A Shred of Honour (15 page)

‘Form the men up, Sergeant,’ Markham snapped, seeing Rannoch’s fists begin to close. ‘At the double.’

That earned him a portion of the glare which had been aimed at Halsey. But he obeyed; the whole area was now
a mass of frantic activity. Halsey let fly with his last attempt, achieving more with that than any previous salvo. It didn’t reach the French column, which looked to be over a thousand strong, but it did hit the road ahead of them. As soon as the guns were clear he got busy, he and the other team shoving charge after charge into the
cannon
, with Halsey rubbing earth over a metal sphere. Once it was full he jammed the dirt-covered ball in the barrel, followed by the tampion. He then grabbed a hammer and started to swipe at that, ramming it home, as hard as he could, into the muzzle. Gibbons was poking a long piece of slowmatch into the touchhole, the entire operation being duplicated on the second gun. Others, mysteriously to Markham, were emptying the brackish water butts onto twin sections of loose earth right before the cannon, and jabbing at the darkened earth to break it up.

‘When you’re ready, Corporal.’

‘Not yet, sir,’ Halsey croaked, reversing the angle on the elevating screw so that the cannon now pointed down towards the ground. He called for a solid heave and the marines ran the guns forward so that their muzzles smashed into the wet, softened earth, adding another seal to the already blocked cannon.

‘On your way, Rannoch.’

The sergeant yelled for his men to follow and headed up over the remaining earthworks. Markham swung his telescope to take in the cavalry, watched as they reacted very swiftly to this development, swinging round and breaking into an immediate trot as they saw the redcoats retreating. Halsey and his men were struggling into their coats, grabbing their weapons, and forming up. The
dishevelled
corporal came up to him, a spluttering piece of burning slowmatch in his hand.

‘The honour is yours, sir.’

‘Thank you, Halsey. Get your men out of here.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he replied, tugging at his shoulder straps.

When the last man was gone, Markham dropped the
smoking twine to the piece protruding from the first gun. As soon as that took he moved to the second, watching as that spluttered into life with a kind of deadly fascination. Jerking himself out of such a suicidal reverie, he quickly fired the fuses to the caissons, leapt up onto the top of the embankment and ran.

Needing to keep an eye on the cavalry, he also had to be careful where he put his feet, even on this, the smoothest part of the ground. Any kind of serious fall would be fatal. Ahead, Rannoch was beginning to form up the men, shouting at them as he shoved them into position.

Even with everything occupying his mind, he had room to wonder at the sergeant’s ability. Ever since they’d commenced the attack he had been like a rock Markham could lean on. The assumption that he’d been assigned to service at sea because he was useless as a soldier was plainly erroneous, just as wrong as the notion that he was a sergeant merely because of his physical prowess.
Judging
by what had happened this day, he held his stripes deservedly, and was a man any colonel, in any line
regiment
, would want to hold on to. So why was he here?

He responded to the shouted warning immediately, though the sweat running into his eyes made it difficult to see. Two of the swifter cavalrymen had detached
themselve
s
from the mass and turned to intercept him, using the smooth rising pasture to speed their passage. The next few moments were spent in an agony of suspense. He was running as fast as he could, but aware that his lungs, never mind his legs, were past the point of
maximum
speed. At the same time he was trying to calculate the relative distances, the shortening one between him and the line of redcoats, as compared to the more rapidly closing gap to the horsemen.

Suddenly he knew he wouldn’t make it, so his decision to stop running made sense to him. That it didn’t to the men of the 65th Foot was obvious by the yells of
encouragement
that floated across the hot dusty landscape.
But that was being drowned out by thudding hooves, and he turned, his first vision the great bursts of dust being thrown up as each equine foot struck the earth. Markham pulled out pistol and sword, keeping the latter in his left hand while he aimed the former at the leading
cavalryman
. A standard sea service affair, it was famous for being useless at anything other than point-blank range. But he couldn’t wait. He needed time to transfer his sword and prepare to defend himself. So he blazed off more in hope than expectation, disappointed despite himself that it had no effect.

The gun was cast aside and his sword was in his hand, a slight fumble making the whole action too slow. Again time changed its dimension, slowing so that every feature, every move, had an astonishing clarity. The flaring
nostrils
and the foam round the horse’s curb chain were so close he felt he could reach out and touch them. He could see the moustachioed face of his first opponent, the eyes and mouth wide open with anticipation.

