A Flag of Truce (5 page)

While the ox-wagons were laagered, Pearce and Dilnot, now properly dressed, had both produced telescopes to run their eyes over the French positions. Even Pearce could tell they, somewhat higher than their redoubt and over a mile away, were out of effective range of the cannon they had brought up, as well as the ordnance already in place, but he could not tell much more, except there was a mass of activity.

‘They are making fascines,’ Dilnot said, ‘and ladders.’

‘Indeed,’ Pearce replied, wondering how he could
see in a mass of moving bodies what they were up to.

‘So they are definitely preparing an assault. It will be bloody and I doubt, if this position is properly manned, they will succeed.’

‘How long have you been a soldier, Mr Dilnot?’

‘I am a forced marine now, Mr Pearce. I have been a soldier most of my life and I would dearly like to return to that occupation.’

Pearce did not want to get into a dispute about the status of army men obliged to switch their service; he had other concerns. ‘Captain Elphinstone has asked me to make an appreciation of the situation, and I candidly admit to being at a loss to know what to tell him.’

The glass stayed at Dilnot’s eye, but the response was good humoured. ‘Then, sir, you are the only officer I have ever met of any service who admits to ignorance.’

‘What do you observe?’

Dilnot did not answer for a full minute, simply sweeping his telescope slowly back and forth, but Pearce knew he was thinking and he appreciated the care the man was taking before replying.

‘Left to make their preparations the French will attack at a time of their own choosing. Bad weather is not unknown in these parts and we are slipping towards October. If they carry out their assault on a wet and windy night, the rain will make the
cannon difficult to load and fire, while the wind will go a great way to covering the sound of their approach. So it will require a substantial body of men to be placed here to be sure of holding them.’

‘Without knowing for how long?’ asked Pearce.

‘If you are a self-confessed novice, sir, you have at least seen what they are about. The only men that can hold this position will have to be drawn off from those facing General Carteaux. Their absence presents him with an opportunity to push forward his own positions to increase the threat to the anchorage.’

‘Is there an alternative?’

‘Mr Pearce, in war there is always an alternative.’

Dilnot was sweeping his small telescope around the surrounding landscape again. ‘Might I borrow your naval glass, Mr Pearce, it is more powerful than mine.’ That to his eye, Dilnot kept talking. ‘The best way to avoid having to move troops to here is to disrupt whatever preparations they are making over yonder.’

‘How?’

‘Cause casualties. Break up their piles of ladders, set fire to their fascines, which will be tinder dry, perhaps even blow to hell the general’s tent.’

‘Cannon fire?’ When Dilnot nodded, Pearce added. ‘At this range.’

‘What if we could get closer?’

‘Can we?’

Dilnot pointed to a rocky outcrop, halfway to the French position, slightly below the level of the enemy encampment. ‘If we could get a pair of these nine-pounders out there, then we could give them a warm time.’

Pearce was looking at the terrain in between, boulder-strewn scrub with the odd stunted tree bent over by the wind. ‘Judging by the job we had getting the guns up here, I cannot see that would be easy.’

‘Easy, no, Mr Pearce,’ the redcoat replied eagerly, ‘but possible. A bold stroke.’

The army man was excited, obvious even if he was trying to cover it up, which had Pearce wondering at his enthusiasm for his bold stroke. But he had to surmise there was a chance of advancement in the military for something outstanding. Even if they did buy their commissions, a hike in rank could be achieved by success.

‘I fear, Mr Dilnot, that you must tell me, for I would not dare to give an opinion.’

That came quickly. ‘We would need two cannon on lighter carts, with trunnions, beams and pulleys to make a hoist, a path cleared just wide enough to make possible their passage and teams of sailors to get them onto the carts and to pull them, once used, back into our lines. The trunnions we can leave.’

‘They will not sit still and let our cannon destroy their encampment.’

‘No.’

‘I may have little military knowledge, but I do know, Mr Dilnot, that losing guns is a cardinal sin. That is a transgression I have no notion to commit and whatever was achieved would surely be only temporary.’

‘I do believe, Mr Pearce, Lord Hood anticipates that we will be reinforced.’

‘Indeed?’

Dilnot was genuinely surprised at that display of ignorance. ‘Have you not heard, sir? There are Austrian and Neapolitan troops on the way, and a request has been sent for the Gibraltar garrison, who are sitting idle when the Dons are our allies. And there may well be a draft from England. What we gain by delaying their assault could be immeasurable. Let me explain.’

‘Please do so.’

Pearce had to return to the citadel to advise Captain Elphinstone, so he had Dilnot make plain his ideas, execute a drawing of the ground, write down the possible outcomes and work out the times needed to execute his bold stroke, one he insisted was better than sitting waiting to be attacked. Back at the fort, Pearce was waiting, as the Post Captain rode up on a stout, short pony, that had his legs near touching the ground.

