David Cook's Blog, page 4
June 5, 2014
Another passage
The marines fought on. They did what they were trained to do, and what they did was learn how to fire a musket. Load and fire, load and fire. Months of drill. Pull free a cartridge, bite the top off, prime the lock with a pinch of black powder from the bitten end, close the frizzen to keep the pinch in place, drop the butt, pour in the rest down the blackened barrel, thrust the paper down as wadding, ram it down hard, and inside was the lead ball. Bring the musket back up, pull back the cock, aim, and pull the trigger. Repeat. Mouths would dry out from the saltpetre. Tongues would swell. Faces and hands would blacken. Eyes would sting from the stink and ears would ring from the roar.
May 27, 2014
The Soldier Chronicles
For the updated cover shots for HEART OF OAK 1 month before release please visit my facebook page here https://www.facebook.com/#!/davidcook...
May 23, 2014
The Birth of the Corps of Marines 1664 - 1815
The Corps of Marines can trace its commencement all the way to the year 1664 when Britain was at war with the Dutch Republic.
The first recognised unit was called the ‘Duke of York and Albany’s Maritime Regiment of Foot’ and soon after was known as the ‘Lord High Admiral’s Regiment’. These were infantrymen recruited from the Trained Bands of London and were the very first soldiers drafted on-board ships for the roles of marines.
The wholly musket-armed ‘Holland Regiment’ that John Churchill, later the 1st Duke of Marlborough, served in, wore ‘gold’ coats rather than the standard ‘red’. Today, the Marine Corps Colours are still one part yellow to signify the ‘gold’ colour of their ancestral coats.
From the late 17th Century through to the middle of the 18th Century there were other regiments raised as marines, or Foot Regiments converted for sea duty. They fought in the War of the Spanish Succession, and the fragmented battles of the War of Jenkins’ Ear with notable successes on both land and sea. Once the wars were over, the units returned to their land roles.
The Corps of Marines, the infantry fighting element of the Royal Navy, were formed on 5th April, 1755. There were fifty companies in three Marine Divisions; headquartered at the major ports of Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth under the command each of a Colonel Commandant. The marines went on to serve with distinction during the American War of Independence, especially at the Battle of Bunker Hill, where they were marked for their ‘cool ability under fire’.
Regularly enlisted like the Army, and not by impressment (press-ganged as some myths dictate) they primarily provided the Navy with a force of troops that could fight on land as infantry, of manning the ships guns, acting as marksmen against enemy crews and for close quarter boarding action at sea. Their secondary function was to supress mutiny among the seamen. In fact, their quarters always separated the RN officers and sailor quarters. They ensured security details and supported discipline of the crews. The ratio of marines on-board each ship was generally at a ratio of one marine per ship gun.
After the Act of Union was passed in 1801, which incorporated Ireland into the United Kingdom, there was an influx of Irish volunteers, and after 1805 nearly ten percent of each company were comprised of foreigners, mainly Maltese, German, Spanish and Portuguese. Each company on paper was to comprise 1 captain, 2 first lieutenants, 2 second lieutenants, 8 sergeants, 8 corporals, 6 drummers and 140 privates. Each Marine Division also had a grenadier and a light company, but they were abolished in 1804. With disease, shortages and battle caused deaths, it was highly unlikely that the paper figures were ever met.
The marines had their uniforms supplied by the Navy Board, but their dress was that of the infantry. They wore the red coat, with white collar and cuffs. Plumes were the standard colours, white-over-red for battalion companies, green for the light and white for the grenadiers. Officers wore scarlet coats, with white lace and white gloves. Gorgets, worn at the throat, were purely decorative horseshoe shaped pieces of metal that harked back to the days when officers had worn armour like medieval knights. Officers carried straight bladed cutlasses with a thirty-two inch blade, a pistol and a dirk. The marine privates were armed with the Sea Service Brown Bess muskets and the sergeants carried halberds and then later spontoons.
The marines were nicknamed by the sailors ‘lobsters’ because of the red woollen coat, and ‘bootnecks’. This semi-derogatory term derived from the dark leather 'stock' worn round the neck inside the collar which forced a soldier to keep his head up. "Take my sea boots off your neck”, was a saying to imply the marines were wearing a piece of leather cut from the sailors boots.
In 1802, largely at the recommendation of Admiral John Jervis, 1st Earl of St Vincent, the marines were titled ‘Royal Marines’ by King George III for services to their country:
“In order to mark his approbation of the very meritorious conduct of the Marines during the late war, His Majesty has been graciously pleased to direct that in future the corps shall be called the Royal Marines.”
The white facings (collars and cuffs) were given a royal makeover, changing to ‘Royal Blue’. The bicorn was replaced by the black ‘round-hat’ made of felt, but the red coat was retained.
The Royal Marine Artillery (RMA) was formed in 1804 to man bomb vessels. They wore blue tunics of the Royal Artillery and nicknamed ‘un-boiled lobsters’ or ‘blue marines’.
In 1805 a fourth Marine Division was created at Woolwich and by the end of that year the corps numbered around thirty thousand, the largest it ever saw during the Peninsular War.
The Corps of Colonial Marines were two units raised in 1808 from former American slaves for British service. They were created at different times and both disbanded after the wars. They were recruited to address the shortage of military manpower in the Caribbean. The locally-recruited men were less susceptible to tropical illnesses than were troops sent from Britain and knew the terrain. The Corps followed the practice of the British Army's West India Regiments in recruiting escaped slaves as soldiers, but were loathed to view themselves as mere ‘slave soldiers’. They were free men and they represented a psychological threat to the slave-owning American society by being armed. They were highly thought of and as competent as their European comrades. They also received free land grants in Canada in return for their commendable service, achieving freedom in which the 'Land of Liberty' had denied them.
Three additional Marine Battalions (numbered 1-3) were raised from among the Royal Marines specifically for action in the Peninsular Campaign in Portugal, Northern Spain, the Invasion of France, the Netherlands, North America and the Caribbean. They were disbanded in 1815.
Throughout the French Revolutionary, Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812, the Royal Marines were present in every sea battle: St Vincent, Camperdown, the Nile, Copenhagen, Trafalgar, the Dardanelles, Cape Lissa and Aix Roads.
They always formed part of any cutting out excursion - seizing an enemy ship by using ships' boats and taking it from its anchorage. They were used in amphibious landings and in 1812, helped disrupt coastal traffic, captured several towns, particularly Santander, and tied up the French Army of the North by not allowing it to reinforce the Army of Portugal, which was then subsequently defeated at Salamanca.
During the Hundred Days Campaign, a RMA company was garrisoned (amongst others) at Ostend to protect Wellington’s rear in the event that the allies would have lost against Napoleon and had to retreat to the ports.
After 1815, the Royal Marines would serve its country again around the globe in many actions. However, it was during the wars of 1793-1815 that the force encapsulated the code and spirit of the great fighting force that today is revered throughout the world.
In 2014 the Corps will celebrate its 350th anniversary.
To commemorate this date, Royal Marines Commandos will ski, sail, cycle, canoe and run over 4000 miles. The aim is to capture the Corps values in a significant physical and mental challenge to raise money for the Royal Marines Charitable Trust Fund (RMCTF).
The first recognised unit was called the ‘Duke of York and Albany’s Maritime Regiment of Foot’ and soon after was known as the ‘Lord High Admiral’s Regiment’. These were infantrymen recruited from the Trained Bands of London and were the very first soldiers drafted on-board ships for the roles of marines.
The wholly musket-armed ‘Holland Regiment’ that John Churchill, later the 1st Duke of Marlborough, served in, wore ‘gold’ coats rather than the standard ‘red’. Today, the Marine Corps Colours are still one part yellow to signify the ‘gold’ colour of their ancestral coats.
