It was only partially successful, not delaying the enemy for more than the time it took for their officer to get them to their feet again. They let off a fusillade of their own, at extreme range, which was rendered useless by the protection afforded to the British by the captured cannon. It was hard, given the pine trees, to make out how many of them were in the attack, but Markham was sure they were outnumbered ten times at least, with plenty more Frenchmen behind this lot should they succeed in checking them. While Rannoch controlled the reloading, he jumped on one of the rear limbers, looking desperately for a position they might retire to if they could. Resolving to do or die was one thing, actually carrying it through quite another. His heart sank when he saw the terrain, though: open fields, flat and devoid of ditch or embankment.
Rannoch’s voice rose over all the other noises, calling on the marines to aim, then shouting the command to fire. It was probably the first proper, controlled, volley the enemy had faced that morning, and even with so few weapons it had an effect. Even the officers out in front of their men, brandishing their swords and calling them on, hesitated. Rannoch had killed one of them before they got moving again.
Markham was about to run to join the line, his heart beating, it seemed, in time to the reloading orders, when he caught sight of Halsey out of the corner of his eye. The corporal was bent over, looking along the barrel of a cannon, a length of smouldering match in his hand. That dropped almost immediately, and the gun fired, shooting back in a recoil that lifted the front of it right off the ground. The shell, originally aimed at the beach, scythed through the trees, taking lumps out of several as it pursued an erratic course, until it ran full tilt into one trunk and exploded, sending a shower of tiny canister shot in all directions.
That was when he saw Dymock, just beyond Halsey, hacking at another elevating screw. The marine was so occupied, he didn’t see the wounded artilleryman who’d risen unsteadily to his feet behind him. The Frenchman had a sword in his hand, which he raised slowly, and with difficulty, until it was above his head. Markham raised his pistol at the same time. He fired at some twenty-five feet, and took the artilleryman right in the neck. Both he and Dymock span round, the surprise on one face mirrored on the other, the difference only becoming plain when one of the pair crumpled to the ground.
Markham was already running, his eyes searching the debris of the gun position for something heavier than a musket butt. Halsey had moved too, closer to the gun Dymock was working on, and he was carrying a hammer. Rannoch was calling for his men to shoot at individual targets, taking advantage of the confusion caused amongst the French infantry by the unexpected round of canister arriving in their midst. Freed from any pressing task, Markham looked down the road along which the fleeing artillerymen had disappeared. And there he saw the first hint of another force of infantry, forming up before moving forward to retake the position and the guns.
Halsey didn’t aim a second time; he just jammed the slow-match into the touch hole as soon as the muzzle dropped. This time the shell struck a tree just fifty yards away from the road, before dropping, unexploded onto the ground, the fuse still fizzing as it rolled on further. It could not have achieved more if it had been aimed, since it brought the French advance to a halt, with infantrymen diving in all directions trying to find some protection, while musket balls whistled around their ears as they did so.
‘Never mind firing another gun, Halsey,’ Markham cried, crouched down himself as the shell exploded. ‘Use that hammer to smash the wheel.’
Then he ran over to the line of marines, calling to the remaining Seahorses to join him in tipping the guns on their sides. They were useless at musketry, from what he could see, so that was better left to his own men, few as they were. The first thing they turned on end was a limber, and Markham ordered Rannoch to get his men behind it. He had six guns to disable, and that would take at least ten minutes. Not that they’d be useless for long once the French re-took the position. But they would do what they could, and as soon as it appeared that the defence would be overwhelmed, he’d do his best to surrender with whatever men survived the coming assault.
The threat from the woods was now less than that from the road. But Markham lacked the men to suppress both, and since those amongst the trees were the closest, he let Rannoch be. Not that his sergeant wasn’t aware of the danger: taller than most of his men, he could see quite clearly what was coming their way.
‘Another limber across the road, sir’ he called, ‘will give us more time.’
He was right, of course. But in the calculations Markham was making, it would gain them five minutes at the most. Four of the guns were now disabled, Halsey having smashed the wheel on one, while the Seahorses had tipped three others onto their sides, the top wheels spinning uselessly. But the task was taking longer than he thought. He’d done what he could, and even if the remaining artillerymen came hard on the heels of the approaching infantry they’d not get off a salvo with the two remaining pieces for a while. So he ordered the Seahorses to pull back, and started to search for something that would do as a white flag.
‘French are pulling out, sir.’
‘What!’ Markham replied, spinning round to look at his sergeant.
‘They’re moving diagonally across our front, retiring towards the fort.’
Markham looked down the road again, his heart lifting as he saw the column of infantry had stopped. Their officers were shouting and waving their swords, and over the morning air came the sound of a trumpet ordering the retreat, an order which was obeyed with steady discipline. The Frenchmen in front of Rannoch had no such luxury. They broke and ran as the first redcoats of the approaching British assault force showed through the pine trees.
Chapter five
The luxury of rest was not available, since a quick strike on the retreating enemy might sweep them past their own defences. And the senior officers who’d come ashore with the second wave were right up with the forward troops, urging them on. General d’Aubent, the army second in command, stopped to survey the damage that Markham and his small party had done to the artillery position. A taciturn man, he awarded their efforts no more than a grunt of approval, before they were ordered to join the troops under a Major Lanester who were fanning out in the fields to the rear of the road, intent on attacking the enemy flank.
