Текст книги "Hostile Shores"
Автор книги: Dewey Lambdin
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 27 страниц)
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“A pretty day for it, I must say, sir,” Mr. Caldwell the Sailing Master commented as Lewrie paced the quarterdeck near him, in passing.
“Pretty, aye, but a windy one,” Lewrie responded after a long squint aloft to the stiffly fluttering commissioning pendant and the thrumming and clattering of running rigging and blocks. HMS Reliant lay almost beam-on to weather, rolling alee, then upright, and snubbing at her anchor cables. “Yesterday was calmer. Better for it.”
The fleet had come to anchor just West of Robben Island on the night of the 4th. Yesterday, on the 5th, the demonstration towards Green Island had been made. Now this morning, the 6th of January, was the day selected by Commodore Popham to land the army.
At the moment, that prospect didn’t look all that promising to Lewrie, for though the skies were clear blue and the high-piled clouds were as white as fleece, there were strong winds from offshore, which had stirred up a heavy surf, combining to make a landing very risky.
Lewrie fetched a longer, more powerful telescope from the binnacle cabinet forward of the double-wheel helm and went to the bulwarks on the lee side to extend the tubes and raise it to one eye to peer deep into Blaauwberg Bay.
“Christ on a crutch,” he muttered in dour appreciation.
The bay was chopped with white-caps and white horses right to the shallows, and streaked with long, white curling waves mostly parallel to the shore where they began to break, rank upon rank of them marching onwards to crash and expend themselves upon the shingle and sand, each a little more than one hundred yards apart. Were heavily loaded boats sent in under oars, they would be hobby-horsing up and over each wave, bows-high first, then stern-high as they passed over the steep crests, and burrowing their bows in. Their final dashes to the beach would be nigh un-manageable, riding the crests if they were lucky, but it was good odds that many would broach beam-on to those waves, and be rolled over and under!
“Still no signal from Diadem?” Lewrie asked over his shoulder.
“None yet, sir,” Lt. Westcott told him.
“It might be best were the landings put off ’til tomorrow,” Lewrie said as he lowered the long day-glass, collapsed the tubes, and turned away from the rails, with a frown on his face.
“Perhaps conditions may be better in Saldanha Bay, sir,” Lieutenant Merriman hopefully suggested. “It is a bit more sheltered.”
“But, only the slightest bit, Mister Merriman,” Lewrie pointed out as he pulled out his pocket-watch to see how much of the morning had been wasted. “From Saldanha Bay, it’s more than a day’s march to Cape Town. That’d give the Dutch bags of time to mount a counter move. Daylight’s wasting. If we don’t move soon, we might as—”
The blustery morning was broken by the report of two guns, the announcement of a general signal to all ships. Two sour and yellowish-white puffs of powder smoke sprouted from the flagship, HMS Diadem. A long moment later, strings of brightly-coloured signal flags went soaring up her halliards.
“It is … ‘To Weigh … In Order of Sailing’,” Lt. Westcott slowly interpreted. “The last is spelled out letter-by-letter, sir. It is … ‘Saldanha’!”
“Very well, Saldanha Bay it is,” Lewrie said with a quick nod of his head, puffing out his cheeks in a disappointed sigh. “And God help poor soldiers. Hands to ‘Stations To Weigh’, Mister Westcott.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Once every warship and transport had hoisted their own ‘Affirmative’ signals to acknowledge receipt and understanding of the orders, Diadem struck her string of signals, which was the ‘Execute’. On each vessel, messenger lines were fleeted to capstans, the messengers nippered to the much stouter anchor cables, capstan bars fitted to the tops of the drums, and sailors breasted to the bars and began the heaves to reel in the hawsers. Most ships were anchored fore-and-aft by best bowers and kedges, so bow hawsers had to be eased and the aft hawsers taken in to break the kedges free; then, the process had to be repeated to bring the bow hawsers to “Up And Down”, just shy of breaking the bowers from the bottom. Sail began to appear on every ship, mostly jibs, stays’ls, and spankers to begin with, to gain some control and keep them from sagging alee onto the shoals round Robben Island, and to put a bit of forward drive on.
