With no infantry to oppose them, and his own artillery now silent, taking those field pieces looked easy. Yet Markham, shouting to keep the line intact, was troubled. There was no sign of any extra activity around the battery, which were being reloaded without haste. Stranger still, the small officer in command was making no attempt to alter their range or elevation, behaving as if the advancing British infantry posed no threat. And the French soldiers had stayed in their trenches.
‘Halt!’ he screamed, a yell that was taken up by both Rannoch and Halsey. It seemed to take an age before every man could be brought to obey, during which he examined the horizon through his telescope. The silence was unnatural, the position ridiculous, with his men strung out in two files across a hundred yards of churned-up earth. He wouldn’t have seen the other new battery position if it had not been right in the centre of his glass when it fired. The flashes highlighted the position long before he heard the boom, which gave him just enough time to order a retreat. Taking their cue from their officer, the men didn’t fall back in a disciplined line, they ran.
That halt, the swift order to fall back and the speed with which it was executed, saved them from the mincer of two well-directed artillery salvoes. They landed right above the terrain they’d have covered had they continued, the case shot bursting open to shower the ground with hundreds of small deadly balls. As an extra sign of determined defiance, both the forward cannon opened up, sending another two shells streaming into Fort Mulgrave.
‘Saucy bastard,’ said Rannoch, as he dropped back into their trench, his chest heaving. Then he looked at his officer, his flushed face a measure of the slight embarrassment caused by using that word.
‘A bastard with a death wish, I think,’ Markham replied.
He indicated the bomb ketch now in place, with its anchors out, the ropes used as springs to get the vessel into its final position. The officer commanding the British artillery had seen them fall back. Now every gun the British could muster fired on the French position. The whole area for a hundred yards around was clobbered, and while the last of the dust was high in the sky it was bombarded again. Yet when the earth settled back to a thin haze, Markham could see that nothing had changed. Meanwhile the main French batteries, heavy siege pieces, joined the action, pounding Fort Mulgrave, which of necessity distracted the Allied gunners, forcing them to use some of their own cannon in defence. But the mortars, firing from their floating platform, were now ready to play on the original target.
Yet still the Frenchman didn’t withdraw. Then the cannon from the Batterie de Sablettes opened up, and it was only when they hit the calm waters of the bay, their target those very same floating mortars, that the sailors realised the danger they were in. Sablettes, which had looked useless, was now revealed as deadly efficient. The first salvo straddled the ketch, sending up massive founts of water ahead and astern. Through his telescope Markham could see several of the men aboard frantically chopping at the anchor cables while the rest manned the sweeps.
They were too late; the following shots struck the hull with a resounding crash that echoed across the whole landscape. No shells this time, but red-hot balls of solid iron that embedded themselves in the thick hull, and immediately set light to the timbers. The ketch, now freed, drifted away from the shore, the men aboard frantic as they fought the blaze which threatened to engulf the ship.
But that didn’t mean this mad Frenchman was safe. Markham knew it merely reduced the odds from certain, to probable death. ‘I don’t know whether to admire him, or laugh at him.’
‘Pray for him,’ Rannoch replied. ‘Because he has been lucky until now. But when the guns do get him, there will be not a thing left to bury.’
It seemed as if the Frenchman had a charmed life, and so did his men. Salvo after salvo was fired in their direction, yet not one struck close enough to put them out of action. The rate of their discharge, so rhythmic, made it seem as if they were on a practice range. Although the other batteries had ceased firing, a steady stream of shot was sent into the redoubt, each one resulting in a plume of dust and earth as some part of the defences took a hit. After about half an hour, the officer turned and left the field, stopping by his cannon as they survived one more salvo, before making his way to the rear.
