Dewey Lambdin - The King`s Commission
"How's the leg, Mister Lewrie?" the captain inquired.
"Still a mite tender, sir, but I'll cope," Alan offered. "It really is feeling much better."
"No, I've seen you wincin', try as you will to put a good face on it," Lilycrop replied, waving off Alan's enthusiasm for action. "If we land troops from Shrike, I may go myself. Can't let the young'uns have all the fun, now, can we, Mister Caldwell?"
Damnit, it was Alan's place to go as first officer, and he now regretted his earlier theatrics. But, to act too spry on the morrow would reveal what a fine job of malingering he had been doing; and, he considered, he'd done more than his share of desperate adventuring in the last few months-why take another chance of being chopped up like a fillet steak if there was no reason to?
"Well, if you really are intent on the venture, sir," he sighed, trying to give the impression that he was hellishly miffed.
Chapter 2
Their tiny flotilla arrived in Britain Bay off Turk's Island before sundown, just at the end of the first dog-watch. The holding ground was coral and rock, so getting a small bower and the best bower secure in four or five fathoms of crystal-clear water was a real chore. They had to row out a stream anchor as well. The Tartar frigate was driven off her anchorage, losing an anchor in the process, while Captain Dixon from Drake rowed ashore under a flag of truce to demand the French garrison surrender. The prize, La Coquette, stayed out at sea, standing on and off as the winds freshened.
Once they could pause from their labors and consider Shrike safely moored, Alan could see French troops ashore in their white uniforms, drawn up on a summit overlooking the ships, which were not over a cable to two cables' length from the shimmering white beaches. It looked to be, Alan decided after plying his glass upon them, not more than the one hundred fifty to two hundred men that Lieutenant Lilycrop had surmised.
Captain Dixon's boat came off the shore just at the end of the second dog, around eight in the evening, with news that the French had refused to surrender. That response was thought to be pretty much a formality for the sake of their honor, the prevailing view being that once a determined landing party went ashore in the morning and a few broadsides had been fired off, the French would shoot back a few times and then haul down their flag in the face of overwhelming force.
During the night, Albemarle and Resistance fired a few shots into the woods overlooking Britain Bay to keep the French awake and in a state of nerves for the morrow. Shrike's people sharpened their swords and bayonets; the Marines went about hard-faced and grim, tending to their full uniforms (which were only worn for battle or formal duties in port) and seeing to their fire-locks, flints and powder. The rasp of files and stones on bayonets and hangers and cutlasses made a harsh, sibilant rhythm under the sounds of the fiddlers on the mess decks who went through their entire repertory of stirring airs before Lights Out.
At first light, just at 5 a.m., they stood to, ready to board their boats and set off for the shore expedition. Captain Dixon of the Drake brig would lead. Evidently, Tartar had not been able to keep good holding ground, for there had been no sign of her since she had lost a second anchor and been driven off shore in the night.
"Not much to the place by daylight, is there, Mister Cox?" Alan asked as their swarthy little master gunner strolled aft to the quarterdeck.
"Little dry on the windward end here, sir, true," Cox said in a rare moment of cheerfulness as he looked forward to some action for a change. "Same's most islands here'bouts. Might I borrow your glass, sir?"
Alan loaned him his personal telescope and let the man look his fill of the shadowy forests above the beach where the troops would land. There wasn't much to see, not in dawn-light. Sea-grape bushes, poison manchineel trees, sturdy but low pines and scrub trees that only gave an impression of green lushness rooted firmly in the sandy soil of a coral and limestone island.
"No sign of a battery this end, sir," Cox commented, handing the tube back. "And I'd not make those heights over forty-five feet above the level of the beach, even if there was. Good shooting for us."
Lieutenant Lilycrop came on deck in his best uniform coat, wearing his long straight sword at his hip, with a pair of pistols stuffed into the voluminous coat pockets. His face was red and raw from a celebratory shave, his first of the week.
"No stirrings from the French yet, Mister Lewrie?" he asked.
"Nothing to be seen, sir," Alan replied.
"Might be a white uniform in those trees, sir," Cox disagreed. "Sentries, most like so far. But no sign of a battery."
"They've had all night to prepare, even so." Lilycrop frowned. "Well, Lieutenant Walsham. Rarin' to have a crack at 'em, are ye, sir?"
"Aye aye, sir," Walsham answered, sounding a lot more somber than his usual wont. He was a recruiting flyer, the very picture of a Marine officer this morning, as if dirt and lint would never dare do harm to the resplendency of his red uniform. The gorget of rank at his throat flashed like the rising sun.
"Doubt we'll need springs on the cables," Lilycrop mused. "I 'spect the frigates'll cover the landin', and we won't be called for much firin', 'less they try to sweep 'round to flank us once we're ashore. If they do, they'll be in plain sight of our guns over there. And it ain't a full two cables to that low hill."
"Round-shot and grape should do it, sir," Alan commented.
