“A mauling, you say?” Major Gittings said, for he had not heard the details of Vigilance’s recent cruise yet and Lewrie had to fill him in, which made Gittings’s eyes light up with humour.
“More Port, gentlemen?” Col. Tarrant asked with good cheer. “Or, might cool white wine suit? Seems a done deal, then, what? No guns in the vicinity, no garrison to speak of, and only random troops of cavalry to deal with. If we creep in when it’s utterly dark, as we did at Bova Marina, we could destroy three or four convoys, and the replacement animals along with them.”
“Burn the waggon and wheelwrights’ shops, and take away their tools to dump in the sea, as well,” Major Gittings contributed, “that the French would have to replace at great cost.”
“There’s no reason to even enter the town itself,” Lewrie said, taking another long look at the handmade chart. “This long stretch of beach just east of it should suit us. Five fathoms of water for anchoring, about … a third of a mile off, is it?”
“Ehm, closer to half a mile, my notes say, sir,” Quill informed him after a quick shuffle of papers. “West of the town, you could be within a third of a mile, but the beaches there are rockier, ’Tonio reported.”
“Hmm,” was Lewrie’s comment to that. “The eastern beaches might be better for the transports, then, and I can place Vigilance closer to shore to the west to cover the troops, should there be any nasty surprises. This long ridge,” he noted, tracing a finger along a rise behind the town, “any information on that?”
“’Tonio and his crew didn’t go very far inland beyond the town, but he did make an observation that the ridge is rather low,” Quill supplied. “Vineyards or olive groves, and some fruit orchards, with some thin woods? The paddocks for fresh horses and mules are laid out in front of it, along with huge piles of hay. Hundreds of the beasts, and all hungry, hah hah.”
Lewrie turned his attention to the sea level drawing of the coast, and the ridge did appear to be low, compared to the hills just behind it, and none too steep, either.
“It ain’t Locri or Siderno, thank God,” Lewrie said with a wee laugh. “The French could’ve hidden an army behind those. Yes … I can anchor here, west of the town, and nought but the church steeple t’get in the way of my guns. I got very little from Admiral Charlton that’s helpful, so … we’ll go with what our local criminals have gleaned for us, right? Colonel Tarrant, would you be needing anything else from Charlton?”
“Hmm, don’t see as how I would, sir,” Tarrant said, shrugging. “He’s no transports of his own, no barges, and none of his Marines are trained for this sort of work, so … unless you wish a frigate or a smaller warship to back you up, I don’t think so, no.”
“In that case, we’ve all we need, but fair weather,” Lewrie concluded.
“The fewer to share the glory, hey?” Major Gittings said with a laugh. “I’ll brief our company officers in the morning, after they’ve recovered.”
“Hey?” Mr. Quill asked, perplexed. “Recovered? From what?”
“Stick your head outside and listen to them,” Gittings urged. “There will be thick heads at breakfast, haw!”
Sure enough, even through the wooden walls of Colonel Tarrant’s house, they could faintly hear snatches of song, load roars of merriment, and chanting to spur on contestants in some drinking games.
* * *
To shake off the rust from the sailors on all five ships, Lewrie ordered all those assigned to the rowing barges, those who would stand guard over them and the beach ’til the Army returned, ashore to drill at musketry, the bayonet, and their cutlasses.
In the tumult of armed men swarming over the bulwarks and going down the boarding nets aboard Vigilance, Lewrie stepped down from the quarterdeck to speak with his Commission officers.
“Ah, Mister Grace,” Lewrie said, “do hand your accoutrements over to Mister Dickson. He’ll be taking your place. And Mister Greenleaf? You’ll stand in for Mister Rutland, who’s busy with his other duties.”
“Oh, sir!” Lt. Grace faintly objected. “Just when I’ve gotten good at it!”
“So long a naval career, so much still to learn,” Lewrie cooed.
“I’ll fetch my personal weapons, sir, and thankee!” Greenleaf exclaimed, filled with sudden eagerness. “Can’t let Rutland have all the fun, now can we, sir?” he said, dashing off.
