A Sloop of War Read online

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  Lieutenant Thomas Macpherson sat in the shade under a palm tree with his hat by his side, his tunic unbuttoned and his neck cloth loose. His tree was set a little apart from those that provided shade for the combined force of forty marines drawn from both the Rush and the Agrius that he commanded. They sat around in groups and quietly chatted, their muskets leaning together in stands like a row of small wigwam frames. His little force was there to supply a reserve of men to support the trench guards, but as yet had not been called on since the siege began.

  Macpherson paused to swat a small insect away with the flat of his hand, before returning to his book. He was deep into the first volume of The Choices of Miss Amelia Grey which he had borrowed from Sutton, and was reading the story with obvious pleasure. He had just reached the scene at the ball where Miss Amelia first danced with the dashing Mr Lavery, when a tactful cough from his sergeant drew him back into the present.

  He looked up to see the figure of Sedgwick as he bounded down the line of the first parallel. He thrust the slim volume into the inside pocket of his tunic, picked up his hat and rose to his feet with a clatter of sword scabbard against palm tree.

  ‘Thank you, sergeant,’ he said. ‘Have the men stand to, if you please.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ barked the sergeant, before swivelling away towards the soldiers. Macpherson buttoned up his tunic, and placed his hat on his head as Sedgwick ran up to him.

  ‘Mr Preston’s compliments,’ gasped Sedgwick, ‘and the French are attacking the siege guns. Will you come as fast as may be convenient.’ The Scotsman looked up towards the fortress, just in time to see the first of the French soldiers as they climbed out of the ditch.

  ‘Corporal Patton!’ he bellowed.

  ‘Sir!’ replied the corporal, striding over.

  ‘Fly down to the camp and find Colonel Gordon,’ he ordered. ‘He will be near the church. Tell him that the French have made a sortie, and I have gone to assist the gunners. Request that he turns out the guard. Quickly now.’ Macpherson watched the marine run down the slope, and then turned towards the sailor.

  ‘Can you return to Mr Preston, and tell him I am on my way,’ he said. Sedgwick knuckled his forehead in salute, and set off back towards the trench. Macpherson looked towards his men. ‘Marines,’ he ordered, ‘follow me, at the double.’

  The marines trotted up the now deserted first parallel behind their lieutenant, flowing past the abandoned third siege gun. The soldiers who had been pulling it must have rushed up to help at the gun emplacement, thought Macpherson. It was good fortune that the gun was being dragged forward at the time of the French assault, providing a reserve of soldiers already in the trench. His view of the action was cut off by the high wall of gabions. Occasional disembodied sounds drifted down the slope from the fight around the siege guns. He could hear the bang of muskets and the shout of orders, the shriek and clash of blade on blade and over all the cries of the wounded.

  ‘This is bloody ridiculous,’ muttered Macpherson to himself. ‘How am I to know what is the right thing to do when I can see nothing?’ When they reached the end of the first trench he brought his men to a halt.

  ‘Wait here, sergeant,’ he ordered. ‘Keep the men closed up ready to deploy. I shall view matters for myself.’ He pulled himself out of the trench, and marched around the last gabion onto the open glacis. He expected to be shot at from the fortress, but no shot came. He glanced that way but could see no defenders on the wall. Then he looked towards the gun emplacement. It seemed to heave with life as the masses of attackers struggled with those within. He tried to estimate the number of French soldiers—there were certainly far more than the forty men he had to hand. He was surprised that the French had not already overwhelmed the defenders, but then he remembered the soldiers who would have been dragging the gun forward. He forced himself to stay calm. What was the best thing for him to do? He could provide a little relief if he fed his men up the trench piecemeal, unless.... Macpherson looked back at the fortress wall as an altogether bolder idea formed in his mind. There was no one there to alert the attackers of his presence, and the troops who had sallied out all seemed to be fully engaged in their attack.

  ‘Marines, out here,’ he ordered. ‘Form up between the ditch and the trench.’ The men poured out and assembled into a solid block of red. ‘Fix bayonets!’ he ordered. Forty long blades flashed in the sunshine, and were slotted home with a collective twist and clunk.

