A Sea of Troubles (12 page)

‘Aye, aye, sir.’

The destination of the Lyndhurst coach was another inn called the Wykham Arms, which, like all of Winchester was in total darkness by the time the two weary horsemen rolled up. They were required to bang hard to rouse out what passed for a night porter, in truth a fellow who, judging by his rank breath, drank too much and looked very unthreatening albeit he had a cudgel in his hand. That, originally raised in a defensive manner, dropped as he lifted his eyes to take in the height of one of the men he might be obliged to thwack – Michael O’Hagan made it look as if he would hardly reach, for the porter was short in the leg, so he undid the chain and let them into the hallway.

‘The Lyndhurst coach came earlier?’ That got a nod and a foul exhalation. ‘Were there aboard two French folk and an English lady?’

‘There were, took their bags in myself.’

‘How did they seem, I mean in each other’s company?’

‘Weren’t attending to that.’

‘Did they dine together?’

‘Can’t rightly say, don’t take much to foreign folk who don’t know a coin is due for porterage and I has other work to do, any road.’

‘Would that be the supping of ale?’ Michael asked.

Courage came from somewhere, probably what he had consumed throughout the day. ‘None of your damn business, Paddy.’

That got the fellow a grab at the front of his grubby shirt and a lift that had his feet off the floor until Pearce admonished his friend to put him down. As soon as he was released and breathing normally Pearce asked for a room they could share. For all he was in fear of the giant before him, that did not extend to rousing out the innkeeper or his wife, so both new arrivals had to settle for a bench in the taproom with Pearce moaning that he seemed to spend all his nights now on hard board instead of a comfortable cot. That fell on deaf ears; Michael O’Hagan was already snoring as through the window by John Pearce’s head came the first whistle of the dawn chorus.

Toby Burns had not slept at all, but at least in that, on this occasion, he was not alone. Brave as they sounded, every fellow going ashore was prey to nerves and it was a
relief to man the ship’s boats and, when daylight came, head for the troop transports to load on the bullocks who would carry out the main assault. On a shore in plain view it was obvious that the French garrison had a clear idea of where to mount a defence: files of blue-coated soldiers could be seen deploying and some of them digging, their backs to the slight dune that kept storm tides at bay.

On board HMS
Britannia
the marine officers had paraded their men, for it was the Lobsters who would mount the initial landing given they were more nimble, on a swell, at getting in and out of cutters and the like and quickly engaging. In reality it was because, inured to life at sea, they were less likely to be seasick, which the soldiers would most certainly be, for the swell in a ship’s boat cannot compare to that of a large capacious transport.

‘You have done this before, Mr Burns, I am informed.’

Staring glumly at the shoreline through the open entry port and lost in a reverie of a life so much less dangerous, Toby started at being so addressed. Walker, the man who had posed the question, a captain of marines, had arrogance written all over him, nose high, chin in and a look in his eye that implied he was of superior mien. The captain had served on the ship all the time that Toby had been aboard, yet these were the first words he had ever addressed to the midshipman, no doubt a lowly creature in his elevated eyes. The thought of his previous experience in carrying out a by-boat assault was not a fond one and his reply was almost savage enough to be disrespectful.

‘I was, sir, at San Fiorenzo, and the man who
commanded my boat took a ball in the leg.’ He had no idea what had happened to that naval lieutenant but he felt it deserved embellishment. ‘I do believe it led to an amputation.’

‘It will be hot work right enough,’ the captain replied with studied calm, which had Toby cursing the man under his breath; this was not work, it was slaughter.

‘Hotspur’s on deck,’ came a whispered alert, which referred to Hotham, whose wholly inappropriate soubriquet that was, ironic rather than complimentary. ‘An’ heading your way.’

The marine officer had gone rigid and Toby too was obliged to stand upright, to turn and to raise his hat. ‘Well, Mr Burns, here you have another chance to distinguish yourself.’

‘For which I am truly grateful, sir,’ he replied. ‘I was just explaining to Captain Walker how I lost my officer the last time and perhaps he would not be pleased to know that in a previous action above Bastia the fellow in command of the marine detachment was taken by a ball in the chest when we attacked a French redoubt. Come to think of it, the lieutenant who commanded our battery at the actual siege was wounded too.’