Altogether, all those evolutions took the better part of an hour, before the first transports bearing the 38th Regiment of Foot, the bulk of the cavalry, and the artillery led out ahead of the rest on course for Saldanha Bay, up the coast.
“Hmm,” Lt. Westcott said, looking aloft. “We may need to let the tops’ls fall to the next reef point, sir. I think the winds are moderating.”
Lewrie, who had been standing by the windward side of the quarterdeck, on the larboard side, first looked seaward to determine if another column of ships was stealing their wind, then turned to face his First Officer. “Damned if it ain’t, Mister Westcott. Do you bare more canvas, aye.” He took another long moment to judge how his ship moved underneath his feet, then exclaimed, “And, damned if the sea’s not as lively, either. Think I’ll take another peek ashore.”
Back to the compass binnacle cabinet he went to fetch out that powerful telescope, went to the lee, starboard, bulwarks, and looked shoreward. Blaauwberg Bay was off the fleet’s starboard quarters, by then, and the approaches to Saldanha Bay were off the starboard bows, still miles away, and Blaauwberg Bay was … calming!
The confused chop had ebbed in a single hour with the dropping of the offshore wind, and the clashing large white horses seemed to have dissolved, leaving only scattered white-caps and cat’s paws on the sea. The strong sets of rollers and breaking waves no longer crashed on the beaches, but merely gushed ashore in sheets of foam, and were much reduced in height.
“Signal from Diadem, sir!” Midshipman Eldridge sang out. “Two guns, general to all ships, and it is … ‘Columns Wear South In Order Of Succession’ … and ‘Leading Columns First’! ‘Land … Army’ … she’s spelling out B … L … ‘Blaauwberg’!”
“Now this is goin’ t’be a rat-scramble!” Lewrie hooted in sour amusement. “Recall our bloody ‘sugar trade’ two years ago, Mister Westcott? And what a cock-up that was when America-bound ships tried t’leave the convoy?”
“Sadly I do, sir,” Lt. Westcott agreed, snickering.
There had been over an hundred merchantmen to herd and guard from the “rondy” at Jamaica to England, but no one had given a thought to the ships bound for Savannah, Charleston, the Chesapeake, and ports in New England. They’d been scattered throughout the convoy like raisins in a pudding, and when they’d altered course to thread their ways through the long columns of ships, perfect panic had resulted, and it had taken the better part of a whole day to sort the convoy back into proper order again, with the America-bound ships posted down the lee side, so they could leave without frightening the wits from everyone!
“Well, here it comes again!” Lewrie said, laughing out loud. “I expect the Commodore will wear out two sets of signal flags before he’s done … and he’s the one who invented the code system!”
The fleet was sorted out in order of importance, with the merchantmen and transports bearing the intial landing force in the lead, and the secondary waves astern of them. Now, the lead group must go about, one at a time, to reverse their order of sailing, and steer for Blaauwberg Bay, whilst the rest would have to stand out to sea to give them room, then wear about to reverse their order and fall astern of those ships carrying the first regiments.
Hmm, I don’t recall the Popham Code includin’ stock curses, Lewrie told himself; I s’pose we’ll have t’spell ’em out. Takes all the spontaneity, and the fun, from ’em!
* * *
And, indeed it was far past mid-day by the time all ships had managed to come about and sail into Blaauwberg Bay in their proper order, close the shore, and come to anchor in ragged, dis-ordered ranks parallel to the beaches, about one mile to seaward. It helped that the winds were still from offshore, instead of the typical Sou’east Trade winds, so they could wear about from one beam-reach to another, not butt their way in a series of short tacks into the Trades!
“Signal, sir!” Midshipman Grainger, who had taken Eldridge’s place at the change of watch, crisply reported. “It is … ‘Send Boats’, and … ‘Commence’!”
