Run Them Ashore Read online

  Hanley revelled in outwitting the enemy and often showed a ruthless streak in his willingness to gamble with the lives of others as if the higher the stakes the more satisfying the game. Williams sometimes doubted his friend’s judgement, and had even less faith in the men who gave Hanley his orders, sure that they would have no qualms about sending them all to their deaths for the sake of some grand deception. They were clearly behind all this, plucking them all away when they were travelling back to join the battalion and sending them off to make contact with the guerrilleros. Before that they had all formed part of a training mission attached to the Spanish armies further north, and that posting had seen them stranded inside the besieged town of Ciudad Rodrigo as a token gesture made by the British to their allies. They had helped Hanley hunt an enemy spy and then been hunted in turn by a determined and ruthless French officer. Only through sheer luck had they managed to escape, and now they were once again dispatched into enemy-held country.

  Williams suspected that there was far more behind their current orders than first met the eye. Sparrowhawk’s captain was one of Billy Pringle’s older brothers, and what should have been a happy coincidence only made him more suspicious that this was no chance, but an element of some subtle scheme which he could not yet discern. Williams hoped and prayed that understanding would not come at too high a price, and felt himself being drawn ever further into the murky world in which Hanley took such evident delight. Still, at the moment it all seemed to be progressing most satisfactorily.

  ‘Something moving, sir! Mile away to larboard!’ Clegg had not quite shouted, but his report was given with a power no doubt intended to carry over the noise of weather and a working ship.

  Williams saw that the young sailor was pointing to the left, down along the coast road. He stared, but could see nothing, and so pulled his cocked hat down more tightly and held it there in the hope of shading his eyes from the moon.

  ‘Can you see what it is?’ he asked.

  ‘No, sir. Just a shade at this distance.’

  There was something, but Williams was staring so hard that he blinked and lost it. He scanned the thread-like line of the road and saw nothing.

  ‘See anything, Dob?’

  ‘No, but my eyes aren’t what they used to be.’

  ‘It’s there, sir,’ Clegg repeated in a tone of mild offence. ‘On the road.’ The lad gestured again.

  ‘If you would be kind enough to get my glass, Sergeant.’ Williams carried his long telescope strapped to the side of his backpack and it was easier for Dobson to slide it out than for him to reach it. Then it did not matter because he saw it. The moonlight glinted on something metal and then there was an obvious dark patch moving along the road. It was coming towards them.

  ‘You have fine eyesight, Clegg, fine eyesight indeed.’

  Now that he had spotted the movement, Williams found it easy to trace, and so waited before using his glass in the hope of seeing more detail.

  ‘Horsemen, sir?’ suggested the sailor.

  ‘I believe so. From the speed if nothing else, and coming this way.’

  ‘Ours or theirs?’ asked Dobson, although his tone contained little doubt that they were enemy. ‘Though I can’t say I can see them yet.’

  ‘Must be French,’ Williams said. ‘And there is no reason for them to stop, so if they keep coming they will be here in fifteen or twenty minutes and if we can see them at this distance they must be in some strength.

  ‘Well then,’ he continued, trying to think clearly as the ideas took shape in his mind. ‘Dob, I need you to go back to Mr Pringle and tell him I need the marines up here. Suggest that he hastens loading the mules as much as possible and then pushes on with them. Ask Mr Cassidy to take the Sparrowhawk back down to the beach and to wait for the marines there.’ Cassidy was acting lieutenant on the brig and in charge of the landing party. ‘Got all that?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Dobson replied formally, and stood up. ‘You should go, though, and I’ll stay.’

  Williams smiled. ‘They will obey you. If I go we will only have a discussion.’ He was junior to all the others, but was more worried because he did not know what sort of man Sinclair was.

  ‘Aye, you may be right, Pug.’

  ‘When you come back,’ Williams continued, ‘split the marines into two parties. Leave Corporal Milne with one lot here and take the other half up to that rise.’ Williams showed where he meant. ‘Clegg and I will take a look further down.’ He patted the sailor on the shoulder. ‘I need those eyes of yours.

