Troubled Waters

Devereux's report; eight tars with muskets, and no marksmen either, and me. Hmmm. Damme, but all this runnin'…!

'Corporal Dudley, here, spotted them down the road, sir, coming from La Palmyre, it would seem,' Lt. Devereux whispered, after he had retreated to Lewrie's side. 'The road is clear north of us, and he's seen no traffick other than these French soldiers. They're about half a mile down that way from us, at present, shuffling along slowly, sir.'

Lewrie looked about, wondering how the Devil they could hide an ambush with the Marines kitted out in their red coats and white pipe-clayed crossbelts his sailors mostly in calico shirts and white slop-trousers. 'In your considered military opinion, Mister Devereux, any cover thick enough in which to hide our men 'til they get up to close musket-shot?' Shit! Was that grammatical? he. chid himself; sod it!

'Hmm,' Devereux speculated, going on tiptoe to the verge of the road and peeking up and down its length, then coming back. 'There is a copse of secondary growth about two musket-shot to the south, Captain. Quite thick, it looks to be. Do we order the men to lie prone 'til the last moment, it should serve quite well. They would march past us as near as ten yards, sir. Hats off, of course.'

'But of course, Mister Devereux!' Lewrie agreed with a twinkle. 'Let's sneak our people down there whilst we can.'

'Prime firelocks, now… carefully, ye ign'rt maggots,' Dudley hissed at his Marines. 'Once primed, slowly ease yer pieces off cock, an' God 'elp th' man discharges 'fore the Leftenant saysta, for ye'll git no 'elp from me, hear me?'

'Mister Locke, our men are primed?' Lewrie asked.

'Um, I, uh… don't know, sir,' the eager Midshipman answered.

'Christ!' Lewrie spat. Sailors were trained in the use of muskets and pistols, but were nowhere near as well drilled as the Marines. 'They even loaded, ye wonder, Mister Locke?'

The lad turned red as Lewrie went to see for himself. No, not a single piece was loaded, so he saw to supervising loading himself, after they got into cover. 'Half-cock… good. Prime. Good. Now, close yer frissons. Now, very carefully, or you'll give the game away and we won't get a chance t'kill any Frogs… firm thumb on the lock, sneak the triggers, and ease 'em down… slow, slowly. Everyone off cock? Thankee, Jesus. Now, don't get the damn' things hung up in the bushes as you lay down, with yer hats off, and lie quiet as the grave.'

Lewrie drew both his pistols and placed them on the ground for easy grabbing, took off his cocked hat and lay down with his long-arm by his side. 'You must be skilled in weaponry, Mister Locke,' Lewrie whispered to the Midshipman, who had come to lie prone by his captain's side, looking miserable. 'More than the hands, so you may be the tutor, the master at everything that our sailors must know, d'ye see. It was my fault their muskets weren't loaded, since we were countin' on our Marines to guard us, though I imagined that Mister Gamble had ordered them loaded and safely set aside before they began work. My fault to assume. Use me as an object lesson, if you will, young sir, how not to fart about,' Lewrie concluded with a wry grin.

'Aye aye, sir,' Midshipman Locke whispered back, gulping in awe that a post-Captain, the fearsome 'Ram-Cat' Lewrie, would admit to his mistake.

'And, when the time comes, rise up when ordered, pick a target, keep yer eyes open 'stead o' shuttin' 'em, aim for the belly, a little below your fellow's breast plate, or the Vee of his crossbelts, then gently squeeze the trigger, and take the frog-eatin' sonofabitch down,' Lewrie instructed, grimly this time. 'No false sentiment, no shootin' wide or high 'cause it don't seem Christian t'kill a man, unawares and unready. There's nothin' fair 'bout what we're about t'do, so don't bother looking for 'fair.' Better him than you, what?'

'Aye aye, sir,' Locke mumbled, his face now pinched and paler than before, as the enormity of what they were about to do struck home.

'Hist, now, lads. Quiet as mice' was Lewrie's last whisper.