From the late 17th Century through to the middle of the 18th Century there were other regiments raised as marines, or Foot Regiments converted for sea duty. They fought in the War of the Spanish Succession, and the fragmented battles of the War of Jenkins’ Ear with notable successes on both land and sea. Once the wars were over, the units returned to their land roles.
The Corps of Marines, the infantry fighting element of the Royal Navy, were formed on 5th April, 1755. There were fifty companies in three Marine Divisions; headquartered at the major ports of Chatham, Portsmouth and Plymouth under the command each of a Colonel Commandant. The marines went on to serve with distinction during the American War of Independence, especially at the Battle of Bunker Hill, where they were marked for their ‘cool ability under fire’.
Regularly enlisted like the Army, and not by impressment (press-ganged as some myths dictate) they primarily provided the Navy with a force of troops that could fight on land as infantry, of manning the ships guns, acting as marksmen against enemy crews and for close quarter boarding action at sea. Their secondary function was to supress mutiny among the seamen. In fact, their quarters always separated the RN officers and sailor quarters. They ensured security details and supported discipline of the crews. The ratio of marines on-board each ship was generally at a ratio of one marine per ship gun.
After the Act of Union was passed in 1801, which incorporated Ireland into the United Kingdom, there was an influx of Irish volunteers, and after 1805 nearly ten percent of each company were comprised of foreigners, mainly Maltese, German, Spanish and Portuguese. Each company on paper was to comprise 1 captain, 2 first lieutenants, 2 second lieutenants, 8 sergeants, 8 corporals, 6 drummers and 140 privates. Each Marine Division also had a grenadier and a light company, but they were abolished in 1804. With disease, shortages and battle caused deaths, it was highly unlikely that the paper figures were ever met.
The marines had their uniforms supplied by the Navy Board, but their dress was that of the infantry. They wore the red coat, with white collar and cuffs. Plumes were the standard colours, white-over-red for battalion companies, green for the light and white for the grenadiers. Officers wore scarlet coats, with white lace and white gloves. Gorgets, worn at the throat, were purely decorative horseshoe shaped pieces of metal that harked back to the days when officers had worn armour like medieval knights. Officers carried straight bladed cutlasses with a thirty-two inch blade, a pistol and a dirk. The marine privates were armed with the Sea Service Brown Bess muskets and the sergeants carried halberds and then later spontoons.
The marines were nicknamed by the sailors ‘lobsters’ because of the red woollen coat, and ‘bootnecks’. This semi-derogatory term derived from the dark leather 'stock' worn round the neck inside the collar which forced a soldier to keep his head up. "Take my sea boots off your neck”, was a saying to imply the marines were wearing a piece of leather cut from the sailors boots.
In 1802, largely at the recommendation of Admiral John Jervis, 1st Earl of St Vincent, the marines were titled ‘Royal Marines’ by King George III for services to their country:
“In order to mark his approbation of the very meritorious conduct of the Marines during the late war, His Majesty has been graciously pleased to direct that in future the corps shall be called the Royal Marines.”
The white facings (collars and cuffs) were given a royal makeover, changing to ‘Royal Blue’. The bicorn was replaced by the black ‘round-hat’ made of felt, but the red coat was retained.
The Royal Marine Artillery (RMA) was formed in 1804 to man bomb vessels. They wore blue tunics of the Royal Artillery and nicknamed ‘un-boiled lobsters’ or ‘blue marines’.
In 1805 a fourth Marine Division was created at Woolwich and by the end of that year the corps numbered around thirty thousand, the largest it ever saw during the Peninsular War.
The Corps of Colonial Marines were two units raised in 1808 from former American slaves for British service. They were created at different times and both disbanded after the wars. They were recruited to address the shortage of military manpower in the Caribbean. The locally-recruited men were less susceptible to tropical illnesses than were troops sent from Britain and knew the terrain. The Corps followed the practice of the British Army's West India Regiments in recruiting escaped slaves as soldiers, but were loathed to view themselves as mere ‘slave soldiers’. They were free men and they represented a psychological threat to the slave-owning American society by being armed. They were highly thought of and as competent as their European comrades. They also received free land grants in Canada in return for their commendable service, achieving freedom in which the 'Land of Liberty' had denied them.
Three additional Marine Battalions (numbered 1-3) were raised from among the Royal Marines specifically for action in the Peninsular Campaign in Portugal, Northern Spain, the Invasion of France, the Netherlands, North America and the Caribbean. They were disbanded in 1815.
Throughout the French Revolutionary, Napoleonic Wars and the War of 1812, the Royal Marines were present in every sea battle: St Vincent, Camperdown, the Nile, Copenhagen, Trafalgar, the Dardanelles, Cape Lissa and Aix Roads.
They always formed part of any cutting out excursion - seizing an enemy ship by using ships' boats and taking it from its anchorage. They were used in amphibious landings and in 1812, helped disrupt coastal traffic, captured several towns, particularly Santander, and tied up the French Army of the North by not allowing it to reinforce the Army of Portugal, which was then subsequently defeated at Salamanca.
During the Hundred Days Campaign, a RMA company was garrisoned (amongst others) at Ostend to protect Wellington’s rear in the event that the allies would have lost against Napoleon and had to retreat to the ports.
After 1815, the Royal Marines would serve its country again around the globe in many actions. However, it was during the wars of 1793-1815 that the force encapsulated the code and spirit of the great fighting force that today is revered throughout the world.
In 2014 the Corps will celebrate its 350th anniversary.
To commemorate this date, Royal Marines Commandos will ski, sail, cycle, canoe and run over 4000 miles. The aim is to capture the Corps values in a significant physical and mental challenge to raise money for the Royal Marines Charitable Trust Fund (RMCTF).
Heart of Oak - the fort
It's work in progress, but this scene is part of the 'episode' where Captain of Marines Simon Gamble must lead his force to capture the fort (the original title of the novella was called The Fort)on the island of Gozo.
Gamble stared north from the ravine to see the marines and seamen sprinting over the lip of the road, bayonet-scabbards, cartridge boxes and haversacks bouncing with each stride.
Suddenly a boom of gunfire rocked the air. Gunners stationed in the St Paul's Bastion had fired a cannon and Gamble saw one of the seamen torn to bloody gristle by the ball's terrible strike. The projectile, spattered-red, slammed into the banks of the road, churning earth high up in the air. A second gun fired sending the ball too high and Gamble saw it clip the embankment, spin, and plummet down the hill's incline.
'Come on, you bastards!' Gamble shouted at his men as the fastest reached the first stone walkway. 'Move your arses!'
The seamen were the slowest but that was because they were carrying cumbersome ladders. Ladders needed to scale the inner wall. Gamble had known there would be no way to get through the gate, so the marines had to climb over the walls and take the fort by escalade. Riding-Smyth had questioned the method and now Gamble could feel fear sniping at his confidence. Once they had climbed the walls, half the fight was done.
A third gun was awoken and had its throat blasted free, but the seamen were now clear of its shot, and the first redcoats had reached the ravine. A small volley of musketry fired ineffectively at them from the main gate.
'Sergeant Powell!' Gamble ordered. 'One platoon to form on the bridge, the other to grasp the ladders!'
'Sir!'
The seamen could not hope to bring the ladders up the stairway, so they were placed against the ravine's high walls and the marines hauled them up and over the parapets. The portcullis was still down and Gamble wondered if the French officers had ordered it. He could see a handful of officers there but wasn't sure if one was Tessier.
'Faster!' Gamble bellowed, glancing at the main gate and up at the inner wall where musket muzzles flashed leaving the embrasures ringed with flame, but the bullets caused no harm. The gunners on the emplacement were busy firing muskets at Grech's men and packing the cannons with grapeshot. Then the great guns jerked to life and the battery was instantly fogged white. The air was shattered with one percussive explosion. Gamble would scale the ladder, climb down the parapet and then silence those guns. For now, he had to think that Grech was still alive and that he had to get the Gozitan built ladders in place.
