Hostile Shores

“You have been making friends with our compatriots in the Army, sir?” Lt. Simcock said from the corner of his mouth.

“Makin’ friends wherever I go, Mister Simcock,” Lewrie beamed back. “Will you just look at that, sir!”

That mounted officer had ridden to the infantry companies down the right flank of the baggage train, and was chivvying them to take positions further out.

“He may come back and tell us to bugger off for good and all,” Lewrie speculated to the Marine officer, “now that those soldiers are out far enough t’do a proper job.”

“Back to the beach, then, sir?” Simcock asked.

“No, sir,” Lewrie countered. “We’ll just amble on up with the regiments and see what we can see. Carry on, Mister Simcock.”

“Detachment, ’Shun! Shoulder, Hahms! For-ward, March!”

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

Adrift and un-wanted, their little column shuffled its way out further to the right, beyond the head of the baggage train and up to the rear of an infantry battalion, taking their own half-hour break for water as the heads of the Army columns began their ascents up towards the Blaauwberg. Up close, the Blaauwberg looked to be merely a pimple compared to the rocky heights beyond, and its slope looked to be even easier, even for field artillery or supply waggons.

“Simply lovely,” Lt. Westcott commented. “The Cape Colony has the grand landscape of Scotland beat all hollow. As impressive as any painting I’ve ever seen of the Alps!”

“Aye, it is dramatic. Starkly so,” Lewrie agreed as he took a slug of stale ship’s water from his magnum bottle. “Once we’re at the top of this hill, I expect one could see for fifty miles on a clear day.”

“As soon as we clear the Dutch off it,” Westcott said with a chuckle. “If they’re there, that is. They might have decided to fort up nearer Cape Town and make their stand there.”

“They had batteries at the head of the bay when the other ships took them under fire, yesterday,” Lewrie cautioned. “No reason for them t’be run off by a few broadsides. Oh, look, Mister Westcott! Here comes the Thirty-fourth Dragoons!”

The infantry columns had halted for a rest and water break, but the Light Dragoons had been ordered forward to screen. By fours, the squadrons and troops cantered past, raising more dust. Lewrie waved to Captains Veasey and Chadfield, whom he had met, and to the youngster, Cornet Allison, when he rode past. Cornet Allison heaved off a great, rueful shrug, for he seemed to be saddled with the care of the Regimental Ram, which he was leading by a long rope. The Regimental Ram looked as if someone had washed it recently, combed it, and picked “dilberry” shit balls from its arse. To make the Regimental Ram even surlier than normal, it wore a gilt-trimmed royal blue saddle blanket with the 34th’s crest bravely embroidered on it.

“Bleatin’, buckin’, and sure t’attack somebody,” Lewrie joked. “You’d not catch Bisquit puttin’ up with such.”

“The Dragoons appear to be going ahead of the infantry columns, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, flashing one of his brief, savage grins. “We could get up even closer, with them. At least out to the flank of the lead battalions. See, sir? The soldiers are taking off their packs. Preparing to advance!”

“Aye, they are, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie took note, exchanging his water bottle for his pocket telescope. “And changing from columns of fours to line! Yes, let’s go up there, out to the right. It will be a good spot t’watch the show! Mister Simcock? Let’s get ’em up and moving!”

“When they go in, sir, could we go in with them?” Lt. Westcott asked, sounding as if he was begging.

“Don’t know if that’s in our brief, Mister Westcott,” Lewrie mused aloud, considering the risks. “If the leading regiments are to go in, that snotty Army Captain was right. We’d just be in the way of their attack. But, nobody’s tellin’ us we can’t be spectators!”

Up ahead, the regiments were forming two ranks deep, arrayed across a wide front with their grenadier companies on the right, the traditional point of honour, the eight battalion companies to the left of them, and the light companies on the extreme left. Their Colours and commanding officers were in the centre, and their bands, who would also serve as aides to the surgeons, were in the rear. Behind each leading regiment, another thin line of a second regiment was forming. Field pieces were being ordered up to place artillery between, and cavalry took position to either flank.

All this was, of course, accompanied by bugles, drums, and the barks and shouted orders from officers and Sergeants-Major. In all of that stirring and din, Lewrie and his party could amble up alongside the right-most troop of the 34th Light Dragoons, with no one in authority taking any notice of them, at all, or making any objections to their presence, until they reached a small rise, a knob, just a bit ahead of the right-most troop of Horse, and about twenty feet higher than the cavalry, a splendid spot from which to see it all.

“Private Dodd? Keep your waggon a bit further back,” Lewrie ordered. “Mister Simcock? Mister Westcott? I think it’s time for us to load weapons. Load, but do not prime, just in case.”

“Aye, sir!”

“Once we’ve done that, we’ll all move atop the knob, and rest easy,” Lewrie added, swinging his Ferguson rifled-musket off his now-sore shoulder and digging out a paper cartridge from his slung box. One at a time, he did the same for his four pistols, then stowed them in coat pockets or thrust them behind his sword belt.

Someone must have tutored his cabin-steward, Pettus, in the handling of firearms, for Pettus had torn a cartridge open with his teeth, poured the powder down the muzzle of his Tower musket, rammed it down, added the ball and wad, rammed them home, and replaced the ramrod into the rings under the barrel. He did it slowly and carefully, but he got it right, and got a congratulating nod from Lewrie.

“Right then,” Lewrie called. “Up on the knob, and take your ease.” As much as he sorely desired to sit down and get off of his feet, too, he strolled up near the head of the cavalry troop.

“Captain Lewrie?” Captain Veasey exclaimed, goggling. “What the Devil brings you up here? ’Tis a long way from salt water, don’t ye know, haw haw!”

“Idle curiosity, Captain Veasey,” Lewrie said back, gri

“Oh, there will be, mark my words, sir!” Veasey chortled with impending glee. “The Dutch are at the top, in some force. You can see ’em, plain as day.”

Lewrie pulled out his pocket telescope and had a squint. The Dutch were there! Shakoed heads, bayonet-tipped muskets, and a hint of epauletted shoulders and the tops of white cross-belts could be seen along the crest. He looked for the muzzles of artillery pieces, but wasn’t sure if there were any. He did a long and careful sweep of the entire crest, from the far North end to the South end above their position. There was another slight rise at the South end, before the land fell off, and there was some movement there, which he—

“Ah, Leftenant Strickland,” Captain Veasey said as a mounted officer came up to join him. “Captain Lewrie, have ye met Leftenant Strickland? O’ course ye didn’t. Strickland was on the transport with the horses, not the troops. Allow me t’name him to ye. Captain Lewrie, Leftenant Strickland. Leftenant, Captain Lewrie commanded the frigate that saw us here.”

“Happy t’make your acquaintance, Mister Strickland,” Lewrie said, distracted from his inspection of the crest. He doffed his hat, whilst Strickland raised his right hand in salute, palm outward, to the brim of his helmet visor. “Glad to make your acquaintance, as well, sir.” Though he didn’t sound glad, which made Lewrie recall the brief conversation he’d had with Veasey before the voyage had begun. He had been dismissive of the unfortunate junior officers placed aboard the horse transports, with all the filth and stinks that that had been, and had sneered over the fate of one officer in particular who did not possess the wealth needed to purchase a full string of mounts, when most other officers had four or five.