‘Sergeant sent you this, sir,’ said Tully, loudly, holding out his telescope, his pock-marked face split with a wide grin. ‘Says, with the Lobsters shooting the way they are, you need it more’n he does. Might aid you in discoverin’ where they land.’
Several of the marines swore at Tully, but Markham didn’t respond to them or the soldier, merely holding out his hand to take the telescope.
‘Any sign of help comin’?’ Tully asked softly.
‘None,’ he said, looking down. ‘But don’t worry. I’ve no intention of staying here for some useless sacrifice.’
‘The lads’ll be pleased to hear it, sir.’
‘Then make sure they do, Tully. And tell them to be ready to run like the devil if I give the order.’
Halsey’s next salvo, while a vast improvement, still didn’t trouble the cavalry. He looked at Markham to see if he was to be exposed to another jibe, his pasty face screwed up in anticipation, only to be greeted with a reassuring nod.
‘Better, corporal. Much better.’
Markham’s thoughts were elsewhere. Having got ready to begin their advance, he couldn’t understand why the cavalry were hesitating. Common sense told even the most foolish soldier that under an artillery barrage it was best to be moving, either forward or back. Rannoch took out one of the horses with his third musket ball, aided by the fact that they were in close order. Still, at the given range, some three hundred yards, it was remarkable shooting. Was it that, or an order from another source, which suddenly made them turn to the right and trot off? He watched them as they rode parallel to his position for a while, then observed the lead rider wheel round.
Putting the telescope to his eye, he looked beyond the dust-covered road. The infantry marching in his direction were clear now, men in such numbers that they would overwhelm his puny force in a single charge. With the cavalry on the southern flank, ready to cut across his line of retreat, the position, which had never been secure, was rapidly turning into a death trap.
‘Yelland coming,’ shouted Dornan, who was standing on the top of the earthworks. ‘On his bloody own, an’ all.’
It was true. The youngster was staggering with the effort of running, sucking in great gulps of air in an attempt to keep moving. The ground behind him was clear of everything but a few mendicant monks working among the Catalan wounded with neither infantryman nor horse in sight. The reasons for that troubled Markham, but not so much that he failed to concentrate on the consequences. Those cavalry would come after them as soon as they moved. Out in the open, especially retreating, he was about to be exposed to the foot soldier’s greatest fear. Even in the broken terrain the horses would have the advantage over men who could not present to them any kind of solid front, able to pick off individual targets at will. But to stay still was even worse.
‘Halsey, one more salvo at maximum elevation, just to see if we can slow up the French column, then pack the guns with everything they will hold and hammer in the tampions. You men digging, stop at once and get these limbers alongside the cannon. Rannoch, once Halsey is ready to fire take your men back to a point halfway between here and the shoreline. Get into that broken ground and form a line facing south, bayonets fixed, and prepare to receive cavalry.’
There was more than a trace of the old Rannoch in the way he posed the obvious question. ‘And when they come?’
‘I will be there with you. The marines will retire to a point behind us. We’ll give them three rounds when they charge and run for it. Let’s just hope those sea service muskets the Lobsters have got are accurate enough to fire over our heads.’
‘Do you hear those words, Halsey,’ the Scotsman snapped, addressing the whole group of sweating marines. ‘If one of those balls of yours comes anywhere near me I will, by my own hand, stick my bayonet up your arse.’
Halsey’s pepper and salt hair had come undone, his face covered in perspiration. There was nothing bland about his manner now. He positively spat his reply. ‘Go drink your own piss, you tartan toerag.’
‘Form the men up, Sergeant,’ Markham snapped, seeing Rannoch’s fists begin to close. ‘At the double.’
