Authors: David Donachie
The estuary of the San Juan river was dotted with sandbanks dissected by sluggish streams. Behind the blinding white strip of narrow sand the jungle was deep green and impenetrable, the course of the river no more than a black break in that endless arc of vegetation.
To Nelson, it spoke of the voyage here, the creeping sense of gloom that had overtaken what residue of faith he had had in the operation. A landing at a logging settlement, supposed to produce another hundred regulars as well as the native levies necessary to get them up this river, had been
nothing short of a disaster. The natives had run, fearing slavery as soon as they had seen the frigate’s topsails. The regulars made their rendezvous, but in such a weak condition that Nelson wondered if they should be in hospital rather than assigned to this grand design – even their officers were sickly and weak – barely able to stand let alone march and dressed in uniforms that mould had turned to rags. The physician was obliged to begin dosing them against malaria at once, while Nelson assigned a midshipman to take the pinnace back to Port Royal with a request for reinforcements.
He had also sent the longboat ahead so that his sailors, bearing trinkets and gifts could gather the native assistance the expedition needed as the frigate made her way down the coast. These natives possessed shallow draught boats, a most useful addition to the enterprise given that they were required to transport all their supplies and men up this watercourse.
‘The Governor,’ Major Polson insisted, ‘was sure that the enemy is weak and under prepared. A ripe fruit waiting to be plucked.’
Nelson looked at the man’s heavily freckled face with ginger eyebrows, which seemed odd against the pure white of a fresh powdered wig. His pale green eyes were daring this naval officer to disagree.
‘It is a bad idea, sir,’ Nelson said, ‘to ever imagine your enemy in such terms.’
Polson stiffened at what he clearly saw as a rebuke from someone who looked more boy than man. Yet he had to acknowledge that this slim, fair-haired fellow, who looked as though he had yet to shave, was a Post Captain in King George’s Navy. He thus outranked him.
Nelson joined his premier, Preece, by the wheel. ‘This is as inhospitable a shore as I’ve ever clapped eyes on. And the water level in that river is so low I’ll wager they’ll be able to wade the first mile.’
‘We dare not wait for the rains, sir,’ Preece insisted.
Nelson sighed. ‘Signal the transports to begin lowering their boats.’
That presented the next problem. The soldiers had received no training in boat drill. The oarsmen couldn’t row, and those on the tillers were unable to avoid anything, including their own comrades. The air was rent with cursing as, watched by stoical Amerindians and disbelieving tars, collision after collision occurred, with each boatload convinced that they were the party affronted. Never had ‘bullock’, the naval nickname for soldiers, seemed more apt. This was a force designed to operate on the great expanse of Lake Nicaragua, once the castle dominating it had been subdued. The dilemma, for Nelson, was clear.
‘Mr Preece.’
‘Sir?’
‘You will take command here. I will undertake to get these bullocks to their destination. For that I will require my barge, plus a crew for each boat. You will strip down the transports to skeleton crews and send them back to Port Royal. You will remain on station here to defend the mouth of the river.’
Preece tried to hide his shock. ‘And my instructions if an enemy appears, sir?’
Nelson was almost as shocked to have to tell him. ‘You are to act as you see fit.’
Preece looked unhappy. ‘Within what guidelines?’
That made Nelson testy. He was offering this man independence of action, yet obviously Preece, a man whom he had not chosen to serve with him, didn’t relish it. He had noted the man’s reluctance to act without clear orders on the voyage from Jamaica.
‘The choice is simple, is it not? Depending on the force you face, you must stay and fight or run for Port Royal. Should you do the latter I’d be obliged if you’d send a boat upriver to keep us informed.’
‘Sir,’ Preece replied, touching his hat, his expression still full of doubt.
‘You may have them in writing, Mr Preece.’
The relief on the man’s face was almost palpable. ‘Obliged, sir, most obliged.’
‘You do not fear to stretch your orders, Captain?’ asked Major Polson, when Nelson informed him of his intentions. It was a remark that caused Lepée to growl his assent, which Polson noticed but Nelson ignored.
‘It is the nature of the service to which I have the honour to belong, sir, to allow for a degree of independence.’