Lanester, fat and red-faced, had commandeered the artillery horses, so he and his officers were now mounted, albeit bareback, and able to ride ahead. Markham, cursing, was left to walk with the infantry, so it was with some satisfaction that he saw them haul up short as they received a volley from what looked like a strong trench line. Lacombe might be short of troops, but he’d known that an invasion was possible for some time, and with only three major centres to defend, San Fiorenzo, Bastia and Calvi, he’d used the time wisely, strengthening their perimeters so that his troops fell back into prepared positions.
Lanester sent one of his captains back to organise an immediate assault, and in the confusion that followed, as the regimental officers lined up their soldiers, the small party of marines was temporarily forgotten, for which Markham was extremely grateful. He was tired and so were the men he led. Added to that they had little or no ammunition left. A further factor in holding back was that lassitude that comes after any action, a feeling of almost total sorrow, the ‘black dog’ which has nothing to do with success or failure.
Markham felt it the most. He’d taken terrible risks, and only the most tremendous luck had saved his little force from annihilation. Standing in the shade of an olive tree, he mentally recalled everything that had happened in the last two hours, cursing himself for the bone-headed decisions that had cost lives. It was with only half his attention that he watched the soldiers go into action, two long lines of redcoats marching across the unsown fields, trying to hold formation on the uneven ground. It had all the foolishness for which the British Army was famous, offering easy targets to even the most indifferent French shot once the men were within range.
He could see Lanester, seeming more plump now that he was mounted, waving his men forward with his hat. The questions filled Markham’s mind. Why had he not waited, examined the position so that both he and his junior officers knew what they were facing; sent forward skirmishers to locate the French fire points and probe the strength of the defences?
The order to halt took him by surprise, and he wasn’t alone. Whoever commanded the French troops had called on every man to aim his weapon and wait. Yet just before the point when he would have been certain to order the opening fusillade, the enemy had stopped. Several muskets, no doubt held by men too keyed up to resist, went off, and that was followed by an uneven rippling fire all along the perimeter. Lanester had his sword out now, and he waved it in a wide sweep that had his men falling back in a line just as disciplined as it had been when they were going forward.
Once they’d covered about thirty paces, they stopped again. Packs were discarded and piled to form a temporary fire point for one section, while the rest took out their entrenching tools and began to dig, oblivious to the popping fire which came from the enemy, musket balls that very occasionally found a British target. Lanester, meanwhile, rode back towards the tree under which Markham and his men rested, one officer peeling off, no doubt with a message, and heading inland to where the troops under General d’Aubent were held up on the road.
‘Now that’s not something I would have tried if some angel hadn’t taken care of those field pieces.’
The voice was soft, American, and close up, Markham could see that Lanester was no spring chicken. Indeed he was old for his rank, the red face caused more by long exposure to the elements than what the marine officer had supposed was just over indulgence in food and drink.
‘I believe I have you to thank for that, sir?’
‘Lieutenant Markham, sir, and a contingent of marines from Hebe and Seahorse.’ This was said as he pulled himself upright, his eyes fixed on those of the major, waiting to see if there was any reaction to the name. After a short pause, in which Lanester’s face didn’t move, Markham continued. ‘That was neatly done, sir, the way you drew their fire.’
‘Damnit,’ Lanester replied, without much rancour, ‘we shouldn’t even be here. Our line of attack was across the beach and through the trees. This position was supposed to be taken by our Corsican allies. I’ll be damned interested, and so will General Dundas, to know where they are. But that’s war for you, boy, and with the slow rate of getting our own men ashore, it looks like all the plans made aboard ship are useless.’
He slid off his horse then, calling to his officers to do likewise. ‘But since we look set to stay here, this tree will provide some shade for a regimental headquarters. Lieutenant Pearse.’
‘Sir.’
‘Mark out a defence line to fall back to if the French bring up more field guns. Deloitte, get a party together and set the cannon our friend here destroyed back on their wheels, limbered up and over here. Forrest, take a messenger to General Dundas telling him what we’ve got and requesting new orders, plus some gunners to help us make use of the damn things. Then find the commissariat and get our supplies up here. Tell them we need everything – food, water, powder and shot.’
Lanester took a deep breath then, puffing himself up as if he was about to bellow. But what emerged did so softly, if vehemently. ‘And someone find my servant and tell him if he doesn’t get me some food within the next half hour, I’ll skin him alive.’
As the officers rushed off to do his bidding, he turned back to Markham. ‘You will join me in a late breakfast, and tell me how you found the battle quality of the enemy.’
He saw the marine officer look at his men, straggled around the field, some sitting, others lying, all exhausted. ‘I’ll get them fed too, never fear.’
‘We should return to the beach, sir. That’s where my own superiors are.’
‘To do what? Act as a burial party or navvies hauling guns and stores ashore? Take my advice, Lieutenant. And if you think you need it, I will say I requested you to stay here.’
