Run Them Ashore (8 page)

‘Waste of good powder,’ Prentice declared with clear disapproval, having come up behind them. ‘Old Jonas, the gunner on
Topaze
, never can resist making a din.’ Behind him one sailor drove a long nail down the touch-hole of the cannon, hitting it again and again until it would go no further. Then he hit it from the side bending the nail, before his mate sawed quickly through the weakened metal. ‘All done, sir,’ the gunner reported.

‘Excellent, Mr Prentice,’ Williams said. ‘Now, I believe we can be going. Mr Treadwell, if you would be so good …’

The midshipman was not paying attention.

‘They’re moving, look, they are moving!’

Several vessels were moving out, including the big schooner, topsails already set as they began to tack so that they could make for the mouth of the bay. Treadwell was far more excited to see two big, barge-like vessels pushing off from the jetty, both rigged fore and aft. Behind them, a red glow sprang up on the deck of another vessel, licked against the rigging, and spread rapidly.

‘The captain’s done it! He’s done it!’

Flames appeared on yet another lugger further down the jetty. The two captured prizes edged out, coming slowly, the lead one towed by
Sparrowhawk
’s cutter and the other, smaller one lagging behind under sweeps. A volley rippled from a dozen muskets on the sea wall on this side of the river, aiming at the hindmost prize. Another, bigger volley came a few moments later, and Williams saw a good fifty or so soldiers standing in passable formation on this side of the sea wall, firing out at the captured craft.

He glanced ruefully at the spiked cannon. Not that it mattered – even if they could still use them, none of the embrasures pointed in the right direction. There was shouting and more soldiers appeared running along to join the others. It was unlikely to be very long before they remembered the battery.

‘Time to go,’ Williams said. ‘Mr Treadwell, Mr Prentice, if you
would lead the sailors back to the gig, the marines will form a rearguard. Move smartly, gentlemen, we do not have much time.’ He took one look back and was relieved to see the captured vessels moving a little faster, carried on the current of the river and the gently ebbing tide. The waters here changed so little compared to the seas he had grown up beside, but even so the shift in the current was clear.

He shouted to summon Dobson, Milne and the others, watched them scramble over the walls and drop down into the ditch. Before he followed, Williams took one last look out at the entrance to the harbour. The leading prize was already through, the other making good headway, but then he saw shapes in the darkness behind them, breaking up the moonlight glittering on the water. One, no, two rowing boats were following where none of the British boats should have been.

He jumped from the rampart into the ditch, saw Dobson and Milne kneeling at the far side, waiting to cover him, and yelled at them to get moving. The sailors were a good way ahead, and it seemed so much quicker jogging across the sand than when they had advanced. Before they got aboard, Williams ordered them to reload all the muskets and pistols. There was muttering at this, provoking curses from Milne, but they were all still too buoyed up with what they had done to resent such fussiness with any spirit. It was more than a minute after they had pushed out that Williams could see past the curve of the coast around the battery. The first prize had set sail now and its lead was growing every minute even in these light airs. Before long it would pass a cable’s length ahead of them, making for the main channel. Canvas appeared on the second one and it too began to go a little faster. Williams squinted as he peered into the shadows behind it and then spotted the sweep of oars in the water.

‘There are French boats closing on the second ship,’ he said, for the moment not caring that the craft almost surely did not warrant the name. ‘Two of them, I think, and they must mean to board and take her back. Only they haven’t reckoned on us.’ He grinned, and this time was pleased to see several marines and
sailors return the smile. ‘Mr Treadwell, steer for the second ship, if you please.’

The midshipman hesitated for a moment, his face taut, and Williams suspected that he felt they had already done enough for one night. Yet it was only for a moment.

‘Shipmates need our help,’ Mr Prentice said firmly, pressing the midshipman’s arm, ‘so of course we must all bear a hand.’

Treadwell shifted the tiller and he now smiled as well. ‘Pull hard, lads.’