“Hah!” Grace japed as he took off his ammunition pouch, musket, and bayonet to give to Dickson, “Beg pardon, sir, but ‘fun,’ and Lieutenant Rutland, will never go together!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lewrie said, “I’m mortal-certain that I saw him smile, once.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lt. Dickson said in a formal manner.
“Captain Whitehead and our Marines’ll most-like go inland on the Ninety-Fourth’s flank,” Lewrie explained, “so that’ll leave you and Mister Greenleaf in charge of all our armed sailors ashore, Mister Dickson. The transports’ parties will be under a Sub-Lieutenant or a Midshipman, and they’ll be looking to you two for orders. In the past it’s been little more than hold the beach, slouch about, and wait for the troops to come back to be rowed out, but one never can tell. You must hold your ground the best you’re able, protect the boats at all costs, and fight back ’til the Ninety-Fourth or our Marines come to your rescue.
“Like horses, do you, Mister Dickson?” Lewrie asked him.
“Ehm, what, sir? Horses? Aye, as a matter of fact I do,” the astonished officer rejoined.
“If you’re attacked by cavalry escorts from the convoys, horses hate a bayonet or sword point to their mouths or noses,” Lewrie cautioned him. “Keep ’em at a distance ’fore they bite your face off.”
“I see, sir,” Dickson hesitantly said, fearing that he was being twitted.
“It worked for me at the Battle of Blaauwberg when we re-took Cape Town from the Dutch,” Lewrie told him, “though the Dutch horse had a very narrow front to attack us, up the spine of a kop. There will be infantry officers ashore to do the instructions today, so I expect that you and Greenleaf pay them close attention.”
“I will, sir, and thank you, again,” Dickson said, not sure if that “war story” was to be taken at full value.
“Off with you, then, lads!” Lewrie called out to one and all, “and we’ll save your rum ration for you!”
Lt. Greenleaf came puffing up from the officers’ wardroom below, in a clank of sword, two pair of pistols in his pockets and waist sash, a musket and bayonet in his hands, and a quickly assembled rucksack of edibles over one shoulder, with a full wood water canteen spanking his bottom as he and Dickson were the last ones over the rails, onto the nets, and down to the waiting barges.
Dickson settled in on the aftermost thwart of a barge, next to Midshipman Chenery at the tiller, looking up the side of the warship, and at Captain Lewrie, who was leaning out over the bulwarks to watch the boats row ashore, and he didn’t quite know what to think.
Losing command of Coromandel still rankled, and he could easily despise Lewrie for doing so, yet … once installed aboard Vigilance, as her junior-most officer, which also felt like an insult despite his date of commission being newer than Grace’s, he had been either trusted to do his duties capably, or ignored, as if his come-down had never happened, and accepted into the wardroom society as just another new man. No one had twitted him or looked down on him since his arrival, as he’d expected, though he was certain that the questions about his abilities were there, but unspoken. Dickson was coming to feel almost comfortable in the wardroom, in their drinking games, their musical evenings in port, and in their banter over meals. Lt. Grace, whom he had been prepared to dismiss as a lower-class lout plucked from the Nore fisheries, had proven himself to be a most capable sea officer, even if his table manners were still a trifle clumsy, but Grace was a person whom Dickson was coming to like!
“Out oars, larboard,” Midshipman Chenery called. “Shove off, bow man.”
One thing was certain to Dickson, that he had done more excit
ing things than he ever had aboard other ships, since coming aboard Vigilance; more weapons drills, more live gunnery in action against French batteries, and now a chance to be second-in-command over the hundreds of armed sailors and the twenty-four barges that would land troops in a large-scale raid in a few days. There was even the prospect of face-to-face battle with the enemy, sword-to-sword!
Now, how could he continue to secretly sulk in the face of that?
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
To achieve complete surprise, Vigilance led the squadron round Sicily once more, standing well clear of the Sou’eastern-most Cape of Passaro into the Ionian Sea. There was no timetable for when they hit Monasterace, no set day, and it was good that there wasn’t, for once bound Easterly fourty miles or more off the Sicilian coast, weather decided to be un-cooperative.
