Markham hit him then, using the flat of his blade. For a second the marine, shovel in hand, looked set to retaliate, but good sense stopped him, since the officer’s sword was lifted once more, this time with the sharp edge threatening him. But he did snort and spit before he started to dig, a long streak of dirty saliva, aiming it close enough to Bellamy so that the black man would know who it was intended for.
Rannoch’s voice was in Markham’s ear, earnest, but in no way anxious. ‘They will not sit still, sir, when they see the first spade full of sand.’
‘I never thought they would, Sergeant.’ Markham called for his Hebes to gather round, then pointed towards the steep slope of the dune. ‘Dornan, lie back on the slope. Tully, you climb up him and do the same. We’ll make a human ladder to the top. If you get near the rim keep your musket out of sight. Everyone else on your knees, aiming for the fringes of sea grass on either side. If you see so much as a sandfly, shoot it.’
Pushing past the digging marines, Markham poked his nose round the side of the dune. He immediately drew fire, forcing him to pull back quickly. ‘Halsey, get your muskets trained on the opposite side of the gully, and put one round through the grass. Reload at the double. From where you are you’ll have a better view of the rim. Bellamy, any man not digging to do the same to the grass above Halsey.’
‘They won’t obey me, sir, if I tell them.’
‘They will if you learn to shout,’ Markham snapped. ‘Rannoch, a couple of grenades, if you please.’
Dornan had Tully’s feet on his shoulders. Hollick had clambered up them both, followed by Leech and one of the Seahorses, who was now very near to the top. Rannoch laid the fuse on one grenade in the firing pan of his musket, and fired, setting it alight. He waited until it burnt down a fraction, and, holding his arm out wide, lobbed it at the piles of gorse, some thirty feet away, before throwing himself back to avoid the blast. He was halfway through reloading his musket when the grenade went off, the thud of the explosion dulled by the effect of the soft ground.
‘Keep that up, Bellamy, in exactly the same way as Sergeant Rannoch. You might, if you can get it in the bush, be able to set the wood alight.’ Easing his pistols from his belt, Markham put one foot in the outstretched hands of Private Dornan. ‘Ready, Sergeant Rannoch?’
‘You cannot leave that black man in charge down here, sir,’ said Rannoch, softly but insistently, into his officer’s ear.
‘Why not?’
‘Well, first it is not right, and second they will likely shoot him before they ever aim a gun at a Frenchman.’
‘Take a close look. Bellamy is no fool. Look where he’s sitting.’
The Negro was at the rear of the digging Seahorses, his own musket resting on his knees, levelled at the straining backs of the party shovelling for damp sand. While he worked to set a grenade alight with Sharland’s weapon, his eyes were fixed on the men aiming their muskets at the dune above Halsey’s head. Even when he stood up to throw, he hardly took his eyes off his fellow Seahorses. Markham’s voice, hitherto friendly, suddenly became harsh as he responded to Rannoch, which had been a rare thing since the shared danger of Toulon.
‘And Sergeant, I will decide what is right, not you.’
‘Sir.’
The blue eyes had gone blank, and a look of dumb insolence spread across the Highlander’s face. This, from a man who had saved his life, made Markham feel ashamed.
‘You may stay here if you think it best,’ he added, though given that he was not one to apologise, he did so through gritted teeth. ‘As soon as I secure the rim, get the rest to follow me, and bring up the rear.’
‘What about the breastwork?’ asked Rannoch.
‘Bluff, just like the grenades. I want them to think we’re coming in the front door. But we’re not!’
Chapter three
It was impossible to clamber up without stepping on some sensitive part of the men who made up the human ladder, so Markham heard a goodly number of the curses usually only employed when officers were out of earshot. And he kept his eyes fixed firmly on his destination, every nerve strained for the first sight of the grass being moved by anything other than the gentle breeze. The salvo from Halsey came just as he saw the grass part, and the end of a musket protrude. The balls whistled harmlessly over the Frenchman’s head. Assuming that he had at least twenty seconds before those guns could reload, he stood upright, and leant over, his weapon aimed at the climbing redcoat officer.
