Hostile Shores (29 page)

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.”