The leading prize was already past them, well into the channel, and the other barely one hundred yards away. A large French boat rowed alongside, within a pistol shot.

‘That’s a gunboat,’ said Mr Prentice in one of his loudest whispers. ‘Be something big in the prow.’

The other Frenchman rowed astern, steadily gaining.

‘They’ll fire grape to clear the deck and then board from the other one.’ Treadwell was surely right. Prentice nodded in agreement.

‘Then we must take the gunboat and then deal with the others,’ Williams said, half wondering whether they would be less likely to follow him on water, but seeing no sign of it. Treadwell had already steered so as to cut off the gunboat.

Williams worried that he did not know what he was doing, wondering whether the prize would simply accelerate and leave them far behind to deal with two boats full of angry Frenchmen. It did seem to surge forward, running with the current as they turned and felt it driving against their side. The gunboat was coming on quickly as well, more quickly than he had expected, until the Frenchman turned to bring its bow gun to bear.

A musket ball struck splinters off the plank of the gig just beside his hand. Another hit an oar, the force throwing the sailor off his stroke so that he caught a crab. For a moment the gig foundered, twisting against the waves and rocking. Men on shore were firing at them. The range was long and they probably had more hope of warning the gunboat than doing real damage. So
far the Frenchmen seemed oblivious as they concentrated on bringing their cannon to bear.

‘Get the stroke, damn your eyes.’ Treadwell spat the words at the sailors, who quickly recovered and pulled hard towards the gunboat. More shots came from the shore, one snatching Mr Prentice’s battered round hat off and knocking it into the sea.

‘Bloody sauce!’ he shouted. ‘That cost ten shillings.’ The gunner was grinning.

‘You were robbed, sir,’ Dobson said.

They were close now, but Williams could see that the French boats were even closer to the prize. Men appeared at the rail, and muskets banged as they fired down into the boat, which had bumped alongside, waiting to board.

‘Come on, lads!’ Treadwell shouted. Faces turned on the gunboat and saw them coming, mouths opening in shock. Dobson twisted where he sat and aimed quickly. The musket banged and one of the French rowers was flung back. Confusion followed and the gig slammed into the side of the gunboat just as someone pulled the lanyard on the cannon. The flint slammed down, set off the powder in the tube and then the main charge. An instant later, the twenty-four-pounder went off with a great roar, bathing the side of the prize in a flash of red light and then a cloud of smoke. Williams heard the whining rattle of grapeshot peppering the high side of the captured ship. The French gun captain had aimed a little to the side to avoid hitting their boarding party, and the sudden impact of the gig near its stern had twisted the gunboat. Someone on the prize was screaming, but then that was lost in shouts and shots as the French boarded.

Williams was in the prow of the gig and was crouching ready when they struck. The shock almost knocked him back, but he steadied himself, took a breath and raised his pistol, aiming at the face of the startled French coxswain just a few feet away. He pulled the trigger, felt it jerk in his hand as the charge went off and through the smoke saw the man pitched overboard. Behind him, marines raised their muskets and two fired, the muzzles inches away from his ears. The flames scorched his hair, and the
sound exploded so close to his ears that he could no longer hear as smoke billowed around him and his nostrils filled with the rotten-egg odour of gunpowder. He leapt into the chaos, everything happening so fast that there was no time for thought or fear. One of the French rowers was dying, blood jetting from his throat, and another was clutching at his arm. Williams swung the pistol into the wounded man’s face and let it go. His foot caught on a rowing bench and he tripped, falling forward, the axe sinking into a man’s leg instead of his face.

Marines trampled him as they surged on to the gunboat. He had forgotten to give the orders to fix bayonets, so they clubbed and swung with the heavy firelocks as Williams struggled to get up. He had lost the axe. Someone trod on his fingers, but he was half up and punched a Frenchman in the chest since he had no weapon. The gunboat was still turning, and with so little space the fight was clumsy and brutal. More marines boarded, one barged Williams and the Frenchmen he was grappling hard against the side, and the Frenchman fell overboard, splashing into the water. He clung on to Williams’ coat, dragging him down, until the officer managed to free his own arms and hit the man’s elbows hard. On the second blow the grip loosened, and the man slipped away into the darkness. Williams saw his mouth open in a scream, but could still hear no noise.

