Authors: Adrian Goldsworthy
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Historical, #Historical Fiction
Run Them Ashore
| Run Them Ashore | |
| Number V of Napoleonic War | |
| Adrian Goldsworthy | |
| Weidenfeld Nicolson (2014) | |
| Tags: | Literature Fiction, Genre Fiction, Historical, Historical Fiction |
As the fifth novel in acclaimed historian Adrian Goldsworthy's Napoleonic series opens, British fortunes in the Peninsular War are at their lowest ebb. Lieutenant Hamish Williams of the 106th Foot will soon discover just how precarious their situation is, and what bloody sacrifices are necessary to prevent total victory for the French. While the Navy keeps the British foothold at Cadiz from falling to the enemy, help from the valiant but divided Spanish
guerrillos
will be vital if the French advance on land is to be halted. Alongside the experienced 'exploring officer' Lieutenant Hanley, Williams joins the Spanish partisans behind enemy lines, but while he learns much about the viciousness of guerrilla warfare - not least that women can sometimes fight with all the ferocity of their male counterparts - he quickly finds that the greatest danger comes from his own side. Carrying vital knowledge of a traitor, Williams must find his way back to the British lines before a deadly French trap can be sprung, but with the British commanders determined to go on the attack, will he be able to avert disaster?
For Robert
RUN THEM
ASHORE
Adrian Goldsworthy
Weidenfeld & Nicolson
LONDON
Contents
Come, cheer up, my lads, ’tis to glory we steer
,
To add something more to this wonderful year;
To honour we call you, as freemen not slaves
,
For who are so free as the sons of the waves?
Chorus:
Heart of oak are our ships, jolly tars are our men
,
We always are ready; steady, boys, steady!
We’ll fight and we’ll conquer again and again
.
We ne’er see our foes but we wish them to stay
,
They never see us but they wish us away;
If they run, why we follow, and run them ashore
,
For if they won’t fight us, what can we do more?
(Chorus)
They say they’ll invade us these terrible foes
,
They frighten our women, our children, our beaus
,
But if should their flat bottoms, in darkness set oar
,
Still Britons they’ll find to receive them on shore
.
(Chorus)
We still make them feel and we still make them flee
,
And drub them ashore as we drub them at sea
,
Then cheer up me lads with one heart let us sing
,
Our soldiers and sailors, our statesmen and king
.
• • •
‘Heart of Oak’ was written during the Seven Years War and quickly became popular, the wonderful year referring to victories won in 1759. The words were by the actor William Garrick.
T
he crest was close now, and the British officer allowed himself a moment of rest before he pushed on. He gulped a lungful of air and tried to ignore his aching thighs and calves. Lieutenant Williams felt exhausted; his back was a sheet of sweat, especially where his heavy pack pressed against his woollen coat. At least he had been right to wear his old jacket, bought two years before at an auction of a dead man’s property after Vimeiro, and since then scarred by a lot of campaigning. No longer scarlet, it had faded to a deep brick-red colour so dark as to be almost brown, but that did not matter much on a moonlit night like this. His only other regimental coat was safely folded inside his valise, safe from the abuse likely from scrambling over steep sand dunes in the middle of the night.
There was the sound of scrabbling from behind and he did not need to look around to know that the others were catching up.
‘Oh, bugger me,’ sighed a faint voice amid laboured breathing. That was Sergeant Dobson, and it was reassuring that even the veteran was finding the climb heavy going. Although past forty, the sergeant had spent most of his life in the army and never seemed to tire, even on the longest of marches on the very worst of roads.
The breeze was picking up, rippling through the dry grass dotted all over the side of the dune, but if anything making the already close night even more stifling. It was a hot wind from the south-west – an African wind – and Williams had been told that after a storm it sometimes left a film of fine desert sand covering the rooftops and lanes here on the coast of Granada.
Tonight it simply whistled along the little valley, stirring up the dust in swirls. Williams had no doubt that it was local Spanish sand that kept driving into his eyes, the tiny grains feeling like vast boulders.
That same sand also kept slipping underfoot as they climbed. Three steps upwards usually meant one or two sliding back down, and after a while they found it easier to progress crab-like, going along the dune as much as they went up it.
‘Leeway,’ muttered Williams to himself, and failed to stifle a laugh as the thought struck him that their progress was much like that of a ship. Repeated explanations, some in the last few days, informed him that the wind drove a sailing ship simultaneously forward and to the side, so that a vessel moved diagonally rather than straight. Williams still did not understand why, but was willing to accept it as one more mystery of God’s Creation.
‘Sir?’ hissed Dobson.
Williams looked back over his shoulder and saw the sergeant staring at him, face pale in the moonlight and the brass plate on the front of his shako gleaming. The veteran was using his musket like a staff to help him climb the slope, and Williams could not help wishing that he had done the same, instead of coming ashore with only his sword and a pistol.
