Hostile Shores (32 page)

He could drown if his boat was overset in the surf upon landing, for he, like many British tars, could not swim a stroke. He could put a foot wrong and meet up with all manner of venomous puff adders and mambas and cobras, rest under the wrong tree and be bitten by the slim green
boomslang,
be swarmed by scorpions in his sleep, and God only knew what-all. If the Dutch put up a fierce resistance, he could get his fool head shot off!

They don’t pay me
half
enough t’do what I do,
he told himself;
They really don’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Reliant
’s Marines in the barges, and all the supplies in one of the slightly smaller cutters, were landed first. By the time the Navy complement had been put ashore on the crowded beach, it was half-past six in the morning. Blaauwberg Mountain cast the beach, the towering and widespread piles of supplies, and the army encampment in shadow from the rising sun, and it was still pleasantly cool. The air was sour with the smells of burning wood in the many campfires, manure in the horse lines, and un-washed soldiery and their sweated wool coats.

Lewrie strode over the sand and shingle of the beach to higher ground, and the stubbly wild grasses and rock; careful where his boots landed, for there was a fair amount of manure right down to the back of the beach. He took a deep sniff, but it didn’t smell like the Africa he remembered!

“What a pot-mess our army’s made,” he commented to Lt. Simcock, who was amusing himself with his sheathed sword to flip a crab over and over, and herding it to prevent its escape.

“The horses and draught animals aren’t the worst of it, sir,” Simcock said with a faint smile. “They should’ve dug sinks for their own wastes, but it doesn’t smell like it. I have yet to see the waggon they promised us.”

“Well, keep a good guard over our stores ’til we do,” Lewrie told him. “Do soldiers think there’s un-guarded rum about, they’ll fight us for it. Ah, good morning, Mister Westcott! Have you ever seen the like?”

“Perhaps only at a Wapping hiring fair, sir,” Westcott replied. “It appears we’ve landed far South of the main beach, and the rest of the brigade.” He pointed North up the beach to where some large oared barges were struggling to fetch long and heavy siege guns ashore with one piece amidships of each. “Shouldn’t we be up there, sir?”

“Hmm … do you
really
wish to spend all day helpin’ ’em do that? Looks t’be warm work, to me,” Lewrie said, chuckling. “No, I’m more of a mind t’find ourselves a waggon, load up, and march inland with the regiments, or just a bit astern of ’em. Commodore Popham offered us as guards to the baggage train, and there’s sure t’be lots of ammunition and such close behind the leading regiments … more valuable than casks o’ salt-meat. Does that sound more palatable, sir?”

The army encampment’s sleepy breakfast came to an end with the blaring of bugle calls, the rumble of drummers playing the Long Roll, and the reedy shrieks of Highland bagpipes. In a twinkling, what had been somnolent dis-order turned to roaring chaos!

All of a sudden, the hundreds of tents were being struck and rolled up, mounts were being bridled and saddled, mules and horse teams were being harnessed, and thousands of soldiers rose to gather up their bedding, wash out their mess kits, stow bundles on the pack mules, and load waggons. Mules brayed in resistance, horses neighed and snorted, and got led to their places at the trot, raising great clouds of dry African dust that mingled with the steam and smoke as campfires and cookfires were doused.

Officers shouted orders to Sergeants, and those Sergeants bellowed sharp orders to Corporals and Privates, who raised their own voices to spur themselves along as they packed up. The bands of the various regiments began tuning up and were starting to play competing martial airs. The pipers and drummers of the Highland regiments seemed likely to win that contest. As to who could curse and scream invective the loudest, that was still un-decided!

“Here comes a waggon, sir!” Lt. Simcock pointed up the beach.

“Mister Rossyngton, see that’un? Go see if it’s empty, and seize it for us,” Lewrie ordered, and the Midshipman sprinted away. He back-pedalled near the right-side front wheel and got the waggoner to draw his team to a halt, conversed a bit, then dashed back.

“He says he doesn’t know what we’re talking about, sir, and he has orders to go forward and load up the officers’ personal goods from one of the infantry regiments, but he doesn’t yet know which. He was told to hitch up and wait for orders,” Rossyngton reported.

“Isn’t that just bloody typical,” Lewrie said, sneering and shaking his head. “It’s empty, then.”

“So far, sir, aye,” Rossyngton replied.