Rannoch’s ball, fired from a mere twenty paces, took him in the middle of the face. The Brown Bess used a large-calibre ball, and being lead it expanded when fired. Even though the Frenchman was thrown back by the shot, Markham could see the way his face just caved in, a black expanding hole which suddenly went bright red at the edges, as his blood and brains were pushed out the sides of his shattered skull. Any attempt at gentleness was abandoned, and he heard Leech screech with pain as, searching for sudden purchase, his foot dug into the recumbent marine’s groin. Behind him he could hear the yells of rage as those following him copied his example.
Using his free hand, he grabbed at a thick tuft of grass just as another musket tip poked through. In their desire to stay concealed, the defenders had removed their bayonets, which was just as well, since a quick downward thrust would have speared Markham before he could raise his pistol. And the defender, instead of just firing as soon as he saw the British officer’s face, tried to elevate himself slightly to improve the angle of fire, which gave Markham the split-second he needed to pull himself up and fire at the hat. This time the ball took the Frenchman in the temple, but being smaller it left nothing but a small entry hole as the light of life died in the eyes.
Then Markham was on the top of the dune, lying flat so that the grass would afford him some protection. If he so much as got to his knees, he’d present a target to every French musket within range. That included those who still had Hanger and his men pinned down. In fact, even with half a dozen marines up here he was dangerously exposed, since the colonel seemed content to hold his position, and wait for the reinforcements now coming ashore.
The whoosh of the shell passing overhead made him push himself even further down into the soft sand, until, realising the direction of the shot, he turned his head towards the open sea.
The bomb ketches had come close in ahead of the second wave of soldiers, with one boat, a decorated captain’s barge, well to the fore. A solitary officer, a post captain, stood in the bows, telescope in his hand, clearly directing the fire, oblivious to the French cannonfire which was sending up great plumes of water around all three boats. Even at this distance, Markham was sure the captain, rather smaller than those close to him, was Nelson.
With springs on their cables, the bomb ketches, each with a pair of guns, were firing at differing targets, the deep boom of their mortars mingling with the counter-battery fire still being applied by the fleet to suppress the main French batteries. The one closest to the fort was aiming at a point between the Fornali defences and the landing ground, the probable route of any reinforcements. The other, which had fired the shot that had just passed over Markham’s head, was being used to support the assault, its first target aimed at what must seem, from the sea, to be the very northern tip of the marine attack.
The shell from the second gun was fired just after the first shot landed, making no more than a dull thud as it hit the sand. Then it went off, a great boom that sent a plume of grit, wood and pieces of rock into the air, into which the second shell dropped. That exploded before impact, and added human flesh to the mixture which still hung in the air. These mortars were the perfect weapons for the task, able to fire in a high trajectory over the attacking troops, with enough elevation to land lethally amongst the defenders.
His men, who had frozen at the first salvo, scurried on to join him, the last and youngest, Yelland, bearing a whole mass of belts buckled together. His hat tipped off as he fell forward, exposing the fine blond hair. Then he raised his handsome, inno
cent-looking countenance towards his officer, who had to remind himself, for the hundredth time, that this was probably the face of a double murderer.
‘That sambo’s notion, your honour,’ he gasped. ‘He took them off the Seahorses so we can pull the rest of the lads up.’
‘A good idea.’
‘Ain’t it, though. An’ here’s me thinking they was no smarter than tree-swingin’ apes.’
The next pair of mortar shells, fired together, swooshed over their heads again, to explode just below the backward slope of the dunes a mere fifty feet south. Even at that distance, with the blast driven up, they still felt it, a wall of sand-filled air that hit them hard enough to make everyone spin away.
‘Jesus Christ, that was close,’ hissed Hollick, who was busy trying to pull Leech up to the top.
