Текст книги "The King's Marauder"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 19 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Feeling ambitious, Captain Lewrie?” Mr. Thomas Mountjoy asked him once they had gone over the results of the raid on Puerto Banús.
“Depends on what you have in mind,” Lewrie replied, wondering what he was getting at. “Another raid?”
“Two, actually,” Mountjoy responded, slyly grinning, “Within a day’s sail of each other. Look here,” he urged, fetching out a chart to spread on the marred old dining table in his lodgings. “There are semaphore towers all along the coast, in grovelling emulation of those that Bonaparte has built all over France.”
“In grovelling emulation of the British semaphore system that we built, first!” Lewrie interrupted him, with a scornful hoot.
Years before Napoleon Bonaparte had come to power, Admiralty had erected long chains of signalling towers from Whitehall to every major seaport, from Falmouth to Dover, the Downs, and the Goodwin Sands and Great Yarmouth. Signal towers were really an ancient idea, mentioned in recovered Roman texts; they had used large flashing tin mirrors by day, and torches by night, and could send complex messages further and faster than the quickest despatch rider. Unless blinded by a blizzard or pea-soup fog, the wig-wagging vanes atop the Admiralty building could whirl like a dervish’s arms and transmit orders to the Nore or to Portsmouth in ten minutes or less. Lewrie didn’t know exactly how the code worked, or what the many positions of the vanes meant, but was smugly convinced that the semaphore system was a marvel.
The French system put up all along their coasts he’d found useful, too, it must be admitted, especially at night, when the French hung large glass oil lanthorns on the vanes, replacing the black-painted pig bladders; Lewrie had been able to determine where he was along the coast at night by spotting the first one in a seaport town, then keeping count as he sailed along. They were as good as lighthouses!
“Anyway, as I said, there’s a chain of them from Málaga to Almeria, then to Cartagena, one of their main naval ports,” Mountjoy went on. “If they’re a French idea, then Godoy and his Francophiles simply must have them, though, from the reports I’ve gotten, they’re nowhere near finished, and Spain’s so ‘skint’ it’ll be a wonder if they can ever afford to complete them. They’ve none leading inland, so far as I know … just along the coasts. If that coastal warning chain is broken in a few places, the Spanish would have to re-build them and give them a stronger garrison, depriving Sir Hew’s friend, Castaños, of troops … and costing them money they don’t have.”
“What do your informants say of possible opposition?” Lewrie asked him, frowning.
“The towers themselves are thinly manned, just enough men to work the day, and another team for night,” Mountjoy said, shrugging off worries. “Watch for signals in two directions, copy them down, and work the arms to send them on. The ones closer to Almeria might be too risky, since there’s a sizable garrison there, foot, horse and all, but … down here at Almerimar, there’s a tower right on the shore that’s isolated, several miles removed from El Ejido, and even further from Berja, inland, where there sometimes are at least a company, or strong detatchment, of Spanish infantry. You could be in, burn it, and be out before a rider could summon them. Here’s the sketches I’ve obtained, and the nature of the beaches,” he said, placing them atop the chart they had been studying.
The semaphore tower, as depicted, was made of wood with ladders leading up through several open platforms to the larger one at the top where the arms, or vanes, were worked. It sat on a high spot at the back of a small bay open to the sea, with the small, sleepy fishing port of Almerimar situated on lower ground to the right of the tower, straggling up a lesser slope inland to grain fields, pastures, and orchards.
“It looks t’be an easy proposition,” Lewrie cautiously allowed. “I wouldn’t have t’land my troops in the full dark, this time. We’re going after the town, too?”
“Let’s not bother with the town, this time,” Mountjoy suggested, making a face. “It’s poor enough, already, and our aim is to win the Spanish over, eventually, not enflame their centuries-old hatred for us.”
“I thought you wanted chaos and mayhem?” Lewrie said, confused. “You agreed to burning the mills and granary at Puerto Banús, and all the fishermen’s boats,” he pointed out.