  ‘We’ll try to remain out of sight, but we will distract them if they are coming on too fast. You wait, and give them a volley when they get close. They’ll only be expecting irregulars so will probably charge straight at you, so after that one shot take the men down the side of the dunes to the boats. If I don’t see you I will be back here with Milne and we will give them another surprise before we bolt down to join you.’ A thought struck him. ‘You had better give Mr Pringle our apologies and say that we are unlikely to be joining them and so they must proceed without us, so tell them not to wait around, but press on. We can maybe give them half an hour’s lead and that will have to be enough.’

  Dobson nodded.

  ‘Good luck, Dob,’ Williams added, and watched the sergeant jog down on to the road and head towards the chapel. ‘Come on, young Clegg, let us go and make some mischief.’

  Williams ran along the top of the ridge as fast as the tussocks of grass allowed. He had his pistol in his right hand and the heavy telescope in the other. The straps on his pack had worked loose again, so it banged against his back as he ran, but although the night was no cooler and the wind stronger than ever the officer no longer noticed it. Tiredness had gone along with the uncertainty and that strange sense of peace, for now he knew what he had to do. That did not mean that it would be easy to do it.

  He stopped on the rise where Dobson was to bring his men, lay down and propped his glass between two rocks.

  ‘There they are, sir,’ Clegg said, spotting them several moments before the officer.

  Williams pressed his eye to the lens and tried to move the telescope as gently as possible while he hunted for the enemy. It was a shame he did not have one of the night glasses he had seen on board the brig, but the moon was still strong and he soon found them. They were certainly cavalry, and were moving quicker than he had judged, so that when he pulled away from the glass to gauge the distance he guessed that they were now barely half a mile away. The French – they must be French for they were moving in better order than any partisans – were coming on at a steady trot, which suggested a clear purpose, whether or not it had anything to do with them. It was hard to know whether the enemy would be able to see the Sparrowhawk off-shore, but they certainly would by the time the road climbed up on to this ridge. Numbers were hard to determine in the darkness, but he doubted it was less than a company and probably a full squadron of more than a hundred riders.

  ‘Come on.’ Williams set off down the slope as the ground dipped into another little valley and then rose sharply to a round hillock, the highest point on the dunes. From the top Williams could see the road curving around its foot and then running in the gentlest of meanders down towards the coast. There was nowhere more promising down there, and so this was where they would wait, trusting to the steep sides of the hill to delay any mounted pursuit.

  The officer pointed back towards the rise they had come from. ‘Keep an eye out, Clegg, and tell me when Sergeant Dobson and the marines arrive.’

  They waited, and it was hard to know how much time was passing. Williams promised himself once again that as soon as he had the money he would purchase a good watch, although even that would do nothing to hurry the sergeant along and perhaps it would only make him nervous to see the hands moving. He shook off his pack and strapped the telescope in place before slipping it back on. It was awkward, but they were going to have to move in a hurry and he did not want to risk losing it. Then he checked his pist
ol, flicking open the pan and feeling the priming. There was very little left and he was afraid some of the grains he touched would be sand instead of powder.

  ‘May I trouble you for the loan of a cartridge,’ he said.

  Clegg looked surprised. ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he responded through habit, and fished into his pouch to hand one over.

  Williams bit off the end, spitting out the ball, which would be too large for the barrel even if his pistol was unloaded, and sprinkled some of the loose powder into the pan before closing it. Following his example, the sailor made sure of his firelock.

  There was no sign of Dobson, and the French were getting closer. Now and again the wind carried the sounds of hoofbeats on the road and the bump and rattle of men and equipment. They waited, and still the rise behind and a little below them was empty. The cavalry came on, individual horsemen distinct now from the darker mass. The next strong gust carried with it a hint of old leather and horse sweat.

  The French were close, the advance piquet of four riders no more than three hundred yards away, turning the bend which led towards the hillock. Williams glanced back. The rise remained bare and he wondered whether his message had been ignored or overruled. It was too late now, and so he must try to gain any time he could.

