A Shred of Honour (14 page)

Markham only saw that act on the very edge of his vision. For him time and sound had ceased to exist. He felt that he was in a cocoon, a shell that insulated him from everything around him but the scream from his own dry throat. It barely registered, the increase in the slope as he charged up to the fascined edge. Below him, frightened faces looked up, jabbing at him with bayonets that he swept aside with his sword. He cut, parried and thrust without a conscious thought, reacting to flashes of flesh and colour as they appeared on the periphery of his vision.

It was crowded, red coats mixed with blue and green, men swinging muskets as clubs, and using detached
bayonets
as knives. It took no more than a minute for the redcoats to get down to ground level, more to drive the enemy back. The wheels of the cannon provided some of the defenders with what they thought to be a slight shield, until they found themselves being speared through the spokes. Men fell, to be trampled on regardless of the colour of their coats. Blood flew from new wounds, spraying those around as one man was stabbed in the throat, another sliced wide open by an officer’s sword. Markham registered that and turned to face it. The Frenchman was as eager to get to him, and they clashed with their weapons across their chest. There was no room for swordplay and Markham head-butted him viciously, sending a fountain of blood streaming from his smashed nose, to cover the blue facings of his coat. As soon he staggered back Markham stabbed him in the groin,
twisting
the blade as the man doubled over.

The crush was easing. He had a vague impression of Halsey’s marines among the attackers now. They’d
sacrificed
their cover and come to aid the Bullocks, the weight of their attack driving the remaining Frenchmen
backwards
. Without any word of command, more from a
collective
realisation of defeat, the enemy broke and ran. Suddenly Markham found space in front of him, a chance to suck in a desperately needed breath, as he realised that, despite the odds, he and his mixed bag of indifferent Lobsters and undisciplined Bullocks had just won a battle.

The dread word ‘Cavalry!’, despite their exhaustion, made every head snap up. Markham, who had just sent a party of men back to see to his own wounded, jumped up onto one of the limbers to take a look. It wasn’t difficult to pick them out, a whole squadron, some fifty men, off to the right on the other side of the Marseilles road, wheeling round to face him. Whoever was in command of that detachment would be in trouble, forced to recapture a position which should never have been lost. Had they been mounted earlier, and ready to charge, they would have made mincemeat of the retreating Spaniards. And if Markham had come on, his rush across the open space before the guns might have ended in death, with every Bullock mown down by a cavalry sabre.

But their appearance forced him to make a much quicker decision about his next move. He’d never
doubted
for a moment that the French would try to retake the emplacement, if only as a sop to their pride. But an
infantry
attack, which would take time to prepare and execute, would at least have allowed the tattered Catalan regiment to reform and offer support. Any attempt actually to hold the battery, without a major commitment of force, was doomed. But with enough time, it would be possible to fetch up some horses and remove the guns. Nothing hurt an artilleryman more than the loss of their cannon, an event that cheered the successful foot soldier even more.

It would take a lot to cheer up the Catalans, even if they could see that their sacrifice had not been entirely in vain. For every redcoat casualty that Markham could see
to his rear there were a dozen in yellow, some bunched together in bloody clumps where one shell had taken its toll, their compatriots moving amongst them to lift and take in the wounded. Serota would be trying, he was sure, to send what remnants he had forward. But the time for that was past. Demoralised, out in the open, and at the mercy of cavalry, they wouldn’t be able to stand.

The idea of taking the guns was so tempting he was loath to let it go. Searching his mind, for a solution, he remembered that half his men were marines, all of whom must have worked the cannon on board
Hebe
at some time.

‘Halsey. How many of your Lobsters are trained gunners?’

‘Every man jack’s handled a piece at one time, sir. But there’s not a gun captain among us. It’s mostly hauling on ropes that we were set to.’

‘But you’ve seen them loaded and fired at close quarters?’

‘Aye,’ the corporal replied, guardedly.

‘Good.’

‘That don’t mean we can fire ’em.’

‘You’re going to have to learn. Can we get them turned round to face those cavalry?’

Halsey peered at the horsemen. ‘Not if they charge now.’

‘Stand by to spike them if they get into a gallop. If we’re forced to run we can tip them off their carriages as well, so get some men ready with axes to smash the wheels.’

‘What about a charge put in the supply of the powder?’ Halsey asked, slapping the caisson at the back of the limber.

Markham nodded, still keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the enemy. They’d sorted out their line and the officer, probably impatient to rescue his honour, raised his sword to order the advance. He had to do something to slow them down.

‘Rannoch, what are the odds on hitting the man waving the sword?’