‘Sorry, Dob,’ he said, and grinned. ‘I was away with the fairies for a moment,’ he added, using one of Sergeant Murphy’s favourite expressions. The Irishman was down in the valley with the main party, spared the long climb because he had barely recovered from a leg wound taken in the summer.
‘Ruddy officers.’
The sergeant’s words were almost lost as a fresh gust of wind hissed across the dunes, but he could see Dobson shaking his head. An officer now, Williams had joined the army more than three years ago as a Gentleman Volunteer, too poor to buy a commission and without the connections to be granted one. Dobson had been his front rank man when Williams carried a musket and did the duties of an ordinary soldier, all the time living with the officers of the regiment and hoping to win promotion
by performing some foolhardy act of valour and surviving to be rewarded. In spite of their differences – Williams was a shy, religious and somewhat earnest young man with a romantic view of life and honour, whereas the hard-drinking Dobson had been broken back to the ranks several times after going on sprees – the two men had taken to each other.
‘You’re my rear rank man, Pug,’ the veteran had said, his hands on Williams’ shoulders, and using the nickname the volunteer had picked up. ‘If it comes to a fight then we keep each other alive, so I need you to know what you’re at and not shoot me by mistake.’ In the company formation the pair stood one behind the other and if they extended into loose order then they worked as a team.
‘And if you must become a bloody officer,’ he had added, his weather-beaten face serious, but his eyes twinkling with amusement, ‘then you had better be a bloody good one, or you’ll only get all of us bloody killed.’ Williams had found himself returning Dobson’s broad grin, and felt that he had truly joined the ranks of the Grenadier Company.
The veteran had taught him a lot about soldiering, and in more than three years of hard service in Portugal and Spain the two men had only grown closer. Williams had been commissioned after Vimeiro and the veteran had helped him win confidence as an officer. At the same time Dobson appeared a reformed character, no longing drinking and raised to sergeant once again. Such a remarkable change seemed entirely due to his new wife, the prim widow of another sergeant who had died on the grim road to Corunna, not long after Dobson’s wife had been killed in an accident. It was an unlikely match, and yet clearly worked well for them both and for the wider good of the regiment, which thus gained a highly experienced and steady NCO.
Williams saw Dobson speak again, but lost the words in the sighing of the wind.
‘Are we going, then?’ the sergeant repeated more loudly, just as the breeze dropped away so that he seemed almost to be shouting.
Instinctively they dropped to the ground, the sailor behind Dobson a little slower than the two soldiers. Williams felt himself slipping down the slope and so grabbed two handfuls of grass and clung on. They waited, listening, hearing nothing save the gentle whisper of the wind, the still fainter sigh of the surf on the beach, and then, louder than both, the unnatural rattles, bumps and muffled curses as the main party carried their heavy loads up the track at the bottom of the valley.
Williams looked up, but could not see past the crest. He did not sense any danger, did not feel the slightest trace of that discomfort, nearly a physical itch all over his skin, that came so often when an unseen enemy was near. Dobson had long ago taught him to trust his instincts as much as his head, and always to suspect a threat even when one should not be there. ‘Never trust any bugger who tells you it’s safe,’ had been the precise words, but now he sensed that even the veteran was relaxed. Williams wondered whether a fortnight on board ship had taken the sharp edge off their instincts, just as it seemed to have softened their muscles so that climbing this slope left them spent.
It took a concerted effort for Williams to keep reminding himself that they were in Spain, away from the main armies, it was true, but still in a region overrun by the French invaders since the start of the year. All Andalusia was now in the hands of Bonaparte’s men, and his brother Joseph, puppet king of Spain, had been welcomed by cheering crowds when he toured the southern cities some months ago. As 1810 came to a close, there was not much of the country the enemy did not hold, and Massena’s invasion force was also deep inside Portugal, as Lord Wellington retired closer and closer to Lisbon. Williams had seen some of the fortifications built along the heights of Torres Vedras to halt the French. They had looked strong, but so many people were convinced that the war was lost that it took a good deal of stubborn faith to believe that the invaders would be stopped.
This was enemy territory, and although bands of guerrilleros still resisted, most of them were in the hills and mountains
further inland where it was easier to evade French patrols than here in the open country near the coast. Andalusia was big, and Napoleon’s soldiers spread thinly as they struggled to control all the many towns and villages. There was no French garrison of any size for more than ten miles, and the few outposts too small for the soldiers to risk leaving their shelter at night when the partisans were most likely to roam. The beach below them was a good place to land, but then so were most of the beaches along this coast. There was simply no reason for enemy soldiers to be at this out-of-the-way spot on this night, and thus there should be no danger. Perhaps that was why Williams kept telling himself that he ought to be worried.