“Very well,” Lewrie said. “Hoist the ‘Affirmative’, then take your place in charge of the second cutter, Mister Grainger. Mister Westcott? See to haulin’ our boats from towin’ astern to the entry-ports, and muster the boat crews.”
“Aye, sir!”
The sailors told off to man the boats left their watch-standing duties and gathered round the four most-experienced Midshipmen assigned to lead them, along with the tarry coxswains specially selected to the tricky and risky work of conning the boats through the surf and foamy breakers to safe groundings on the beach, land their soldiers, then get the cutters and barges safely off and back to the transports for a second load; as many runs as it would take in concert with the transports’ boats to get a full regiment ashore.
Lewrie left the quarterdeck and descended to the waist before the ship’s boats reached the entry-ports. Bisquit, the ship’s dog, was already out of his shelter beneath the starboard quarterdeck ladderway, prancing about and through the groups of men, curious to see what this unusual activity was about.
“Lads!” Lewrie called out. “The surf’s subsided considerably, and conditions have improved, but … the Army’s trustin’ to us to see ’em safe ashore. It might be a temptation t’rush things, but this’ll best be like ‘church work’ … slow and steady. You cox’ns…,” he said, looking the chosen men in the face directly, his own boat’s Cox’n, Liam Desmond, too. “Every man’s life’ll be in your skilled hands. That’s why you were picked for it. And you young gentlemen,” he said to the eager-looking Midshipmen, “you trust to your cox’ns’ skill and experience, the closer ye get to shore. It won’t be an occasion for sky-larkin’, and with the late start you’ll probably be at it ’til sundown, and might have t’finish the work tomorrow mornin’, too, so give your hands a rest when ye can, and breaks for water.
“As to the second rum issue, lads,” he added with a grin. “It will be doled out late, once you’re back aboard.”
That raised a cheer.
“Away ye go, then, do your best, and show our redcoats, and the idle lubbers aboard the transports, what the Navy, and Reliants, can do!” Lewrie concluded, doffing his hat to them. “And, as the Spanish say, ‘Go with God’, and I fully expect t’see all your smilin’ faces when you return!”
He returned to the quarterdeck as the boat crews began to go down the battens to the waiting boats, to stand amidships of the cross-deck stanchions and hammock nettings to see them off. Poor Bisquit dashed about, yipping and whining as if all his friends and playmates were abandoning him. As the last hands left the deck, he sat down and looked left and right, ears perked in puzzlement.
“Bisquit,” Lewrie called to him, and the dog bounded up the ladderway to the quarterdeck to press against Lewrie’s leg for reassurance. Lewrie leaned down to pet him and ruffle his fur.
“No need t’fret, ye silly beast,” Lewrie cossetted in a soft voice. “They’ll all be back aboard by supper time. Even if they won’t have time t’hunt ye up a nice, fresh bone or two.”
Well, at least I hope they will, he grimly thought.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Lewrie hosted a supper for his officers and the four Midshipmen who had led the boats, and his cook, Yeovill, had done his best with what little variety was left in his personal stores after the long passage South from Madeira. There was reconstituted vegetable soup, no chance for a fresh salad, a roast duck from the forecastle manger, and yellowfin tuna steaks from a smallish fish which Yeovill had gotten once they’d come to anchor, eked out with shrivelled baked potato halves smothered in the least-mouldy cheeses and shredded bacon, and a bowl of boiled green snap beans purchased at Funchal. Lashings of wine more than made up for the lack of anything special, or fresh.
“Well, it wasn’t all that bad a day, after all,” Lt. Merriman commented. “We managed to get most of the infantry regiments ashore.”
“And, half the cavalry,” Lt. Arthur Simcock, their Marine officer, crowed.
“And, some of the artillery, too!” Westcott pointed out. “The Army won’t be over-run during the night, God willing, and we’ll have the rest ashore by tomorrow, mid-day.”
