Run Them Ashore (10 page)

Mr Prentice stumped up.

‘Well, we appear to have made it,’ he shouted. ‘You know, I do believe we could make a sailor of you, Mr Williams.’

John Julius Caesar, his back to the gunner, and a bandage round his head, winked at the officer. ‘Begging your pardon, sir, but the gentleman looks like he might be better learning to be a tailor.’

Williams looked down at himself. His breeches were filthy, torn at the knees and stained with blood and tar. His jacket – his good jacket, he realised, for he had not remembered to change after the conference with Captain Hope – was in even worse condition, covered in filth and ripped so badly that most of one sleeve was gone.

‘Get Clegg to see to it, sir,’ Caesar suggested. ‘He’s a dab hand with a needle.’

Williams smiled then began to laugh. It was probably relief, but at the time he could think of nothing more amusing than the thought of being given sartorial advice by Julius Caesar.

7

‘
T
here are opportunities, definite opportunities.’ Hanley concluded his long report, fleshing out his written account of their mission to Granada. ‘We saw everywhere indications of considerable enthusiasm.’

‘But perhaps a want of organisation?’ Rear Admiral Sir Richard Keats’ tone was blunt, but his round face had a ready smile and his eyes were perceptive.

Hanley considered his answer for a while. ‘Certainly. However, I doubt that much organisation would be practical with the serranos. They are peasants, angry at the invader and ferocious, but wholly without discipline.’ He remembered the wild pursuit of the French hussars and the massacre as the cavalry had turned and charged. ‘Short of conscripting them into regular units and moving them elsewhere, I cannot see any prospect of changing this, sir.’

There was a sudden lurch of the deck beneath them, the big ship stirring even though it was at anchor. The swell of Cadiz’s outer harbour was often considerable, but the calmer, inner harbour was too dominated by French batteries to be altogether safe.

Daniel Mudge, confidential clerk to the governor of Gibraltar, looked positively green as the ship rolled again. The stern cabin of HMS
Milford
was vast compared to the cramped little brig-sloops which had taken Hanley, Pringle and the others down the coast and then brought them back. The ship was a ‘Seventy-Four’, the mainstays of the line-of-battle warships of the fleet, crewed by some six hundred men, and with two gun decks mounting heavy thirty-two- and eighteen-pounders.

‘My apologies, Mr Mudge,’ Sir Richard said generously. ‘I fear we are at the mercy of one of Monsieur Barrallier’s bright ideas.’

‘A Frenchman?’ Major General Lord Turney’s voice dripped with contempt. ‘I did not know this was a captured ship.’

‘Indeed it is not. Barrallier was a royalist and made ships for us.’

‘No wonder it is a tub,’ the general declared, although Hanley was unsure whether his scorn was directed at royalist refugees or Frenchmen in general. It would not have been at the suggestion of aristocracy, even foreign aristocracy. Lord Turney must have been fifty or more, but this was clear only when he was seen from up close. No more than average height, he was broad shouldered and trim waisted, and active in his movements. His face showed the darkening of long service in India and Egypt, but the wrinkles were few – at least the visible ones, for there was a hint of make-up about the man. The general cultivated an odd mixture of elegant and genteel complacency and vigorous military masculinity. When they had looked at the maps earlier on, Hanley had noticed that Lord Turney leaned back and twisted to odd angles when he concentrated – eyesight going, almost certainly, but too vain to wear spectacles, at least in public.

‘My lord, the French have built many beautiful and fine sailing ships,’ the admiral replied, concealing any distaste felt at the soldier’s scorn of this ship. ‘Sadly the old
Milford
is not one of them, and rolls like a dog in the lightest winds. Therefore we should press on and come to our purpose for the sake of Mr Mudge as well as our own pressing duties.’ Sir Richard delivered a series of precise, pertinent questions as if they were a rolling broadside, and Hanley did his best to reply in the same style.

Yes, the serranos would resent any attempts to make them more regular. No, the bands of guerrilleros were not united. No leader seemed to have more than two or three score followers. Yes, the chiefs sometimes were willing to work together, but no, it seemed unlikely that the bands would unite more permanently.

‘Their proud and independent spirit is their great strength, and if it hinders concerted effort it is the reason why they fight, and will continue to fight,’ he said.

‘And what of the enemy?’ Sir Richard asked. ‘Major Sinclair insists they are weak and dispirited. Is that not right, Wharton?’

Joseph Wharton, the admiral’s chaplain and it seemed a good deal more, stepped forward. The man had an uncanny knack of blending into the surroundings, as well as a jovial character when he chose to draw attention to himself. Hanley liked him, and suspected that most men would, particularly clever, sensitive men.

