out, “and that may be harder for him to lay hands on than a clutch of troopers. Even if he did, I doubt the gunners aboard her would know the first thing about aimed fire.”

  “I gather from his letters, though, that he’s still keen on discovering some way to get field guns ashore, some sort of big barges, like the sort one sees on the Thames,” Col. Tarrant told him.

  Lewrie popped his mouth open to scoff, but stopped, remembering the day long ago when he’d taken his first frigate, Proteus, down the Medway from Chatham to the Nore, trying to navigate round the many bends of the river, which had been frightening enough, made even more risky by continual confrontations with strings of sailing barges full of coal or grain, whose masters didn’t give a damn for giving way!

  By God, he lays hands on some o’ those, Caruthers just might land artillery, guns, limbers, caissons, and all! he told himself; More to the point, could we get some, and beat him to it?

  Lewrie had made so many demands upon Captain Middleton in outfitting the first three transports that he had, Middleton most-like would have gone grey-headed, or torn his hair out, finding the new one for him, already. Dare he write and make a further request?

  “Oh, do shut up, Dante!” Col. Tarrant shouted shoreward, sitting up to cup his hands. “Daddy will be coming back. Stop fretting, boy! Be a good doggy!”

  The hound did stop his incessant demanding barking, cocked his head, to hear his master’s voice, but then began to whine longingly, just as loud. Sailors from Vigilance in both boats tittered and hid their grins behind their hands.

  “I can see why you prefer cats, Lewrie,” Tarrant said with a sigh. “I’ve some ginger beer in my canteen. Care for some?” He produced a small bright-pewter mug and poured himself a drink.

  “No thank you, sir,” Lewrie replied, hellishly tempted, but he could not partake before his sailors in something they couldn’t have. “Water’s fine for me.”

  As if on cue, Desmond passed Lewrie a dull brass and much-dented cup of water, which he sipped slowly, then handed back. At least the water was fresh, fetched from shore but a day before.

  “Hah!” Col. Tarrant exclaimed, “It seems they’ve all managed to get aboard, with no one drowned or injured.” Lewrie turned to watch as sailors scrambled up the boarding nets to the deck, much more quickly and agilely than the raw soldiers. Once they were all inboard, there was about five minutes of quiet before whistles began to blow again, and the sailors returned to their boats, followed more slowly by an oozing flood of red-coated soldiers.

  “We’ll keep doin’ it ’til ye can do it in yer sleep!” the loud Sergeant promised. “Yer officers’ll be timin’ ye this time!”

  “Didn’t know wot they wuz volunteerin’ for, I’d wager,” Kitch sniggered.

  “Shouldn’t o’joined, if ya can’t take a joke,” Desmond agreed.

  * * *

  The boarding drills continued ’til noon, and a respite for the soldiers to eat ashore, then resumed in the afternoon for another two hours or so, before Coromandel’s barges rowed their charges ashore, and returned to be tied up alongside the chain platforms, the boarding nets hauled up the ship’s sides and stowed for the night. Colonel Tarrant instructed that his new men would spend the next day at the firing butts and in the fruit groves, to hone their skills at chain or skirmish order fighting, but, the day after that, the newlies would spend their time in the boats and on the nets, this time in full kit with muskets.

  Lewrie had not watched the afternoon practices, spending hours in his cabins getting finger cramp and ink stains on his hands, writing letters and going over ship’s books. In the privacy of his day-cabin and dining coach, he could at last have some wine with his dinner, and savour his cool tea with lemon and sugar after that, with no one but his servants to see him do so, and envy, or feel deprived.

  “Boat ahoy!” a Midshipman of the Watch called out, and Lewrie heard a faint return cry of Bristol Lass, and a request to come aboard.

  Now what? Lewrie asked himself as he sanded his letter, and began to fold it over itself so he could seal it with wax and inscribe the address. He considered donning his waist-coat and rolling down his shirt sleeves, but the day, and the air in the cabins, were too warm.

  There was a shout for a side-party, then the fweeping of the Bosun’s calls. Lewrie leaned back in his desk chair to see who was coming to call.

&nb
sp; “Leften’t Fletcher of th’ Bristol Lass, SAH!” the Marine sentry bawled.

  “Enter!” Lewrie shouted back, finally getting to his feet.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Lt. Fletcher said, hat under his arm as he stepped inside. “Thank you for seeing me.”

  “Anything wrong, Mister Fletcher?” Lewrie asked, noting that the man’s old limp, which had taken him from a frigate to being the Agent Afloat for a small convoy of cavalry transports back in 1805, seemed to be back.