“Too bad about the poor Scotties from the Ninety-third, though,” Lewrie said from the head of the table.
Several boats bearing one of the Highlander regiments had been over-set as they had hobby-horsed over the breakers, and thirty-five soldiers, heavily laden with muskets, packs, cartridge boxes, hangers and bayonets and bed-rolls, had been drowned despite efforts to save them.
“I thought it canny of Diadem’s captain, Captain Downman, to run that wee old transport onto a shoal to make a breakwater, and a lee for the landings after that,” Westcott said as he topped up his glass of port and passed the decanter along, larboardly. “He saved more than a few lives.”
“She drew what … only six or eight feet?” Lt. Merriman said with a sneer. “Who in their right minds would send a ship so small and shoal-draught to sea on such a long voyage, as a transport worthy of carrying soldiers?”
“Our Transport Board, and a venal owner, most-like,” Lewrie carped. “Now, does the sea get up before they work her off that shoal, she’ll be a total loss, and her owner’ll collect her full value in insurance from Lloyd’s. Then, at least, the Transport Board won’t risk any more lives to such a scow.”
“Is there much left to do in the morning, for us I mean, sir?” Lt. Simcock asked, between bites of a ginger snap.
“Mister Warburton?” Lewrie prompted.
“Well, sir,” their senior-most Mid spoke up, “we got the light company, the grenadier company, and five of the eight line companies from the regiment ashore by sundown. That leaves three more to go, and if the weather holds, I expect that, between our boats and the transport’s boats, we could be done by the start of tomorrow’s Forenoon Watch.”
“If we begin just before sunrise,” Midshipman Grainger said in weariness, stifling a yawn. “But, most-like it’ll take ’til Noon, with three round-trips, if today’s confusion is anything to go by.”
“Dis-organised, was it?” Lewrie asked, reaching for the pewter barge which held the sweet bisquits and choosing an oatmeal one.
“Well, sir,” Midshipman Eldridge, who was usually too shy to voice an opinion, hesitantly contributed, “it struck me that the Army types were more concerned with getting here in one piece, and fit to go on shore, but didn’t give the actual landing a single thought, leaving it up to the Navy, or Fate. Look at how they got their cavalry and artillery horses ashore. Goose ’em over the side into the sea, rope them, and lead them behind boats! The Lord only knows how many they lost, poor things.”
“Aye, I expect some sharks fed well today,” Lt. Westcott said.
“I’m not sure that ship’s boats are the best choice for landing troops, or horses,” Lewrie said, mulling things over. “When we were in the Channel, playin’ with those damned torpedoes, you and Merriman had all sorts of ideas for improvin’ ’em, and designing boats that could sail themselves in with fused explosives, ’stead of just driftin’ on the tide, Mister Westcott. Perhaps you and Merriman could put your minds together, again, and draw up something.”
“Hmm … I suppose such a study could be productive,” Westcott said with his head laid to one side in thought. “And, dull as things are so far, sir, it would keep us all from keeling over in boredom!”
That raised a laugh, and a call for the port decanter to make another round.
“Well, speak for yourself, sir,” Lewrie countered, grinning, “for I doubt our Mids thought the day boresome.”
“God, no, sir!” Grainger said with a mock shudder. “It was … not terrifying at times. Let me say … adventurous!”
That opinion was loudly seconded by his fellows.
“There may be a way to relieve your boredom, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie went on once the laughs died down. “The last time I spoke with Commodore Popham, he mentioned his desire to form a Naval Brigade for service ashore, alongside the Army. Hmm?”
“Huzzah!” cried their Marine Lieutenant. “At last!”
“I must lead it, sir!” Lt. Westcott almost begged.
“So you shall,” Lewrie quickly assured him. “If the brigade is formed. Generals Baird and Beresford didn’t sound too keen on the idea. Probably worried how they’d feed ’em from their stores. How would you expect to victual your Marines, were you ordered ashore, Mister Simcock? How would you go about it, and what would you take along?”