“Then it’s ours,” Lewrie snapped, and strode over to the waggon with his orders from Popham in his hand. “You, there! Yes, I mean you, Private! Stand fast!”

“Sir?” the soldier said with a gulp at the sight of
some
kind of officer tramping up at speed and bellowing at him.

Lewrie got to the right-hand wheel and laid hold of the box.

“I am Captain Sir Alan Lewrie of His Majesty’s Frigate
Reliant.
Part of the Naval Brigade?” Lewrie said with his stern face on.

Comes in handy, my damned knighthood!
he told himself;
If I can impress somebody with it when I need something!

“General Baird promised Commodore Popham that the parties off the various ships would each be supplied with a waggon and team, and I must get my stores loaded so we may go forward,” Lewrie spun on in a more conversational tone; he could save threats and roaring for a later time, if conversational did not suit! “Your waggon is empty … Private whom?”

“P-Private Dodd, sir,” the waggoner hesitantly said.

“Very good, Private Dodd, if you’ll be so good as to wheel over to yon pile of stores, my sailors and Marines can begin loading,” Lewrie said with a brief smile.

“But, Ah
cain’t,
sir!” the soldier wheedled. “Me Sergeant’ll have me back lashed
open
do Ah not wait here for orders, an’ he comes an’ tells me
which
regiment Ah’m t’go to! Ah cain’t let ye have it, sir.”

“So the brandy and wine, the silk sheets and silver tableware, of an officers’ mess is more important than ammunition, food, and rum? Tosh, Private Dodd!” Lewrie snapped. “The Dutch’re waitin’ up there, entrenched most-like, and there’s sure t’be a fight before the day’s out.” He jabbed his arm to point at the summit of the Blaauwberg. “I ask ye, will the officers of whichever regiment your sergeant had in mind
need
any of their luxuries before dark?”

“Ah jus’ cain’t, sir,” Dodd wavered, looking up to the summit then back down, miserably torn. “The lashin’d half kill me.”

“If General Baird promised us a waggon, then he must’ve had one to spare, Private Dodd,” Lewrie went on, trying reason. “If he does, then he surely has one extra for that regimental mess. Just a matter of whistling up the spare for
them
! Besides,” Lewrie cajoled, turning mellow and friendly—it
might
work!—“if your officers or your Sergeant try t’give ye any grief, they’ll have me t’contend with, and a Post-Captain in the Royal Navy outranks ’em by a long chalk! And, they’ll have
t’find
ye first, and you’ll be with my sailors and Marines, sharin’ our rations, and our rum. The Navy issues
twice
a day, ye know … half past eleven of the morning and another in the evening.”

“Eh, ya do, sir?” Dodd perked up at that prospect, but then as quickly slumped in dread and indecision. “Ah don’t know, sir. I’ve me orders, an’ all. Yet—!”

“Just wheel over yonder and we’ll begin loading,” Lewrie prompted. “There’s a good lad.”

“Well, sir … iff’n they’s waggons enough for your lot,
and
that regiment’s mess, Ah s’pose they’s no harm,” Dodd surrendered, at last. “You’ve a heavy load, sir?”

“Salt-meat casks, large cooking pots…,” Lewrie began to tick off.

“Best they go ’tween the axles, then, sir,” Dodd said. “That’d be easier on the team, with the road up the mountain steep-lookin’.”

He clucked to his horses, shook the reins, and got the waggon turning round to clatter and rattle over to the shore party.

“Huzzah!” Lt. Westcott shouted. “Heave it up, lads, and hoist it in!”

“You can really protect him from his officers’ wrath, sir?” Midshipman Rossyngton asked in a soft voice once the waggoner was out of ear shot.

“If I have t’convince the poor fellow t’volunteer as a sailor or Marine, sir!” Lewrie told him with a happy bark of laughter.

*   *   *

More bugle calls sounded as the waggon was loaded and the load roped down against shifting, then covered with a large scrap of spare canvas. The army encampment was packed up, and the soldiers were now donning coats, shakoes, hangers and cartridge boxes, bayonets and the cumbersome and heavy chest-strapped packs. At another series of calls, and more shouts and curses, thousands of men in the infantry took their muskets from stands and scurried into ranks and files, forming columns four-abreast. Cavalrymen swung up into their saddles and chivvied their mounts into similar order. Artillerymen with the light field pieces assembled atop the limbers and caissons, or astride the lead horses in their teams. King’s Colours and regimental Colours were un-cased and allowed to stream in the light wind, just as the sun rose high enough to banish the dawn’s shadows and spread warm light over the now-assembled army, and polished cross-belt plates, regimental shako plates, and weapons glistened brightly.

