A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  They seemed to explode right above his head, a dozen blue lights that bathed the whole landscape. The grey, crouching lumps of men’s bodies were starkly illuminated, as was the mound of earth right before them. The cloud cover, which had given protection, now acted as a reflecting screen to the flares, multiplying their effect to a disastrous degree. The French sentries were suddenly wide awake, the first wild musket shots being fired off to discourage whatever it was the perfidious British had planned.

  ‘Move forward,’ he shouted, leaping himself for the dubious shelter of the gun emplacement. Some followed, others didn’t, frozen like rabbits. The first heads appeared over the parapet of the gun position, bayonetted muskets thrust forward ready to fire. Those who moved fared best, by increasing the angle at which the muskets were forced to discharge. Those who stayed, now crouched like crows feeding in a newly sown field, took the brunt of the enemy fire. Markham, who’d intended to keep his head down, was forced to scramble up the slope in an attempt to disrupt the enemy. He’d just reached the very edge of the embankment when a hand grabbed his collar and hauled him back.

  ‘We have got to run,’ gasped Rannoch, ‘or we will be butchered.’

  Markham had ended up in a heap, right back where he’d started at the bottom of the mound, with Rannoch now trying to help him up in the last dying flickers of blue lights.

  ‘Hebes, to me,’ he yelled, not quite sure if the sergeant was right or wrong. The flares had died away, so they only had his voice to go by, that and the flash of muskets from Smith’s party to the south. ‘Dorman, Leech, get rid of those ropes. The rest of you, keep the enemy camp fires on your right hand and move.’

  ‘We have got to get back, sir,’ shouted Rannoch.

  ‘Not across that strip of land,’ he hissed. ‘Now do as you’re told and follow me.’

  A volley of musket fire, which flew over their heads, concentrated everyone’s mind. It was no time for a discussion of tactics, more a time to take a chance and hope that their officer had made the right decision. Another set of flares shot skywards, bursting above the broken landscape, throwing every hummock and hole into sharp relief, and highlighting the running, crouching figures of the redcoats. The guns opened up behind the French lines, orange flashes that added to the surreal nature of the surroundings. The pattern was laid from the previous engagement, and the shells landed right on the line of direct retreat from Bonaparte’s main battery.

  As the blue lights began to fade, Markham, realising they’d reached a halfway point between the central and the southern battery, stood up, waved his sword and yelled for his men to retreat to their own lines. He was praying that a corridor would exist which had yet to be covered by crossfire, one that would be hard to conjure up in the dark. Musket flashes still appeared from the south, though fewer in number. There was nothing at all from the north, where Driberg was supposed to attack.

  The next set of flares showed him why. The men retreating at this distance, looked like ants scurrying back to their nest. Guns were going off all around him, musket balls cracking in his ears and cannon booming out as they fired salvo after salvo. So for him to try to yell orders to Driberg, whom he couldn’t distinguish from the others, was a waste of time. The midshipman hadn’t been up in the lines today, and hadn’t seen the damage wrought by Bonaparte’s covering fire. So to the youngster, the oblique angle at which he’d chosen to retire, one which would confuse the French infantry, made absolute sense.

  That aura of time suspended returned once more. Even his hoarse and useless shouts seemed to slow in speed. His legs, carrying him towards them, seemed leaden. The guns flashed and boomed. He fancied, though it was impossible, that he saw the shells arc towards the ground in front of the main French position. But he did see them burst, well above head height, the smoke of the explosions, in the ethereal glow, creating great puffballs like clouds as the metal was spewed in all directions. Driberg’s men spun and writhed like maddened puppets as the case shot ripped into them. A few, miraculously, survived to stagger on. Others, wounded, dragged themselves upright and tried to follow. The next salvo, explosive shells, ripped into both them and their wounded and dying companions. Great clods of earth flew skywards, seeming to stop for a second to form a murderous and petrified forest in which the branches were mud and the leaves human limbs. Two more followed as the first cascaded back to the ground, tearing up the same bloodstained dirt, with not even a scream from a dying man to break the rhythm of the explosions.

