‘That infantry from Mouans Sartoux represents another threat which must be dealt with.’
‘True. And if the man commanding the cavalry had any sense he’d wait till they are able to affect the outcome of the action.’
Markham was just about to allude to the endemic stupidity of horse soldiers, when he recalled that de Puy had served in King Louis’s cavalry. So he quickly bit back the words.
‘No doubt it is his first sight of a red coat, and he wants the glory of taking us for himself.’
‘A worthy aim,’ de Puy replied, without irony, turning away to muster his charges.
That surprised Markham, busy checking on his men. He’d reckoned de Puy more intelligent than that. But he remembered that if horses could be stupid that was as nothing to what became of some people when they got on their backs.
‘Do you wish to stay with us, sir?’ Markham asked Germain.
A jolt went through Germain’s body. He must have suddenly realised that his marine officer had made at least a dozen decisions without consulting him, and was now asking him what he intended to do. Aramon, his servants and the ladies had followed de Puy towards the clump of maize, leaving the naval officer high and dry.
‘I’ve already told you, Markham, that I’m not sure I approve of your intentions.’
‘With the enemy three hundred yards distant, sir, I think it’s too late to question them.’
‘Since I am in command, I do so nevertheless.’
That finally cracked Markham’s self control. Germain was now being stupid as well as obtuse. His voice was harsh, his tone loud enough to be heard by every one of his men.
‘Then you won’t mind, since no one but a fool would have brought us to this, if I decline to listen.’ Germain’s jaw moved, but no words emerged. ‘You are welcome, sir, to take up a position alongside us. Any one of my men will explain what it is we are about to do. If you follow what they tell you, perhaps you may stay alive.’
Bellamy should not have spoken then. But with his usual lack of timing he did, the cultured tone of his voice, plus its deep reassuring timbre, adding insult to injury. That he did so with a Latin tag compounded the sin tenfold.
‘Medio tutissimus ibis, sir.’
‘What?’
Bellamy completely missed the anger. Nor, smiling broadly, was he aware on his part of the least hint of condescension.
‘A paraphrase in translation, sir, I grant you. Not exactly what Ovid wrote in Metamorphoses. I merely infer that you’d be safer in the middle.’
Germain, sure he was the butt of a joke, exploded. ‘Damn you if your heart isn’t as black as your face, you ignorant ape.’
Markham had no time for a shocked response from the Negro, probably more upset by the charge of ignorance than the reference to his skin colour. He shouted at him to get in position. The French cavalry had begun to swing round, in a line directly between the approaching infantry and his Lobsters, each horseman pushing through until he had a row to himself, a clear run at these pitiful, disorganised Englishmen. They had to cover less than two hundred yards, against what looked like a enemy still in the throws of panic, and they felt completely safe until half that distance had been covered.
So when they took the first volley at one hundred and fifty yards, when they’d only broken into a trot, and were still sitting upright in their saddles, it came as a surprise, none greater than the fact that two of their men went down. Their commander had no more than a second to do what was sensible, to rally his men and withdraw until the infantry arrived. But he evidently failed to act, since four of his men immediately charged.
It was the age-old problem with horse soldiers, a complete absence of brains, the intelligence necessary to stop a horse from moving forward and regrouping. In almost every battle in which Markham had taken part, the cavalry had only put in a proper contribution when the action was nearing its end. Launched before that, they were impossible to recall, and were often more of a hindrance than a help.
These men were doubly cursed, trapped in between the vines, and committed to covering a distance that would take them nearly half a minute. That meant they might face at least two more volleys of musket fire, before riding down the bayonets that would be the last line of defence. Standing upright on the left of the line of Lobsters, and excepting the usual ham-fisted pair, Markham was proud of them.