More of the gunboat’s crew, some living, some wounded or dead, were flung into the sea. Williams managed to get up, saw the axe and no sign of the man he had struck, and grabbed it. Mr Prentice – the hard-of-hearing, grey-haired Mr Prentice – had somehow forced his way on to the gunboat and was near the great cannon, clubbing again and again at a man who cowered beside its barrel. A marine lifted another French sailor and flung him bodily into the sea. Three more raised their hands until another wild-eyed marine slammed the butt of his musket into the head of one of them, knocking him over the side. The other two jumped.

Williams looked around. His ears were filled with a strange roaring sound. One of the marines was hurt in the arm, bones
perhaps broken for he could not move it, and Mr Prentice had a slash across his cheek, but those were the only injuries. They had caught the gunboat by surprise and its crew had not had time to recover. Two sailors had secured the gig to the other boat, and Treadwell and the remaining rowers kept both under some control as they drifted with the current. The prize was past them now, the other French boat beside it and a fight raging on its deck.

‘Back to the gig!’ Williams could not really hear his own voice and tried to shout even louder to make sure that it carried. ‘We need to help them on board!’ A marine pulled away from him, looking surprised, and the officer guessed that he was yelling. The roaring was fading, and he dimly caught something about ‘… the whole bleedin’ world can hear you …’ as the men started to move. Mr Prentice was at the stern with one of the sailors, and Williams realised that they were unshipping the tiller bar so that they could throw it into the water.

Williams climbed back into the gig, and crouched behind Dobson and Corporal Milne, waiting with loaded muskets in the prow. He faintly heard the veteran sergeant make some crack about not having volunteered for this and then his hearing came back.

‘Nice change for you to see some proper fighting,’ Milne said, and then looked puzzled because the officer seemed so pleased.

Mr Prentice was the last to clamber back aboard and then they cast the gunboat off.

‘Lively now,’ Treadwell called to the rowers as they settled back into rhythm. Tired men somehow found new strength as they pulled on the oars. The prize still had no sails set and was drifting with the current. As they watched, the last few Frenchmen clambered up the side, letting their own boat drift free. Dobson raised his musket to aim, but then lowered it, shaking his head.

‘Come on, catch the rascals.’ Treadwell urged the sailors on. ‘It’s a prize full of gold and jewels!’

One of the marines laughed. ‘How about a boat full of doxies!’

‘Them too, if you like,’ Treadwell agreed. ‘Pull, lads, pull!’

‘Bring us to the far side,’ Williams called to the midshipman, saw confusion on the man’s face and managed to remember the right term. ‘Larboard side, Mr Treadwell, larboard side,’ he said, and was rewarded with a nod. It would take a little longer, but there was a chance they might gain some surprise and they would just have to hope that the
Sparrowhawks
on board the ship could hold out. There were still shouts from the deck, but he had not seen the flash of a shot for a minute or two.

They came alongside, and Williams saw the steps on the side of the hull and readied himself to jump. A head appeared over the rail, looking down at them, and the head was wearing a flat-topped shako. Dobson’s musket boomed and the head vanished.

Williams jumped on to the side of the ship and began to climb.

6

‘
E
n avant!
’ Williams caught the words distinctly, the second one dragged out and turning into a scream of rage. Feet pounded across the deck above him. The shape of a man loomed over the rail, and another musket fired, flinging the soldier’s head back. He tottered, and Williams pressed himself against the side of the ship, feet as deeply into the steps as he could manage, afraid that the man would fall on to him. Instead he staggered backwards and the officer dragged himself up, feeling someone climbing up behind, urging him on. Two soldiers lay on the planking and he slipped in a pool of blood as he came on board. There were more bodies scattered around the deck, and shouts and screams, and he could see a bitter struggle towards the bows. A knot of men were surrounded and he guessed these must be the
Sparrowhawks
.

