A Shred of Honour (26 page)

Hanger lost his temper then, bringing out into the open all the simmering resentment that existed between the Army and the Navy, which plagued every combined operation, not just this one.

‘Right! Are we to be dictated to by the ramblings of a popinjay who has no function here, that added to by a mere lieutenant? One, I might add, who can’t make up his mind which coat to wear or which way to face. Forget this damned Corsican. I am as inclined to attack as any
man alive, but only when the conditions warrant it. That rule does not apply here.’

‘You’re wrong, Colonel,’ said Sir Sydney, in the same calm voice he’d used throughout, though Hanger’s
deliberate
insult allowed him some umbrage. ‘If you fail to impede that damned Corsican, as you call him, you may well lose Toulon.’

‘While I don’t quite agree with Sir Sydney,’ said
Elphinstone
coldly, ‘I fear I may be obliged to pay him heed. We cannot just leave this fellow to do as he wishes. Judging by those two new positions he’s constructing either side of his present battery, they are nearly ready to be manned. And might I remind you that he has shown us already how dangerous it is for us to engage him with ships? He must be checked, if for no other reason than that the whole French effort must be discouraged. And I am prepared to pass on Sir Sydney’s opinions to Admiral Hood.’

That gave Mulgrave a problem. It was obvious that Hood, as one sailor to another, would back
Elphinstone
. It was a question of agreeing with grace, or being forced to do so by the overall commander-
in-chief
.

‘If you can achieve anything with the means at your disposal, you may attempt to capture the guns. But I stress, Lieutenant Markham, the means at your disposal.’

‘If I may say so, sir,’ Markham replied, with a
confidence
he didn’t feel, but which further infuriated Hanger, ‘I’m convinced that will work out for the best. I favour the idea of a night attack, one that avoids engaging his infantry, the sole object being the capture of the guns. If we don’t have to fire a shot, I would count that as a success.’

‘Sir,’ said Hanger.

Mulgrave, still looking at Markham, held up his hand to stop Hanger speaking. ‘How long will you need to prepare?’

‘I’d like to leave Bonaparte time to get all his guns into position. We should attack as soon as he does.’

The general then proved that he was not a complete fool, by the adroit way that he placed the responsibility, fairly and squarely where it lay. ‘Then I’m sure Captain Elphinstone will be happy to issue you with your orders.’

Augustus Hanger spurred his horse violently, hauling it round with a vicious tug on the bit, and departing in a cloud of dust.

There was plenty to prepare; bayonets to be sharpened, powder and shot to fetch from the arsenal, lengths of rope from the naval stores, food to make a hot meal and rum to stave off the chill night air and settle the nerves of those who feared to fight in the dark. And all the while Bonaparte continued to lob shells into the British
positions
from his forward battery, every so often losing a cannon and several of its crew to return fire. Rannoch busied himself manufacturing musket balls, detailing Halsey to fetch the things they needed, while their officer studied the terrain in minute detail, committing to
memory
every hummock and hill, and mapping out a route by which those cannon could be bodily hauled over the rough ground. The luxury of horses was denied to him, since he could not take the creatures close to the enemy lines and at the same time guarantee silence. One of them would be bound to snort or whinny, or crack its hoof on a stone, and alert the defenders.

He was annoyed when Admiral Gravina himself came out from Fort Mulgrave, followed by an entourage of splendidly clad officers, so numerous they wouldn’t have disgraced a king. Markham’s observation, delivered in a strained tone, that such a party might alert the French to the coming attack, was treated with icy disdain. That was returned when Colonel Serota asked Markham if he’d like help. He wanted nothing less. The Spanish soldiers were a product of their leaders; wretched, dispirited, unkempt and totally lacking in the kind of
esprit
de
corps
which would be required for success in the action he planned.

He made his way to the Fort de la Malgue to receive his orders, only to be informed that Elphinstone was dining with Colonel Hanger and Miss Gordon, the written instructions being passed to him by Driberg. The boy seemed changed, perhaps sharing some notion of how such an idea annoyed Markham. In fact Driberg seemed eager to engage him in conversation, hopping from foot to foot and uttering a stream of inconsequential chatter, clearly reluctant to let him depart.

‘That officer who came to the Fort Mulgrave today, the one with the star. Who was he?’

‘Sir Sydney Smith,’ replied Driberg, his spotty face screwing up with distaste. ‘He was in Smyrna on a mission for the Admiralty. He’s nicknamed “the Chevalier”. Thinks himself a dazzling sort, but it’s all show.’

‘Well, thank you for that,’ said Markham, turning to leave.

Driberg’s next words were blurted at his back. ‘They say Sir Sydney is very highly regarded at court. King George knighted him personally, even though the star he wears is a Swedish decoration. There’s lots more I can tell you about him – that is, if you have the time.’

Markham turned round slowly. ‘Is there something you want of me, Driberg?’

‘There is, sir,’ the youngster replied eagerly.

‘Well, what is it?’

