The King's Marauder (40 page)

“It does look as if the enemy is in roughly company strength, sir,” Lt. Westcott estimated. “Damn all the gunsmoke, though. Can’t make out much anymore.”

“There!” Lewrie said, pointing. “To the left. That would be Captain Kimbrough’s company, going forward. They’ve marched ahead of their first smoke. You can almost make ’em out, now!”

A minute later, and the gunfire on the right flank moved up a bit closer to the semaphore tower, as Lt. Keane took his Marines out further, and re-opened fire into the Spanish left-hand of the line. As the volume of fire increased from the left, from Kimbrough’s company, the centre of the British line moved up, as well.

“Am I imagining things, or are the Spanish falling back to the tower?” Lt. Harcourt wondered aloud. “Yes, I think they are!”

“Their gun flashes seem to be slackening, too,” Lt. Elmes said. “Damme, a good, hard fight, and we’re not in it!”

“Land fighting, sir?” Lewrie said with a shake of his head in dismissal. “Be careful what ye wish for, for it ain’t pretty. Do pass word for Mister Snelling, and have him, his Surgeon’s Mates, and the loblolly boys standing by, for we’re sure t’have wounded comin’ back.”

Long before, in his Midshipman days, some wry fellow, he could not recall just who, had commented that glory and honour were won if battle happened over
yonder,
but when one was personally involved, it was only confusion and terror. Even so, Lewrie wished that he
could
be ashore, up with the 77th and his Marines, if only to see for himself how the fight was going, and if he could issue orders that saved the day, saved some lives, and won the field.

“I think our fellows are moving forward, again, sir,” Lieutenant Westcott announced. “We may have gained the tower, and driven the Dons into the scrub behind it.”

Four Bells rang out to mark six in the morning, and the sun was almost fully up, revealing more of the scene, the sailors and boats on the shore, the beach now sandy instead of grey, the light line of the gentle surf breaking ankle-high, and the details of the town off to the left. The details of the terrain pencilled upon Mountjoy’s maps were more distinctive, the orchards and wood lot trees, the houses and barns of the scattered farmsteads, the long slope up to the semaphore tower and the tower itself. Upon that slope, Lewrie could espy tiny blotches of red and white scattered here and there, a sight that made him suck in a deep breath as his stomach went chill. British soldiers, some of his own Marines, lay on the ground where they had fallen, and they were too far away for him to see if they lay unmoving, or writhed in pain from wounds, wounds from which they might recover, pray God!

God dammit, what a mess!
he thought, almost in pain;
No matter the care we took in plannin’, we’ve thrown ’em in the quag.

At long last, the gunfire dribbled off to scattered individual shots, and the groups of British troops were beyond the tower, swarming inside it, and starting the destruction. Uphill and around the tower there were a lot more wee blotches of men in blue and white uniforms on the ground. What remained of the Spanish infantry had run off, out-shot by troops that actually practiced live-fire on a regular basis, and as Lewrie made a quick count of the unmoving Spaniards, he felt a bit of relief that the numbers of enemy soldiers who had run might be too few to mount a counter-attack before the tower was set alight.

“Smoke, sir,” Westcott said, with some delight. “They’ve lit it on fire. We’ll have them back aboard the ships in the next hour.”

*   *   *

Sapphire
’s Marines came up the scrambling nets and the boarding battens in much quieter takings than their demeanours upon departure, and even the sailors who had manned their boats and had guarded the beach but had not been engaged in the fight seemed much more subdued. The Bosun’s Mates and the Surgeon’s loblolly boys saw to hoisting
Sapphire
’s wounded up the ship’s sides by means of mess-table carrying boards for the seriously hurt, slung horizontal and lifted over the bulwarks with the main course yard, or in Bosuns’ chairs for the others.

Through it all, Lewrie stood four-square and stoic amidships of the forward edge of the quarterdeck, hands clasped in the small of his back, ’til Lieutenant Keane reported to him.

“How bad?” Lewrie gruffly asked.

“Not
too
bad, all in all, sir,” Lt. Keane said, doffing his hat. “Marine Private Pewitt slain, and five wounded, including Corporal Lester. He’s the worst off. Lieutenant Roe got slightly nicked, and Sergeant Clapper twisted an ankle.”

“It looked a lot worse from here,” Lewrie said, allowing himself a quick sigh of relief. “The soldiers?”

