Honour Redeemed (4 page)

‘Seahorses, move up alongside me to the left and spread out.’ It was infuriating the way Sharland hesitated, as though any command had to be filtered through his insubordinate brain before it could be obeyed. Even more
annoying was the way the others were looking to him for guidance. ‘Quickly man!’

Rannoch gestured furiously, exposing himself to do so, then glared at Sharland as he ducked quickly back behind his tree. The musket balls that whipped through the still, warm air of the forest a split-second after he disappeared showed both in their accuracy and their number just how close they were to the enemy. One ball took a lump out of Rannoch’s tree, covering his head and shoulders in fine wooden chips.

‘I would say we are outnumbered,’ he called, calmly brushing his uniform coat as the Seahorses, taking advantage of the enemy’s need to reload, finally obeyed the command.

‘I doubt they’ll come for us,’ replied Markham grimly. ‘All they have to do is keep us where we are.’

‘Not if they are on both sides of us,’ growled Rannoch, nodding towards the top of the dunes. ‘The colonists always tried to do that when they caught us in wooded country.’

Markham didn’t answer for a moment, reminded yet again of how little he really knew about the Highlander. He’d been a soldier a long time, and had served in the Americas before and during the War of Independence. And then there was that M burnt into his thumb, the sign of a man who had been tried and convicted of manslaughter.

‘Some return fire, if you please, while the remainder of the men deploy. Two rounds through the trees to keep the enemy heads down.’

Sensibly, Rannoch ordered half the muskets to discharge, then the rest while the first section moved. Annoyingly, the men took no real aim, but just blazed away in the general direction of the target. Not that aiming was easy with a Brown Bess, which had a recoil like the kick of a mule. But Markham and Rannoch had spent a lot of time on that in Toulon, and the Hebes had seen what
dividends could be gained from disciplined musketry. Now, it seemed, having been at sea for a few months, they’d forgotten everything they’d been taught.

The balls started to fly as soon as the first man moved, and what was intended as a smooth redeployment was instead an undignified scramble that fortunately passed without loss. With his men now strung out in a long line facing the dunes, Markham was left to ponder the difference between theory and practice. He had an enemy on his right, certainly more numerous than he’d originally supposed. In front was a wall of sand manned by Frenchmen who were above them, and would, unless stopped, take up positions on his left. The only way to put a definite check on the enemy was to attempt the near impossible, and get his men back on the top of the dunes to drive them back.

Logic demanded that, cut off from support, he withdraw to a position and try to mount a defence. But that would eventually be futile given the numbers he faced, leading to an ignominious surrender when either his ammunition expired or his casualties became unbearable. To stay here and do nothing would lead to just as much useless sacrifice, and he knew that the needs of the men about to land on the beach called for an assault, which, even if it failed, would occupy some of their potential opponents. It was hard to discern which was the lesser of the two evils. And there had to be a moment, given his past, when he examined his motives, to reassure himself that his reluctance to withdraw had no connection to his own vanity.

Duty demanded that they at least make the attempt. But one thing was certain. The first marine to try and scale the dunes would attract the fire of every French musket in range. It was not something he could bring himself to order any man to do, so he would have to do it himself.

He’d just put one foot out from behind the tree when the first field gun fired, the sharp crack of the discharge so very different from the great guns of either fort or ship. Markham span round as a second went off, followed by a rippling fire as the whole battery sent a salvo of shells over the dunes. He listened for the sound of the explosion, dreading what he was going to hear, saddened when his fears were confirmed. There was no mistaking the noise of canister, an almost dull, popping sound compared to the reverberating boom of an explosive shell.

The second wave, the soldiers from the transports, must be coming ashore. General Lacombe had been shrewd enough to place his field pieces well back, far enough from the dunes to allow enough elevation to clear both them and the trees. And he’d kept them silent, till they could wreak havoc on a beach crowded with redcoats, doing terminal damage to the assault before the navy could deploy enough firepower to suppress his cannon. The wind which had carried them onshore, and had ruffled the top branches of the pines, seemed to have died away in the last quarter of an hour, becoming no more than a slight breath. A mystery to him, it was something which would make the sailors curse. Without it, they’d have the very devil of a task to get their ships inshore to aid the landing.

‘Attack coming,’ yelled Rannoch, raising his musket. Markham, following the line of the barrel, could just see the blue coats of the enemy as they moved from tree to tree in a line at right angles to the beach. A careful
examination showed no great numbers, nor did they seem to be advancing as fast as they might.

‘Hebes, fall back and face,’ Rannoch continued. ‘Not one of you to fire until the order is given, do you hear me now? And we will have none of that blazing away regardless. Remember what you were taught, and discharge your weapons properly.’

‘What’s the state of our ammunition, Sergeant?’

Rannoch called on each man to report, which told Markham what he feared; that not one of them had more than ten rounds left, and several had only half of that. They could neither defend this position, nor mount a counter-attack that would not depend on bayonets, something suicidal given that they were a small band striking against the flank of what he knew to be a vastly superior force. All the time he was thinking, he never took his eyes off the French, who still seemed intent on drawing fire, rather than mounting an all-out assault.