"I'd worry more 'bout some Frog ship comin' in from seaward, if I were you, Mister Lewrie," the captain said, turning to look at the horizon from which the sun was threatening to rise. "Might've been more ships'n La Coquette and a sloop of war come here. Maybe a brace o' sloops already sweepin' the Caicos Passage up north to make some profit from this expedition of theirs. You keep a wary eye out for that."
"I shall, sir," Alan told him.
"An' you'll not muck about with my little ship while I'm gone, will you now, Mister Lewrie," Lilycrop said in a softer voice for him alone, not so much a question as an order.
"I'll not, sir, but I cannot speak for any French battery up in those woods." Alan grinned back, knowing by now that Lilycrop's blusterings were not as dire as he made them sound.
"Signal from Albemarle, sir!" Midshipman Edgar called.
"Were off. then," Lilycrop said with a grin. "Only wished wed o' packed a heartier dinner. Ready, Mister Walsham?"
"Aye. sir." the Marine said moving towards the gangway entry port.
"Boats are alongside to starboard, sir, so the French did not see any preparations," Alan stuck in. "Side-party!"
The seamen and Marines gathered to render salute to their captain as he stepped to the lip of the entry-port for the first boat, doffing hats and raising swords or muskets in honor as Lilycrop swung out and faced inward to lower himself down the man-ropes and battens to the boat.
The entire squadron was issuing forth its landing force, most of it from the two remaining frigates, as they had more men to spare from much larger crews, while the little brigs below the Rate were perenially short of hands even on their best days. By counting heads in the boats nearest him, and then multiplying by the number of boats issuing forth, Alan could determine that they were fielding around one hundred eighty to two hundred men for the effort, minus those whose duty it would be to stay on the beach and safeguard the boats. They would at least equal the estimated French troops ashore. And the gunfire from well-drilled fighting ships would make the critical difference.
"Pendant's down, sir!" Edgar shouted.
"Cast off! Out oars! Give way together!" the captain's cox'n ordered as the signal for execution was given.
It took about half an hour for all boats to gather before the frigates, line themselves up in some sort of order, and then shove off for the silent, waiting beach.
"Albemarle signals 'Open Fire,' sir," Edgar said.
"Mister Cox, make it hot for them," Alan directed. The ships began to thunder out their broadsides over the heads of the rowing boats, thrashing the woods above the beach and, the low hills behind with iron sleet.
"Slow but steady, boys," Cox shouted to his remaining gunnery crews, and Shrike's little six-pounders began to bark, one at a time, aiming high with quoins full out, which made the deck rock and seem to sag down with each blast. Cox and his gunner's mate walked from one end of the waist to the other as the guns fired, counting out a pace which would allow the forward-most gun to be reloaded by the time the after-most piece had discharged, so a continual hail of round-shot and grape canister would keep the French down under cover, never allowing them to rise between broadsides for a musket volley.
"A little low, Mister Cox?" Alan asked as he saw the trees and bushes just above the beach tremble to a well-directed shot.
"Aim'll lift as the barrels get hotter, sir," Cox said, replying with a touch of petulant whine to his voice, unwilling to be questioned at his science, or his skill in the execution of it. But Alan did note that Cox then sent a gunner's mate to correct the elevation of Number 4 larboard gun, which had been shooting too low.
The boats were having a lively time of it, even inside the reefs that should have protected them from the worst of the offshore rollers that swept in, driven by a fresh Sou'east Trade Wind. They rocked bow to stern, with the oarsmen slaving away to keep them moving.
Then the first stems were grounding on the sands, and Captain Dixon was ashore and waving back at the frigates. A signal went up from Albemarle, ordering "Cease Fire" so their broadsides would not hurt their own landing parties.
"Cease fire, Mister Cox!" Alan shouted down into the waist. "Mister Biggs, water butts for the gunners."
"Aye, sir," their weasely purser replied, sounding as if he even begrudged issuing "free" water.
"Looks like the landing is unopposed," Alan said. "Might be some French troops up in those woods, but they couldn't form for volleys under our fire."
"Marines are going in, sir," Caldwell pointed out.
Through the glass, he could see the thin red ranks form shoulder to shoulder, open out in skirmish order, lower their bayoneted muskets and start off for the interior, being swallowed up by the thick undergrowth almost at once, with the seemingly disordered packs of seamen in their mis-matched shirts following.
From then on, it was anyone's guess as to what was happening inland. There was no mast available for flag signals from the men ashore. Muskets popped, sometimes a whole squad fired by volley, and the rags of spent powder-smoke rose above the greenery, perhaps just above where they had been fired or perhaps blown through the trees before rising. It was impossible to know which side had fired, or where the true positions of whoever had done the shooting were. All in all, it didn't sound or look like much of a battle so far; just a little skirmishing and skulking, very desultorily conducted.
"Can't see a damned thing from the deck, sir,'" Caldwell growled.
"Aye," Alan agreed. "Nothing for it, then."
