Hostile Shores (34 page)

All this was, of course, accompanied by bugles, drums, and the barks and shouted orders from officers and Sergeants-Major. In all of that stirring and din, Lewrie and his party could amble up alongside the right-most troop of the 34th Light Dragoons, with no one in authority taking any notice of them, at all, or making any objections to their presence, until they reached a small rise, a knob, just a bit ahead of the right-most troop of Horse, and about twenty feet higher than the cavalry, a splendid spot from which to see it all.

“Private Dodd? Keep your waggon a bit further back,” Lewrie ordered. “Mister Simcock? Mister Westcott? I think it’s time for us to load weapons. Load, but do not prime, just in case.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Once we’ve done that, we’ll all move atop the knob, and rest easy,” Lewrie added, swinging his Ferguson rifled-musket off his now-sore shoulder and digging out a paper cartridge from his slung box. One at a time, he did the same for his four pistols, then stowed them in coat pockets or thrust them behind his sword belt.

Someone must have tutored his cabin-steward, Pettus, in the handling of firearms, for Pettus had torn a cartridge open with his teeth, poured the powder down the muzzle of his Tower musket, rammed it down, added the ball and wad, rammed them home, and replaced the ramrod into the rings under the barrel. He did it slowly and carefully, but he got it right, and got a congratulating nod from Lewrie.

“Right then,” Lewrie called. “Up on the knob, and take your ease.” As much as he sorely desired to sit down and get off of his feet, too, he strolled up near the head of the cavalry troop.

“Captain Lewrie?” Captain Veasey exclaimed, goggling. “What the Devil brings
you
up here? ’Tis a long way from salt water, don’t ye know, haw haw!”

“Idle curiosity, Captain Veasey,” Lewrie said back, grinning, and explaining for the umpteenth time about the forming of the Naval Brigade. “We
were
guarding the baggage train ’til some staff officer shooed us off, so I thought we’d come up and see the battle. If there is to be a battle, that is.”

“Oh, there will be, mark my words, sir!” Veasey chortled with impending glee. “The Dutch are at the top, in some force. You can see ’em, plain as day.”

Lewrie pulled out his pocket telescope and had a squint. The Dutch
were
there! Shakoed heads, bayonet-tipped muskets, and a hint of epauletted shoulders and the tops of white cross-belts could be seen along the crest. He looked for the muzzles of artillery pieces, but wasn’t sure if there were any. He did a long and careful sweep of the entire crest, from the far North end to the South end above their position. There was another slight rise at the South end, before the land fell off, and there was some movement there, which he—

“Ah, Leftenant Strickland,” Captain Veasey said as a mounted officer came up to join him. “Captain Lewrie, have ye met Leftenant Strickland? O’ course ye didn’t. Strickland was on the transport with the horses, not the troops. Allow me t’name him to ye. Captain Lewrie, Leftenant Strickland. Leftenant, Captain Lewrie commanded the frigate that saw us here.”

“Happy t’make your acquaintance, Mister Strickland,” Lewrie said, distracted from his inspection of the crest. He doffed his hat, whilst Strickland raised his right hand in salute, palm outward, to the brim of his helmet visor. “Glad to make your acquaintance, as well, sir.” Though he didn’t sound glad, which made Lewrie recall the brief conversation he’d had with Veasey before the voyage had begun. He had been dismissive of the unfortunate junior officers placed aboard the horse transports, with all the filth and stinks that that had been, and had sneered over the fate of one officer in particular who did not possess the wealth needed to purchase a full string of mounts, when most other officers had four or five.

This Lt. Strickland was a tall and well-knit fellow with a swarthy complexion, and a scar on one cheek, and gave the general impression of someone who had soldiered before.

“Where’d ye get that, sir?” Lewrie genially asked, sketching a slash at his own cheek.

“India, Captain Lewrie, with Gordon’s Light Bengali Horse,” Strickland replied, squaring his shoulders as if expecting a slur. Soldiering with “John Company”, or with the few British units shipped out there, was not considered “proper” soldiering in most Army messes.

“I was out there, ’tween the wars in the ’80s,” Lewrie told him with a smile. “And my father was, too, in Calcutta, when he had the Nineteenth Native Infantry. Were you there for the campaigns against the Tippoo Sultan?”

“Yes, sir!” Strickland said, perking up. “Your father, you say?”

“Then Colonel Sir Hugo Willoughby,” Lewrie replied, pulling a face. “I expect you
heard
of him, at least.”

