* * *
“A damned imposin’ place,” Lewrie said to his Cox’n, Liam Desmond, as the cutter was stroked towards the quays.
“Aye, sor,” Desmond agreed. “Fortified walls right down to th’ docks. Like they don’t much care f’r visitors.”
“Might be pretty, in Summer,” Lewrie speculated.
“If ye like rocks, sor,” Desmond slyly teased.
The foul weather might have moderated, as the Sailing Master had said, but Corunna, its harbour, and the surrounding country was bleak, and very rocky; it was no wonder that the Spanish called this part of Galicia the “Coast of Death.” The long fortifications that ran from the Citadel in the upper town down to Santa Lucía were grim, grime-streaked pale tan, seated atop darker brown and massive slabs of stone, fouled with dead seaweed at low tide, green with a mossy ocean growth. Beyond and over those fortified walls, several ranges of hills rose to the West and South, all of them strewn with large boulders. What trees there were were dead Winter grey and bare, or the darkest, dullest green pine groves. Beyond those hills lay the formidable mountains of inner Spain, as stony and steep and impressive as any he’d seen at Cape Town two years before. And over all were grey and threatening cloud banks scudding low over those hills. Lewrie had never seen such a depressing place in his life!
Once he set foot atop the quays he became even more depressed. There were still wounded men laid out on carrying boards and their own blankets awaiting treatment aboard the transports. Beside the obvious combat wounds, there were fellows without shoes or boots, or wool stockings, their toes blackened by frostbite; those who had lacked gloves or mittens showed fingers or whole hands turned blue-black as well, and sure to suffer amputations before the poisons of their frostbite killed them. Once back in England, the army would discharge them with pittances for pensions, where, unable to work to support themselves, they might starve to death in a year.
“You, sir! You, there! Do you have a hospital ship for my wounded?” an army surgeon demanded as he came up to Lewrie.
“I’ve a transport, sir, not a hospital ship,” Lewrie had to tell him, doffing his hat in salute despite the fellow’s rudeness. “My own Ship’s Surgeon and his Mates can be sent aboard her to aid you, but…” He had to end with a helpless shrug.
“Well, Goddamnit!” the peppery little fellow swore. “I’ve done the best I could for them, God witness. There wasn’t much fighting, and those wounds I’ve treated, and those poor fellows that lived to this point only need rest. The exposure cases, though … yes, do send me your man. I fear there will be quite a number of amputations before the day’s done.”
“All these are from your regiment, sir?” Lewrie asked. “We’ve been told t’keep ’em together. Good. Mister Hillhouse?” he called out to his senior Midshipman. “Let’s get all the wounded in this lot into the boats, then make for the Prosperity transport.”
“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse replied, looking round, appalled for a moment before springing into action.
“You’ve attendants t’care for ’em aboard the ship, sir?” Lewrie asked the surgeon.
“Yes, a dozen bandsmen, they’ll help with the loading, and tend to them,” the army surgeon told him. “The rest of the battalion is still up in the hills, yonder, with Hope’s Division.”
“Is there anyone I could speak to who knows what’s going on?” Lewrie asked him. “Some staff officers, or…?”
“My dear sir, nobody knows what’s going on here, or has since we began our bloody retreat!” the surgeon snarled, then turned away.
“Carry on, Mister Hillhouse,” Lewrie called over his shoulder. “I’ll remain ashore for a while and see if I can find anyone who can make sense of this mess.”
“Aye, sir,” Hillhouse said, then paused. “Ehm, if Prosperity isn’t full, do we ferry un-wounded troops out to her?”
“Fill her to capacity, then begin on the next ship, the Blue Bonnet,” Lewrie told him. “Ah, and here come boats from Undaunted, and our brig-sloops. And Captain Chalmers appears just as curious as I am,” he added as he spotted that worthy in the lead cutter’s sternsheets, already standing and impatient to set foot ashore. He waited for Chalmers to make his way to the top of the long quay, then greeted him.
“Lord, what a shambles, Captain Lewrie,” Chalmers said as they exchanged salutes.