'Heave!' Rooke the Boatswain's Mate called from the ravine as the seamen pushed two ladders up for the marines to haul.
'Come on!' Gamble pushed a faltering Marine to one side and gripping the top rung, brought it down over the parapet to where Kennedy waited. 'We can't wait any longer, Harry! Get the two ladders to the gate now! The other four will have to wait.'
'Sir!' Kennedy spun on his heels. 'Platoon! Advance!' he yelled to his men.
'Fix bayonets!' Gamble ordered them to do that now as there would be little or no time to do that later. He turned and cupped a hand to his mouth. 'Lieutenant Pym! I want your pikes! Now if you please!'
'You'll be getting them soon enough, Captain Gamble!' Pym replied as more seamen reached the ravine's upper level. 'Come on! Get those bloody ladders over the wall!'
Gamble jumped the steps. 'Marines! To me!' He sprinted after the advancing men. Muskets crashed from the ramparts above which threw down a Marine. Another volley crashed from the gate to send two marines backwards, one spinning over the walkway and down into the debris-haunted moat. A bullet slashed open Corporal Forge's left cheek, exposing his back teeth.
Kennedy halted the marines thirty paces from the gate and the platoon hammered a volley into the Frenchmen.
'Advance! He ordered and they pressed on through their own powder smoke. Behind him Gamble and the remaining redcoats with two ladders were closing the gap. 'Halt!' The men were below the main gate's walls now so were safe from above. 'Load!'
The marines ran the two ladders up against the shoulders of the curtain wall and the first men began to climb. Gamble pushed past the ranks to steer the third ladder to the wall. A musket fired through the portcullis and the ball tore a rent in his sleeve. He pushed men to the rungs. The marines fired another volley and the defenders twitched and died against the metal bars. Then the first seamen arrived and they charged with boarding pikes and the wicked blades ripped into torsos, throats and legs.
'Push!' Pym was shouting. A seaman next to him was shot in the face and it seemed to him that the man's head just disappeared in an explosion of blood, bone and gore. 'Push the bastards!' He slashed his sabre at a Frenchman trying to stab him with his bayonet, and put his pistol to the man's chest and pulled the trigger. The enemy couldn't fall backwards because of the press of men, so hung against the bars. A sword sliced and another musket spat flame through the churning rill of smoke to send another seaman to his grave, but the landing party was winning this fight.
'Up! Up! Up!' Gamble shouted as some of the men started to look for cover. A Marine staggered. Sergeant Powell kicked a man who hung back. They could not falter now for it would weaken the attack, so every man must climb not knowing if the next second would be his last. The only way to survive horror was to win. Gamble saw Willoughby and Crouch at the rear and ran over to them, thrusting them towards the ladders. 'Get up there!' he snarled.
They both climbed. Men were scrambling up the rungs, but then a Marine was hit by a bullet from the flanking battery to the left. He slipped and toppled to the moat, body twisting as he screamed. More marines jostled to climb the ladders and then seamen at the rear waited with cutlasses, dirks and pistols.
'Up! Faster!' Gamble bellowed for the line seemed to be faltering. He saw Kennedy about to scale a ladder, sword in one hand which would make the climb awkward. 'Harry!' he called and his lieutenant stared up at him. 'Bring your sword to bear at the top!' Kennedy nodded, understanding, and rammed his weapon home. The marines climbed with their bayonet-tipped muskets slung over their shoulders. A redcoat slipped half-way up and knocked the five below him to the ground. They cursed him and picked themselves up to continue.
The defenders fire was continuous; a staccato drum beat of musketry, but Gamble knew the walls weren't fully manned. He expected larger volleys. Grech had declared that the French numbered perhaps three hundred, but experience told him that perhaps a hundred were defending the fort. If that was the case, then where were the rest?
His legs burned with the effort of the climb. Gun smoke roiled thick from the ramparts and shots echoed. He couldn't see the enemy; his world was a pair of dirty white legs, ladder and limestone wall. Steel crashed against steel. Bullets flayed flesh. A man screamed horribly. Suddenly Crouch, with his bandaged hand, disappeared, and Gamble knew he had reached the top. However, the French were still there and fighting back. He unsheathed his sword and then threaded through an embrasure to drop down onto the parapet. Bright blood spotted the stone. Marine Marsh lay dying next to a French Fusilier and Gamble stepped over them, slipping in glistening gore. A French grenadier was cocking his musket when Gamble pulled up his pistol and the shot dissolved the man's face in blood. To his right the defenders blasted the walls from the central St Paul's Bastion, while to the left French crowded the Notre Dame Bastion. A ragged line of French fired up from the courtyard, but their aim was put off by the group of seamen who still poured fire from the portcullis. The parapets were filling with marines and the seamen swarmed the ladders skilfully as though they were climbing ships' rigging.
Gamble pushed men aside as he went right. A hail of musketry tore scraps of stone from the stonework as he ran. A Frenchman swung his musket like a club. Gamble ducked and unceremoniously tipped him over the side of the parapet, and hearing his cries all the way down. A bayonet lunged and Gamble battered it aside with his straight-bladed cutlass. The steel clanged, sending sparks over the body of a dead defender who had been shot through an eye. The blackened wound smouldered. Gamble kicked his assailant, punched and grabbed the musket's hot barrel, turning it to the left with all his strength. His fingers burned, but the Frenchman could not bring his weapon back and gave a high pitched scream as the long cutlass split his skull open. Marine Pace shot a man less than three feet away in the face. A grenadier, with huge arms and a long flowing moustache, grabbed hold of Gamble's cutlass with both hands, blood showed at his fingers, but the man held on as Gamble tried to withdraw it. A long bayonet stabbed the air and Gamble ducked to fall backwards onto his back with the Frenchman. His hands were locked with the weight of the grenadier’s body, feeling as heavy as solid iron. The enemy tried to bite Gamble's face with crooked yellow teeth, snapping from underneath the moustache. Another two appeared above them. One went to stab down with his bayonet when a bullet drummed into his chest. The grenadier managed to get a hand free and tried to find purchase around Gamble's throat, but Gamble jerked his head and the moustached man couldn't get a grip. A Marine, shouting something incomprehensible, stabbed one of the two defenders in the throat with the spike atop an axe head and swung the axe-blade of another into the one lying on top of Gamble. The steel cleaved through black hair with a wet crack, and the Frenchman's eyes rolled up to his skull. Gamble threw off the body and Powell hauled him upright.
'Thank you, Archie,' Gamble said, face stained red. 'Now let's tear them to shreds!'
The defenders retreated, but in good order. A musket flamed and a ball shattered a Marine's collar bone. The marines screamed terrible battle-cries as they began their grim job of clearing the defenders off the parapet with quick professional close quarter work. Gamble trod on a fallen ramrod and his boots crunched on wadding. The French reached steps and began to descend.
'Charge the bastards!' Gamble screamed, blinking another man's blood from his eyes, and the marines and seamen poured down into the bastion.
Gamble stared north from the ravine to see the marines and seamen sprinting over the lip of the road, bayonet-scabbards, cartridge boxes and haversacks bouncing with each stride.
Suddenly a boom of gunfire rocked the air. Gunners stationed in the St Paul's Bastion had fired a cannon and Gamble saw one of the seamen torn to bloody gristle by the ball's terrible strike. The projectile, spattered-red, slammed into the banks of the road, churning earth high up in the air. A second gun fired sending the ball too high and Gamble saw it clip the embankment, spin, and plummet down the hill's incline.
'Come on, you bastards!' Gamble shouted at his men as the fastest reached the first stone walkway. 'Move your arses!'