That earned him a portion of the glare which had been aimed at Halsey. But he obeyed; the whole area was now a mass of frantic activity. Halsey let fly with his last attempt, achieving more with that than any previous salvo. It didn’t reach the French column, which looked to be over a thousand strong, but it did hit the road ahead of them. As soon as the guns were clear he got busy, he and the other team shoving charge after charge into the cannon, with Halsey rubbing earth over a metal sphere. Once it was full he jammed the dirt-covered ball in the barrel, followed by the tampion. He then grabbed a hammer and started to swipe at that, ramming it home, as hard as he could, into the muzzle. Gibbons was poking a long piece of slowmatch into the touchhole, the entire operation being duplicated on the second gun. Others, mysteriously to Markham, were emptying the brackish water butts onto twin sections of loose earth right before the cannon, and jabbing at the darkened earth to break it up.
‘When you’re ready, Corporal.’
‘Not yet, sir,’ Halsey croaked, reversing the angle on the elevating screw so that the cannon now pointed down towards the ground. He called for a solid heave and the marines ran the guns forward so that their muzzles smashed into the wet, softened earth, adding another seal to the already blocked cannon.
‘On your way, Rannoch.’
The sergeant yelled for his men to follow and headed up over the remaining earthworks. Markham swung his telescope to take in the cavalry, watched as they reacted very swiftly to this development, swinging round and breaking into an immediate trot as they saw the redcoats retreating. Halsey and his men were struggling into their coats, grabbing their weapons, and forming up. The dishevelled corporal came up to him, a spluttering piece of burning slowmatch in his hand.
‘The honour is yours, sir.’
‘Thank you, Halsey. Get your men out of here.’
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he replied, tugging at his shoulder straps.
When the last man was gone, Markham dropped the smoking twine to the piece protruding from the first gun. As soon as that took he moved to the second, watching as that spluttered into life with a kind of deadly fascination. Jerking himself out of such a suicidal reverie, he quickly fired the fuses to the caissons, leapt up onto the top of the embankment and ran.
Needing to keep an eye on the cavalry, he also had to be careful where he put his feet, even on this, the smoothest part of the ground. Any kind of serious fall would be fatal. Ahead, Rannoch was beginning to form up the men, shouting at them as he shoved them into position.
Even with everything occupying his mind, he had room to wonder at the sergeant’s ability. Ever since they’d commenced the attack he had been like a rock Markham could lean on. The assumption that he’d been assigned to service at sea because he was useless as a soldier was plainly erroneous, just as wrong as the notion that he was a sergeant merely because of his physical prowess. Judging by what had happened this day, he held his stripes deservedly, and was a man any colonel, in any line regiment, would want to hold on to. So why was he here?
He responded to the shouted warning immediately, though the sweat running into his eyes made it difficult to see. Two of the swifter cavalrymen had detached themselves from the mass and turned to intercept him, using the smooth rising pasture to speed their passage. The next few moments were spent in an agony of suspense. He was running as fast as he could, but aware that his lungs, never mind his legs, were past the point of maximum speed. At the same time he was trying to calculate the relative distances, the shortening one between him and the line of redcoats, as compared to the more rapidly closing gap to the horsemen.
Suddenly he knew he wouldn’t make it, so his decision to stop running made sense to him. That it didn’t to the men of the 65th Foot was obvious by the yells of encouragement that floated across the hot dusty landscape. But that was being drowned out by thudding hoov
es, and he turned, his first vision the great bursts of dust being thrown up as each equine foot struck the earth. Markham pulled out pistol and sword, keeping the latter in his left hand while he aimed the former at the leading cavalryman. A standard sea service affair, it was famous for being useless at anything other than point-blank range. But he couldn’t wait. He needed time to transfer his sword and prepare to defend himself. So he blazed off more in hope than expectation, disappointed despite himself that it had no effect.
The gun was cast aside and his sword was in his hand, a slight fumble making the whole action too slow. Again time changed its dimension, slowing so that every feature, every move, had an astonishing clarity. The flaring nostrils and the foam round the horse’s curb chain were so close he felt he could reach out and touch them. He could see the moustachioed face of his first opponent, the eyes and mouth wide open with anticipation.