“I did,” Mountjoy admitted, “but once Dalrymple read my report, he shot me a stiff note saying that he’d have no truck with making war on civilians, and if we did not stick to destroying strictly military installations, he’d pull the troops away from us. Now, do we put the torch to Spanish army food supplies, that’s one thing, but food stores for civilians is quite another, and completely against the pale.”
“Humph,” Lewrie said with a snort, and a toss of his head. “To do that, we’d have t’land in a major city, and need Hughes’s fantacy of an entire brigade! Oh well. Aye, it looks as if Almerimar is possible, even in broad daylight. All the troops at the tower can do is madly wig-wag their tower’s arms, callin’ for help.”
“Then, if they wish to keep the chain of towers up and running, they’ll have to re-build it, and post at least a company of soldiers there to defend it, next time,” Mountjoy cheerfully pictured. “A company to each tower, and you hold back whole regiments from marching to join General Castaños.”
“You said two towers?” Lewrie prompted.
“Over here,” Mountjoy said, gathering up the first set of hand-drawn sketches and pointing to another coastal town further West, to a cluster of small towns; Almuñécar, Salobreña, and Motril, close to the foothills of the Sierra de Almijara. “Might be a tougher nut, mind you. The main road to Granada, inland, joins the coast road halfway ’twixt Salobreña and Motril. Salobreña’s right on the coast, with Motril higher up and inland, but with grand sea views, so my reports say.”
“There’s a semaphore tower there, at Salobreña?” Lewrie asked. “Anything else?”
“The semaphore tower is all that matters,” Mountjoy told him, “though it will be harder to get at, since it’s at the back of the town, on a higher spur, It would’ve made more sense to build it nearer to Motril, which is uphill, but for a ridge East of Motril that blocks the view.”
“We’d have t’fight our way through a town?” Lewrie exclaimed. “What happened to bein’ sweet to the Spanish? Ye can’t trust soldiers t’not loot a little, on the sly, and if fire’s exchanged, there’s the risk o’ civilians gettin’ shot. If the government in Madrid is apin’ the French, they’ll have their own equivalent of Bonaparte’s Moniteur, and play up the deaths and destruction like the Americans played up a few dead rebels as the Boston Massacre!”
“It’s on the extreme outskirts of the town,” Mountjoy pointed out, producing some more sketches from his field agents and informers. “Look here. Up here’s the tower, about a quarter-mile inland from the beach, beyond a grove of trees, some pastureland, an orchard, and a few scattered houses, barns, and out-buildings. It’s not as if you’d be chargin’ through the streets. Sort of below the village of Motril, but out past the last of the ridge, where the sightline to the towers further East is better.”
Lewrie ignored the sketches for a moment, looking closer at the chart, and finding an host of wee markers which resembled tall, skinny triangles with vees above them, all along the coast.
“Mountjoy, there are hundreds of the bloody things…” he said.
“Well, not hundreds, really,” Mountjoy objected.
“… about eight or ten miles apart, else they couldn’t even begin t’read what signal they’re making. I expect the expense for all the needed telescopes is horrid, even so. Why don’t we just burn the one at Almerimar, and work our way West, startin’ at dawn and ending by dusk?”
“You told me that it takes an hour or so just to get the men ashore, and hours more to complete the destruction as you did with the battery at Puerto Banús,” Mountjoy dis-agreed. “I doubt you could hit no more than two, before the Spanish Army could respond, especially if you kept it up for several days. You might even draw warships out of Cartagena, and then where would you be? So far, the Mediterranean Fleet has kept them penned up in their ports, and, after the trouncing they took at Trafalgar, the Spanish may be loath to lose any more precious ships, but … a series of raids like that would sting them out.”
“Are you insisting it has t’be Salobreña, Mountjoy?” Lewrie asked, all but gritting his teeth. That sense of old, of being Twigg’s dim but useful gun-dog, was back, with a vengeance.