Yelland had leant over to pass the makeshift rope to Tully, and was only saved from tipping back down the slope by Markham, who grabbed the youngster’s belt. Looking straight down he saw Rannoch, who was making no attempt to climb up to join them. Instead he was directing the remaining Seahorses, who were now throwing a continuous stream of dark brown sand out to form the required breastwork. The pile of gorse off to Markham’s left was well alight from grenades which Markham hadn’t even noticed go off, and Rannoch seemed too intent on the task in front of him to obey his orders.
In the time it took to get Dornan, as bovine as ever, up to the top, he was free to ponder on why his sergeant, whom he’d come to trust absolutely, had failed to support him. But such thoughts had to be put aside. The next salvo from the guns came nowhere near his party, having shifted along the beach towards Hanger and his men. If those shells had done any damage, the French would be disorganised. But not for long, and Markham knew that whatever had happened he’d still be outnumbered. Jumping to his feet, he yelled for his small party to follow, and ran for the point at which the dune sloped down again.
The sight that greeted his eyes nearly made him stop dead, aware of how lucky he had been. The low wooden palisade, well back from the dunes on the very edge of the treeline, behind which the enemy had been arranged, was blown asunder, bits of log mingling with the shattered bodies of the Frenchmen. Those who had survived were either crawling or staggering around in a daze, so taking the position was simple. But he shuddered as he contemplated what might have happened had that defence still been intact. He would have charged into full view, to be cut down for certain by a deadly, well-prepared salvo from the defending muskets.
Whatever Rannoch’s reservations had been about climbing up the dunes, he showed enough zeal in the way he led the rest of the men up the gully. The blast had raced through the gap, partially destroying the camouflage. He’d used bayonets to pull the flaming remainder clear, and as soon as there was sufficient space, charged through with Halsey at his heels. Even the Seahorses, their beltless coats flapping wildly, seemed imbued with the right spirit, screaming as they stumbled though the dense smoke, their feet slipping and slithering in the sand.
They too stopped when they saw the destruction visited on the French by those mortar shells. As the billowing fumes cleared, Markham was aware that Bellamy was missing. But there was no time to ask what had happened to him, not with battle still in progress. And the prospect of what he was about to do pleased him immensely, since it was clear that the main attack was still bogged down on the seaward side of the dunes.
‘Right, Rannoch, form the men up, and take them in amongst the trees. Spread out four abreast, and let’s see if we can outflank the enemy and save Hanger’s reputation.’
Said with a laugh, it was no joke when Markham and his men tried to implement it. The briefing he’d received aboard Hebe had not only been useless; it had been short and unpleasant. But one salient fact he could remember. Captain de Lisle had referred to the garrison numbers holding San Fiorenzo and Fornali as being barely more than a thousand men. With the fleet putting twice that number ashore at a point of their choosing, and able to bombard any position they wanted in support, there was enough reason to be sanguine. The enemy was required to split his forces, while the besiegers could concentrate theirs.
Not that Markham was in much doubt about the ability of the French troops to hold their ground where possible. They were mostly men who’d served in Royal regiments before the revolution, soldiers who had repelled an attack on the Mortella fort the previous year by some of the very same men they were facing now. And Lacombe St Michel, their commanding officer, had a reputation for terrier-like tenacity when it came to defending a position. Against that, the vicissitudes of three years of political turmoil should have weakened both their numbers and morale.
With a slight feeling of embarrassment, he recalled that meal aboard Agamemnon. Full of wine, he’d drunk the toast at dinner with gusto, as sure as his fellow guests that British arms could drive back a couple of French regiments, lock them into town and fort, besiege then overcome them, in a situation where they could expect no exterior assistance. But battling his way along the line of the dunes, using the tall pines on the edge of the forest for cover, Markham wasn’t quite so confident.