That light of battle, of approaching success, died as the ball took him, slamming him sideways and forwards across the withers of his mount. Markham scrambled to the left, narrowly avoiding the horse’s shoulder as the animal swerved. There was no time to see if the rider was alive or dead. The second horseman was upon him, and only a frantic slice with his sword deflected the sabre from his exposed chest. He slashed as the cavalryman went by, cursing as the point of his blade missed the man’s back. The Frenchman hauled on his reins to bring the beast round, so Markham went after him, catching his opponent before he swung through more than a quarter of his turn.

The sabre slashed down viciously, narrowly missing Markham’s head. His sword was jabbed into the horse’s flank, which caused it to rear, reducing the rider’s control and balance. He thrust forward again, luck helping him to push his weapon up under his opponent’s arm. The
wound he inflicted wasn’t deep enough to do more than gash the skin, but in trying to avoid it the horseman slipped out of his stirrups, one foot waving close to Markham’s ear. He cut hard, sweeping upwards, the sharp blade going right through the leather of the boot, in through the flesh, to crash against the leg bone. The impetus added by this blow tipped the horseman right out of his saddle. He’d have been safe still if his horse hadn’t spun, exposing his unprotected back. Markham put all his body weight behind the thrust, producing enough effort to take the blade through almost to the hilt.

The falling horseman landed right on him, knocking him to the ground, with his animal’s hooves rising and falling dangerously close. Vaguely, over the mass of sounds around him, he heard, in the background, the staggered fire of ill-disciplined musketry. Struggling hard, he managed to get the man’s dead weight off his chest, and with several heaves he got his sword clear. In his death agony, the Frenchman still held the horse’s reins, clutched tightly in one clenched fist. Markham grabbed them as he cut at the wrist, releasing the fingers. The animal, terrified, spun round in a tight circle as he sought to mount it, flecking his uniform with foam from the mass that covered his mouth.

Markham, like every Irishman, knew his horses, and having seen action with Russian Cossacks, had learned even more. He punched the animal, as hard as he could, on the nose. As it stopped in shock, he jumped without any sure knowledge of success, just hoping to get enough of his body weight over the saddle to stay on board. The animal bucked as it felt him press down, jumped in panic so that his search for one stirrup seemed doomed.
Suddenly
, instead of hauling on the reins, he let them loose, pressed his knees together and the horse took off.
Galloping
, it was a steadier platform than when bucking, which allowed him to get his feet in the stirrups. With the reins
tightened to pull on the bit, he began to feel that he could, at last, exert some measure of control.

That evaporated as soon as he lifted his eyes. He found himself charging straight for a disordered group of French cavalry. To his left, Rannoch was retiring fast,
yelling
furiously at the men, keeping their bayonets pointed towards the enemy so that they couldn’t mount an
overwhelming
attack. Markham heard him shout and the
redcoats
broke and ran. As soon as they did Halsey opened up, firing over their heads, hoping that the higher
elevation
of the horsemen would provide him with a target.

But all such thoughts had to be put aside as his mount’s forward motion took him right in past the enemy flank, several of their number spinning to engage him. Slipping the reins into one hand he slowed the horse, knowing that the animal could not be made to perform properly at anything like his present pace. But it was a cavalry mount, trained to battle, and he deliberately took it close in to the enemy, relieved that when he sent the right signals with reins and body, it skipped sideways.

The move was no more than six inches, but it took him, by a fraction, out of the reach of the first sabre slash, while his forward motion allowed him a swing of his sword that deflected a second. Now he had the enemy both in front and behind him. Reins centred, pulling hard while standing in the stirrups, he got the animal spinning round and round, his sword flashing to keep men out of his orbit. Then, dropping back into the saddle, he jabbed again, this time with both knees together, pleased in spite of the danger with the way the animal reacted. It shot forward, the rider now over its neck, egged on by his growling encouragement and the slap of his sword blade on its hind quarters, which took him clear of those
surrounding
him at a full gallop.