The seamen were the slowest but that was because they were carrying cumbersome ladders. Ladders needed to scale the inner wall. Gamble had known there would be no way to get through the gate, so the marines had to climb over the walls and take the fort by escalade. Riding-Smyth had questioned the method and now Gamble could feel fear sniping at his confidence. Once they had climbed the walls, half the fight was done.
A third gun was awoken and had its throat blasted free, but the seamen were now clear of its shot, and the first redcoats had reached the ravine. A small volley of musketry fired ineffectively at them from the main gate.
'Sergeant Powell!' Gamble ordered. 'One platoon to form on the bridge, the other to grasp the ladders!'
'Sir!'
The seamen could not hope to bring the ladders up the stairway, so they were placed against the ravine's high walls and the marines hauled them up and over the parapets. The portcullis was still down and Gamble wondered if the French officers had ordered it. He could see a handful of officers there but wasn't sure if one was Tessier.
'Faster!' Gamble bellowed, glancing at the main gate and up at the inner wall where musket muzzles flashed leaving the embrasures ringed with flame, but the bullets caused no harm. The gunners on the emplacement were busy firing muskets at Grech's men and packing the cannons with grapeshot. Then the great guns jerked to life and the battery was instantly fogged white. The air was shattered with one percussive explosion. Gamble would scale the ladder, climb down the parapet and then silence those guns. For now, he had to think that Grech was still alive and that he had to get the Gozitan built ladders in place.
'Heave!' Rooke the Boatswain's Mate called from the ravine as the seamen pushed two ladders up for the marines to haul.
'Come on!' Gamble pushed a faltering Marine to one side and gripping the top rung, brought it down over the parapet to where Kennedy waited. 'We can't wait any longer, Harry! Get the two ladders to the gate now! The other four will have to wait.'
'Sir!' Kennedy spun on his heels. 'Platoon! Advance!' he yelled to his men.
'Fix bayonets!' Gamble ordered them to do that now as there would be little or no time to do that later. He turned and cupped a hand to his mouth. 'Lieutenant Pym! I want your pikes! Now if you please!'
'You'll be getting them soon enough, Captain Gamble!' Pym replied as more seamen reached the ravine's upper level. 'Come on! Get those bloody ladders over the wall!'
Gamble jumped the steps. 'Marines! To me!' He sprinted after the advancing men. Muskets crashed from the ramparts above which threw down a Marine. Another volley crashed from the gate to send two marines backwards, one spinning over the walkway and down into the debris-haunted moat. A bullet slashed open Corporal Forge's left cheek, exposing his back teeth.
Kennedy halted the marines thirty paces from the gate and the platoon hammered a volley into the Frenchmen.
'Advance! He ordered and they pressed on through their own powder smoke. Behind him Gamble and the remaining redcoats with two ladders were closing the gap. 'Halt!' The men were below the main gate's walls now so were safe from above. 'Load!'
The marines ran the two ladders up against the shoulders of the curtain wall and the first men began to climb. Gamble pushed past the ranks to steer the third ladder to the wall. A musket fired through the portcullis and the ball tore a rent in his sleeve. He pushed men to the rungs. The marines fired another volley and the defenders twitched and died against the metal bars. Then the first seamen arrived and they charged with boarding pikes and the wicked blades ripped into torsos, throats and legs.
'Push!' Pym was shouting. A seaman next to him was shot in the face and it seemed to him that the man's head just disappeared in an explosion of blood, bone and gore. 'Push the bastards!' He slashed his sabre at a Frenchman trying to stab him with his bayonet, and put his pistol to the man's chest and pulled the trigger. The enemy couldn't fall backwards because of the press of men, so hung against the bars. A sword sliced and another musket spat flame through the churning rill of smoke to send another seaman to his grave, but the landing party was winning this fight.
'Up! Up! Up!' Gamble shouted as some of the men started to look for cover. A Marine staggered. Sergeant Powell kicked a man who hung back. They could not falter now for it would weaken the attack, so every man must climb not knowing if the next second would be his last. The only way to survive horror was to win. Gamble saw Willoughby and Crouch at the rear and ran over to them, thrusting them towards the ladders. 'Get up there!' he snarled.
They both climbed. Men were scrambling up the rungs, but then a Marine was hit by a bullet from the flanking battery to the left. He slipped and toppled to the moat, body twisting as he screamed. More marines jostled to climb the ladders and then seamen at the rear waited with cutlasses, dirks and pistols.
'Up! Faster!' Gamble bellowed for the line seemed to be faltering. He saw Kennedy about to scale a ladder, sword in one hand which would make the climb awkward. 'Harry!' he called and his lieutenant stared up at him. 'Bring your sword to bear at the top!' Kennedy nodded, understanding, and rammed his weapon home. The marines climbed with their bayonet-tipped muskets slung over their shoulders. A redcoat slipped half-way up and knocked the five below him to the ground. They cursed him and picked themselves up to continue.
The defenders fire was continuous; a staccato drum beat of musketry, but Gamble knew the walls weren't fully manned. He expected larger volleys. Grech had declared that the French numbered perhaps three hundred, but experience told him that perhaps a hundred were defending the fort. If that was the case, then where were the rest?
His legs burned with the effort of the climb. Gun smoke roiled thick from the ramparts and shots echoed. He couldn't see the enemy; his world was a pair of dirty white legs, ladder and limestone wall. Steel crashed against steel. Bullets flayed flesh. A man screamed horribly. Suddenly Crouch, with his bandaged hand, disappeared, and Gamble knew he had reached the top. However, the French were still there and fighting back. He unsheathed his sword and then threaded through an embrasure to drop down onto the parapet. Bright blood spotted the stone. Marine Marsh lay dying next to a French Fusilier and Gamble stepped over them, slipping in glistening gore. A French grenadier was cocking his musket when Gamble pulled up his pistol and the shot dissolved the man's face in blood. To his right the defenders blasted the walls from the central St Paul's Bastion, while to the left French crowded the Notre Dame Bastion. A ragged line of French fired up from the courtyard, but their aim was put off by the group of seamen who still poured fire from the portcullis. The parapets were filling with marines and the seamen swarmed the ladders skilfully as though they were climbing ships' rigging.
Gamble pushed men aside as he went right. A hail of musketry tore scraps of stone from the stonework as he ran. A Frenchman swung his musket like a club. Gamble ducked and unceremoniously tipped him over the side of the parapet, and hearing his cries all the way down. A bayonet lunged and Gamble battered it aside with his straight-bladed cutlass. The steel clanged, sending sparks over the body of a dead defender who had been shot through an eye. The blackened wound smouldered. Gamble kicked his assailant, punched and grabbed the musket's hot barrel, turning it to the left with all his strength. His fingers burned, but the Frenchman could not bring his weapon back and gave a high pitched scream as the long cutlass split his skull open. Marine Pace shot a man less than three feet away in the face. A grenadier, with huge arms and a long flowing moustache, grabbed hold of Gamble's cutlass with both hands, blood showed at his fingers, but the man held on as Gamble tried to withdraw it. A long bayonet stabbed the air and Gamble ducked to fall backwards onto his back with the Frenchman. His hands were locked with the weight of the grenadier’s body, feeling as heavy as solid iron. The enemy tried to bite Gamble's face with crooked yellow teeth, snapping from underneath the moustache. Another two appeared above them. One went to stab down with his bayonet when a bullet drummed into his chest. The grenadier managed to get a hand free and tried to find purchase around Gamble's throat, but Gamble jerked his head and the moustached man couldn't get a grip. A Marine, shouting something incomprehensible, stabbed one of the two defenders in the throat with the spike atop an axe head and swung the axe-blade of another into the one lying on top of Gamble. The steel cleaved through black hair with a wet crack, and the Frenchman's eyes rolled up to his skull. Gamble threw off the body and Powell hauled him upright.
'Thank you, Archie,' Gamble said, face stained red. 'Now let's tear them to shreds!'