‘Sinclair states that the French garrisons are spread very thinly across the south. Marshal Victor’s corps is entirely devoted to the siege here at Cadiz. Marshal Mortier’s and General Sebastiani’s are either in garrison or forming columns to chase the partisans. They must always be ready to meet any attack from General Blake’s Spanish in Murcia.’

‘Yes, but if they catch him, they’ll have him for breakfast,’ Lord Turney cut in, more scornful now of the Spanish than the French. Hanley found his dislike of the general growing ever stronger, as did his despair at the folly of selecting such a man for a campaign which would rely heavily on working with Britain’s allies. Yet in truth this opinion was not uncommon. Blake survived in Murcia, at least for the moment, and there were other Spanish armies further east in Catalonia, but elsewhere they had been swept from the field. There were forces here in Cadiz, others sheltered under the guns of Gibraltar and a handful of other coastal fortresses, and the Marquis de Romana kept his army together in southern Portugal. None had the discipline, training and numbers to match the French in the field and so they raided and fled, surviving only because the enemy could not be everywhere at once.

‘If you will forgive me, my lord.’ Wharton sounded like a country parson gently chiding an old friend among his parishioners for some minor misjudgement. ‘The essential point is that they have not caught him, and show no signs of doing so.’ Blake was not a gifted general, was jealous of rivals and showed as much sensitivity as Lord Turney in expressing his opinion of his allies, but he did seem to have a talent for survival.

‘The French certainly have more problems with which to deal
than they have soldiers available. Sinclair makes a good case for their being dangerously scattered and exposed, especially along the coast.’ If the Allied armies were few and weak, the British controlled the seas. ‘Furthermore, the major claims that most of the garrisons consist of Germans, Poles, Italians and other foreign corps, and that these men feel little commitment to Bonaparte’s cause. Unless the circumstances are very favourable, he does not believe that they will fight well.’

‘The major expressed much the same opinion to me,’ Hanley commented.

‘And do you believe him to be right?’ Sir Richard fired another question.

‘In truth I cannot say, sir. We were there so briefly and had no time to observe any of the garrisons. However, I should say that the guerrilleros seemed to hold most of Bonaparte’s troops in wary respect.’

Lord Turney was dismissive. ‘Don’t signify. They are irregulars and will never stand against drilled troops in the open field. With us, it is a different matter.’ The general and Mr Mudge had come up from Gibraltar to urge the mounting of a raid on the coast, to be led by Lord Turney and consist of British troops and ideally some Spanish as well. Gibraltar’s governor was keen, but nothing could be attempted without the active assistance of the Navy, which only Admiral Keats could provide.

‘Gentlemen,’ Sir Richard said, attempting to draw them back to the main issue. ‘All in all it is reasonable to assume that the enemy is vulnerable, especially along the coast. The more that we can do to keep them spread out the better, for it will help us here at Cadiz, as well as the partisans in the country and Blake in Murcia.’

‘And Wellingon outside Lisbon,’ Lord Turney cut in.

‘Indeed. He would not want any troops here in the south free to march north and aid Marshal Massena’s invasion of Portugal.’ He paused for breath. ‘Our purpose is a sound one, the opportunity is offered, but that does not in itself help us to decide where to strike.’

‘Malaga,’ Mudge said, struggling with another wave of nausea. Hanley suspected that the choice of one of the bigger ports was intended to lure the admiral into accepting the enterprise. Like all the harbours it was a nest of the privateers who plagued the sea lanes and tied the Navy down in the dull necessity of escorting convoys. There was also the prospect of prize money, for if enemy vessels were taken and auctioned then naval officers benefited and the admiral most of all.

‘What do we know of its defences?’ The admiral looked once again at Wharton.

‘The walls are poorly maintained and large in extent. If there is only a battalion as garrison then they will be unable to man them adequately. The people are said to be restless under occupation, and ready to rise against the French.’

‘Sea defences?’

‘Sinclair maintains that they are weak, with only a few small batteries.’

‘And I wonder, is he fit to judge such things?’ Sir Richard pondered.

‘He says that he has been there in the last few months, and that the “French” in the garrison are really Poles and of poor quality.’

Sir Richard grunted, and Hanley was unsure what that signified. ‘We had better find out as much more as we can. Is there anyone else in the area?’