There was a magical quality to what happened next, as if his presence had deflected the Allied fire. He’d no sooner departed than the original cannon took a direct hit. One shattered wheel flew high enough to clear the debris, spinning slowly in the air before crashing back onto the fragmented gun. The screams of the surviving gunners floated across the gap. Markham swung his glass to the second gun, fully expecting to see the French abandoning the piece. Instead, what he saw was another gun being dragged forward. He watched with fascination as the wrecked cannon was removed, several men looping a rope round the barrel so that they could drag it away. Others cleared bits of timber, ignoring the chunks of human flesh. And as soon as they were finished, the new weapon was put in exactly the same spot, with the small officer personally leading forward the men who would man it.
‘He is mad,’ said Markham quietly. ‘Stark, raving mad.’
Whoever he was, he lost men and guns on a regular basis. Counter-battery fire wasn’t easy, a field piece representing a small target for another cannon to hit. Charges varied slightly, as did weight of shot. Then there was the ability of the officer doing the aiming, so human frailty was added to what was anyway an inexact science. Naval gunners jeered at their land-based colleagues, quite forgetting the size of their own targets, and the number of times they missed.
But the result of a success was always the same. Another cannon was fetched out, always led by the same small officer, more men came forward, and the guns were in action again within half an hour. Even during the short winter day, the French lost a lot of men, the bodies of those either dead or too wounded to move left where they’d fallen. Finally, an hour before dark, the truce flag came out, with a request from the artillery officer that he should be allowed to clear his casualties. Markham, having agreed, walked out into no man’s land to supervise the truce, to be met there by the author of all this mayhem.
He was a small, intense man, a captain, and had a pallid complexion, with that colouring which spoke of a Mediterranean skin carefully kept from the sun. Round of face, he looked well fed and healthy. His eyes, though they were very dark brown, had a piercing quality that made them disconcerting. They exchanged nods and stood back to watch his men clearing away the bodies and the debris.
Normally when officers met in no man’s land, it was considered impolite to discuss anything other than the most general matters. Clearly good manners excluded questions related to the condition of the opposing army. And in a siege, even one so easily supplied from the sea, one could not mention victuals. So small talk was the order of the day, with allusions to previous battles, potential mutual military contacts, and references to family and friends the main topics. Not for this fellow. As soon as Markham mentioned America he was pounced on.
‘You fought there?’
‘Yes. In the Carolinas under General Cornwallis.’
‘So you surrendered at Yorktown?’
‘No. I’d departed by then.’
The eyes were on him, as if checking the veracity of that statement. ‘Good. It is better to die than surrender. Ancient warriors fell on their swords. We should do the same.’
‘Is that what these guns are about?’
Markham knew he shouldn’t have asked, and was quite prepared for a sharp response. But instead the captain smiled in a rather engaging way.
‘I call it the “Battery for men without fear”. It has become a challenge amongst the gunners. They are the best trained men in the Bouche de Rhône army. Few are prepared to admit to being cowards.’ Markham was about to ask if they would admit to madness, but he wasn’t given the opportunity. ‘Tell me about the Carolina campaign.’
‘There’s not much more to say than that it was murderous.’
‘Yes, yes! All war is that. I meant the details.’
Markham obliged, telling him of the deep forests and long straight tracks which passed for roads. Of the difficulty of manoeuvring, because of that and the lack of forage, in anything other than reasonably small numbers.
‘The people there, what are they like?’
Markham smiled. ‘Like the men holding Toulon, only tougher.’
‘Why tougher?’
‘The life they lead. Most have upped and left a home to create another in a wilderness. So, outside the few cities, they are inured to a harsh climate, and constant danger. They can shoot, and use the terrain to their advantage.’
‘Not all of them sided with the rebellion.’
‘No,’ Markham replied, unwilling to make the obvious point that the same thing applied to the spot where they were standing.
‘You were too soft on them.’
Recalling what had happened, in his experience, it seemed anything but soft. But this small artillery captain was adamant.
‘You should have strung up every colonist you captured in ’76, men, women and children. Anyone who so much as possessed a gun. Lined those tracks you mentioned, with their bodies, as Crassus did to the slave army of Spartacus. That would have brought them to heel.’ He flipped out his watch, hard to see in the sudden gathering darkness. His skin had taken on a luminous quality, which seemed to extend to his eyes. ‘After all, the way you describe it, America was worth fighting for.’