The oncoming horses were ignored as each man went about his reloading procedure. Rammer out, barrel swiped, cartridge torn and powder inserted followed by the ball; rammer re-used then housed, hammer cocked, the last drop of powder emptied into the now exposed pan. Then it was present, to take aim through the sights at two tons of oncoming enemy. No panic-firing, but a certainty of the aim before the heavy trigger was pulled, releasing the lock. The flints struck, the pan flashed and the fire ignited the powder in the barrel, sending a well-fitted ball towards what each man could see of the now crouching cavalrymen.
Despite Markham’s plea that they be spared, the horses naturally took the brunt, a couple staggering and falling, though not from the shots Rannoch was firing. Being the fastest man to reload Markham had ever seen he got off a third shot at his horseman with twenty yards to spare. Then Rannoch did what he’d been ordered. He stepped right between the vines to let the animal thunder past, the rider glassy eyed and mortally wounded as something in his brain made him hang onto the reins.
Rannoch ignored that, raising his musket to fire at the man who threatened to ride down Dornan, caught in the midst of reloading. Bellamy, even slower, had only got off one round, and was jabbing at his opponent, who’d been forced to slow down by the realisation that he was one of only four men still upright in the saddle. If the Negro had been any use, he would have probably withdrawn to safety. But faced with those huge eyes, which hinted at terror, and the feeble nature of Bellamy’s attack, he came on. He could not know, as he died on Germain’s sword, that the man he faced lacked any of the instincts that would have caused him to kill, except those generated by pure chance.
The other three got clear, taking with them two of the horses. They were in a frenzy and had broken though the vine rows. Another animal had bolted past so quickly that it was now too distant a prospect to catch. And with the infantry now jogging towards them rather than marching, there was little time to gather in the other four animals that had participated in the second phase of the attack.
‘Packs on as soon as you are reloaded,’ shouted Markham.
His eyes were on the approaching infantry, who’d now reached a point equal to that from which the cavalry had started out. Within a few minutes they’d be within range to give them a taste of volley fire. Standing in a row without an assailant, he’d not even had a chance to use his pistol. Without consulting him Rannoch shouted out another order, which had the Lobsters strapping two packs together, then chucking them either side of a horse. Then they began to withdraw straight up the slope.
‘A little something I learned in the Americas,’ said Rannoch, as together they were dragged by one of the mounts through the small gaps in the vines. ‘The Jonathans would steal our pack animals and escape like this, hanging onto the straps, always with the ability to haul up and gift us a volley if we got too close.’
‘Let’s hope it works for us.’
‘We still face odds,’ Rannoch replied.
He didn’t even attempt to look round for a fresh assessment of the risk. Both men knew that safety lay in cover. Out in the open, even if they could aim better than their opponents, they would be facing odds of five to one, which was too much to contemplate. But the plaintive cry forced them to haul hard and stop the mount.
Germain had got astride one of the horses and was whipping it through the vines with the flat of his sword. Behind him Bellamy and Leech stood with joined packs but nothing to put them on, unsure now what to do. Markham yelled for them to run, then moved along the row to block Germain’s passageway. He caught him halfway through the vines and grabbing hold of his bridle, h
auled hard so that the animal’s head was pulled down.
‘What in God’s name do you think you’re about?’
What he saw was that same face that Germain had worn on the deck of the ship they’d tried to board, the light of battle so strong in the eyes, the face so set, that all sense of objective judgement had fled from the man. The wonder was not that he was riding a horse but that he was heading away from the enemy. His sword was up, and for a split second it was as though he was going to strike down on Markham’s unprotected head.
‘You’ve left my men behind.’
That changed the look to one of incomprehension. It was the face of privilege, one he’d seen so often in his youth that it was imprinted in his mind; the look that said Culchies walk and gentlemen ride; that God was a Protestant and don’t you forget it, you papist bog-trotter. Germain had committed an act, the wrong of which he was unaware.
‘Get off the horse.’
‘Leave go that bridle,’ yelled Germain, the sword up again.