Driberg, now blushing, pulled himself to attention. ‘I’d like permission to join you tonight, sir, and take part in the action Captain Elphinstone has ordered.’

‘Have you asked him?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Then I suggest that is your first task, Driberg.’

‘And if he agrees, sir?’

Markham smiled. ‘Then, provided you promise to cease your gabbling, I will take you with me.’

‘Thank you,’ he replied breathlessly.

‘Then you can tell Miss Lizzie Gordon you’ve been in a real battle.’

Driberg blushed again. Markham laughed out loud, knowing that he hit the target dead centre.

He found the Chevalier, telescope in hand, standing on the parapet just to the rear of the forward trenches, watching the French putting the last of their cannon in place. The sun, having dropped below the canopy of grey cloud that covered the sky, was sinking in the west, illuminating the whole landscape with a rich golden glow. It was also glinting off his bejewelled star and the
polished
hilt of his sword, flashing straight at the positions they were about to attack.

‘With respect, sir, can I request that you desist?’

The telescope didn’t move. ‘Why?’

‘I wish the enemy to see everything before them as normal.’

‘One officer taking a look will make no difference, Markham. They’d expect to be observed.’

‘That depends on how he is dressed, sir. With that star on, in this light, you look like half the general staff.’

‘Do I indeed,’ Smith replied, finally dropping the instrument and turning to face him. Oddly enough, he was smiling. ‘One must cut a dash, Lieutenant, or risk being overlooked.’

Markham suddenly realised that he’d been flattered by the remark, not offended. ‘It’s a handsome bauble, don’t you think, the Swedish Grand Military order of the Sword? I got it for saving Gustavus himself in an action against the Russians. Do you know the Baltic, Markham?’

He wasn’t sure why he shook his head, but he did.

‘I know it intimately. Indeed, I’d go so far as to say that any future service in that sea will depend on the
observations
I submitted to the Admiralty. The same will apply to the Turkish shore. That’s were I was when war broke
out. Damned annoying, Markham. I should have one of those ships out in the roadstead, and be advising Hood officially, instead of the fools he’s surrounded himself with.’

‘Why, that’s a great loss to him, I’m sure,’ Markham answered, with a degree of irony that Sir Sydney totally missed.

‘It’s worse than that. Reputations are being made here.’

‘I daresay the odd one might be dented.’

‘How right you are, Lieutenant. But not tonight, eh! What time do we move forward?’

‘We?’

‘I suggest that you take command of one section, to destroy one of the two new emplacements, while I lead the main party straight for Bonaparte’s guns.’

‘My orders say nothing about your participation, sir.’

‘Nor would they,’ he snorted. ‘Elphinstone would see me damned before he’d give me a chance of action. Fortunately, he’s not here.’

‘But I am, sir, and so is Midshipman Driberg, who is a protégé of the captain.’

Smith had the telescope to his eye again, though the sun had gone, leaving just a thin orange strip that glowed behind the western hills. ‘The day has yet to come when either lieutenants, or favoured midshipmen, tell Sir Sydney Smith what to do.’

‘With respect, sir, I have already singled out my own Hebes to attack the central gun position. I cannot countenance putting them under another officer.’

‘Even if it is a direct order?’

‘I would have to query that with a higher authority.’

‘You would do well not to make an enemy of me, Markham.’

‘Nevertheless, sir I’m prepared to risk that.’

Smith jumped down from the parapet and slapped him on the shoulder. For once the smile was genuine. ‘Damnit, Markham you’re a man after my own heart.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

The Chevalier missed the irony again. ‘I do hate supine officers, who only have the wit to do as they’re told. I never subscribed to that myself. I even had to remind Admiral Hood today that he didn’t have a monopoly on military wisdom.’

‘He must have been grateful for your advice, sir.’

‘He was. Damned grateful, and those were his very words.’

For all his bombast, the Chevalier listened patiently as Markham outlined the requirements of the operation. Nor did he insist on taking the ‘battery for men without fear’ himself. He even deferred to him as he gave Driberg equal prominence, allotting him half the Alcides and the task of taking the northern position, while Smith was given an equal number to attack the new emplacement to the south.

‘Absolute silence going forward,’ said Markham, as he distributed pieces of burnt cork so that his men could blacken their faces. ‘Take no equipment that you don’t need, belts and shoulder straps to be turned inside out. Remember, the object is to take the guns, failing that to spike them. If we can do that without even killing a Frenchman I’ll be happy.’

They’d have to sit it out in no man’s land, in the long winter night, till the first grey tinge of dawn, so close to the enemy that a cough could be fatal. At least the cloud cover was thick, with not a single star showing in the night sky. But the French campfires, which they’d use to hold their direction, were numerous, and an unwary movement might just reflect something which would alert the gun crews.

‘As soon as you see a hint of dawn, get into the emplacements and deal with the gunners. The men to attach the cables already know what to do. Leave them to their job and take station to the rear, ready to deter any counter-attack.’

