Tide of War (24 page)

“Very well but—”

Too late. They were already gone, melting into the trees. And now here was Imlay, glowering after them.

“Where are they going?”

Nathan told him.

“And if they betray us?”

“Then we are betrayed,” replied Nathan with more composure than he felt.

They followed the narrow track the guides had taken through the trees, moving in single file in a long, stumbling column. The ground seemed to be a mixture of sand and shingle and Nathan thought it was climbing slightly.

They had progressed some three or four hundred yards when they came across two bodies, pulled into the side of the track. It was light enough to see that they were white and that their throats had just been cut. They went on.

The track widened, the foliage not so dense. A low ridge ahead, almost a sand dune, topped with sea grass, at the bottom of which the two guides awaited them.

“The fort is just over the ridge,” said Desmarais. “I think you must come with me to look.”

Nathan took McGregor and Whiteley with him. Up the little slope and then sprawling on their bellies at the top. And there was the battle arranged for their inspection, like a vast diorama.

As Escavar had said the fort occupied the far end of a narrow promontory protruding into the Rigolets with a moat dug on the landward side so that it was entirely surrounded by water. Nathan could see the embrasures for the cannon but they were silent now, either knocked out by the enemy or out of powder or shot. A pall of smoke rose from the timber stockade and drifted out over the water.

It was the enemy cannon that were firing. From three batteries, so
far as Nathan could tell, one on each side of the promontory and a third directly in front of him at a distance of about two or three hundred yards. The individual guns appeared to be protected by mobile barricades of timber, mounted on large wheels. Ruts in the ground showed where they had been pushed forward and then backed up with earth. Nathan could see the diggings marking their progress.

Their arrival seemed to have coincided with a skirmish over to the right of the position. The garrison had made a sortie from the fort directed at the battery on this side but they were in the process of being thrown back by a large number of rebels who appeared to have sprung up from the ground. Focusing with his glass Nathan saw that they were emerging from a ridge—or sand dune—similar to the one he was lying upon but right upon the water's edge. The beach Escavar had mentioned must be immediately below and clearly this was where the bulk of the enemy infantry was concentrated.

They were far too many for the Spaniards who began to fall back. They fled across a crude bridge of timbers thrown across the moat, many dropping into the water in their panic. Nathan watched helplessly thinking they would all be lost and the fort fall before his eyes but then the rebels pulled back, possibly deterred by heavy musket fire from the fort.

Immediately the besiegers began to open fire with their artillery again, pounding the fort with shot and shell. Nathan looked more closely at the battery directly in front of him. These were the mortars or
obussiers,
not unlike the carronades carried by the
Unicorn,
but with a higher elevation that enabled them to lob their shells into the pall of smoke above the distant stockade. They were guarded by about twenty or thirty infantry, crouching with the gunners behind their mobile barricade.

“Seen enough?” he enquired of the two marine officers at his side. They nodded and slithered back down the slope.

“Now I am not a soldier,” he said, “but it seems to me we should attack the battery immediately in front of us, spike the guns, and then retreat back to the ridge.”

“And then what?” McGregor appeared unimpressed.

“Then we must hold them off as best we can. At least until nightfall when we may retreat in good order to the boats. Or did you have an alternative plan?”

“I doot there is an alternative,” McGregor conceded gloomily.

“Then that is what we shall do.”

They made their way back to where they had left the men and Nathan explained the plan to his officers who then took it back down the line. Then they advanced towards the ridge. It was decided the men should spread out in two ranks, the marines in the front and the seamen behind. Their muskets had been left unloaded thus far for fear an accidental discharge might alert the enemy but now McGregor proposed that they should fire two volleys as they advanced, the marines first and then the seamen, the marines fixing their bayonets in between.

This was an altogether slower, more orderly procedure than Nathan had envisaged, being more accustomed to the desperate rush of a boarding party. He bowed to McGregor's experience, however, hoping he would not regret it.

He loaded his own pistols, took one in each hand, looked about him to left and right, and nodded.

