A Shred of Honour (13 page)

‘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.

‘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.