‘Come on, then,’ he said, gripping the clumps of grass and half pulling, half pushing with his feet to clamber up the last few yards of slope. His mind conjured up images of a line of French soldiers waiting just over the crest, bayonets sharp and muskets primed and loaded, having watched with amusement as the damned fool redcoats toiled up the side of the dune. He tapped the butt of the pistol thrust into his sash to check that it was still there, but needed both hands to climb the last four or five feet, which were almost vertical.
Williams eased his head over the top. Eyes gleamed as startled faces watched him, and then the pair of coneys bounded off through the grass. Otherwise the ridge was open and empty, stretching for ten yards or so before gently sloping down again. He pulled himself over and knelt to look around. The grass was thicker up here and the ground more solid underfoot. Ahead it dipped down a little towards the road, the bright moonlight showing that this stretch was paved and well maintained. On the far side the land rose again, and a few miles away he could see it climbing steeply towards the mountains of the Sierra de Ronda, darker shapes in the general blackness beyond. To his left the road wound down through several little valleys as it went further inland, but still followed the general shape of the shore. He could see it as a lighter thread running steadily on over the plains a good mile away. Williams looked to the right and could
not see so far because the land rose a little before falling sharply back down towards the sea. Yet it was as they had expected, a neat round knoll on the far side of the road at the top of the valley they had climbed, and perched on its crest was the tower of a little church. It was all just as they had been told.
Dobson scrambled over the edge and knelt beside him. He was still breathing hard, but immediately brought up his musket, brushing sand from its mechanism and checking that the powder had not shaken out from the pan. A grunt of satisfaction showed that all was in order, and there was a loud click as he drew back the hammer to cock it. Prompted, Williams pulled the pistol from his sash.
‘Looks clear,’ he whispered.
‘Aye,’ Dobson replied.
The sailor came up to join them, but when he began to stand the sergeant reached up and gestured for him to crouch. There was no sense in offering too high a silhouette, just in case the land was less empty than it seemed.
‘There’s the old church,’ Williams said, and pointed.
‘God bless the Navy for landing us in the right place,’ muttered Dobson, and winked at the young topman who had accompanied them. The lad unslung his musket. His movements were looser, less formal than those of a soldier or a marine, but he looked as if he knew how to handle the firelock. Thomas Clegg was rated Able Seaman and was seen as trustworthy by his officers, otherwise he would not have been included in this landing party, let alone chosen for this detached duty when there were bound to be plenty of opportunities to run off into the darkness.
‘Cannot see the signal, though,’ Williams added. The sign was to be a lantern shining from one of the windows in the tower, showing that the guides were waiting with the mules needed to carry the muskets, cartridges and other supplies brought by the main party. All were destined for the serranos, the partisans fighting in the mountains, but to reach these elusive bands of patriots the British needed to be shown the way. Waiting with
the guides was supposed to be a Major Sinclair, the man who had requested this aid.
Williams did not know much about the major, except that he had been on his own helping the guerrilleros for a long time. There were quite a few officers like that around, especially here in the south, some sent from Gibraltar, others from Cadiz, and still more from Sicily or any of the other Mediterranean Islands in Britain’s hands. Many had a reputation for being unorthodox, and the little Williams had learned did not inspire a great deal of confidence in Sinclair. His friend Billy Pringle had gloomily told him that the major was not from a line regiment, but held rank in some ‘tag, rag and bobtail corps’ recruited from German, Italian and even French deserters from Napoleon’s legions.
Captain Pringle commanded the Grenadier Company of the 106th Foot, in which Williams, Dobson and Murphy all served, and he was also at least nominally in charge of this mission to aid the serranos. In truth Pringle would be guided by Hanley, another friend and yet another grenadier. No, that was no longer true, thought Williams, for just a few weeks ago Lieutenant Hanley was gazetted as captain, and so would be transferred to command one of the other companies. His elevation left Williams as the only lieutenant in their little group of friends, but seemed to mean little to Hanley, whose three years as a soldier had scarcely altered his lack of interest in rank or the other formalities of military discipline.
‘They’re nearly at the top, sir,’ whispered Dobson, his burring West Country accent still strong after a lifetime with the army.
Williams looked back and saw that the main party was coming to the head of the valley. The shapes of the sailors carrying their heavy burdens were vague, but the marines marching in front of them were clearer, their white cross-belts marking them out. He could not see either Pringle or Hanley distinctly, but guessed that they would be a little way in advance, looking for signs of their guides.
The wind freshened again and his nostrils filled with that salt
smell, subtly different and yet still so clearly akin to the one he had known while growing up beside the Bristol Channel that it took him back to his childhood. That was surely another reason why he felt so safe when he should really be wary and alert. As he looked out to sea, the not quite full moon was bright in the sky, with a long reflection on the water outlining His Majesty’s Ship
Sparrowhawk
and its two masts so perfectly that it looked like a painting. It was a peaceful, even beautiful, scene, and he was tempted to sit and simply stare out from the hilltop because it was so lovely.