A Shred of Honour (6 page)

Smoke, cocooning the bright orange flashes, billowed from the line of guns. If the French infantry drill was a shambles, the marines’ musketry wasn’t much better. Partly, as Markham remembered from fighting in the Americas, it was the weapon itself. The heavy trigger tended to make men open their hand in order to aid the action of the forefinger. This gave full scope to the recoil, notorious on the Brown Bess. Fear of that inclined the firer to throw his head and body back at the very moment of discharge. Not trained to aim, they also shut their eyes to avoid the flash of the powder igniting in the pan,
leaving the direction of the shot more of an accident than a design.

Against well-trained troops, in such superior numbers, it would have proved useless. It was luck that the French were worse than their opponents. The officer, who should have stayed upright, dropped to his knees. What little control he had of his unit evaporated completely, as they enveloped him, spilling right across the road. The Frenchmen knew they had to advance, but they did so as a rabble, which meant that their fire was erratic. Some fired off their weapons then turned back towards their own troops, as though their task were complete, crashing into the men still trying to come forward. Some seemed to be threatening to fight each other. Muskets which should have been aimed at the redcoats were discharged uselessly into the air. And those who bothered to reload were just as unco-ordinated, with each man stopping as he saw fit, and facing in every conceivable direction, to perform the necessary actions.

At least Markham was favoured in that respect.
Whatever
training his men had received, it had included ordered reloading. Halsey at one end, and Schutte beside him, called out the instructions, too slow to be perfect, but steady and effective, so that he could swiftly order another volley. Despite the confusion, the majority of Frenchmen were still edging forward. The range had closed, and the second salvo had a profound effect. Those shots that hit threw their victims back amongst their companions, adding stark terror to the already fearful turmoil.

For those which missed, the spurts of dust affected the front ranks while the cracking noise of passing balls
confused
the mob at the rear. They didn’t halt, but they slowed to a crawl, exacerbated by their need to advance up the steadily increasing slope. For a moment Markham thought they might break and retire, a fantastic result given that he was outnumbered by more than ten to one.

Then the officer with the tricolour sash reappeared,
pushing his way through the throng to the front, belabouring everyone he could reach with the flat of his blade. His face was contorted with passion as he yelled at his troops to move forward, taking the lead himself, jamming his hat onto the tip of his blade and running at the hill. Markham had his sword raised again, waiting for the last of his men to present. One marine, faced with the line of screaming Frenchmen, dropped his weapon, which distracted those close to him. Fearing a general loss of cohesion, he gave the order, and as soon as the crash of the weapons subsided, yelled for his men to run.

The line of redcoats, never perfect, dissolved, as those with either quick wits or overwhelming fear headed first for the crest. The triumphant yells from the throats of their attackers drowned out both Markham’s bellowing and their own cries of encouragement. Two of his men in the centre of the line, too slow to move, took the full force of the ragged French volley, their bodies spinning and dropping. One managed to get back to his feet and
stagger
on.

‘Leave him, damn you,’ Markham yelled, as he saw Halsey hesitate beside the still body. At the crest he stopped himself, waving his sword at the stragglers, an act which attracted its own response. He felt one ball tug at his sleeve, while the others whistled and cracked around him. His sword took one right on the tip and was knocked clean out of his hand. He was halfway back to the dry stone wall when the thought registered that the ball had come from behind him, knocking his blade towards the enemy, not away from them.

There was no time to ponder on that as he followed his men through the gap that ran between the road and the walls. There he span round to shout at the crouching soldiers. What he saw in their eyes made him hesitate for a split second. It was fear, of course, the sight of a mass of French soldiers spilling onto the crest, the shock of a threat now visible instead of imagined. It made no
difference that the enemy was a rabble, nor that the redcoats were in a reasonable defensive position. As the numbers in front of them increased to fill the skyline, so did the apprehension, with several of his men beginning to inch backwards.

‘Sixty-fifth, on your feet, present, fire!’

What followed made the marines look like marksmen. All the same faults were there, this time made worse by firing uphill with longer barrelled weapons. It was hard to tell if they’d taken aim at all, judging by the amount of earth they dislodged. But at fifty yards some found flesh, driving those struck by a ball into the arms of men only too willing to drag them back out of danger.

‘Reload,’ Markham yelled, as chips of stone exploded off the wall, the balls ricocheting skywards; a small
fragment
hit the top of his cheek, drawing an immediate flow of blood.

That reloading was a shambles, with some of the men leaning their muskets on the wall so that they could open cartouches that should never have been closed. Rams were dropped, the powder from the cartridges going everywhere but into the barrels, so that it seemed like an eternity before they presented for a second volley, with those that had shown more dexterity, forced to hold their fire, swearing at their mates.

