‘Forget Schutte. We’re on our own now, which means that we’ve got two of those cannon to contend with. Every man to move out as soon as they fire the next salvo.’
He pointed his sword in the direction of the enemy, his mind registering the darker slash of what looked like a ditch right ahead, as well as the twin muzzles of the cannon being heaved round to take aim on them again.
‘They’re getting ready to fire,’ shouted Halsey. Markham threw himself down once more as the guns belched flame and smoke. It was a good shot, certainly better than anything they’d experienced at Ollioules. Both balls of case exploded within thirty feet of the rim of the depression. One Lobster, who’d dropped back to the rear slightly, had sacrificed his cover in doing so. Several of the small balls, blown out of their metal casing, peppered his uniform, making him jerk like a rag doll. But the rest of Markham’s party, hugging the ground, were protected by the top of the dip. Earth flew off the rim, covering them in a layer of dust.
‘Out of here now!’
He wasn’t so much leading by example as he jumped up, more galvanised by terror. The cannon would be reloaded in thirty seconds or less, and the next salvo would be right above their heads, making mincemeat of anyone caught underneath. He heard the shoes pounding behind him. Those gunners had shown some skill, and that changed the odds, which were never very good, even more in the favour of the French. He was suddenly surrounded by sliding, slithering bodies, as those who’d come to join him scurried to get some protection behind individual rocks.
‘Halsey, for God’s sake spread your men out!’
Only half his mind was on what Halsey was doing as he ordered his marines to split up. The French had swung their pieces onto Rannoch’s group, who were huddled amongst the trees and clumps of gorse. If they stayed there they would die.
‘Forward at the next salvo, Halsey, and fire on the run. There’s something that looks like an irrigation ditch running right towards the northwest. Get into that before you reload. Then move up until you can play on the French flank.’
He was on his feet before the guns spoke a second time, running flat out to the knot of redcoats, men who scrabbled so hard at the ground they looked as though they were trying to bury themselves. His hat flew off, removed by a wayward ball, his ears full of shrieks of a man wounded as the rest of the case shot, fired high, found flesh. By the time he reached them several men were writhing in agony, calling out to God and their mothers to come to their assistance.
‘On me,’ he shouted, running past them, his sword waving the air. Frightened they certainly were, those still fit to run, but they knew that to stay still was worse than moving. His eyes searched ahead for a place to hide, and he heard his own voice screaming at those running with him to spread out, his hasty shouts identifying places, trees, tussocks and dips where two or three attackers could take cover. Men fell, some shot, others merely stumbling. His heart was pounding in his chest as he made it to the base of a gnarled oak tree right at the edge of the clear ground in front of the guns, Rannoch cannoning into him as he did so. Pieces of wood flew about their ears as every musket, now firing at no more than fifty yards, seemed to single them out. That was followed by a cannonball, which hit a tree close to their left, smashing it to pieces.
‘If you do not put aside that sword, you are a dead man,’ Rannoch gasped. ‘That ball was aimed at you.’
Markham replied, equally breathless. ‘It makes no odds. The uniform tells them I’m the officer. And I don’t suppose they like the breed any more than you do.’
Another ball swished by above their head, lopping off several branches in its passage. Rannoch managed a ghost of a smile. ‘What now?’
Markham searched the landscape to his right, in vain, it seemed. Halsey and his men were out of sight, and he was stuck here until the marines were in place. Thankfully, the merest ghost of a red coat showed on a hunched back as it moved along the ditch which had been their destination.
‘There’s fifty yards of open ground before the guns. Halsey and his men are in a good position to our right that might actually overlap the French defences, which will allow them to give us covering fire. What we have to do is wait until they are ready, then give them something to cover.’
‘So it will be death or glory you are asking for?’
‘I’m afraid so,’ he replied, pointing his sword towards the marines, now coming above the edge of the ditch, well forward, muskets sliding along the ground, ready to fire. The French tried case shot again, firing beyond the Bullocks in the hope of wounding them in the back. They overdid the range, but that just meant the next attempt would be more dangerous. Rannoch replied to Markham’s conclusion in his usual deliberate way.
