A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  ‘Who continued drinking,’ Markham added, looking around.

  ‘The arrival of your soldiers woke them from their snoring, but then they found they were trapped.’

  ‘You will be safe now, that I promise you,’ he said.

  She turned to look at him, dark luminous eyes set in the round, full cheeks of a girl not fully grown. Her thick black hair was wet from washing, and hung down, framing her face in such a way as to make her look even more pitiful and forlorn. He stood upright, patting her gently on the shoulder before turning on his heel and walking out into the sunlit street. His men had hard tack, salt beef and water, all supplied by the Hebe. That would have to suffice for now.

  He relieved Yelland, Halsey and Leech, sending them back to the inn, but not before issuing strict instructions regarding their behaviour. Halsey, the marine corporal, seemed a steady sort, a trifle old for service, but clearly conscientious. On rejoining his men he’d checked that they were all well before responding to the orders Markham had given. He had presumably got his stripes, either from Frobisher or some other officer, because he could be trusted. He felt instinctively that this man, with his rather paternal air, would ensure that no further harm came to the girl.

  ‘Bury that dead man behind the paddock in a proper grave. The other one can go in the ditch. When he’s had a rest, send Yelland back to find Schutte and Rannoch.’

  ‘Aye, aye sir.’ Halsey replied, in the first expression of proper discipline he had from any of the Lobsters.

  Markham looked closely at the corporal, at the eyes trained to avoid expression. He had the dry skin of a man unlikely to enjoy fresh air, with a nose that was soft and well spread out. It looked like an appendage that had been hit several times. The pepper and salt hair was neatly tied in a queue at the back of his neck. With his stocky build, Halsey gave the impression that, despite his lack of inches, he might be a fighter.

  ‘Have you served with the colours for a long time, Halsey?’

  ‘Since I was breeched, sir. Started out as a drummer.’

  ‘Why was Schutte made sergeant?’

  Halsey hesitated for a second before replying. ‘He’s a hard man to argue with. That keeps the men in line, which is what most officers want.’

  ‘What’s the range of your muskets compared to Army issue?’

  There was no enthusiasm in either voice or face as he responded. ‘We don’t care about range at sea. It all comes down to seein’ if you can hit something. If you can’t you’ve got no notion of where the ball goes.’

  ‘Carry on, corporal.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Markham watched him as he collected his men and marched down the hill, wondering what he was really like. The bland look he’d seen many times, a perfect one with which to address an officer, hinting at no personal opinion, saying he was quite prepared to agree to whatever was proposed, sensible or stupid. Schutte struck Markham as strong but dense, the kind of bully a lazy officer might elevate to keep discipline. But what really mattered was what both men were like in battle. In his experience, brains were often more valuable than brawn.

  Having set the new piquet, he had a good look down the still deserted road. His problem was simple; it was the same behind as it was in front. There was no way he could hold this position against a determined assault with what he had at his disposal. Assuming the worst, which was the safest thing to do, he reckoned that the men under his command would behave poorly under fire. And he could expect no acts of individual initiative that exceeded self preservation. His real worry was that at the first assault they’d break and run, with him waving his sword uselessly in an attempt to stop them.

  The sun glinted on something just as his advance guard started to run back towards him. He turned and called for his men to prepare, not impressed by the lack of any sense of purpose in the way they put aside their food and reached for their weapons.

  ‘Coach, sir,’ called the marine he’d sent up the road, while he was still thirty yards away. Then the man stopped, put his hands on his knees, and bent over to try and get his breath.

  ‘Attention,’ Markham shouted, and, as the man pulled himself upright, ‘report to me properly.’

  The man lifted his musket and marched towards him, his face contorted by the effort of breathing. Two paces from the officer, after a quick sideways glance at the two men behind him, he stopped and stood to attention.

  ‘Coach, a big one. Pulled out that there gorge. The horses look knackered and he’s having to whip them to keep them going.’

  ‘Any sign of soldiers?’

  ‘No, sir. Coach is on its own. Road’s clear behind it.’

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Gibbons. Sir.’

  He needed his spyglass, which was still in his own army trunk, back in the inn he’d stayed at in Chatham. All he could see was a cloud of dust, billowing around an indistinct shape.

  ‘Will they make it up the hill, Gibbons?’

  ‘Can’t say they will, sir. They’re struggling on the flat, from what I can see.’

  Markham stood, in an agony of suspense, as the shape inside that cloud of dust took form. It was a big coach, the kind that rich men used, spacious inside, well sprung and comfortable. The lead horses’ heads were bent forward as the whip played around their ears, with the pair behind in no better condition. The man on the box was relentless in his efforts to keep them in motion, and Markham fancied he could hear him swearing.

  The crack of the shot was distant, but still clear, a very different sound from that of the driver’s whip. It was followed by another. Markham glared at Gibbons, then searched the hills to each side, looking for telltale puffs of smoke, but nothing showed. The shots must be coming from behind the coach, which had just reached the bottom of the slight incline. But if they were, he couldn’t see those firing them for the dust. In fairness to Gibbons, now standing rigidly to attention awaiting a tongue-lashing, he probably wouldn’t have been able to see them either.