  Markham stopped, sure that to continue would mean certain death, and convinced that all he would find were remains, since no creature could live through that barrage. He turned back towards his own lines, praying that the Chevalier had not perished in the same manner, wondering how many of his own party had succumbed. The British guns, right before his eyes, belched forth in such numbers that the glow of the discharge ran like a continuous strip across the skyline. His legs, as he tried to run, were like lead. Curses were mixed with prayers as he ran under the salvo, beseeching the deities to give him the strength to get clear. The blast, a wall of air, hit him in the back like a huge shovel, throwing him forward. His hands went to cover his head automatically as the ground behind him erupted.

  They found him an hour later, in full daylight when the guns had fallen silent, half buried under a pile of loose earth. Concussed and confused, the words he uttered sounded like the ramblings of madman. Rannoch took him to the hospital ship personally, along with nearly half the men he’d led into battle. Markham lay semi-delirious as all around him men died, some from their wounds, others from the efforts of the surgeons to cure them. Legs and arms were amputated, the screams of the conscious victims mingling with those that filled his head, the sound of men dying in the dark for a piece of his own vanity, Driberg torn asunder so that he could no longer flatter Lizzie Gordon.

  When he did come round, there was silence. Those too badly damaged to survive had expired, taking their noise with them. Those who’d lived lay still, either praying to God, or silently reliving the nightmare they’d passed through. His tongue was as dry as parchment, his lips cracked and sore. Consciousness brought pain, as the multitude of cuts and bruises made themselves known. A croak brought a loblolly boy, a bucket and a ladle, and the welcome relief of clean refreshing water, most of which seemed to spill across his naked chest. The loud bang made him jump with fear, and try to sit up.

  ‘Rest easy, sir,’ said the loblolly boy, his face full of concern. ‘It’s only lightning and thunder you’re a’hearin’, a December storm. You just lay back while I fetch the surgeon.’

  ‘They feared for your wits, of course,’ said the Chevalier, ‘what with you raving away about treachery. There was a woman in there somewhere, as well.’

  ‘Driberg?’

  Smith shook his head slowly. ‘They found his hat, I believe, but like the rest of his party there was precious little left to bury, and not enough clothing on the pieces to identify them.

  ‘Your Captain Bonaparte pounded that particular stretch of ground right up till we asked for a ceasefire.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘Light casualties, wounds only and not a single man lost. From what Rannoch told me my thoughts were very like your own, that to retreat direct was to invite Johnny Crapaud to shoot us in the back. I made for the southeast shore, got behind the dunes and set up a defence. At first light someone had the sense to stretch the terms of the truce and take us off by boat.’

  ‘I need Rannoch to report to me.’

  ‘Then I shall make it so, Markham. I know that what he will have to tell you will wound you, but I cannot have you thinking that you were foolish.’

  ‘Who said I was foolish?’

  ‘You did, according to the surgeon, in your ravings. Mind, how he would know when he’s full to the brim with rum, I cannot tell. The attack on the guns was my idea, and it was a sound one, as I told Admiral Hood. As for the losses, you cannot make war without risk.’

  To Markham’s reco
llection, the notion of the danger Bonaparte’s dispositions posed had been outlined by Smith. But the actual idea of taking the guns had been his. But even if he’d wanted to say that, he was given no chance, as the Chevalier rattled on.

  ‘And I see it as a fine piece of work, Markham. I was taken to task for presuming to lead it, of course, with Elphinstone being very sour. He and that Hanger fellow seem to have suddenly become bosom companions. Some of the things he said might have had me calling him out. But I imagine the loss of young Driberg weighs on him, so I let his insults pass. I stuck to my main purpose, which was that I be given the task of writing the despatch. I hazard that when you read it you will be pleased. I have detailed the events of the action most accurately, and rest assured your part in advising me has not gone unmentioned.’

  Markham lay back and closed his eyes, which the Chevalier saw as tiredness, not disbelief. ‘I make you weary, I see. The surgeon reckons you to be up and about in a day or two, and I have bespoken you a cabin of your own at my expense.’