  ‘Clegg,’ he whispered. ‘We will take a shot at the French in the hope of confusing them and slowing them down. I want you to wait until I fire before you pull the trigger. After that, we both run like rabbits. Keep to the slopes of the dunes.’ Williams hoped that the sand would be too soft for the horses to follow. ‘You understand?’

  The sailor nodded. He was pale, but that could easily have been just the moonlight, and he looked to be a steady fellow.

  Williams pulled the hammer of his pistol back to cock it and Clegg did the same. The French were close now, and he was surprised that they kept at a trot and simply rode along, apparently unconcerned that the road went between hills and offered so many good places for an ambush. Perhaps they did not expect any trouble from the serranos so close to the sea, and then Williams wondered whether the cavalry simply preferred to rush through ground where it was difficult for them to fight. If that was so, then he might be doing precisely the wrong thing and would only force them to hurry even faster towards his friends. Doubting his judgement and not knowing whether or not the marines were coming to support him, Williams considered whether it was better simply to slip away and hope that the main party had got clear.

  The piquet kept coming, little more than a hundred yards away and the main body a musket shot beyond that. If they kept at this pace then they would still probably catch the others, and so he had to try the only thing that might stop them. Williams decided and closed his eyes.

  ‘Now!’ he said, and pulled the trigger. It was an absurd range for a pistol at any time, let alone in the dark, but he still saw the burst of flame as a yellow blur through his eyelids and then Clegg’s musket went off with a deeper boom and an even bigger flare. ‘Run!’ he shouted, without bothering to see whether either shot had struck home. There were shouts from the road, and the crack of carbines as the piquet replied.

  The two men sprang up and fled, running as best they could through the thick clumps of grass and then skidding, almost falling, down the soft sand of the slope. There were more shouts and the sound of hoofs pounding on the paving stones. Another carbine fired and Williams heard the ball snap through the air only a foot or so over his head.

  ‘Come on,’ he called, swerving to run along the side of the ridge. The barefoot Clegg took no urging and sped ahead of him, his shoeless feet gripping better than the smooth leather soles of the officer’s boots. Williams felt himself slipping, and his left side dropped down on to the ground. He was sliding, rolling on to his back, until one foot hit a rock and, dropping his pistol, he managed to take hold of some grass. Looking back he saw several French horsemen on the road at the top of the little ravine. The night was shattered by another sharp crack as a carbine flared, and a ball twitched the grass he was holding. Williams instinctively let go and started sliding again, free of the rock until one boot caught in a loop of grass and held him. He struggled free and managed to get to his knees.

  One of the cavalrymen was walking his horse into the mouth of the little ravine. The others were behind, loading their carbines. Beyond them a clatter of hoofs announced the arrival of the head of the column. Someone was shouting orders in a clear voice.

  Williams pushed himself up and managed to stand, right leg half bent to balance on the slope. The horseman was coming closer, calming his horse when one of its feet slipped for a moment. He was a hussar with his round-topped shako at a jaunty angle, and his fur-lined pelisse draped over his left shoulder. The man had clipped his carbine back on his belt and now drew his curved sabre, the blade glinting in the moonlight.

  ‘Hey, coquin,’ he said, urging his horse on. The animal slipped a little, dropping one shoulder, but again the hussar calmed it and came on.

  Williams drew his sword and took guard, nearly losing his own balance before he recovered. The Frenchman stopped for a moment and smiled. Then he raised his sabre in salute, kissing the blade and at the same moment kicking his mare into a trot.

  A volley of musketry split the night air as the hilltop above them erupted in flame and noise. There were cries and the scream of a horse from the road, and either this or the shots made the mare flick up its head. It stumbled, sand slipping away from under its hoofs, and then animal and rider were both falling, rolling down the slope.

  Williams turned and ran, trying to bound on before his boots really sank down and started to slide. It did not quite work and he zigzagged along the side of the ridge, but at least Dobson had arrived in time to confuse the enemy. He saw Clegg waiting for him.