The gap between them opened swiftly, and he found himself overtaking his own soldiers before the ground, getting steeper and rockier, forced him to slow. He also
came under fire from Halsey’s marines, and it was only luck that saved him from falling to his own side. Rannoch had already arrived and began to form his men up, yelling furiously at the numerous stragglers. Slewing to a halt just in front of the marines, Markham slid off the horse, slapping its rump to send it on at the same time as his feet hit the ground. Then he ran to the right of the line, and took charge of the firing. After one round the French wheeled away, the right thing to do considering that the ground precluded attacking at anything other than walking pace.

Just as they began to withdraw, the first cannon went off. Earth, along with pieces of wood and metal filled the air. The second gun went straight after, setting off the caissons full of powder. A huge plume of dust rose up, and as it settled, the emplacements for the Batterie de Bregaillon completely disappeared.

Hanger, faced with an inquisitive superior, looked a lot less assured than he sounded. ‘Colonel Serota and I both agreed the attack was essential. Indeed he insisted, and since he was prepared to back his judgment with a whole regiment of Catalan infantry, I could hardly refuse him an additional thirty men.’

‘The cost was high,’ said Mulgrave, ‘especially amongst those same Catalans. What were our losses again, Lieutenant?’

‘Remarkably light, sir, considering.’ Markham
wondered
if he was replying to a question designed to embarrass Hanger, since the answer was in his report on Mulgrave’s desk. ‘Three dead, a dozen wounded, two of whom will most certainly not survive. Half the others will be invalided out.’

Hanger flushed slightly. ‘If the French had been left in peace they would have pushed forward to a position which would have threatened Malbousquet, the redoubt now building at La Seyne, as well as the anchorage.’

Lord Mulgrave was small, with an air of tight control about the way he maintained his features, an image heightened by the bright eyes and tight white wig; the way his skin showed every bone, and the close-fitting nature of his uniform. A hero of the American war, he wore the bronze medal struck for his success at
Germantown
. There, surprised by General Washington, he had repulsed an attack in the fog that, if successful, could have jeopardised the whole British position in America.

To Markham that meant two things; that he was a
proper career soldier, and that having served in the former colonies, he might know all about the man who, having finished his report, had stepped back to allow Hanger his say. He wondered if he needed that tight control now; was curious to know if Mulgrave had any inkling that what Hanger was telling him was utter nonsense. If he did, it wasn’t to be allowed to show. He listened with the same air of concentration he had shown to Markham himself.

‘We felt the need to teach them a lesson, sir,’ Hanger continued, ‘and we succeeded. As to Lieutenant Markham’s decision to withdraw, without specific orders, I have already given you my opinion on that. If you wish, I’m more than happy to repeat it.’

‘That won’t be necessary, Colonel,’ Mulgrave replied.

It wouldn’t be a flattering one, that was certain, otherwise why make any observation at all? And it made little difference. There wasn’t much that Mulgrave could say, even if he did consider the action rash. He could hardly castigate Hanger for agreeing to attack the enemy, that being the very stuff of the zealous warrior. Nor could he question the fact that he hadn’t taken part. Staff officers weren’t supposed to get themselves killed in search of glory. To admonish him would imply a degree of displeasure which, of necessity, must include Serota, impacting on his already strained relations with the
Spaniards
. After a full minute, with Mulgrave drumming his fingers on the desktop, and occasionally stroking the bronze medal, he finally spoke.

‘It’s fair to say that while the action wasn’t perfect, in either conception or execution, it will serve to encourage the rest of the garrison. A little bit of offensive spirit is to be admired. Lieutenant Markham, you must be weary. I suggest you return to your billet and get some rest and refreshments.’

‘Sir,’ Markham came to attention. Mulgrave had decided to sit on the fence which, if it showed a lack of leadership, was at least common sense.

‘That Hollander I took into custody,’ said Hanger, glaring at Markham. ‘I suggest that the drop is a fitting punishment. Done publicly, it will serve as another lesson to the garrison.’

Markham felt his hackles rise. Hanger had arrested Schutte, whom he’d found wandering amongst the
shattered
Spaniards, without even an acknowledgement that he was his responsibility. The idea of this man
demanding
that the Dutchman face the noose was anathema. He screwed his face up, looking perplexed.

‘Punishment, sir?’

‘Damned coward refused to go forward,’ Hanger growled, looking at Mulgrave, ‘which I think you’ll agree qualifies him for the Tyburn tippet.’

‘He obeyed the orders I gave him, sir.’