His reply was the truth, but stretched to the limit. He would be grossly exceeding his instructions, relying on his own reputation for enterprise and his standing with the Admiral to protect him. Yet there was little alternative, apart from abandonment. Nelson couldn’t face the idea of sailing back to Fort Royal on his first command, to report abject failure.
‘If you do not object, I will command matters till we reach the fort. Then, naturally, since we will be on
terra
firma,
I shall defer to you.’
‘You intend to fight alongside us?’
Nelson was genuinely surprised at that. What point would there be in struggling all the way up the river just to turn round and return before a battle? ‘Rest assured, Major Polson, when the lakeside fort is in our hands, the credit will go to you and your soldiers, not me and my tars.’
‘Credit be damned, Captain Nelson,’ Polson replied, eyes alight. ‘You may have it, if you wish, just as long as we have the object we seek.’
The light diminished as soon as they started up the watercourse under a thick jungle canopy, joined above their heads to create a fetid tunnel in which the miasma from the swamp-like mud rose to offend their nostrils. Everything about them reeked of corruption, death and rot, in a closed world where the humidity was such that sweat poured from every pore. With little water under the keels they were obliged to wade alongside their heavily laden craft.
Relief from this came at the odd clearing, but those had their own obstacles, the sandbars that had risen as the river dried out. When it came to unloading the boats and transporting their supplies to the next stretch of deep water the soldiers proved useless. Even in the intense heat of the glaring tropical sun they could not be persuaded to remove their kit: heavy coats, thick belts and pouches. The work was left to Nelson’s tars and the Indian levies. Even the cannon had to be hauled by the gunnions across the blinding white sand, so soft and dry that a good footing was rare. And finally came the boats themselves, the most awkward of all, especially the flat bottomed affairs specially constructed for the river journeys the troops would need to make in the interior.
Nelson ranged ahead in an Indian canoe, compass in hand, cursing the inadequate maps, peering up various creeks trying to find and mark the main channel that would take them to their destination. Lepée cursed too, an endless chant of misery drowned by the cacophony of forest noise: monkeys, birds, the occasional crashing as some larger creature burst through the undergrowth. Nelson was searching for a set of falls, above which he might find continuous deep water, aware that if he did not the expedition upriver would take four days, not the two he had envisaged.
He found the falls, then had the unpleasant task of getting the party and their supplies over them. It took an age, each individual piece, from water and beef to biscuit barrel, needing to be hauled up on a line rigged to a sheer block lashed to an overhanging branch. This proved invaluable when in came to the ordnance, but the time it took put them perilously close to darkness. Nelson and Giddings went ahead in search of a clearing, but had to admit after a while that the chance of finding one in this jungle was slim,
and that a night in the boats, in what was now deeper water, was a better option.
As the light faded they lit torches steeped in pitch, a warning to the creatures of the jungle to stay away. And in the glow from those, men sat, or lay, and consumed hard ship’s biscuit washed down with cold water. If anything, the noises around them increased, and since to conserve fuel only two torches were kept alight, most of the party was surrounded by Stygian darkness. Given the screeches and groans of unseen beasts no vivid imagination was required to anticipate a truly horrible fate at the hands of something real or mystical.
Bats swooped through the night air, missing hats and hair by a fraction of an inch. Insects abounded, never there when the hand slapped the skin, but biting for certain. Superstitious minds conjured up all sorts of demons and the night air was often rent with human cries as some poor soul convinced himself that he had seen some hellish vision.
In the grey light of morning, Nelson looked around a sea of tired faces. Lepée particularly looked like death warmed up, in no fit state to see to his own needs, let alone those of his master. The soldiers looked the worst, even though they had undertaken the least of the exertions. But all were afflicted, their faces swollen with insect bites, eyes red-rimmed after a miserable night of discomfort.
‘Captain Nelson,’ a voice called softly. He turned to see that the doctor accompanying the expedition had crossed two boats to speak with him. ‘I fear I must insist on a rest for these men. That, and a chance to wash both themselves and some of their filthier kit. The boats also have served as latrines and must be doused. Clean water will do in the absence of vinegar.’
‘Major Polson,’ Nelson called, ‘I suggest that we advance to a clearing before attempting to eat or drink. The good doctor also recommends that we look to matters that affect the men’s health.’