  ‘Back to the boats, lad!’ he shouted. ‘Tell them we are coming!’

  A second volley came, a little more ragged than the first, and Williams could not understand how the marines could possibly have reloaded so quickly. He ran on and now men were spilling down from the hilltop, marines in white cross-belts and with the tall brimmed hats worn by these maritime soldiers.

  ‘Well done, Dob!’ Williams yelled, and then used all his strength to go faster and get past the deluge of redcoats before they swept him away. He did not see his sergeant and had no time to look for him, but could trust him to get the men back down to the boats.

  ‘Halt!’ came the challenge as he struggled back up to the top of the ridge.

  ‘Sparrowhawk!’ he called, cursing himself for not thinking of a password, but hoping that the name of the ship would prove that he was not French.

  ‘Here, sir!’ A man in a marine’s uniform beckoned to him, and when he got closer Williams saw the two white chevrons on his right sleeve.

  ‘Ah, Corporal Milne.’

  The corporal saluted. ‘Good to see you, sir.’ If anything Williams had the impression that the Royal Marines were more formal than soldiers from a line regiment. Milne’s six men were kneeling or lying flat, muskets aimed at the road below them. Each had another firelock beside him.

  ‘Mr Pringle’s idea, sir,’ Milne explained. ‘They didn’t have enough mules to carry all the guns.’

  Good old Billy, Williams thought, and now understood the second volley from Dobson’s men.

  ‘Any minute now,’ he said, watching the road. If the French dismounted and skirmished along the slope then he would be in trouble, and he was glad that these were hussars rather than dragoons, who carried longer muskets and were trained to fight on foot.

  Loud and rapid hoofbeats echoed up the roadway as a score of cavalrymen charged in a dense knot along the road, led by an officer on a pale horse a good two or three hands taller than those of his men. Williams smiled. You could always rely on hussars – especially French hussars – to be bold.

  ‘Wait for the order,’ he said, trying to keep his tone matter of fact. Milne said nothing, but dropped down on one knee and brought his own musket up to his shoulder.
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  The hussars pounded along the road, fifty, now thirty yards away.

  ‘Aim low, lads.’ The corporal’s voice was steady. ‘We’re not at sea now.’

  The French were close, and Williams blinked for a moment and licked his lips, for they felt as dry as sandpaper.

  ‘Fire!’ he yelled, and the seven muskets banged, smoke instantly blotting the French from sight. Williams ran to the side so that he could see what was happening. Two horses were down, their riders tumbled, and another hussar was clutching at his stomach. The officer was unscathed and pointing towards the marines.

  ‘Change muskets!’ Milne gave the order that Williams had forgotten, but the men were already lifting their second firelock.

  The hussar officer spurred his horse off the road, and here the slope was gentle and the ground firm. Half a dozen cavalrymen followed him, while the others were still disentangling themselves from the chaos on the road.

  ‘Fire!’ Williams shouted, and the muskets flamed again. ‘Down the hill!’ he screamed at the marines, for the French were so close that any survivors would be on them in seconds. ‘Run! Run!’ Milne was bellowing at them, pushing at any who were slow. A musket in each hand, the marines set off down the valley side, the corporal following. Williams saw the French officer still coming through the smoke, but the chest of the pale horse was dark so he guessed that it was wounded. Not quite sure why, he raised his own sword to salute the hussar, then flicked the blade down and slid it back into his scabbard. Other hussars were coming on, and one was levelling a stubby pistol. Williams turned and ran. He heard a bang and almost immediately there was a hot stinging along his right thigh.

  It was easier to go down than up, and Williams slipped and fell as much as he ran down the slope. More shots came from the top of the ridge, but none came close. His thigh felt wet, but his leg still worked and he hoped it was just a nasty scratch. If the French were shooting then that was good, because carbines were notoriously inaccurate and at night the danger from them was small. What he feared more was the French charging down along the main track to the bottom of the valley, for they might easily reach the beach before his men.