He made light of the next part, as though it were a fairground game. That it would be fun to lash their
muskets
to the guns while under fire from the enemy; to grab the ropes and haul them out from their positions, an act which would, initially, take them closer to the French trenches. Once they were clear, they’d need to turn and run, dragging the heavy cannon over ground cratered by their own barrage, through an arc of crossfire that they’d already experienced that day, their only advantage the fact that the French gunners would be kicked from their slumbers to man their weapons; that they would do here something he had considered ill-advised at Bregaillon, with only the darkness making the difference.

‘Speed and silence, those are the key elements. As soon as we’re spotted, the batteries from Fort Mulgrave will open up to give us covering fire.’ He paused for a moment, looking into eyes that were full of questions. But there was really only one that mattered: who would live and who would die. ‘Corporal Halsey, a tot of rum all round.’

Driberg was shivering, even after the tot of rum, something he tried to control as Markham moved close.

‘Have you eaten, Driberg?’

‘I had some of the food left over from Captain Elphinstone’s dinner, sir.’

‘I find it hard to believe he entertained Hanger, especially after what transpired this morning.’

‘It wasn’t him, sir,’ Driberg replied, the bitterness very evident in his voice. ‘It was his niece.’

‘Well, well,’ Markham said, feeling the response inadequate.

‘She surely can’t admire him, sir.’

Markham remembered the day he’d met Lizzie Gordon; Driberg’s eagerness, Hanger’s rudeness and the lady herself observing that her late travelling companion was ‘exceedingly rich’.

‘Is she an heiress?’

‘Lord no, sir. Her relationship to the ducal Gordons is very tenuous, a cadet branch at best. Were she in line for a fortune, it would be crass indeed to pay her my respects.’

‘You admire her that much?’ Markham asked, hiding the smile that threatened to crease his face.

‘She has responded to me very warmly, sir,’ he said, in a voice that conveyed, as it dropped into deep gloom, the exact opposite, ‘obliging me in the many small courtesies that lead me to believe my attentions are not entirely unwelcome.’

Markham could imagine her being kind to the blushing, spotty-faced mid, but the idea of forming an attraction towards him was risible to everyone but Driberg himself. He’d been there himself, suffered just as Driberg was suffering now, and knew that to say he’d get over it would achieve nothing.

‘She can’t marry him, sir, can she?’

‘Not when she hears how you have behaved tonight, Driberg.’

‘Yes, sir,’ he replied breathlessly, all his optimism suddenly restored, which made Markham uncomfortable.

The move forward had gone well, better than Markham could have anticipated. He’d not heard any sort of sound that would carry, and he supposed that his men, like himself, were kept silent by fear rather than ability. The looming bulk of the emplacement, where he’d stood the day before listening to Captain Bonaparte, told him he was close. He stopped, turning and putting up his hand to prevent Rannoch bumping into him.

‘Tally off the men,’ he whispered.

So close, eyes straining forward in the darkness, he could hear the whispers as the Highlander reminded the Hebes of their orders. ‘Halsey, eighteen paces, Yelland sixteen paces, Tully fourteen. Hollick twelve, Dymock ten, Gibbons eight, Quinlan six, Ettrick four.’

The commands were repeated, the eight men following sent in the opposite direction. The last pair, Dornan and Schutte, carrying the thick ropes around their bodies, were set either side of Rannoch and Markham. The earth was cold, and as the night progressed the temperature dropped. Forced to leave their greatcoats behind for the sake of speed, the men shivered in silence. Markham had left it as late as he could, well aware that too long an exposure to the cold night air and his men would be incapable of walking, let alone running. But he’d had to leave enough time to ensure he could get them in place, which, he reckoned, left about another hour. The whoosh of the flares streaking through the black sky completely changed that.

They seemed to explode right above his head, a dozen blue lights that bathed the whole landscape. The grey, crouching lumps of men’s bodies were starkly
illuminated
, as was the mound of earth right before them. The cloud cover, which had given protection, now acted as a reflecting screen to the flares, multiplying their effect to a disastrous degree. The French sentries were suddenly wide awake, the first wild musket shots being fired off to discourage whatever it was the perfidious British had planned.

‘Move forward,’ he shouted, leaping himself for the dubious shelter of the gun emplacement. Some followed, others didn’t, frozen like rabbits. The first heads appeared over the parapet of the gun position, bayonetted muskets thrust forward ready to fire. Those who moved fared best, by increasing the angle at which the muskets were forced to discharge. Those who stayed, now crouched like crows feeding in a newly sown field, took the brunt of the enemy fire. Markham, who’d intended to keep his head down, was forced to scramble up the slope in an attempt to disrupt the enemy. He’d just reached the very edge of the embankment when a hand grabbed his collar and hauled him back.

‘We have got to run,’ gasped Rannoch, ‘or we will be butchered.’

Markham had ended up in a heap, right back where he’d started at the bottom of the mound, with Rannoch now trying to help him up in the last dying flickers of blue lights.