That light of battle, of approaching success, died as the ball took him, slamming him sideways and forwards across the withers of his mount. Markham scrambled to the left, narrowly avoiding the horse’s shoulder as the animal swerved. There was no time to see if the rider was alive or dead. The second horseman was upon him, and only a frantic slice with his sword deflected the sabre from his exposed chest. He slashed as the cavalryman went by, cursing as the point of his blade missed the man’s back. The Frenchman hauled on his reins to bring the beast round, so Markham went after him, catching his opponent before he swung through more than a quarter of his turn.
The sabre slashed down viciously, narrowly missing Markham’s head. His sword was jabbed into the horse’s flank, which caused it to rear, reducing the rider’s control and balance. He thrust forward again, luck helping him to push his weapon up under his opponent’s arm. The wound he inflicted wasn’t deep enough to do more than gash the skin, but in trying to avoid it the horseman slipped out of his stirrups, one foot waving close to Markham’s ear. He cut hard, sweeping upwards, the sharp blade going right through the leather of the boot, in through the flesh, to crash against the leg bone. The impetus added by this blow tipped the horseman right out of his saddle. He’d have been safe still if his horse hadn’t spun, exposing his unprotected back. Markham put all his body weight behind the thrust, producing enough effort to take the blade through almost to the hilt.
The falling horseman landed right on him, knocking him to the ground, with his animal’s hooves rising and falling dangerously close. Vaguely, over the mass of sounds around him, he heard, in the background, the staggered fire of ill-disciplined musketry. Struggling hard, he managed to get the man’s dead weight off his chest, and with several heaves he got his sword clear. In his death agony, the Frenchman still held the horse’s reins, clutched tightly in one clenched fist. Markham grabbed them as he cut at the wrist, releasing the fingers. The animal, terrified, spun round in a tight circle as he sought to mount it, flecking his uniform with foam from the mass that covered his mouth.
Markham, like every Irishman, knew his horses, and having seen action with Russian Cossacks, had learned even more. He punched the animal, as hard as he could, on the nose. As it stopped in shock, he jumped without any sure knowledge of success, just hoping to get enough of his body weight over the saddle to stay on board. The animal bucked as it felt him press down, jumped in panic so that his search for one stirrup seemed doomed. Suddenly, instead of hauling on the reins, he let them loose, pressed his knees together and the horse took off. Galloping, it was a steadier platform than when bucking, which allowed him to get his feet in the stirrups. With the reins tightened to pull on the bit, he began to feel that he could, at last, exert some measure of control.
That evaporated as soon as he lifted his eyes. He found himself charging straight for a disordered group of French cavalry. To his left, Rannoch was retiring fast, yelling furiously at the men, keeping their bayonets pointed towards the enemy so that they couldn’t mount an overwhelming attack. Markham heard him shout and the redcoats broke and ran. As soon as they did Halsey opened up, firing over their heads, hoping that the higher elevation of the horsemen would provide him with a target.
But all such thoughts had to be put aside as his mount’s forward motion took him right in past the enemy flank, several of their number spinning to engage him. Slipping the reins into one hand he slowed the horse, knowing that the animal could not be made to perform properly at anything like his present pace. But it was a cavalry mount, trained to battle, and he deliberately took it close in to the enemy, relieved that when he sent the right signals with reins and body, it skipped sideways.
The move was no more than six inches, but it took him, by a fraction, out of the reach of the first sabre slash, while his forward motion allowed him a swing of his sword that deflected a second. Now he had the enemy both in front and behind him. Reins centred, pulling hard while standing in the stirrups, he got the animal spinning round and round, his sword flashing to keep men out of his orbit. Then, dropping back into the saddle, he jabbed again, this time with both knees together, pleased in spite of the danger with the way the animal reacted. It shot forward, the rider now over its neck, egged on by his growling encouragement and the slap of his sword blade on its hind quarters, which took him clear of those surrounding him at a full gallop.
