An Onshore Storm

by Dewey Lambdin

  His heart was in his throat, his breath was rapid, and the hilt of his elegant sword felt slippery in his hand. It was Lt. Dickson’s first exposure to real combat, and it wasn’t even on the deck of a warship! It felt grossly unfair for him to play soldier on land. But he had to do something, the men were looking to him.

  It took all he had to stand up and point his sword at the enemy.

  “You men closest to the barge,” he yelled, “give them a volley!”

  Firelocks were drawn back to full cock; sailors squinted down the barrels of their muskets to take rough aim.

  “Fire!” Dickson shouted.

  Five or six French soldiers had managed to thrash their way to the sandy beach beyond the scrub, and they now spotted the British behind the barge, but they were swept away by that rough volley delivered at about fourty yards’ range. The ones still in the shrub got wide-eyed and tried to bring their muskets up to shoot back.

  “The rest of you, shoot at the bastards in the shrub!” Dickson yelled, remembering that he had an expensive pair of Manton pistols in his coat pockets, and fumbled one out with his left hand.

  More French soldiers were hit, knocked back by .75 calibre balls, but they only fell atop the shrub, bouncing as the springy underbrush held them and resisted being crushed.

  “Front men, you’re reloaded?” Dickson demanded, and got grunts and “Aye ayes” in response. “Front men, fire!”

  More French soldiers went down, and the ones still unhurt began to turn about and retreat through the shrub, but making as little progress to the rear as they had when trying to attack.

  “Come on, lads!” Dickson yelled, much encouraged. “Follow me! Fix your bayonets, pick up your cutlasses, and … repel boarders!”

  It was the only thing he could think of as he left the shelter of the barge, ran round the bow, and sprinted towards the edge of the shrub, his Hessian boots twisting and turning at his ankles in the deep, soft sand of the upper beach. A Frenchman swung his musket his way, but Dickson brought up his pistol, cocked the lock with the back of his sword-hand wrist, and shot him in the chest, exulting that he had just killed someone, the first in his life.

  His sailors began wading into the scrub themselves, having as difficult a passage as the enemy had had, howling and hurrahing with their bayoneted muskets out-thrust at the nearest fleeing Frenchmen, or slashing at their backs with cutlasses.

  There had been thirty or so, Dickson estimated, now he had killed two, and his pistols were empty; five or six dead on the beach, ten or so draped over the scrub bushes, and the rest were fleeing as if mired in cold treacle. A smaller Ordinary Seaman at Dickson’s side used a dead Frenchman as a springboard to leap ahead of everyone else and drove the point of his cutlass into a soldier’s back, making him scream. Muskets went off and several more Frenchmen died at only ten yards’ range, and there were some who were holding their muskets in the air, butt up, trying to surrender. The few who managed to escape the scrub scampered away as fast as they could run, but a volley from Lt. Greenleaf’s party on the Marines’ flank shot them down, too.

  It was suddenly very quiet, but for the moans and whimpers of the wounded and dying. At the top of the overwash at last, Dickson could see that the French attack had been broken, and about an hundred or so French soldiers were milling about far out of musket shot, near the burning houses where they had hidden themselves before the attack was sprung. He saw Marine Captain Whitehead, now hatless, and Lieutenant Greenleaf, his hands and face blackened with gunpowder grit, in a brief conference, which he thought he should join.

  “Good Christ,” Capt. Whitehead rasped between gulps from his wood canteen. “For a minute there, I thought they’d have us all.”

  “Got most of their leaders, and they didn’t have the will to stand and bear it,” Greenleaf said. “Must’ve killed or wounded half of them,” he added, sweeping an arm at the field beyond, where the bodies of French soldiers lay strewn in profusion, most grouped along the line where they had stopped and opened fire.

  “I’ve lost nine dead, and six wounded,” Whitehead grimly said. “You, Greenleaf? Dickson?”

  “Half my lot,” Greenleaf toted up. “Some damned good men.”

  “I, ehm … I don’t know,” Dickson had to confess, turning to look down to the beach. He saw Midshipman Bingley helping a wounded sailor to a seat on the bow of the barge, and counted at least seven of his men on the ground.