‘Time?’ asked Markham. The Frenchman nodded, and both turned to order their men back to their lines. ‘Tell me, Captain. How many men are you prepared to sacrifice on this battery?’
Again, it was precisely the kind of question he shouldn’t have asked. But this officer was more than willing to oblige.
‘All of them, Lieutenant.’ The smile had no warmth. It was a cold, calculated mark of his determination. ‘You see, I have studied all my life for just such a moment as this. Everything I learned at the Auxonne artillery school will be distilled into the destruction of your position in Toulon.’
‘It won’t be that easy, Captain.’
‘It will, Lieutenant. Toulon is very much like my home. Ajaccio, in Corsica, has the same kind of double harbour, is also surrounded by hills. I have been planning to reduce a fortress like this since I was a mere boy.’
The eyes seemed to have expanded, till they filled Markham’s vision. This fellow was obsessed, and quite likely, slightly deranged. ‘Tell me, captain, do you know a man called Fouquert?’
‘I do. Why do you ask?’
‘You remind me of him in some ways.’
Oddly enough, the small artillery captain looked pleased by the comparison. ‘Can I pass on your compliments?’
That idea tickled the Irishman, and he had to force himself not to grin as he responded. ‘By all means. Tell him Lieutenant George Markham is looking forward to renewing our acquaintance.’
‘George Markham?’ he repeated, to ensure he’d got it right.
‘Yes. And you, sir, are –?’
‘Bonaparte. Captain Napoleon Bonaparte.’
Markham looked up at the quartet of officers sitting on their horses, curious about the identity of the immaculately dressed naval captain. He wore, across his chest, a blue silk sash and a huge jewelled star. So far, he hadn’t even looked at him. No one had bothered with an introduction, and from the mood of the group it seemed his presence wasn’t welcome. He was of medium height, fair haired, with a steady gaze. Everything about him had a slightly gaudy appearance as though the blue broadcloth and his gold braid came from a different and more expensive supplier than that of the man beside him, Elphinstone. Certainly the wearing of an Order of Chivalry, here in the field, was extraordinary.
Mulgrave and Hanger made up the foursome, all eager to witness the destruction of the man Markham had identified. From that point, on the forward slopes of the hill of Caire with the morning sun at their backs, they could see the entire French position, and observe that for all their activity with the guns, there was little evidence of any attempt to move forward with the saps and parallels that must presage an assault.
‘Corsican by birth,’ Markham added, ‘but trained in the French Royalist army. Typical gunner.’
That required no explanation, and brought forth a grunt from Mulgrave. Infantrymen disliked gunners for their arrogance, plus the fact that they never seemed to be able to hit that which the soldiers required. They were nearly as unreliable as cavalry.
‘What did you say he’s called the damned thing?’ growled Elphinstone.
‘He’s named it “La Batterie des hommes sans peur”.’
‘Never mind what the damn thing’s called,’ said Mulgrave. ‘What are we going to do about it?’
‘Ignore him,’ said Hanger. ‘And keep destroying his guns. And I beg to repeat my earlier observation that we have no need to mount a counter-attack to drive the enemy back. Dugommier had allotted few infantry to this sector, so the idea of an offensive here is pure moonshine. Mont Faron is where his army is massed, and that is the place where matters will be decided.’
‘I beg to differ, sir,’ said the unnamed captain. His voice, though strong, had a musical quality which entirely suited the rest of his flashy demeanour.
‘Do you, by damn?’ snapped Hanger.
‘Not having any official duties, I’ve taken the opportunity to move along and observe the whole defensive line.’
‘I suppose you think we have stayed indoors, Sir Sydney,’ said Hanger, ‘scratching our parts?’
