Honour Redeemed (2 page)

The lead line, dropping through the light, missed Markham by a fraction, catching the other marine on the ear. His struggles ceased for a split-second, which allowed his rescuer to catch hold of the line and wrap it round his
wrist. Someone above had the sense to haul the rope back up, instead of just letting it endlessly descend, and that allowed Markham to tug hard, letting them know they had a weight greater than the lead on the line. The water had cleared enough to show some of the victim’s features now his struggles had stilled: round, dark face, and still those huge, terrified eyes. As Markham looked the mouth began to open, as the marine did the only thing his body would countenance when the lungs had run out of air.

Above, they began to pull, so Markham pushed his free hand under the fellow’s chin, to try and stop him taking in more water. The stuff he’d already swallowed he spat into his rescuer’s face as soon as they surfaced. Markham couldn’t care, too busy himself sucking in great gulps of air. Hands were reaching out to grab his shirt, this time the welcome ones of his own men, and as they hauled the pair towards the cutter, the officer heard one of Bernard’s sailors exclaim, ‘Christ almighty, Lieutenant Croppie has gone and bagged himself a darkie.’

Bernard had the cutter back on course for the shore long before Markham could raise his head from between his knees, with Rannoch issuing orders to loop the lead line round the rowlocks so that the men they’d rescued could hang onto the boat themselves. He also heard the sergeant remind them of what they were about, and to get back to being fully prepared to land, weapons at the ready.

‘There’s an army officer on the beach, Lieutenant Markham,’ said Bernard softly. ‘Might I suggest that you replace your coat and boots?’

Markham nodded and raised his head, looking over the prow. The strand was a mass of boats, each one disgorging its quota of marine passengers before spinning away to get back and pick up the soldiers. The marines they’d put ashore moved forward into line to engage the enemy, who occupied the grass-covered dunes that rose between the beach and land proper. Several red-coated bodies floated
at the tidal edge. Others lay face down a few feet from the water, on the blindingly white sand. But an attack was in progress, with the British marines moving forward in a disciplined way to engage the French defenders.

Two things made Markham’s heart sink as he contemplated the scene. The first was that
Hebe
’s cutter would be the last vessel to arrive. The survivors were hanging off the side of the boat, ten men who could prove valuable in the future. This might have served as a decent excuse for tardiness, if it hadn’t been for the second depressing fact; the identity of the officer in command who, having directed those already ashore towards the enemy, now stood glowering, facing the sea, peering through a telescope as he watched the last boat approach.

‘Is that colonel who I think it is, sir?’ called Rannoch, when the spyglass dropped.

‘It is,’ Markham replied, as he struggled in vain to pull boots on over soaking wet stockings and breeches.

‘Christ, I can see the scar, which I take to mean we are in for a bollocking.’

Markham could see it too; a livid, ragged white streak across an otherwise puce face. Some of the balls from the French muskets were sending up spurts of water and sand around him, but he ignored the danger. Unwilling to give his old adversary any credit for bravery, Markham told himself that at such extreme range, shots like those were flukes, balls with dying velocity that would probably inflict little harm.

‘I’ll have to ease off, sir,’ said Bernard. ‘With those men in the water I can’t run up the sand for fear of trapping their legs.’

‘Then do so.’ Suddenly the cutter slowed, which earned them a bellow from shore to ‘put their damned backs into it’.

‘What shall I do, sir?’ asked the nervous midshipman.

‘Ignore him,’ Markham replied.

‘He looks to be a full colonel, sir.’

‘He is, Bernard,’ Markham said wearily. ‘But I won’t tell what he’s full
of
, for fear of offending your sensibilities.’

‘Damn you,’ the hoarse, loud voice floated over the water, as the effect of Bernard’s order to go easy on the rowing became apparent. ‘I might have known, Markham, if there was a fight, that you’d be the last one into the action.’

‘Sergeant Rannoch,’ Markham said.

‘Sir!’

‘Get the men over the side as soon as we hit the shallows, if you please. Let’s get the survivors ashore. It would be a pity to lose them now, especially with that bastard looking on.’

Rannoch replied in that clear, slow Highland lilt that could, in moments of stress, be so infuriating. Now it seemed perfectly paced. ‘I judge that he would enjoy watching men drown.’

‘Me especially,’ Markham replied.