A soldier stamped on his front foot as he jabbed a bayonet at the red-coated officer. Williams used his free hand to ward off the attack, grabbing the muzzle of the man’s musket, glad that he was wearing gloves because it was hot from firing. He twisted towards the man, trying to push him off balance, and swung the boarding axe to chop into the soldier’s arm near his shoulder. The man screamed, dropping his musket, and Williams pushed him aside. Someone raised a pistol at his face and fired, but the flint sparked on the pan and nothing happened. Williams flung the axe at him and it spun in the air as it went so that the blunt haft hit the French sailor in the face. Drawing his sword, he pressed on, slashed twice at the man, brutal, unskilled blows because there was no time for anything more, and then he was down.

Milne was beside him, bayonet fixed, Dobson and the marines spilling on to the deck. Frenchmen were all around them, recovering from the initial shock and now stepping forward with determination. A pistol fired, the flame vivid in the darkness, and a marine grunted as he was hit in the chest. The French sailor sprang forward to step into his place, then screamed as Dobson’s bayonet caught him low in the belly, to be twisted and dragged free by the veteran. A man with epaulettes on his shoulders came at Williams, sword point moving quickly in carefully judged thrusts. He blocked the first, but the man was so quick that he was immediately lunging again, and the tip of his sword slashed open his sleeve, drawing blood. Williams stepped forward, hoping to surprise the man, but the Frenchman’s blade was already back up, fending off his own jab. The sailor with the boarding pike stabbed it forward over the officer’s shoulders and forced the Frenchman back a pace.

One of the marines must still have been loaded because he drove his bayonet into a French soldier’s stomach so far that its point came out of his back, then fired the musket, ripping a ghastly hole in the soldier’s body. The marine seemed shocked, and then a cutlass slashed down across his face and he screamed, letting go of the firelock, its blade still in his victim, and went down on his knees, hands pressed over his eyes. The cutlass came down again, half cutting through his wrist, and the man sank to the ground, curling up protectively. Corporal Milne swung up his musket and slammed the butt into the French sailor’s chin. Williams just managed to parry another lunge by the man with epaulettes, and only the sailor’s boarding pike kept the Frenchman from closing while his guard was down. There were half a dozen of them on deck, still in a tight half-circle, and they were making no headway.

Treadwell saved them. The midshipman had let the gig fall back and then led the remaining sailors in a scramble up the prize’s stern, coming over the rail behind the Frenchmen pressing around Williams’ little group.

‘
Sparrowhawk!
’ Treadwell yelled, and then shot a French sailor
through the body, cutting at another with his dirk. More shots followed as the sailors with him fired pistols or muskets into the press. Another Frenchman was down, the rest recoiling, and Williams’ men surged forward without any need for an order. Milne clubbed another man down, Dobson jabbed with his bayonet, and Williams sliced hard to cut through the arm of a soldier about to aim a blow at the veteran, acting on instinct. Then the sailor with the pike pushed him to one side and used the staff of his spear to catch a great downward hack from the French officer, who for the moment had abandoned his scientific swordsmanship.

The French were going back, but the officer with epaulettes yelled out to rally them and for the moment they obeyed. Treadwell came up beside him, slicing with his short dirk, but his blow was easily beaten aside and the Frenchman thrust once, the tip driving through his left eye. The midshipman slumped, his dead weight dragging the sword down before it came free, and Williams hacked at the man’s outstretched arm, cutting through sleeve and flesh. A hiss of pain and the Frenchman let go of his sword. Williams raised his own sword and cut, a glancing blow across the man’s body and driving him back.

‘Bastard!’ the sailor screamed behind him and drove the pike into the man’s side. Williams was about to finish him off when a French soldier jabbed at the sailor, slicing into his leg. The officer punched the man in the face, driving him back, and the sailor managed to limp to shelter behind the little line of men. More of the enemy were down, and the French seemed to be fighting less hard, giving way and almost letting themselves be cut down.

