A Despite of Hornets Read online

  A Despite of Hornets

  Geoffrey Watson

  Napoleon’s Spanish Ulcer

  Book 1

  Copyright © 2012 Geoffrey Watson

  All Rights Reserved.

  Cover Illustration by Andrew Watson.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  CHAPTER 1

  Even in summer, the tail end of an Atlantic storm whipped up the wave crests into an uncomfortable chop, made all the less pleasant by the persistent driving rain, finding its way inside tarpaulins and boat cloaks with almost malevolent determination.

  The small topsail schooner had crept around into the lee of the island as soon as the light was sufficiently dim to hide her from any curious eyes on the hills. She lay hove-to under the minimum of canvas while the two boats towing astern were hauled alongside.

  Men went down into the boats, quickly but without seeming to hurry. The oars were manned in silence and they turned towards the rocky shore, pulling with powerful and competent strokes through the more sheltered, but still turbulent waters lashing the shingle beach of the small cove.

  The passengers in each boat huddled together, trying to minimise the effects of the rain and spray. It was a natural reaction to the conditions. None of them felt they had any hope of staying dry, but each of them jealously protected the breeches of the arms they carried, swathing them in oiled cloth with an outer layer of tarred canvas.

  A need for haste was uppermost in their minds. The short Scottish night was only just long enough for the schooner to complete her mission. She must bring the men in, land them and disappear again over the horizon before they could be seen by early-rising shepherds or newly posted sentries.

  Once within the cove the sea became calmer and the oarsmen drove the boats onto the shingle of the beach, allowing the sailors in the bows to leap ashore and steady them while armed men poured past them, paused briefly to form into two files and vanished into the darkness in the direction of the stream, that tumbling down the rocks, had probably formed the cove aeons ago.

  Without their burden, the boats made good time back to the schooner, which sheeted home her sails as soon as they were aboard and the boats once more towing astern. In minutes the coast was as bleak and deserted, as it had been when the sun had set.

  ***

  The craggy cleft where the stream was born continued, narrow and rock strewn, for a hundred yards before opening out into a wider, more sheltered gully below the summit of the heather-clad slope that gradually merged into a wide, wild, broken plateau. This wilderness was crossed by a series of deep depressions, descending by degrees into a valley where there was barely sufficient grass clinging to the thin soil, to sustain a pitifully few gaunt animals; perhaps the sole means of survival for the inhabitants of the two small crofts nestling at the foot of the mountain on the far side.

  In this gully the two parties rested while their leaders conferred briefly. A few scattered gaps in the rapidly moving clouds enabled them to locate the pole star and confirm that the wind was still steady from the south-west. They signalled to their men and set off on diverging courses, aiming for either flank of the mountain they could now see beyond the plateau.

  They moved quickly at an easy pace in spite of the heavy pack and the long flintlock each man carried. In less than three hours the sun would once more be above the horizon and they must have covered the ten miles across the plateau and valley to the far slope of the distant mountain before there was light enough for them to be seen.

  The rain had stopped by now, but the heather slopes they were negotiating were thoroughly soaked. It seemed to the toiling men that most of the clinging droplets were transferred to their lower bodies and legs as they forced their way through.

  Unpleasant and restricting though the conditions were, they all moved quickly and in a fashion that was remarkably silent. The rustling and scraping of their passage through the tall heather and boggy ground was entirely lost in the ever- present susurration of the wind across the slopes.

  Even if some interested observer had been present, it would not have been easy to follow their passage. Only when they were moving were they visible. The garments they wore blended into the background so that, like a hen pheasant, once they were still they vanished, chameleon-like, against the sombre hues of their surroundings.

  By the time the lightening of the eastern horizon gave notice of the beginning of another long day, both parties had reached their destinations, high up on the mountain slope, some eight hundred yards from each other, and with an unobstructed view of the small town and harbour. More important, they could observe most of the activity about the gates and walls of the fortress, squatting on the promontory overlooking and commanding both the entrance to the port and the valley road into the town.

  The men settled down immediately into whatever shelter they could find and the leaders of the two parties each produced a small field telescope from their knapsacks, spending the first hour in keen observation of the fortress and in making occasional notes of their observations. After an hour another man took over, adding to the notes from time to time. At hourly intervals throughout the day fresh eyes peered down, watching the activities and routine of the sentries and adding to the notes already made.

  Those not on duty or on watch made themselves as comfortable as possible and caught up on their sleep after eating and drinking from the rations carried in every pack. In each case however, first priority was given to cleaning and the thorough inspection of the long flintlock that was carried by every man, not excluding the two leaders of the parties. Not until each man had cleaned and oiled his weapon and re-wrapped the breech mechanism did they allow themselves to relax, eat and seek what sleep they could.

  Farther up the slope in a position to view the entire scene, another interested observer watched unseen until the sun was two hours up into the new day. He had been lying motionless behind the cover of an outcrop of rocks since before dawn and had noted the arrival of both parties and the routine they had set up to report on the activities below them.

