To the very right, where his men were assembled, lay bad infantry country, rising steadily towards the mountains inland, broken and hilly, dotted with fallen rocks, which would make an ordered advance impossible. Ideally, they should have brought forward artillery to subdue and distract the guns, thrown out a cavalry screen to the left to suppress any mounted counter-attack, and brought up enough infantry to convince the French commander that discretion, and withdrawal, was his best course.
A pure infantry attack would only convince the same fellow that his enemies were mad. Advancing in line, they would have to cover over half the distance without firing a shot. Then, at extreme musket range, they could open up with a volley that might do no more than make the gunners duck. To stand still and reload would be marginally less hazardous than rushing the guns, always assuming that enough men survived to attempt it.
‘Why the delay, Markham? Is this the way they do things in Muscovy?’ That made Markham turn around sharply. He’d kept very quiet about being on foreign service aboard the Hebe, and since Hanger had come from Naples he could hardly be aware of any gossip prevalent in London. The Colonel was grinning at him, glad to see that his remark had caused surprise. ‘I know all about your Russian service, Markham. And it’s the right place for someone like you.’
Clearly Hanger didn’t know everything, how that service had ended. ‘It will give me great pleasure to hand your men over to another officer, one who has a little fire in his belly, a proper soldier who will not embarrass me in front of our allies.’
As Hanger stared at him, Markham was trying to work out more than a method of attack. He was wondering why he should care about his mixed command of Lobsters and Bullocks, who had so comprehensively undermined him when he was forced to take over from Frobisher. At Ollioules he suspected that someone had taken a shot at him. And in the final assault their tardiness, up against a better equipped opponent, could have cost him everything. The improved atmosphere that had surfaced when digging trenches was no guarantee that when called upon to fight, they wouldn’t revert to their previous behaviour.
Occupied with his own thoughts, the words he heard were slow to filter through. But they did eventually, and the conclusion was sobering. The same men would be used to attack the batteries regardless of his participation. Hanger would sacrifice them, and the life of another officer, just to see him damned.
‘Well?’
Markham looked at Serota, hoping that in those eyes he might see some common sense. But the face was expressionless, leaving him to wonder if this madcap idea, in which the Dons would suffer many more casualties than the British, had been his or Hanger’s.
‘I accept.’
Serota coughed, which in another man would have sounded like surprise. Had he hoped that Markham would decline, giving him an honourable way to do the same? Hanger, grinned, his pleasure so profound that it turned the long, ragged scar on his face white.
‘It’s an interesting reflection on the nature of cowardice, Markham, that a man can actually be more afraid of a refusal than a bayonet in his guts.’
‘I’m always willing to follow you, Hanger.’
‘Colonel!’ he yelled, startling the Spanish officer at his side, busy signalling for his own men to get to their feet.
‘Not to me.’ Markham replied coldly. ‘I think of you as a bully and a murderer, a man who’s a disgrace to the uniform you wear. I don’t suppose Salisbury was the only town you burned. No doubt you’re fit for service in some Maharajah’s Indian rabble.’
‘I see your game,’ said Hanger, struggling to control his temper. ‘I’ll not call off our portion of the attack just to see you court-martialled for insubordination.’
‘I never thought you would.’
‘Line up your men.’
‘My orders, if you please?’
Hanger pointed his riding crop towards the French guns. ‘You’re to attack that position, taking station to the right of Colonel Serota’s Spaniards. And if you cannot capture the cannon, destroy them.’
‘In writing.’
‘Most happily, Markham,’ said Hanger, reaching into his saddlebag for the necessary materials. He scribbled quickly, tore off the page, and handed it over. Markham took the slip of paper, turned on his heel and marched over to where his men were gathered. As usual the marines were in one group, the soldiers in another, but both were eyeing their allies warily, as the Spanish officers bullied them into untidy lines.
‘Gather round, all of you. I want to talk to you.’
They looked at each other, suspicion evident in almost every eye. In the world they inhabited, afloat or ashore, officers shouted at them, if they bothered to address them at all. They certainly didn’t engage in cosy chats like this one was suggesting. Markham waited patiently, watching the nudging and shoving that was needed to make some men move.