“Given what little information I’ve been able to glean, these two objectives are the only ones about which I know the most,” Mountjoy grimly told him, shaking his head sadly. “Unless there are troops on the march, of which I would also know nothing, these two have no garrisons, no batteries, and the closest garrison would be at Órjiva, and that’s about ten miles inland, and they’re all infantry, so they’d take hours to hear of your presence in the first case, and even more hours to march down, arriving long after you’ve sailed, in the second.”
“Well…” Lewrie temporised, not caring for the prospects in the least, but feeling that he had no choice but to go along with it.
A fortnight at sea, weather permitting, just to burn one insignificant semaphore tower, then return to Gibraltar, would be a waste of everyone’s time and efforts.
“Very well, then,” he growled in surrender. “We’ll strike both, beginning with Almerimar. It’s the easiest, and quickest, and the one with the least risk of opposition. Just to keep the landing parties in trim, I’ll close the coast a bit later in the morning, just round pre-dawn, so we can see where we’re going, land them at the first of the sunrise, and get them off round mid-morning.
“I s’pose the tower works round the clock?” Lewrie asked, leaning on the table with both hands. “Pig bladders for day signalling, and some sort of oil lanthorns at night? Good, then there’ll be more than enough oil for the burning, and I’ll only have to send a keg or two of gunpowder ashore t’help that along. Then…”
He studied the chart more closely, considering that the tower at Almerimar would be sending an urgent message as soon as Sapphire and Harmony were spotted closing the coast, to Roquetas de Mar to the East, to Adra in the West, with word of the raid sent as far as Salobrena and thence to Málaga.
“Then, Salobreña?” Mountjoy prompted.
“A diversion,” Lewrie finally explained. “Once the troops are back aboard, I’ll cruise Easterly and let the tower at Roquetas de Mar have a good, long look at us, perhaps stand as far as the Cabo de Gata, before turning out to sea. Let the Dons think I’m bound up the coast towards Cartagena, Alicante, or Valencia, instead. We’ll double back and go at Salobreña last, and land the troops in the full dark.”
“They’d be better at that, by then, is your thinking?” Mountjoy assumed, nodding quite cheerfully now that Lewrie had given in. “We have more of that good Spanish white, the tempranilla, and I’ve got a plate of some fresh cheese and good cured ham. D’ye think we need the mustard pot, too?”
“I’m a sailor, and we’re both British,” Lewrie said with a grin. “Of course, we need a dab of mustard.”
They went out to the rooftop gallery with the wine and a plate of cheese and cold cuts. Lewrie sat down and began to study the drawings of Salobreña, considering it the harder nut to crack, and the one that most worried him.
“You, ehm … mentioned some minor problems with the last raid? Some … worries?” Mountjoy asked as he poured the wine. “Have those settled, have you?”
“Hughes is the problem,” Lewrie said, almost spitting the name. “First, he over-rode my Midshipmen, Hillhouse and Britton, ordering them to land short of the battery, where it was darker, ’cause he didn’t wish to alert the sentries. I put ’em on notice that they were in charge on the water, and they’d land the troops where we planned t’land ’em, in future. Hughes … he acted as if he was in charge of a regiment, confronted by an equal number, and he acted like he was trained,” Lewrie griped with a shake of his head. “Open fire with rollin’ volleys, kill, or daunt, the foe, and only go in with the bayonet once the enemy’s been sufficiently whittled down. God!”
“You’ve spoken with him since you all returned?” Mountjoy asked with a quizzical expression. “How did that go?”
“Decidedly … not … well,” Lewrie barked in sour humour, and grimacing.
* * *
Lewrie had invited all officers to a celebratory “drunk” aboard HMS Sapphire, including Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton to join them, along with the two Ensigns of the detachment of the 77th Foot, Gilliam and Litchfield. His first intent was to congratulate them all on an operation that had gone off rather well, then had waited ’til everyone was “cherry merry” in wine, following the old adage that in vino veritas; in wine there is truth. It was only then that he had suggested that an informal review of the raid might prove helpful to the conduct of future operations; what worked, what might be improved or done differently.