  ‘I must see Rannoch.’

  ‘Of course, man. And you will need him to fetch you a change of uniform. Yours was sadly tattered when they found you. But another day will make no difference. Better that you see him well, than still swaying from your knock.’

  He was on deck at first light, sheltering from the teeming rain under an awning, when the boat brought Rannoch and Frobisher’s sea-chest out to the hospital ship. The first flash of lightning streaked across the sky as they exchanged a look that spoke volumes for the tale he was about to hear. He took his dripping sergeant below to the tiny cabin that the Chevalier had bribed the ship’s captain to put at his disposal and listened, head bowed, as Rannoch, in his clear, precise Highland lilt, told him what he wanted to know. In the background, the crack of lightning and the rumbling of thunder seemed a fitting accompaniment.

  ‘Twenty-six killed and fourteen wounded.’

  The groan was muted, but still audible. ‘Forty casualties out of less than eighty, a third dead just to appease my vanity.’

  ‘We have been broken up. The Alcides have been sent back to their ship.’

  ‘Hebes?’

  ‘Six dead and the same number near enough to warrant a ticket home. Yelland took a ball across his backside and Tully lost half of his ear.’

  ‘How many men do we muster now?’

  ‘Twelve, with Leech back on duty.’

  ‘How did Schutte behave?’

  ‘He went forward and came back. That is all I know.’

  ‘Where are the men now?’

  ‘Back aboard the Hebe, being rested, they say.’ Markham looked up then, his eyes fixed on those of the Sergeant. ‘Spotted Dick still finds it hard to accept us soldiers, and since we are without an officer he has seen fit to question my position. Both Schutte and Halsey, however, refused to oblige him by replacing me. That threw him into a rare passion, I can tell you.’

  ‘I don’t think there is anything I can do to change that, Rannoch. At least not till I’m back aboard.’

  ‘No, sir. I do not suppose there is.’

  ‘Yet he let you come over from Hebe to visit me?’

  ‘Only because that gabbling captain with the gaudy star insisted. I did not overhear it myself, but Halsey was told by the steward that the man threatened to tell the King, in person no less, of Captain de Lisle’s behaviour.’

  ‘He’s quite a fellow, our Chevalier.’

  ‘A little bit less of the talking would do him no harm, though I will grant you he is a kindly fellow.’

  ‘You might as well ask a stallion to ignore a mare.’

  ‘Speaking of that, Sir Sydney took word to the Picard house, at my request.’

  ‘Thank you for dragging me back from my one-man attempt to end the siege.’

  ‘It was only the kind of folly that comes to a man when he feels betrayed.’

  ‘I wondered if anyone else noticed.’

  ‘I did, sir. But I have had the good sense to keep my mouth shut until I could speak with you.’

  ‘I have sent a letter, requesting an interview with Lord Hood. It is my intention that he shall be the first to hear it.’

  ‘Did you say anything to Sir Sydney?’

  ‘No Rannoch, I did not.’

  The muted noise of the storm altered as Markham began to change his clothes, becoming louder, and both knew that the extra level of sound was caused by gunfire. This was interrupted by a cough, which strained to be polite, since it had to be loud to be heard. The canvas screen was pulled back and one of the Dolphin’s midshipmen stood there.

  ‘I have a boat standing by, Lieutenant Markham, with orders to ship you over to Victory.’

  Rannoch stood up, crouching low to avoid the deckbeams. ‘I’d best return to the Hebe, sir, in case we are required ashore.’

  ‘This kit here, Rannoch,’ he said, pointing to the things he’d discarded. ‘Take it back with you. I will join you as soon as I’ve seen the Admiral.’

  Gunfire vied with the storm to make the greater noise, as he was rowed across the choppy waters of the Grande Rade under a black winter sky. The sea wasn’t blue now, it was grey and forbidding, which perfectly matched his mood. The quarterdeck of the flagship was crowded with officers as he came aboard, Hood very obvious in the middle. They all had telescopes to their eyes, switching them between Mont Faron and Fort Mulgrave. The party on the Grosse Tour was sending a steady stream of signals, each one of which seemed to add to the gloom of the assembled dignitaries. He was met at the entry port by one of Hood’s civilian clerks.