‘Come along, Lieutenant,’ shouted Hanger, ‘get them lined up. We haven’t got all day.’
Markham ignored him, his eyes still on his reluctant command. Because of that, he picked up the first sign that they had a common purpose. Every eye that flickered in Hanger’s direction held a degree of hate in it that, undisguised, surpassed anything he’d ever had directed at him. He’d been about to issue some words of encouragement, but that suddenly decided him to tell the unvarnished truth.
‘Both those Colonels over there, the British one especially, would like to see us killed.’
‘Then he is no different to most officers,’ said Rannoch, the lilt of his Highland tone so at odds with the venom of the sentiment.
‘No,’ Markham replied, looking straight into his eyes. Instinct told him that if he could convince this man, he might at least carry the soldiers with him. The marines, especially Schutte, were another matter. ‘I don’t suppose he is. But his particular reason for doing so is to spite me, not you.’
‘That is none of our concern.’
‘Unfortunately it is, Rannoch. He’s selected us to take part in an attack on those French guns. If I don’t lead you then another officer will, someone who hasn’t got the sense to see that the whole affair is unnecessary, nor the wit to realise that the ground between us and them is no good for a standard infantry assault. Any line trying to march across that terrain will be in tatters before they get halfway. It’s a job for skirmishers.’
‘Which we are not trained for, in case you had not noticed.’
‘Then you’d better damn well learn,’ Markham snapped. ‘And just in case you’re thinking of being shy, then I can tell you that redcoat Colonel is aptly named. You’ve seen him in action. He loves to watch a hanging almost as much as he likes the idea of seeing me dead. He’ll dangle the lot of you from a rope, and grin from ear to ear while he does it. And that will be after he’s treated you each to a thousand lashes.’
‘Fuckin’ officers,’ said Tully, ducking his head to avoid being seen by Markham.
Markham mimicked Hanger’s gravelly voice, so accurately that half his men looked at the colonel, wondering how he could sound so close. ‘How right you are, Tully. I’ve no time for most of the sods myself.’
Several of his men gasped audibly. Those who’d been looking at him turned away. Yet they declined to engage any other eye, lest by doing so they indicate agreement. But underneath that were one or two faint negative murmurs, which might just mean that perhaps they were beginning to see him differently.
‘There is of course one way to get out unscathed. Put a ball in my back and trust that your retreat will be seen as a panic instead of cowardice.’
‘Are you going to be much longer, Markham?’ Hanger shouted. The Catalan regiment was lined up, ready to begin the advance.
Markham’s reply was even louder. ‘If you’d care to lead us yourself, sir, I’m sure my men would, like me, consider it an honour. They admire valour in an officer.’
Rannoch laughed, a clear indication that he understood the nuances of what was happening better than his fellows. They, less sure, joined in only
to avoid being seen to have missed a joke. Markham was grinning himself as he turned back to face them.
‘That shut his trap, sir,’ said Yelland.
‘We have no choice, sergeant,’ he said to Rannoch, the grin turning earnest very easily.
‘I do not suppose we do,’ he replied, fingering his musket.
Markham’s hand swung and his finger jabbed as he issued instructions that might just keep some of them alive. ‘We’re not going to form a line, but move forward in two groups. Stay off that clear ground to the south. Let the Spaniards occupy that, so that they draw the defenders’ fire, as well as any cavalry. Use the terrain and stay low. They won’t ignore us, no matter how tempting a target the Dons provide. Hide when you feel you can, then advance when the fire shifts to another target. Above all, keep moving forward. Any man who gets stuck, and tries to avoid the fighting, I’ll probably hang myself. We’ve got to cover at least four hundred yards before we can fire a shot. I will signal extreme range. Don’t blaze off at anything you don’t think you can hit. If you haven’t fired a musket lying down before, you’ll find it’s actually a lot easier to aim it. Use the ground to rest the muzzle. Don’t reload until you can find cover to stand upright.’