Williams pressed on, hacking at a man just above the collar, carving into his neck so that the blood sprayed and the soldier collapsed, choking as he bled his life out on to the deck. Milne’s boot skidded in the pool, but the luck was with him, because his sudden lurch meant that a sword-cut missed him, and the marine beside him put the man down with a well-timed lunge. Prentice appeared, his jacket slashed open, another graze on his forehead,
but the blade of his cutlass dark with blood. Dobson had lost one sleeve, and everyone seemed to have cuts or scratches of one sort or another. Williams slashed at another man, a fair blow across his body, but it seemed only to knock him backwards, and he realised that the finely honed edge must already have been blunted. He had never known a fight as long and as hard as this.

The French parted and they reached the ragged band of
Sparrowhawks
. Captain Pringle was with them, sword in his left hand, his right pressed to staunch the blood from a wound in his side. Half a dozen other sailors were still standing around him and most had wounds.

‘Good to see you,’ Pringle gasped, but had no breath to say any more. The enemy were just as weary, but they were still determined and there were at least two dozen of them clustered around the starboard side, panting as they prepared to renew the fight. Numbers were about even, or slightly in the enemy’s favour, but before Williams could call on them to surrender, the French raised a shout and came forward.

No one still had a loaded weapon, and the fight was a question of blades and clubbed muskets, of exhausted men clawing at each other with their last strength. Afterwards Williams could remember almost nothing of those last minutes, other than weariness and clumsy blows. He thrust with his sword, aiming at the face and eyes to drive his opponents back, and sometimes all he could do was bludgeon them with the blunted edge, or punch with the hilt. On land the side that felt itself losing always ran. On board a ship there was nowhere to go, and so they kept fighting, quarter neither asked for nor given, grunting because they were too tired and parched to shout, and slowly the French were pushed back. Only when there were three still standing did they drop their weapons.

Williams saw the men surrender and struggled to understand what it meant. The world had become a few feet of deck, of fighting, killing and moving on, with the stench of blood and death all around. Puzzled, he stared at the Frenchmen, and it was only the flood of utter exhaustion that stopped him from
stepping forward and thrusting his blade into them one by one. Looking to either side, the officer could see that the others were in a similar state. As if lifting a great weight he pointed his sword down and rested the tip against the planking.

‘Prisoners,’ he said. The Frenchmen were wide eyed and it was a while before they nodded. ‘Prisoners,’ he repeated. He turned round and looked for someone to take charge. Captain Pringle was sitting on a grating, his back against the mast as an elderly sailor with deep black skin and grey hair peeled back his shirt. His blue jacket was already folded beside him, and the sailor worked with care. Even so the captain winced as his shirt was removed. The sailor stopped, his face concerned, but Pringle gave a weak smile and urged him on.

For the moment the captain was occupied. Williams spotted Corporal Milne, and then noticed that two fingers were missing from his left hand and another marine was bandaging the wound. Then he saw Dobson, tapping his clay pipe free of ashes, and looking weary.

‘Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Secure the prisoners. Make sure they are disarmed and then we can see to their wounded.’

Dobson looked surprised. Then he sighed, put his pipe away and looked around. ‘You! And you,’ he shouted at two marines in the voice of the eternal sergeant, ‘come with me.’

Williams made his way aft, stepping carefully to avoid the bodies strewn everywhere, most of them still moaning. He would need to get men to help them as soon as he could, but wanted to make sure that the ship was secure. To his relief a sailor was at the wheel, with Mr Prentice leaning against the capstan in front of him as a marine tightened a belt around his thigh to stop the blood flowing from a deep wound. Fewer than thirty British had boarded, including Captain Pringle’s party, and a quick count suggested a dozen had no serious injuries, while eight or nine more ought to be capable of some work. Treadwell was dead, along with one of the marines and a sailor who had come on board with the captain. The remainder were badly hurt and their chances would depend on getting them quickly to a surgeon.
A rough count suggested that there were about fifty French, nine or ten dead, and three times that number badly wounded. Most of them must have been the crew of the vessel, presumably released from below when the soldiers boarded. Adding in the men from the gunboat, Williams could not understand how they had succeeded against those odds. The rules just seemed different at sea.

