A Shred of Honour (8 page)

Celeste shuddered just as he said the word ‘deserters’. Rossignol had gone pale, and his daughters had their hands to their mouths. Markham was cursing himself for a fool. He’d forgotten to mention deserters to
Elphinstone
. Not that it would have made much difference. The Scotsman’s opinion of him, since their original meeting, had been reshaped by de Lisle. Both men would probably have dismissed such information as irrelevant. It was
anything
but now.

‘Tell Rannoch, if he’s lit those fires, to douse the damn things. He’s to pull the men off the crest and get them back down into the village. And Halsey, inform them that this is no time for anything other than their very best. If they fall into the hands of these fellows, they could end up suffering the fate of this girl’s father.’

The night, apart from the sound of the crickets, had been silent. But it came alive as the first shot was fired by one of the marines Halsey had left behind. Markham cursed the uncertainty that left him unsure of where to go. He needed to both see the threat and try to evaluate it, but he also had to be sure that those dug in on the hill facing west obeyed quickly the instructions he’d sent with the marine corporal. Exiting from the village he came across Yelland, Dornan, Quinlan and Ettrick. They’d stopped work on the coach and, alerted by Halsey, were staring in the direction of this new hazard.

‘Yelland, get that damned thing fixed if you can. We might need it to get the women out of here.’

He passed on, pulling out his pistol before cutting up into the hills to the northern side of the Toulon road, tracing the path he’d used earlier to set the guard. The noise of a large party, seemingly oblivious to any threat to their safety, floated over the night air. The clink of a bayonet scabbard, a few feet away, alerted him to the presence of the men Halsey had left to shadow them. Kneeling down he called out ‘Hebe’, which was returned from a point just to his left. Looking closely he could barely make out the crossed white bands of the marine uniform.

‘To me,’ he whispered. The man slithered over immediately.

‘It’s Leech, sir.’

‘How many are there?’

‘Hundreds of the buggers, and not a bit bothered
about noise an’ the like. It’s as if they don’t know we’re here.’

‘Did you see if they were armed?’

‘They looks to have muskets and pikes. If you get close enough you can see them set against the night sky.’

Markham went forward, half crouched, till he could observe for himself what he meant. The French were using the top of the hill to make their way, their numbers more obvious by the noise rather than anything he could actually see. But he did observe the silhouetted weaponry attached to each human form. According to Fouquert (who, to spare the ladies blushes, had been tied up in the back room of the inn), the revolutionary sailors had escaped with everything they needed to fight. He was nagged by several questions. Having taken to the hills, why were they now coming back down to the valley? Did they know about his detachment holding the village? Perhaps, having seen Elphinstone withdrawing, they assumed the road to be clear. But then why not use it?

‘When sorrows come,’ he said quietly to himself, ‘they come not single spies, but in battalions.’

‘What?’ asked Leech, who had sidled up to join him.

‘Nothing. Where are the other men?’

‘In the bushes right in front of you,’ the marine replied, in a manner which was well short of that required for a ranker addressing an officer. But this was not the place to reprimand him, nor was there time. The landscape ahead, narrowing into the steep-sided valley, meant that these French sailors would have to descend to the road soon to pass through Ollioules. They couldn’t do so without discovering his presence, and since the British were behind them, and freedom lay to the west, it was very likely that they would fight. That would leave him trapped between two forces, in a situation where the noise of one battle could very well alert the army encamped on the Marseilles road.

There was no reason to assume that these men would prove any better than their fellow countrymen. But, if they were French sailors, they had one thing the soldiers lacked, and that was a purpose born of desperation. The ill-trained men who’d set out to march to Toulon had the option to withdraw to relative safety. These sailors could not. Security for them lay beyond those who would oppose them, which would make their attempts to break through more dangerous. And he was going to be faced with a defensive night action commanding men who’d shown scant ability to either comprehend or obey his orders in full daylight.

‘Gather the men,’ he whispered, ‘and follow me back down the track. When we get down to the road, double back to the village and find Halsey. Tell him, if he hasn’t managed it already, that he has about twenty minutes to carry out my last instructions.’

It was hard to know what alerted the French. A clink of metal, or the flash of something bright? One man, closer than the rest, shouted and that was taken up by the others. Suddenly there was a hail of muskets balls flying about British ears.

