The King's Marauder (37 page)

“Upon that head, sir…” Keane said, then paused as if summoning up his courage. “Things did not go quite as well ashore as it may have appeared. The Army lot…”

“Landed too far left of the battery, aye,” Lewrie finished for him. “Even though all they had to do was row for the lanthorns on the parapet, and had to run t’get in the right place.”

“Well, there is that, sir,” Keane allowed, “but, once there, and in place alongside us, they just … stalled. There were no more than three or four sentries on watch in the battery, and the rest were asleep in the barracks. Hughes could have crept up and taken them at once, or he could have sent his companies in at a rush, and the battery would have been ours with hardly a shot fired, and the Spaniards in the barracks captured. Instead, he ordered his men to form line and load, the sentries heard him … I think the
town
could have … the sentries fired at him and his men, ran to wake the rest, and then the 77th began to volley by platoons, trading massive fire with only a few, no more than four or five, enemy soldiers, sir.”

“Damme, just blazin’ away at nothing?” Lewrie said, frowning. “How long did
that
go on?”

“Long enough for the Spanish to load and fire one of their guns and turn out of barracks, sir,” Keane said, looking angry, appalled by poor tactics. “We did not fire on the Spanish, so I doubt if they were even aware my party was there, it was still so dark. I took my Marines round the right side of the battery, fixed bayonets, and made a charge into them after serving them a volley. We shot a few, skewered a few more, and the rest of them threw up their hands, and some dropped their weapons or gun tools and ran off. At that point, it got quiet enough that I could shout, ‘take the bloody battery, charge’ and the soldiers finally moved.”

He spat “soldiers” like a curse.

“Good, quick thinking, Mister Keane,” Lewrie said, “as I will say in my report.”

“I fear that Major Hughes was none too pleased with my action, sir,” Keane said, allowing himself the faintest grin. “After we rounded up the Spanish prisoners, he made it plain that it was
he
who was in command ashore, and that I should have kept my men in line with his and … ‘what the Hell does a Marine know of infantry tactics?’ was how he put it, placing a great emphasis upon the difference between a Major and a mere Leftenant.”

Lewrie stroked his cat slowly, mulling that over for a minute or two whilst Keane got his tea and took a few sips.

“What Admiralty wishes to know is whether the attack was successful, Mister Keane,” Lewrie finally said. “Not the tactical, or personal disputes. It may be a good idea, though, once we’re back in port, to get Hughes, his company commanders, and you together for a re-hash, under the guise of what worked, and what we could do better. Just how big is a platoon, anyway, Mister Keane? How many are there?”

“Well, in our case, I’d say the same number as we have boats, sir,” Keane informed him. “For the 77th, that would be about eighteen or nineteen men plus non-commissioned and one officer. As many men as can be crammed into each of their larger boats.”

“So, their two Lieutenants, two Ensigns, and two senior Sergeants could command their six platoons, the Captains could oversee them, and Hughes would direct them all?” Lewrie asked.

“Lord, you speak heresy, sir!” Lt. Keane exclaimed, laughing and making a mock shiver. “The Army would
never
give such responsibility to Sergeants or Corporals, nor to boy Ensigns, either. That duty is for gentleman officers only, and experienced ones of proper rank. They drill, march, and fight in well-ordered battalions, regiments, and brigades. A light company can be sent out ahead of the line on their own, but only to skirmish for a while before returning to the left of the regimental line. They might form foraging parties in small lots, but that’s about it.”

“Damn!” Lewrie groused, and gave out a sigh. “My fault. When we planned the raid, I didn’t stress going round the battery by companies, or the companies acting on their own.”

“That could be raised during the review, sir,” Keane allowed, “but you may find it hard to impart. The Army simply doesn’t think that way. We might have been better off with an all-Marine force.”

“If wishes were horses, we’d all ride thouroughbreds,” Lewrie scoffed. “We’re stuck with what we have, and lucky t’ve gotten them. And, it ain’t as if they’re a bad lot. I gather that most of their officers have gotten the hang of what we’re doing, and we’ve taught their men new skills. Perhaps we can bring them round to a little more … flexibility.”

“Perhaps, sir,” Lt. Keane said, though he didn’t sound all that hopeful. “More flexibility in their thinking and reacting to the situation is wanting.”

“You mean in Major Hughes’s thinking,” Lewrie countered.