The defenders retreated, but in good order. A musket flamed and a ball shattered a Marine's collar bone. The marines screamed terrible battle-cries as they began their grim job of clearing the defenders off the parapet with quick professional close quarter work. Gamble trod on a fallen ramrod and his boots crunched on wadding. The French reached steps and began to descend.
'Charge the bastards!' Gamble screamed, blinking another man's blood from his eyes, and the marines and seamen poured down into the bastion.
May 12, 2014
Heart of Oak (another excerpt)
A bullet snatched a Marine backwards. Gamble felt a ball fan past his head. He turned just in time to see a Frenchman approach the nearest window of the barracks and lunge with a bayonet-tipped musket. Gamble brought his sword up and knocked the blade aside as the Frenchman, who had a gold front tooth, pulled the trigger. The musket spat angrily, and sent a gout of hot smoke into thin air. Gamble lunged and the heavy cutlass scraped against his assailants ribs. He let the man fall away onto one of the sleeping cots.
Somewhere a man was crying pitifully and another was gasping and breathing hoarsely like an exhausted animal. The goat was bleating madly and two of the horses had bolted free to entangle the group of French by the steps. A musket banged; it was a lighter, smaller bang, and Gamble knew it had been a carbine.
'Lieutenant Riding-Smyth!' he called out.
His little subaltern appeared immediately. 'Yes, sir?'
'Take ten men into the barracks and clear the rooms out.' Gamble didn't want any enemies threatening his rear as he advanced. 'Go in with the steel, and prod the bastards out.'
'Yes, sir!' Sam blanched, but disappeared with Corporal Tom MacKay's section.
Gamble looked at the remainder of his men. 'Advance! At the double!'
The French fired again and another Marine hit in the leg, fell against the well. He stood, hobbled a few steps, then had to steady himself on the masonry for support as bright blood spread on his breeches above the knee. A Frenchman, barefooted, tripped on the araar's roots and as he got up Corporal Forge shot him through the forehead, spattering blood and brain matter over the hanging washing. Marine William Marsh knocked an enemy to the ground, then stepped over his body to shoot dead a Frenchman who was aiming a pistol at Forge.
Gamble could sense that this fight was almost over, could feel it in his instincts, and his blood and bones. He knew they had won. Then he looked up to see Zeppi fighting desperately with the French sergeant. Gamble cursed. The damned fool! What the hell did he think he was doing?
'Take command, Archie!' he said to Powell. 'Press them hard! Zeppi!' he yelled with cupped hands to his mouth and ran through the powder-stink of the volleys.
Five Frenchmen had already given up and each one had thrown down his weapon in submission. Two were bent down, hands touching the ground. The officer still at the doorway pulled up a small pistol and trained it on Gamble as he surged through the smoke and pulled the trigger. The bullet smacked into the stonework of the barracks. The French officer cursed at his haste and saw that the Marines were too close so he closed the door and bolted it shut. Gamble jumped a body killed by the Marines volley, and flicked bayonets away with his sword as he approached the steps. He saw a Frenchman, naked to his waist, aim his musket, but had to trust that the bullet would not strike him. He heard the snap of the doghead and saw the muzzle flash, but the ball missed him as he ran on. A French artilleryman tried to kick Gamble in the face, but Gamble let the leg come forward and caught the boot and tugged hard so that the man fell backwards onto the steps. Gamble heard his head smack painfully on stone. Then man attempted to move but Gamble kicked him in the jaw for good measure, and the man slid down the steps grasping his face. A musket exploded and a bullet slashed against the top part of Gamble's leather boots as he ran forward.
'Zeppi!' Gamble saw Kennedy knock a Frenchman down and kept him prone with his pistol. 'Harry! I thought you were watching the bastard!'
'I'm sorry, sir,' Harry replied, 'he just ran ahead without warning.'
'Zeppi!'
The guide had managed to break free of Kennedy's watchful eye and, armed with a long knife, charged with the Marines when they stormed across gun emplacements. He watched as a Marine and a French soldier try to bayonet each other, the clash of blades rang like smiths hammers, and he ran up and plunged his knife into the Frenchman's neck.
'You Godless animal!' he hissed like a lit fuse.
Blood pulsed as he disengaged to stagger away and collapse on the steps. Zeppi, driven by hatred, pounced on the dying man, but an enemy appeared below him and a long French bayonet went through his side. Zeppi howled, collapsed and tumbled down the steps. He looked up to his enemy to see a bearded man with a bony face and knew death when he saw it.
And it was coming for the Frenchman.
The French sergeant raised his bayonet to finish off his prey, but then turned when he saw the Maltese man look past him. The British officer was running straight at him, cutlass gripped in two hands, and he swung it with a roar and with such force that the heavy blade cut through the sergeant's neck like a scythe reaping grass. The head toppled down the sand-strewn steps and the body crumpled to ooze like a broken wineskin.
Somewhere a man was crying pitifully and another was gasping and breathing hoarsely like an exhausted animal. The goat was bleating madly and two of the horses had bolted free to entangle the group of French by the steps. A musket banged; it was a lighter, smaller bang, and Gamble knew it had been a carbine.
'Lieutenant Riding-Smyth!' he called out.
His little subaltern appeared immediately. 'Yes, sir?'
'Take ten men into the barracks and clear the rooms out.' Gamble didn't want any enemies threatening his rear as he advanced. 'Go in with the steel, and prod the bastards out.'
'Yes, sir!' Sam blanched, but disappeared with Corporal Tom MacKay's section.
Gamble looked at the remainder of his men. 'Advance! At the double!'
The French fired again and another Marine hit in the leg, fell against the well. He stood, hobbled a few steps, then had to steady himself on the masonry for support as bright blood spread on his breeches above the knee. A Frenchman, barefooted, tripped on the araar's roots and as he got up Corporal Forge shot him through the forehead, spattering blood and brain matter over the hanging washing. Marine William Marsh knocked an enemy to the ground, then stepped over his body to shoot dead a Frenchman who was aiming a pistol at Forge.
Gamble could sense that this fight was almost over, could feel it in his instincts, and his blood and bones. He knew they had won. Then he looked up to see Zeppi fighting desperately with the French sergeant. Gamble cursed. The damned fool! What the hell did he think he was doing?
'Take command, Archie!' he said to Powell. 'Press them hard! Zeppi!' he yelled with cupped hands to his mouth and ran through the powder-stink of the volleys.
Five Frenchmen had already given up and each one had thrown down his weapon in submission. Two were bent down, hands touching the ground. The officer still at the doorway pulled up a small pistol and trained it on Gamble as he surged through the smoke and pulled the trigger. The bullet smacked into the stonework of the barracks. The French officer cursed at his haste and saw that the Marines were too close so he closed the door and bolted it shut. Gamble jumped a body killed by the Marines volley, and flicked bayonets away with his sword as he approached the steps. He saw a Frenchman, naked to his waist, aim his musket, but had to trust that the bullet would not strike him. He heard the snap of the doghead and saw the muzzle flash, but the ball missed him as he ran on. A French artilleryman tried to kick Gamble in the face, but Gamble let the leg come forward and caught the boot and tugged hard so that the man fell backwards onto the steps. Gamble heard his head smack painfully on stone. Then man attempted to move but Gamble kicked him in the jaw for good measure, and the man slid down the steps grasping his face. A musket exploded and a bullet slashed against the top part of Gamble's leather boots as he ran forward.
'Zeppi!' Gamble saw Kennedy knock a Frenchman down and kept him prone with his pistol. 'Harry! I thought you were watching the bastard!'
'I'm sorry, sir,' Harry replied, 'he just ran ahead without warning.'
'Zeppi!'
The guide had managed to break free of Kennedy's watchful eye and, armed with a long knife, charged with the Marines when they stormed across gun emplacements. He watched as a Marine and a French soldier try to bayonet each other, the clash of blades rang like smiths hammers, and he ran up and plunged his knife into the Frenchman's neck.