  Now, apparently satisfied, he rose and moved warily and without haste, back along the route away from view until he was able to descend the slope and make his way towards the town.

  His dress, while of good quality cloth and cut in the latest fashion for a country gentleman, was not in the popular mixture of flamboyant colours that was all the rage in distant London, following the lead set by the Prince of Wales and his sycophants. Rather, the rich brown of his coat and the fawn of his breeches and hose helped to achieve the same inconspicuous blend with his background as had the uniform colourings of the men he had been watching.

  On entering the town he quickly made his way to the harbour, checked the time on a large gold pocket watch and found a seat on the remains of a capstan set on the ancient jetty. Within twenty minutes a ship’s boat pulled briskly within the brea
kwater and ran alongside the jetty. The man in brown stepped into the sternsheets and was rowed out to sea and round the headland.

  Up on the hillside, the arrival and departure of the boat had been noted and the figure in the stern had appeared to provoke special interest in both parties of men. The routine was not interrupted for long however. With hardly a pause they returned to their unremitting watch over the fortress.

  CHAPTER 2

  His Majesty’s Armed Schooner Poppy lay hove-to round the headland from the small harbour, out of sight of both town and fortress. She was one of those ships that had been hired by the Admiralty in time of war, to carry out all and any of those multifarious duties and activities, which were beneath the dignity of regular warships. Invaluable work nevertheless, that maybe released a more suitable vessel to harry the French or escort one of the innumerable convoys on which England’s wealth and strength depended.

  In spite of her lowly status, she was the pride and joy of her captain, Lieutenant Edward Parsons; a tall, thin, angular figure whose seemingly awkward movements tended to make people underestimate his capabilities and quiet competence as a seaman. He was philosophical too about her title. Admittedly, His Majesty’s Hired Armed Schooner was a terrible mouthful, which is why he always neglected to mention ‘Hired’ in his reports.

  He was meticulous though in including ‘Armed’ in the title, even when he would be the first to admit the derisory nature of his six four-pounders. He had on one occasion filled the pockets of his uniform coat with the six balls that comprised both broadsides of his command, and once after enjoying the hospitality of his officers, had attempted to juggle with the three balls from the starboard battery. Many merchantmen had more and bigger teeth than Poppy, even if their guns were not served so efficiently.

  The schooner rig also, was not common in the Royal Navy. The American ex-colonists had developed it to a far greater extent and Parsons wondered whether that had any bearing on his present command. Captain Joshua Welbeloved was an ex-American loyalist, forced to leave his home and country after America gained her independence, and he seemed to have enough influence with the Admiralty to be able to use Poppy almost as his private yacht.

  Not that Parsons resented this. He was delighted to have his own command after years when he had very nearly given up any thoughts of advancement. He was also very much in awe of the big, quietly spoken ex-colonial and of his past achievements. Achievements that had given him a reputation which, if not famous, was whispered about where such things count. Parsons had a shrewd idea that such a reputation did not guarantee popularity with many of Welbeloved’s peers and fellow captains, but he could understand why all his subordinates seemed ready to follow him to the gates of hell and back. He could also be sure that such popularity, or lack of it, would mean little or nothing to his superior.

  He could see the boat approaching now with Welbeloved in the stern and he signalled brusquely to the reception party. Parsons was captain of Poppy and technically Welbeloved was only a passenger. A passenger moreover who would not dream of demanding any favours, but whose quiet, strong personality made Parsons determined to offer all the courtesies he could. Compliments like manning the side when he came and left the ship and always being present personally to receive him.

  He swept off his hat, awkwardly as usual, and grinned his welcome as Welbeloved stepped on board, walking back with him towards the stern cabin. “Good to see you back, sir. All is well with you, I trust? Everything going as you planned?”

  Welbeloved paused and gave him a long hard look from striking blue eyes. “Yew’re trying to mother me again, young Ed’ard. But aye, everything appears satisfactory at the present time. I’m going to shut my eyes for an hour or so and we’ll move into the harbour a mite before sunset.” His bushy blond eyebrows twitched and his eyes crinkled. “Contain yor impatience ‘til then, eh?”

  Parsons grinned. “Aye aye sir.” By now he was used to Welbeloved’s informality, though he couldn’t imagine any other Post Captain of his acquaintance addressing him as ‘young Edward’. He hummed to himself softly as he walked forrard. He would have liked to have exercised the hands at gun drill, but in deference to Welbeloved’s need for sleep he would substitute sail drill. The rumble of gun trucks over the planking would likely disturb him; shouted orders above deck certainly would not.

  It was actually the thunder of feet on deck as the hands ran to dinner, that brought Welbeloved back to consciousness. He swung himself out of his cot and yelled for his steward to bring hot water. A leisurely shave later, and dressed now in the uniform of a Royal Navy captain, with a single epaulette on his right shoulder showing that he still had less than three years seniority, he requested Parsons to get under way and head for the harbour.

