A Shred of Honour (24 page)

‘I see no purpose in exposing you, monsieur.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ said Rossignol, as Markham turned to leave. ‘I will be forever in your debt.’

‘What are those stupid sods about?’ said Tully, the arm emerging from his stolen cloak pointing to the field piece being hauled, by hand, onto the open ground, well to the fore of the other French emplacements. The officer in front, small and slim, was looking towards the British lines, as if defying them to react.

‘Perhaps he wants to hawk it,’ Halsey replied,
indicating
the cloak, which Tully had acquired one day after a visit to a whorehouse. ‘In which case he’s come to the right spot. He must know this ditch we’re in is full of villains who’d trade with the devil hisself. Best double back and fetch Rannoch.’

Tully shivered. ‘Ain’t that a job for a Lobster?’

‘Don’t fuck me about,’ said Halsey wearily, realising that Tully was grinning. ‘Just do as you’re told, there’s a good lad.’

Markham, just returned from the Picard house, came forward with Rannoch. By that time the cannon was set up, the men who had hauled it into place now working furiously to construct defences. Behind him Fort Mulgrave lay atop the Hill of Caire, with his positions in the trench line on the forward slopes. The French were dug in on another incline opposite, the floor of a shallow valley marking no man’s land. It was into this exposed position that the gun had been manhandled. Enough fascines had been erected in front to deal with musket balls. Now they were shovelling hard to throw up the kind of revetted earthworks that would provide effective protection against counter-battery fire.

‘That’s a crazy place for a field gun,’ said Markham, his gaze sweeping round to take in the positions to his rear, the deep bays both north and south, including the pontoons with mortars. Those in the north supported both Mulgrave and the Spanish position at La Seyne. Others lay close to the southern bay, to protect that flank, as well as the narrow, fortified bottleneck that led to the St Mandrian peninsula.

General opinion held that whoever was in charge of the guns opposite Mulgrave, already spiked once, had made several odd decisions, sighting emplacements that did little to threaten the garrison. One in particular, the Batterie des Sablettes, halfway between Markham’s trench line and the southern peninsula, could hardly be brought to bear effectively on either position. It was therefore useless. But this one was the strangest of the lot.

‘They can’t avoid being caught in a crossfire.’

Rannoch nodded in agreement. But what bothered him most was. the fact that the elevated muzzle was pointed straight at their position. A low charge and a short fuse could produce a shell which would explode right above their heads.

‘I think they are getting ready to let fly with a round,’ he said. ‘It might be shrapnel.’

‘Everybody down,’ yelled Markham, jumping into the trench. The boom of the cannon followed within a
second
. But it wasn’t case shot. It was a shell, and it came nowhere near them. Every head lifted and turned as it arced over their position. They stood up to follow its path as, clear against the pale blue winter sky, it carried on to land on the main works of Fort Mulgrave. The shell struck one of the casernes near the northern wall, then exploded, sending up a great cloud of dust.

‘Reloading,’ murmured Halsey, who’d kept his eye on the gun. ‘They seem a sharp bunch, even if they’re as thick as pig shit.’

‘This is all wrong,’ said Markham, almost to himself.
Fort Mulgrave was strong enough by itself to warrant caution, but the shape of the land that projected out into the harbour like the head and beak of a bird allowed naval guns to operate, which made what they were about suicidal. Yet the calm behaviour of the French officer engendered a nagging suspicion that, although it might look like stupidity, it was exactly the opposite.

‘He’d best be off, sir,’ Halsey said, pointing out to the south. One of the bomb ketches, with a pair of mortars aboard, was using its sweeps to get into a firing position. ‘They’s got about ten minutes before our lot put a ball right down their gullet. Even if they’re full of rum they can hardly miss.’

The French field piece, which looked like a
twelve-pounder
, boomed out again, sending a second shell into the defences. Markham was wondering if he should form up, ignoring the dangers of mounting an impromptu attack. But that might just send the French artillerymen scurrying back to their original emplacement.

‘Jesus Christ, they’re fetching out another one,’ said Yelland, pointing to the left.