The voice that replied was cracked with fatigue. ‘I am in your hands, Captain Nelson.’
The lashings came off quickly and Giddings sorted the boats into two columns, taking advantage of what was now a wider stream. Rowing against the run of the river was hard work, but within an hour they had anchored around the hump of a mid-river sandbar, with every man in the boats grateful for solidity beneath his feet. Nelson ordered the soldiers to undress and bathe, assuring them that the water was too swift in its flow to present any danger from aggressive reptiles.
The Amerindians immediately produced spears and began to fish. Within minutes they had Nelson as a pupil, his inept attempt to spear the slithering silver objects beneath the water producing much hilarity. He earned a cheer when he finally had a success, and enjoyed gutting and eating his own catch, a pleasure he had not enjoyed since, as a boy, he had fished off the Norfolk coast.
He had to calm a worried Polson. They were safe to rest: nothing on water
could pass them and they were protected by an impenetrable forest through which no enemy could approach. A respite of a couple of hours would restore the men’s spirits. That was more true of his sailors than the soldiers, some of whom were sitting, muskets between their knees, shivering despite the increasing heat. Nelson moved them: once the sun rose high enough to crest the treetops, this pleasant glade would become like a furnace.
Staying with the shaded bank, they followed the river along a great arc called Monkey Bend, which took it almost back upon itself, so full of primates and their noise that even cannon fire would have been drowned. Approaching St Bartholomew’s island, which they suspected might be fortified, they stopped by another sandbar to redistribute the troops. Two thirds of the party were left to guard the supplies while the rest, each boat rowed by tars, moved swiftly upriver, once more under an overbearing canopy. Using hand signals, Nelson, in the lead boat, indicated that the river was opening out, a sure indication that, if the maps were even remotely correct, they should be approaching the island.
Sure enough, through the increasing light, he saw the outline of a wooden palisade, with a decaying breastwork on the downriver point. Now they were travelling in almost total silence until a scream of alarm rent the air. In the widening stream, now no more than fifty feet from a landfall, two supporting boats had come alongside the leader, muskets pointed forward to deliver the first salvo.
The guns spewed forth on Nelson’s command sending chips of wood flying and it was hard to know if the yells that followed were from wounds or mere alarm. No shot was returned towards them as the boats, with the muskets now reloaded, scrunched into the sand of the island. Nelson, Giddings beside him, had already leapt over the prow and charged the breastwork, with Polson yelling at his soldiers to come on, which they did at a shuffling gait. Nelson’s tars managed a rush that put the bullocks to shame. The whole assault made for the low palisade wall, the sailors cupping hands to provide a leg up for their mates. Within two minutes of landing they were over the wall and inside the compound.
‘Deserted,’ gasped Polson to his naval companion’s back. Nelson had carried on, sword up before him, until he could see the river again. What he saw didn’t please him: a boatload of Spanish soldiers pulling furiously to get away.
‘We won’t surprise the Dons now, Major Polson,’ he said, with clear frustration, when the soldier joined him.
‘We had the right to anticipate that they would stay and fight.’
Nelson was angry with himself, at what he saw as a simple error. ‘But they didn’t and that ought to have been allowed for. I should have kept one of the boats manned to chase them. They would never have got clear of sailors.’
Polson patted his shoulder. ‘Then we must move with even more speed, sir, and get to them before they can begin to put their defences in order.’
Surprise had indeed been lost: as soon as the party came into view several cannon balls blasted the beach on what was the most obvious landing site, three miles from the fort itself. Polson seemed to have recovered his composure, standing in his boat, telescope in hand, red-coated and obvious, almost inviting the enemy to take a shot at him.
‘Would I be allowed to recommend a course of action, Major?’ Nelson asked.
‘I will welcome any advice, sir,’ he replied, without conviction.
‘At St Bartholomew the Dons ran without putting up any resistance.’
The telescope dropped, though the gaze remained fixed on the beach. ‘Matters stand differently here, Captain Nelson. We face stone walls after a three-mile forced march, not a rotting wooden palisade.’
‘What time have they had to improve the defence of the fort? One day at most, surely not enough to affect their sense of well-being. That island had a breastwork near falling down for want of repair. I would hazard that their main fort, stone notwithstanding, is in a similar condition.’