The Highlander jumped up to join him, holding a
wetted
finger up to feel the wind. The change in his attitude to Markham was obvious. There was no scowling or insubordination now. ‘I can do it, maybe, if he comes on. But there is a breeze, and you know how that affects a Brown Bess.’

‘I want to stop him before they get into a canter.’

‘It is worth a try.’

Rannoch jumped down, pulling the base of the small metal tripod he’d used as makeshift scales from his pack. He rammed it into the loose earth that the French had built up at the rear of their emplacement. The second piece, inserted in the tube, was V shaped and spun easily on the main assembly. It was a neat way of turning an ordinary musket into something very like a swivel gun. He ignored the men working around him, heaving,
hauling
and cursing as they sought to reverse the cannon. Halsey had men standing by with powder, shot, water buckets, swabs and rammers, so that the cannon could be loaded as soon as they were in place. The French officer’s sword dropped, and the men behind him began to walk their horses. Rannoch, now lying down, wriggled to adjust his position.

‘It has to be now,’ said Markham softly.

He wriggled some more, as if his officer hadn’t spoken, stating quite clearly that he had no intention of being rushed. Markham watched as his hands manipulated both trigger guard and muzzle, saw him pull the brass butt of the stock tight into his shoulder. The French began to canter as his finger slowly squeezed the trigger.

It needed a strong man to pull on a musket trigger with just one finger, in such a way that the gun didn’t move off true aim. Rannoch was such a man, and with the tripod to help him he never wavered as the trigger came back. Suddenly the flintlock crashed forward, sending the spark
that lit the powder in the pan. The flash singed his hair, and left a black mark along his cheek. But that didn’t register. What did was the ball that took the French officer in the upper leg, knocking him sideways off his horse.

Leaderless, and not yet in a headlong charge, the rest of his men hauled on their reins and came to a confused halt, milling around in disorder as they tried to see where the shot had come from. Markham’s men had stopped work, and stood silent in the final few seconds. Several jaws, not least those of the Lobsters, dropped open when they saw what Rannoch had achieved. Most of them had never consciously hit anything they’d aimed at in their lives, certainly not at what looked to be over three
hundred
yards. Nor had Markham. He’d never really thought such a shot possible, even with a musket resting on a makeshift swivel.

‘Well done,’ he said, with deliberate understatement.

‘I was aiming at his bloody horse,’ Rannoch replied, slamming an angry fist into the ground.

Markham turned to the sweating marines. ‘Right, lads, let’s see if we can put some hot metal in amongst them.’

As they went to work he ordered Yelland back to Hanger and Serota, with instructions to tell them about the presence of the cavalry, and his desire to bring in the guns. ‘We have the limbers and the wheels; what we need are horses with enough wind to tow them. And impress upon Colonel Hanger that, even if we can keep the cavalry at bay, we only have an hour at most before we’re subjected to an infantry assault.’

‘Wine, for the sake of Christ,’ snarled Rannoch,
spitting
the liquid out of his mouth onto the packed earth. He held the straw-covered bottle up in disgust. ‘Do those damned heathens not know about God’s good water?’

‘There’s water in the butts,’ said Dymock, heaving alongside Halsey. ‘An’ it’s just right for Bullocks.’

Even under such exertions, that made the marines
laugh. Artillerymen commonly pissed in their swabbing butts, the contents of which were already covered with a thin film of burnt powder from the barrels of their guns.

‘This will serve,’ said Markham, dragging the flagon out of the sergeant’s hands and taking a swig. ‘When everybody’s had some, I want you to break a hole in that embankment facing the harbour, so that we can get these guns through.’

‘It is as dry as bone,’ Rannoch growled, kicking at it.

‘Just detail some men to do it, Sergeant,’ Markham said, handing him Frobisher’s small telescope. ‘And get your musket back on that tripod.’

‘Will I have your permission to fire at will?’

‘Fire at anything you think you can hit. Just try and stop those horses from charging.’

‘Tully,’ Rannoch shouted, ‘over here and load for me.’

‘Guns ready,’ said Halsey. Markham turned. The
marines
had removed their jackets, and each man had tied a bandana around his head and ears so that the noise would be muted. And they were looking at him, waiting for orders. The crack of Rannoch, firing off his first round, was the only thing to break the silence.

‘I know less about aiming artillery than I do about sailing a ship, Halsey. So I’ll leave the ranging to you. See if you can get those cavalry to retire beyond the Marseilles road.’

‘There is something stirring further back,’ shouted Rannoch, halfway through swapping muskets with Tully, his finger pointing to the long valley that led to Ollioules and Marseilles. ‘There. A big cloud of dust. Could it be infantry coming up on us?’