“ Very well.”

It went badly from the start.

They had barely cleared the top of the ridge when one of the muskets went off, always a possibility where seamen were concerned. It may not have been noticed by the enemy had their cannon still been in action but it coincided with a lull in the fighting occasioned—Nathan saw at once—by the fact that the fort was flying a white flag. The French immediately in front of them had emerged from behind their barricade and appeared to be engaged in a kind of celebratory dance, linking arms in a large circle and rushing in upon each other and kicking their legs in the air.

The sound of the musket shot brought an abrupt end to these festivities. They looked round in astonishment and saw the men on the
dune behind them. Nathan had a moment to consider whether the Spanish surrender made any difference or not from both a moral and a tactical point of view. He decided not. On both counts.

“Charge!” he yelled.

The seamen immediately rushed forward in front of the marines, effectively blocking their fire. The French snatched up their guns. Most of the seamen, realising their error and rebuked in a terrible voice by McGregor, turned round and tried to get back behind the marines. A few of the more reckless ran on. Nathan, who had been converted to the more orderly approach, wavered between going back and going forward. He decided he could not abandon those who had already charged at his command and ran on.

The French fired a ragged volley. Then, seeing the seamen coming on with no apparent loss of impetus, they fell back in confusion towards the barricade. Upon which, one of their number, presumably with the status of officer, unleashed a torrent of abuse, thrashing those that were closest to him with the flat of his sword. Thus encouraged—and seeing how few of the enemy were upon them—they clubbed their muskets and charged.

A short, vicious engagement. Nathan fired both pistols, dodged a blow from a musket barrel, clubbed down his assailant with a pistol butt and received a blow in turn from someone coming up on his right. He fell, raising his arm in a desperate attempt to ward off the next blow. Then Gabriel was there, laying about him with the old cavalry sword he favoured. He was set upon by three bearded ruffians and Nathan struggled to assist him. But there was no need. A giant figure was there before him, an ogre with a great club which he wielded in both hands. Two of Gilbert's opponents went down before this mythical creature with no more protest or opposition than a pair of wooden skittles. The third wisely took to his heels. Nathan recognised the Irishman, Michael Connor, one of those he had freed from the shackles. He saw now why Pym had been so anxious to restrain him.

“You all right, sur?”

“Very well, thank you, Connor. Carry on.”

But the rest of his men had arrived in a wave of red and blue, all order gone to the winds but in sufficient force to put the remaining rebels to flight.

Nathan put a hand to his head and felt a bump the size of a hen's egg close to the crown but his thought processes seemed to be in more or less working order so he supposed that his brain was still intact. He staggered to the nearest mortar, looking around for the seamen who had brought the spikes. But there were shells and cartridges stacked around the guns in neat piles and tubs with smouldering fuses and this gave him a better idea. He peered through the timbers of the barricade. About fifty rebels were fleeing towards the fort, still with its white flag at the masthead. More over to the right, not fleeing. And to the left? He could see nothing through a haze of smoke.

“Belay there!” he roared to the seamen who were already at the touch-holes of the guns with their hammers and spikes. But Nathan could think of a better use for them—if only he could puzzle out how to fire a live shell. It was not something he had done before. He supposed you must light the fuse and bung the shell down the muzzle, much the same as you did with ordinary round shot and ensure you fired it before it blew up in your face. This, with a few technical embellishments, proved to be pretty much the case. It took a little while to get the range but then they began to bombard the rebel position to serious effect. After a little while a boat was observed emerging from the shore, filled with men. Another followed—and another. Nathan wondered for a moment if they planned to put ashore at a more suitable point for a counterattack, but they seemed intent only upon retreat.

But now here was McGregor bellowing in his ear and pointing back towards the ridge. Nathan looked and saw a number of crouching figures—twenty or thirty perhaps—cutting them off from their line of retreat. And then Webster gave a shout and they saw a great many more advancing on their left flank. Briefly Nathan considered hauling the guns around but even had there been time, exploding
shells were a poor weapon against moving infantry. Grapeshot was more the thing, but there did not appear to be any.