‘What orders?’

‘To stay to the rear and look to the wounded. Had you hung around long enough, or even risked riding within musket range, you might have noticed that I lost several men to enemy fire.’

Hanger opened his mouth to shout at Markham, but Mulgrave, quiet and controlled as ever, beat him to it. And in doing so, made it perfectly plain that he’d not been fooled either by Hanger’s explanations of the day’s events, or Markham’s sudden inspiration regarding his orders.

‘He is your problem, Lieutenant, and will only become mine if you choose to draw my attention to it. Now,
Colonel
Hanger and I have other matters to discuss, so I bid you good day.’

Mulgrave continued speaking to Hanger as Markham exited. As he began to close the door he heard the
opening
remarks, which slowed his actions considerably. ‘It requires someone of your standing to go to Genoa and Piedmont. I’ll not have the tars fetching in all our reinforcements. God knows, after today we need them badly. Those blue-coated bastards are unbearable
enough. Never did like working with the Navy. The salt gets into their skulls and rots their brains.’

‘What brains?’ demanded Hanger.

Markham heard Mulgrave laugh as he finally closed the door.

Schutte was languishing in the guardhouse, a
well-constructed
affair set into the walls of Fort de la Malgue, right beside the main gate. Clearly the previous
incumbents
, the commanding admirals of Toulon, with
thousands
of sailors to man the fleet, had need of such a place. Markham had a look at him through the peephole, before ordering the guard to unbolt the door. The Dutchman looked up tentatively as it swung open, his pale blue eyes wide with fear. Markham entered and stood silently, waiting for the marine to stand up. This came slowly, almost reluctantly, like a last act of
surrender
that he wanted to save. But eventually he was on his feet. Still Markham waited, until the Hollander came to attention.

‘Guard. Return the sergeant’s equipment to him.’

Schutte’s eyes, which had been looking above his head, dropped suddenly, betraying a mixture of hope and
confusion
as he looked at the officer before him. Markham stood to one side, revealing the open door.

‘Move. I haven’t got all day.’

The hesitation was caused by disbelief, and it was short. Schutte practically ran out of the cell.

‘I need him signed for, sir,’ said the guard.

‘Of course.’

They were out of the gates before Markham spoke, pushing his way along through the teeming alleyways between the numerous works and warehouses of the
Toulon
dockyard, and that was to tell Schutte that he was no longer a sergeant. There was no activity in the area they were crossing, only knots of men standing around
talking
, groups who would cease speaking when the redcoats
got close. The dockyard workers and French sailors, though not prepared to express support for the
Revolution
, could not be persuaded to undertake repairs or
victual
ships that might be stolen by the British. Emerging on to the more open area of the Vieille Darse, Markham spoke again, deciding that before they re-entered the
billet
, Schutte should know why he had behaved as he did. But first he told him about the action.

‘That colonel wanted to hang you, and he was right to think like that. Don’t get the notion that I’ve saved you out of any finer feelings. I’ve done it because the men performed well today, better than I could have hoped. I’ll not have that sullied by your disgrace.’ He stopped about a hundred yards from the door to the Picard warehouse, forcing the huge Dutchman to do likewise. ‘One more mistake, a single piece of insubordination, and I’ll hand you back to Hanger, to do with what he will.’

The look on Schutte’s face angered him. The man, it appeared, wasn’t even listening to what he was saying, more interested in what was happening over his shoulder than the threat he was delivering. When his huge hand shot out, Markham ducked, cursing himself for a fool. But Schutte didn’t punch him, and the guttural cry that he emitted was designed to concentrate his attention. Markham spun round, following the Dutchman’s finger. The glimpse he got of the bottle-green coat and the shocked, levantine face was fleeting, but enough. He was running before his quarry disappeared, chasing the man into the alley from which he’d just emerged, wondering what Fouquert, who risked certain death if he was
recognised
, was doing in Toulon.

Schutte was right on his heels, his feet pounding hard on the cobbled
pavé
, as the two of them sped from the bright sunlit quay into the narrow, dark space between the warehouses. Markham saw Fouquert’s heels as the Frenchman ducked to the left, taking another one of the
alleys that formed a labyrinth behind the main buildings on the waterfront.

Markham’s voice echoed off the walls as he shouted to Schutte. ‘Go straight on to the road that runs to the rear of the Picard house. See if you can spot him trying to get across it.’