Again, it was only the inexperience of the enemy that averted disaster. They’d halted, shaken more by the sight of extra redcoats than their musketry. The marines, with Halsey yelling at them, had formed up and come forward again, giving an impression of a solid line of defenders. The French officer tried to rally his troops for the final charge, just as the 65th’s second attempt was released. As he turned, sword raised, a ball took him right between the eyes, with a force that threw him back like a rag doll, causing those around him to stop in shock.

Nothing in soldiering was worse than facing fire,
without
cover, when standing still. That, the very essence of
successful infantry tactics, required steadfast reliance on a collective will not to give way. The French didn’t have even an ounce of such discipline. Before their leader’s body had stopped twitching, they began to retire,
running
over the crest, retreat degenerating into a rout before the last man was out of sight.

His men should have cheered, should have had him
yelling
at them to stand still as they ran forward to drive home their success. That didn’t happen. The silence that
descended
was total. Markham took a musket from the man nearest him and made for the crest alone, feeling the eyes of both Lobsters and Bullocks boring into his back. The road before him was dotted with more than a dozen bodies. Some wounded men were stumbling back. The rest were still
running
, ignoring the officers who were trying to halt them.

He stepped forward to examine the one red-coated cadaver, now bleeding from dozens of bayonet wounds. It was a young face, probably unblemished before being struck by French gun butts, one that he had seen from time to time on the
Hebe
. But he didn’t know the boy’s name, and that made him feel ashamed. Returning to the rim of the hill he stooped and retrieved his sword, looked at it meaningfully before turning to face his troops. The body of the French officer was right at his feet, the red-rimmed hole in his head dead centre, side to side, eyebrows to hairline. Deliberate, it was a brilliant shot; certainly better than the one that had been aimed at him, and had only managed to hit his blade.

Order was, at last, driving out the chaos in the French ranks. Their commander had ridden amongst them to find out what had happened, shouting at the top of his voice. Within minutes Markham saw the first lines form up, taking up positions to recommence the advance. No columns now. The man who led them had learned his lesson. He had his men in open order, like skirmishers, and was waving his sword to bring them forward
personally
to the base of the rise.

‘Back to the crest,’ Markham shouted, ‘on the double.’

They made the French pay for the top of that hill, each man firing individually, with Markham moving amongst them, trying to encourage them to fire properly. A
battlefield
was no place for such instruction, even if he’d been capable of providing it, but the marginal improvement he managed was shown by the number of dead Frenchmen whose bodies were added to those that already littered the plain.

His frustration grew with every glance he threw back along the empty road to Toulon. And all the time French troops were arriving, debouching out of the narrow gorge onto the open ground, enough men to walk through his small detachment without raising a sweat. He had no idea what made them hesitate, his sole object being to stay were he was until the inevitable happened and he was forced to withdraw. As soon as the first artillery arrived, he was obliged to do so anyway. Only two six-pound field pieces, they were enough to make his position untenable, since without return fire they could adjust their range at their leisure, and fire case shot over the crown of the hill to kill men on the opposite side.

They had to abandon the dry stone wall as well. With the guns moved up and a spotter to guide their fire, they could become a death trap of flying rock splinters. He’d swapped positions with the French commander. Now Markham would be unable to see any developing assault on the reverse slope. He ordered everyone back to the edge of the village, and began to distribute them in small packets throughout the three houses which had walls facing the west. Holes were knocked through the soft masonry for each musket.

To each group, his instructions were the same. ‘Make sure you have plenty of water. Eat now, because once they settle themselves on that hill, unless we’re seriously reinforced, you’ll have to be ready to retire. When the
time comes, fall back to the well and I will allocate you new positions. When we get to the last houses and there’s no more cover, you’re to run for the gully where I left Schutte and Rannoch.’

He went back to the inn, stopping only to watch the artillerymen on the hill. They were hacking grooves in the rim that would act as an embankment, allowing them to fire on Ollioules undisturbed, destroying the buildings while lessening the risk to themselves of suffering from return fire. It would be a time-consuming business, requiring a rampart on the back slope to contain the recoil. Clearly the officer in command was prepared to indulge them, and had decided against a second infantry assault. He wanted to blast the redcoats out of the
village
, prepared to destroy the whole place rather than face the casualties house-to-house fighting might entail.