As Pettus and Jessop circulated among them to top off their wineglasses with a sprightly, effervescent Spanish white, they all had sat dumbfounded for a minute or two, Who in the world cared what a junior officer thought? They hesitated, slack-jawed—and “half seas over” it must be confessed—waiting for Lewrie or Major Hughes to speak and tell them what to make of their recent experience.
“Well, sir,” Midshipman Hillhouse at last spoke up, “we could have landed the 77th closer to the objective.”
“It was a long dash at the double-quick, yes,” Ensign Gilliam had said with a titter of remembrance, and at his daring to say anything. Major Hughes almost snapped his neck, whipping about to glare slit-eyed at Hillhouse, then in tooth-grinding affrontery as Ensign Gilliam spoke, as if he’d just been addressed by a talking tit-mouse.
Marine Lieutenant Keane, who had still appeared at least partially sobre, added that, in retrospect, the battery could have been taken more quickly if a sweep by two companies round both sides of the place might have done the trick, and they could have caught all the Spanish officers and gunners in their underdrawers … assuming that Spaniards wore such.
“That would’ve saved us a fair parcel of ammunition, what?” Lt. Staggs had chortled over their wasted volleys, which had raised a loud and drunken laugh and a chorus of agreement from all but Major Hughes, and it had gone on from there, loosening up, with everyone contributing. Some of the suggestions, of course, were just too silly, given the age, and state of inebriation, of the participants, but all in all, the session had proved to be somewhat productive, trailing off in remembrances of how much outright fun it was to smash and burn things, and how humiliated the Spanish soldiers had been, after being ordered to strip to shirts, trousers, and stockings, and all their uniforms, accoutrements, boots, and weapons had been piled inside their barracks and burned along with it.
Major Hughes, it must be admitted, most pointedly did not contribute much to the session, signalling his displeasure and unease with stifled harumphs, re-crossings of his immaculately-booted legs, black scowls, and now-and-then astonishingly high, or low, flappings of his thick eyebrows, and Lewrie had been convinced that he had heard some faint, deep growls rumbling in Hughes’s throat that rivalled a wakened bear or a large watchdog.
With the last ridiculous ideas shot down, it had been time for drinking games, “a glass with you, sir!”, and song. They were, for the most part, young enough to still be students, well-pleased with themselves, and reckoning themselves bold and gallant warriors. Food was served from the sideboard cabinet in the dining-coach; fingers of toasted cheese rolled in bread crumbs; baked potatoes filled with bits of bacon, cheese, and shredded onion; thick-sliced “Tommy”, fresh bread from shore, with sliced ham or roast beef and mustard for sandwich makings; and both sweet and dill pickles. Lewrie had been amazed by how they had managed to stagger to the sideboard, load their plates, and return to their seats after so much wine had been taken aboard. He’d shared despairing looks with Pettus, for his cabins would need a real cleaning in the morning, and had feared that his carpets would never be the same. Fortunately, all had managed to stagger to the larboard side quarter-gallery when caught short, and no one, thank the Lord, had puked.
It had wound down after another hour, with the wine replaced by hot tea or coffee, and the officers of the 77th had been seen to the entry-port and waiting boats, though more than a few had had need of a Bosun’s chair, roped into the sling on a board for a seat, hoisted aloft suspended from the main course yardarm, and lowered into a boat, with the youngest and drunkest, Litchfield and Gilliam, delighting in it so much that they shrilled, “Whee!”
Lewrie thought that he had managed the whole affair most handily, and had used the junior officers’ comments and suggestions to do the goading and prompting without a direct confrontation with Major Hughes, all but patting himself on the back … but he’d been wrong.