‘Then we had best be about it, or we will get the death part where we stand.’ He was on his feet before Markham finished nodding, his huge frame visible to everybody, shouting at the top of his voice. ‘On your feet, and fix bayonets. Run like the hounds of hell are on your tail.’
They screamed like banshees, from a combination of fear and excitement, Rannoch’s Highland battle cry louder than the rest. The gunners were stymied. Case shot fired on an enemy at such close range risked their own lives, since fuses too short could explode in the barrel. Only those with muskets could beat back the assault. But the men they were trying to kill were well spread out, coming at them fast over that swathe of open ground, leaving them little time to reload.
The air of calm behind the embankment had evaporated, as it dawned on the defenders that they might be taken, and any thought of firing cannon was put aside in favour of increasing the number of muskets. The braver souls amongst them fell to Halsey and his marines as they stood up to take aim, half their bodies above the parapet, presenting a large target for carefully aimed guns. Turning to engage the Lobsters allowed those Bullocks with loaded weapons to take aim on men no more than ten feet distant. Bodies spun left and right as the Frenchmen were caught between two fires. Rannoch had to dodge when he reached the base of the earthworks, as one wounded defender thrust forward desperately with his bayonet. He parried, then pinned his opponent, pushing his own blade into the space between the hunched shoulder and then neck, then pulling the trigger when it was embedded, to blow his enemy’s head off his shoulders.
Markham only saw that act on the very edge of his vision. For him time and sound had ceased to exist. He felt that he was in a cocoon, a shell that insulated him from everything around him but the scream from his own dry throat. It barely registered, the increase in the slope as he charged up to the fascined edge. Below him, frightened faces looked up, jabbing at him with bayonets that he swept aside with his sword. He cut, parried and thrust without a conscious thought, reacting to flashes of flesh and colour as they appeared on the periphery of his vision.
It was crowded, red coats mixed with blue and green, men swinging muskets as clubs, and using detached bayonets as knives. It took no more than a minute for the redcoats to get down to ground level, more to drive the enemy back. The wheels of the cannon provided some of the defenders with what they thought to be a slight shield, until they found themselves being speared through the spokes. Men fell, to be trampled on regardless of the colour of their coats. Blood flew from new wounds, spraying those around as one man was stabbed in the throat, another sliced wide open by an officer’s sword. Markham registered that and turned to face it. The Frenchman was as eager to get to him, and they clashed with their weapons across their chest. There was no room for swordplay and Markham head-butted him viciously, sending a fountain of blood streaming from his smashed nose, to cover the blue facings of his coat. As soon he staggered back Markham stabbed him in the groin, twisting the blade as the man doubled over.
The crush was easing. He had a vague impression of Halsey’s marines among the attackers now. They’d sacrificed their cover and come to aid the Bullocks, the weight of their attack driving the remaining Frenchmen backwards. Without any word of command, more from a collective realisation of defeat, t
he enemy broke and ran. Suddenly Markham found space in front of him, a chance to suck in a desperately needed breath, as he realised that, despite the odds, he and his mixed bag of indifferent Lobsters and undisciplined Bullocks had just won a battle.
Chapter twelve
The dread word ‘Cavalry!’, despite their exhaustion, made every head snap up. Markham, who had just sent a party of men back to see to his own wounded, jumped up onto one of the limbers to take a look. It wasn’t difficult to pick them out, a whole squadron, some fifty men, off to the right on the other side of the Marseilles road, wheeling round to face him. Whoever was in command of that detachment would be in trouble, forced to recapture a position which should never have been lost. Had they been mounted earlier, and ready to charge, they would have made mincemeat of the retreating Spaniards. And if Markham had come on, his rush across the open space before the guns might have ended in death, with every Bullock mown down by a cavalry sabre.