  “Best go see,” Whitehead told him.

  “Good work, though,” Greenleaf said, “breaking up that attack.”

  “Ship’s flyin’ a signal, sir,” Able Seaman John Kitch pointed out, wetting a rag from his canteen to wipe his face.

  “Ah, our ship’s number, and … Recall,” Greenleaf read aloud. “The Captain must mean for us to get back aboard before the French try again. Whitehead, I’ll need half your Marines to help get that barge down there back in the water. Can the other half remain here and daunt the Frogs long enough for us to gather up the dead and the wounded?”

  “Just the wounded,” Whitehead said with a negative shake of his head. “We’ll have to trust the French to bury our dead. But, we’ll gather up our weapons and gear. The Captain will have to read their names without interment into the sea. Wish it was different, but … bloody Hell.”

  “Well, shit,” Greenleaf spat. He looked far out beyond the town to witness yet another road convoy get under way, the waggon and the cart wheels, and an host of hooves, begin to raise a cloud of dust.

  Untouched, and as safe as houses.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  “Working up their courage,” Col. Tarrant said to Major Gittings as the surviving French drummers began a marching beat, and the men in those three-deep ranks, now shoulder-to-shoulder again and looking formidable, came on with their muskets held erect close to their left shoulders, bayonets fixed and glinting with dawn light. A shout rose from them, the “Vive l’Empereur!”

  “After the mauling the guns gave them, I’m fair amazed that they are still here, sir!” Gittings tried to jape.

  “Well, they are, unfortunately,” Tarrant said with a wince of his face, “and now their blood is up. Does Lady Luck go against us, let me say that it had been a pleasure serving with you all these years, Gittings. I trust I’ll see you later,” he said, offering his hand which Gittings took and shook firmly.

  “Later, sir,” Gittings replied most formally and gravely before going down the long line of the 94th to take his proper place.

  * * *

  Down on the beach below the 94th, Lt. Fletcher off the Bristol Lass, and Lt. Rutland, now in command of Coromandel stood talking together apart from their armed sailors, peering up as the drums and the cries of the French infantry rang out.

  They were both adventurous men, responsible men, who found it outside their natures to sit safe and snug aboard their ships when the bulk of their crews took risks ashore, trusting young Midshipmen and Sub-Lieutenants to look after them. Now, those senses of responsibility seemed to have landed them in a predicament.

  “Too close, now, for Vigilance to continue firing,” Fletcher said. “It’s all up to Colonel Tarrant and his regiment.”

  “All on our own, aye,” Lt. Rutland said, grimly nodding in his usual dour manner, “and from what his wounded related, he’s out-numbered. Wish we could get our people back aboard, first.”

  “Can’t just cut and run, and leave the Army stranded,” Fletcher replied. “We’d never live it down. Might even be a courts-martial offence, unless Captain Lewrie orders it.”

  “Even then, though … his fault?” Rutland objected. “He’s not that sort of poltroon. If I know anything about him, I’d wager he’s trying to lash a raft together so he can come join us.”

  “Aye, he’s a prime scraper, no error,” Lt. Fletcher agreed.

  They both turned their heads inland again as several men of the 94th known for their shooting skills began to snipe at the French as they came into extreme musket range.

&n
bsp; “The French get through the Ninety-Fourth, we’ll be fighting right at the surf line, with the remnants of Tarrant’s soldiers at our elbows,” Fletcher said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Lt. Rutland slowly said, looking round the line of twenty-four barges drawn up on the sand, and the knots of seamen from each who were now gripping their muskets, or using whet stones from their rucksacks to put a keener edge on their cutlasses, determined to go game to the last. “You’re in command, Fletcher, but let me make a suggestion.”

  “All ears,” Fletcher tried to jape.

  “Ten men to each barge makes two hundred and fourty armed men,” Rutland told him. “We could wait down here to be swamped, but, do we each take half our lads and tack them onto each end of Tarrant’s line, we might just make a difference. They wouldn’t be so out-numbered.”