His mind was racing, trying to convert a complex military operation into a few simple orders. Really, it would come down to common sense. Those who had the wit to see the way to fight would employ it, those who didn’t would either take refuge or die. At least, dispersed, they might not be subjected to salvoes of case shot, something they’d certainly face if they attacked in line.
‘Right, we’re going to move off in two groups, the Sixty-fifth to that run of hillocks on the left, marines to that dip at the foot of the hill nearest the guns. Rannoch, you will lead the Bullocks, and I’ll take charge of the Lobsters.’
There was a pause, with Markham wondering if Rannoch was considering refusal. But his expression, followed by the slow nod, demonstrated that he saw the sense in what was being proposed. The men Markham had brought to France were a rum bunch. But whatever training they’d had, it was in land warfare, which was not the case with the bulk of the marines.
‘And Rannoch, when we get close enough, see if you can make those balls you were so busy fashioning do some damage.’
‘Oh, they will do that, all right, never fear.’
‘Dammit, Markham,’ Hanger shouted, ‘what are you about! Get your men in line.’
Rannoch looked over Markham’s shoulder, his musket shifting slightly. ‘It might be an idea for that fat fellow to get out of range. Him and that yellow-skinned Spaniard.’
‘You leave them be, Sergeant. If anyone is going to exact retribution for this piece of stupidity, it will be me.’
Suddenly both cannon opened up, their shot pitched just short of the Catalan soldiers. The lines before the point of impact dissolved in fright, with men diving left and right, or falling face down on the ground to avoid the balls that ricocheted off the hard-packed earth. Markham wondered if they’d done it to concentrate the attackers’ minds, to point out the futility of what they seemed set to undertake. Those Frenchmen had no more desire to die than he did himself.
Their next salvo seemed to have a similar aim, since they raised the range, the black balls screaming over the heads of the infantry. One landed within feet of Hanger, sending a huge plume of earth skywards, before the bounce took it whistling past his ear. The horse reared with fright but he held it well, forcing the animal back down onto four hooves and steadying it expertly. Serota’s mount had skipped away, and he had to ride in a long circle before he could calm it enough to bring it back to its original position. His sword was aloft and he shouted, hoarsely, for his soldiers to advance.
‘Go!’ shouted Markham, pushing the men at the front.
Rannoch’s voice bellowed out beside his ear, giving clear instructions to the men, then he ran ahead of them to lead them to decent cover. Markham turned to the marines, noticing that Schutte was well to the rear of the leading section, but there was no time to correct this. Nor was this the moment to raise questions of rank and responsibility.
‘Corporal Halsey! Two lines, well spread out. You take one section, I’ll take the other.’
The small, greying corporal reacted in a manner that pleased him, taking his men forward by example rather than cajolery. The enemy were, naturally, still concentrating on the Spaniards, three hundred strong. What had been two untidy lines had now broken up slightly into disjointed groupings, because of the terrain. With only two cannon to bombard them, the Frenchmen seemed content to inflict limited damage. That, he guessed, wouldn’t continue. Once the Catalans were halfway to the Batterie de Bregaillon they’d employ case shot and decimate them. And they couldn’t have failed to see the redcoats to their left, moving like skirmishers, or failed to understand the threat they presented if they reached the nearby foothills.
‘Rannoch,’ he yelled, as he saw the leading Spaniards come abreast of the sergeant’s position. ‘I’m going to take the marines to that pile of rocks about two hundred yards from the guns. If there’s any fire we should draw it. Don’t wait till we arrive. Move out beforehand. You mustn’t give them any time to settle on your range.’
Markham was gone without waiting for a reply, sword in one hand and pistol in the other, crouched low and moving from side to side, the Lobsters at his heels. Rannoch and the Bullocks came out from cover when they were halfway to their goal, sprinting for the clumps of gorse which would put them about the same distance from the target.