“Captain Bowden’s company, in the centre, got the worst of it, sir,” Lt. Keane told him, looking weary and red-eyed. The right side of his face, right hand, and his mouth were stained with black powder from discharging and re-loading his own musket, from tearing the paper cartridges open with his teeth. “They were the first ones the Spanish saw in the gloom. I think he has three dead and ten wounded. Captain Kimbrough’s lot suffered one dead and six hurt.”

“How the Devil did the Dons come t’be there, I’m wonderin’,” Lewrie groused. “It’s only been a day and a night since we landed at Almerimar. Were they in strength?”

“About one company of foot, sir,” Lt. Keane replied, pulling a calico cloth from his coat pocket to mop his face, spit on one corner, and scrub the bitter grains of powder from his lips. “Fifty or sixty, or thereabouts? We took one of their officers as prisoner, and I gathered, given my little Spanish, that they were quartered overnight in the town,
near
the tower, but weren’t really there to guard the thing … they’d done a route march down from Órjiva just to keep their men fit, and had planned on marching back this morning, after a late breakfast. They’d been barracked overnight in a tavern, and I also gather that they’d had a good drunk.

“It was only our bad luck that some bloody farmer saw us when we were creeping through the wood lot and the orchards, and ran off to wake them, sir,” Lt. Keane said, with a shrug.

“Well, if they weren’t posted to protect that tower, then it’s good odds that some troops from Órjiva
will
be, later,” Lewrie decided. “If they’re that dear to ’em, that means that one part of our plan is working … though it’ll make future raids harder.”

Hell, impossible,
Lewrie gloomed to himself;
We’re down nigh a half a company of troops, and when I get the lightly wounded back is anyone’s guess. Would Dalrymple give me any re-enforcements if
…?

“Major Hughes, sir?” Keane said.

“Hmm?” Lewrie asked, drawn back from his thoughts.

“Major Hughes, sir … we lost him,” Keane repeated.

“Fallen? Damn,” Lewrie spat, though without much sincerity.

“No, sir, I mean
lost
him,” Keane insisted. “He just up and disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. We searched, after we had driven the Dons off, but there was just no sign of him.”

“How the Devil d’ye
lose
an officer?” Lewrie exclaimed.

“Don’t know, sir,” Keane replied, looking as if he took Lewrie’s question as a personal reproach. “We were more spread out than usual, with Kimbrough out to the left to keep an eye on the town, Bowden in the centre, and our Marines on the right flank, perhaps fifty or more yards ’twixt companies. Major Hughes was with the centre. As soon as we all spotted the Spanish, he started yelling for us to close up and sent runners, just before the firing began. Well, sir, I saw no reason to, since our volleys into the Spanish left were knocking them down like ninepins, and I ordered rear ranks to advance, to get closer.

“The Major runs over to me, screaming, ‘What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ and to shift left and form line,” Keane went on. “A runner came from Captain Kimbrough, saying that he was advancing by ranks, the same as me, and Hughes … got even
louder
and said something like, ‘Must I save all you fools from disaster?’ and dashed off, leaving the runner with us.

“Captain Bowden says he saw him as he ran past behind his own line, and angling off uphill to where Kimbrough’s men were closing, on the Spanish right,” Keane continued. “Bowden says that the Major ordered him to stand fast and suppress the foe with fire, and that’s the last
anyone
saw of him, for he never reached Kimbrough’s company.”

“Just damn my eyes,” Lewrie exclaimed. “I never heard the like. D’ye think it’s possible that the Dons captured him?”

“It’s possible, I suppose, sir,” Lt. Keane allowed, “but, neither Kimbrough nor Bowden recalls taking fire from any Spaniards
between
their companies, though he might have stumbled into a small party of shirkers or stragglers. The gunsmoke was getting pretty thick by then, so it was getting rather difficult for anyone to see damn-all.”

“Damn, what a pity,” Lewrie said.

No, it ain’t!
he thought;
I’m shot o’ the bastard, either way. If God’s just, Dalrymple might scrounge up a replacement. Perhaps he has another family friend’s son on his staff who needs t’win himself some spurs?

“We’ll be returning to Gibraltar, soon as everyone’s settled,” Lewrie assured Keane. “See to your men, sir, and tell them that they did damned well … and that we’ll ‘Splice The Mainbrace’ at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. I’ll need your written account of the action for my report, along with Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s, as soon as I can collect them.”