But their appearance forced him to make a much quicker decision about his next move. He’d never doubted for a moment that the French would try to retake the emplacement, if only as a sop to their pride. But an infantry attack, which would take time to prepare and execute, would at least have allowed the tattered Catalan regiment to reform and offer support. Any attempt actually to hold the battery, without a major commitment of force, was doomed. But with enough time, it would be possible to fetch up some horses and remove the guns. Nothing hurt an artilleryman more than the loss of their cannon, an event that cheered the successful foot soldier even more.
It would take a lot to cheer up the Catalans, even if they could see that their sacrifice had not been entirely in vain. For every redcoat casualty that Markham could see to his rear there were a dozen in yellow, some bunched together in bloody clumps where one shell had taken its toll, their compatriots moving amongst them to lift and take in the wounded. Serota would be trying, he was sure, to send what remnants he had forward. But the time for that was past. Demoralised, out in the open, and at the mercy of cavalry, they wouldn’t be able to stand.
The idea of taking the guns was so tempting he was loath to let it go. Searching his mind, for a solution, he remembered that half his men were marines, all of whom must have worked the cannon on board Hebe at some time.
‘Halsey. How many of your Lobsters are trained gunners?’
‘Every man jack’s handled a piece at one time, sir. But there’s not a gun captain among us. It’s mostly hauling on ropes that we were set to.’
‘But you’ve seen them loaded and fired at close quarters?’
‘Aye,’ the corporal replied, guardedly.
‘Good.’
‘That don’t mean we can fire ’em.’
‘You’re going to have to learn. Can we get them turned round to face those cavalry?’
Halsey peered at the horsemen. ‘Not if they charge now.’
‘Stand by to spike them if they get into a gallop. If we’re forced to run we can tip them off their carriages as well, so get some men ready with axes to smash the wheels.’
‘What about a charge put in the supply of the powder?’ Halsey asked, slapping the caisson at the back of the limber.
Markham nodded, still keeping his eyes firmly fixed on the enemy. They’d sorted out their line and the officer, probably impatient to rescue his honour, raised his sword to order the advance. He had to do something to slow them down.
‘Rannoch, what are the odds on hitting the man waving the sword?’
The Highlander jumped up to join him, holding a wetted finger up to feel the wind. The change in his attitude to Markham was obvious. There was no scowling or insubordination now. ‘I can do it, maybe, if he comes on. But there is a breeze, and you know how that affects a Brown Bess.’
‘I want to stop him before they get into a canter.’
‘It is worth a try.’
Rannoch jumped down, pulling the base of the small metal tripod he’d used as makeshift scales from his pack. He rammed it into the loose earth that the French had built up at the rear of their emplacement. The second piece, inserted in the tube, was V shaped and spun easily on the main assembly. It was a neat way of turning an ordinary musket into something very like a swivel gun. He ignored the men working around him, heaving, hauling and cursing as they sought to reverse the cannon. Halsey had men standing by with powder, shot, water buckets, swabs and rammers, so that the cannon could be loaded as soon as they were in place. The French officer’s sword dropped, and the men behind him began to walk their horses. Rannoch, now lying down, wriggled to adjust his position.
‘It has to be now,’ said Markham softly.
He wriggled some more, as if his officer hadn’t spoken, stating quite clearly that he had no intention of being rushed. Markham watched as his hands manipulated both trigger guard and muzzle, saw him pull the brass butt of the stock tight into his shoulder. The French began to canter as his finger slowly squeezed the trigger.
It needed a strong man to pull on a musket trigger with just one finger, in such a way that the gun didn’t move off true aim. Rannoch was such a man, and with the tripod to help him he never wavered as the trigger came back. Suddenly the flintlock crashed forward, sending the spark that lit the powder in the pan. The flash singed his hair, and left a black mark along his cheek. But that didn’t register. What did was the ball that took the French officer in the upper leg, knocking him sideways off his horse.
Leaderless, and not yet in a headlong charge, the rest of his men hauled on their reins and came to a confused halt, milling around in disorder as they tried to see where the shot had come from. Markham’s men had stopped work, and stood silent in the final few seconds. Several jaws, not least those of the Lobsters, dropped open when they saw what Rannoch had achieved. Most of them had never consciously hit anything they’d aimed at in their lives, certainly not at what looked to be over three hundred yards. Nor had Markham. He’d never really thought such a shot possible, even with a musket resting on a makeshift swivel.