“Indeed, sir,” Keane solemnly agreed. “If only to limit casualties.”

Sapphire
’s Marines had not suffered any hurts beyond some minor scrapes and bruises, though the 77th had had three wounded, none too seriously, or so Surgeon Mister Snelling had reported once he had returned from
Harmony.
If Major Hughes had thought to rush the battery at bayonet-point, quietly, the whole operation could have ended with no British casualties, Lewrie imagined.

Keane finished his cool tea, pronounced it a fine concoction, and took his leave, Lewrie remained on the settee, stroking Chalky, and frowning.

“We were lucky this time, cat, d’ye know that?” he muttered to his pet. “The next’un’ll take a lot more planning before we set it in motion, and I’m going to ruffle even more feathers before we do.”

Chalky looked up at him slit-eyed and beginning to purr.

There were Midshipmen Hillhouse and Britton to speak to as to why two experienced, well-salted young men had gone so far astray from the proper stretch of beach. There was a harder part awaiting him over how the detachment of the 77th could move more quickly if the situation warranted it. The hardest part of all, Lewrie suspected, was getting Major Hughes to explain his actions, and mend some of his ways.

“Hard-headed, blusterin’ bastard,” Lewrie muttered aloud.

“Mister Keane, sir?” Pettus asked as he retrieved Keane’s empty glass to rinse out.

“Not him, an Army officer,” Lewrie corrected him.

“Oh,” Pettus said. “But aren’t they all that way, sir?”

“God, let’s hope not!” Lewrie said with a laugh, while thinking that Major Hughes was a harder nut to crack than most. He recalled his boasts to Maddalena that first dinner at the seafood chop-house about the proper way to win the war, and how he’d go about it if only given the chance.

A very bloody
thick
nut, indeed,
Lewrie thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY

“Feeling ambitious, Captain Lewrie?” Mr. Thomas Mountjoy asked him once they had gone over the results of the raid on Puerto Banús.

“Depends on what you have in mind,” Lewrie replied, wondering what he was getting at. “Another raid?”

“Two, actually,” Mountjoy responded, slyly grinning, “Within a day’s sail of each other. Look here,” he urged, fetching out a chart to spread on the marred old dining table in his lodgings. “There are semaphore towers all along the coast, in grovelling emulation of those that Bonaparte has built all over France.”

“In grovelling emulation of the British semaphore system that we built, first!” Lewrie interrupted him, with a scornful hoot.

Years before Napoleon Bonaparte had come to power, Admiralty had erected long chains of signalling towers from Whitehall to every major seaport, from Falmouth to Dover, the Downs, and the Goodwin Sands and Great Yarmouth. Signal towers were really an ancient idea, mentioned in recovered Roman texts; they had used large flashing tin mirrors by day, and torches by night, and could send complex messages further and faster than the quickest despatch rider. Unless blinded by a blizzard or pea-soup fog, the wig-wagging vanes atop the Admiralty building could whirl like a dervish’s arms and transmit orders to the Nore or to Portsmouth in ten minutes or less. Lewrie didn’t know exactly how the code worked, or what the many positions of the vanes meant, but was smugly convinced that the semaphore system was a marvel.

The French system put up all along their coasts he’d found useful, too, it must be admitted, especially at night, when the French hung large glass oil lanthorns on the vanes, replacing the black-painted pig bladders; Lewrie had been able to determine where he was along the coast at night by spotting the first one in a seaport town, then keeping count as he sailed along. They were as good as lighthouses!

“Anyway, as I said, there’s a chain of them from Málaga to Almeria, then to Cartagena, one of their main naval ports,” Mountjoy went on. “If they’re a French idea, then Godoy and his Francophiles simply must have them, though, from the reports I’ve gotten, they’re nowhere near finished, and Spain’s so ‘skint’ it’ll be a wonder if they can ever afford to complete them. They’ve none leading inland, so far as I know … just along the coasts. If that coastal warning chain is broken in a few places, the Spanish would have to re-build them and give them a stronger garrison, depriving Sir Hew’s friend, Castaños, of troops … and costing them money they don’t have.”

“What do your informants say of possible opposition?” Lewrie asked him, frowning.