‘I daresay,’ replied Markham calmly, with a display of confidence he certainly didn’t feel. But his words were drowned out by the cannon going off. The balls were arcing through the air, clearly going nowhere near their intended target. Indeed they were more of a threat to the distant infantry than they were to the cavalry. His
response, eyes facing firmly forward, was deliberately laconic. ‘Down half a mile and right several hundred yards.’

His calm tone clearly needled Halsey, who, for the first time since they’d come ashore, allowed his discipline to crack, positively growling at him. ‘These ain’t naval
cannon
. They’re field pieces, and I ain’t never even seen their like a’fore.’

From where Markham was standing that was fairly obvious. So was the effect. The cavalrymen, who’d been milling about, sorted themselves out and began to
prepare
for a renewed assault.

‘Just do your best,’ he said quietly. ‘And hope that Yelland is a fast runner.’

The crack of Tully’s musket followed hard on those words, and Markham heard Rannoch curse a second time as he missed whatever it was he was aiming at. Looking back towards Toulon, above the heads of the men
hacking
at the embankment, he could see no evidence of any activity, no hint that Hanger was even interested in his progress. He’d half expected the man to ride forward once they’d taken the guns. Yet, on consideration, that would be the last thing he’d do. Markham dead would have had him spurring his horse in pleasure. Markham triumphant was a very different affair.

‘Sergeant sent you this, sir,’ said Tully, loudly, holding out his telescope, his pock-marked face split with a wide grin. ‘Says, with the Lobsters shooting the way they are, you need it more’n he does. Might aid you in discoverin’ where they land.’

Several of the marines swore at Tully, but Markham didn’t respond to them or the soldier, merely holding out his hand to take the telescope.

‘Any sign of help comin’?’ Tully asked softly.

‘None,’ he said, looking down. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve no intention of staying here for some useless sacrifice.’

‘The lads’ll be pleased to hear it, sir.’

‘Then make sure they do, Tully. And tell them to be ready to run like the devil if I give the order.’

Halsey’s next salvo, while a vast improvement, still didn’t trouble the cavalry. He looked at Markham to see if he was to be exposed to another jibe, his pasty face screwed up in anticipation, only to be greeted with a reassuring nod.

‘Better, corporal. Much better.’

Markham’s thoughts were elsewhere. Having got ready to begin their advance, he couldn’t understand why the cavalry were hesitating. Common sense told even the most foolish soldier that under an artillery barrage it was best to be moving, either forward or back. Rannoch took out one of the horses with his third musket ball, aided by the fact that they were in close order. Still, at the given range, some three hundred yards, it was remarkable shooting. Was it that, or an order from another source, which suddenly made them turn to the right and trot off? He watched them as they rode parallel to his position for a while, then observed the lead rider wheel round.

Putting the telescope to his eye, he looked beyond the dust-covered road. The infantry marching in his direction were clear now, men in such numbers that they would overwhelm his puny force in a single charge. With the cavalry on the southern flank, ready to cut across his line of retreat, the position, which had never been secure, was rapidly turning into a death trap.

‘Yelland coming,’ shouted Dornan, who was standing on the top of the earthworks. ‘On his bloody own, an’ all.’

It was true. The youngster was staggering with the effort of running, sucking in great gulps of air in an attempt to keep moving. The ground behind him was clear of everything but a few mendicant monks working among the Catalan wounded with neither infantryman nor horse in sight. The reasons for that troubled Markham, but not so much that he failed to concentrate
on the consequences. Those cavalry would come after them as soon as they moved. Out in the open, especially retreating, he was about to be exposed to the foot
soldier’s
greatest fear. Even in the broken terrain the horses would have the advantage over men who could not
present
to them any kind of solid front, able to pick off
individual
targets at will. But to stay still was even worse.

‘Halsey, one more salvo at maximum elevation, just to see if we can slow up the French column, then pack the guns with everything they will hold and hammer in the tampions. You men digging, stop at once and get these limbers alongside the cannon. Rannoch, once Halsey is ready to fire take your men back to a point halfway between here and the shoreline. Get into that broken ground and form a line facing south, bayonets fixed, and prepare to receive cavalry.’

There was more than a trace of the old Rannoch in the way he posed the obvious question. ‘And when they come?’

‘I will be there with you. The marines will retire to a point behind us. We’ll give them three rounds when they charge and run for it. Let’s just hope those sea service muskets the Lobsters have got are accurate enough to fire over our heads.’

‘Do you hear those words, Halsey,’ the Scotsman snapped, addressing the whole group of sweating
marines
. ‘If one of those balls of yours comes anywhere near me I will, by my own hand, stick my bayonet up your arse.’

Halsey’s pepper and salt hair had come undone, his face covered in perspiration. There was nothing bland about his manner now. He positively spat his reply. ‘Go drink your own piss, you tartan toerag.’