Hostile Shores

“Aye, sir,” Pettus replied with a grin.

Lewrie put the letters away in his desk drawer, and rose to begin undressing, reminding himself to write replies, soonest, and one to Thom Charlton to congratulate him, too, once he was back aboard.

Once in his hanging bed-cot and under the covers, in the dark, Lewrie did feel a faint prickle of worry. As grand and adventurous as he and his officers anticipated their jaunt ashore would be, there was always the risk that he’d never get to write those letters.

He could drown if his boat was overset in the surf upon landing, for he, like many British tars, could not swim a stroke. He could put a foot wrong and meet up with all ma

They don’t pay me half enough t’do what I do, he told himself; They really don’t.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

Reliant’s Marines in the barges, and all the supplies in one of the slightly smaller cutters, were landed first. By the time the Navy complement had been put ashore on the crowded beach, it was half-past six in the morning. Blaauwberg Mountain cast the beach, the towering and widespread piles of supplies, and the army encampment in shadow from the rising sun, and it was still pleasantly cool. The air was sour with the smells of burning wood in the many campfires, manure in the horse lines, and un-washed soldiery and their sweated wool coats.

Lewrie strode over the sand and shingle of the beach to higher ground, and the stubbly wild grasses and rock; careful where his boots landed, for there was a fair amount of manure right down to the back of the beach. He took a deep sniff, but it didn’t smell like the Africa he remembered!

“What a pot-mess our army’s made,” he commented to Lt. Simcock, who was amusing himself with his sheathed sword to flip a crab over and over, and herding it to prevent its escape.

“The horses and draught animals aren’t the worst of it, sir,” Simcock said with a faint smile. “They should’ve dug sinks for their own wastes, but it doesn’t smell like it. I have yet to see the waggon they promised us.”

“Well, keep a good guard over our stores ’til we do,” Lewrie told him. “Do soldiers think there’s un-guarded rum about, they’ll fight us for it. Ah, good morning, Mister Westcott! Have you ever seen the like?”

“Perhaps only at a Wapping hiring fair, sir,” Westcott replied. “It appears we’ve landed far South of the main beach, and the rest of the brigade.” He pointed North up the beach to where some large oared barges were struggling to fetch long and heavy siege guns ashore with one piece amidships of each. “Shouldn’t we be up there, sir?”

“Hmm … do you really wish to spend all day helpin’ ’em do that? Looks t’be warm work, to me,” Lewrie said, chuckling. “No, I’m more of a mind t’find ourselves a waggon, load up, and march inland with the regiments, or just a bit astern of ’em. Commodore Popham offered us as guards to the baggage train, and there’s sure t’be lots of ammunition and such close behind the leading regiments … more valuable than casks o’ salt-meat. Does that sound more palatable, sir?”

The army encampment’s sleepy breakfast came to an end with the blaring of bugle calls, the rumble of drummers playing the Long Roll, and the reedy shrieks of Highland bagpipes. In a twinkling, what had been somnolent dis-order turned to roaring chaos!

All of a sudden, the hundreds of tents were being struck and rolled up, mounts were being bridled and saddled, mules and horse teams were being harnessed, and thousands of soldiers rose to gather up their bedding, wash out their mess kits, stow bundles on the pack mules, and load waggons. Mules brayed in resistance, horses neighed and snorted, and got led to their places at the trot, raising great clouds of dry African dust that mingled with the steam and smoke as campfires and cookfires were doused.

Officers shouted orders to Sergeants, and those Sergeants bellowed sharp orders to Corporals and Privates, who raised their own voices to spur themselves along as they packed up. The bands of the various regiments began tuning up and were starting to play competing martial airs. The pipers and drummers of the Highland regiments seemed likely to win that contest. As to who could curse and scream invective the loudest, that was still un-decided!

“Here comes a waggon, sir!” Lt. Simcock pointed up the beach.

“Mister Rossyngton, see that’un? Go see if it’s empty, and seize it for us,” Lewrie ordered, and the Midshipman sprinted away. He back-pedalled near the right-side front wheel and got the waggoner to draw his team to a halt, conversed a bit, then dashed back.

“He says he doesn’t know what we’re talking about, sir, and he has orders to go forward and load up the officers’ personal goods from one of the infantry regiments, but he doesn’t yet know which. He was told to hitch up and wait for orders,” Rossyngton reported.

“Isn’t that just bloody typical,” Lewrie said, sneering and shaking his head. “It’s empty, then.”

“So far, sir, aye,” Rossyngton replied.

“Then it’s ours,” Lewrie snapped, and strode over to the waggon with his orders from Popham in his hand. “You, there! Yes, I mean you, Private! Stand fast!”

“Sir?” the soldier said with a gulp at the sight of some kind of officer tramping up at speed and bellowing at him.

Lewrie got to the right-hand wheel and laid hold of the box.

“I am Captain Sir Alan Lewrie of His Majesty’s Frigate Reliant. Part of the Naval Brigade?” Lewrie said with his stern face on.

Comes in handy, my damned knighthood! he told himself; If I can impress somebody with it when I need something!

“General Baird promised Commodore Popham that the parties off the various ships would each be supplied with a waggon and team, and I must get my stores loaded so we may go forward,” Lewrie spun on in a more conversational tone; he could save threats and roaring for a later time, if conversational did not suit! “Your waggon is empty … Private whom?”

“P-Private Dodd, sir,” the waggoner hesitantly said.

“Very good, Private Dodd, if you’ll be so good as to wheel over to yon pile of stores, my sailors and Marines can begin loading,” Lewrie said with a brief smile.

“But, Ah cain’t, sir!” the soldier wheedled. “Me Sergeant’ll have me back lashed open do Ah not wait here for orders, an’ he comes an’ tells me which regiment Ah’m t’go to! Ah cain’t let ye have it, sir.”

“So the brandy and wine, the silk sheets and silver tableware, of an officers’ mess is more important than ammunition, food, and rum? Tosh, Private Dodd!” Lewrie snapped. “The Dutch’re waitin’ up there, entrenched most-like, and there’s sure t’be a fight before the day’s out.” He jabbed his arm to point at the summit of the Blaauwberg. “I ask ye, will the officers of whichever regiment your sergeant had in mind need any of their luxuries before dark?”

“Ah jus’ cain’t, sir,” Dodd wavered, looking up to the summit then back down, miserably torn. “The lashin’d half kill me.”

“If General Baird promised us a waggon, then he must’ve had one to spare, Private Dodd,” Lewrie went on, trying reason. “If he does, then he surely has one extra for that regimental mess. Just a matter of whistling up the spare for them! Besides,” Lewrie cajoled, turning mellow and friendly—it might work!—“if your officers or your Sergeant try t’give ye any grief, they’ll have me t’contend with, and a Post-Captain in the Royal Navy outranks ’em by a long chalk! And, they’ll have t’find ye first, and you’ll be with my sailors and Marines, sharin’ our rations, and our rum. The Navy issues twice a day, ye know … half past eleven of the morning and another in the evening.”