‘I take it you know the colonel, sir,’ said Bernard.

‘I do.’ He turned to give the midshipman a wry smile. ‘I tried to kill him once, in America. He’s been trying to do the same thing to me ever since.’

Rannoch led half the marines hatless, weaponless, into the rapidly shallowing water, each one taking the arm of a survivor. This sent the Colonel into a paroxysm of rage. He was thumping his boots with his riding crop so hard that they looked set to split, the loud cracks floating across the water every bit as noisy as the gunshots behind them. Markham jumped out as the keel finally ground into the sand, coat over one arm, and carrying his boots. But he had his hat on, which allowed him to lift the thing in an insolent salute.

‘The detachment from the
Hebe,
Colonel Hanger, at your service.’

The Honourable Augustus Hanger was an experienced soldier, even if George Markham had no great appreciation of either his manners or his abilities. Berating an improperly dressed lieutenant, even one he hated with a passion, would have to wait while there was a battle in progress. Barking an order to ‘get properly attired and follow on’, he turned on his heel and headed back up the beach to take charge of an assault in which, given the numbers engaged, most of the advantage lay with the defenders.

Fortunately, since the French commander had been vouchsafed no notion of where the British intended to land, his troops were thinly spread, most between San Fiorenzo and the Fornali defences, with only a screen of infantrymen to contest the vulnerable northern beaches. But the enemy held the advantage of cover. And now that the British had shown their intentions, General Lacombe had the chance to concentrate while the landing party was held in check. Coming ashore piecemeal, with no clear command structure, and faced with a fire to which they couldn’t effectively respond, the assault had broken down. The marines were now lying, individually and in small knots, on the white strand of the exposed beach, flinching as the spurts of sand from patiently aimed muskets fired from the crest of the line of dunes covered their backs.

Markham’s first thought was that they were lucky. Clearly Lacombe lacked field ordnance, mortars or mobile cannon which, firing grenades, could turn this beach into a charnel house. Boots in hand, he was about to advance
barefoot in Hanger’s footsteps, when he heard the colonel bellowing for the men to get to their feet and move forward – a wise notion, since out in the open they were sitting ducks. But Hanger seemed content to move straight up the beach, to concentrate his forces and take the enemy by frontal assault, seemingly unconcerned for the flanks, which would, surely, be reinforced the longer the action went on.

‘Rannoch, get the survivors armed.’

‘Two of them are sailors, sir.’

‘Mr Bernard will return them to the fleet,’ Markham barked, ‘They’re no use here.’

The Highlander might talk slowly, but he could move swiftly enough when the need arose. Within seconds he had the two tars aboard and was taking the marine survivors along the beach, ordering them to strip the nearest dead and wounded of their equipment. Markham ordered the rest of his men to kneel, and taking advantage of the limited amount of fire coming in their direction, struggled to get into first his boots, then his coat. That achieved, he took out his small telescope, ranging it up and down the long strand.

A mile to the south lay the Fornali fort itself, on its rocky promontory, the ramparts facing the beach bristling with silent cannon. They were useless against a British force coming ashore out of range. But, if they couldn’t invest it properly, and were forced to attack from their present positions, they’d be brought into action, to play along a crowded shore that offered little cover. More rocks enclosed the northern arm of the shallow bay, while behind the long line of undulating dunes he could see the tops of a whole forest of pine trees. The upper branches, bent to accommodate the strong winds that blew around Cap Corse, were ablaze with the morning. It was the angle of that, edging over the top of the pines, that showed the very slight depression in the unbroken ridge of sand, a small but significant dip, and led his eye to what appeared
to be a thick clump of tangled gorse fronting the dune.

There was something odd about the colour of the bushes, a sort of dead, greying quality that contrasted sharply with the deep green of the treetops. Not visible while in shadow, it was more obvious now. Adjusting his glass to concentrate on the area in front, he could see that rather than being smooth, the sand seemed to be disturbed, as though it had been well trodden. The more he looked, the more unnatural it seemed, making him wonder if those bushes were camouflage, designed to cover up the one real gap in the main line of sandhills. He looked round for Rannoch, only to observe that he was still occupied.

‘Halsey.’