The shout, the flashing sword and his dark blue navy coat could not fail to attract attention. Neither officer had observed the enemy halt and present their muskets. The fire didn’t have to be accurate. Out of anything up to fifty musket balls, one had to strike home. The wonder was that they hit nothing vital. But the ball that took him in the left shoulder propelled Germain forward over the withers, and only Markham hanging on to his other arm stopped him from falling off.
‘Discourage them, Sergeant,’ he yelled, hauling Germain back till he was more evenly balanced. ‘For God’s sake man, clap on.’
Bellamy and Leech came dashing through the row of vines. Markham thought Leech wounded till he realised it was the cut he’d received earlier, open again and bleeding. They were dragging their packs between them, a stupid thing to do as they kept snagging in the gnarled branches. Markham grabbed at Bellamy and placed his hand on the horse girth.
‘Set your packs across the haunches and secure then. Then get the captain into the woods.’
Bellamy was only too happy to oblige. Despite a volley from Rannoch and the others, the French had moved forward twenty paces and fired again. Suddenly the vinerows were full of flying lead, lopping off the low branches and bunches of grapes as it sought human flesh. Markham heard one of the horses screech in pain, and turned just in time to see the animal give way at the knees and sink to the ground, blood pumping from a great hole in its neck.
Quinlan and Ettrick were dragged down with it, struggling to get their kit free before it was trapped by the great weight of the body. Yet it was silent enough to hear the officer in charge of the Frenchmen steadily calling his orders; to reload, move forward thirty paces and fire. That, if they stood still, could only end one way. And because of what had happened with the captain and one of the horses all their momentum in retreat had been lost.
Never had the towering ability of Rannoch been more important. In a voice that would have single-handedly done for the walls of Jericho, he bellowed out the order to keep falling back. The enemy were no more than seventy yards behind, and with their bodies covered by the vines, they presented no target. In a game of aim and hope, numbers must triumph. It began as a stumble, and ended up in a race. But luck favoured them, since the officer commanding the French, unable to see what had halted the redcoats, had misunderstood and assumed that they meant to stand and fight. The extra yards that gave them were enough to get them into the trees just as the enemy reached the open space between them and the final row of vines.
Now they had the advantage, even with depleted numbers. Markham detailed Bellamy to look after all three horses, plus the wounded captain, with orders to get him to Mademoiselle Moulins for treatment. Once the Negro was gone he joined Rannoch and the rest at the edge of the trees, just as the action was recommenced. The Lobsters took out half-a-dozen Frenchmen with their first volley, aiming at a point just above the tips of the bayonets as they poked through the gnarled branches.
The officer who commanded them was no fool. He saw what was happening and called his men back behind the cover of leaves, grapes, and vines. Markham guessed that there would be reinforcements on the way, or worse, a body of men moving along the wooded ridgeline to cut him off. The enemy could stay there all day. He could not. They would not attack him if they had any sense, and he couldn’t bring any force to bear to make them retire. Yet as soon as he left this position they would move forward to engage them in a retreat through the woods.
‘There is no choice,’ said Rannoch. ‘But I will be thinking that fighting in the woods is a game that our boys will be better at than the enemy.’
‘How long to reload while moving?’
‘Thirty paces.’
‘We’ll have to wound them to slow them down. We need a gap.’
‘Then we stop, let them come on, and deplete their strength every time.’ Rannoch gave him a grim smile. ‘It will only be a matter of time before they refuse the command to advance.’
The rustling behind them had both men spinning round in a slight panic. But it was de Puy and Aramon’s servants, each with a pistol ready to fire.
‘We have charged to the sound of the guns,’ said de Puy. If it was meant as a joke, it died because of his melancholy countenance. Markham gave him a quick explanation, as well as a warning, aimed more at the servants than at de Puy.
‘We will be falling back in a proper formation. If you get behind us you may become a target, to us as well as the enemy. Let us do the work. Only if the French charge should you engage them.’
All four men looked unhappy at that. But it made sense and had to be accepted. ‘How is Captain Germain?