“Hmm,” was Lt. Simcock’s answer as he leaned back in his chair, stared at the overhead deck beams, and crossed his arms in thought. “Beyond our weapons, packs, and bedding, spare ammunition and such … well, sir, one would likely assume that the Army would supply us. Barring that, I’m not really sure.”
“Then let us assume that the brigade is assembled, and that we must fend for ourselves,” Lewrie said, hunching forward on the table. “Fourty private Marines, two Corporals, one Sergeant, and you, sir, that’s fourty-four. An equal number of armed sailors, the Bosun’s Mate and a Ship’s Corporal for enforcing discipline, two Mids, and an officer, that’s fourty-five. I think the ship may spare that many and still be able to fight, should the French turn up, hey?”
“Sounds about right, sir,” Westcott quickly agreed, his eyes lit up with pending delight.
“Muskets, bayonets, and cutlasses should it come to close quarters,” Lewrie sketched on, “hammocks for ground cloths and a blanket for each man, cartridge boxes, spare flints, spare cartridges, and if any weapon needs repair, we might be able to prevail upon some regimental armourers. Rations, though?”
“The hands each have their knives, sir, and forks and spoons,” Lt. Merriman offered. “They’ve pewter or china mugs, but … what sort of dishes? As easily broken as they are, our people prefer to eat off china plates; I doubt I’ve seen the old square wood trenchers since I was a Mid. ‘Three square meals a day’, what?” he said with a quick grin. “I suppose that the Purser could provide pewter plates.”
“Ah, but what do we put on those plates, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked them all. “And, who does the cooking if we do have rations? We would have to lug along kegs of salt-meats, full bags of ship’s bisquit, and some vessels to serve as steep-tubs to rinse off the salt from the meat, and others to boil it. Ladles, meat forks, mesh mess bags—”
“Rum, sir,” Midshipman Warburton suggested. “Our hands expect two issues a day. How much would that be for, say, a week away from the ship?”
“Water, sir,” Midshipman Eldridge gloomily contributed.
“Don’t your Marines have water bottles of some kind, Mister Simcock?” Lewrie asked him.
“Somewhere deep in the hold, sir, we’ve two wood crates, with four dozen wooden canteens, of quart volume … or so I may recall from my inventory,” Lt. Simcock told them all, shrugging. “As to what our sailors might use, I haven’t a clue. It will be thirsty work, to march several miles a day, ascend the mountains behind the beach, and fight. Hellish thirsty work! Even do we simply ferry Army supplies ashore and guard them, our people will be parched in the extreme.”
“Our sailors aren’t known for long, hard marching,” Merriman said. “All but the ‘Idlers’ are young, fit, and spry, and used to hard work and ‘pulley-hauley’, but they’ll be gasping after a few hours.”
“We’d best fetch along one of the Surgeon’s Mates and his kit, should we do fight, and suffer casualties,” Lt. Westcott suggested.
“Beginnin’ t’sound daft, don’t it,” Lewrie summed up, grumpy with disappointment over the mounting impossibility of the Commodore’s airy plan. “To carry all we need ashore with us, we’d need carts of some kind, and there’s no way t’make ’em, no harness, no draught animals, and no bloody wheels! The Army does, but none t’spare for us.”
He looked to the sideboard, hoping that Yeovill or Pettus had set out a bottle of brandy, or American whisky, for he felt a strong desire for something to lift his spirits. There were empty bottles of wine, and a full bottle of port, just in case the decanter ran dry.
“Hmm,” Lewrie said, rising just enough to reach over to the sideboard and fetch an empty bottle that had contained the Rhenish that had accompanied the fish course. “As for water, we could issue wine bottles. Most of ’em are near a quart in volume, or thereabout. Rinse ’em out, fill ’em just before we leave the ship, and slap the corks back in, and there you are.”
“But, how would the men carry them, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked. “Army canteens have slings for wearing over one shoulder down to the opposite hip. They’d drop or break them in the first two hours!”