The Autumn winds were fickle, breezing up in early morning, and fading away round mid-day, providing little relief from the glare of the sun that brought such oppressive heat, and the heat and the lack of wind was un-relenting ’til very late in the afternoons, leaving the sails slacking and then filling for hopeful moments, and all of the ships rolling and swanning cross seas hammered flat, and in those late afternoons, the almost cloudless skies would blossom with thunderheads and high-piled cumulus but never brought cooler winds or the promise of rain nearby. Darker storms would smear the horizons, forked with lightning and visible curtains of blessed rain, but not upon the five ships struggling East’rd, who were lucky to log five knots for most of the days. It was only round sundowns when the winds increased to acceptable levels, rustling loose clothing and drying perspiration in a form of relief. But, at sundown, sails were reduced so that all ships could keep station with each other in the dark, and five knots or so was the progress through the night.
Lewrie had thought to advance Eastward to 17 degrees East, and 38 degrees North before altering course to the Nor’west to close the coast off Monasterace a bit before Midnight, but, once attaining that point on the charts, the storms which had toyed with them over the horizons caught up with them, and it was wind and rain by buckets for two days, heaving large breaking surf on the landing beaches, making it impossible to do much more than stagger about under storm trys’ls and wait for the weather to subside.
“I’m beginnin’ t’think that the gods of war are against us, Mister Farley,” Lewrie sourly commented to his First Officer as they stood on the quarterdeck under a seething shower in their oiled foul weather coats and hats.
“I was just about to say, sir,” Farley replied, craning his head upwards to look at the iron-bar streaming of the commissioning pendant. “Like Odysseus or Aeneas in the classic tales, denied their homes or a safe harbour by a vengeful bitch goddess.”
Lewrie leaned far out over the windward bulwarks to look astern at the transports following Vigilance, the trailing ships almost lost behind brief curtains of rain, and all of them hobby-horsing in huge plunges that buried their bows, then lifted them up in clouds of sea spray. They were rolling, too, like the arm of a metronome.
“I wonder if any of our soldiers’ll be able t’stand erect, does this keep up,” Lewrie commented. “We’ve never kept ’em at sea this long, before. And nobody’s usin’ the ‘heads,’ ’less they can breathe seawater.”
Lt. Farley joined him at the bulwarks to peer aft at the lead transport, Bristol Lass. “We’ve had a problem about that, too, sir,” Farley said as he drew himself inboard. “The ‘seats of ease’ up forrud are underwater half the time, whether it’s raining hard or not, and everyone below has been voiding their bowels or bladders into buckets. The Mids, Master at Arms, and the Ship’s Corporals are keeping wary eyes out to prevent it, but there’s only so much they can do. If it continues, I’ll be presenting you with a long list of defaulters at Captain’s Mast.”
“Lord, flog half the crew?” Lewrie spat. “Right before we go ashore, or right after a successful raid? That’ll do wonders for morale. But … we can’t tolerate it.”
“Unless we allow it for a time, sir,” Farley suggested.
“Allow it?” Lewrie gawped.
“Set aside an area as temporary ‘heads,’ sir,” Farley went on, “and assign a man from each eight-man mess as the bucket man for the day to carry the full ones up to be dumped over the lee side. Then, as soon as the weather clears, go back to the regular routine.”
“Hmm, it might work,” Lewrie said, scratching the stubble on his chin. “Arrange that, and pass word to the crew that it’s a very temporary necessity. Aye, see to it, Mister Farley. And pray that the weather moderates before the ship reeks like a Dung Wharf scow.”
“Very good, sir,” Farley replied. “It’s better than losing a man or two overboard whilst their trousers are down.”
From the forecastle belfry Eight Bells chimed in quick pairs, to mark the end of one watch and the beginning of the Forenoon. Men off-watch came boiling up the ladderways from the lower gun and mess deck to relieve those who had been drenched during the Morning Watch. Lewrie noted that some sailors going off-watch removed their foul weather gear and handed them over to their replacements, prompting a thought that he must speak with the Purser about indenting for oiled coats and hats for all hands, though how long would it be for them to arrive from England in a supply packet was un-knowable.
“I’ll be aft,” Lewrie said as Lt. Farley was relieved by Lt. Greenleaf. “And if anybody sees the sun at the end of the Forenoon, summon me to witness that miracle.”