‘Hebes! Out of here. Move!’

Markham shouted as he stood upright, firing off his pistol wildly, more for effect than with the hope of
actually
hitting anyone. Then he turned and ran, vaguely aware of the slithering sounds of his own men right at his heels. There was a sudden cry of alarm, which quickly turned to pain, that overlaid by the sound of a fall and a bone breaking. Markham stopped as another marine cannoned into him, knocking him into a thick bush that scratched as much as it supported him. He shot out a hand and grabbed at a second Lobster running past, hauling him up short.

‘Who’s down?’

‘God knows,’ the marine panted, the whites of his panic-stricken eyes very obvious in the moonlight.

‘We can’t leave him, not after what they did to that poor sod who owned the inn.’

They heard the whimpering as soon as they stopped talking, faint over their heaving breath. Markham pulled the reluctant marine up the slope towards the sound, ears tuned to the noise of their pursuers crashing through the undergrowth above them.

‘Fire off your musket,’ Markham said as they found the fellow who’d been injured.

‘I can’t see no-one.’

‘Just do it, man, never mind if you hit anything!’

The whimpering, as he knelt down, was drowned out by the crash of the Brown Bess over his head. From above them came a cry of pain as the ball took someone.
Suddenly
the sound of pursuit ceased, a brief respite while the French checked that they were not in danger too. Markham grabbed the wounded Lobster’s musket and fired it through the scrub. There was no sound of it
hitting
flesh and bone, but it produced many an anguished cry as the Frenchmen vied to tell each other to stay low, that they were at risk, and to call out to their special friends for reassurance.

‘Take my arm,’ Markham said to the man on the ground, vaguely aware that the other marine was
reloading
. When he leant forward he realised that it was Leech.

‘Can’t walk. Leg’s gone,’

‘Then I’ll have to damn well carry you,’ he hissed. ‘Take my bloody arm.’

As the man complied the musket above him crashed out again, producing another series of shouts. He couldn’t be sure if he’d heard right, but it seemed to him that several of their pursuers had identified not only their position, but now knew that they were only facing one weapon. The shouts were changing from those urging caution to others calling for a renewed attack, with only the fear of being first acting as a brake to their efforts.
Markham hauled hard to raise the marine, and once he was upright lifted him on to his shoulder.

‘Stay at my back,’ he gasped, to the other man.

They stumbled down the hill, slithering and sliding on the bone-dry, rock-covered scree. As they emerged on to the roadway, Markham emitted a breathless curse. Ahead, on the road, stood a milling group of the enemy. Some of his pursuers, who’d probably been ahead of the main body, had got there before him. Their gaze was fixed on the indistinct shapes of the houses of Ollioules, and very likely the retreating backs of the rest of Halsey’s piquet, who ran on well ahead of their officer. Without stopping he plunged into the scrub on the other side of the road, praying that the man covering his back would have the sense to follow. In amongst a group of olive trees he came to a halt, falling to his knees, his breath searing his chest. As gently as he could he laid the wounded man on the ground, only realising when he rolled over that the marine had passed out with the pain.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Dymock.’

‘Stay with Leech, and keep out of sight.’

‘There’s a rate of them frogs?’

‘They’re not interested in you,’ Markham replied
testily
, covering his own uncertainty. ‘They’re interested in getting to safety, which means going through the village.’

‘What about the rest of the lads?’

‘I’ve got to get them out of there. Which I intend to do. We’ll pick you both up on the way through.’

‘And what if you don’t manage it?’

‘Sir!’ snapped Markham, finally exasperated. ‘If we don’t make it, get back to Toulon and tell them to come and bloody well get us.’

‘Sir,’ the marine replied softly.

But Markham didn’t hear him. He was already gone, half crouched and running, praying that his sword wouldn’t hit some tree or stone that would alert those on
the roadway to his presence. The bright stars showed him the gnarled tops of the olive grove, which provided some point of reference. That also enabled him to move swiftly through the trees, until he saw the black outline of
Rossignol
’s coach. He shot up onto the
pavé
, then ducked as someone raised a musket to take aim at him.

‘Hold your fire,’ he called, as he slithered over the patch of road and dived under the coach. It was only when he came up the other side that he realised it was now resting on four wheels. Yelland confirmed that it was repaired, and that the two other marines who had been with Halsey were back in the village.