Hotham was not alone in glaring at him, for the implication was plain; Walker was too, for no man likes to be told that he is going to action in close proximity to the kind of Jonah that draws enemy fire, which was what Burns was telling him. It took some effort on the part of the admiral to recover a degree of composure.

‘Then, Mr Burns, it is time that matters were altered and I am sure even if Captain Walker leads you into the
thickest part of the action, you will both have tales to tell your grandchildren.’ He addressed Walker directly. ‘Not that he lacks for those, for did you know, captain, that this lad here was wounded at Toulon and, on his first voyage, stole back a merchant vessel that had been taken by the enemy.’

‘I had heard the tale, sir.’

‘“Tale”, Mr Walker? I rate it more than that.’

‘Time to get my men into the boats, sir.’

‘Carry on, Mr Walker, and since young Burns here is something of a talisman to the fleet, I suggest you gift to him the prow of your cutter. It will inspire those who follow to see an acknowledged hero standing to lead the assault.’

The boat took time to load and when complete it was crowded like every other in the initial assault. The number of marines that shared their thwarts cramped the rowers, with their muskets upright between their legs and bayonets glistening in the morning sunlight, the only difference being that the Lobsters faced forward while the oarsmen had their back to the shore. As they set off from the side of HMS
Britannia
, they were joined by marine detachments from the remainder of the fleet. Many of them in reality were soldiers who had been drafted into naval service to raise the numbers, but that notwithstanding – the two services heartily disliked each other – they received a collective cheer of encouragement from every main deck.

As it died away, Hotham’s voice could be heard in what was, for a man of his elevated rank, a rather undignified display of being partisan, given nearly all of his flagship lieutenants and midshipmen were engaged in getting the
fighting men ashore and the more senior they were, the more they resented the apparent favour being shown to one of their number.

‘Good luck to you all, and I know, Mr Burns, you will not fail to show an example.’

Under so many eyes and sat on the tiller, despite Hotham’s suggestion of the prow, there was little choice for Toby; he took hold of the berthing line and, wrapping it round his wrist, he stood, feet as far apart as he could, using his attachment to the body of the boat to stay upright and still able to steer, gazing into the stoical faces of those men it was his duty to command and seeing there no joy. The notion of shouting slogans of bravery, which should have accompanied such a gesture, was beyond him and Captain Walker, sat in the prow with his back to him, showed an indifference to the idea that he might do so.

The warships and transports were obliged to anchor far offshore in order to ensure a good depth of water under their keel, given the very rocky outcrops, and also they were subject to wind and the state of the tide, not much of a rise and fall in the Mediterranean but sufficient to create eddies and flows as well as choppy waves. It needed a tight grip on the line to hold his place and that lasted as they passed the bomb ketches, further inshore and firmly anchored in the soft sand of the bay, the mortars primed and ready to play upon the hastily slung up French defences.

For these fellows, given the range of their weapons left them normally too close to the defence for any comfort, it was in the nature of an exercise; the enemy had nothing
with which to retaliate and that lent to their cheers as the stream of boats began to pass a less than welcome bent that implied rather you than us. Toby could see the lips of the sailors move and the marines’ as well, most likely, all cursing the idle buggers in whispers and asides.

From such an elevated position and with the eyesight of his years, the youngster had a good view of the beach. He could observe that pieces of driftwood had been used to create ramparts against musket fire and in some cases sacks had been used to build up more. In his mind’s eye he could only too easily imagine rushing up the tilting sand, his feet dragging and slowing him down, as several Frenchmen took aim at his heart, which had him struggling, so vivid was the vision, to hold on to his bowels.

Soon they were over the shallow waters that ran all the way to the beach, able to see the rippled bottom and to make out the swaying seaweed where it covered the bed. Also, if indistinctly, he could see the enemy, not just their uniforms but individual faces, as well as the cocksure walking to and fro of parading officers, no doubt telling their recumbent men that this was the day they would achieve glory. Down at the water’s edge a single fellow stood, wearing a tricolour sash, a plumed hat and with gold frogging to his jacket that denoted superior rank. He had a small eyeglass raised and was sweeping the line of boats. Having held his position for some time he suddenly dropped the glass and slammed it closed, then turned and walked back up to join the rest of his men, which brought forth the first words from Captain Walker that he had uttered since casting off from the flagship.

‘We will be in musket range soon, my lads, so make yourself small. Mr Burns, I would suggest that the position you have adopted is an unwise one and you will oblige me by not only sitting down but doing your best to use the men before you as protection against a ball.’