The coach stood outside the inn, horses removed from the shafts, the sweat on their bodies dried to a white line. Heads lowered, they munched greedily at the bale of hay that had been spread at their feet. Entering the interior, he was surprised at the heat. With the sun full up the room was no longer cool; instead it was warm and stuffy. He found Celeste in conversation with a small, rather plump man, red-faced and perspiring under his wig. His cheeks were half covered with a large white handkerchief, already limp from the amount of sweat it had been required to absorb. As her eyes strayed past his shoulder, he span round to face the British officer.

‘Monsieur,’ he cried, throwing up his hands. ‘Is it true that Toulon has surrendered to your Admiral?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then I require you to instruct this wretch to surrender to me her horses.’

‘It’s not my place, sir.’

‘I must get my passengers to Toulon.’

‘If you’ve looked at the horses you’re asking for, you might decide you’d be better off walking.’

‘I have a child with me, who is delicate.’ The man paused for a second before continuing. ‘Not to mention my daughters.’

‘If you were running from the revolutionaries, I must tell you that they could be here within the hour.’

‘Do you not intend to stop them?’

‘I don’t have the means. They have artillery and
numbers
. I have neither.’

‘Then it is even more imperative that we get away.’ He gestured towards the doorway. ‘You will have observed my own animals. They will require to be rested. I can only proceed by using two for a short time.’

Markham turned to the girl. ‘Celeste. What I just said is true. And I don’t have any reason to suppose the men who are going to take over the village have any more respect for property than those renegade sailors who came here earlier.’ That produced a sudden look of alarm. ‘In fact, you’d be better off in Toulon, as well.’

She searched his face then, as if to ensure that he was telling the truth. The older man, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, missed her quick nod of consent.

‘I must insist.’

‘I think, sir, if you offer to take this young lady with you, she might agree to let you have them.’

He looked her up and down then, taking in her bruised face, as well as the badly mended rips in her dull-coloured dress. ‘I cannot consent to have such a filthy creature mix with us. We are people of some quality.’

‘Then they shall have to walk, after all.’

‘Oh, all right,’ he snapped. ‘If it must be so, I can be consoled that the journey is short. Can you provide me with one of your men to drive them?’

‘No sir, I cannot. You will just have to drive them
yourself
, which will at least spare you the need to share the interior with this girl you so loosely refer to as a wretch.’

The bombardment started sooner than Markham had hoped, the first ranging shots dropping well short of the buildings that edged the village, with each
succeeding
salvo creeping ever closer. The baking, midday heat had killed what little breeze had existed. But now, in the late afternoon, the air began to stir again. Soon the first house, on the very edge of the village, was hit, sending up a great cloud of dust as the walls were breached.

There was only one way to stop them: attack, and either take the guns or force them to limber up and
withdraw
. Outnumbered, that was not an option. To leave men in position when they could not return fire was absurd, so he began to pull out those who stood in
greatest
danger, leading them out through the village to the ancient stone bridge and instructing them to make for the last defensive position.

Despite his best efforts, this evacuation didn’t go unobserved. One of the guns was elevated to fire over Ollioules on to the road leading back to Toulon. The first shot struck lucky, an inspired guess, given that the gunner couldn’t actually see the target. He caught the heavy coach just as it cleared the end of the bridge. The shot hit the road, bounced under the body, narrowly missed the spring and struck the wheel on the point at which it was fixed to the axle. The wheel flew off and the coach dropped sideways, tilting at an acute angle. The horses, scared by the noise, reared up, pawing the air in a frantic bid to get clear. The old man, who was no great shakes at
horse driving, was tipped off the box to land heavily on the roadway.

Markham ran forward and dragged the door open,
calling
frantically for the occupants to get out. If the French fired another salvo at the same range they might score a direct hit. He was greeted by two women screaming their heads off, Celeste sobbing quietly and a calm boy of about twelve, handsome and pale, who seemed totally oblivious to the mayhem going on around him. Reaching in he grabbed the heavier of the two women, and hauled her forward, fighting the desire to curse her as she resisted. He heard the swish of the balls as they passed, ducking instinctively as they struck the road some forty yards ahead. The gun layer, unable to see the effect of his first shot, had raised the range, hoping to catch the fleeting defenders.

‘Sortez, Madame. Vite!’

Halsey and a couple of his soldiers had helped the man to his feet and brought him to assist. With a strength that surprised him, Markham was barged out of the way, which broke the grip he’d taken on the lady’s wrist. Her resistance collapsed in the face of parental commands, as the older man yelled at her. Meekly she allowed herself to be led out on to the road, followed by the others. Markham was briefly conscious of the other girl, the slim one. Her face, especially white with fright, was rather pretty. Then good sense, combined with pressing danger, overbore his inclinations. The last person to alight was the young boy.

‘Get them off the road.’