“I had lead soldiers when I was a boy,” Lt. Westcott mused at the sight, “but the real thing is grander by far.”

“Mister Simcock,” Lewrie said, turning to the Marine officer. “You and your men
somewhat
resemble redcoats, so it might be best if you march ahead of the waggon, and Mister Westcott and our sailors bring up the rear. I’ll come with you, at the head of our column.”

“Pity we don’t have Colours of our own, sir,” Simcock said. “If we’d thought to bring a Harbour Jack or boat Jack? Ah, well.”

“Perhaps we can steal one from another ship’s shore party,” Lewrie suggested, laughing. “The same way we stole our waggon. Let’s get our little company movin’ forward, Mister Simcock. Up close to the head of the baggage train, like we really are guardin’ it.”

He looked down the short length of his column.

We haven’t got bugles, so—?
he thought;
Might we need to pilfer one o’ those, too? Well, there’s Mister Wheeler.

“Mister Wheeler?” Lewrie called to the Bosun’s Mate. “Do you have a call t’get this shambles movin’?”

“Ehm…,” Wheeler replied, scratching his head for a moment. “How about ‘Stations To Weigh’, sir?” he said, lifting his silver bosun’s call.

“Aye, that’ll do. Tootle away!” Lewrie agreed, laughing.

Christ, what does the Army say?
Lewrie asked himself, stumped.

“Forward … march!” he extemporised, waving his arm as the bosun’s call
fweeped.

“For’d march!” Lt. Simcock shouted, calling the step for a bit to his Marines, since they had left their fifer and drummer aboard the ship. Lewrie stood beside to admire them, thinking that his Marines were as smart as any of the Army soldiers. The waggon came up level with him, and Private Dodd gave him a shy smile and nod. Then came his sailors, and they were a different proposition. Westcott, the Midshipmen, the Bosun’s Mate …
they
looked “martial” enough.

Their Purser, Mr. Cadbury, had long ago kitted the men out in red-and-white chequered gingham shirts from the same baled lot, and blue neckerchiefs for all. All hands wore the waist-length, opened jackets with bright brass buttons and white-taped seams of the nautical trade, and white slop-trousers. All had been issued stiff and flat-brimmed, low-crowned tarred hats, and every hand had opted for a bright blue ribbon band to trail off the backs of their hats, with
HMS RELIANT
block-painted in white.

It was just that no one had ever taught them how to march in step! The captain who tried might have created a mutiny, for “square-bashing” drill was the stuff of “soldiers”, a much inferior lot!

They
shambled
in four ragged lines, swaying out of order like a weaving worm, their muskets not held at Trail or Shoulder Arms, but over their shoulders any-old-how, like oars or gaffs. There was his cabin-steward, Pettus, without a single clue how to handle a weapon; his personal cook, Yeovill, sporting a red waist-coat and a longer blue coat, with a black civilian hat on his head, and his attempt at a sailor’s queue as bristly as a fox tail, and about as gingerish. His Cox’n, Liam Desmond, and his long-time mate, Patrick Furfy, were near the tail of the column, peering all about wide-eyed, with their hats on the backs of their heads.

No one’ll ever believe we’re
supposed
t’be here!
Lewrie told himself;
We look more like a parcel o’ drunken revellers!

With a long sigh, he hitched the sling of his Ferguson higher up on his shoulder and stomped back to rejoin Lt. Simcock.

There was a sudden fanfare of bugle calls, more shouts, and the army lurched into motion, five thousand men in all in both the Heavy Brigade and the Light Brigade of Foot, and the drums began to thunder out the pace for smartly-drilled soldiers to advance at the one hundred steps a minute. Cavalry moved out at the Walk, and the dust clouds rose again as thousands of boots and hooves struck the ground. Artillery batteries clattered and lumbered, and the waggons of the baggage train began their slow groaning forward movement.

“We can’t wedge ourselves into the baggage train, sir,” Lt. Simcock observed as they reached the head of the first waggons. “It might be better did we swing out to the right flank of it, and try to stay level with the leading columns.”

“Sounds right, Mister Simcock,” Lewrie agreed. “Uhm … how does one order that, in Army parlance? You’re the closest thing we have to a proper soldier.”