There had been wind, rain, and moderately heavy seas during the passage along the south coast of Sicily ’til HMS Vigilance and her transports cleared Cape Passero, the island’s extreme sou’eastern tip. From there on, the last afternoon of the voyage had turned smoother, a great relief to the men of the 94th, who, despite their experience with ships, boats, and landings, had yet to expose them to open seas for days at a time, especially in rough weather. For the most part, they had abandoned their dog-box cabins belowdecks and had clung to the bulwarks along the weather decks, green-gilled and “casting their accounts to Neptune,” to the amusement of the naval crews aboard the transport ships. Buckets were passed up from below to be emptied overside, then back down the hatches like a make-shift fire brigade, for those too ill to come up for fresher air, and the soldiers didn’t understand the admonitions to hurl over the leeward side ’til wind-whipped puke was blown back into their faces when attempting to use the weather rails.
“Do you imagine our ‘Mer-Men’ will be recovered enough to make the landing, sir?” Mr. Wickersham, Vigilance’s Sailing Master, cordially asked Lt. Rutland, who stood the Watch.
“Tonight’s a Banyan Day supper,” Rutland replied, “so they may be up for a bite or two. Nothing too greasy, nor anything that will scratch on the way back up.”
“Hah!” Mr. Wickersham said with a bark of a laugh, half in appreciation for Lt. Rutland’s jest, and half in amazement that the dour man had actually made one.
“Hallo, you’re early,” Wickersham commented as Lt. Farley came trotting up the lee ladderway to the quarterdeck.
“Too stuffy in the wardroom,” Farley told him, taking a deep sniff of fresh air. “Ah, that’s better! Besides, up-dating the Muster Books began to pall. Plenty of time for those after we’ve made our raid and head home. And as soon as I set foot ashore, I hope that the local food vendors are open. Street food in Messina was eye-opening.”
Wickersham and Rutland shared a look behind Farley’s back, as if to roll their eyes and sigh, sure that a fresh account of his covert mission would be forthcoming.
“Toothsome, and hellishly cheap, too,” Farley said, unaware of their looks. “Arancini. They’ve the colour of oranges, which is why they’re called that. Rice balls, stuffed with meat and vegetables, and a dash of saffron, rolled in bread crumbs and fried in olive oil, so tasty and satisfying! Muesa something or other, couldn’t catch its full name? Organ meats, but lighter than liver, with sprinkles of strong cow milk cheese on bread! Just marvellous!”
“And did the partisans serve those, too, Mister Farley?” the Sailing Master asked him, tongue-in-cheek.
“Uhm no, not a morsel, sir,” Lt. Farley said gruffly, aware that he was being twitted. “How do we fare, Rutland?” he said, turning his attention to the Second Officer for the particulars of course, speed at the last cast of the log, the Captain’s orders for the evening, and whether sail would be shortened after full dark.
“Cap’um’s on deck!” one of the Midshipmen of the Watch called.
“Don’t mind me, sirs. Carry on,” Lewrie told them all as he went up a ladderway to the poop deck with his telescope. He scanned the skies, the sails aloft, and the stream of the commissioning pendant, then extended his telescope to look aft at Bristol Lass, the largest transport ship and the one closest astern.
Think they’re done heavin’, he told himself as he espied soldiers on the weather deck, bareheaded in their shirt sleeves, strolling or idling, and no longer bent over the bulwarks in misery. Aft upon Bristol Lass’s quarterdeck, he could make out men still in red coats; Col. Tarrant and the officers of the two companies carried aboard her, conversing with Lt. Fletcher. And Col. Tarrant’s large dog, Dante, frisking about them all, hungry for “pets” and attention. Tarrant had told him that Dante might run off if he left the dog in camp whilst he was away, for he’d only had the beast such a short time, unsure of its loyalty, and he would be heartbroken if that happened, for where could his new dog find a better, surer home?
Hope he leaves it aboard, Lewrie thought; It was hard enough hoistin’ the dog aboard in the first place.
As he lowered his telescope, Lewrie thought of Bisquit, the dog that had become the Reliant frigate’s mascot, then his own dog in all but name aboard HMS Sapphire. He felt a sudden ache of longing for the silly beast, and a pang that he’d left him in London with his wife. It was the kindest thing to do, for drills on the great guns had always made Bisquit shiver and whine in fear, even if the drills were without live firing. Bisquit had loving people to look after him, and he and Jessica’s cocker spaniel, Rembrandt and the kitchen ratter terrier, Bully were inseparable now, but … Lewrie felt a sense of loss for those loving brown eyes, that whisking tail, and a prompting muzzle against his knee. Chalky, and all of his previous cats, were just as adoring and affectionate, but there was something different about a dog, and most specially, Bisquit.