‘They cannot keep that up forever,’ said Rannoch. ‘Permission to remind them that we have a sting, sir?’

‘Do you have the means?’

‘I always carry an extra ration of my own manufactures.’

‘Granted,’ Markham replied, as the second salvo from the field guns screamed overhead.

He watched as Rannoch moved back from his tree, towards another with a small bush at its base, which had somehow survived the lack of sunlight from above. Once there he lay down, elbow crooked, and settled himself, the stock of his Brown Bess pushed hard back into his shoulder. He’d already picked his target, Markham knew that. Some poor sod who thought his dodging from tree to tree would keep him alive was about to pay the ultimate price of not varying his movements.

Rannoch was a remarkable shot. Not willing to rely on issued musket balls for his weapon, he cast his own. The Brown Bess he owned was old, a prized possession that
the Highlander loved almost more than his life. With a stock shaped to fit his shoulder, and lead balls already tested through his own barrel, he was able to reduce the normal problems caused by the notoriously inaccurate Brown Bess musket. It fired a large-calibre ball, whose route to target was easily affected by windage which, with an improperly cast ball – the case with most standard issue – could carry the shot a dozen yards off true. It was a weapon designed to do better. But, typically, British officers marched their men so close to the enemy that accuracy didn’t count. Concentrated fire at close range, with reloading in twenty seconds, was the aim, therefore no attempt was generally made to improve effective long-range musketry amongst either land or sea forces.

Rannoch fired, the sound of his discharge drowned out by the shells flying overhead. But Markham saw the flash in the pan as the flintlock struck, plus, in the gloom caused by the forest canopy, the long streak of flame as the ball left the barrel. Turning to examine the result, he saw the French soldier, who had just reached the edge of the tree of safety. He jerked away from it like a rag doll, as Rannoch’s shot, which at something approaching eighty yards was practically point blank to the Scotsman, smashed into his chest.

The Highlander rolled behind the trunk at his right elbow long before anyone returned a shot, pushing himself up to his feet, his hands moving automatically to reload. Wormer in and out, cartridge ripped, powder and ball rammed home. Flintlock back, horn up and tipped into the pan, with the excess gently blown clear. Rannoch was back down, elbowing into position for a second shot, within twelve seconds. Markham knew it was that long, because he’d timed him before. And another Frenchman died because he didn’t think it could be done, so was standing out to fire in the gap when Rannoch killed him.

The movement of reloading was repeated, but this time Rannoch threw his hat behind the bush, then dropped
down and rolled the other way, to the right of his tree, into the open. His third victim, who’d been waiting for him to appear, was showing no more than half his shoulder. But he moved out further, fatally, as he tried and failed to readjust his aim. His ball went way over Rannoch’s head. The shot the Highlander fired took off the Frenchman’s hat, and the top of his head with it.

‘Enough!’ Markham called, as Rannoch stood up again. But he didn’t reload this time. He shouted for the Hebes to stand by to fire, then stuck the barrel of his musket out to drag back his hat. The fusillade of shots that kicked up the earth close to the muzzle showed just how many of the enemy were poised, nervous fingers itching at triggers, eager for him to appear. Every gun that opposed them was aimed at his tree in anticipation of his next shot. But the reply didn’t come from there. As if to show they hadn’t entirely forgotten how to aim, the Hebes, judging by the number of human screams that rose above those of the shells, made the enemy pay from their concentration on Rannoch.

‘That was neatly done, Sergeant,’ said Markham.

‘It pays to learn from those you fight,’ the Highlander replied. ‘If you had ever seen service in the forests of North America, you would have seen a Jonathan do that in half the time. Not that officers were much given to education. They used to line us up on the roads in close order to return fire.’

A slight grin had become evident on his square face as he said those last few words, though he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. The sergeant didn’t like officers, a fact which he made no attempt to hide from his own.

Throughout Rannoch’s firing, Markham had been trying to imagine what was happening on the beach. If his impression was correct, then the French general had used his troops and artillery wisely. He could have employed them earlier, as soon as he’d seen the route of the landing. Instead, he’d held their fire until the main body of the
attackers were committed, no doubt waiting till they actually began to land before letting fly with canister. The small deadly balls would scythe through the packed troops on the shoreline, while the infantry would make sure that any attack from the marines already up the beach was held in check. The whole landing was thus in jeopardy.

It was his turn to adopt a grim smile, recalling the one adage that would cross all borders as far as soldiers were concerned. That was the simple axiom that you could never do wrong if you marched towards the sound of the guns. But Markham had his own maxims, the greatest of which was to create surprise; to do that which the enemy least expected. They were facing a French officer who knew the redcoats were in a position which was, by the minute, becoming less tenable. He would anticipate withdrawal. The last thing he would expect is to see the redcoats heading off in a new direction, on a mission every bit as suicidal as an assault on the dunes. What could twenty men achieve against the whole French defence?