‘It might be inelegant, Pearce,’ he shouted, ‘but
by God it is better than walking round the defences.’ Elphinstone dismounted, rubbing his backside, which was clearly a source of pain and discomfort. ‘So, what is the position, as you see it at the Faron redoubt?’

‘I consulted with an army officer, sir,’ Elphinstone nodded in approval, ‘and he has suggested the following course of action.’

Pearce outlined what was really Dilnot’s plan, but he not attending, it left him with no alternative to mention as often as possible that he had been in receipt of military advice.

‘Yes, yes, laddie,’ Elphinstone barked, when he said it for a tenth time. ‘Get to the point.’

He did so, aware of, and ashamed that it was beginning to sound as though he had formulated these ideas himself. ‘The first task, sir, is to go out after dark and clear a route. The primary part of the evacuation, getting the guns out over the defences, will not be a problem, but we will need a stout body of men on the last part to haul the guns back in. If we succeed, it will give the French pause and may even disrupt their plans to the point where they abandon any idea of an assault.’

Elphinstone slapped him on the back. ‘There! I knew you were a warrior, Pearce, most Scots are. It is in the blood, and it’s a damned good job we have stopped being so disputatious with each other.’

‘Do you know of a Lieutenant Dilnot, sir?’ said Pearce, wishing to shift the praise.

The response was surprising. ‘That poltroon. Don’t mention his name to me ever, Pearce. The man is a damned coward, proved in battle. He failed at Oullioles and got killed a good man called Douglas, a fellow Scot as you will discern by the name. Should you come across him do what any decent officer would do. Snub him!’

Pearce was too dumfounded to respond, as Elphinstone went back to his small pony and stiffly remounted. ‘I need to go aboard
Victory
and report to Lord Hood. Give my clerk what you need in writing. I assume you will begin the clearing straightaway, as we are without a moon.’

‘Of course, sir,’ said Pearce, who had only just realised that there would be, on this night, nothing more than a sliver of moon. Dilnot had, no doubt, calculated on that too.

Pearce went out with the marine party in a borrowed greatcoat, relying on starlight to see his way, which led to many a stumble and under-
the-breath
cursing. Dilnot had thrown out a screen of armed skirmishers well ahead, with orders not to fire their muskets unless absolutely necessary, to protect those clearing a path from being disturbed. At the same time the party of sailors, under their competent coxswain, were laying out a pair of cables fetched from the arsenal and rigging blocks to stakes that a unit of sappers had sunk into the ground behind the ramparts to the redoubt; running the guns up the slope to that defence work, no doubt being pursued by the French, was not an option. The night was warm, with wind enough to rustle what foliage existed on such a barren landscape, with the odd clink of metal touching something solid freezing everyone in case it was the
enemy patrolling prior to an attack, looking for a prisoner who could tell them the nature and numbers of the defence.

‘Prosser,’ hissed Dilnot to his sergeant, a small Londoner. ‘We want some brushwood cut to lay on the passage, otherwise the clearances we have made will look too obvious once the sun is up. And don’t just roll any rocks and boulders to the side. Move them a distance.’

The sound of hacking seemed like the knell of doom, so loud was it and that was when Dilnot’s other ruse came into play. He carried a shaded lantern, and when he opened it to show a light to his rear torches began to wave and move about, only enough to light the area right in front of the rampart, and loud shouting filled the air, the idea that if all French eyes were on the redoubt, they would not be simultaneously looking into the darkened hollow ground that lay between the positions. They worked their way forward to the base of the outcrop, and here the ground began to rise, not by much, but enough to imagine the task of hauling a cannon up there to be a telling one.

‘It has to be human muscle, Mr Pearce, we cannot risk an animal, but with good fortune we will have the whole night to accomplish it, and if we can get the cannon rigged on some reasonably level ground, I reckon we can make their encampment a place too warm for comfort.’

The party worked on until Dilnot, carefully unshading to take a look at his fob watch, called a halt. Having done that he went right to the edge of the small plateau on which he intended to site the guns and stared hard at the fires of the French encampment.

‘You know, Mr Pearce, it would be a fine thing to open up before they
reveille
. Damn me, we could catch them in their smalls.’

‘If I am not mistaken, sir, it is time we retired.’

‘True. You go ahead, while I call in my skirmishers.’

They were all back behind the rampart walls as the sky turned grey, that soon followed by a red ball of sun rising behind the French camp, which led to an anxious period of waiting, till it rose enough to cease blinding those looking east, and showed that it would take a sharp eye to find the line of the track they had made during the night.

‘Breakfast I think, Mr Pearce, then I fancy that you, like me, will welcome some rest.’