“I did indeed, sir,” Strickland replied, shifting in his saddle and grinning slightly.

“Aye,” Lewrie said with a knowing nod. “
Hamare gali ana, acha din,
hey?”

“Let us say, his reputation preceded him, sir,” Strickland replied, laughing, for Lewrie had quoted the traditional greetings of Calcutta’s whores; “Hello, won’t you come into our street.”

“Oh God!” Veasey groaned. “
Two
who can sling Hindoo! Much of a piece with Dog-Latin, or crow squawks, t’my ears! Why
can’t
the whole bloody world learn English, and have done?”

“I was noticing some movement out yonder, sirs,” Lewrie said, returning to his inspection of the crest with his telescope, “on that knob. But, I don’t think it’s the Dutch. Can’t quite make out—”

“Irregulars?” Veasey wondered aloud, his own attention drawn. “Brown or grey uniforms? There’s someone there, as you say, Lewrie.”

“Not like any soldiers I’ve seen,” Lt. Strickland agreed.

“Baboons!” Lewrie exclaimed. “They’re baboons, a whole troop of ’em! Ugly red-arsed beasts. They wouldn’t be there if the Dutch had men near them. The last Dutch unit on their left would be over … there,” Lewrie guessed, pointing to a spot closer to the centre of the crest. “So, what happens now? Will you charge ’em?”

“Not very likely!” Captain Veasey said with a barking laugh. “Not into the teeth of an entrenched foe, with no clue as to what’s on the back slope, waitin’ for us. No, the artillery may have first go, before the infantry is ordered forward.”

“Guns’d be wasted,” Lewrie told him. “Firin’ uphill at a thin target is useless. The shot’d strike short, clip the crest, and ricochet off, or sail right over and land half a mile beyond. It’d be like shootin’ at a ribbon. Howitzers at high angle might do some good, but mortars would be best. Might you happen t’know if the Army brought any along, Captain Veasey? Perhaps some of the infantry regiments still have some old Coehorn mortars.” They both looked puzzled; evidently, cavalry didn’t bother with such in-elegant things. “Coehorn mortars are light, short, and fat, fixed to wood blocks and man-carried instead of carriage-mounted,” he had to explain, “like a
prouviette
that tests the strength of gunpowder?” He was still speaking Greek to them.

“I s’pose that you, sir, bein’ in the Navy and all, must know miles more about artillery and such,” Veasey said with a guffaw as he shook his head. “Cavalry has no need of howitzers or mortars, or any knowledge of ’em. We stick to our last, hey?”

“Perhaps if our gunners have Colonel Shrapnel’s bursting shot, they could work good practice on the Dutch, sir,” Lt. Strickland said to Veasey, though looking at Lewrie and winking. “They are fused, and explode in the air right over enemy formations, flinging chunks of the roundshot in all directions.”

“Now, that I’d like t’see!” Veasey enthused, oblivious.

“Might General Baird be delaying his assault because he has no idea what’s on the back side of the crest, sir?” Strickland continued. “Perhaps a reconnoitre from that knob which Captain Lewrie pointed out might be in order. It appears high enough to offer a good view right down the entire length of the Dutch positions, and what lies on the reverse slope, as well. A small party could make it up there with ease,” Strickland suggested, pointing to indícate a path. “From where the sailors are, there’s a saddle that runs to the base of the knob. A small party could go a bit below the crest of the saddle, out of sight, hopefully, and get about halfway round the knob, where the way up does not look all that bad a climb, sir. Once there, a runner could return with a report.”

“There’s only baboons up there, now,” Lewrie stuck in. “Else, the Dutch would’ve run ’em off. Small party, my eye, sirs! One could put a whole dis-mounted troop up yonder, along with my sailors and my Marines, and threaten the Dutch left flank!”

“Yes, what say you to that, sir?” Strickland eagerly asked.

“Our Colonel’d never allow it,” Veasey countered, shaking his head again. “He’d wish t’keep the regiment intact, ready to exploit any breakthrough by the infantry … t’harass and ride down the Dutch when they flee. No, no, we’ll let the Heavy Brigade go in.”

“Half a troop, sir,” Strickland pressed. “Fourty men.”

“Along with mine,” Lewrie insisted.

“And how far off might the closest Dutch soldiers be, once ye get up there, Strickland?” Veasey snapped. “An hundred yards or more? Our short-barrelled Paget carbines couldn’t hit the side of a
palace
at that range, much less a man-sized target! I
pressed
the Colonel for the Elliot-pattern carbines, you will recall, but no!”

