Hostile Shores

“Double time,” Lt. Simcock ordered, “and hang the step! Sling your muskets to keep your hands free.”

Strickland led at the head of their re-enforced column, down below the crest of the saddle which lay between the first knob and the one at the end of the ridge. Lewrie looked up at their objective as he trotted along. The baboons had grazed their way a bit down the slope above them, still peacefully rooting for grubs, insects, and succulents. One or two of them took notice of their approach and stood on all four feet, heads swaying to right and left, and baring their long teeth in warning as they made tentative chuffing barks to alert the rest.

Hope that ain’t an omen! Lewrie told himself; Hope they don’t alert the Dutch. Lousy, flea-ridden bastards!

The first of Strickland’s cavalrymen reached the base of the rise, halfway round from the line of the Blaauwberg’s crest, and out of sight of any Dutch sentries at long last, and began to ascend, going much slower. Some had to drop halfway to their knees to use their hands to make the climb.

More baboons were barking warnings, the big males dashing a few feet forward, then back, as if they would fight for their hill.

BOOM! BOO-BOO-BOOM!

The British artillery had at last opened fire, and the roars from their muzzles were echoed seconds later by lesser but sharper cracks from air-bursting shrapnel shells above the Dutch positions.

“Come on, lads! No need for stealth, now! Go, go, go!” Lieutenant Strickland was shouting, echoed by Simcock to urge his Marines up and along behind the cavalrymen.

Now, all the baboons were barking and hooting shrill yells.

They ain’t cheerin’ us, that’s for sure, Lewrie thought.

CHAPTER THIRTY

By the time that Lewrie got to the top, Lt. Strickland had ordered his soldiers into two ranks, with their sheathed sabres at their feet, and loading and priming their carbines. He was in consultation with Lt. Simcock, who was nodding and agreeing with him.

“Ah, here we all are, sir!” Strickland gaily said. “I’ve suggested that Leftenant Simcock should place his Marines in two ranks on the right, and let your sailors fill the gap between, if you have no objections to that, Captain Lewrie.”

“Sounds fine to me, sir,” Lewrie allowed, after he’d worked up some saliva in his cottony-dry mouth; the ascent had been much steeper than it had first looked.

“I’ve also cautioned him that the Dutch have what looks to be a troop of Horse on the reverse slope, un-tended so far,” Strickland went on. “Their riders must be dragoons like us, able to dis-mount and fight on foot. The slope from here to there is slight, but not too wide, thank the Lord, so if they mount up and charge us, they’ll come on a narrow front.”

“I see,” Lewrie said, with half an ear for Strickland, and all his attention upon the view from his pocket telescope.

“If they do, best we shoot the horses, right off,” Strickland suggested. “If they get close enough to use their swords, tell your men to jab their mounts in the nose, the lips, and the eyes with bayonets or swords. That will always make them stop and rear, and then you can get at the riders.”

“I’ll see to instructing our people, sir,” Lt. Westcott said, between deep breaths. “Don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Westcott, First Lieutenant.”

“Strickland, of the Thirty-fourth,” the cavalry officer replied, offering his hand. “Your men are loaded and primed?”

“Loaded, not yet primed,” Westcott told him, “which I’ll also see to, this minute. Christ, there’s rather a lot of them, aren’t there?”

“At least a battalion,” Strickland estimated, looking North along the ridge, “with a four-gun battery of artillery. Duck!”

Several shrapnel shells burst over the Dutch troops in yellow-white blossoms of smoke and fire, one of them near the left end of the lines, and almost uncomfortably close to the knob!

“I don’t know if we can fire as efficiently as a well-drilled infantry battalion can,” Strickland went on, after rising from a half-crouch, “but we might pull it off. My first rank will fire first, and then your first rank, sir,” he said to Lewrie, “followed by Simcock’s Marines. My first rank will be re-loading whilst my rear rank fires, and so on down our line, like the rolling and continuous platoon fire our infantry practices. I do not wish to sound as if I try to supplant your authority as the senior officer present, Captain Lewrie, but—”

“I’ll take good suggestions from the more experienced, every time, Mister Strickland, and we’ll try it your way,” Lewrie assured him with a dis-arming smile. “You’d wish the front ranks kneeling, I take it, and the rear ranks crouching, rising to fire when ordered?”

“That would work, sir,” Strickland agreed as another salvo of shells burst down the Dutch line.

Lewrie walked over to stand behind his sailors, who were passing horns of fine-mealed priming powder between them, drawing their firelocks to half-cock and opening the frizzens to expose the pans. After their first shots, they would tear their paper cartridges open with their teeth and sprinkle powder from the cartridges before pouring the rest down their muzzles.

Lewrie knelt and pulled his own copper priming flask round from being slung on his right hip, and did the same for all of his weapons, stuck all his pistols back into his sword belt or pockets, and rose to use his telescope once more.

Christ, there are a lot of ’em! he thought, wondering if he’d bitten off more than he could chew; wondering also what he had been thinking to bring his men right up to the “tip of the spear”. There were four horse-drawn artillery pieces spaced down the Dutch lines, and an effort had been made to partially protect them with wood barriers under the barrels and down each side. That might have been good shelter from British guns firing uphill with roundshot, but nothing could hide from the shrapnel shells. So far in this war, Britain was the only nation that had them, and the French, or any of their allies, had yet to encounter their use. The gun teams … half their horses were down, already, and the gu

“I think they’ll break if we open upon them!” Lewrie shouted to Strickland, who nodded agreement. “Let’s do! Ready, lads! Ready, Mister Simcock?”

“Front rank … fire!” Lt. Strickland cried.

“Front rank … fire!” Westcott ordered.

“Front rank … fire!” Lt. Simcock yelled, waving his sword.

Lewrie brought the Ferguson to his shoulder and looked for an officer. There—an older fellow with gilt epaulets and a bicorne hat! Lewrie took aim, a foot or so above the man’s head, and pulled the trigger. A second or so later, the officer clutched his left side, looked down astonished, then crumpled up and sprawled flat on the ground. Lewrie quickly re-loaded, hunting for another even as his hands did the re-loading almost by rote. He saw a tall officer with bright blond hair and beard, waving a sword and shouting orders to his men, but that fellow’s head exploded, and, over the crackling of their gunfire he heard a loud whoop down the line among the Marines, turned, and saw Simcock’s sharpshooter pumping the borrowed Pe

“Rear rank, fire!” from Simcock, then “Rear rank, fire!” from Strickland, and the ragged rolling platoon fire continued. At that range, well over one hundred yards, hits with smooth-bore muskets were nigh impossible, but some Dutch soldiers were down, and their bullets were kicking up puffs of dust or quick bursts of sparks when they hit the nearest artillery piece’s barrel.

More shrapnel shells exploded over the Dutch, then the noise of battle was increased by the eerie skirling of Highland pipes and the rattle of drums as the 93rd Regiment stepped off. Beside them, the 38th began to march forward with their muskets poised as if for a full-out charge, and their bandsmen and drummers launched into their own march music.