The French still concentrated on the Spaniards. The first explosion, denoting case shot, followed by the screams of the wounded, came sooner than Markham had expected. Subjected to that, the Dons could easily break and run, leaving the redcoats to face the salvoes alone. That added a dollop of dread to his pace, so that when he reached the rocks, he dived behind them gratefully.
‘Over halfway and no casualties, I think,’ he gasped. ‘We’re doing well.’
‘Poor sods,’ said Halsey, pointing to the open, southern plain.
The Catalans were suffering now, and in seeking mutual protection they were bunching together, providing the French with better targets. But that wouldn’t last long, and despite their bravery, and the efforts of their officers, their forward motion had slowed, and they looked very close to giving up. Logic dictated that having got this far without drawing down fire, the redcoats should avoid attracting attention. But seeing what was happening to the exposed Spanish infantry defied reflection. Even at extreme range, if they could divert the French gunners, they might save the Dons from being forced to retreat.
‘Present,’ he shouted, his eyes searching the landscape for Rannoch and his Bullocks. He saw them, only halfway to their goal, lying in the open, presumably having taken cover from the same doses of case shot peppering their allies. Being close to the Spanish right flank put them in some danger, and underscored the need for him to create a diversion.
Dymock had got himself in a mess, his gun facing the wrong way. Markham grabbed it and hauled it round, steadying both it and the marine as he issued instructions, his hand slapping down on the rim of a rock. ‘Muskets on these, and take aim on the earthworks around those cannon. Try to keep the barrel from kicking up and your eyes open as you fire.’
Markham stood on the biggest rock and waved his sword, shouting to the Bullocks to go forward. As soon as he saw the first movement of a red coat he called down to the marines to open fire. Fifteen men were never going to stop the French from discharging their guns. But he saw the heads above the earthworks, which were ranging the cannon, disappear, one of the muzzles being heaved round towards them, and he tried to calculate the timing as the men below him frantically reloaded.
‘Rannoch,’ he yelled. ‘Those gunners are going to give us a salvo. As they discharge, I want a volley over the top. With luck you might get one of them trying to observe the fall of shot.’
Not knowing the exact range, the commander of the battery
was taking a calculated risk in halving his ability to break the Catalans. They’d have to fire at least once to see the result, and Markham intended to be gone before they could get in a second. He ducked down just in time. The gun was suddenly shrouded in a cloud of black smoke, the red of the discharge just a spot in the centre. As he hit the shale behind the rocks, face down, the shell exploded to the front of their position, and a whole raft of balls then whistled past.
Markham was on his knees, yelling at his men to move, taking the lead himself and heading for the next piece of cover, the dip in the landscape he’d spotted from their starting point. Once there, he stood on the edge, screaming at those behind him to hurry. At the same time he was desperately trying to check on Rannoch’s progress, ignoring the sudden fusillade of musket balls that cracked as they passed overhead. He could see the Highlander moving forward, slowly now, encouraging men now subjected to musket fire themselves.
And still the guns boomed out, both back on their original target, sending shrapnel into the Dons, who’d lost all forward motion and were crouching down to try and escape their fate. As he watched they broke, which had Markham searching for cavalry. But it wasn’t that which had defeated them, it was the losses they’d suffered by advancing in lines. The number of yellow-coated bodies that covered the landscape testified to that.
Not that retreat saved them. The French elevated their guns, pouring more case into their huddled, scurrying ranks, probably inflicting more damage now than they had when the Catalans were advancing. Should he retreat too? As a course of action it had almost as many risks as going on, especially for the Bullocks, who had been left high and dry. In fact, from what he could see Rannoch was using the enemy’s concentration on the retreating infantry to move forward to a better position.
‘Where’s Schutte?’ demanded Halsey, raising his head to look for the Dutchman.
‘He’s still back behind those rocks,’ said Dymock.
‘Wounded?’
‘Afeard!’ Dymock spat as he said that, his face curled up in a sneer that turned to consternation when he heard Markham’s shout. What he couldn’t know was that by using that word he fixed his commander’s resolve. There was no way he was going to fall back and allow Augustus Hanger to use that word about him.
A Shred of Honour Page 15