He was still talking as he turned left. Schutte ran on, his heavy footsteps fading till all Markham could hear was his own. The alley he was in, high walls broken by an occasional doorway, ran for some distance straight ahead, and it was empty. There was no way that Fouquert could have opened up such a gap. So when it swung to the left, he followed it round, and ran full tilt into a bent figure, carrying a huge covered bundle on his back,
sending
him flying. He spun backwards, emitting a terrified scream, and calling on every saint in the canon to come to his aid.

Markham grabbed one of his hands and hauled him to his feet, ignoring the pleas which had turned to curses, looking back the way he’d come. Fouquert could no more have got past this fellow than him, yet he hadn’t gone straight on. Retracing his steps slowly, with curses still ringing in his ears, he tested every door he passed. None yielded to his efforts, yet the Frenchman must have used one of these to escape. Unless, that is, he’d suddenly sprouted wings.

He knew that a return to the quayside was probably futile, but he made it anyway, searching the milling crowd for any sign of Fouquert’s dark green coat. Schutte, hatless, standing head and shoulder above the crowd, appeared several hundred yards ahead. Markham stood on a bollard, so that the Dutchman could see him. The shake of the great bald head told him that he had also failed. Markham signalled that the Hollander should stay put, and walking towards him peered into every open doorway he passed.

The futility of what he was doing was soon apparent.
Each warehouse was half full of chandler’s goods, barrels and boxes, bales and great wynds of hempen rope. If he wanted to search them he’d need to call out all his men, and for what? Just to catch a committed Republican in a city that was probably awash with them. If he was here now, then it would be to visit Jacobin sympathisers. That meant he had a secure way through the lines, a fact that those in command would want to know. He turned round when he reached Schutte, and gave each doorway another inspection, unwilling just to let it go. But common sense told him that Fouquert could be anywhere by now; that if he had found a way into the rear of one of these
warehouses
, then he could have exited at the front and got lost in the crowd long before Markham returned to the quayside.

‘Schutte. Back to the Fort de la Malgue. Get a message to Elphinstone. Tell them who we saw, what happened, and where.’

Schutte nodded curtly then hurried off along the quay. Markham watched his broad back, wondering if he’d ever see it again, all the while knowing that if Schutte harboured any desire to desert, he’d rather have him go now than at some critical juncture which might threaten other men’s lives.

A few minutes later he entered the Picard house. The owner was, once more, complaining about his men
lighting
a fire in his warehouse. But this time his reaction was different. Instead of sympathy, Picard got short shrift. Lieutenant George Markham knew, even if Sergeant Rannoch hadn’t told him so, that one of the musket balls produced from that glowing brazier had, that very
afternoon
, killed that first cavalryman and saved his life.

It was also pleasant, later on, to hear that Schutte had returned, to be greeted, in silence, by the men he’d once led. And Rannoch, sensibly, made sure that none of the Bullocks took the opportunity to make jokes about the Lobsters. The Highlander had heard his conversation
with Picard, and without comprehending the words, knew that his officer had taken the side of his men. That, when Markham gave him his orders for the following day, earned a smile, if not an acknowledgement of his status. He also accepted that he and Halsey would keep their respective ranks.

‘Permission to issue an extra tot of rum?’

‘By all means, Sergeant.’

‘What a pleasure, Lieutenant to finally have you share our table. I have to say that it is something that I’d anticipated happening before this. After all, we have been here for nearly a month.’

Markham, weary, had tried to get out of the invitation, but he’d refused so many that another ‘no’ seemed
churlish
. Eveline, despite the presence of her father, had come very close to him, adding a plea for him to attend, laying a pressing hand on his arm that sent a restorative thrill of pleasure through his entire body. She was wearing a loose dress of shimmering silk, which, advisable on such a warm, humid day, did little to conceal her figure. Markham would have pulled her closer still, if her father hadn’t been standing right beside them.

So, despite being exhausted from the day’s efforts, he accepted, changed into the marine uniform once more, and was now describing the attack on the battery in terms that made it sound like a matter of no importance,
praising
his men and the way that they’d behaved. But as he spoke, he was mentally replaying the events of the battle for those guns. Only now, with time to reflect, did he begin to understand just how lucky he had been.