‘Well done,’ he said, with deliberate understatement.
‘I was aiming at his bloody horse,’ Rannoch replied, slamming an angry fist into the ground.
Markham turned to the sweating marines. ‘Right, lads, let’s see if we can put some hot metal in amongst them.’
As they went to work he ordered Yelland back to Hanger and Serota, with instructions to tell them about the presence of the cavalry, and his desire to bring in the guns. ‘We have the limbers and the wheels; what we need are horses with enough wind to tow them. And impress upon Colonel Hanger that, even if we can keep the cavalry at bay, we only have an hour at most before we’re subjected to an infantry assault.’
‘Wine, for the sake of Christ,’ snarled Rannoch, spitting the liquid out of his mouth onto the packed earth. He held the straw-covered bottle up in disgust. ‘Do those damned heathens not know about God’s good water?’
‘There’s water in the butts,’ said Dymock, heaving alongside Halsey. ‘An’ it’s just right for Bullocks.’
Even under such exertions, that made the marines laugh. Artillerymen commonly pissed in their swabbing butts, the contents of which were already covered with a thin film of burnt powder from the barrels of their guns.
‘This will serve,’ said Markham, dragging the flagon out of the sergeant’s hands and taking a swig. ‘When everybody’s had some, I want you to break a hole in that embankment facing the harbour, so that we can get these guns through.’
‘It is as dry as bone,’ Rannoch growled, kicking at it.
‘Just detail some men to do it, Sergeant,’ Markham said, handing him Frobisher’s small telescope. ‘And get your musket back on that tripod.’
‘Will I have your permission to fire at will?’
‘Fire at anything you think you can hit. Just try and stop those horses from charging.’
‘Tully,’ Rannoch shouted, ‘over here and load for me.’
‘Guns ready,’ said Halsey. Markham turned. T
he marines had removed their jackets, and each man had tied a bandana around his head and ears so that the noise would be muted. And they were looking at him, waiting for orders. The crack of Rannoch, firing off his first round, was the only thing to break the silence.
‘I know less about aiming artillery than I do about sailing a ship, Halsey. So I’ll leave the ranging to you. See if you can get those cavalry to retire beyond the Marseilles road.’
‘There is something stirring further back,’ shouted Rannoch, halfway through swapping muskets with Tully, his finger pointing to the long valley that led to Ollioules and Marseilles. ‘There. A big cloud of dust. Could it be infantry coming up on us?’
‘I daresay,’ replied Markham calmly, with a display of confidence he certainly didn’t feel. But his words were drowned out by the cannon going off. The balls were arcing through the air, clearly going nowhere near their intended target. Indeed they were more of a threat to the distant infantry than they were to the cavalry. His response, eyes facing firmly forward, was deliberately laconic. ‘Down half a mile and right several hundred yards.’
His calm tone clearly needled Halsey, who, for the first time since they’d come ashore, allowed his discipline to crack, positively growling at him. ‘These ain’t naval cannon. They’re field pieces, and I ain’t never even seen their like a’fore.’
From where Markham was standing that was fairly obvious. So was the effect. The cavalrymen, who’d been milling about, sorted themselves out and began to prepare for a renewed assault.
‘Just do your best,’ he said quietly. ‘And hope that Yelland is a fast runner.’
The crack of Tully’s musket followed hard on those words, and Markham heard Rannoch curse a second time as he missed whatever it was he was aiming at. Looking back towards Toulon, above the heads of the men hacking at the embankment, he could see no evidence of any activity, no hint that Hanger was even interested in his progress. He’d half expected the man to ride forward once they’d taken the guns. Yet, on consideration, that would be the last thing he’d do. Markham dead would have had him spurring his horse in pleasure. Markham triumphant was a very different affair.
A Shred of Honour Page 16