  “Nothing dire, sir,” Fletcher said as he came forward to the desk.

  “Care for some of my cool tea?” Lewrie offered, sweeping an arm in the direction of the starboard side seating arrangement. “Take a pew, do, sir.”

  “I’d relish something cool, aye, sir,” Fletcher said, seating himself primly in one of the collapsible chairs.

  “Deavers, tea for Mister Fletcher, and I’ll have a top-up,” Lewrie bade, taking his tall glass to go join him. “Nothing dire, but … what?”

  “A minor dispute, sir, ’twixt me and Mister Dickson,” Fletcher said as his tea arrived. “I got the impression that he did not care for my presence aboard his ship, today, sir, ordering his crew about, and … supplanting his authority as to how to best go about boarding and leaving the ship. Once the drills ended, he invited me to his cabins and expressed his dis-pleasure.”

  “In what way, sir?” Lewrie demanded, an angry brow up.

  “He demanded the date of my commission, to see who was senior in rank, sir,” Fletcher said with a wee, weary grin, “and when he found that I was senior to him by more than five years, he said that since his ship is much larger than the other transports, it would make eminent sense that he should command the doings of all four, seniority notwithstanding.”

  “I see!” Lewrie spat, glowering. “I trust you set him straight upon that head, Mister Fletcher.”

  “Not completely, sir,” Fletcher had to admit, shifting in his chair and crossing his legs. “He was still quite adamant about it, and I left him at loggerheads. I fear that in my surprise over the matter, I told him that he and his crew must get much better, more organised, than they were before they became a useful part of the squadron, which did not go down well, at all, sir.”

  “Were they that bad, sir?” Lewrie asked. “From where I sat, they didn’t look all that clumsy or cack-handed, for their first attempts.”

  “It’s more…” Lt. Fletcher paused to gather his thoughts, looking up at the overhead for a moment. He took a long sip of his tea to begin again. “Coromandel’s crew are not so much led, sir, as they are herded, like a flock of sheep. Bosun and his Mate, petty officers and such, were much too free with their rope starters, for one thing. And their threats of punishment. Dashing about like collies, nipping and barking? And … well, it’s hard for me to criticise how other fellows command their ship, but, ah … Mister Dickson is not well-served by his juniors, and I gathered that he’s aware of their shortcomings, but doesn’t … or can’t … do much about it.

  “Her sailors, sir,” Fletcher went on, “I’m certain they sense the same thing, know they’re badly led, and answer that lack with truculence, and dumb, rote obedience. It’s only the constant threat of corporal punishment that keeps them moving at all, sir!”

  “Hmm, I did get the impression that her juniors, that Clough and her Mid, Kinsey were … odd choices,” Lewrie carefully said, aware that he could not interfere in how Coromandel was commanded, shuffle more-capable officers into her as replacements, demote or dismiss as sorely as he might wish. Nor could he speak too ill of fellow officers, undermining their standing with others. “And, I did not sense that Lieutenant Dickson held them, or the common seamen, in all that much regard, either, but…” he said, leaning back into the settee cushions and letting out a long, bitter sigh. “They’re what we’ve been given to work with, Mister Fletcher, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Sadly, sir, aye,” Fletcher morosely agreed, taking another sip of his cool tea.

  “I will straighten him out on the question of seniority,” Lewrie promised him, “no matter Dickson came to us in command of a converted First Rate. He’s too new to our ways to imagine that he’s in charge of the transports. I’ll speak to him, aye.

  “And, if Coromandel’s efficiency does not improve before the next raid,” Lewrie also promised, “or come up to your standards, and mine, I’ll want you, sir, aboard her for every drill, ’til that ship is able to perform her duties as ably as the rest. Does that suit you, Mister Fletcher?”

  “Completely, sir,” Lt. Fletcher firmly said, nodding, as if he would look forward to lighting a fire under Dickson and his officers.

  “I noted you limped a bit when you came in, sir,” Lewrie said. “Does your old wound trouble you? Should I have Mister Woodbury take a look at you?”

  “Oh, I’m fine, sir,” Fletcher said with a wee laugh. “Really. The wound’s fine, completely healed long ago. I merely came close to turning my ankle, getting into my boat this afternoon. Some liniment, and binding it snug, and I’ll be dancing by tomorrow Noon, hah hah.”

  “Whilst you’re aboard, let my Surgeon see you, anyway, Mister Fletcher, just t’put my mind at ease,” Lewrie offered. “Can’t have you goin’ lame on me, when I depend on you for so much.”