The gap between them opened swiftly, and he found himself overtaking his own soldiers before the ground, getting steeper and rockier, forced him to slow. He also came under fire from Halsey’s marines, and it was only luck that saved him from falling to his own side. Rannoch had already arrived and began to form his men up, yelling furiously at the numerous stragglers. Slewing to a halt just in front of the marines, Markham slid off the horse, slapping its rump to send it on at the same time as his feet hit the ground. Then he ran to the right of the line, and took charge of the firing. After one round the French wheeled away, the right thing to do considering that the ground precluded attacking at anything other than walking pace.
Just as they began to withdraw, the first cannon went off. Earth, along with pieces of wood and metal filled the air. The second gun went straight after, setting off the caissons full of powder. A huge plume of dust rose up, and as it settled, the emplacements for the Batterie de Bregaillon completely disappeared.
Chapter thirteen
Hanger, faced with an inquisitive superior, looked a lot less assured than he sounded. ‘Colonel Serota and I both agreed the attack was essential. Indeed he insisted, and since he was prepared to back his judgment with a whole regiment of Catalan infantry, I could hardly refuse him an additional thirty men.’
‘The cost was high,’ said Mulgrave, ‘especially amongst those same Catalans. What were our losses again, Lieutenant?’
‘Remarkably light, sir, considering.’ Markham wondered if he was replying to a question designed to embarrass Hanger, since the answer was in his report on Mulgrave’s desk. ‘Three dead, a dozen wounded, two of whom will most certainly not survive. Half the others will be invalided out.’
Hanger flushed slightly. ‘If the French had been left in peace they would have pushed forward to a position which would have threatened Malbousquet, the redoubt now building at La Seyne, as well as the anchorage.’
Lord Mulgrave was small, with an air of tight control about the way he maintained his features, an image heightened by the bright eyes and tight white wig; the way his skin showed every bone, and the close-fitting nature of his uniform. A hero of the American war, he wore the bronze medal struck for his success at Germantown. There, surprised by General Washington, he had repulsed an attack in the fog that, if successful, could have jeopardised the whole British position in America.
To Markham that meant two things; that he was a proper career soldier, and that having served in the former colonies, he might know all about the man who, having finished his report, had stepped back to allow Hanger his say. He wondered if he needed that tight control now; was curious to know if Mulgrave had any inkling that what Hanger was telling him was utter nonsense. If he did, it wa
sn’t to be allowed to show. He listened with the same air of concentration he had shown to Markham himself.
‘We felt the need to teach them a lesson, sir,’ Hanger continued, ‘and we succeeded. As to Lieutenant Markham’s decision to withdraw, without specific orders, I have already given you my opinion on that. If you wish, I’m more than happy to repeat it.’
‘That won’t be necessary, Colonel,’ Mulgrave replied.
It wouldn’t be a flattering one, that was certain, otherwise why make any observation at all? And it made little difference. There wasn’t much that Mulgrave could say, even if he did consider the action rash. He could hardly castigate Hanger for agreeing to attack the enemy, that being the very stuff of the zealous warrior. Nor could he question the fact that he hadn’t taken part. Staff officers weren’t supposed to get themselves killed in search of glory. To admonish him would imply a degree of displeasure which, of necessity, must include Serota, impacting on his already strained relations with the Spaniards. After a full minute, with Mulgrave drumming his fingers on the desktop, and occasionally stroking the bronze medal, he finally spoke.
‘It’s fair to say that while the action wasn’t perfect, in either conception or execution, it will serve to encourage the rest of the garrison. A little bit of offensive spirit is to be admired. Lieutenant Markham, you must be weary. I suggest you return to your billet and get some rest and refreshments.’
‘Sir,’ Markham came to attention. Mulgrave had decided to sit on the fence which, if it showed a lack of leadership, was at least common sense.
A Shred of Honour Page 17