  “Make a fairer fight, aye,” Fletcher said, nodding agreement with his jaw jutted forward in determination. “Better fight up there than wait to be slaughtered. You men!” he suddenly shouted in his best quarterdeck bawl. “All from the first dozen boats, form up with Lieutenant Rutland. The rest from the other dozen, form on me! We came ashore ready for a fight, and we’re going to join one! Come up, come up, and let’s go kill some Frenchmen!”

  * * *

  Colonel Tarrant was gloomily studying the approaching French lines, worried that they still had the strength in numbers to wrap round his flanks, out beyond the limits of the low stone walls and the dense shrub when he heard a loud “Huzzah!” and had to turn about to look for the source. His jaw almost dropped open when he saw the packs of sailors coming up from the boats and the beach: scruffy and ill-dressed in slop-trousers and linen shirts, some sporting flat, tarred hats, others in stocking caps with long tassels, cutlasses in their belts, and muskets in their hands. Some wore waist-length blue coats with rows of brass buttons; here and there were Midshipmen with dirks at their sides, or waving curved hangers to urge their men on.

  Tarrant had no idea if they could stand and fight like soldiers trained to the work, or break as faint-hearted as civilian militia hastily assembled, but that made no matter; he was welcome for them as the two equal-sized packs trotted to the ends of his line beyond his Light Companies and formed two ragged ranks.

  “About eighty yards, do you think, Sar’n-Major?” Tarrant asked his experienced RSM.

  “About that distance, sir, yes,” The Sergeant-Major estimated, squinting his eyes and raising a thumb to measure against the height of the French in the front rank.

  “Ninety-Fourth!” Tarrant bellowed. “By platoons … fire!”

  The muskets of a third of the battalion erupted almost as one, creating that peculiar Chuff! as if they muffled each other’s barks. Then the 94th did what the British Army did best, better than any army in the world, as the second third of the line levelled their muskets and took what aim they could to fire, followed by the last third of the line. And by the time they had fired, the first platoon on the right had reloaded and fired again to make a continual rolling hail of .75 calibre ball at the approaching foe, and no one was chanting “Vive l’Empereur!” anymore.

  Col. Tarrant pressed himself between men in the front rank, up against the shrubs and the thigh-high stone wall to see better, and was heartened by what he saw, for the French commander, unsure if his men could do any damage at long musket shot, was still marching his soldiers into that galling fire, muskets still held erect on their left shoulders, and Frenchmen in his first rank were dying; not in great numbers yet, considering the range and the inaccuracy of the smoothbore muskets, but enough to make them shuffle sideways as they marched to shoulder up against their mates.

  Tarrant heard the French drums cease over the roaring and the crackling twig noise made by his battalion’s muskets. The French had come to a halt at about fifty yards’ range, and their muskets were at high port as they cocked their locks at last and levelled.

  “For what we are about to receive,” Tarrant whispered, “may the Good Lord make us grateful.” He winced as the French fired, hundreds of muzzle flashes, wee clouds of smoke from priming pans and barrels wreathing the enemy.

  “Fire!” he heard someone shout over the roaring, and from each end of his line, additional volleys were fired; the Navy was in it at last, waiting for the range to come down to where mostly un-trained sailors could hope to score hits.

  French .63 calibre lead balls spanged off the stone wall, and men of his battalion slumped away, some dead, some clawing and grasping at their wounds as they fell. Tarrant heard what sounded like a massive swarm of bees as French balls whipped past and a high buzz! buzz! buzz! They were firing high?

  But his men were firing and loading steadily, platoon by platoon, joined now and then by crashing volleys from the Navy on both flanks, and it became a battle of attrition at short range, a matter of who could kill the enemy in greater numbers, first.

  * * *

  “Oh, bugger this,” Lt. Rutland gravelled. “As thick as a full broadside!” he griped at the vast rising clouds of gunsmoke over both lines which made it harder for his sailors to shoot with any hope of hitting anything. He paced to the left end of his men, noting that the bulk of the French fire was directed at the centre of Tarrant’s troops, not so much upon his half of the armed shore party. And he also noted that there was clearer air out to his left and ahead. He could see that his men, and probably Lt. Fletcher’s men, had extended the line beyond the length of the enemy, and if he could get his men farther out to the left, and align them at right angles to the French line, his fire could be more effective, as effective as a stern rake on an enemy ship!