‘Get on the shafts, you men. Push this damned thing back across the bridge. If they attack I want it close enough to the first pair of houses to block the road. Leave just enough room to get the horses through for now.’

While he was talking, he kept his eyes on the steady flow of sailors, nothing but dark shapes, emerging from the undergrowth to swell the ranks of those he’d have to face. He started to walk backwards himself as the coach began to move, its metal-rimmed wheels grinding loudly on the surface of the road, a sound which carried, judging by the sudden number of ghostly white faces looking in their direction. He had to fight the temptation to borrow a musket and shoot at them, since the last thing he
wanted
at that moment was that they should disperse.

More importantly, they didn’t follow, giving him time to work out what to do next. Markham had the distinct impression that they were a mob without a central
directing
authority. Everything about their behaviour on the hillside, as they’d shouted to each other, indicated that. He could hear the buzz of much conversation as various opinions were stated as to what course of action they should adopt.

Once the coach was close to the narrow gap between the buildings, practically blocking the route, he ran back towards the main square, Rannoch had evacuated the
crest, as ordered. The men were arguing noisily when he appeared, duplicating what was happening with the deserters on the Toulon road. Those who’d run before him had spread a degree of alarm and despondency. The silence that fell as he walked amongst them was nothing to do with his rank, more a measure of their curiosity about this officer, who should by all accounts be dead, and what he was up to now.

‘Get the horses out from the paddock,’ he shouted, ‘and that bugger Fouquert who’s tied up in the back room.’

They were looking at each other, in that way men do when they assume a task to be another’s responsibility. It was Schutte, perhaps stung enough by his preferment of Halsey to assert himself, who saved him repeating the orders. Markham heard him tallying off men to the task as he burst in through the inn door. Rossignol was
standing
by his hampers, now repacked, he and his party ready to depart.

‘The coach?’ the Frenchman demanded.

‘Is repaired. I’ve called for the horses.’

Quickly, he explained their predicament. The men on the Toulon road might wait for daylight. But he, with an army on the other side of him, dare not. They had to break out or risk capture, and the best time to achieve that was by using the darkness to aid them against what he hoped was a rabble.

‘My men will secure the road ahead. As soon as they do so you are to drive through as fast as you can. Your horses are rested now, so they should manage some speed.’

‘But they will be bound to fire on us, monsieur. We will present such an easy target compared to your soldiers.’

Markham nodded, spun on his heel and walked
outside
, calling to the first two men he saw. ‘Ettrick, find some hay, a length of rope and a couple of torches.
Quinlan, go and tell Yelland that I want the doors taken off the coach.’

They moved out with a discipline they’d not shown since coming ashore, such was the threat these French sailors posed. Rannoch was issuing crisp, clear orders to keep his men in place. There’d not be a single member in his unit who had not heard of the fate of Celeste’s father, and such knowledge kept them tight and alert. On the narrow roadway they couldn’t deploy, so he arranged them in ranks of ten. As soon as he saw the crowd of Frenchmen, who were still milling around and arguing, he opened fire. As the front rank discharged their muskets he brought forward the second and gave the men before them another salvo.

The first had shocked them; the second, no more than ten seconds later, added to the surprise. The third caught them as they started to run and the fourth made them scatter. Many didn’t make it. Firing along such a narrow causeway into such a mass of flesh, even the most inept musketry was effective, and the cries of men wounded and dying rose above the crash of the guns. As soon as they had dispersed he broke his men into two files, each to take one side of the road and provide a screen for the coach, with Schutte leading a party along the causeway to clear any bodies. Yelland, lying on the roof rather than sitting on the box, held the reins tight. There was no need to steer the beasts on the old, straight, Roman route, only to hold them steady and keep them moving. Lying down he made less of a target.

Behind him the twin torches flared and flickered as the coach increased speed. Grabbing two men, he crashed into the undergrowth to the right, calling out for Dymock, and firing high and wild to keep the enemy on the move. Dymock’s strangled tones rose above every other sound. Recognising the gnarled profile of the tree under which he’d left them, Markham headed for it,
ordered those with him to lift the wounded Leech, and then covered the retreat as they made it back to the road. The coach was rattling along, nearly abreast, and he halted it for a second to load on the wounded man.