Dilnot stood his men down, and they immediately made up beds under the ox-wagons, shaded from the sunlight. Within minutes the first sound of snoring emerged, and that soon turned into a cacophony. Pearce, finishing a bowl of coffee, reckoned they had managed a good night’s work, and he had to admire the way Dilnot had handled things, yet he was dying to ask what had caused
Elphinstone’s outburst, while knowing that was an impossibility.

‘I am curious, sir, what tempted you to become a sailor?’ Dilnot asked

This had Pearce wondering if the man could read his mind, it being a perfect foil to deflect any questioning of him. To open up or dissemble? He decided on the latter; what Dilnot did not know would not hurt him, while finding he was in the presence of a military novice might affect his actions.

‘Shall I say, sir, that I had little choice.’

‘Choice,’ said Dilnot wistfully. ‘Few in this world have that.’

‘You?

‘My father was a soldier before me, Mr Pearce, and reckoned the army the best career a man could aspire to, so I was chosen for the profession. He would turn in his grave to see me acting as a marine.’

‘Is it so arduous a burden?’

‘Only at times.’ There was a strange glint in his eye as he added, ‘At others, like now, I would not wish to be elsewhere.’

‘As you say, Mr Dilnot, time to sleep I think.’

‘I must find a spot away from that racket my men are making.’

‘Do you not have a billet in town?’

‘I do, and so do my men, but it seems bizarre to
march all the way down to the Old Town, only to have to march all the way back up again tonight.’

‘Our party of seamen will do it.’

‘Your party of seamen are not carrying sixty pounds of kit, sir.’

A steady stream of supplies arrived as they slept, all the things Pearce, advised by Dilnot, had informed Elphinstone were necessary. A couple of light carts, a dozen baulks of twelve-foot timbers, some capstan bars, more blocks and pulleys, plus, as the sun dipped into the west, a strong party of tars who would be needed for what was hoped would be the final act. Dilnot had his men lined up and was, with his sergeant, checking their muskets, ensuring they had the requisite amount of powder and shot and that their bayonets, which tended to get used for every job under the sun, had not been blunted. The sound of trudging boots had Pearce turn round, to observe a dusty midshipman approaching, and seeing he had been spotted, the lad grinned.

‘Mr Pearce, sir. I have been sent to assist.’

‘Mr Harbin, I am glad to see you.’

‘And I you, sir.’

‘Mr Dilnot, allow me to name Midshipman Harbin who recently sailed with me. If he is to go out with us tonight, I beg you ensure you keep an eye on him, otherwise he will be attacking the French command tent single-handed.’

Harbin blushed through ten thousand freckles as Dilnot greeted him. ‘Mr Pearce, we need lifting frames erected with pulleys to raise both the cannon and their trunnions onto the carts. Of necessity they will have to be lifted over the rampart and their wheels replaced in open ground. It would be an asset if we could make that a single manoeuvre.’

When Pearce said he was glad to see Harbin it was not just from affection. The boy was not only enthusiastic and brave, he was intelligent and knowledgeable in areas where his superior would struggle, perfect for the task now in hand. Pearce listened carefully as Harbin outlined how he would carry out the manoeuvre, the right size of lifting frames, their location, a set of ropes and pulleys that would take the cannon over the rampart to a lower frame that would sit right on the level of the carts once that had been established.

‘So, you see, sir, it will slide very neatly onto a bed of straw.’

‘Excellent, Mr Harbin. I can leave you to get that rigged. The coxswain, Robertshaw and I, will see to the carts.’

A set of fascines were placed upright outside the rampart to create a screen behind which, with torches, the men could work, not perfect enough to entirely cut them off from view but enough to cause confusion as to their purpose at a distance. The wheels of the smaller carts had been knocked off
the axles, and as soon as the light faded the body of each of the two were lifted over the rampart, the wheels put back in place once they were on the outside and the necessary tools, powder, shot and flintlocks loaded on; long, thick metal spikes, water for both men and
matériel
, levers to move the aim of the guns, spades to dig and a tub of unlit slowmatch to ensure that if the flints malfunctioned, the cannon could still be fired.

Harbin was as good as his word; if there was anything the Navy was good at it was shifting
two-ton
weights as though they were feathers. Using double blocks, the cannon were lifted clear of the ox-wagons that had fetched them up the hill, then slung onto a thick cable that sloped towards the cushioned bed of the carts. The trunnions followed quickly, and the gun crews who would fire these pieces took up the ropes with which they would haul, this as Dilnot sent his men out to form a defensive line in front of the party.

‘Mr Harbin,’ called Pearce, seeing something that had been missed, ‘two more cables to the rear of the carts. If we have to beat a hasty retreat we will not have time to turn them round.’

‘Our friends over yonder must wonder what we are about,’ said Dilnot. ‘If they come out in numbers to find out we will be in trouble.’

‘Worth the risk, Mr Dilnot?’

‘No doubt about it, Mr Pearce.’