He shook that feeling off and raised his telescope again for a look at the trailing transports, then at the western horizon and the skies above it. He and Tarrant, when laying their plans, had taken the phase of the moon, and its expected rise, into consideration, even if the weather on the night of landing was unknown to them, and beyond their control. He heaved a tentative sigh of relief that the clouds were thinning as the heavy weather of the previous days were blowing inland on gentler winds. Seven Bells were struck up forward at the forecastle belfry; half past three in the afternoon, and almost the end of the Day Watch. Two Mids, Malin and Charles Chenery, cast the chip log aft at the taffrails, and turned the half-minute glass.
“Eight and one-half knots!” Midshipman Malin called out to the officers on the quarterdeck. “Eight and a half, sirs!”
Lewrie had pored over the charts in his cabins, and in the chart space off the quarterdeck, for hours already, and grunted with satisfaction that, if the winds remained constant and steady, they’d be off Bova Marina well before dawn, and, according to the ephemeris, the moon, a waning half-moon, would have risen round half past eleven tonight. With clearing skies, perhaps a partial overcast scudding by, there would be just enough light to see by to get the ships anchored and the boats manned in the dark, and if God was just, the soldiers, Marines, and armed seamen could sneak ashore un-noticed, and all four ships would be almost invisible.
And a ruddy, bloody sky at sundown’d not go amiss, either, he wished to himself.
* * *
Four fully darkened ships ghosted along the shoreline, sailing under reduced sail, with men in the fore chains heaving their leads to feel their way into shallower water, groping almost blind for the five-fathom line indicated on the charts.
“Five fathom, sir! Five fathom t’this line!” was relayed aft to the quarterdeck in urgent whispers.
“Put your helm hard down, Quartermasters,” Lt. Farley snapped to the helmsmen. “Hands aloft, trice up and lay out to take in all sail! Stand by the anchor party!”
Lewrie stood at the windward corner of the quarterdeck, wincing at the noises as the ropes round the drum of the double helm groaned, as the ship herself creaked and gave out weary, protesting noises as she came about, fearing that watchers ashore could hear them coming. Even with the light of a half-moon, occluded for long moments as the thin clouds slowly scudded shoreward, he could see topmen scrambling up the rat-lines of the shrouds and making their way out the foot ropes of the yards that still bore exposed canvas. Jibs and stays’ls came slithering down, their halliards singing in the blocks, and loosened sails fluttering and snapping as loud as gunshots.
Down both beams, below the sail-tending gangways, Marines and sailors stood almost elbow to elbow, swaying and shuffling to adjust to the cant of the decks, and canteens and cartridge pouches, bayonet sheathes thudded against slung muskets and cutlass hilts, making him wish he could hiss a loud Sshh!
“No helm, sir!” the senior Quartermaster on the helm told Lt. Farley as softly but urgently as he could.
“Pass word forrud, let go the best bower!” Farley said, leaning over the cross-deck hammock stanchions, and the roar of the hawser as it rushed out, and the loud splash of the anchor was as loud as a broadside, to Lewrie’s ears.
Blessed, covert silence reigned for a long minute as the quarterdeck officers waited for the snub and jerk in sure sign of the anchor biting into the seabed, even as more scope to the cable paid out from the hawse holes.
“Ship’s at anchor, sir!” Lt. Farley reported, sounding almost breathlessly relieved. “All sails taken in, and ready to proceed.”
“Haul the boats alongside, rig the boarding nets overside, and stand ready to debark the Marines,” Lewrie snapped back. He simply had to go up to the poop deck for a better view, and dashed upwards with one of the night-glasses.
They had spotted the town lights of Melito di Porto Salvo as they had tiptoed past that seaport, and there were some lights lit ashore in Bova Marina, too. But not too many, Lewrie hoped. Rectangles of dim amber glows from windows in houses or taverns where a single candle was lit; barred, slitted windows where the shutters were closed, but someone stirred at that early hour; some weak lanthorns hung outside a wealthier house, or scattered along the quays to light the piers for pre-dawn fishermen preparing to set out for a morning’s catch; that was all he could see, and as yet, hopefully, none of these were wending their way to their boats.
“Nets are rigged, and the barges are alongside, sir!” Farley hissed from the quarterdeck below him.
