Run Them Ashore (20 page)

‘We need to pull them back,’ Mullins shouted, but by the time they reached the Spanish infantry the Toledo Regiment was already retiring. They did so calmly, more frustrated than daunted by the enemy, and so they marched in the gloom back to the hill that they were supposed to have occupied. The chasseurs covered the retreat. To Hanley the whole business seemed pointless, but no more pointless than infantry firing at castle walls for hours on end. Out to sea the sky was ripped by a wicked fork of lightning, so clear against the brooding clouds. Hanley had counted to fourteen before the thunder rolled in from the beach. The guns had fallen silent at the castle, but he could not remember when he had noticed them stop.

‘Captain Hanley, is that you?’ someone called out of the darkness. He saw the pale shade of a grey horse approaching through the night, the darker shapes of other riders behind. Peering into the darkness he saw that the rider wore a cocked hat. ‘It is, is it not, my dear fellow?’

‘Major Sinclair,’ he said, recognising the voice at last.

‘Ah, good, the very chap.’ The Irishman came closer and gestured at the leader of the men escorting him. ‘You remember El Lobo?’

‘Señor,’ Hanley said, and introduced them both to Captain Mullins.

‘Where is the general? It is imperative that I see him at once.’

‘Take them, Hanley, I had best stay here,’ the captain said.

Lightning again stabbed down out to sea, and this time Hanley reached only twelve before the thunder roared.

‘Such dramatic punctuation seems a little overdone,’ Mullins said.

Major Sinclair laughed. ‘Lead on, Hanley, lead on,’ he said.

15

O
n board the
El Vencedor
Major Alastair MacAndrews heard the clap of thunder only a couple of moments after the lightning flashed through the stern windows of the great cabin. Rain hammered against the glass, the deck sank beneath him before surging up over the next wave, again and again, and he was glad that they were under tow. The Spanish captain looked to have spent most of his sixty-five years at sea and knew his trade, but the big seventy-four was in such appalling shape that experience was unlikely to be enough in this weather. Even before they left Gibraltar the pumps had been working without pause. With only one hundred of his own men and eighty sailors loaned by the Royal Navy, the captain had little more than a quarter of the proper establishment.
El Vencedor
was rotten and filthy from neglect, its crew now too overworked to do much about either.

The first battalion of the 106th, almost one thousand men if officers and NCOs were included in the count, had been on the ship for two days and at sea for one. None was happy, but he had told them all at every opportunity to keep their dislike of the ship to themselves. If all went well, they should land some time tomorrow afternoon to support Lord Turney’s expedition.

‘God willing,’ the Spanish captain had added after making this prediction. None of them knew very much about the general’s plans, and MacAndrews had got the impression that these were fluid. There was a chance they would remain on the ship and be kept for the descent on Malaga.

‘As God wills,’ the Spanish captain had said when he mentioned
this, and the Scotsman suspected piety and prayer were their best hope in this hulk.

He still had not quite got used to Lord Turney being that rogue Jack Stevenson. The thought had never occurred to him, and he was glad to have received Esther’s letter before he was summoned to meet the general. Turney was by then prepared, but the major had matched him for mock surprise and courtesy. The memory of saying ‘Bit different from America’ and the general’s cough, look of discomfort and ‘Yes, yes, to be sure’ was something he would cherish for a long time. In truth he had not hated the man for long. Stevenson as he then was had cut and run, thinking only of himself and careless of both lover and comrade. Yet that had led to his journey with Esther, to falling in love and to a life together, where if there was sorrow mingled with the joy, that joy was more wonderful than anything else he had ever known.

Turney was no coward – not then and, given his reputation, not since then. He was vain, selfish and, if MacAndrews was any judge, a young rake had simply turned into an old rake with the added advantage of title, reputation and comfortable wealth. It was good that his wife and daughter were not with him in Gibraltar; Esther because she would be upset at the memories – or judging from her letter almost homicidally angry – and Jane because she was still young and might not have the sense to see the scoundrel for what he was. Whether Lord Turney was a general worth the name was harder to say, but it was not something he could alter. For the moment it was enough to hope that the pumps kept the water at bay, the storm did not get worse or – chilling thought – snap the towline. Half a battalion of the 2/4th Foot had run aground in a transport ship just a few months ago and not twenty miles from where they were. Five companies taken prisoner just like that, and if it was still better than a watery grave it was not a pleasant prospect. MacAndrews was for the moment in charge of a fine regiment, so just let them get to dry land with a decent chance of proving themselves and he would be happy.

‘God willing,’ he said, and raised his glass to the Spanish captain.