‘Sir!’ the corporal replied, coming to his feet and standing to attention, musket at his side, as if he were on a parade ground. Markham pointed along the seashore, convinced that what he was seeing was a point where the dunes broke, to provide an avenue to the firm, forested ground behind. Yet there was a very good chance that it could be a blind hollow that would lead nowhere.

‘Take four men along towards those rocks to the north. You’ll observe, about halfway, a great crop of bushes, covering what might be a gap in the dunes. Stay near to the waterline till you get abreast of it, then stop and face it. If nothing happens then, march slowly up the beach. I want to see if you draw any fire.’

The brown eyes didn’t blink, but Markham saw the soft nose dilate slightly. Halsey was an experienced marine, a man who’d served for years both ashore and afloat. He would know that if it was a gully, a chink in the line of defence, then it was likely to be well protected. Lieutenant Markham had come aboard
Hebe
in an Army uniform, leading a detachment of soldiers, anathema to proper Lobsters, which had caused no end of trouble on the voyage out. Even though they, along with the ship’s marines, had been through the siege of Toulon together,
and all that resentment should have been laid to rest, it showed for a fleeting second.

‘Don’t march more than twenty paces from the waterline. The range looks to be well over a hundred yards, so unless they are proper marksmen, you should be reasonably safe. But if you attract heavy fire, you may retire into the water. Just keep your muskets and powder well above your heads.’

‘And if they have a cannon, sir?’

Markham’s first impulse was to bark at him, to say that this was neither the time nor the place for a speculative discussion that Halsey had no right, anyway, to indulge in. That if there had been any cannon they’d know by now, since shells would be exploding about their ears. But this was a man who, if a touch uninspired, was obedient and, in some desperate actions, had never let him down. So he dissipated his anger by shouting for Rannoch to return. With Halsey he tried to sound reassuring.

‘Then get the hell out of there as quick as you can. Make for those rocks at the head of the bay, get in amongst them, and stay there until the whole bloody army has landed.’

The pale, slightly pasty face nearly broke into a grin, the corporal, through ingrained discipline, just managing to smother the impulse. He span away, calling the names of the men he wanted, before heading off in the required direction. Now fully dressed, Markham looked up the beach, to where the attacking troops had reached the seaward side of the dunes. The steep slopes gave them protection from the enemy fire, but every man who tried to advance struggled to find any footing in the soft, dry sand.

There was a moment’s hesitation as he stood there, half listening to Rannoch as he pushed the rearmed marines, new to his ways, into some form of order. The man in command of the landing had given him quite specific instructions, and he was about to disobey them – bad
enough in itself, but made ten times more dangerous by his relationship to the colonel. Augustus Hanger, always assuming he couldn’t contrive a way to get him killed, would love nothing more than to get George Markham in front of a court martial. There, the chance would exist to redress what he saw as the mistakes of New York, and kick this one time Lieutenant of the 65th foot, masquerading as a Lobster, out of both services.

But looking up the beach, Markham knew he had two choices: to prolong the folly of a frontal assault, or to make some kind of effort to go round the enemy before the French commander could bring up more defenders. It might be his first amphibious landing, but he’d heard often enough how awkward they were. Timing was everything; the ability to get enough troops ashore to secure the landing area before the enemy could gather the strength to throw the assault back into the sea.

And things on this beach were at a critical juncture. Did General Lacombe have field artillery at his disposal, guns which, at this very moment, were being wheeled into position? If he had, and could concentrate enough troops, he would impose himself on the second wave of soldiers, now being loaded offshore into the returned boats. Discipline and the burden of his reputation tugged him one way, while everything he’d ever learned, fighting in both America and Russia, pulled him inexorably towards the other.

In total, including himself, he had twenty men, eleven of his own, plus eight from the sunken launch. These showed little or no fighting spirit, but he put that down to the fact that not one of them had a whole uniform and they’d all received a fright.

The crack of ordered musketry, so different from the individual shots being fired from behind the dunes, made him turn back to look towards Halsey, just in time to see the spurts of sand that seemed to spring up around his feet. The corporal was only too eager to obey his officer’s
orders, and lifting both musket and powder horn above his head, he turned round and plunged into the sea, followed by his men, until the protective water was up to his chest. That salvo of musket fire had told Markham all he needed to know. If the spot was defended it must represent a weakness that the French feared might be exploited.

‘Rannoch, we’ll close on Halsey. No packs. Just muskets, bayonets, a bag of grenades and entrenching tools.’