‘Captain Miller of the Ninety-Fifth is with the partisans a little further along the coast,’ Mudge said, his face pale and his eyes glassy. Hanley felt truly sorry for the man, but then the sympathy began to extend to his own innards and he tried to ignore the gently moving deck beneath them. He wanted to stand, but the admiral had sat them all around the table and it would be impolite to move.

Sir Richard nodded. ‘Good,’ he said, ‘have him write with all he knows of the current situation in Malaga and the surrounding country.’

‘Perhaps somewhere else first, and then Malaga?’ Lord Turney
suggested. Hanley guessed that the man did not really care where the expedition was going so long as he was given the command.

‘Perhaps,’ the admiral agreed. ‘Yes, I believe the chance is there and we should seize it. Anything to keep the French too preoccupied to notice that they are close to trapping us on a lee-shore.

‘Well, gentlemen, I believe that is all for today. My barge is waiting to take you ashore.’

They stood, and Hanley was about to leave when Sir Richard gestured for him to stay. The general was almost at the door, telling poor Mudge how eagerly he was anticipating the dinner waiting for him, with plenty of good fat mutton. When Lord Turney gave the clerk a hearty slap on the back, Hanley worried for a moment that the spotlessly clean deck of the great cabin was about to be defiled. It was close, but Mudge recovered and then shot through the door with the desperate look of a thirsty man heading for a cool spring. The general looked back, the briefest flash of irritation revealing his annoyance that the young captain was to be privy to secrets denied to him. Sir Richard was looking away, and after Lord Turney tried and failed to catch his eye, the soldier decided not to make a point of it.

‘Silly fellow,’ the general said, and swaggered out. They heard the marine sentry outside the cabin stamp to attention, and then the door was closed.

‘Now, Hanley,’ Wharton began, ‘we would like a few more words with you. I suspect it is necessary for you to go back, but in the meantime, what is your honest opinion of Sinclair and his reports?’

‘The major took us to our meeting with Velasco’s band, sir. We saw him again the day after the ambush of the convoy, by which time we had been taken on to meet another leader. The major arrived in the company of a leader who styled himself El Lobo. I do not think the others cared much for him as the man was a bandit before the war.’ That was putting it mildly. There was great discomfort among the other leaders, but no one wanted to challenge El Lobo to his face. Hanley did not blame them,
for the man looked as murderous a rogue as any he had ever seen. One of his followers had brandished a bag of ears, fingers and he had little doubt other things, cut from the bodies of his victims. ‘Sinclair was full of praise for El Lobo, and said that the French did not dare set foot in his territory unless they had a whole regiment.’

‘What did the other Spaniards say about him, Mr Hanley?’ Wharton asked. He was not a heavyset man, and had a thin face, but the features within it seemed bigger than they should be. His brow was heavy, his nose broad, and his chin prominent. It made him stand out and, combined with his kindly manner, made the man attractive rather than ugly. A failed artist, Hanley could not quite work out why this was so, but he wondered whether the attraction would prove stronger to a certain sort of man. Wharton displayed no sign of such an inclination, but then their acquaintance had been brief. However, even that short time had confirmed Baynes’ description of the man’s considerable talent.

‘They were grudging. They said that it was true that the French rarely went to El Lobo’s territory in the mountains, and then quietly added that like most wolves he preyed mainly on the weak.’

‘And what do they think of Sinclair the bad?’ Wharton smiled at Hanley’s surprise at the use of the nickname. ‘We hear things, my dear Hanley, even here at Cadiz.’

‘Most of them do not care for him,’ Hanley conceded, ‘and I suspect that the ones who do not like him are some of the best of the chiefs.’

‘Well, at times like these sometimes we need rogues and wolves as much as
optimates
and good men we would more readily trust,’ Sir Richard said. ‘The question is whether or not the other chiefs will work with him.’

Wharton took over. ‘Major Sinclair has written to us – and also to Gibraltar and no doubt Lisbon as well – asking for promotion and for more supplies to come through him. He promises great things. I believe to “set all Andalusia alight in a new crusade” was the expression. The major has a way with words, I’ll grant
him that. He seems a clever fellow, and he has been active for a year or more in a region that has now become important. There are plenty of other officers out there among the irregulars, all reporting to different authorities, but none have been there so long or have such grand plans. Yet no one seems to know him, not well, anyway.’

‘The chiefs do not like him,’ Hanley said, ‘and do not really trust him, although I cannot entirely say why. I doubt that this will change. Yet I have no doubt they will take supplies they need from him or anyone else able to reach them. So to that extent they will work with him, and probably join any enterprise if the prospects seem good and they are not forced to admit him too closely into their own plans.’