'You Godless animal!' he hissed like a lit fuse.
Blood pulsed as he disengaged to stagger away and collapse on the steps. Zeppi, driven by hatred, pounced on the dying man, but an enemy appeared below him and a long French bayonet went through his side. Zeppi howled, collapsed and tumbled down the steps. He looked up to his enemy to see a bearded man with a bony face and knew death when he saw it.
And it was coming for the Frenchman.
The French sergeant raised his bayonet to finish off his prey, but then turned when he saw the Maltese man look past him. The British officer was running straight at him, cutlass gripped in two hands, and he swung it with a roar and with such force that the heavy blade cut through the sergeant's neck like a scythe reaping grass. The head toppled down the sand-strewn steps and the body crumpled to ooze like a broken wineskin.
Heart of Oak (an excerpt)
'Captain, have you read about the Great Siege of Malta?' Grech asked.
'I have,' Gamble replied carefully.
'Then you will realise that the Turks and the French are more alike than you could possibly think.'
'How so?'
'It taught the world that a population; thought as nothing more than peasants, could unite in the face of invasion. That they could show courage and honour in desperate times, and dispel the destructiveness of religious hatred. Boys, who had become battle-weary veterans of the Italian campaigns, had sailed here to conquer Malta. But Captain, let me tell you, they have not. Have you heard of Fort St Elmo?'
Gamble stiffened, and threw away the stone. 'I have heard the name,' he said, wondering if Grech was trying to embarrass him by his lack of historical knowledge, but he considered it was something else.
'The Turkish fleet arrived with men who had conquered the fields of Europe with their scimitars, elite cavalry mounted on giant horses and devil-men who wore the skins of beasts. Their artillery numbered hundreds and they battered the fort's walls for days. Inside were Knights of St. John. And amidst that hell-fire they refused to surrender. Wave upon wave of screaming Turks then tried to capture the breaches, but the defenders repelled them all. They fought with pikes, swords, axes, blocks of stones and their bare hands. They invented fire-hoops; wooden rings, wrapped in layers of cotton, flax, brandy, gunpowder, turpentine, and ignited and rolled to the enemy. Trumps; hollow metal tubes filled with flammable sulphur resin and linseed oil; and when lit, blasted flame like dragon's breath. Many Turks with their flowing robes died from these new weapons. For thirty days the Knights held out. Eventually, they claimed their prize. But the Turks turned to Valletta. And they had done something utterly despicable which angered God. They mutilated the defenders, stuck their heads on pikes and floated the decapitated bodies of their officers across the harbour on wooden crosses. It was designed to cause distress and it would have, had it not been for God turning the tide.'
'God?' Gamble said, raising an eyebrow.
'Yes, Captain. God. The sun burned like a furnace, and it was said the dead left unburied in the fort blackened and burst spreading disease to the Turkish camp. They tried to take the city, but the defenders out-thought them and out-fought them. God had blessed them with plenty of supplies and ammunition. Even when autumn winds brought rain the defenders muskets and pistols felled the Muslim attackers. Then a relief force from Scilly smashed the Turks aside. They routed and were pursued across the island, dying in droves from my vengeful ancestors. It is said the waters of St Paul's Bay turned blood red. The Knights had won. Malta had been saved.'
'God,' Gamble said again.
Grech's eyes narrowed. 'Am I to believe that you are not a Christian?'
'I believe in a good musket,' Gamble replied flatly. 'I believe in the British Navy. I believe in wiping the earth of the bastard French.'
Grech grimaced. 'I see,' his grey eyes flashed at Zeppi, before turning back. 'We have been sent one company of men. Godless men at that, I might add.' He rubbed the ends of his beard through long fingers.
'Godless men who'll free your country,' Gamble said with a menacing glare. 'What were you trying to tell me with your story?'
'I want to see the French defeated,' Grech said. 'I want our people free. I want the world to see our victory as a beacon for Christianity.'
'You're doing this for God?'
'Yes,' Grech said, 'and so should you.'
Gamble shook his head. 'No, I'm doing this because I've been sent here by my superiors.'
Grech's mouth tightened with a smile. 'And just who told them to send you here?'
'I have,' Gamble replied carefully.
'Then you will realise that the Turks and the French are more alike than you could possibly think.'
'How so?'
'It taught the world that a population; thought as nothing more than peasants, could unite in the face of invasion. That they could show courage and honour in desperate times, and dispel the destructiveness of religious hatred. Boys, who had become battle-weary veterans of the Italian campaigns, had sailed here to conquer Malta. But Captain, let me tell you, they have not. Have you heard of Fort St Elmo?'
Gamble stiffened, and threw away the stone. 'I have heard the name,' he said, wondering if Grech was trying to embarrass him by his lack of historical knowledge, but he considered it was something else.
'The Turkish fleet arrived with men who had conquered the fields of Europe with their scimitars, elite cavalry mounted on giant horses and devil-men who wore the skins of beasts. Their artillery numbered hundreds and they battered the fort's walls for days. Inside were Knights of St. John. And amidst that hell-fire they refused to surrender. Wave upon wave of screaming Turks then tried to capture the breaches, but the defenders repelled them all. They fought with pikes, swords, axes, blocks of stones and their bare hands. They invented fire-hoops; wooden rings, wrapped in layers of cotton, flax, brandy, gunpowder, turpentine, and ignited and rolled to the enemy. Trumps; hollow metal tubes filled with flammable sulphur resin and linseed oil; and when lit, blasted flame like dragon's breath. Many Turks with their flowing robes died from these new weapons. For thirty days the Knights held out. Eventually, they claimed their prize. But the Turks turned to Valletta. And they had done something utterly despicable which angered God. They mutilated the defenders, stuck their heads on pikes and floated the decapitated bodies of their officers across the harbour on wooden crosses. It was designed to cause distress and it would have, had it not been for God turning the tide.'
'God?' Gamble said, raising an eyebrow.
'Yes, Captain. God. The sun burned like a furnace, and it was said the dead left unburied in the fort blackened and burst spreading disease to the Turkish camp. They tried to take the city, but the defenders out-thought them and out-fought them. God had blessed them with plenty of supplies and ammunition. Even when autumn winds brought rain the defenders muskets and pistols felled the Muslim attackers. Then a relief force from Scilly smashed the Turks aside. They routed and were pursued across the island, dying in droves from my vengeful ancestors. It is said the waters of St Paul's Bay turned blood red. The Knights had won. Malta had been saved.'
'God,' Gamble said again.
Grech's eyes narrowed. 'Am I to believe that you are not a Christian?'
'I believe in a good musket,' Gamble replied flatly. 'I believe in the British Navy. I believe in wiping the earth of the bastard French.'
Grech grimaced. 'I see,' his grey eyes flashed at Zeppi, before turning back. 'We have been sent one company of men. Godless men at that, I might add.' He rubbed the ends of his beard through long fingers.
'Godless men who'll free your country,' Gamble said with a menacing glare. 'What were you trying to tell me with your story?'
'I want to see the French defeated,' Grech said. 'I want our people free. I want the world to see our victory as a beacon for Christianity.'
'You're doing this for God?'
'Yes,' Grech said, 'and so should you.'
Gamble shook his head. 'No, I'm doing this because I've been sent here by my superiors.'
Grech's mouth tightened with a smile. 'And just who told them to send you here?'
May 1, 2014
ebook #2 Heart of Oak
The second in The Soldier Chronicles was written immediately after Liberty or Death in 2008.
At the time of completion I had not decided on any names - the file, like all others was waveringly saved as 'protagonist name only'. That way I knew I had to go back to it to fill in the missing bits.