He sensed that whatever he’d been told about the enemy strength was faulty. No general in Lacombe’s position would risk his entire force outside the protection of his main defensive perimeter, which had to end at the Fornali fort. Yet not only did the defenders have parity, now that the landing site had been identified, but more troops could well be arriving, reaching the point where they might actually outnumber the attackers. Under Hanger’s command, the men on the beach had been content to wait for reinforcements. Yet they were being pressed with such force that they risked being pushed back, their sole support the mortar shells ranging up and down the beach.
All Markham and his men could do was probe on the flank, trying to pick off those holding the high ground above Hanger’s head. And it was bloody work. He lost two of the Seahorses, who lacked his own men’s battle experience, before they’d managed fifty yards, then found himself pinned down as the French, realising the threat, concentrated enough firepower against this attack to halt his advance – not difficult, given his limited, and diminishing, numbers.
‘Could we go further into the wood?’ asked Rannoch, his back pressed against a tree. ‘The cover is thicker the more trees we have between them and us.’
Markham shook his head. ‘We must keep contact with the line of dunes. If we separate from that, the French will just cut us off and drive us so deep we’d be useless.’
There was no mistaking the sound of the approaching mortar shell, even if the sight of the huge black ball was obscured by the high canopy of trees. The barrage had shifted to the northern end again, and with the Hebes out of sight, the navy was laying down fire right on the perimeter of Hanger’s position. Every man in Markham’s party threw himself into the pine needles, covering his head with his hands as the projectile burst above and behind them. Even as he cursed the pain in his ears, Markham couldn’t blame the gunners. Their job was to support the landing, and as far as they knew the northern limit of the position was designated by the red coats of Hanger’s men on the beach.
The second salvo came over, driving them all, if that was possible, even deeper into the ground. Above their heads, branches snapped, cracks that rent the air with enough force to drown out the popping of musket fire. Then whole trunks went, groaning like bereaved humans as they fell through the nearest trees, tearing off even more wood and foliage. Then silence descended. But it didn’t last long. The mortars shifted, landing now just ahead of their position, amongst what Markham hoped were the Frenchmen holding him up.
He was on his knees now, using a decent-sized trunk as cover, just about to order his men forward behind the guns, when Quinlan’s voice, a hoarse whisper, came from the very edge of the forest, the point where the line of the trees gave way to mixed pine needles and sand.
‘Party crawling along the top of the dunes, sir, in the long grass.’
‘Where?’ demanded M
arkham, spinning away from his own tree, then scurrying across to take a look, vaguely aware that Rannoch was following him.
‘Only saw the bugger’s hat. I think he lifted it to take a bearing.’
‘There will be more than one,’ said Rannoch.
It was logical. With more troops coming ashore, that gully had to be held. Rather than fight his way back to the head of it, the French commander was trying to sneak some men past them, probably enough to reconstruct a defence and nullify what Markham had achieved. Then he could keep them pinned down where they were, isolated and useless.
Markham felt stymied. The trees offered little help. They were like the birches that he remembered from fighting in Russia, lacking the lower branches which would make climbing them possible, so the notion of getting men and muskets level with the top of the dunes had to be discounted. Racking his brain for a solution, Markham glanced up at the sun filtering through the canopy, so thick that only a fraction of the light penetrated to the soft, pine-covered ground.
He tried to calculate the arc of those trees falling across the route of the Frenchmen. Certainly pines barring their line of advance would force them to expose themselves, but whoever among his own men wielded an axe, always assuming they had one, could hardly survive the salvos that would be aimed in his direction as he cleaved away at the resinous wood.
Even if it was no more than an attempt to bluff, he had to get his men in some kind of position where they could make their presence felt. His Hebes were well spread out, some level with him, but mostly behind and to his right. He could see Sharland hugging a tree, in close proximity to the remaining five Seahorses. Corporal Halsey was to the rear of them to make sure that they didn’t run if things got too hot.
‘Seahorses, move up alongside me to the left and spread out.’ It was infuriating the way Sharland hesitated, as though any command had to be filtered through his insubordinate brain before it could be obeyed. Even more annoying was the way the others were looking to him for guidance. ‘Quickly man!’
Honour Redeemed Page 3