“Aye, sir,” Keane replied, doffing his hat in departing salute, then trudging down the starboard ladderway to the waist, where most of his Marines were gathered, after turning in their arms and accoutrements. Their initial muted moods had livened, and a trade was springing up in Spanish shakoes, waistbelt and crossbelt plates, and some rank badges ripped from dead Spanish non-commissioned officers.

The dead Private and the wounded were on the orlop and the cockpit surgery, by then, out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.

Lewrie looked over at the transport. Her boats were being led for towing astern, and all her troops were back aboard. He would collect Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s reports, he thought sadly, when he went aboard
Harmony
in the afternoon, once safely out at sea.

He had four sea-burials to conduct over there.

He hoped those did not signify a dead end to operations, and his vaunting plans.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

“They
weren’t
posted there to guard the semaphore tower?” Mr. Thomas Mountjoy asked, as if he needed further assurance after he had read Lewrie’s report a second time.

“Not according to our prisoner, no,” Lewrie told him, sprawled in one of Mountjoy’s comfortable cushioned chairs on his rooftop gallery. He had a tall glass of Mountjoy’s version of his patented cool tea in hand, and was savouring a rare, cool breeze that had arrived with an equally rare morning rain. The gurgle of rainwater sluicing down the tile gutters to catch-barrels and the house’s deep cistern, was almost lulling him to a mild drowse. In all, he found it most pleasant to be away from the ship, on solid ground for a spell, and be cool, again. Autumn in the Mediterranean, on the coast of Spain, was still uncomfortably warm.

“They will, though,” Mountjoy mused, looking disappointed even if the latest landings had been successful, if not costly. “And, if they do, we’d need a larger force, and at the moment, well…”

“Seven dead, aye,” Lewrie said with a sigh, for Marine Corporal Lester had died of his wounds, and one of Captain Bowden’s soldiers had succumbed, as well. “And nineteen ashore in the hospital, with two permanently lost to amputations. When I can get the others back will take weeks … twenty-four men short. Kimbrough and Bowden can shift men around, but that’d give us eighty-eight men, all ranks, and that’s just not enough soldiers, and my Marines can’t take up the slack.”

“Dalrymple,” Mountjoy gloomed. “He’ll be loath to give us even a handful.”

“One just can’t take men from one of his regiments and splice ’em into another, among strangers, aye,” Lewrie said, equally gloomy. “Assumin’ he’d even consider it. Damme, Mountjoy, what we need is some more of your lot’s money, another transport, another draught of men, and one more escortin’ ship, maybe a frigate.”

“And, a Brevet-Major,” Mountjoy said with a wry expression.

“Damme,
I
didn’t lose him,” Lewrie hooted, “the bloody fool lost himself! We didn’t even find a single one of his damned egret plumes. It’s good odds the Spanish have him, and good riddance.”

“If they have him, we’ll hear of it, sooner or later,” Mountjoy said, rising from his settee to go stand under the edge of the awning to savour the breeze that ruffled his loose shirt. “The Spanish are rather good at doing the honourable thing. They’ll report Hughes as an officer on his parole, available to be exchanged for one of their own of equal rank. Aah, that feels hellish-good!” he said, holding both arms out to let the wind have its way.

“Assumin’ we have one, of course,” Lewrie owlishly commented.

“Haven’t heard what Dalrymple’s made of it, yet,” Mountjoy went on, turning to face Lewrie. “Though I can imagine. Too bad you didn’t come ashore in your best-dress uniform, for we’ve an appointment with the old cove after dinner, today.”

“What a grand day for it, then,” Lewrie groused, “rain, gloom, and dark clouds. Sounds just
too
bloody jolly. If he has a bad meal, he may shut us down completely.”

“Or, tell us to limit our activities to easier objectives, in future,” Mountjoy replied, looking sly.

“You have some in mind, something easier to hit?” Lewrie asked.

“A bit more far afield, this time,” Mountjoy said, pointing to a slim leather folder which put Lewrie in mind of the pale tan ones that solicitors and barristers used, termed “law calf”. It looked a little fatter than usual, as if Mountjoy had gotten a slew of reports, sketches from informers, and locally-made maps and coastal sea charts. “I’ll take it along, if he’s still amenable.”