“’Deed it is, sir,” Lewrie agreed, wishing he could stuff a handkerchief to his nose to stifle the stench of gangrenous wounds. “I’m going to find someone in authority. Care to join me?”
“Delighted, sir,” Captain Chalmers eagerly said back.
They made their way through the pallets and litters bearing wounded men, and worked their way into the village of Santa Lucía, in a seemingly aimless mob of ragged soldiers. Abandoned mansions and storehouses had been requisitioned for barracks, with cryptic chalk marks on the doors, like 20/Ist Co./1/29, which meant that twenty men of the Number One company of the First Battalion of the 29th Regiment of Foot would be billeted there. The doors stood open and men lounged about on the steps or stoops, wrapped in new blankets, smoking pipes or chewing tobacco quids. Smoke plumed from chimneys, giving the first real warmth to soldiers who had nigh-frozen to death in the Spanish mountains. Looted tubs and cauldrons steamed outside over large fires made of smashed furniture and ripped-down wall panelling, some of it quite fine. Even whole paintings were being ripped apart so the gilt frames could be used for firewood, and the paintings, rolled up like logs, burned well, too. Shirts and under-drawers, stockings and small-clothes were being washed for the first time in weeks, and over some fires, wool uniform coats and trousers were being given a smoking to drive out the lice, fleas, and other pests. Some of the soldiers waiting for their cleaned clothes looked so riddled with wee red bite marks that Lewrie at first suspected them stricken with the measles!
“Seems there is some order about, after all, Captain Lewrie,” Chalmers pointed out, extending an arm to several companies of Highlanders practicing close-order drill, with their Sergeants and Corporals scurrying about them and barking orders like so many terriers. Further on, several companies of green-jacketed Rifles were marching and counter-marching under arms.
“Like the Admiral told us,” Lewrie commented, “discipline fell apart on the retreat. If the French arrive before we get ’em all off, they’ll have t’fight. Is that a Colonel, yonder?”
“A Major, I think,” Chalmers said with a shrug. “Think we can question him?”
“Aye, let’s try,” Lewrie agreed, increasing his pace. “Sir!” he called out. “Major? Could you talk to us?”
“Hmpf? What?” the stout fellow asked with a snort as he turned about to see who was calling him. “Ah, the Navy’s here, is it? At last … even if it is in mere dribs and drabs, so far.”
Lewrie was quick to assure him that Admiral Hood and nigh one hundred transports were coming from Vigo, and asked if he knew the dispositions of the army, and the location of the French. He took time to introduce himself as Major Phillpot, of General Sir David Baird’s staff, before explaining things to the naval officers.
“The last of our troops crossed the Mero River, and we demolished the only bridge, so that will slow the damned French down,” he said. “It’s beyond the second range of hills, the Peñasquedos, yonder. We don’t have enough troops to hold those hills, but we do have cavalry vedettes out to keep watch. The nearest range of hills, there, is the Monte Mero, rocky as anything, with so many large standing boulders that it might as well be fortified. General Hope’s Division is on the left, Sir David Baird’s Division holds the centre, near a village called Elvina, and the Guards hold their right flank. General Edward Paget is near Santa Lucía in reserve, and Frasier’s Division is posted on the road to Vigo and Santiago de Compostela on the far right.”
“The French?” Lewrie asked.
“No idea yet, sir,” Phillpot replied with a toothy leer. “As bad as we had it, the French must have had a worse time, for once we left any town through which we marched, there wasn’t a crumb, or a flagon of wine, left, hah hah! Shameful looting and in-discipline, our men got to, burning anything to keep warm, no matter how grand. Pianos, harps, bed-steads, God knows what all. The weather, and the roads, my word! One-lane bridges slick with thick ice, and hardly any kerbings. Why, it’s a wonder any of our carts and waggons survived. And, you ought to see some of the mountain villages we went through … lanes so narrow, and winding at odd angles, bound in by stone walls that hand-carts had to be un-loaded and stood on their sides to get them through!