‘But the admiral, sir—’

He got no further and the reply, in tone, was icy. ‘Sir William is master on his own deck, and so it should be. But I am the ranking officer in this boat and what I wish supersedes the desires of admirals, however hungry they are for the glory of those they cherish.’

That shocked Toby; even if it was a thought many held it was not one to articulate in public and Walker turned to drive home his point. ‘Get down, sir, this instant, for there will be enough futile injury on that strand of beach without we add to it by braggadocio.’

Toby obliged, easing himself down to look into a stony-faced superior, who merely gave a sharp nod, as Walker, still facing the stern, issued his orders to all.

‘You, Mr Burns, will take equal cognisance of what I am saying. On the tiller you will oblige me by grounding at an angle of forty-five degrees and on my command, which will be given when we have alignment with our confrères in the other boats. My fellows, you will stand and deliver one volley of musketry. As for you tars, you may cower in the bottom if you so desire but do not get in the way. My Lobsters will then disembark on the seaward side, for the water will scarce cover their ankles.’ His voice now rose and it was harsh. ‘No man is to get onto the dry sand and expose themselves until I give the order and I’ll break at the wheel any sod who disobeys.’

He had to pause then, the bomb ketches had opened up, sending huge balls arching towards the shore, there to land and send up great plumes of sand close to the water’s edge that seemed to rest in the air before settling slowly down in the form of a cloud.

‘Useless,’ Walker spat. ‘More of a danger to us than John Crapaud, but it is not too much to ask that perhaps they will up their range and keep down French heads. Now, we are coming in long range, so prepare to receive fire.’

Toby Burns was slightly taken aback; if Walker had previously addressed no words to him, seeming arrogant and taciturn, he was certainly employing enough now, while what he explained was in itself remarkable. Officers, both naval and doubly so marines, rarely explained anything to their men; they just drilled them and expected them to follow orders when engaged. Yet here was this fellow outlining in detail what he wanted to do, while seeking to keep them from unnecessary harm.

‘Mr Burns, the men rowing at the point of disembarkation become yours to lead, the boat yours to command. Once we have ceased to use it as cover and have begun our advance it will be entirely at your discretion as to whether the oarsmen take part in seeking to secure the beach or return to bring in reinforcements. You do not have to seek my permission on how to proceed.’

‘Sir.’

The voice softened, as Walker added, ‘Orders which should have been issued to you by your superiors – I take it they were not?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Well, you have them now, so act as you see fit – and,
Mr Burns, a piece of advice: valour does not come from what others wish of you but what you do yourself and unbidden.’

Toby would have replied if he had not been forced to duck into his own body as the first musket balls fizzed into the water alongside, the captain still talking.

‘Steady lads, it’s all chance at this range, so pray to God that he wants you spared. Now hang onto something as we strike the sand.’

Toby, looking left and right, could see others in line and seemingly setting their pace by Walker, who had just asked the oarsmen, politely, for extra effort, a request to which they responded by bending their backs. If the boat picked up a bit of speed it was, in open water, hard to tell, but the marine captain seemed satisfied and within what seemed like seconds, and still a goodly distance from the waterline, the keel grounded, bringing the cutter to a shuddering halt, at which point Walker did stand, to order his men up with him. They obeyed and with a sluggishness that amazed Toby – it was as if no one was shooting at them – they lowered their muskets as if they were in no danger, took aim and fired off a very disciplined volley at their officer’s command.

‘Wet your feet, lads.’

The boat dipped heavily to one side as they leapt into the water, which in truth came up to their knees, setting about the ritual of reloading as soon as they were steady on their feet. Toby, cowering down now that he was fully exposed, found the voice of Captain Walker close to his ear, as were the cracks of passing shot aimed in their direction.

‘It never will do to have the men you lead in ignorance of what we are about, Mr Burns.’

‘Ready, sir,’ called his corporal, which had Walker ordering another volley, this as mortar balls flew over their head to land three-quarters of the way up the beach, the onshore breeze carrying the sand over the enemy defences to hide any success the marine fire might have achieved.

‘Damn me,’ Walker hooted, ‘we are going to drive them away with the discomfort of sand down their necks.’

‘Will we drive them off, sir?’