“The towers themselves are thinly manned, just enough men to work the day, and another team for night,” Mountjoy said, shrugging off worries. “Watch for signals in two directions, copy them down, and work the arms to send them on. The ones closer to Almeria might be too risky, since there’s a sizable garrison there, foot, horse and all, but … down here at Almerimar, there’s a tower right on the shore that’s isolated, several miles removed from El Ejido, and even further from Berja, inland, where there sometimes are at least a company, or strong detatchment, of Spanish infantry. You could be in, burn it, and be out before a rider could summon them. Here’s the sketches I’ve obtained, and the nature of the beaches,” he said, placing them atop the chart they had been studying.

The semaphore tower, as depicted, was made of wood with ladders leading up through several open platforms to the larger one at the top where the arms, or vanes, were worked. It sat on a high spot at the back of a small bay open to the sea, with the small, sleepy fishing port of Almerimar situated on lower ground to the right of the tower, straggling up a lesser slope inland to grain fields, pastures, and orchards.

“It looks t’be an easy proposition,” Lewrie cautiously allowed. “I wouldn’t have t’land my troops in the full dark, this time. We’re going after the town, too?”

“Let’s not bother with the town, this time,” Mountjoy suggested, making a face. “It’s poor enough, already, and our aim is to win the Spanish over, eventually, not enflame their centuries-old hatred for us.”

“I thought you
wanted
chaos and mayhem?” Lewrie said, confused. “You agreed to burning the mills and granary at Puerto Banús, and all the fishermen’s boats,” he pointed out.

“I did,” Mountjoy admitted, “but once Dalrymple read my report, he shot me a stiff note saying that he’d have no truck with making war on civilians, and if we did not stick to destroying strictly military installations, he’d pull the troops away from us. Now, do we put the torch to Spanish
army
food supplies, that’s one thing, but food stores for civilians is quite another, and completely against the pale.”

“Humph,” Lewrie said with a snort, and a toss of his head. “To do that, we’d have t’land in a major city, and need Hughes’s fantacy of an entire brigade! Oh well. Aye, it looks as if Almerimar is possible, even in broad daylight. All the troops at the tower can do is madly wig-wag their tower’s arms, callin’ for help.”

“Then, if they wish to keep the chain of towers up and running, they’ll have to re-build it, and post at least a company of soldiers there to defend it, next time,” Mountjoy cheerfully pictured. “A company to each tower, and you hold back whole regiments from marching to join General Castaños.”

“You said two towers?” Lewrie prompted.

“Over here,” Mountjoy said, gathering up the first set of hand-drawn sketches and pointing to another coastal town further West, to a cluster of small towns; Almuñécar, Salobreña, and Motril, close to the foothills of the Sierra de Almijara. “Might be a tougher nut, mind you. The main road to Granada, inland, joins the coast road halfway ’twixt Salobreña and Motril. Salobreña’s right on the coast, with Motril higher up and inland, but with grand sea views, so my reports say.”

“There’s a semaphore tower there, at Salobreña?” Lewrie asked. “Anything else?”

“The semaphore tower is all that matters,” Mountjoy told him, “though it will be harder to get at, since it’s at the back of the town, on a higher spur, It would’ve made more sense to build it nearer to Motril, which is uphill, but for a ridge East of Motril that blocks the view.”

“We’d have t’fight our way through a
town?
” Lewrie exclaimed. “What happened to bein’ sweet to the Spanish? Ye can’t trust soldiers t’not loot a little, on the sly, and if fire’s exchanged, there’s the risk o’ civilians gettin’ shot. If the government in Madrid is apin’ the French, they’ll have their own equivalent of Bonaparte’s
Moniteur,
and play up the deaths and destruction like the Americans played up a few dead rebels as the Boston Massacre!”

“It’s on the extreme outskirts of the town,” Mountjoy pointed out, producing some more sketches from his field agents and informers. “Look here. Up here’s the tower, about a quarter-mile inland from the beach, beyond a grove of trees, some pastureland, an orchard, and a few scattered houses, barns, and out-buildings. It’s not as if you’d be chargin’ through the
streets.
Sort of below the village of Motril, but out past the last of the ridge, where the sightline to the towers further East is better.”

Lewrie ignored the sketches for a moment, looking closer at the chart, and finding an host of wee markers which resembled tall, skinny triangles with vees above them, all along the coast.

“Mountjoy, there are hundreds of the bloody things…” he said.