A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  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 rat
e 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.

  ‘If I had, we would have lost the advantage. And since we stand on the crest with the enemy in full retreat, sir, I submit that my appreciation was correct.’

  ‘Your appreciation,’ Elphinstone spluttered.

  ‘Having already fought them, sir, I knew their calibre. Thankfully, it was even easier than the previous encounter.’

  Elphinstone scowled, unsure if he was being goaded, examining the terrain and the enemy strength as a way of avoiding the look of certainty in Markham’s eye. There wasn’t really much that he could say, given the undoubted success his small force had achieved. The French had slowed down, still fleeing, the only thing holding up the rout the narrow entrance to the gorge.

  Elphinstone pointed at them. ‘How long is that gorge ahead?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Markham replied. ‘We had neither the time, nor the strength, to find out.’

  ‘Pity,’ he replied, though he made it sound the precise opposite. ‘Holding that, we’d have avoided a fight altogether.’

  Markham was seething, judging this to be just the usual ‘Johnny come lately’ attitude of a man determined to pick holes. He could have, and no doubt would have, led the charge up the hill himself if he’d arrived sooner.

  ‘And if we’d failed, sir, we would have found ourselves retreating across the only piece of true open ground for miles. In which case I doubt I’d be here talking to you now.’

  Elphinstone flushed furiously, and glared at his fellow captain. ‘You allow your officers too much freedom, de Lisle.’

  ‘With respect, sir, I do not,’ de Lisle snapped back. Then, seeming to have realised his mistake, his voice softened immediately. Clearly, if the Scotsman chose to rebuke him, it was because he had the power to do so. ‘I will not be called to answer for those the Admiralty foists on me. I am accustomed to choosing my own officers, and I can assure you, had I been indulged, I would not have the likes of Lieutenant Markham aboard my ship.’

  Elphinstone nodded, seemingly mollified, as though the person referred to was elsewhere, and that little speech explained everything. He sat silently for almost a minute, before speaking again. ‘Dig in here for the night, Markham. I’ll take my marines back with me to continue work on the perimeter defences around Toulon. I’ll send another officer, and orders, at first light.’

  They should have relieved him and his men, leaving some of the others they’d brought up in their place. But insolence had its price and Markham was paying for his. He considered arguing, but put it aside, knowing that he couldn’t plead. But he did know that for the next twelve hours he had precious little strength if anything developed.

  ‘If you leave the guns, sir …’

  He got no further, Elphinstone shaking his head as though the proposition were stupid. ‘Of course I can’t leave the guns, man. We need to get them in position to defend the town.’

  ‘Then I must warn you, sir, that I may be forced to abandon Ollioules.’

  ‘We will be doing that anyway, M
arkham. What you’ve seen today is only the advance guard of the Armée de la Bouche de Rhône. The rest are to the rear, some fifteen thousand men, who left Marseilles this very morning.’

  ‘Spotted Dick’ produced one of his humourless smiles. ‘Fifteen thousand men. I don’t think even your brand of insubordination will hold that number.’

  ‘There’s another French army,’ Elphinstone added, ‘from Savoy, approaching from the east, which makes any position outside the Toulon perimeter untenable. But the longer we keep this lot away from the port the better.’

  ‘I’m sorry, laddie,’ he continued, though he signally failed to sound so. ‘All we’ve bought here is a wee bit of time.’

  ‘Come, sir,’ said de Lisle, giving Elphinstone an admiring look that lit up even his bland face. ‘Let’s not be too self-deprecating. You must admit that you have fought a brilliantly successful action, given your limited means. The enemy, a superior force, have been compelled to withdraw.’

  This piece of outrageous flattery was taken without a blush. Markham, already displeased, was made doubly so. Again, their own captain didn’t see fit to praise the men from the Hebe. Clearly Elphinstone was well above him on the Captains’ list. More than that he had influence, so much that de Lisle was prepared to absorb a rebuke, even to grovel in order to gain some regard.

  The object of this sycophantic praise called out his commands as he swung round on his horse. His marines fell in smartly behind him and marched off in his wake. De Lisle followed, leaving Markham’s small party of just over thirty men in possession of the hill.

  The sun dropped lower, with the sky, indigo above their heads, turning gold behind the limestone crags. ‘Entrenching tools. Schutte, get a party together and carry the French wounded and dead down to the bottom of the hill. They’ll want a truce, and we can’t let them see how few in number we are. Halsey, tally off four men. I want a piquet to the rear just in case they try and slip some men round behind us. Rannoch, get some fires ready, enough to make it look as though we’re still here in strength.’