They dined round half-past six in the early evening as the heat of a sweltering day had abated, beginning with cool white wine on the canvas-covered gallery in the front of Col. Tarrant’s headquarters. Major Gittings was present, as was Mr. Quill, who looked perspired and uncomfortable in his usual black broadcloth wool suitings, but other than that he seemed cheerful enough. It might have been the weather, but Tarrant’s hound, Dante, was much subdued, seemingly happy to sprawl in the shade by his master’s chair without his usual rambunctiousness, near a shallow pan of freshwater from which he lapped now and again.
Supper was served indoors, a rather light repast of chicken and rice, followed by crisp grilled seafood and pasta in a white cream sauce, with various vegetable removes. They did not talk “business,” not yet. That followed the Port, fruit, and local sweet bisquits. Finally, Col. Tarrant cleared his throat, tossed back his Port, and announced that Mr. Quill had some “trade” for them.
“It took some doing, sirs,” Quill said with some pride in his voice, “but I finally prevailed upon Don Julio that the French were too strong in Melito di Porto Salvo, and we would not be raiding that place anytime soon, and that Monasterace was our choice for a raid. He relented, none too graciously, mind, and despatched some of his men to scout it out for us. If I may, sirs?”
He rose from the table, opened a canvas portfolio, and spread out a folded map on the table. Along with it was a sketch of the town and beaches, done from sea level as they would see it from the decks of their ships.
“As you can see, their work is quite thorough,” Quill said as he tapped various points on the chart. “He sent that fellow ’Tonio, the one he publicly embarrassed, and kept the fee for himself, but ’Tonio did a good job, regardless. His cover was that he was smuggling good quality wine, so he could enter harbour and have a look-round of the area, drink and eat ashore in local establishments, and get to know some of the people, and what they think of the French, which is not much.”
“Is there a garrison?” Major Gittings asked.
“Not so much a garrison as a detachment,” Quill told him. “Only fourty or so men from their Commissariat to repair waggons that need work, and maintain a herd of draught animals, horses, mules, and such. From what ’Tonio gathered, and what he saw with his own eyes, is that the only armed troops are the escorts that pass through with every road convoy, fully loaded, or returning empty to Naples.”
“How many convoys?” Tarrant asked, leaning over the table and the chart. “And what sort of escorts?”
“He was there three days before he sold off all his wine, and he reckoned that at least three west-bound convoys come through each day,” Quill explained, referring to a sheaf of notes, “and another three come back from Reggio di Calabria empty. An hour or so before sunset, ’Tonio saw at least three stop and camp for the night, then get back on the road again a little before eight in the morning. As to escorts, it looks to be at least a troop of cavalry with each, Colonel.
“The French have set up a sort of system, sirs,” Quill went on, a finger straying into the stylised marks that indicated the hills and mountains behind the coast. “From roughly here, there’s the one road coming down to Monasterace, but up here, where ’Tonio and his men couldn’t go, of course, there’s a branch road that forks off the main one. Loaded convoys take the shorter route, though it is a rough path, whilst empty waggons take the longer way round, to make way for the ones full of supplies.”
“Artillery?” Lewrie asked.
“None in the town that ’Tonio could see,” Quill assured him with a faint grin, “and no guns passing through, either. Though, after you and your ship mauled the French so badly at Crotone, Catanzaro, and Melito, they may shift a battery there soon. By the by, Mr. Silvester got a letter to me, and said that the French have seemed to have given up on repairing or re-building that bridge above Pizzo, so these road convoys will be diverting through the mountains for some time to come!”
“A mauling, you say?” Major Gittings said, for he had not heard the details of Vigilance’s recent cruise yet and Lewrie had to fill him in, which made Gittings’s eyes light up with humour.
“More Port, gentlemen?” Col. Tarrant asked with good cheer. “Or, might cool white wine suit? Seems a done deal, then, what? No guns in the vicinity, no garrison to speak of, and only random troops of cavalry to deal with. If we creep in when it’s utterly dark, as we did at Bova Marina, we could destroy three or four convoys, and the replacement animals along with them.”
“Burn the waggon and wheelwrights’ shops, and take away their tools to dump in the sea, as well,” Major Gittings contributed, “that the French would have to replace at great cost.”
“There’s no reason to even enter the town itself,” Lewrie said, taking another long look at the handmade chart. “This long stretch of beach just east of it should suit us. Five fathoms of water for anchoring, about … a third of a mile off, is it?”
“Ehm, closer to half a mile, my notes say, sir,” Quill informed him after a quick shuffle of papers. “West of the town, you could be within a third of a mile, but the beaches there are rockier, ’Tonio reported.”
“Hmm,” was Lewrie’s comment to that. “The eastern beaches might be better for the transports, then, and I can place Vigilance closer to shore to the west to cover the troops, should there be any nasty surprises. This long ridge,” he noted, tracing a finger along a rise behind the town, “any information on that?”
“’Tonio and his crew didn’t go very far inland beyond the town, but he did make an observation that the ridge is rather low,” Quill supplied. “Vineyards or olive groves, and some fruit orchards, with some thin woods? The paddocks for fresh horses and mules are laid out in front of it, along with huge piles of hay. Hundreds of the beasts, and all hungry, hah hah.”
Lewrie turned his attention to the sea level drawing of the coast, and the ridge did appear to be low, compared to the hills just behind it, and none too steep, either.
“It ain’t Locri or Siderno, thank God,” Lewrie said with a wee laugh. “The French could’ve hidden an army behind those. Yes … I can anchor here, west of the town, and nought but the church steeple t’get in the way of my guns. I got very little from Admiral Charlton that’s helpful, so … we’ll go with what our local criminals have gleaned for us, right? Colonel Tarrant, would you be needing anything else from Charlton?”