It was true. Hunched soldiers, pulling on long, thick ropes lashed to the trunnions, raced forward in a long arc that left the muzzle of another cannon facing the British lines. As soon as they reached their position they slewed to a halt, the gunners following up to detach their ropes. Those who’d hauled now set to work, in a carbon copy of the original, laying defences to protect the guns. Legs straining, the sweating gunners manhandled the second heavy field piece into place alongside the first cannon, which fired its third shell as a greeting.

‘On your feet,’ called Markham. ‘And fix bayonets.’

‘Our guns will be at it in a minute, sir,’ said Rannoch.

‘If we attack now, there are no defences. We’ll
concentrate
on the second gun. Who knows, maybe we can take it before it gets to fire a round.’

‘Form yourselves up,’ shouted Rannoch, waving his
arms to hurry all eighty men out of the trench. The Frenchmen appeared on the opposite slope as soon as they did, twice their number and equally ready with their bayonets. The diminutive artillery officer, still standing before the newly-dug earthworks, was using a small
telescope
, ranging it along the line of redcoats.

‘Ten paces forward,’ Markham said quietly. ‘Let’s see what they do.’

As soon as Rannoch relayed the order, and the men started to advance, the French did likewise, the sun gleaming off their weaponry. When the British stopped, so did the enemy. The message was plain. If you attack, so will we, but if you stay still then we will do likewise. The boom of the British guns came to their ears just as the first ranging shot swished overhead. They hit a point just between the French defences and the rogue battery, sending a great clod of brown earth high into the sky.

‘Yelland, take my watch. Get back to the officer on those guns. Ask for a full salvo just short of the French line in ten minutes. Until then, keep his cannon ranging to fool the enemy. Rannoch, we’re going to try and draw the Frogs out, far enough from their own defences to be at the mercy of our artillery.’

‘Sir.’

It was like the kind of game a child might play on a table with toy soldiers. The British would move forward a few feet, matched by the enemy infantry, while the first French cannon kept up a steady fire, and the second was trundled into place some twenty metres to the right, men shovelling earth into the empty cane fascines that they’d laid along the front of the position. Meanwhile single shots would come over Markham’s head as each gun behind him sought to fix its range. Earth flew up about the French position, though none was close enough to cause real damage. Then the entire artillery section opened up, the great boom sending Shockwaves through the air. Markham twirled his sword above his head and,
praying that the guns of Fort Mulgrave were accurate, ordered the advance.

The French were running within seconds, desperate to get out of the arc of deadly fire that was beginning to rain down on them. It was almost as if their officer had heard his instructions to Yelland and taken precautions to thwart them. Smoke and dust rose to obscure the churned-up ground in between the two sets of defences. But when it cleared, Markham could see, quite plainly, that the French infantry had retreated unscathed, while the guns were still in place. So was the diminutive officer who’d led them out into their present position.

With no infantry to oppose them, and his own artillery now silent, taking those field pieces looked easy. Yet Markham, shouting to keep the line intact, was troubled. There was no sign of any extra activity around the
battery
, which were being reloaded without haste. Stranger still, the small officer in command was making no attempt to alter their range or elevation, behaving as if the advancing British infantry posed no threat. And the French soldiers had stayed in their trenches.

‘Halt!’ he screamed, a yell that was taken up by both Rannoch and Halsey. It seemed to take an age before every man could be brought to obey, during which he examined the horizon through his telescope. The silence was unnatural, the position ridiculous, with his men strung out in two files across a hundred yards of
churned-up
earth. He wouldn’t have seen the other new battery position if it had not been right in the centre of his glass when it fired. The flashes highlighted the position long before he heard the boom, which gave him just enough time to order a retreat. Taking their cue from their officer, the men didn’t fall back in a disciplined line, they ran.

That halt, the swift order to fall back and the speed with which it was executed, saved them from the mincer of two well-directed artillery salvoes. They landed right above the terrain they’d have covered had they continued,
the case shot bursting open to shower the ground with hundreds of small deadly balls. As an extra sign of determined defiance, both the forward cannon opened up, sending another two shells streaming into Fort Mulgrave.