It was dry in his cabins, thankfully, though dank, muggy, and humid. He stripped off his foul weather gear, and the towel that he had worn round his neck, now almost sopping wet. Rain had seeped onto his shirt collar and neck-stock, anyway, but none had trickled down his back. He asked Deavers for a dry towel, removed his stock and spread his collars, then patted down his hair, neck, face, and hands before he went to his desk. A fresh cup of hot coffee with sugar and goat’s milk appeared without his asking as he spread out the hand-drawn map of the coast to study it one more time.
“We have some leaks in the overhead, sir,” Deavers told him as he hung up the wet towel to dry out. “Just some wee drips, so far.”
Lewrie raised his head to peer round his cabins, searching for them. He heard them: wee plops into buckets, metal pitchers, and the soup tureen from the dining coach sideboard. Chalky’s ceramic water bowl had been moved to catch the drips, too, and the cat was sitting rapt, looking up to follow waterdrops, and trying to catch them with one paw, tail swishing the canvas deck chequer as if it was the finest sport.
“Can’t pay the seams with hot tar in this weather,” Lewrie said. “At least the cat’s amused. Has anything vital gotten wet, yet?”
“No, sir,” Deavers told him, “though I’ve put some sailcloth on your bed-cot, and the dining table just to be sure.”
“We’ll just have to cope,” Lewrie said, returning to the map.
The operation looked straightforward enough; transports to the eastern beaches, Vigilance just a bit to the west of the town proper, and the Marines going in on Monasterace’s outskirts; and the ship’s guns able to cover the 94th’s front, the town, and the far ridge at almost a mile’s range. Any road convoys encamped for the night would be easy targets, too, as would the crowded horse and mule pens beyond.
Lewrie had envisioned a Midnight landing at first, but Colonel Tarrant and Major Gittings had worried that if the ship’s guns had to be employed, they would be firing blind into utter darkness, and the immense stabbing flames from the muzzles would blind them further. It had been agreed that they needed to close the coast and anchor when it was still too dark for watchers ashore to spot them and sound an alarm, but Tarrant’s soldiers would need a touch of dawn to be able to fire and reload. They had settled upon 5 A.M. as the best compromise.
How I’m t’get ’em ashore round then’s the rub, Lewrie thought, as he leaned back in his chair and took a sip of his coffee; wind and surf, sailin’ in at what average speed? If there’s no garrison, we could
land any hour of the morning. Of course, the waggoners would see us long before and be gone by the time we drop anchors.
It felt to him that his job was just becoming harder, more full of “ifs” that couldn’t be planned for!
I just hope I’m bright enough t’pull this’un off! he thought.
* * *
The rain stopped just before sundown, though the winds still had to moderate, and the seas to subside. Overhead, the sky was a blank grey overcast, dull and unbroken. At least the “bucket brigade” from below could stop, and hot suppers could be boiled up in the galleys aboard all five ships. By the time Lewrie took a later supper of his own, a few stars could be identified in gaps in the clouds, and Lewrie could retire for the night, confident that the morning would bring a sky clear enough for sun sights at Noon, and improved conditions on the beaches to the north.
The evening air in the great-cabins was now cool and dank, with the upper halves of some sash windows in the transom opened for air, and Lewrie rolled into his bed-cot after snuffing the last candle in his shirt and slop-trousers, boots set near to hand atop one of his sea chests. He pulled a patterned quilt up to mid-chest and plumped up his pillows, yawning and stretching his whole body, even wriggling his stockinged toes.
Alter course round eight A.M. tomorrow, he promised himself; Get our position fixed at Noon Sights, then I’ll take Vigilance inshore ’til we sight the coast, then return to the squadron.
There was a preparatory Mrrf! from below, then the thump of his cat landing atop the quilt by his left thigh, and Lewrie reached out to stroke Chalky’s fur, prompting the cat to pad up to his face and press his nose against Lewrie’s.
“Fifteen miles off, no closer, puss,” Lewrie whispered in the dark, “then we’ll stand off-and-on Monasterace ’til it’s time t’sail in and anchor. Won’t that be fun?”
Chalky flopped onto his side, to nestle against Lewrie’s left chest, and to continued stroking, began to softly purr.
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