  ‘Marines, forward march!’ The line moved towards the French infantry, boots crunching down in near perfect time on the smooth glacis of the fortress. As they neared the enemy, they began to see details of how fierce the struggle for the emplacement was. They swept past the groaning victims of the blasts of canister. Wisps of musket smoke drifted over the ground. The base of the wall of gabions was littered with fallen soldiers. Those on the top struggled with the unseen defenders within, or stood back to fire their muskets down into the redoubt. Most were either attempting to scramble up the wall, or waiting their turn at the bottom. All had their backs to the approaching body of marines as it swung around behind them.

  ‘Shall we give them a volley, sir?’ asked the sergeant.

  ‘No shooting!’ said Macpherson, ‘I want to take them unawares.’ He drew his own sword, and raised his voice so that all the marines could hear. ‘By push of bayonets only, men. Charge!’

  The men gave a cheer and broke into a shambling run, their muskets held at waist level to form a hedge of steel. At last they had been noticed. French soldiers spun round in alarm at this unexpected attack with panic on their faces. Those on top of the wall jumped back down from the gun emplacement, to join their comrades as they tried to form a line to meet the new threat, while the less resolute began to melt away towards the safety of the fortress. Before the French could organise themselves to face the attack, the marines crashed into them. Several French soldiers went down, bayoneted where they stood while others turned and fled. But some still resisted. Macpherson saw a soldier in front of him swing his musket up and take aim. He watched the barrel as it tracked round until it pointed directly towards him. The soldier steadied himself for a moment and then fired. An instant later the Scotsman felt himself knocked back by a huge blow. The ground rushed up to meet him and all went dark.

  *****

  Inside the gun emplacement, the defenders were fighting for their lives. They had received an initial boost when the thirty soldiers who had been hauling the siege gun forward had arrived, providing a solid body of trained men. Captain Webb had combined them with the trench guards into a firing line at the back of the redoubt to shoot over the sailors’ heads at the assaulting French soldiers. They loaded and fired as fast as they could, but they were also an easy target for the French on top of the redoubt wall as they fired down into the confined space. After the first body of reinforcements only a trickle of trench guards had arrived, summoned by Sedgwick in his breathless flight towards camp. These barely served to replace the fallen. Each new arrival seemed to come just in time to take the place of a soldier who had crashed down to join the growing pile of dead and wounded on the floor of the emplacement, and now even this trickle had stopped.

  In front of the soldiers were Preston’s sailors, locked in battle with the French. Rosso and O’Malley were stationed at their gun embrasure, fighting to prevent the French from forcing their way through the narrow gap. A French musket, tipped with a long bayonet was thrust through the opening.

  ‘Hit it, Sean,’ yelled Rosso from his side of the embrasure. O’Malley swung a heavy crowbar down on the musket from above his head, catching it against the gun barrel with a loud clang, and Rosso darted forward with his cutlass. He thrust it hard into the now disarmed attacker. There was a cry of pain, and Rosso jumped back just as another French soldier fired his musket past his wounded comrade. The bullet whined off the barrel of the siege gun, leaving a silver smear on the metal.

  ‘Good work, Rosie,’ said O’Malley, indicating
his friend’s cutlass, the tip of which was now pink with blood.

  ‘Some bleeding help back here!’ shouted Evans, his voice edged with panic. He was standing beside the wheel of the gun and was using his long rammer like a spear, thrusting it at any soldier who became established on top of the emplacement wall. It was exhausting work, and as he tired he was in danger of being overwhelmed. O’Malley stepped back and saw there were now three French soldiers fighting with Evans. One was parrying the rammer, while the other two aimed their muskets at the troublesome sailor. The Irishman pulled his as yet unused pistol from his belt and fired it at one of the soldiers who was taking aim, and he tumbled backwards off the top of the embrasure, but there was little he could do about the other. The soldier Evans was fighting with now had a foot on the end of his rammer, while his colleague sighted along his musket at the disarmed sailor. O’Malley hurled his empty pistol at him, putting him off his aim, but having knocked the musket wide for a moment, the pistol dropped down outside the emplacement.