Milne reported, hand bandaged, and assured him that he was fit to work, so Williams set him and a couple of marines to caring for the wounded. After that he headed back to see Captain Pringle, who was still sitting as the sailor wound a clean piece of cloth around his waist, pulling it tight. Williams blinked as the sun came up on the horizon and that made no sense for surely it could not be dawn. Yet there the sun was, a great red ball in the east, and somehow the hours must have passed. He could not account for them. Battles were always strange in that way, and time could pass in a flash or crawl by at a snail’s pace, each moment crammed with activity, fear and exhilaration, but he had never known anything like this. Now they were past the headland, he could see that the sun was well above the waters and the light of day was obvious. In his memory the fight occurred wholly in darkness. He was too tired to solve the mystery.

‘Ah, Mr Williams,’ the captain said. ‘I have not yet thanked you sufficiently for your arrival. Things were becoming difficult.’

‘Happy to be of service, sir.’

‘Now,’ Pringle continued, getting to the matter in hand. ‘I see my coxswain is at the wheel. Good, Bennett is a splendid fellow. With the wind off the sea we must rely on the current to take us out of the channel. Once we are out, get Treadwell to hoist sail. It will take some effort, but we should be able to work her out into the bay and rejoin
Topaze, Sparrowhawk
and the other prizes.’

‘I regret to say that Mr Treadwell is dead.’

‘Ah.’ The captain seemed to have no more to say, so Williams gave him the full list of casualties.

‘Nasty business, but as far as I can tell we have taken half a dozen prizes and burned three or four more. That will give them something to think about.’

Williams nodded, too tired to think of anything to say. Men died and were maimed, and that was all there was to it. It did not help to brood, to twist argument in justification, or to wonder whether you might soon follow them. Such thoughts would come often enough unbidden, most of all in the small hours of sleepless nights to come, and there was no sense in dwelling on them now.

‘Treadwell did well, damned well,’ the captain said. ‘As did you, Mr Williams, damned well indeed.’ He drank from a flask proffered by the sailor. ‘Will you take some brandy?’

‘No thank you, sir,’ Williams said. ‘I do not really drink,’ he explained, not wanting to be thought ungrateful.

‘Really? William did say you were an extraordinary fellow.’ It was strange hearing Billy Pringle referred to in that way. ‘I dare say you will take a nip, won’t you, you rascal.’ This was to the sailor, who seemed a solemn man, but took the flask gratefully. ‘This is Caesar,’ Pringle continued, pleased to see Williams’ surprise. ‘John Julius Caesar to be precise, able seaman, and one of my best topmen.’ The sailor gave the flask back and raised a knuckle to his forehead. ‘Doesn’t say a lot, but there is no one I would prefer by my side in storm or battle.’

Williams was intrigued. The name was a curious one, and it was a pleasing thought for a man fascinated by the ancient past to know that he had just fought alongside ‘Julius Caesar’. He longed to hear the man’s story, wondering whether he had once been a slave. Williams’ mother was fond of abolitionist tracts and he had read many stories of escape from servitude, but it would have been a greater thrill to hear such a tale from a man’s own experience. The sailor stared blankly at the army officer, and concern for good manners restrained him from asking so personal a question.

Then there was a grinding sound and Williams was flung forward. A big man, he landed heavily against the wounded captain,
so that Pringle hissed in pain and let out a string of blasphemies. The prize lurched to a halt, and Williams managed to get up. Pringle mastered himself, waved Caesar away when he tried to help and then looked around. For just a moment, Williams could see a lot of his younger brother in the older Edward.