  “Cease fire!” he roared in a voice that could carry from the quarterdeck to the forecastle in a gale. “Cease fire and reload. We are moving out beyond all this damned smoke! Everyone turn to your left! Now, staying in two files, follow me!”

  He put himself at the head of the long two files and led them at a trot away from Tarrant’s Light Company. Thirty yards out and they could all see the French line, blazing away almost blind as quickly as they could.

  “Follow me, lads!” Lt. Rutland roared again, turning to his right to lead them inland ’til his sailors were looking at the end of the French line, on their right extreme flank, able to look down all three ranks. “Stop here, and turn to your right! Ready to really kill some frog-eating bastards? First rank, level! Fire!”

  Rutland had gotten them within fifty yards’ range before they opened fire. Some Frenchmen on the extreme flank spotted them and gave out warning shouts, but it was too late. The end of their line just crumpled as the first volley took at least twenty men down.

  “Second rank … fire!” Rutland roared, and more French fell from all three densely packed ranks, and soldiers just beyond began to back away to try and form a second shorter front to refuse their flank, but they were still greatly out-numbered, and a third volley killed more of them and forced them to retreat.

  “Ten paces forward!” Rutland ordered to shorten the range.

  The French were bunching up, trying to re-form, officers waving swords to direct them, and screaming frantic orders. As they bunched up, though, they were under fire from the Light Company of the 94th, and men fell about as fast as they could be shoved into place.

  Rutland’s sailors were now firing from only fourty yards’ range, and they could not miss such a dense block of men. The French were being whip-sawed, first from their flank, then from the main British line. A full quarter of their strength was now forming a new front at right angles to their main fighting line, but the left end of that line was being hammered by the 94th, and that end was being peeled away, casualty by casualty.

  “Uh oh,” Lt. Rutland said under his breath, realising that he’d rallied more Frenchmen than he had, ready to open fire on him and his sailors.

  * * *

  Not so far away, Col. Tarrant noted that the French fire had slackened appreciably, and that something was going on out on the left flank. His batsman, Corporal Carson, came
panting back from the Light Company on that flank with a report.

  “Those daft sailors are out on the enemy flank, sir, shooting them to pieces, and the French have turned hundreds of men their way.”

  “Good God!” Tarrant gasped, bending low to see under all of the smoke, spotted the armed sailors, the French reaction, and felt hope that this gruesome battle could turn his way.

  “Ninety-Fourth!” he shouted. “Fix bayonets! Over the wall with you, and re-form ranks!”

  The battalion’s fire had to cease as his soldiers reloaded one last round, fixed bayonets, and began to crawl over the top of their wall. Col. Tarrant swung a leg over the wall, threaded his way to the front of the first rank, and drew his sword.

  “Ninety-Fourth! Give them the bayonet! Charge!”

  A wordless howl, a feral growl came from hundreds of throats as they held their muskets out-thrust from the waist and began to run forward, into enemy fire, with Col. Tarrant in the lead, waving his sword high to urge them on.

  The French, in their haste to smother the British with fire, had been firing high and almost un-aimed for some time, slamming their musket butts on the ground to settle the powder charges and balls, firing blindly at a vast curtain of smoke.

  Suddenly, out of that smoke pall, hundreds of men in red coats were running at them with bayonets fixed and muskets levelled to skewer them as they tried to reload.

  Infantrymen dreaded the burst of spherical shell, the terror of bounding cannon balls that could take off a leg in a twinkling, and they dreaded the hammer blows of lead musket balls that could break bones, pierce lungs, and maim them for life. A quick death with no warning was preferred to the surgeon’s saws.

  But, what every soldier in any army feared most was the bayonet, and the French were no different. They wavered, groping for their own bayonets, for loading went faster with them sheathed at their sides, but it was too late for most to arm themselves equal to the hated Anglais, the Biftecs, the Devil Goddamns.