After revision and the editing and all that followed in the last few weeks, I settled on The Fort. However, even as I write this I have a few other names for the title. Does it matter? Yes it does, to me. To some, probably not so much. To get the title wrong and the story doesn't work.
So after much deliberation (in my study) I've settled for Heart of Oak. Reason? Well, the final fight takes place after the named 'fort' so this makes more sense.
Liberty or Death had two other titles in the running: The King's Man and A Crown For Fools. But the original draft moved away from government and a spy network thread to that of being in the centre of the uprising, the horror, pity, bloodlust and fear. When Mullone sees a loyalist unit commit the doctrines set out to counter-rebel activities; the half-hangings, the murder, pitch-cappings, it brings up memories of his past and he's there with the people, knowing fear and sympathising.
Heart of Oak will introduce new characters and as in all the series, will feature a link to The Desert Lion(the first book of an unpublished series of mine)as a companion piece.
I hope to have the novella released in the next six weeks and will be putting excerpts on Goodreads and facebook page when I can.
I just need to make sure I'm happy with the title as I've another in my head.
For now, and amongst other things,I'll leave you with this:
It was dawn and three longboats approached the northern shore of Gozo.
A frigid wind whipped over the waves, which during the night had smashed white against the rocks, but now the boats cut through the water with relative ease. Behind them, anchored offshore to the west, was the Sea Prince; a sixty-four gun third rate vessel of the line. The huge square-cut sails turned dirty grey by the long usage of wind and rain reflected in the dull sea.
The boats, manned by sailors of His Britannic Majesty's Navy, carried a company of red-coated Marines; tough and versatile soldiers who were used to help man the ships guns, as marksman during sea battles, and to fight on land as regular infantry. These sixty Marines were led by a captain who looked as every bit as hard as his men.
Captain Simon Gamble was thirty-three years old, born in St Peter Port on the Island of Guernsey, and had joined the Marines at seventeen as a second lieutenant. Gamble was average looking with a soldiers face; sun-darkened, harsh and scarred. If you were to pass him in the street you would pay him no attention, but if you saw his eyes then you would see that they sparkled brightly, accentuating his rough exterior to give it an odd gentleness. His scarlet coat and crimson sash were patched and heavily stitched and he was armed with a cutlass, a straight-bladed sword of extraordinary ugliness. It had a rolled iron grip, a thirty inch blade and tied to the pommel through a hoop was a scrap of a silk handkerchief which had belonged to his mother. A parting gift for her young son who would one day promised to return home with enough money to pay for his father's grievous arrears. A bone-handled dirk and a large pistol were tucked into his belt, which were also hooked to it in case he dropped them overboard during a fight aboard a vessel.
The storm clouds had now gone, torn ragged by a morning gale that had now subsided to a gentle breeze. Waves exploded in bursts of foam on the massive limestone rocks of the island, the second largest after Malta. Gamble trained his telescope east to a beach. Dim in the gauzy light from the spray that drizzled like fog Gamble could just make out the first of the enemy gun batteries. He had recently been part of the Marine force under the command of Sir Sidney Smith who had helped defeat the French army under General Bonaparte at Acre during the bitter siege. Now he was about to lead his Marines up the beach to where, in the half-light, they would storm a series of batteries protected by a walled redoubt, and silence the great guns that watched the great expanse of blue-green Mediterranean Sea.
The French had captured the islands a year before and garrisoned it with over three thousand prime troops. There were many coastal defences on the islands, but the local Gozitans and Maltese confirmed that the French garrisons were too few and, encouraged with the news, the British naval taskforce had arrived to blockade the French into submission. The local resistance fighters pledged to support any British land attack.
'How many of the Frogs did you say there were?' Gamble asked his Maltese guide.
'Fewer than fifty in the redoubt,' Giuseppe Falzon replied softly in his accented English, as the seamen rowed the boats closer to the shore. 'They will be asleep. The bloody French watch the sea, but think any likely attack will come from the south. Over land. They will not suspect a landing here.'
'They'd better not, Zeppi,' Gamble warned, eyes still fixed on the enemy guns, 'otherwise we're dead men. But we have speed and surprise in our favour and so we have the advantage here. And my Marines are the best fighters known to mankind,' he said proudly so the entire boat could hear. He meant every word. The battles had hardened them like a tempered sword, forged in blistering flame. The men grinned back. The captain stared at Malteseman. 'But however trusting of my men to do the job, you know the rules.'
Zeppi sighed. 'I know, I know. I'm to stay out of harm's way. Just like your stinking, flea-bitten dog,' he said of the Marine's mascot.
'Someone has to keep Biter on his damned lead,' Gamble said with a laugh.
In truth, Biter was still onboard the Sea Prince, because it was too risky to have him accompany the landing for fear of him alerting the sentries, but Zeppi was too valuable and was Gamble's friend for many years and so would not take part in the attack and remain at the rear.
'Biter would love a go at these Frogs, sir,' said a gruff-voiced sergeant.
'Aye, Sergeant Powell,' Gamble replied, 'but the lads need to earn their pay and I'm not sure King George would approve of Biter doing all the work.'
'In that case, sir,' Powell jutted his chin at the man next to him, 'Marine Bray should forfeit his entire pay.'
The men laughed at the squirming Marine and Gamble allowed it; laughter counters naked fear, besides he thought Marine Bray was the most incompetent man under his command. He was round shouldered, and looked like a fish with his protuberant eyes and slack mouth.
'That ain't fair, Sergeant,' Bray moaned at the ripple of bawdy laughter.
'Quiet, you useless cur,' Powell scolded.
'Here we go, sir,' First Lieutenant Henry Kennedy said as the boats neared the beach.
At the time of completion I had not decided on any names - the file, like all others was waveringly saved as 'protagonist name only'. That way I knew I had to go back to it to fill in the missing bits.
After revision and the editing and all that followed in the last few weeks, I settled on The Fort. However, even as I write this I have a few other names for the title. Does it matter? Yes it does, to me. To some, probably not so much. To get the title wrong and the story doesn't work.
So after much deliberation (in my study) I've settled for Heart of Oak. Reason? Well, the final fight takes place after the named 'fort' so this makes more sense.
Liberty or Death had two other titles in the running: The King's Man and A Crown For Fools. But the original draft moved away from government and a spy network thread to that of being in the centre of the uprising, the horror, pity, bloodlust and fear. When Mullone sees a loyalist unit commit the doctrines set out to counter-rebel activities; the half-hangings, the murder, pitch-cappings, it brings up memories of his past and he's there with the people, knowing fear and sympathising.
Heart of Oak will introduce new characters and as in all the series, will feature a link to The Desert Lion(the first book of an unpublished series of mine)as a companion piece.
I hope to have the novella released in the next six weeks and will be putting excerpts on Goodreads and facebook page when I can.
I just need to make sure I'm happy with the title as I've another in my head.
For now, and amongst other things,I'll leave you with this:
It was dawn and three longboats approached the northern shore of Gozo.
A frigid wind whipped over the waves, which during the night had smashed white against the rocks, but now the boats cut through the water with relative ease. Behind them, anchored offshore to the west, was the Sea Prince; a sixty-four gun third rate vessel of the line. The huge square-cut sails turned dirty grey by the long usage of wind and rain reflected in the dull sea.
The boats, manned by sailors of His Britannic Majesty's Navy, carried a company of red-coated Marines; tough and versatile soldiers who were used to help man the ships guns, as marksman during sea battles, and to fight on land as regular infantry. These sixty Marines were led by a captain who looked as every bit as hard as his men.