“Very well, Mister Farley,” Lewrie replied, striving for a calm and reassuring tone, “Man the boats and prepare to shove off.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Now, what the bloody Hell’s that? Lewrie asked himself as he swung his telescope about to either side of the little village. He strained to make sense of the odd lights a bit inland, damning the limitations of the night-glass, which showed everything upside down and backwards. There were dull amber and dim red lights that seemed to flicker.
Campfires? he wondered, sucking air past his teeth; A French troop encampment? Mine arse on a band-box, what have we stumbled into, and how many?
He looked aft, peering hungrily for any sight of the transports, hoping that they had not yet debarked their troops, but, to his alarm, saw the tiny specks from hooded lanthorns announcing that they were already sending off their loaded boats.
“Boats manned and ready to shove off, sir!” Lt. Farley said as loud as he dared.
Oh, Christ! In for a penny … Lewrie thought, groaning; It was too late to call it off.
“Shove off, aye!” he snapped, with the forlorn hope that the French were sound asleep, and could still be taken by surprise. He raised his night-glass again, eyes straining.
Well? Maybe? he thought, taking note that the campfires were burning low, as if nought but a few yawning sentries were tending to them. One fire seemed to erupt in a rising shower of sparks as someone fed it more wood, and beyond it…!
Laundry on a line? he puzzled as he espied several rectangular shapes briefly revealed by the flare-up of the campfire; Who in Hell dries bedsheets at night?
Before the campfire returned to a sullen red-orange, it struck him that those supposed bedsheets were badly in need of a proper washing, for they seemed as parchment-coloured as old sailcloth.
“Waggons?” he exclaimed, suddenly realising what he had seen. “Canvas-covered waggons!”
Lewrie swung his night-telescope back and forth, searching for more rectangular shapes, and found them on either side of the town. There appeared to be two supply convoys encamped for the night, resting their draught animals, and sleeping off supper. Were there troops escorting them? He imagined that the guards might be cavalry, which caused a small, tight grin to spread on his face. They’d be asleep at that hour, their mounts un-saddled, the troopers bootless for the most part, and most weapons un-loaded, for safety’s sake.
“Now, do we get ashore quiet, and surprise ’em!” he whispered. “Just thankee Jesus!”
He looked for his landing force, but that was all but impossible to spot. Dark-hulled barges on black water were invisible … wait! In the few moments that the clouds allowed the waning moon’s light to glitter on the sea’s ripples, he could make out eerie greenish glints like widely scattered fireflies. Phosphorescence! he thought, a “break-teeth” word he doubted he could spell with a gun to his head. There were wee things in the seawater that would glow when disturbed, something he’d seen more often in the Caribbean or tropical waters, but it was High Summer in the Mediterranean, so whatever caused that glow was thriving now. He could almost conjure that he could hear the oars creaking in the thole pins as each long stroke created irregular gashes of green, and faery-like droplets from each blade as it rose to be swung forward for the next stroke. Each rudder, each transom, made a wee light as they passed through the sea. The clues were faint, and only dimly seen, but Lewrie could identify three gaggles of barges off to his left, loosely grouped, and nowhere in any orderly fashion, all bound for a boot-black shore. A bit to his right, barges from his ship seemed to be headed for the few lights lit in Bova Marina itself, as if Captain Whitehead meant to land his Marines right onto the quays.
Lewrie fretted whether the Mids and tillermen, the Army officers, could also see where each of their barges roughly were to each other, and make adjustments. Could they see the shore and the beaches upon which they would land? Could they also spot where the supply waggons were? Once more, Lewrie cursed his rank and seniority, wishing that he could be right among them, urging the boats into proper line, giving alerts as to the presence of the waggons.
Shrouded by the dark that swallowed his ship, Lewrie pounded a fist on the cap-rail of the poop deck’s bulwark, bemoaning the fact that he was in command of all, yet in control of nothing, and would have no word of success or failure ’til dawn or later, fearing the first sounds of gunfire that might mean anything!
“They must be ashore by now,” Lt. Farley muttered, loud enough for Lewrie to hear.
“I think I could almost see them,” the Sailing Master chimed in.
“That odd, green stuff?” Farley added with a chuckle.
“Sshh!” Lewrie hissed down to the quarterdeck, ready to curse the both of them. When he returned his intense gaze to the sea once more, everything had disappeared. The wee green fireflies were gone, and the shore was a darker black than the sea. A wider bank of clouds made it even worse, smothering the faint moonlight.
“Dammit!” he groused, pounding the cap-rail again.