‘He is losing blood, but Ghislane says that once he is still and some pressure can be applied to the wound, that should ease.’
The use of the given name Ghislane was revealing, and distracted Markham for a moment. He often wondered if there was anything between the pair, and that easy manner with the Christian name hinted at a degree of familiarity. Yet, if that was so, how could they maintain such a degree of aloofness when in company? He was dragged away from that thought, and brought back to the present by Rannoch.
‘Ready to move, sir.’
‘Right, sergeant. We will run the first fifty yards. I want to draw them deep into the woods.’
‘I think, to begin with, they will come without much bidding,’ the Highlander replied.
The French voice floated above the vines. ‘Messieurs. The position you hold, given your numbers is untenable.’
‘It would be expensive to take,’ Markham replied.
‘I am Lieutenant Andoche Junot of the 78th Regiment of Infantry. To whom am I speaking?’
‘Lieutenant George Markham, of His Britannic Majesty’s Marines.’
‘It is, if I may say so, monsieur, a strange place to encounter you.’
Rannoch was ducking along the front, looking under and over vines to see if the French were using this as a ruse to move men around. Markham held his reply till the Scotsman signalled that the conversation was an honest one.
‘We are at war, sir. The marines tend to fight their enemies wherever they find them.’
‘Regardless of what odds they face?’
‘Don’t you know we are mad, we roastbeefs?’
Junot responded with an equally amused tone. ‘I had heard so, but did not believe it till now. I shall never doubt it again.’
‘And we are men to extract a high price for our own lives.’
‘I am requesting that you surrender.’
‘No.’
‘A pity, monsieur.’
‘As much a pity as the fact that I can not sit still and converse with you all day. I must make sure that when I move through the forest, it is not into the arms of the rest of your regiment.’
‘One last chance, Lieutenant Markham.’
Markham signalled for his men to move, which they did as he said, ‘My apologies, sir.’
The French moved as soon as he was out of sight
, a yelling charge to the forest edge with a fine display of brio and sound. Finding no obstacle they plunged on, until they ran straight into Markham’s response, nine muskets and a carefully aimed pistol. The advance stopped dead. Markham realised that, despite his request not to do so, Aramon’s servants had discharged their pistols. There was a second when he observed them reloading, something they did with remarkable dexterity, given their calling.
‘Fall back thirty paces and re-deploy.’
Junot was no fool. He didn’t repeat the same mistake, but brought his men forward slowly. It still cost him casualties, but fewer by the sound of the screams. They were still audible when the Lobsters were gone. They took up their next position and waited, but no one came forward. After several minutes, Markham spoke.
‘I think our Lieutenant Junot of the 78th Infantry has decided to forgo the chase.’
‘Then he shows good sense for an officer,’ said Rannoch, aiming a thin smile at Markham. ‘That is rare enough in any army.’
‘Hold here, Sergeant. We can make no decisions about moving or staying without a look at Captain Germain.’
Rannoch nodded to the front, towards the Frenchman he couldn’t see. ‘An officer who will not sacrifice his men to no purpose will not harm a wounded man.’
‘That I agree with,’ Markham replied, well aware of what Rannoch was implying. ‘And I have no intention of surrendering us all for the well being of one man. But the extent of his wound will dictate certain things. I must see how bad it is. If he can move we will take him with us on one of the horses.’
Rannoch’s voice was full of venom. ‘Perhaps the one he stole! The sod nearly got Bellamy and Leech killed.’
‘Then justice has been served, Sergeant Rannoch, for he would never have taken the ball in his shoulder had he not been mounted.’
De Puy followed him back, pausing for a second to say something to Aramon’s servants. Because of that, Markham reached the small clearing in which Aramon had halted ahead of him. Germain was lying; in the centre, with Ghislane Moulins and Renate hovering over him. But their eyes were fixed elsewhere. Aramon stood arms half up and out as though he was saying part of the Mass.
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