Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir Read online

  Midshipman Graham and the Battle of Abukir by James Boschert

  Copyright © 2017 James Boschert

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-946409-22-5( Paperback)

  ISBN :13: 978-1-946409-23-2 (e-book)

  BISAC Subject Headings:

  FIC014000FICTION / Historical

  FIC032000FICTION / War & Military

  FIC031020FICTION / Thrillers / Historical

  Editing Terri Carter

  Editing: Danielle Boschert

  Cover Illustration by Christine Horner

  Address all correspondence to:

  Penmore Press LLC

  920 N Javelina Pl

  Tucson AZ 85748

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Awards

  Chapter 1 An Army in Retreat

  Chapter 2 Strategy

  Chapter 3 An Incident in Cyprus

  Chapter 4 Awards

  Chapter 5 A Victorioius Army Returns

  Chapter 6 Supplies

  Chapter 7 The Abukir peninsular

  Chapter 8 Invasion

  Chapter 9 Occupation

  Chapter 10 Forced March

  Chapter 11 Général Murat

  Chapter 12 Battle for Abukir

  Chapter 13 The Rout

  Chapter 14 Gunboats

  Chapter 15 Aftermath

  Chapter 16 Victory

  Chapter 17 Water for the besieged

  Chapter 18 The Duel

  Chapter 19 A Skirmish

  Chapter 20 Chameleon

  Chapter 21 The House of Paradise

  Chapter 22 Disguise

  Chapter 23 Close Encounters

  Chapter 24 Reconnoiter

  Chapter 25 The Dancer

  Chapter 26 Chivlary

  Chapter 27 Cutting out

  Chapter 28 An Unwelcome visit

  Chapter 29 Ambush and Escape

  Chapter 30 A Storm

  Author’sNote

  About The Author

  Advertisements

  Dedication

  To Danielle and Markus my islands of support

  acknowledgements

  Bonaparte in Egypt by Christopher Herold

  Wikipedia

  Awards

  When the Grand Seignior of Constantinople, who was still suffering from the shock of the great defeat inflicted upon his armies at Mount Thabor, learned of the retreat of the French from Acre, he was overcome with joy and presented the messenger who bore the tidings with seven purses of gold containing 3,000 florins. He despatched a special Tartar courier to Sir, Sidney Smith with an aigrette and sable furs (similar to those presented to Lord Nelson, for the victory of the Nile) worth 25,ooo piastres and afterwards conferred upon him the insignia of the Ottoman Order of the Crescent.

  In England, once news of the event had arrived there was tremendous enthusiasm and Parliament passed a formal note of thanks on behalf of the nation to Commodore Sir Sidney Smith and the officers and men under his command.

  A pension of One thousand pounds per annum was also voted to the gallant commodore as a further testimonial to his great services. The City of London presented him with its freedom and a sword valued at 100 guineas. From the Turkey Company he received another valued at 300 guineas.

  Eastern Mediterranean Theater of Operation for Sir Sidney Smith

  Chapter 1

  An Army in Retreat

  Two large war ships were about a mile off shore; with their white sails full set, including top gallants and top sails, they looked beautiful against the azure blue of the sky and the green-blue of the sea. The two broad, dark lines running from bow to stern denoted that the ships were Third Rate war ships of the British Navy. They had been brought as close to the shoreline as it was safely possible and their guns run out, showing their teeth to an enemy who knew that these otherwise beautiful vessels represented imminent and terrible danger.

  To the exhausted men trudging along the coast road, it was yet another example of the long reach of the British Navy. They knew what was about to happen, yet despite the clear menace discipline held, and the long column continued to march.

  The ships announced their intentions with rippling smoke along their sides. This was quickly followed by the distant boom of the 32-pounder guns, then the terrifying howl of iron balls hurtling overhead, hammering into the beach or smashing into the ranks, and the screaming began.

  Aboard the leading ship, HMS Tigre, Midshipman Duncan Graham was perched uncomfortably high on the crosstrees of the main mast. The light offshore wind was ruffling his reddish blond hair but it did little to cool him despite the height above the decks. He wiped away the sweat which was trickling down his forehead into his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket wishing he could take it off. The merciless sun almost directly overhead was burning his lightly freckled face. His hat, which had almost blown off his head twice now was wedged in a secure junction of the mast and beam.

  He lifted the borrowed glass and stared towards the long blue and white column of marching men to the east. They were moving along the only road to Egypt along the Sinai desert coast, and he marveled at their discipline. They could have, even should have, dispersed by now, but they barely seemed to notice the two ships preparing to send death and dismemberment in among their ranks.

  The crash of guns shook the ship but Duncan rode out the bucking motion with practiced ease. He had been sent up here to observe the effect of the shot. It was a long moment before he finally did see what happened. 32-pounder balls ploughed into the beaches ahead of the marching column, throwing up large sprays of sand; others ricocheted off rocks and then smashed into the French ranks, throwing the bloody and torn victims about like rag dolls. To his astonishment the column seemed to reassert itself, shrug off the destruction and continued marching.