  ‘No you fucking don’t,’ yelled the returning Sedgwick. He leapt past O’Malley, up onto the top of the gun carriage and swung a musket he had picked up from the ground in a wide arc through the air. It caught the soldier a savage blow to the legs, just as he pulled the trigger. The shot missed and a volley of musket fire from the back of the redoubt swept the two French soldiers away.

  ‘Thanks, lads,’ gasped Evans. ‘I owe you both.’

  ‘No worries, Sam,’ replied O’Malley. ‘What Irishman would not be content to be shot at for six pence a day to help the fecking English?’

  ‘Now,’ said the Londoner, ‘before you start, it was your bleeding idea we should volunteer for this.’

  ‘Sean!’ shouted Rosso. ‘They’re coming through the embrasure again!’ O’Malley spun around, to see his friend locked in battle with a soldier crouched on the barrel of the siege gun. The Frenchman thrust his musket at the sailor, and Rosso parried the blow with his cutlass. O’Malley strode across and swung his crowbar at the soldier, catching him on the arm. He crumpled under the blow and dropped his musket with a cry of pain. Rosso finished him off, and the body of the soldier slid down onto the floor of the gun emplacement. Rosso and O’Malley pushed it under the gun, and then both men resumed their places either side of the embrasure, waiting for the next assault.

  No immediate attack came. The firing from the line of soldiers at the back of the redoubt petered out for want of any targets. O’Malley stepped back and looked up at the top of the wall of gabions again, now clear of attackers. Preston came over to join the two sailors.

  ‘What’s going on?’ the midshipman asked. ‘Did you get help, Sedgwick?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ he replied. ‘Lieutenant Macpherson should be just behind me.’ He looked back down the trench, wondering where the marines could be.

  ‘Why have the Frogs stopped their attack?’ asked the teenager.

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Rosso. ‘I can still hear them making a deal of noise, but it sounds different.’ The noise of French cries drifted in through the gun embrasure, together with a more solid cheer. The men exchanged glances.

  ‘That’s our boys cheering, or I have never heard a navy huzzah before,’ exclaimed Rosso.

  ‘Evans,’ said Preston. ‘Can you climb back up on the gun carriage, and tell us what’s happening?’

  ‘Aye aye, sir,’ said Evans, dropping his rammer and clambering up. He inched his head above the parapet, peered around with care, and then stood up straight with a grin. ‘Well bugger me if it ain’t the bleeding Lobsters at last!’ he cried. ‘They’re chasing off all the Frogs, sir.’

  Chapter 13

  Truce

  Midshipman Preston had a feeling of déjà vu. He was standing once more next to the immaculately dressed Captain Webb in the same section of trench that they had stood in over a week before. Once again they were watching the same small group of soldiers march up the main road towards the fortress gate. The same ensign led the way with his large white flag. The same drummer boy marched by his side, and behind them came Major Grafton who, if it were possible, looked even more pleased with himself than before. Just as last time the group paused every twenty yards to allow the drummer to send out his thunderous warning of their approach.

  Similar, and yet not the same, thought Preston to himself. Much had changed in that time. For one thing the balance of power had swung decisively towards the attackers. Their system of trenches now came to within striking distance of the wall. The gun emplacement boasted all three siege guns, and although they had fallen silent for the period of the parley, they had been tearing steadily away at the shattered fortress wall, each impact sending a fresh fall of rubble cascading down into the ditch.

  He looked much the same as he had then. Perhaps his uniform was rather grubbier, his white breaches torn and smeared pink with soil, but inside he knew that he had changed too. The uncertain teenage midshipman he had been a week ago had matured quickly in the crucible of the redoubt on the day of the French attack. For the first time in his seventeen years he had feared that he might die. When the blasts of canister had failed to stop the French line he had felt real terror, and there had been no senior officer for him to turn to. When he looked around he had found no calm lieutenant, nor grey-haired captain. So he had done his duty and faced down his fears. He had led his men well, determined not to disgrace himself in front of them. Colonel Gordon had been full of praise for him and Captain Webb. He was to be mentioned in the Colonel’s despatch home on the action, and Captain Clay had said that he would recommend him to the admiral should an opportunity come for a trial as an acting lieutenant. Inside he felt a glow of pride, but also the calm determination of one who now knows what he is capable of.

