God dammit, what a mess! he thought, almost in pain; No matter the care we took in plannin’, we’ve thrown ’em in the quag.
At long last, the gunfire dribbled off to scattered individual shots, and the groups of British troops were beyond the tower, swarming inside it, and starting the destruction. Uphill and around the tower there were a lot more wee blotches of men in blue and white uniforms on the ground. What remained of the Spanish infantry had run off, out-shot by troops that actually practiced live-fire on a regular basis, and as Lewrie made a quick count of the unmoving Spaniards, he felt a bit of relief that the numbers of enemy soldiers who had run might be too few to mount a counter-attack before the tower was set alight.
“Smoke, sir,” Westcott said, with some delight. “They’ve lit it on fire. We’ll have them back aboard the ships in the next hour.”
* * *
Sapphire’s Marines came up the scrambling nets and the boarding battens in much quieter takings than their demeanours upon departure, and even the sailors who had manned their boats and had guarded the beach but had not been engaged in the fight seemed much more subdued. The Bosun’s Mates and the Surgeon’s loblolly boys saw to hoisting Sapphire’s wounded up the ship’s sides by means of mess-table carrying boards for the seriously hurt, slung horizontal and lifted over the bulwarks with the main course yard, or in Bosuns’ chairs for the others.
Through it all, Lewrie stood four-square and stoic amidships of the forward edge of the quarterdeck, hands clasped in the small of his back, ’til Lieutenant Keane reported to him.
“How bad?” Lewrie gruffly asked.
“Not too bad, all in all, sir,” Lt. Keane said, doffing his hat. “Marine Private Pewitt slain, and five wounded, including Corporal Lester. He’s the worst off. Lieutenant Roe got slightly nicked, and Sergeant Clapper twisted an ankle.”
“It looked a lot worse from here,” Lewrie said, allowing himself a quick sigh of relief. “The soldiers?”
“Captain Bowden’s company, in the centre, got the worst of it, sir,” Lt. Keane told him, looking weary and red-eyed. The right side of his face, right hand, and his mouth were stained with black powder from discharging and re-loading his own musket, from tearing the paper cartridges open with his teeth. “They were the first ones the Spanish saw in the gloom. I think he has three dead and ten wounded. Captain Kimbrough’s lot suffered one dead and six hurt.”
“How the Devil did the Dons come t’be there, I’m wonderin’,” Lewrie groused. “It’s only been a day and a night since we landed at Almerimar. Were they in strength?”
“About one company of foot, sir,” Lt. Keane replied, pulling a calico cloth from his coat pocket to mop his face, spit on one corner, and scrub the bitter grains of powder from his lips. “Fifty or sixty, or thereabouts? We took one of their officers as prisoner, and I gathered, given my little Spanish, that they were quartered overnight in the town, near the tower, but weren’t really there to guard the thing … they’d done a route march down from Órjiva just to keep their men fit, and had planned on marching back this morning, after a late breakfast. They’d been barracked overnight in a tavern, and I also gather that they’d had a good drunk.
“It was only our bad luck that some bloody farmer saw us when we were creeping through the wood lot and the orchards, and ran off to wake them, sir,” Lt. Keane said, with a shrug.
“Well, if they weren’t posted to protect that tower, then it’s good odds that some troops from Órjiva will be, later,” Lewrie decided. “If they’re that dear to ’em, that means that one part of our plan is working … though it’ll make future raids harder.”
Hell, impossible, Lewrie gloomed to himself; We’re down nigh a half a company of troops, and when I get the lightly wounded back is anyone’s guess. Would Dalrymple give me any re-enforcements if…?
“Major Hughes, sir?” Keane said.
“Hmm?” Lewrie asked, drawn back from his thoughts.
“Major Hughes, sir … we lost him,” Keane repeated.
“Fallen? Damn,” Lewrie spat, though without much sincerity.
“No, sir, I mean lost him,” Keane insisted. “He just up and disappeared, as if the ground had swallowed him up. We searched, after we had driven the Dons off, but there was just no sign of him.”
“How the Devil d’ye lose an officer?” Lewrie exclaimed.
“Don’t know, sir,” Keane replied, looking as if he took Lewrie’s question as a personal reproach. “We were more spread out than usual, with Kimbrough out to the left to keep an eye on the town, Bowden in the centre, and our Marines on the right flank, perhaps fifty or more yards ’twixt companies. Major Hughes was with the centre. As soon as we all spotted the Spanish, he started yelling for us to close up and sent runners, just before the firing began. Well, sir, I saw no reason to, since our volleys into the Spanish left were knocking them down like ninepins, and I ordered rear ranks to advance, to get closer.
“The Major runs over to me, screaming, ‘What the Hell do you think you’re playing at?’ and to shift left and form line,” Keane went on. “A runner came from Captain Kimbrough, saying that he was advancing by ranks, the same as me, and Hughes … got even louder and said something like, ‘Must I save all you fools from disaster?’ and dashed off, leaving the runner with us.
“Captain Bowden says he saw him as he ran past behind his own line, and angling off uphill to where Kimbrough’s men were closing, on the Spanish right,” Keane continued. “Bowden says that the Major ordered him to stand fast and suppress the foe with fire, and that’s the last anyone saw of him, for he never reached Kimbrough’s company.”
“Just damn my eyes,” Lewrie exclaimed. “I never heard the like. D’ye think it’s possible that the Dons captured him?”
“It’s possible, I suppose, sir,” Lt. Keane allowed, “but, neither Kimbrough nor Bowden recalls taking fire from any Spaniards between their companies, though he might have stumbled into a small party of shirkers or stragglers. The gunsmoke was getting pretty thick by then, so it was getting rather difficult for anyone to see damn-all.”
“Damn, what a pity,” Lewrie said.
No, it ain’t! he thought; I’m shot o’ the bastard, either way. If God’s just, Dalrymple might scrounge up a replacement. Perhaps he has another family friend’s son on his staff who needs t’win himself some spurs?
“We’ll be returning to Gibraltar, soon as everyone’s settled,” Lewrie assured Keane. “See to your men, sir, and tell them that they did damned well … and that we’ll ‘Splice The Mainbrace’ at Seven Bells of the Forenoon. I’ll need your written account of the action for my report, along with Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s, as soon as I can collect them.”
“Aye, sir,” Keane replied, doffing his hat in departing salute, then trudging down the starboard ladderway to the waist, where most of his Marines were gathered, after turning in their arms and accoutrements. Their initial muted moods had livened, and a trade was springing up in Spanish shakoes, waistbelt and crossbelt plates, and some rank badges ripped from dead Spanish non-commissioned officers.
The dead Private and the wounded were on the orlop and the cockpit surgery, by then, out of sight, if not entirely out of mind.
Lewrie looked over at the transport. Her boats were being led for towing astern, and all her troops were back aboard. He would collect Kimbrough’s and Bowden’s reports, he thought sadly, when he went aboard Harmony in the afternoon, once safely out at sea.