  “By God, I dinna ken how they do it!” Duncan marveled, his Scottish accent always stronger when excited.

  “Them’s brave men, those Froggies are, Sorr,” commented one of the sailors sharing the top mast with Duncan. “Ah would hate to be them right now. Remember how they just kept on comin’ at Acre?”

  Midshipman Graham did remember. He had been on the walls from time to time with the Commodore, as the Turkish garrison and British ships repulsed attack after attack by the French, who had come like a blue tide to wash up against the high stone walls of the city and then had drained back again, leaving their dead and wounded behind. He could still hear the screams of the wounded and dying at the base of the walls.

  Now this same army was in retreat, but Commodore Sir Sidney Smith was not about to let Napoléon off with a nod. His intent was to harry the French all the way back to Egypt.

  “Call down the shot, Midshipman Graham! If I have to come up there and show you what to do there will be trouble!” The voice of Lt Bowles roared from the quarterdeck below where a group of officers were gathered. The Commodore himself was standing with several other officers on the poop deck port side with their glasses to their eyes, staring at the distant shoreline. Lest he forget who was on board, the blue pennant of Sir Sidney Smith snapped in the breeze directly above his head.

  “On target, Sir!” he called down quickly, with a glance at the sailor next to him, whose expression was wooden. “Or as near to dammit as we are likely to be at this range,” he muttered under his breath. The sailor grinned.

  He heard a shouted command, there was a pause, and then the ship shook again to the roar
of fifteen heavy guns firing at almost the same time. Acrid smoke billowed high in the air, obscuring for a brief moment even the view from the top mast.

  “On target, Sir!”

  He heard the voice of Lieutenant Bowles but this time it was directed at some other luckless person. “That was very badly done! I want the names of the gun captains who were late!”

  Duncan exchanged glances with the sailor again. Someone was going to get hell down in the stinking, crowded, smoke-filled gun deck. They both heard the answering bellow from HMS Alliance, the frigate that had been following in their wake, as she let loose her broadside, and they witnessed even more destruction.

  “Poor bastards,” Duncan commented to himself. “They don’t stand a chance.”

  He noted that the column was turning inland behind the cover of sand dunes, gradually disappearing from view.

  He looked forward along the shore to where he could see the dark line of some rocky teeth protruding from the beach well out to sea. His attention immediately switched to the danger the ship faced should they continue to sail this close to shore.

  “Deck below there! Rocks dead ahead, half a league!” he yelled at the top of his lungs.

  His shout generated a lot of activity on the deck below. Orders were bellowed, bosun’s mates herded men to their places, and men came running up the shrouds to take in sail, while the angle of the main sails was shifted to allow the vessel to turn more speedily. In only a few minutes the ship heeled gently as she was set upon a new course that would take her out to sea. Signal flags were run up and the ship behind them altered course to follow HMS Tigre out of harm’s way. Obstacles at sea took precedence over a defeated army.

  *****

  The French army, after several weeks of forced marching from Acre, harried constantly by the Bedouin on land and by Sir Sidney Smith’s ships wherever the road came close to the shore, finally reached Katya on June 5th. At this point the army was so strung out that it was just one long thin line covering many kilometers, trailing back into the desert of Sinai. Many of the soldiers had drifted off the roads and become lost because they could no longer see where they were going, many were half mad with thirst and could barely walk. Others just wandered off into the desert to die or to be tortured to death by the ever-present Arabs who lurked on the outskirts of the army all along its path, preying on luckless men.

  That evening the commanders at Katya fired a field gun at regular intervals to help the men at the rear or wandering off the road to find where the main army had encamped. The enticement was that here they could find sweet fresh water and rest before the final push on to Cairo: a land that was verdant and where food and water could be found aplenty. Many arrived long after nightfall, but still more did not arrive at all.

  The army was in total disarray and morale was at rock bottom.

  Captain Clément of the Carabiniere d’Infantrie and his men were no exception. They were staggering with exhaustion, their lips were parched and cracked with thirst, and their eyes burned red with the grit and sand blown into their faces by the fierce desert wind, which scoured the skin to raw bleeding sores. It took four men to carry the captain’s comrade who had been wounded in the thigh from one of the scraps with the Bedouin. They staggered under the weight of the officer and often stumbled. When they fell it was usually without warning, and Captain Horace Jean Baptiste would often cry out with pain, even though he tried very hard not to. It would take long minutes for them all to scramble back onto their feet and then Captain Clément would order another four from his company to pick up the makeshift stretcher. On they would go for another league.

  Clément admired his friend for his forbearance but knew that there was a fine line between his men continuing to carry Horace and defying his orders. His men were demoralized and exhausted. The defeat at Acre, and they all knew it had been a defeat, even if Napoléon said otherwise, had hurt the morale of this army to its core. Only an ingrained discipline held his tiny group together, determined to reach Katya and safety.