Captain Simon Gamble was thirty-three years old, born in St Peter Port on the Island of Guernsey, and had joined the Marines at seventeen as a second lieutenant. Gamble was average looking with a soldiers face; sun-darkened, harsh and scarred. If you were to pass him in the street you would pay him no attention, but if you saw his eyes then you would see that they sparkled brightly, accentuating his rough exterior to give it an odd gentleness. His scarlet coat and crimson sash were patched and heavily stitched and he was armed with a cutlass, a straight-bladed sword of extraordinary ugliness. It had a rolled iron grip, a thirty inch blade and tied to the pommel through a hoop was a scrap of a silk handkerchief which had belonged to his mother. A parting gift for her young son who would one day promised to return home with enough money to pay for his father's grievous arrears. A bone-handled dirk and a large pistol were tucked into his belt, which were also hooked to it in case he dropped them overboard during a fight aboard a vessel.
The storm clouds had now gone, torn ragged by a morning gale that had now subsided to a gentle breeze. Waves exploded in bursts of foam on the massive limestone rocks of the island, the second largest after Malta. Gamble trained his telescope east to a beach. Dim in the gauzy light from the spray that drizzled like fog Gamble could just make out the first of the enemy gun batteries. He had recently been part of the Marine force under the command of Sir Sidney Smith who had helped defeat the French army under General Bonaparte at Acre during the bitter siege. Now he was about to lead his Marines up the beach to where, in the half-light, they would storm a series of batteries protected by a walled redoubt, and silence the great guns that watched the great expanse of blue-green Mediterranean Sea.
The French had captured the islands a year before and garrisoned it with over three thousand prime troops. There were many coastal defences on the islands, but the local Gozitans and Maltese confirmed that the French garrisons were too few and, encouraged with the news, the British naval taskforce had arrived to blockade the French into submission. The local resistance fighters pledged to support any British land attack.
'How many of the Frogs did you say there were?' Gamble asked his Maltese guide.
'Fewer than fifty in the redoubt,' Giuseppe Falzon replied softly in his accented English, as the seamen rowed the boats closer to the shore. 'They will be asleep. The bloody French watch the sea, but think any likely attack will come from the south. Over land. They will not suspect a landing here.'
'They'd better not, Zeppi,' Gamble warned, eyes still fixed on the enemy guns, 'otherwise we're dead men. But we have speed and surprise in our favour and so we have the advantage here. And my Marines are the best fighters known to mankind,' he said proudly so the entire boat could hear. He meant every word. The battles had hardened them like a tempered sword, forged in blistering flame. The men grinned back. The captain stared at Malteseman. 'But however trusting of my men to do the job, you know the rules.'
Zeppi sighed. 'I know, I know. I'm to stay out of harm's way. Just like your stinking, flea-bitten dog,' he said of the Marine's mascot.
'Someone has to keep Biter on his damned lead,' Gamble said with a laugh.
In truth, Biter was still onboard the Sea Prince, because it was too risky to have him accompany the landing for fear of him alerting the sentries, but Zeppi was too valuable and was Gamble's friend for many years and so would not take part in the attack and remain at the rear.
'Biter would love a go at these Frogs, sir,' said a gruff-voiced sergeant.
'Aye, Sergeant Powell,' Gamble replied, 'but the lads need to earn their pay and I'm not sure King George would approve of Biter doing all the work.'
'In that case, sir,' Powell jutted his chin at the man next to him, 'Marine Bray should forfeit his entire pay.'
The men laughed at the squirming Marine and Gamble allowed it; laughter counters naked fear, besides he thought Marine Bray was the most incompetent man under his command. He was round shouldered, and looked like a fish with his protuberant eyes and slack mouth.
'That ain't fair, Sergeant,' Bray moaned at the ripple of bawdy laughter.
'Quiet, you useless cur,' Powell scolded.
'Here we go, sir,' First Lieutenant Henry Kennedy said as the boats neared the beach.
April 28, 2014
Liberty or Death
The first novella in the series is (numbered, but not neccessary in chronological order)Liberty or Death. It's a story set against the backdrop of the Irish 1798 Rebellion.
What captivated me was the struggle of the ordinary people and the horror that turned the ever-green fields to bloody gore. It lasted between May and September of that year and caused, some accounts say, between ten to fifty thousand casualties.
The book cover represents the town of New Ross which was the scene of the uprising's bloodiest encounter. Thousands of Irish rebels descended on the walled town, which was defended by a few thousand soldiers. The rebels succeeded in taking the town, houses were burned and shops plundered, but could not follow the success due to limited firepower and fatigue. The Crown forces returned and re-took the town with loaded muskets and cold steel.
The protagonist is Lorn Mullone, a character written to be sympathetic to the rebel cause, yet loyal to the Crown. He is tasked by the government to find Colonel Black, a shadowy figure said to be responsible for several murders, which will undoubtedly harm peace talks. Mullone's journey takes him to New Ross where he and his men are drawn into the defence of the town and witness the bloodiest fighting.
Will Colonel Black be caught and exposed? Only Mullone is the man for the job - but he has to survive the assault and his nemesis, De Marin - a French spy who wants him dead.
What captivated me was the struggle of the ordinary people and the horror that turned the ever-green fields to bloody gore. It lasted between May and September of that year and caused, some accounts say, between ten to fifty thousand casualties.
The book cover represents the town of New Ross which was the scene of the uprising's bloodiest encounter. Thousands of Irish rebels descended on the walled town, which was defended by a few thousand soldiers. The rebels succeeded in taking the town, houses were burned and shops plundered, but could not follow the success due to limited firepower and fatigue. The Crown forces returned and re-took the town with loaded muskets and cold steel.
The protagonist is Lorn Mullone, a character written to be sympathetic to the rebel cause, yet loyal to the Crown. He is tasked by the government to find Colonel Black, a shadowy figure said to be responsible for several murders, which will undoubtedly harm peace talks. Mullone's journey takes him to New Ross where he and his men are drawn into the defence of the town and witness the bloodiest fighting.
Will Colonel Black be caught and exposed? Only Mullone is the man for the job - but he has to survive the assault and his nemesis, De Marin - a French spy who wants him dead.
The Soldier Chronicles
For a long time I've thought about turning stories in ebook format. Now, as life for me has calmed down abit after the birth of my son, the time is right.
The chronicles started life as backstories to a novel I wrote and is still unpublished called 'The Desert Lion'. I wrote it between 2006-2008 and when sending off to get representation, I didn't want to sit around twiddling my thumbs - I had a few ideas and expanded some of the characters of that book - of which will be a dozen volumes.
So with back stories and those characters with their own unique stories I continued writing them. I wanted to tell of faraway battles and lands which will be brought to life as companion pieces from the years 1794-1815.
I then turned my attention to a favourite hero from England's past - Robin Hood. So all the Napoleonic stories went on hiatus.
With my Robin Hood story, 'The Wolfshead' (being edited as I write this) taking centre stage I then became a father and the writing stepped dutifully aside for me to take on this new role.
But now after two years the chronicles have seen ebook daylight.
I did speak to Bernard Cornwall a few years ago about sending my completed works off for representation, and he said to me, 'Once it's done, sit back and have a whiskey'.
I think I will...
The chronicles started life as backstories to a novel I wrote and is still unpublished called 'The Desert Lion'. I wrote it between 2006-2008 and when sending off to get representation, I didn't want to sit around twiddling my thumbs - I had a few ideas and expanded some of the characters of that book - of which will be a dozen volumes.
So with back stories and those characters with their own unique stories I continued writing them. I wanted to tell of faraway battles and lands which will be brought to life as companion pieces from the years 1794-1815.
I then turned my attention to a favourite hero from England's past - Robin Hood. So all the Napoleonic stories went on hiatus.
With my Robin Hood story, 'The Wolfshead' (being edited as I write this) taking centre stage I then became a father and the writing stepped dutifully aside for me to take on this new role.
But now after two years the chronicles have seen ebook daylight.
I did speak to Bernard Cornwall a few years ago about sending my completed works off for representation, and he said to me, 'Once it's done, sit back and have a whiskey'.
I think I will...