‘Somebody’s coming,’ said Halsey, in a voice that had Markham looking towards Ollioules in panic. ‘Not that way, sir, the way we came.’

Looking down the Toulon road, he saw the men
pulling
the guns, teams of sailors on long lines with
nine-pounder
naval cannon, still on their carriages, lashed to carts. Elphinstone appeared on a horse, kicking it to get ahead of his men. De Lisle was behind him, also mounted,
though somewhat less secure in the saddle. A deep file of marines, in all about two hundred men, who brought up the rear, were ordered to halt by their officers.

‘What are you about, man?’ de Lisle yelled at Markham, driving his mount forward to pass Elphinstone.

‘We were withdrawing, sir.’ The sound of cannon fire, which had resumed the assault on the opposite side of the village, made him pause. ‘Without artillery we couldn’t hold, and the French have at least a thousand infantry.’

‘Spotted Dick’ looked at Elphinstone, stony faced and clearly displeased, before replying. ‘You’ve got guns now. Might it be an idea to turn around and get back where you came from?’

Markham ignored his captain, concentrating instead on the Scotsman. Elphinstone’s manner had changed, judging by the look he was giving the foot soldier. At their previous meeting he’d been brusque, but not unfriendly. Now he was glowering at Markham as though he and not the French were the enemy. De Lisle, of course, would have told him who he was dealing with.

‘Most of my men are still in Ollioules, sir. With those guns set up I can go ahead and signal the range from the church.’

De Lisle answered again. ‘Captain Elphinstone has fetched up a midshipman to do that job.’ He gestured to a youngster who stepped forward and produced a blue flag, then a red one. A mere stripling of about fifteen, with a spotty, sweating face, he stood very erect as Elphinstone gave him his orders.

‘Driberg. Up into that excuse for a church tower,
laddie
, so we can see you. Red to increase, blue to reduce, and both flags crossed to show on target.’

‘Aye, aye, sir,’ replied Driberg, as he ran off to comply.

‘I’ll get my men into position.’

‘I should damned well hope so, Markham,’ snapped de Lisle, his colourless face carrying an expression of
manufactured shock. ‘I wouldn’t want the reputation of the
Hebe
dented by a want of application on the part of the man in charge of my marines.’

‘I want those Frenchmen running this time, not you,’ added Elphinstone, his voice every bit as unfriendly as his countenance. ‘Spotted Dick’ favoured his fellow captain with a thin smile of approval.

Stung, Markham replied with real anger. ‘We drove them back once, before they brought up the cannon.’

De Lisle’s disbelief was very evident. And inexplicable, in a situation where he could have claimed some credit, the defenders being from his ship. ‘Over a thousand men?’

‘They were no more than a single regiment then.’

‘That’s just as well,’ barked Elphinstone, ‘otherwise we’d probably have met you on the outskirts of Toulon several hours ago. Take the marines I’ve brought up through the village and deploy them on the other side as soon as the guns open fire. Wait for me, and their own officers, there.’

He swung his horse round before Markham could respond, calling to the other marine officers, both
captains
, to send their men after Markham, and attend on him to confer. The leading sailors had come abreast and Elphinstone ordered them to halt. They spun the carts and tipped them so that the guns could be run down onto the hard packed earth of the road. Others were unloading shot and powder, while still more were fixing up a
wooden
brake that would act to contain the recoil. Someone, who was able to see far enough down the road, had told the French gunners about these reinforcements. They
lifted
their range again, trying to hit the column of redcoats who were now passing the naval gunners.

‘Corporal Halsey, round up our men as best you can and get them back through the village.’

‘You’d better tell us how matters are placed over
yonder
,’ demanded Elphinstone. Markham explained to the assembled officers the position of the guns, plus the
theory that the enemy infantry were probably deployed on the reverse slope waiting to attack.

‘Which they will do immediately you open fire, sir. There’s no advantage to them now in keeping their
infantry
out of the action. I would …’

He got no further, and the way Elphinstone responded brought a real, full-blooded smile to de Lisle’s lips. ‘Don’t try to teach me to suck eggs, laddie, just get on with the orders you’ve been given.’

Markham flushed angrily as Elphinstone turned his back on him again. But hierarchy demanded he bite his tongue, salute and obey. The marines’ column from Toulon was ahead of him, and he ran to catch up. The cannon were in place as he left, and with a precision that would have shamed the gunners of the
Hebe,
they were loaded and made ready to fire, booming out just as he
re-entered
the village. He had a vague impression of faces cowering in a doorway, and called to Halsey to find out who they were.

‘That frog and his women. He wouldn’t go the right way. Said he felt safer in a house.’

‘The man’s an idiot.’