‘They may be continuing with the assault.’
Lanester shook his head. ‘No! We’ll need to consolidate. The French have good defences round Fornali, certainly better than we thought. They also seem to possess more men than we were led to expect. And we are in double deficit thanks to our allies, extending our lines to face an enemy they should have tackled. There will be no coup-de-main stuff now, Markham. More’n likely we’re in for a tad of a siege.’
Markham responded with a weary grin. ‘We were at Toulon, sir. I don’t think my men are going to be too enamoured of another siege.’
‘Were you, by damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘Missed that action myself, which is a pity. I hear my fellow officers managed to evacuate some very valuable booty.’
The flash of distaste on Markham’s face was so obvious Lanester quickly changed the subject, jerking a thumb towards Fornali. ‘Well, this time you’re on the outside trying to get in. A much better place to be, don’t you reckon? Lacombe will have the devil’s own job to hold his line even against us. And if the Corsicans do appear in strength, as they are damn well obliged to, he’ll find himself having to surrender on whatever terms we choose to allow.’
The major’s head jerked up and he looked past Markham’s shoulder. ‘Where in hell’s name have you been?’
Markham turned round to see a lugubrious, long-faced individual, with grey-brown skin dotted with moles and full of wrinkles. A private, who was looking at the major as if he were tempted to strike him. He had a mule on a rope, and the animal was festooned with sacks, plus several chickens and two leather pouches which had wine bottles protruding from the top.
‘If you wants fed faster, like, you’d best fetch along some decent vittles. If you don’t, you waits till I’s had a chance to scour.’
‘Never mind your damned lip, Pavin. Get the fire alight and get cooking. And those marines in the field need tending, too. We’d still be stuck on the beach if they hadn’t taken those guns.’
‘I’ve got, like, brandy on the mule.’
‘What’s left of it, you mean. Time to put some work in for what you’ve purloined.’ Pavin leant to one side, and spat slowly into the green thick grass under the tree. Then, having favoured his officer with another filthy look, he led the mule away. Lanester grinned at Markham. ‘That man could find a feast and room to cook it in the Black Hole of Calcutta.’
‘I take it that permits him some licence.’
‘That and long acquaintance, sir. He’s been with me over twenty years now.’
‘Your accent is American, Major Lanester.’
‘Not American, Lieutenant,’ Lanester replied sharply. ‘Virginian.’
Several soldiers arrived bearing used ammunition boxes, and these were arranged so that Lanester and his guest could sit down, while others were arranging stores, the collected rations of the troops still digging, which would be prepared in a makeshift field kitchen.
‘I meant no offence,’ Markham said.
‘None taken.’ The stream of messengers began then, officers and soldiers, either imparting information, requesting it, or reporting some task completed; one from General d’Aubent requiring lists of casualties, news of any Corsican reinforcement, plus information on the enemy defences and numbers, which had Lanester scribbling a long appreciation of his present position. By this time Markham had a cup of coffee in his hand, produced from the blazing fire on which Pavin was already cooking. In between he quizzed Markham, imparting as much information as he gleaned.
‘Those guns should never have been allowed to deploy on that road. We were told that the Corsicans would keep Lacombe occupied, pen the French in their defences, so that we could get ashore and assault Fornali without too many casualties. We were also informed that we would face no more than five or six hundred of the enemy.’
‘There were more than that deployed north of the fort this morning,’ Markham said. ‘And Lacombe must have o
ther lines that need manpower. Unless he knew where we were going to land.’
‘We didn’t know that ourselves till last night, man. The Navy said it would depend on the wind, something they called the mezzogiorno, which blows on land in the early hours, then spins round and does the reverse at night.’
‘Lacombe couldn’t have guessed that, could he?’
‘You’d think not,’ Lanester replied, as a messenger arrived and handed him a note. He examined it for a moment, then opened his map case to study that. He looked up at Markham again, turning the case round so that he could see the outline of the deep bay, plus the contours of Cap Corse which ran north, the high range of mountains forming a spine down the middle. The major’s finger moved as he spoke, pointing out the important features, plus the positions of the local forces.
‘The Corsicans are still stuck on the other arm of the bay. They’ve now undertaken to attack towards Patrimonio and Barbaggio. That’s the route to Bastia, which is the only way that Lacombe can get out of here, if he decides to go.’
‘And if they close the pass?’ Markham asked, pointing at a gap in the mountains called the Colla di Tregima. Lanester just raised his hand and ran a finger across his throat. Markham spread two fingers, to measure the distance between the present Corsican position, and where he and the major now sat. ‘They’re a long way from where they’re supposed to be.’
Lanester waved the note he’d received, a hasty scribble on thin yellowing paper. ‘Perhaps the locals are not much at anything other than slow marching. Anyway, this is their latest proposal. All we have to do, it seems, is drive the Frenchies into their arms.’
‘Vittles,’ shouted Pavin, ‘by which if’n you want them hot, you best shift.’
‘What about those marines?’
‘Saw to ’em first, as you damn well ordered, which is the first time I ever put a Lobster before a real soldier.’
Honour Redeemed Page 5