‘Right, you behind the parapet, take the strain. Quench the torches and drop those fascines.’

The creak of the wheels, which had been greased, still sounded too loud for comfort as the carts were eased down the slope into the hollow ground. Once there those cables were detached and left for later, as the seamen took up the strain on the front, leaning on capstan bars that had been lashed to the steering frame that controlled the front axle, a better method of forward movement over uneven ground than pulling. Dilnot’s bullocks walked fifty paces ahead, bayonets fixed, ten feet apart, the officer and his sergeant behind them to keep them dressed in the right line.

Several times a wheel dropped into a depression. These were impossible to see in the low light of the stars, plus a sliver of new moon, and the carts needed to be levered out, in one case hauled backwards and manoeuvred round the obstacle. It took three hours to get to the foot of the incline leading to the proposed position and at that point Pearce called to Dilnot to say every hand, his skirmishers included, would be needed to get up the slope, which was accomplished by a heave, moving it forward a few inches, with men again placed behind the rear wheels to jam in levers that would prevent the carts slipping backwards. Now a couple of inches would have seemed like a mile as the gun transports, in all weighing near three tons each,
were eased up and up, until finally the front wheels crested the plateau and pushing became easier.

There was not a man, officer, seaman or marine who was not sweating buckets at the exertions, but there was no time to rest. Harbin had a frame and pulleys to rig, the trunnions coming off first, they being wheeled because they could be moved on their own, if not with ease, at least with effort. They were rolled into shallow forward-facing pits, freshly dug, designed to absorb some of the recoil and each cart was rolled over the top so that the cannon could be lifted straight in the air. The cart was then removed and the weapon lowered into position. Having twice carried out that manoeuvre, the next task was to rig the lines that would also act to control the recoil, though the stakes that would be needed to hold them would have to wait till near dawn; that was the last task to be carried out.

Powder and shot were unloaded and set in place, the cannon tompions removed and the barrels swabbed before loading. Flints had been fitted and the slowmatch lit out of sight, to fizzle in the dark bringing with it the smell of burning saltpetre, and ahead of them, still flickering in the dark, were the dying campfires of their enemy.

‘A grey goose at a quarter mile, Mr Dilnot.’ There was just enough light to see his quizzical expression, as Pearce added, ‘It’s is a naval term, sir.’

‘I only ask, are we wholly ready?’

‘We are, barring the stakes. Mr Harbin.’

The midshipman stepped forward to kneel down, a long metal spike in his hand, this copied by four other tars. Above them stood the strongest of the seamen’s party, each having in his hands a sledgehammer of formidable weight. There was no way to do this quietly, so on the command those hammers swung and the clang, as they hit the head of the spike, reverberated around the hillsides, each blow so close it was impossible to tell what was real and what was echo. The looped restraints had been prepared in advance, and as each spike was sunk to as much depth as was required, those lines were attached and tightened.

‘All done, sir,’ said Harbin.

‘Then, young sir, I would suggest it is time to let our friends yonder know we are here.’

‘Gun captains,’ Harbin called.

Both men nodded at Harbin’s order, then admonished everyone to stand clear. This was no shipboard firing with trunnions rigged to be brought up short on thick cable restraints or a
well-fashioned
redoubt with properly sited artillery. No one had any idea what the cannon would do once fired. The gun captains themselves stood several yards back, holding the long lines that went to the flintlocks. Dilnot stood with his small telescope, Pearce with his larger instrument, their eyes fixed to
observe the fall of shot, as both gun captains hauled hard. The flints fired the powder in the touch hole, which set off the charge in the barrel and a long orange tongue of flame shot from the muzzle as a nine-pounder cannonball was sent flying towards the French camp.

The cannon shot backwards, the wheels in soft ground, the rear of the trunnions running on to hard packed earth, the barrels threatening to rise enough to tip backwards until they were brought to a halt by the ropes, but it was obvious as each whole ensemble dropped back to the ground it was not exactly in the same place from which it had been fired.

‘We shall have to aim every time, lads,’ shouted Pearce, trying and failing to see where the balls had landed. What he did see was the utter confusion of an encampment rudely awakened. They had pickets out to ensure they did not fall to a sudden ground assault, but clearly they had not anticipated this.

‘I would say, Mr Pearce,’ shouted Dilnot, ‘that rate of fire will count for more than accuracy.’

Pearce was not listening. He was watching the French gunners, shirts flapping in the breeze, rush to their own cannon, and he was aware that this was something he had not thought of, perhaps forgivable given his lack of knowledge. What was surprising was that Dilnot had failed to foresee it either.

‘You will also see, Mr Dilnot, if you look left, that we are about to be in receipt of return fire.’

‘Then it will be warm, sir,’ Dilnot replied in what sounded like a happy tone. ‘Very warm.’