  Preston looked back towards the fortress, where the party had come to a halt before the gates. They swung open at last, and the same French officer emerged as last time. Preston noticed that his left arm was now supported in a sling. The officers saluted each other, and the discussions began.

  ‘Am I deceived, Mr Preston, or is that French officer a damn sight less cocksure?’ purred Captain Webb. ‘See how he has made no attempt to prevent the meeting taking place on the French side of the glacis?’

  ‘He also seems to be inconvenienced in his discourse by only having a single arm to animate,’ replied the midshipman.

  ‘Yes, that must be vexing for him,’ said the engineer. ‘These Frogs do like to wave their arms about when they converse. My money is on a surrender within three days. I believe our actions in confounding their attack on the redoubt yesterday, together with the dash those marines showed, will have wholly knocked the pluck out of them.’

  ‘We shall soon find out,’ said Preston. ‘They seemed to have finished their discussions already.’

  The two officers shook hands, stepped smartly back from each other, and Major Grafton then swung about to set off marching down the road towards the British line, with his flag bearer and drummer trailing in his wake.

  ‘Well, sir? What news?’ asked Captain Webb when the Major was once more back in the British trench. Major Grafton beamed at them both. ‘Truce for two days, and if they are not relieved by noon on the second day they will surrender the fortress, the garrison and all her contents to us. Bloody marvellous what?’

  ‘Bloody marvellous indeed, sir,’ replied the captain with a smile. ‘Major, might I name Midshipman Preston to you? He was the naval officer with me in the redoubt when it was attacked.’

  ‘Were you, by Jove? Good man,’ enthused the Major, gripping the teenager’s hand in his.

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  ‘I am here to ascertain if the invalid will be able to attend tonight’s festivities?’ asked Clay, two days later, as he sat in the wardroom of the Rush. ‘It will be a poor celebration of our most famous victory without one of the principal heroes of the hour.’

  ‘I do have the sensation that I have been kicked in the chest by a mule, sir,’ replied Macpherson. ‘And I now s
port a bruise on my body the size of a dinner plate, but if I might have the assurance of a comfortable seat I believe Mr Linfield will sanction my attendance.’

  ‘Well that is splendid news,’ beamed Clay. The marine officer turned stiffly round in his chair, and picked something up from the table.

  ‘Will you also pass on my most sincere thanks to your sister for the fulsomeness of her prose?’ he asked. ‘If the first volume of The Choices of Miss Amelia Grey were but a few pages the less, I fear I might not have been here at all.’

  The Scotsman passed across the small leather book, a French musket ball lodged like a plum in the centre of the cover. Clay turned the crushed novel in his hands and felt the slight dome of the ball pressed against the back.

  ‘Upon my word, it damn nearly did go all the way through,’ he exclaimed. ‘I will certainly pass on your thanks to Miss Clay. Would you also like me to request a replacement volume? I am sure you would still like knowledge of how Miss Grey and Mr Lavery’s relationship developed after the ball?’

  ‘You mean after the dance, rather than the musket ball, sir?’ asked Macpherson, to general laughter.

  ‘Quite so, Mr Macpherson,’ said Clay, smiling at the marine. ‘It is exceedingly good to find you in such excellent spirits.’

  ‘Why should I not be, sir?’ asked the Scot. ‘After such a noble victory achieved over the French.’

  ‘Is that truly the only reason?’ asked Clay. ‘Surely you must have thought all was lost when the ball struck you, and yet here you still are.’

  ‘Aye, you have the truth of it, sir,’ said the marine. ‘Some of my exuberance does come from finding that I yet live. It is a strange matter to be convinced one is facing death, and yet to be reprieved.’

  ‘Well we are all thankful for that, Tom’ said Clay, patting the marine on his good shoulder. ‘Now, if you gentlemen are all ready, we must depart, for it is almost five bells and we should allow a little extra time for our wounded comrade. John, is the cutter ready to take us ashore?’