  “I suppose I should, then, sir, whilst I’m aboard,” Lt. Fletcher grudgingly agreed. “And thank you for the sentiment, sir.”

  “Dasher?” Lewrie summoned his cabin servant. “Do you go forward and pass word for the Surgeon to attend us.”

  “Aye aye, sir!” Dasher cried, running off to the door.

  * * *

  Once Lt. Fletcher had been seen by the Surgeon, and departed the ship to be rowed back to Bristol Lass, Lewrie remained on deck after the departure ceremony. He went up to the poop deck for a breath of breeze, plucking at his waist-coat and shirt, staring at the ships anchored inshore of his, at Coromandel, with a frown on his face.

  What are you, Dickson, who are you, and where’d you come from? Lewrie wondered; Did some of my enemies in the Fleet pluck you, and your lack-wits from the fool academy and sic you on me? You here to sink me and the “experiment”? Pig in a poke, thorn in my side, or a wolf at my breast, which?

  “Mine arse on a band-box, I’ll not have it!” he whispered with heat. “You’ll serve me chearly, or I’ll break your arrogant arse!”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The next morning, Vigilance’s barges carried her Marines ashore to practice their musketry at the 94th’s firing range, and Lewrie took an idle morning off to go witness, and get a little practice of his own with his Ferguson rifled musket and his pair of double-barrelled Manton pistols, weapons that had been stowed away idle far too long, to his likes. Even as a youngster, he had always been a good shot, and when he and his father, Sir Hugo had been invited down to the country estates of his father’s friends, he had excelled with a fowling piece.

  The 94th’s newlies seemed to have had only the sketchiest training before sailing from England, barely able to get off three shots a minute, and many of them turning their heads away from the flashes of the pans when “Fire!” was ordered, and God only knew where half their musket balls went, for the long canvas target sheets, painted with an array of enemy soldiers shoulder-to-shoulder, showed little damage.

  “Four rounds a minute, lads!” an exasperated new-come Captain roared. “You’ll have to load faster, and when I say, ‘Level,’ you must try to look down the barrel at the target. When I say, ‘Fire,’ squint if you like, but you must try to aim!”

  “Water break,” Major Gittings ordered. “Ten minutes in the shade, men. We’ll let the Marines have a go.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Marine Captain Whitehead said, then ordered his men to the butts. There was some muttering from the Army troops, some jeers about the superiority of Redcoats over “Lobsterbacks.” The Marines ignored them, stepped to the lines, and, at the order to load, drew paper cartridges from their pouches, bit off one end, and p
rimed their pans. With the firelocks closed, the rest of the powder was poured down the barrels, and ramrods twirled to ram the charges snug. Balls were spat down the muzzles, the wadded up cartridge paper was rammed down atop them.

  “Make ready … cock your locks … level … fire!” Whitehead snapped, looking at his pocket watch held in one hand, an expensive one with a second hand. Seventy muskets barked almost as one, then the muskets were lowered, butts on the ground, and reloading began.

  “That’s four!” Capt. Whitehead crowed after the last volley. “In one minute! Now, tap-load, lads, and we’ll do five!”

  And instead of ramming powder, ball, and wadding down, musket butts were thumped hard on the ground to settle everything snug, and the ramrods were only used to force the wadding down against the ball.

  “That’s five!” Capt. Whitehead shouted after the end of the second minute. “And that’s how to do it! Cease fire!”

  It took another minute or so for the gunsmoke to roll away, so the target sheets could be seen, revealing shot holes all along the breast-high silhouettes. The Marines had been shooting from fourty yards’ distance, but Whitehead ordered his men to turn round and go to the fifty-yard posts, where they fired another three volleys at the target sheets, then did the same from sixty yards. Lastly, the Marine officers paced long steps farther away to an estimated seventy yards, far beyond the posts which marked any range, and filled the target sheets with another two minutes of rapid fire, tap-loading at five rounds a minute.

  “Twenty-five rounds expended per man, sir,” Whitehead proudly reported to Lewrie. “Permission for a water break, sir?”

  “Aye, and well done, sir!” Lewrie heartily agreed.

  “You new men,” Major Gittings said to them as they got to their feet from their rest, “the rest of the battalion can aim and fire as well as the Marines, by now, and get off four, sometimes five, shots a minute. They can aim, too, as much as ‘Brown Bess’ allows. Now, get to the fifty-yard posts, and show me that you can do that, too!”