  ‘As you will have seen, Lieutenant, Admiral Hood is somewhat engaged at the moment. There are, unfortunately, quite a number of officers waiting to see him.’

  ‘Something is obviously happening.’

  The civilian’s pinched face screwed up even more. ‘The French have launched an assault on Mont Faron, as well as Fort Mulgrave. It seems our guns are outclassed at the latter, while Mont Faron is held by our allies. I need hardly point out what an unsatisfactory situation the Admiral is presented with.’

  Markham looked along the gloomy gundeck, at the cannon bowsed tight to the sides, with mess tables in between. All the implements to man the guns, swabs, rammers, wormers and the like, were neatly stowed by the bulkheads. The planking beneath his feet, as in all warships, was painted red, so that the blood would not show in the heat of the battle, to inform those righting of the carnage in which they were engaged. That colour made him think of the losses he had suffered in front of Fort Mulgrave.

  ‘Would I be permitted to go onto the upper deck?’

  ‘If you do so, you risk forfeiting a place.’

  ‘I’ll chance that.’

  Chapter twenty-one

  Markham didn’t have to be on deck long to discover what was happening, especially with Sir Sydney Smith reeling off ‘I told you so’s’ every two minutes. The rain had eased, lifting the cloud cover. The signal station on the Grosse Tour was in plain view and, just beyond the Tour de Balaguier, some of the action could be observed from aloft. The looks Smith was getting seemed to have no effect on his absolute confidence in his own opinion. Much as his contemporaries were annoyed, they were stymied by the fact that he was being proved right.

  Dugommier had finished his sapping and attacked on Mont Faron, driving several wedges into the Allied lines around the highest defensive post, the redoubt Croix de Faron: A major assault, it sucked in every available man in the Allied reserve. As soon as that happened the French opened a secondary attack from la Valette, again investing the Forts of Faron and l’Artigues. Attacking from a much closer trench line, they’d driven in the forward piquets and were now fighting for the main bastions. Finally, with all the defenders committed, including units from the other redoubts, Bonaparte had started to employ his guns against Fort Mulgrave, destroying one position after another before bringing his cannon forward to bombard the remainder. The attack had commenced in the midst of a ferocious storm, which continued thro
ughout, the violence of that exaggerating the drama being played out all round the perimeter.

  Reports were coming in of the wavering nature of the battle, as the Allies regained ground lost, only to be taken in the flank and driven back. Markham heard the messenger who delivered even more ominous news, that the French were massing before the forts on the western edge of Toulon, Des Pomets, Rouge, Blanc and Malbousquet, in numbers that indicated an imminent assault. But Fort Mulgrave caused the greatest concern, as Bonaparte, moving his guns independently of infantry, bore out everything the Chevalier had said about the new tactics. The battery names were reeled off with increasing gloom as report after report came in. Grande Rade supported Sans Peur. Jacobins and Chasse Coquins were pushed forward to either side of Sans Peur, the latter flanking the Mulgrave defences. Any infantry attack trying to take them was beaten back by two factors: lack of numbers, and the devastating barrage that Bonaparte could lay down on the approaches to his positions.

  ‘I cannot emphasise enough, gentlemen,’ boomed the Chevalier, ‘the necessity of reading everything published of a military nature, especially the opinions of our enemies.’

  ‘Perhaps if you had a ship to run, Sir Sydney, you would find yourself with less leisure to read and write.’

  Markham recognised Troubridge’s voice, which had a confident tone, since he knew that he was speaking for every serving sailor on the quarterdeck. The Chevalier turned sharply, quite prepared to put this interloper in his place, especially since the officer was junior to him on the captains’ list.

  ‘Might I recommend you an efficient First Lieutenant, Troubridge? Those who gain a place with me have the good sense to leave their captain time to hone the skills of his profession.’

  ‘I dislike the inference, sir,’ snapped Troubridge.