“Cartridge bags?” Midshipman Grainger piped up in the deep, pondering silence.
“What?” Lewrie asked.
“Well, sir, a serge cartridge bag for the quarterdeck nine-pounders is about the same diameter of your average wine bottle,” Grainger slowly explained. “Using that as a pattern, the Sailmaker and his Mate, and the Master Gunner and Yeoman of The Powder, could sew up some snug bags from spare canvas, and sew on a canvas shoulder strap. In the magazine, there is a wooden form for making new powder bags, one for each calibre of ordnance aboard, really.”
“That might be one problem solved, sir!” Lt. Westcott was quick to agree, eager to forward the plan, and get his idle arse ashore and in some sort of action.
“Where would we get nigh fifty empty bottles, though?” Merriman said with a sigh.
“That might depend on how many you can drink ’twixt now and then, Mister Merriman,” Lewrie said, laughing.
“Lord, sir!” Merriman gawped. “We consume nothing near a civilian gentleman’s usual half-dozen. Why, the wardroom’s practically abstemious! I doubt we down a half-dozen a day between all of us!”
“Drink up, then, sailors,” Lewrie merrily urged.
“Ehm … it’s the better wines that come in bottles, sir,” Lt. Simcock objected. “The poorer ones come in stone crocks, barricoes, and pipes. Our entire mess stores would have to be—”
“We need four-dozen,” Lewrie said. “Two cases from the officers’ wardroom, and two cases from my personal stock.”
Merriman and Simcock looked as if they might whimper or moan.
“Aye, Mister Westcott, that is one problem solved. Though one of many,” Lewrie declared. “Hopefully, Commodore Popham will be able to prevail upon our redcoat compatriots for at least one cart for all we’ll need to take ashore. He’s a way of getting what he wants, and getting his way, no matter.”
One bell was struck at the forecastle belfry; the first after the change of watch at 8 P.M.; it was half-past, and almost time for all glims and lights to be doused at 9 P.M.
“Heel-taps, gentlemen,” Lewrie announced, “a last glass of port before we retire … before the Master-At-Arms comes round and glares at me, hey? I apologise for the poor meal, but the company at-table this evening is always delightful. Allow me to propose a toast … to success on the morrow, and confusion to the foe!”
“Success and confusion!” they all shouted once the glasses had been poured full, then tossed their ports back to the last drop.
* * *
Once his dinner company was gone, Lewrie requested a glass of American bourbon whisky from Pettus. Yeovill gathered up the scraps and leftovers—damned few of those!—into his brass barge, and slipped a few shreds of duck to Chalky, who had hopped atop the table in eager search for more tucker, as if he hadn’t eaten his food bowl empty, and was simply famished.
Jessop helped Pettus clear the sideboard and the last plates; Pettus had paid attention during their after-supper discussions, and put the corks back into the empties, setting them aside for rinsing out later.
“Anything else, sir?” Yeovill asked, ready to depart.
“Don’t think so, Yeovill,” Lewrie told him. “You can turn in, and thank you for a toothsome meal on such short notice.”
“Evening, sir,” Yeovill replied, always happy to prepare a big spread for guests, and pleased with his handiwork.
Lewrie went to sprawl on the starboard-side settee, feet up on the low brass Hindoo tray table, and sipped on his whisky. With no more treats in the offing, Chalky jumped down from the table and ambled over to hop onto the settee, pad onto Lewrie’s lap, and nuzzle him, nose-to-nose for strokes and pets. After a few minutes of that, Chalky turned about, made a circle, and slung himself against Lewrie’s hip, making faint purring rumbles.
Now, how the Devil do we get all we need ashore? Lewrie wondered to himself; If we’re ordered ashore. Put wheels under a cutter and drag the damned thing with ropes?
No matter how daunting the whole thing seemed, though, Lewrie more than half-way hoped that Popham would get his way. It would have to be fourty-six empty wine bottles, for he would need one, himself!