It would be best to advance diagonally across the beach to the edge of the dunes, just below the spot where Halsey had attracted fire. Beyond that lay the clump of bushes which hinted at a possible way through. If they could throw up enough sand to protect themselves, they could move up on the enemy position.

‘With respect, sir,’ said Rannoch slowly, looking straight up the beach to where Hanger, half crouched in the sand, was waving his sword and berating his men, urging them forward, ‘we have been given our orders.’

Markham smiled, having become accustomed to the way Rannoch felt free to question him. His sergeant was trying to tell him, without saying so in front of the others, what he was risking.

‘We are joining Colonel Hanger, Sergeant, but just a tad left of where he thinks. Bring up the rear. And try and keep those Agamemnons in some form of order.’

‘We’re not Agamemnons, sir,’ said the Negro marine, his voice deep, resonant, and surprisingly cultured. ‘They took us out of
Seahorse
to make up the numbers for the attack.’

‘Shut it, you black bastard,’ growled another man. Tall, hollow-chested, with thick eyebrows over angry eyes, he clearly exerted some leadership over the Seahorses, given the way they looked at him. ‘Who asked you to speak up fer us?’

The still damp survivors had enough spark to add a growl to that, as though they heartily approved of the sentiment. Markham was watching the Negro’s eyes:
large, a deep fluid brown, and so much more expressive than his face. The man who’d snapped at him turned to Markham, ducking slightly as a musket ball cracked in passing, making no attempt to defer to his rank or soften his voice.

‘We lost the officer, along with our sergeant and corporal, in that blast. But that don’t mean we’re free to be ordered about by any Tom or Dick that fancies it.’

‘Sergeant Rannoch,’ said Markham, moving closer, ‘if this bastard opens his mouth again, put a bullet through what passes for his brain.’

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the row of startlingly white teeth, and heard the low, warm chuckle. Another ball cracked as it sped past, underlining that wherever they went, it was time to move. He didn’t know what impulse made him act as he did then, and analysing it later he could only believe that he had suffered so much condescension himself in his chequered life that he was naturally in sympathy with anyone likewise afflicted. Spinning quickly, he looked the Negro in the eye.

‘Name?’

‘Eboluh Bellamy, sir.’

‘Well, Mr Bellamy, you are, while we are on the beach, in temporary charge of the Seahorses. I expect the men you lead will not disappoint me.’

‘I’m not taking orders from no darkie.’

‘Name?’ Markham barked, spinning round, as Rannoch’s musket came up to the hollow-chested marine’s ear.

‘Sharland, sir,’ the man replied, the anger in his eyes replaced by fear.

‘Well, Sharland, you will lead us across the beach. And the only way you’ll avoid being broken at the wheel after we’re finished is to ensure that I don’t see one scrap of your ugly face. Now move!’

There was no choice and he knew it. An officer could shoot him where he stood for disobeying an order, and
his superiors would praise him. And that might be the better fate than a thousand lashes tied to a wagon wheel. Sharland turned towards the dunes and, growling at the rest of the Seahorses to join him, started to jog across the beach in the direction set by Markham’s sword. The Hebes, and his new corporal, were behind him. Their actions didn’t go unnoticed, and since the men crouching behind the dunes presented few targets, most of the French fire from the crest of the dunes came their way. The musket balls kicking up the sand around their feet added some urgency to the manoeuvre. Hanger, alerted by the change of target, was bellowing for them to join him, which Markham studiously ignored. Difficult as it was to run properly on sand, they made good speed, with Markham frantically signalling to Halsey and his party to get out of the water, then come up to the southern edge of the clump of gorse.

‘Dig,’ Markham gasped, as soon as they reached the point he’d chosen, a shallow depression caused by swirling winds that ran along the very base of the dune. Behind them the beach lay flat and smooth to the water’s edge, in front was a steep wall of sand topped with sea grasses. Close to this they were, like Hanger’s men, relatively safe, since anyone wanting to fire on them would risk exposure as they leant out to aim. The problem was how to get past it.

‘Bellamy, get your Seahorses to throw up a breastwork facing those bushes. Nothing special, just enough to protect you from musketry when you’re lying flat.’

‘It’s too soft,’ moaned Sharland, kicking at it with one boot.