  Horace himself knew other men had been abandoned in the desert to the tender mercies of the Bedouin, so he held his peace when they grumbled, knowing that his life depended on these men. As darkness approached they grew apprehensive. They were the rear-end stragglers, and there was no safety in being last. Still Clément urged them on, even taking his turn at carrying Horace.

  “Corporal, make sure that you cover our rear. It cannot be too long now before we are at Katya, where we can rest and obtain water,” he tried to reassure them. No one responded; they were too tired.

  They all heard the dull thud of a distant gun. The men stopped to listen. Over the otherwise eerily silent desert came another distant thump.

  “A gun! There is where we must be tonight!” Captain Clément croaked. “The van is either engaged or they are telling us where they are. I hope it is Katya,” he finished through his cracked lips and swollen tongue. He unwound the cotton scarf he had about his lower face and wiped his forehead, and it came away dusty. He had almost ceased to sweat.

  “I think they are telling us where Katya is so that we don’t get lost in the dark, Sir,” Corporal Émile grunted through his parched lips, as he and Gérard, another of the men, scanned the darkening desert behind them.

  “Then let’s make haste, as I don’t want to be caught out here with the Bedouin. They have a nasty habit of cutting people up into pieces,” Private Poupard grunted.

  “If you mean for your meat, they would have to stew you in a large pot to soften you, and for all their trouble they’d only get a thin, stringy soup,” Hugo, his companion in arms, commented. Corporal Émile waved an empty water bottle; he had not thrown his away, although many others had. “I am going to put Champagne in this when we get there!” he joked. It got a few grunts of amusement from others in the squad, but then they were silent again. They continued to stagger on.

  “Captain! Captain! They are over there!” Corporal Émile warned. His voice took on an urgency when his captain failed to respond. “I can see horses to our left on that rise, Captain!”

  Captain Clément shook his head to clear it. “Check your weapons!” he called to his company. The twenty men left under his command immediately glanced down at their flints and the pans. They had done this a hundred times and did it instinctively. Even though they were young, these were hard-bitten veterans who knew their lives depended upon being prepared.

  “They will come in a rush,” Corporal Émile muttered.

  “Be ready to form ranks,” the captain croaked. “Place Captain Horace next to me.” When his men had complied he handed Horace a loaded pistol. “One shot, Horace.”

  “Thank you, my friend, I know what to do,” Horace murmured with a weak smile. Clément drew his sword.

  “Come on, you bastards. Come and feel my bayonet!” Hugo murmured.

  Thirty or so horsemen had appeared on the rise to the left of the troops. They spurred their mounts and charged recklessly towards the French soldiers. Their light horses, bedecked in colored cloths and tassels, kicked up sand to waist height as they galloped down the sandy rise. Their masters, wearing loose turbans and clad in wide flowing robes, shouted battle cries and brandished muskets and swords. A few impulsive horsemen discharged their muskets in the general direction of the French, the bullets humming harmlessly overhead.

  “They think they are dealing with finished men! We will have to teach them a lesson,” Captain Clément called out to his men. “Form two ranks!” he shouted. “Front rank, kneel and prepare to fire!”

  With almost clockwork precision the formerly ragged line of men quickly formed two straight lines of ten men with the front rank kneeling, their muskets pointed at the charging enemy, who continued to disturb the evening air with war cries as they rode headlong at their hated enemy.

  “Come to papa,” Claude, by far the largest man in the company, murmured as he sighted on an approaching horseman.

  The very stillness and silence of the French soldiers
should have alerted the Bedouin that these men were not easy prey, but greed for plunder blinded them and drove them forward.

  The sun had already set, leaving a red glow in the western sky, and a light breeze sprang up out of the south. There was still sufficient light for the soldiers to see by, and now they waited calmly while Clément estimated the closing distance between the riders and his thin blue lines.

  When the Bedouin were forty yards away he dropped his sword arm. “Front rank, fire!” he shouted, his voice hoarse.

  The sharp crash and echo of the muskets in the evening air drowned out the yells of the Arabs. The muskets spouted smoke into the space between the French and the Bedouin, which the breeze wafted back over the soldiers, allowing them to observe their handiwork. The soldiers had aimed well, as a half-dozen men tumbled off their mounts into the sand.

  “Rear rank, prepare to fire. Front rank reload!” Clément shouted. He was pleased with the shooting, but the impetus of the riders, while broken, had not been halted.

  “Fire!” he called, and again the muskets spewed fire and death as his second line of muskets took their toll. When the smoke cleared they could see that many more of the Bedouin had fallen; their war cries changed to cries of pain and alarm. This time they dragged their horses to a stop, and the ones at the rear, seeing the destruction wrought by the French, spun their agile mounts and lashed and spurred their horses back up the slope to disappear into the gloom, leaving their luckless companions lying where they had fallen. Several of the horses quickly chased after the fleeing Bedouin, leaving a couple to stand looking lost near their former riders.