  The wind had faded to a soft breeze and the schooner glided gently into the harbour and dropped a single anchor only just inside the breakwater. Welbeloved stepped down into the gig and a minute or so later, was walking up the hill towards the main gate of the fortress. The sentry recognised him immediately and called the sergeant of the guard who detailed a man to guide him through narrow passageways to a chamber on the second floor.

  The stout door was opened by a servant to the soldier’s knock. Welbeloved entered a long, oak-panelled room, hunting trophies all round the walls, well lit by a dozen or more tall candles and with a good fire blazing in the great fireplace in spite of the warmness of the evening.

  Two men rose to their feet as he entered. Both were dressed in the red coat of a British infantry regiment, one with the insignia and sash of a lieutenant, and the other with the braid and decorations of a colonel. Both the young man and the older carried a deal of excess weight, a tribute perhaps more to the pleasures of the table than the hardships of a military campaign. This was of little credit to Lieutenant Winterton who was hardly old enough to have seen much service.

  Colonel Forsythe however, had served in the American war, and in Welbeloved’s opinion, had learned absolutely nothing during the whole of the campaign. The man was obstinately insistent that the American debacle was entirely the result of criminal mismanagement and that the only way to fight a war was between two ‘proper’ armies manoeuvring and drilling in the traditional and orthodox manner.

  Welbeloved had based himself in the area six months ago and had been arguing with Forsythe almost the whole of that time, often acrimoniously. The fact that Welbeloved was American born did not help at all. Forsythe did not like the ‘colonists’ and took very little trouble to hide the fact.

  His greeting was typical. “Evening Welbeloved. Glad to see you’ve got here. Finished playin’ deer-stalking for the day have you? Begad, you might just as well dress ‘em in warpaint and give ‘em bows and arrows for all the chance they’d have against half their number of proper soldiers.”

  Welbeloved smiled. “That remains to be seen, Colonel. I believe we have a little wager outstanding which should prove something one way or the other?”

  Forsythe snorted, his heavy jowls quivering with amusement. “You’ve only got three more days before I collect my hundred guineas and maybe not that long. I had a package delivered by messenger yesterday for you. It’s got the Admiralty seal on it. If you’re being called away I shall want settlement before you go.”

  Winterton went over to the bureau and handed Welbeloved a sealed packet, which he weighed thoughtfully in his hand before slipping it into his pocket. “I’ll open it later. I’m not about to let it spoil the supper yew’ve promised me. I may not agree with yew on military matters, but I’ve no quarrel with the table yew keep.”

  Once seated the arguments continued, and as if to justify Welbeloved’s comment the dishes were excellent and of great number and variety. Enough food was being served, he calculated, to keep one of the crofters and his family fed for a month or more.

  Welbeloved enjoyed his food but ate and drank circumspectly, taking only a moderate amount from each dish as it was presented. Not so the two redcoats. Their plates were
piled high from each course and emptied almost as quickly. The wine flowed without cease. A fresh bottle was ready opened for every course and was not allowed to leave the table until empty.

  Several hours later, after the last of the half dozen puddings and when the cheese and port had given way in turn to large glasses of smuggled brandy, they all removed themselves to high wing chairs around the fire and the two soldiers settled down to some serious drinking.

  During the evening, Welbeloved had contrived to drink about one glass to every three of theirs and in spite of having a good head for alcohol, was beginning to feel less in control of himself than he liked. Forsythe and Winterton were many stages beyond that but their capacity must have been prodigious as they were still capable of maintaining a rational, if slow conversation. Half an hour of steady drinking later and both soldiers were slumped in their chairs, snoring enthusiastically. Welbeloved pulled out his watch, attempting to focus on the hands. He grunted with satisfaction and rose unsteadily to his feet, forcing himself to pace around the room until his head felt steadier.

  ***

  Up on the mountain, the long wait was over. The lingering northern twilight was fading rapidly into night and the men had eaten and drunk from their rations. Lieutenant Vere in overall control, slowly waved his firearm from side to side and was answered by a similar wave from Sergeant MacKay who was leading the second party. Both groups slipped from cover and started towards the town in extended order, moving silently from cover to cover, the neutral colours of their uniforms blending into the scenery and not even their faces showing pale through generous applications of burnt cork.

  They paused as they reached the outskirts of the town and waited to make sure the streets were deserted. It had been a long day and most citizens were abed in preparation for making the most of the extended summer hours of daylight on the morrow.

  A very few lights showed from a scattering of windows but no one was abroad to discover the silent figures gliding from corner to corner, alley to alley, always in the direction of the sheer walls of the fortress. The castle had stood there for several hundred years and during that time had served its purpose well. Not within living memory had its might been challenged, and the town buildings had crept closer and closer to its walls, huddling like children around their mother’s skirts.