They heard the French coming; the clop of the officer's horse, the dull plopping of the pack animals' hooves, and the shuffle and drum of un-synchronised, out-of-step infantry boots on the soft dirt and sand of the road. It might once have been 'planked' by laying trimmed tree trunks either end to end or crosswise, with soil, sand, and stabilising gravel, but, from what little Lewrie had seen of the road, it had been a long time ago, and the handiest trees beside the planned road had grown back into a tangle of secondary growth and thick bushes not six feet beyond the verges. The pines and mixed hardwoods beyond easy cutting stood nigh an hundred feet tall, with adult boughs interlaced together overhead, so that the road resembled a narrow but deep tunnel through a very dark green and gloomy thicket.

Laughter; someone was telling a joke; another Frenchman related his need for a loan 'til the end of the month; one bitched about that whore who'd cheated him at the bordello in Royan. A sergeant was down on the typical ne'er-do-well lack-wit soldier, whose pack straps were chafing him, whose musket showed sign of rust round the firelock, and 'Bernard, you skin-flint, hand me your tobacco pouch,' and 'Go foutre yourself, Alphonse, you never pay me back, you sorry beggar,' from the fellow named Bernard.

'Wait… wait… wait!' Lt. Devereux was mouthing under his breath, rising to one knee, then… 'Up! Cock yer locks! Aim, and firel'

The range was about ten yards, as the Brown Bess muskets levelled in rough aim. The French soldiers froze for a second, their shambling march halted. Lewrie saw one fellow with his shako on the back of his head, his musket borne behind his shoulders, and probably unloaded, to boot. Before he could free a hand to swing it down from behind his neck, a musket ball thrummed dirt and dust from the white facing of his tunic, and replaced it with a bright splash of blood just above the man's brass breast plate and crossbelts!

Lewrie cocked his Ferguson, took aim at an older soldier with a single diagonal chevron on his lower sleeve, fired, and knocked the man off his feet with a ball in his stomach. Kneel! Pick up one of the double-barreled Mantons. Cock! Aim, and fire the right barrel. Down went a hatless soldier who had turned to run into the woods on the far side of the road, and Lewrie took him just below his knapsack. Scream of a horse as it toppled over! The officer with his sword half-drawn, twisting in agony from bullet wounds as it fell on him, pinning him beneath its kicking, thrashing weight!

Left barrel, and a Frenchman trying to load his musket howled in instant pain and terror as Lewrie's ball shredded his lower throat!

Less than five seconds of the initial volley, a few follow-up shots from Lewrie's, Devereux's, and Midshipman Locke's pistols, and it was over in an eye-blink! There were four or five French soldiers still on their feet, haring back down the road to La Palmyre, or all the way to Royan were they terrified enough, their heavy knapsacks stripped off for more speed, and their muskets thrown away.

The rest of the French unit-perhaps as many as twenty men-lay where they had fallen, only a few of them able to writhe as the pain of their wounds forced them to stir. One knelt on splayed knees, puking blood; another tried to crawl away, leaving a gory stream in his wake. The officer was screaming as loud as his horse, and one of the Marines went to him. He took his time reloading, then stuck the muzzle of his musket to the horse's temple and fired. Again, he took his time to bite cartridge, pour powder in the pan, the rest down the barrel; spit the ball down; draw the ramrod to tamp it down; return the ramrod to its brass pipes, then ease the firelock from half-cock to un- cocked, each motion as smart as parade drill. Then the Marine muttered 'poor bastid,' performed 'Right About,' and marched away from the dying officer. It was Lt. Devereux who approached him with pistol drawn, and gently spoke to him in French, before leaning down to give the unfortunate fellow the requested coup de grace.

Lewrie strolled out into the road, amazed and appalled, but in secret glee that none of his own had even gotten a scratch. Mr. Locke staggered out to look down on one of the Frenchmen who lay on his side but was struggling to roll over onto his back, as dying men will do. Locke turned away and fell to his knees, throwing up.

'You well, Mister Locke?' Lewrie asked as he re-loaded and re-primed his pistol. Brutish as it was, both Marines and sailors pawed over the dead and the dying for tobacco, coins, pipes or clasp knives, breast plates, and shakoes for souvenirs, crowing with triumph.

'My God, sir!' Locke stuttered, 'It's… horrible!'

'It's war, Mister Locke,' Lewrie grimly told him. 'You think this is bad? Worse things