‘Saucy bastard,’ said Rannoch, as he dropped back into their trench, his chest heaving. Then he looked at his officer, his flushed face a measure of the slight
embarrassment
caused by using that word.

‘A bastard with a death wish, I think,’ Markham replied.

He indicated the bomb ketch now in place, with its anchors out, the ropes used as springs to get the vessel into its final position. The officer commanding the British artillery had seen them fall back. Now every gun the British could muster fired on the French position. The whole area for a hundred yards around was clobbered, and while the last of the dust was high in the sky it was bombarded again. Yet when the earth settled back to a thin haze, Markham could see that nothing had changed. Meanwhile the main French batteries, heavy siege pieces, joined the action, pounding Fort Mulgrave, which of necessity distracted the Allied gunners, forcing them to use some of their own cannon in defence. But the
mortars
, firing from their floating platform, were now ready to play on the original target.

Yet still the Frenchman didn’t withdraw. Then the
cannon
from the Batterie de Sablettes opened up, and it was only when they hit the calm waters of the bay, their target those very same floating mortars, that the sailors realised the danger they were in. Sablettes, which had looked
useless
, was now revealed as deadly efficient. The first salvo straddled the ketch, sending up massive founts of water ahead and astern. Through his telescope Markham could see several of the men aboard frantically chopping at the anchor cables while the rest manned the sweeps.

They were too late; the following shots struck the hull
with a resounding crash that echoed across the whole landscape. No shells this time, but red-hot balls of solid iron that embedded themselves in the thick hull, and immediately set light to the timbers. The ketch, now freed, drifted away from the shore, the men aboard
frantic
as they fought the blaze which threatened to engulf the ship.

But that didn’t mean this mad Frenchman was safe. Markham knew it merely reduced the odds from certain, to probable death. ‘I don’t know whether to admire him, or laugh at him.’

‘Pray for him,’ Rannoch replied. ‘Because he has been lucky until now. But when the guns do get him, there will be not a thing left to bury.’

It seemed as if the Frenchman had a charmed life, and so did his men. Salvo after salvo was fired in their
direction
, yet not one struck close enough to put them out of action. The rate of their discharge, so rhythmic, made it seem as if they were on a practice range. Although the other batteries had ceased firing, a steady stream of shot was sent into the redoubt, each one resulting in a plume of dust and earth as some part of the defences took a hit. After about half an hour, the officer turned and left the field, stopping by his cannon as they survived one more salvo, before making his way to the rear.

There was a magical quality to what happened next, as if his presence had deflected the Allied fire. He’d no
sooner
departed than the original cannon took a direct hit. One shattered wheel flew high enough to clear the debris, spinning slowly in the air before crashing back onto the fragmented gun. The screams of the surviving gunners floated across the gap. Markham swung his glass to the second gun, fully expecting to see the French abandoning the piece. Instead, what he saw was another gun being dragged forward. He watched with fascination as the wrecked cannon was removed, several men looping a rope round the barrel so that they could drag it away. Others
cleared bits of timber, ignoring the chunks of human flesh. And as soon as they were finished, the new weapon was put in exactly the same spot, with the small officer personally leading forward the men who would man it.

‘He is mad,’ said Markham quietly. ‘Stark, raving mad.’

Whoever he was, he lost men and guns on a regular basis. Counter-battery fire wasn’t easy, a field piece representing a small target for another cannon to hit. Charges varied slightly, as did weight of shot. Then there was the ability of the officer doing the aiming, so human frailty was added to what was anyway an inexact science. Naval gunners jeered at their land-based colleagues, quite
forgetting
the size of their own targets, and the number of times they missed.

But the result of a success was always the same. Another cannon was fetched out, always led by the same small officer, more men came forward, and the guns were in action again within half an hour. Even during the short winter day, the French lost a lot of men, the bodies of those either dead or too wounded to move left where they’d fallen. Finally, an hour before dark, the truce flag came out, with a request from the artillery officer that he should be allowed to clear his casualties. Markham,
having
agreed, walked out into no man’s land to supervise the truce, to be met there by the author of all this mayhem.