Polson’s expression was cold. ‘I fear you are going to suggest a
coup
de
main
.’
‘It is a sailor’s way, sir. When we encounter an enemy, we’re not gifted the opportunity to employ siege. We must carry the day, if we are to do our duty, by main force swiftly applied. I suggest that the same tactic will work here. Let us land through their gunfire – which is useless as it is dropping into sand – cut our way up the paths to the fort and take it in a swift assault.’
‘I cannot agree, Captain.’ His telescope was fixed on the objective again.
Nelson contained his irritation. ‘May I be allowed to enquire why?’
‘Because if it failed we would suffer so much as to render the idea of another assault impossible.’ Polson dropped the glass again and pointed to the fort on its elevated escarpment, the tops of its grimy grey walls just visible above the trees. ‘No, sir, I envisage no assault at all. For I cannot stand the losses if I am to move on from this place. Instead I will institute a proper siege. We shall surround the citadel and cut them off from all succour. Then we can sap forward as the terrain permits, and achieve a position that renders our enemies’ resistance impotent. Then I will invite their commander to surrender, affording him a proper exit with the honours he deserves.’
Nelson fought to keep his voice calm. ‘Take this by main force and the other objects you seek will fall all the more swiftly.’
‘I am mindful of your advice, Captain Nelson, but I seem to recall that this is the position in which I assume command.’
Nelson touched his hat, as much to hide his disappointment as to acknowledge the truth of the remark. ‘You are correct in that, sir. And if you wish to afford me orders, my men will do all in their power to aid your plans.’
‘Handsomely said, Captain,’ exclaimed a relieved Polson, who had clearly
been expecting the argument to continue. He raised his sword and pointed to the beach, still under desultory fire. ‘We must secure that landing site, then we must force to retire the guns they have sited to play on it. Once that is achieved I will disembark the rest of our troops, taking care to let our enemy see the strength of our ordnance.’
Polson spoke on, ordering another officer further upriver to outflank the castle and cut it off from the lake. ‘Destroy any and all boats that you see there. With the encirclement complete we can set about siting our batteries.’
‘You do not fear they may essay out to attack us?’ asked Nelson.
‘No!’ Polson exclaimed, as if the question bordered on the idiotic. Then he realised it was a genuine enquiry from a man who didn’t know the answer. ‘That’s as foolish as us carrying out an immediate assault, merely depleting their ability to withstand us. In the open we outnumber them. If they had the strength to prevent us landing, it would be lined up on that beach denying us the opportunity to impose a siege.’
The Major was right, of course. He knew, as Nelson did not, that there was a method of siege that had about it all the elements of a formal dance. First, cut off your enemy from resupply, then search his defences for the weakest points. Having identified those, all the artillery that can be mustered must be brought to bear on that at maximum range. Then move forward as the soldiers sap closer to the enemy, digging trenches across the slope and throwing up earthworks to protect themselves from enfilading fire. Once a new position had been established the guns could be brought forward, an emplacement constructed, and supplied through those same trenches with powder and shot, the cannon could play on the weak points at a shorter range.
That was the theory, and surely it would have been the practice too if it had not been for two factors. The tenacity of the Spanish commander was one. He made sapping difficult in what was shallow soil by the direction of his own defence, cleverly using the elevations afforded by his fort to delay those digging. But he had a greater ally in disease and natural hazards than he ever had in musket or cannon ball.
The soldier first bitten by a snake had suffered while standing upright carrying a barrel towards the forward camp. The creature, apparently hanging in a tree, had struck at him without warning, inflicting a bite on his upper cheek. His screams owed as much to internal demons as fear, not aided by the shaking heads of the natives who had killed it.
But Polson had no illusions as to how acute the supply problem was, how difficult the terrain made it to transport even the smallest item from the beach down below to supply the forward operations. Time did not allow him to put one man’s well-being before that of the assault parties. The doctor made the soldier comfortable, while Polson tried to ignore the black swelling that already afflicted his face, ordering his men to move on.
What caused alarm among the other soldiers was not the fact that the man died, but that within two hours of being bitten his body had already begun to rot. Faced with death so swift and unpleasant, not one of the sappers could be brought to wield a spade until they were sure no reptile lurked in the undergrowth waiting the opportunity to do the same to them.