‘If I may be permitted, gentlemen,’ the naval knight replied, dismounting gracefully from his horse. On the ground he pulled out a sword, which was jewelled on the hilt and engraved on the blade. He then began to draw on the ground. Mulgrave and Elphinstone craned forward to look. Hanger merely snorted.
‘Have any of you gentlemen come across the written works of a French officer called the Chevalier du Tiel? I refer specifically to a treatise he wrote called, if my memory serves me, L’Emploi de l’artillerie nouvelle.’
He paused for a moment, as though waiting to see if the name registered. What greeted him was a wall of incomprehension, with only Markham showing any notion of understanding.
‘It was written at the French Artillery School at Auxonne.’
‘What has that got to do with Toulon?’ asked Mulgrave.
‘A great deal, sir.’
Hanger raised his crop and slapped his boot angrily. ‘Are we to be treated to a warmed-up lecture from some Crapaud knight?’
Mulgrave answered Hanger without looking at him. ‘If I’m prepared to listen to Sir Sydney, Colonel, I don’t see that it should trouble an officer who is my junior.’
There was much in those few words about the nature of their relationship to cheer Markham immensely. Sir Sydney continued as though Hanger hadn’t spoken. ‘Since they reorganised the French artillery their leading thinkers have been striving for two things. Increased mobility and a chance to win a battle without a massed infantry assault. The natural order of things is that artillery supports infantry. The aim is to reverse that.’
‘That is complete nonsense,’ growled Hanger. Seeing both Elphinstone and Mulgrave begin to frown, Markham cut in quickly.
‘This Bonaparte trained at Auxonne.’
Sir Sydney gave him a smile so dazzling that it entirely lacked sincerity. It came and went like the shutter of a lantern. Then the sword was scratching busily in the hard earth, showing a rough plan of the western end of the Petite Rade.
‘This fellow opposite has sited more than a dozen batteries in the last few weeks.’
‘We are aware of that,’ said Elphinstone. ‘All of us.’
‘If you look at the ordnance, you will see that apart from those opposite Malbousquet and the Batterie de Bregaillon, the guns are field pieces, which makes them mobile. What’s more, they are designed to link with, and provide, a defence for each other.’
‘And what
, pray, does that signify?’ demanded Hanger.
‘It means that they can advance without being destroyed. That is, unless we are prepared, in trying, to accept casualties, and even lose ships.’ He smiled again, but it was the look of an adult indulging children. ‘I don’t think, as you do, Colonel Hanger, that the key to Toulon is Mont Faron. I think this Bonaparte has spotted that it is Fort l’Eguillette, right behind Fort Mulgrave, which must fall if the defences in front of it crumble.’
‘Which is why we have built this redoubt,’ Mulgrave replied.
‘Assuming I’m right, I need hardly point out to you the effect on the fleet,’ said Sir Sydney, looking hard at Elphinstone. ‘If the French retake l’Eguillette they put the whole anchorage in jeopardy. And we have already observed, from what happened today, that they have furnaces for heating shot?’
Elphinstone didn’t have to reply. Markham, likewise, could appreciate the danger, and see that the siting of those guns was, as he’d earlier suspected, anything but stupidity. The anchorage would become a naval death trap, the ships locked inside as securely as if he had a key. And everyone present knew that possession of the harbour, plus those ships inside, constituted the whole reason for holding Toulon.
‘Sir Sydney is right about l’Eguillette,’ said Elphinstone, just in case the army men hadn’t seen it for themselves.
‘Just as Colonel Hanger is right about Mont Faron,’ replied Mulgrave. ‘Dugommier has massed his troops there. This is a very pretty idea you paint, Sir Sydney, but I think you’re wrong. There’s no way that artillery can achieve such a result on its own, and no amount of French theorising will change that. This sector is secure unless Dugommier reinforces it with infantry.’
‘Besides, this Bonaparte fellow can’t keep it up for ever,’ growled Hanger. ‘He can’t afford the losses.’
A Shred of Honour Page 27