McGregor and Whiteley had their marines drawn up in two ranks facing the men on their flank who appeared to be a more immediate threat than those in their rear. Perhaps as many as a hundred were advancing towards them behind a large tricolour with a drummer beating the step—for all the world like regular French infantry. Nathan ordered his men to line up with the marines, but Whiteley came over, touching his hat with a smile, and said, “Forgive me for appearing to instruct you, sir, but we will only have time for a single volley. Then we will fix bayonets and charge. It would helpful if your men were at the same time to advance upon the men on the ridge.”

“Make ready.” McGregor's voice was reassuringly steady.

The French were at full pelt now, yelling as they ran, in no particular order now but with no apparent lack of enthusiasm. The French—Nathan had been informed—were invariably better in attack, the British when conducting a fighting retreat. On this occasion, with water on three sides and a swamp on the fourth, Nathan concluded that this strategy was not an option.

“Present.”

The twin lines of muskets swung down to the firing position, the right hand pulling the butt into the shoulder, the right cheek pressed up against the comb. In what appeared to be the same movement the soldiers in the front rank took half a step back with their right foot and the soldiers in the rear half a step to the right. The only improvement Nathan could have asked for was in speed. The front runners were almost upon them.

“Fire!”

The crash of the volley, the enemy lost in smoke. Before it had cleared and Nathan could see what damage it had done the marines had fixed bayonets and McGregor's voice was raised again in the command to charge.

Nathan pointed his sword towards the ridge.

“There is our enemy, gentlemen,” he instructed them—they
probably knew, but it was as well to be sure. “And there are our boats. The only means we have of reaching the
Unicorn.
I know you will do your duty.”

The charge started well but faltered at the foot of the ridge. Several men were down. More fell to their knees and began to fire back.

“Belay there!” Nathan roared. “On your feet. Up,
up”

He saw Webster go down, hit in the head. Tully had almost reached the top of the ridge when he too fell back. Then they were among them. Nathan slashed about him with his sword, felt a roaring in his ears, realised it was his own voice, collided with a tree and went down. Gabriel hauled him up again. A glimpse of Tully, apparently none the worse for wear, parrying the thrust of a sword and thrusting in turn, quite coolly it seemed, with one arm behind his back. Nathan looked for a suitable opponent. But they were all gone. Dead or gone. And down below he saw that the marines had put the rest of the rebels to flight. The white flag was coming down from the fort and a moment later the flag of Spain went up in its place.

Nathan gazed around his battered crew. Fewer than there had been. Who was not there that he knew? Webster, of course. But someone else who should have been. Then in a flash it came.

Imlay.

He could not see Imlay.

I
MLAY? DID YOU SAY IMLAY?”

It had frequently been observed, most notably by his French subjects, that His Excellency the Governor-General of Louisiana and West Florida bore a striking resemblance to a horse, especially when startled, as was now the case. Had he thrown back his head and neighed Nathan would not have been unduly astonished.

“Gilbert Imlay,” Nathan confirmed. “An American who was acting as our guide.”

“An American? And of your party?”

“Well, he was with us at the commencement of the business. Where he is now I cannot say.”

Nathan gazed across the parade ground as if he might glimpse him among those members of the garrison employed there. The fires that had been burning when he entered the fort had now been extinguished but the smoke lingered in the still air with an ugly smell of charred wood—and perhaps flesh. The Governor had lost over fifty men in the attack, he had informed Nathan, and being almost out of powder and shot had been on the point of surrender when the British made their appearance. Nathan diplomatically forbore to mention the white flag he had seen flying from the masthead. Baron Francisco Luis Hector De Carondelet was a proud man: Nathan
would have taken him for a typical Spanish noble—a
grandee
or a
hidalgo
—had he not known from his conversation with Brother Ignatius that he was from Flanders and that his properties had been “liberated” by the French. They spoke French now in deference to Nathan's lack of Spanish.