“The
Dutch
don’t know you have Paget carbines, sir,” Lewrie said quickly. “If we do open upon them, all they’ll hear is lots of gunfire, see a lot of powder smoke, and have shot throwin’ up dirt round their feet … and all my men have Tower muskets. Good ‘Brown Bess’! Along with one Pennsylvania, rifle, a fusil musket, and this rifled Ferguson of mine.”

“Half a troop, sir, and I will bear all the responsibility for it!” Strickland swore.

“And, do remember two old military adages, Captain Veasey,” Lewrie said with a quick laugh. “One, it’s easier t’beg forgiveness than ask permission, and Two, success will always trump anything else!”

“Colonel Laird won’t miss half a
troop,
sir,” Strickland added. “Even if the regiment’s loosed to hack through the whole Dutch Army! Let me go!”

Veasey’s reddish-complexioned face looked even ruddier, and he twisted his features and groaned as if in great physical pain to make such a rash decision.

“Oh, very well, Strickland,” he gruffed a long moment later, “but on your head be it, hear me?”

“Thank you, sir!” Strickland cried, wheeling his mount about to trot back down the line of their troop. “The two right files … prepare to dis-mount! Dis-mount! Horse holders, Sarn’t Strode! Bring sabres and carbines, and follow me!”

“Up, Mister Westcott! Up, Mister Simcock!” Lewrie was yelling to his men at the same time as he sprinted back to them. “We’ve work t’do, up yonder on that knob t’the right.”

“We’re to get into a fight, sir?” Lt. Westcott asked, springing up from lolling on the grass.

“We are. The Dragoons’re sendin’ fourty men up to see what’s waitin’ for the infantry, and we’re t’back ’em up,” Lewrie cheerfully told him, as eager as a teen-ager at the prospect of action. “Choose two relatively sober hands … along with Pettus and Yeovill, to stay with the waggon and keep the cavalry troopers out of our goods whilst we’re gone. Drop bed-rolls and packs in the waggon, bring nothing but water, weapons, and ammunition!”

Lt. Strickland and his fourty troopers were already moving past Lewrie’s party before Lt. Simcock got his Marines sorted out into two files, and Lt. Westcott got the sailors into a somewhat organised herd. Strickland and his troopers looked oddly comical afoot, with sabres in one hand and their carbines in the other, and their tall knee-boots looked wholly un-suitable for dis-mounted work, especially so as they moved at the trot, half bent over as if that might hide them from the Dutch above.

“Double time,” Lt. Simcock ordered, “and hang the step! Sling your muskets to keep your hands free.”

Strickland led at the head of their re-enforced column, down below the crest of the saddle which lay between the first knob and the one at the end of the ridge. Lewrie looked up at their objective as he trotted along. The baboons had grazed their way a bit down the slope above them, still peacefully rooting for grubs, insects, and succulents. One or two of them took notice of their approach and stood on all four feet, heads swaying to right and left, and baring their long teeth in warning as they made tentative chuffing barks to alert the rest.

Hope that ain’t an
omen
!
Lewrie told himself;
Hope they don’t alert the Dutch. Lousy, flea-ridden bastards!

The first of Strickland’s cavalrymen reached the base of the rise, halfway round from the line of the Blaauwberg’s crest, and out of sight of any Dutch sentries at long last, and began to ascend, going much slower. Some had to drop halfway to their knees to use their hands to make the climb.

More baboons were barking warnings, the big males dashing a few feet forward, then back, as if they would fight for their hill.

BOOM! BOO-BOO-BOOM!

The British artillery had at last opened fire, and the roars from their muzzles were echoed seconds later by lesser but sharper cracks from air-bursting shrapnel shells above the Dutch positions.

“Come on, lads! No need for stealth, now! Go, go, go!” Lieutenant Strickland was shouting, echoed by Simcock to urge his Marines up and along behind the cavalrymen.

Now, all the baboons were barking and hooting shrill yells.

They ain’t cheerin’ us, that’s for sure,
Lewrie thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY

By the time that Lewrie got to the top, Lt. Strickland had ordered his soldiers into two ranks, with their sheathed sabres at their feet, and loading and priming their carbines. He was in consultation with Lt. Simcock, who was nodding and agreeing with him.

“Ah, here we all are, sir!” Strickland gaily said. “I’ve suggested that Leftenant Simcock should place his Marines in two ranks on the right, and let your sailors fill the gap between, if you have no objections to that, Captain Lewrie.”