Once the two batteries engaged he began to form up the men on the Marseilles road, marching them into the open as soon as Elphinstone’s cannon began to range. At the first shots, the French commander moved what
infantry
he’d deployed back from the crest. Self preservation demanded that, regardless of the tempting target assembling in front of them, the French gunners ignore the infantry and try and destroy the opposing cannon. But they were outclassed both in the rate of fire and its accuracy, as the British guns, ranged from the church tower by Midshipman Driberg, steadily removed their protective earthworks.

The first balls, falling short, hit the stone walls,
sending
deadly showers of broken rock whizzing around the artillerymen’s ears. The next was closer, sending up great
clods of earth that hung suspended in the light of the fading western sun. The third salvo overshot, landing on the reverse slope that, Markham guessed, would be full of French soldiers. Driberg signalled the reduction and the naval guns at last found the range, landing right on the crest of the hill and blasting it apart. Several balls seemed to hit together, just to the right of one of the French cannon, taking with it several tons of their protective earth. When the dust settled Markham could actually see the men working the cannon. But they weren’t loading shot into the muzzle, they were frantically throwing their equipment onto the limber.

Markham looked back, but could see no sign of Elphinstone, de Lisle or the other marine officers. If they were still behind the guns they were now in the wrong place, negating any advantage the bombardment had given them. Having made the French run once, here was a chance to do so again, by retaking the crest before they brought up their infantry to defend it. Driberg had
certainly
spotted them pulling out, and had shown the red flag to increase the range. The balls from the naval guns were landing out of view, behind the French artillery, perhaps cutting swathes through their supporting infantry.

The long black snouts disappeared, withdrawn to their horse teams to be taken out of danger. He was desperate to attack, well aware that would be taking the kind of risk that would see him broken if he failed. These men were not his to command. They had their own officers, still on the other side of the village, who would be furious if he presumed to lead their detachments into battle. But everything he’d ever learned, added to what he’d already observed during the day, convinced him that he was right, that the time was now, or never. That to adhere too
strictly
to the chain of command would throw away a golden opportunity. His tongue, which had been dry before, felt like leather now as he issued his orders.

‘Bayonets!’

The deadly lengths of steel, eighteen inches long, scraped out of their scabbards at his command, to be fixed to the front of nearly two hundred hot muskets. He looked along the line, trying without much success to identify his own men in the fading light. His sword was up, and as it dropped he stepped forward, which set the whole extended line into motion. All that was missing as they marched up the slope was the sound of a drum to control their pace: that, and any hint of musket fire from the top of the hill.

The defenders, expecting to occupy a safe position, arrived when they were twenty feet from the crest, strung out in a long line. The shock when they saw the marching redcoats was palpable, a ripple in their ranks which was underlined by a moan that sounded like a collective cry of fear. Markham’s command to halt and present was crisply obeyed, in sharp contrast to that of the enemy silhouetted against the last vestige of the sinking sun, thrown by sight of the thin red line. The single volley of musket fire, delivered within five seconds, cut the French to ribbons.

‘Charge!’

As he crested the ridge, stepping over writhing bodies, for the second time that day, Markham saw the enemy in full retreat. The whole field in front was a milling mass of scruffy men, many surrounding the guns, the drovers frenziedly lashing the animals in an effort to break through the crush. Those retreating down the hill had infected the men to the rear, most of whom could not even know what they were running from. But fear gripped them just the same, and nothing the officers could do stemmed the tide. The temptation to pursue them was strong. But it had to be resisted.

About twenty yards from the rim, a trio of Frenchmen were staggering along, the individual in the middle
hanging
on to his companions, clearly wounded. Some of his
men began to fire at them, which sent up spurts of earth around their feet, bringing them to an abrupt halt. Markham called on them to cease fire as the small party turned to face death. The wounded man, an officer of artillery, was injured in the groin, with blood covering the entire lower half of his body. Markham waved his sword to indicate that they could proceed without danger.

‘It would be nice to let them know we’ve won, lads,’ he shouted, as the trio turned again and staggered off.

This time there was a proper cheer to celebrate the victory. Looking round and smiling, Markham saw, out of the corner of his eye, the flash of red behind him. The men of the 65th were meandering up to the crest, obviously having taken no part in the advance. Somebody must have either heard or seen the horses, since they broke into a run as Elphinstone and ‘Spotted Dick’ appeared, and so joined the main body before the navy.

‘You were ordered to wait, Markham,’ barked de Lisle. ‘Do you know the meaning of the word?’

Behind him, Markham could see the two marine
captains
, rushing up the hill to join them. Judging by the looks on their faces they were no more pleased than their superiors.