“Hmm, don’t see as how I would, sir,” Tarrant said, shrugging. “He’s no transports of his own, no barges, and none of his Marines are trained for this sort of work, so … unless you wish a frigate or a smaller warship to back you up, I don’t think so, no.”
“In that case, we’ve all we need, but fair weather,” Lewrie concluded.
“The fewer to share the glory, hey?” Major Gittings said with a laugh. “I’ll brief our company officers in the morning, after they’ve recovered.”
“Hey?” Mr. Quill asked, perplexed. “Recovered? From what?”
“Stick your head outside and listen to them,” Gittings urged. “There will be thick heads at breakfast, haw!”
Sure enough, even through the wooden walls of Colonel Tarrant’s house, they could faintly hear snatches of song, load roars of merriment, and chanting to spur on contestants in some drinking games.
* * *
To shake off the rust from the sailors on all five ships, Lewrie ordered all those assigned to the rowing barges, those who would stand guard over them and the beach ’til the Army returned, ashore to drill at musketry, the bayonet, and their cutlasses.
In the tumult of armed men swarming over the bulwarks and going down the boarding nets aboard Vigilance, Lewrie stepped down from the quarterdeck to speak with his Commission officers.
“Ah, Mister Grace,” Lewrie said, “do hand your accoutrements over to Mister Dickson. He’ll be taking your place. And Mister Greenleaf? You’ll stand in for Mister Rutland, who’s busy with his other duties.”
“Oh, sir!” Lt. Grace faintly objected. “Just when I’ve gotten good at it!”
“So long a naval career, so much still to learn,” Lewrie cooed.
“I’ll fetch my personal weapons, sir, and thankee!” Greenleaf exclaimed, filled with sudden eagerness. “Can’t let Rutland have all the fun, now can we, sir?” he said, dashing off.
“Hah!” Grace japed as he took off his ammunition pouch, musket, and bayonet to give to Dickson, “Beg pardon, sir, but ‘fun,’ and Lieutenant Rutland, will never go together!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Lewrie said, “I’m mortal-certain that I saw him smile, once.”
“Thank you, sir,” Lt. Dickson said in a formal manner.
“Captain Whitehead and our Marines’ll most-like go inland on the Ninety-Fourth’s flank,” Lewrie explained, “so that’ll leave you and Mister Greenleaf in charge of all our armed sailors ashore, Mister Dickson. The transports’ parties will be under a Sub-Lieutenant or a Midshipman, and they’ll be looking to you two for orders. In the past it’s been little more than hold the beach, slouch about, and wait for the troops to come back to be rowed out, but one never can tell. You must hold your ground the best you’re able, protect the boats at all costs, and fight back ’til the Ninety-Fourth or our Marines come to your rescue.
“Like horses, do you, Mister Dickson?” Lewrie asked him.
“Ehm, what, sir? Horses? Aye, as a matter of fact I do,” the astonished officer rejoined.
“If you’re attacked by cavalry escorts from the convoys, horses hate a bayonet or sword point to their mouths or noses,” Lewrie cautioned him. “Keep ’em at a distance ’fore they bite your face off.”
“I see, sir,” Dickson hesitantly said, fearing that he was being twitted.
“It worked for me at the Battle of Blaauwberg when we re-took Cape Town from the Dutch,” Lewrie told him, “though the Dutch horse had a very narrow front to attack us, up the spine of a kop. There will be infantry officers ashore to do the instructions today, so I expect that you and Greenleaf pay them close attention.”
“I will, sir, and thank you, again,” Dickson said, not sure if that “war story” was to be taken at full value.
“Off with you, then, lads!” Lewrie called out to one and all, “and we’ll save your rum ration for you!”
Lt. Greenleaf came puffing up from the officers’ wardroom below, in a clank of sword, two pair of pistols in his pockets and waist sash, a musket and bayonet in his hands, and a quickly assembled rucksack of edibles over one shoulder, with a full wood water canteen spanking his bottom as he and Dickson were the last ones over the rails, onto the nets, and down to the waiting barges.
Dickson settled in on the aftermost thwart of a barge, next to Midshipman Chenery at the tiller, looking up the side of the warship, and at Captain Lewrie, who was leaning out over the bulwarks to watch the boats row ashore, and he didn’t quite know what to think.
Losing command of Coromandel still rankled, and he could easily despise Lewrie for doing so, yet … once installed aboard Vigilance, as her junior-most officer, which also felt like an insult despite his date of commission being newer than Grace’s, he had been either trusted to do his duties capably, or ignored, as if his come-down had never happened, and accepted into the wardroom society as just another new man. No one had twitted him or looked down on him since his arrival, as he’d expected, though he was certain that the questions about his abilities were there, but unspoken. Dickson was coming to feel almost comfortable in the wardroom, in their drinking games, their musical evenings in port, and in their banter over meals. Lt. Grace, whom he had been prepared to dismiss as a lower-class lout plucked from the Nore fisheries, had proven himself to be a most capable sea officer, even if his table manners were still a trifle clumsy, but Grace was a person whom Dickson was coming to like!
“Out oars, larboard,” Midshipman Chenery called. “Shove off, bow man.”
One thing was certain to Dickson, that he had done more exciting things than he ever had aboard other ships, since coming aboard Vigilance; more weapons drills, more live gunnery in action against French batteries, and now a chance to be second-in-command over the hundreds of armed sailors and the twenty-four barges that would land troops in a large-scale raid in a few days. There was even the prospect of face-to-face battle with the enemy, sword-to-sword!
Now, how could he continue to secretly sulk in the face of that?