“A word, sir,” Hughes had rasped in a threatening growl as the last of the 77th’s officers had departed the deck. “What a disreputable show, Captain Lewrie, I’ve never seen in all my born days, I tell you! Is that the way you run your ship, by a bloody committee, with damnable democracy, and a vote for all?”
“I thought it would prove useful, sir, since, as you said, we are breaking ground with such operations,” Lewrie had bristled up, “and celebrate their first success.”
“Prejudicial to good order and discipline is what I term it, sir!” Hughes had gravelled back, his face flushed with more than wine, and his eyes red. “Children, and subalterns, should be seen, but not heard. Next thing you know, they’ll begin second-guessing my orders, and questioning me why! Damme, they’re to obey my every order, else it all turns to utter chaos! You undermine my authority, sir, and I won’t have it!”
“I’ve done nothing of the kind, sir!” Lewrie had shot back.
“General Dalrymple appointed me to command the landing forces, sir, me!” Hughes had insisted, getting louder and drawing the attention of the people in the harbour watch. “If you find my conduct lacking, do you think me incapable, say so to my face, here and now, and ask the General for another officer!”
“I do not think you incapable, Major Hughes,” Lewrie had had to respond in kind, “but I do think you drunk. I have no intention of asking for you to be replaced.”
“You just handle your part, Captain Lewrie,” Hughes had fumed, “just get us where we’re supposed to go, and leave the military part to those who know what the Devil they’re doing, with no interference from … amateurs! Damme, I’ve spent twenty years at a soldier’s trade, sir, Ensign to Major, and I know what I’m about more than a sailor, or a tailor’s dummy of a Marine, and I’ll show you, I’ll show all of you, how to handle troops and win victories, damme if I won’t!”
He had been almost chest-to-chest with Lewrie, and had seemed ready to make his points with jabs of a stiffened finger, before stepping back, wheeling to stomp to the entry-port, and start to descend with no help. As he’d doffed his plumed bicorne in a departing salute, Hughes had flung his last shot.
“I will show you all!” he had barked.
* * *
“No, that doesn’t sound as if it went at all well,” Mountjoy agreed, looking gloomy. “Do you think he’s not really up to scratch?”
“At this moment, I haven’t a bloody clue,” Lewrie confessed. “He’s efficient, has all the nigglin’ little details seen to, and has his men trained, well-behaved, and … frisky. He takes good care of ’em. He’s just so … rigid. Hopefully, I’ve lit a fire under his arse, or rowed him enough t’change his ways. We’ll just have to see how he behaves on the next operation.”
“How soon can you sail, then?” Mountjoy asked.
“Hmm … end of the week?” Lewrie loosely estimated. “I spoke with the Captain of a frigate that’d just come in, and he said that there’d been some vicious gales from Sardinia to the Balearics, and I expect ’em here before they blow themselves out. Might get some precious rain at the Rock by tomorrow.”
“My gutters and rain-barrels are ready for it,” Mountjoy said, all but clapping his hands in expectation, “and the house has a good, deep cistern. My hydrangeas could do with a good rain.”
“Which’re those?” Lewrie, who had not a single clue about botany beyond recognising the difference ’twixt flowers and weeds, asked.
“Those in the pots, there,” Mountjoy told him as if amazed by his lack of knowledge.
“Ah,” Lewrie said. “Heard from that fool, Romney Marsh, yet?”
“Just the one note,” Mountjoy said, shaking his head in wonder. “Cryptic as all Hell … ‘Have arrived, met Goya’.”
“Who’s Goya?” Lewrie asked, befuddled once more.
“A famous Spanish painter,” Mountjoy said, snickering. “So … end of the week, you say?”
“Weather permittin’, aye,” Lewrie told him. As he sipped at his wine, though, he wondered again just what Major Hughes had meant when he said that he would show everyone how good a soldier he was.
What’s he goin’ t’do t’prove it? Lewrie wondered.