The storm reached Fuengirola around midnight as Hanley was still looking for Lord Turney. Lightning slashed across the night sky, the first low crack turning into a great peal of thunder which felt as if it was right over their heads. He was glad that Sinclair had left his horse with the guerrilla leader for no doubt the animals would be skittish in this weather, and there was enough happening on the beach to make them nervous. He led the major across the sand, weaving between the hundreds of soldiers and sailors working to bring the cannon ashore.

A heavy blob of rain hit him in the face. For a few moments he heard and felt the patter growing heavier until the drops started to slam into them, driving down to soak clothes and sting where they hit skin. The next flash of lightning showed the men toiling, the bare-backed sailors dripping with rain as well as sweat as they heaved on the lines to drag the two twelve-pounders across the sand. Hanley flinched as the thunder came, hunching down with his head between his shoulders. He saw an officer of the 89th and had to shout to be heard over the hissing of the rain.

‘I’m looking for the general.’

‘Try the hill.’

Hanley’s eyes had adapted to see dimly in the black night when another fork of lightning seared into them. He saw men dragging the stumpy howitzer on its cart up the slope above them. The rain was turning the ground to mud, and he caught a cry of ‘Heave, lads, heave!’ before the roll of thunder drowned out everything else. He could see little apart from the slow fading glow of the lightning, and stumbled as he led Sinclair up the slope. The Irishman took his arm.

‘Thanks,’ he shouted.

Climbing the hill was a struggle, made worse by the gusts of wind making it hard to keep their cloaks drawn about them, and adding even more force to the rain. One small sailor with a
barrel of powder on his back was blown over and rolled down the hill for a few yards. Soon he was back up, helped by his mates, who lifted the burden on to his back once more and resumed the climb.

At the top Captain Harding was bawling to be heard over the wind and rain, urging the men to dig faster. There was already a ditch some two feet deep and spoil piling behind it in spite of the rain which kept washing some of it away.

‘I wondered about a side channel leading downhill to carry the water away!’ Harding shouted when Hanley asked how the work went. ‘Too much work, though. We need to be ready at dawn.’

‘Is the general here?’

The engineer shook his head. ‘Left ten minutes ago. Was going to see the Spanish colonel, and then heading back to the beach. That’ll be the best place to look. No, damn it, man, keep those tarpaulins tightly over the barrels!’ This to a group of marines working in the corner of the battery. ‘Blast you, do you want it all spoiled?’

On their second visit to the beach they found Lord Turney. Williams was near by, hat pulled down and swathed in his boat cloak.

‘You Welsh always bring your own weather, don’t you!’ Hanley said as he passed his friend.

The general was not happy, and not simply because of the rain. He was looking at a party of thirty sailors clustered around a gun.

‘I thought the whole point of this new carriage was to make it mobile!’ Lord Turney yelled at a naval lieutenant.

‘More mobile than the standard pattern,’ the man insisted resolutely. ‘The wheels are too small for the sand, especially when it is so wet. And it’s top heavy. The only way to get it up that hill would be to take the barrel off, rig up some ropes, and hoist it there.’

‘And how long would that take?’

The lieutenant wore a round hat and plain blue jacket which looked quite black in the gloom. ‘Fifteen hours? Maybe twenty.’

Lightning flashed and revealed the angry frustration in the general’s face. For a moment Hanley saw the stubby gun more clearly. It was a carronade, its heavy barrel not resting on its carriage by the usual two trunnions set in grooves, but held in place by a heavy spike beneath the breach, which sat in a hole in the carriage. Normally such guns were fixed on a pivot by the gun port and had wheels only at the back allowing them to swivel and be aimed. This one had four wheels on the carriage more like a conventional cannon, but remained an unwieldy weapon to pull about on land.

‘Can you get it to the top of the beach?’ Lord Turney asked. ‘Above high tide.’

‘Yes, my lord. It’ll take an hour, but we can do that.’

‘Then take it to that low rise over there on the right. Dig a rampart to make a position and have it so that it can fire to cover anything we do on the beach. Understood?’

‘Yes, my lord.’

‘Good man. I’ll send Captain Harding down to check that the position is sited properly.’ The general looked around and saw the bulky shape of the tall Williams. ‘Mr Williams, run to the battery on the hill and ask the captain to visit the beach when he has a free moment.’

‘Sir.’ The Welshman vanished into the gloom.

‘Excuse me, my lord,’ Hanley said, but saw that the general had not noticed and so raised his voice. ‘My apologies, my lord, but Major Sinclair has arrived with new intelligence.’

‘Ah, Hanley. Take him over there and wait with the others. Mullins will show you.’ Lord Turney dismissed him with a wave of the hand. ‘Captain Hope.’ Hanley had not realised the naval officer was ashore. ‘We must be careful that the ammunition goes to the correct batteries now that we have two.’