Markham knew it was madness. But he also knew it was necessary. Even if he could stop those field guns firing one or two salvos, and sacrificed everyone present to the task, he would be saving many more men on the beach. He was on the move quickly, taking advantage of the disorganisation that Rannoch had initiated and the Hebes completed, running across the face of the French, calling on his men to do likewise. Each move from tree to tree was accompanied by ragged, individual musket shots from an enemy that seemed, inexplicably, too shocked to react. That was a blessing which could not last. As soon as Markham thought them out of effective range he yelled for the party to form up more closely, using the sun, glinting through the trees above his head, to guide his course.

The line of forest wasn’t deep, and as they approached open country, Markham could see the hard-packed earth of a road that stood between them and the flat fields
beyond, an artery that probably ran all the way along the rear of the French position. This had allowed Lacombe to deploy his field guns quickly opposite the chosen landing site. It said a great deal about the plan for the attack that, in the topography he’d been given before coming ashore, such a vital piece of information had not been mentioned.

There was no time to ponder on that, but it made him turn sharp left, and he called back for everyone to move quickly and keep a sharp lookout, before sending Yelland, his fastest runner, on ahead as point. Markham had no illusions about those he’d just faced. The officer who commanded them, always assuming that he wasn’t among the casualties, must guess his intentions. There was no reason for a small party of troops to head inland unless they were after the field guns, so the only chance he had of reaching them was to do so before the pursuit could get between him and his target.

‘Enemy,’ gasped Yelland, his chest heaving, ‘at around ten of the clock, moving quick through the trees.’

The boy had stopped to impart this, which earned him a shove and a wheezing rebuke, followed by a question, from his officer. ‘How close?’

‘’Bout three hundred yards.’

The guns were near at hand now, the sound so loud that each tree magnified the report. The still air was full of the smell of discharged powder, and Markham was sure he could actually hear the artillery officers shouting their commands. That fleeting impression was washed away by the crack of musket balls as the enemy infantry tried a long-range salvo through the trees just to slow them down.

‘Bayonets, Sergeant Rannoch,’ he yelled, slowing a fraction. Even with all the other sounds that assailed him, he heard the deadly scrape as well over a dozen bayonets were pulled from their scabbards, on the run, and slotted home. ‘I’m going to push out onto the roadway. We have about three seconds to form up in a line, two ranks. Then
it’s one volley each followed by the charge, bayonets out, and screaming like fiends from hell.’

Rannoch couldn’t wait. His first yell, a Highland battle cry that only he understood, rent the air as they emerged into clear country and brilliant sunlight. Yet he had the presence of mind to order that line of Hebes into place and get off the salvo Markham wanted within seconds. The Seahorses followed suit, most of them fumbling, and sending off a wild discharge that threatened their own more than the enemy.

But they followed fast enough, through fear as much as excitement, when the Hebes lowered their bayonets. They’d already run a long way, so the rush that Markham intended could not be achieved. Nor did they pause to form an unbroken line. But as soon as the gunners saw their red coats, the cry of ‘Sauve qui peut’ went up, especially from those nearest to the marines. Markham was at the head, sword and pistol fully extended, blessing silently one fact; that despite his fears, General Lacombe had not deemed it necessary to detach any infantry to protect his cannon.

Some gunners, even those who’d been in the act of loading, stood to fight, grabbing anything they could to protect themselves; swords, rammers, with one having the presence of mind to roll an empty barrel towards them in an attempt to slow the charge. The artillery officers came to the fore, two men, a captain and a lieutenant, trying to shout and steady their troopers at the same time as they aimed their pistols. Markham, his scarlet coat too obviously different from the red of his men’s, was their target. He had to start weaving, though in doing so he exposed the men running behind him. The unwelcome yell of pain reached his ears as he jumped over the barrel, unsure of who had been hit – and not much concerned, since he looked set to run right onto one of the officers’ swords.

The push in the back sent him flying, tripping over his own boots, and unable to stay upright, tumbling in a heap
at the feet of the two Frenchmen. In the act of rolling to rise up, he saw in their eyes the fear that must have been present in his, as faced with a line of charging bayonets they stared death in the face. The younger of the pair had the sense to drop both his weapon and to his knees. But the captain stood his ground, and the Brown Bess, over five feet long with bayonet attached, skewered him long before he could sweep his sword down to cut at the marine officer, now struggling to rise.

The thud, as Tully clubbed the lieutenant with his butt, was right beside Markham’s ear. He was on his feet just in time to yell at the marine to stop, as he raised his bayonet over the recumbent officer. For a second, he was convinced that Tully would not obey, the light of battle in his pig-like eyes was so strong. But the point stopped half an inch from the Frenchman’s breast, and a shove from Markham sent Tully after his mates.

‘Face left and reload.’

Markham’s command was understood by only half his own men, and none of the Seahorses. Dornan, even when it was repeated, still laid about him, for once his strength an advantage over his habitual ponderous behaviour. Tully, with his best friend Hollick by his side, was stabbing right and left, even bayonetting Frenchmen who were clearly out of the combat. But Rannoch had halted, lining up Quinlan, Ettrick, Yelland and Leech, while Halsey, sensibly, had taken Dymock and Gibbons to examine the guns, and finding one loaded, was already smashing at the elevating screw to drop the muzzle.