‘Oh yes. Our aim is to clear the beach, not die trying to take it, though I daresay some fools, even if they know that, will earn themselves a Corsican headstone for their stupidity. The French cannot hold, they lack the numbers, and nor have they fetched out field artillery to impede us, not that we are sure they possess any. They will seek to hold us up, to make the landing as bloody as they can, then, when the situation ceases to be tenable, they will withdraw back to their citadel and outer forts where, in time, unless a relief force comes from the mainland to drive us away, we will accept their surrender.’

‘They should surrender now,’ Toby spat.

‘Nonsense, lad, even the French are careful of their honour.’

‘Main body coming in, sir,’ shouted someone from along the beach, by his tone another officer, which drew all eyes to a mass of boats heading for a point where the beach ended and the hills began, mostly men in red, but also several boats full of men in white, French Royalists come to do battle with their fellow countryman.

‘The Bullocks are heading for the northern section,’
Walker continued, ‘and once the Johnny in command of our enemies sees that they are about to succeed in securing it he will blow for the retreat to avoid being cut off from an easy withdrawal. At that point, and not before, my men and I will advance.’

‘Reinforcements, sir?’

‘Judging by the rate of fire I doubt we’ll need any. You’ll be fetching cannon ashore soon and my poor lads will be obliged to haul the damn things up that great hill you see to the north. Once over that we will then be set to filling bags for battery ramparts and a good month of looking down on our foes.’

If Walker thought it was close to a finish it could not be discerned by silence; balls cracked overhead, others thudded into the side of the cutter to embed themselves in the strakes and every so often, regardless of using the boats as cover, somewhere along the waterline a marine would spin away having been hit in the upper part of his body or his head by a lucky shot. The mortars kept up their bombardment, mostly useless on such soft ground that just sucked the balls in to dissipate the effect. The odd one did land where it was needed, the screams of those it had hit rolling down to the shoreline, until from their left came the sound of cheering as the army units came ashore to rush those who lay before them.

When, as predicted, the bugle sounded the retreat, Walker ordered his men out of cover and, after one volley and in extended order, they began to advance, this as flags waved out to sea to bring an end to the bombardment. But the French were not routed, they retired in good order, able to turn and subject those pursuing them to
volley fire every so often, some of those missing and sending up founts of sand near the boats.

‘Man the oars,’ Toby croaked, his throat feeling as dry as sandpaper.

‘We’ll need bodies over the side to get us off,’ a voice called. It was, no doubt, that of the senior hand aboard, keen to remind a young gentleman – useless as a breed in most sailors’ eyes – of what he should have thought of for himself. That they did not respect him was in the next words addressed. ‘An’ since you ain’t rowing, Mr Burns …’

There was no choice but to expose himself and as he leapt over the side two others followed, putting their shoulders to the prow and driving the cutter back till it floated. One man to his right, from being bent over suddenly became upright, then arched backwards, this before he fell forward with a moan, his hands clutching at a rowlock, the midshipman transfixed by the sight as the same gruff voice called out.

‘Get Tosh inboard, for the love of Christ.’ Hands dragged at the wounded man and the second sailor who had helped to free the boat secured his legs and heaved, the inert body crumpling into the bottom followed by a less than respectful shout. ‘Get aboard, young sir.’

At that very moment, holes appeared in the wet sand by his boots and Toby could not move; his legs were useless even as he mentally ordered them to comply. Was it collective or did that leading hand give another command. Whatever, the oars were dipped and the boat was moving, a voice floating back to the ears of the rock-still midshipman.

‘Got to get him to the surgeon, quick.’

It took several seconds for Toby to realise that the distance between boat and shore was now too great to cover, to realise that he was stuck ashore in what was still a battle for possession of the beach. Running out of the shallows he threw himself down in the sand, praying to God to be spared.

‘What are you about, Mr Burns?’ called Captain Walker. ‘Can you not observe that the enemy are now in full flight?’

The first boats bringing in the heavy cannon, their wooden and wheeled trunnions, as well as powder and shot, provided Toby Burns with a way back to HMS
Britannia
and he left a beach now full of men, strangers to him, constructing tripods to get them ashore with ropes and pulleys, and slatted roadways to get them across the soft sand to the base of the hills. He had declined Walker’s invitation to join in the advance of the marines, shepherding the French back into their pen as he called it, on the grounds that it had to be dangerous, only to find when he came back aboard he was being praised, not too fulsomely, for staying ashore when he could have departed.