Mullins led them away to the feeble shelter of a canopy strung between four poles. Three officers were waiting there, all come in from working with the partisan bands. Two were lieutenant colonels and the other a captain. Hanley had not met them before, although he had heard the names. None was in much mood to
talk – not even Sinclair – except to express their impatience at waiting so long, and so the five men waited in sullen silence, now and again soaked as rain blew in from the sides or a heavy drop gathered and fell through holes in the cover.

The thunder became distant, and half an hour later the rain slackened and then stopped. The clouds broke and a silvery light which seemed almost as bright as day after the blackness of the storm allowed them to watch as men toiled on the beach and headed up the hill. Williams came down the hill just as the general arrived to speak to them.

‘You can come on out from your lair, gentlemen!’ Lord Turney sounded more cheerful, but was still speaking very loudly after hours of yelling over the wind. In spite of his age, the general was striding along briskly, with the young Captain Hope taking three steps for his two to keep up.

The two lieutenant colonels reported first, recounting the efforts made to raise and arm the peasants. Each one assured him that the situation was promising, and might soon bear fruit.

‘Excellent,’ Lord Turney said with little enthusiasm. ‘Though such things are less vital for our present needs.’ He asked the captain to speak next, respecting the time of his arrival over seniority. His news was almost as vague, of raids by the partisans, and bands that might rally to join them in a few days, but one thing was more encouraging.

‘General Blake has advanced with the Army of the Centre.’

‘Blake is beaten!’ It was Sinclair who interrupted. ‘My apologies, my lord, and to you too, Captain Samson, but he was beaten and driven back at dawn this morning – well, yesterday now. That is why I have ridden here so hard. I feared that the news would not otherwise have reached you.’

‘Beaten,’ Lord Turney said. ‘Are you sure?’

‘I saw it, my lord, and have come fifty miles to get here. His cavalry fled precipitately and then the French hussars and Polish lancers swept in on the flanks of his infantry. Half a division was lost in twenty minutes, and he has gone back as fast as he can with the rest.’

The general clearly believed him, as did the others. Blake had no reputation as a commander even among his countrymen, and there had been so many similar disasters in the last few years.

‘Are the French pursuing?’ Captain Hope asked. ‘We may still benefit if their main force is drawn off.’

‘It took less than a division to beat him,’ Sinclair said. ‘Sebastiani has three and a half thousand men at Malaga, but by now they will surely be marching towards us.’

‘How long to get here?’ Lord Turney had at last realised that he no longer needed to shout.

‘We should expect them before dusk tomorrow – perhaps earlier.’ Hanley thought that Sinclair’s guess was about right. It was a good twenty miles as the crow flew and the road wound a fair bit.

Captain Hope glanced around at the activity on the beach. ‘My lord, if we act now then we could be at Malaga by tomorrow afternoon. With luck the
Rodney
and its tow will have joined us so that we will have a thousand fresh soldiers. How many men will Sebastiani leave in garrison, Major Sinclair?’

‘He must have some idea of the numbers here, so he will not risk leaving too many behind. A few companies at the most. Enough to hold down the civilians, but only if they have no support. My spies confirm that the mole in the harbour is undefended, my lord.’ Sinclair and the naval officer both sounded excited, and for Hanley’s part he would be glad to see the back of this dismal beach.

‘No, it will not do,’ Lord Turney said.

Captain Hope broke the silence, although Hanley could sense that Sinclair was itching to speak.

‘There is an opportunity, my lord,’ the naval officer said. Still the general said no more. ‘Malaga is the prize, my lord. This was always meant as a diversion, and the wind is now in our favour.’

‘No, it will not do,’ Lord Turney said once again. ‘If we re-embark they will have beaten us – a mere company outnumbered ten to one. What will the peasants think if the French then make us fly before they have even come in sight?’

Captain Hope persisted. ‘We do not need to win here, my lord.’

‘That may have been true yesterday, but our attack failed. If we go it will look as if we are beat. And then it will take hours and the
Rodney
may come with the One Hundred and Sixth, but it may not. And we may fail in Malaga, if the harbour is not quite so unprotected as we think, or if the luck runs against us.’

The general had begun to speak louder, but now calmed himself. ‘It is too much of a gamble, Captain Hope, although I much admire your spirit. With the battery on the hill I am confident that we will take this castle before noon tomorrow. Either we can install a garrison or slight the place, and then re-embark without difficulty. I hear Sebastiani is a bold man, but if he is fool enough to risk his men on the shore and in range of your guns, Captain Hope, then we have an even better opportunity. Who knows, with the One Hundred and Sixth as reinforcement we may even put him to flight.