  ‘In future, Gibbons,’ he said calmly, ‘I require you to be more careful in your reporting. Do you understand?’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Now get off the crest.’

  Gibbons looked at him with surprise, before snapping his eyes back to the required position. Then he was gone. Markham paid him no heed, since he had a difficult decision to make. If that was the enemy shooting at that coach, then he should help those inside. But to do so too overtly would give away his position as well as his numbers, and thus sacrifice the only thing, surprise, that might hold an initial assault. He had to assume that whoever was in that coach would have the good sense to get out and walk if it ground to a halt. But without any idea how close the enemy was, they might get caught in the open without protection.

  He ran back down to the dry stone walls, tallying off the first ten Bullocks. ‘Up to the crest. Five men each side. Stay below the skyline, and that means the tops of your hats.’

  They definitely hesitated, but it seemed that no one wanted to take a prominent position to question his orders. But the way they dragged their feet was infuriating.

  ‘Damn you, move!’ he yelled. ‘At the double!’

  He directed his men into position on either side of the road, fuming at the way they exaggerated their confusion. The sounds of shots mingled steadily with the crack of the whip, seeming to increase in tempo as the first pair of horses’ heads came over the lip. The white foam of sweat streaked their bodies and even in the heat the steam rose from their backs. The tip of the whip cracked above their heads, the driver standing to egg them on. All four animals looked as if their legs were about to give way, just at the moment when the lead wheels were at the top of the rise. The driver, his own mouth flecked with foam, was yelling and swearing. He raised his hand to hit them once more when a bullet took him in the back. He fell sideways, his eyes suddenly looking into the clear blue sky, dropping into the gap between the horses’ flanks and the coach, then rolling clear of the wheels and down the blind side of the hill
.

  The animals, no longer pressured to move, stopped dead, with the coach balanced right across the crest. Markham leapt forward, calling to Gibbons, as the only name he could remember, to come and assist him. He grabbed the bridle of the horse nearest him and hauled hard, dragging it reluctantly forward. Gibbons, responding to his shout, had the other one. Dornan had stood up to help and between them they got the wheels onto the downhill slope. The horses, now required to hold the weight, seemed set to sink to their knees, but a thump on their flanks produced a final surge of energy. A glimpse of the shaded interior showed him what appeared to be a family group, one male, two girls and a young boy, all looking fearful.

  ‘Gibbons, get this damned thing down to the village and out of sight. The rest of you men, fall back to the stone walls.’

  Chapter five

  The coach rattled down the hill, with several men hanging on to the traces. Lying on the crest, Markham took stock of the situation. The dust began to settle, revealing those who had been in pursuit. They had slowed to a walk, indicating it was a target of opportunity, not something they were actually pursuing. Within minutes an untidy column of infantry appeared, led by half a dozen officers, mounted and plumed. One was waving, earnestly, ordering the men out in front to get back into column of march. If that was his instruction, it was being comprehensively disobeyed by a group of soldiers who looked as if they were out for a Sunday stroll. That delayed the need for an immediate withdrawal, allowing him some time to contemplate the options.

  It would be impossible to stop the increasing number of soldiers spilling out of the gorge, at least a whole regiment. But could he find a way to delay them? They were marching without skirmishers, which was certainly foolhardy. Such a lack of even the most basic reconnaissance could only mean one thing; they believed they had nothing before them but the terrified citizenry of Toulon. If they knew that Hood had taken over the port, they had no intelligence regarding his intentions, and were in ignorance of the fact that he was prepared to come out and fight.

  If Markham stayed hidden, the undisciplined rabble out in front would just come on, forcing him to engage them, thus throwing away, very cheaply, the only good defensive position between here and the naval base. If Elphinstone brought up enough reinforcements they could hold it. The French would then be obliged to mount a major assault to dislodge them. Reduced to basics, what he must do depended on the quality of the forces opposing him.

  With only a fleeting glimpse of the French and their commanders, he had hardly enough on which to base a sound judgment. But instinct counted. It told him that he had a chance to inflict some casualties, and slow the main body down, if he could only surprise them. Lacking discipline, at the sight of a red coat they might just rush the crest en masse, in which case he’d be forced to run. But that same vision, so unexpected, might bring the whole column to a halt. Time might be expended while they prepared an attack, an interval that might allow Elphinstone to fulfil his promise.

  Common sense dictated that he look beyond that possibility. Without more men, his detachment would have to pull back. Facing just infantry, he could hold them up in the village, making each building a redoubt that would need to be taken individually. But he’d also need room to effect an escape across the bridge and a hundred and fifty yards of open road. That couldn’t be achieved against a commander brimming with confidence. The best way to ensure he lacked that was to induce caution from the very outset, which in turn, required him to be bold to the point of madness.

  He slid back down the slope, standing up as soon as he was out of sight, gnawing on the various alternatives, which really came down to the best way to handle his divided command. His preferred method, of explaining what he was planning to attempt, a must with well-trained men, might backfire with this lot. Yet leaving them in the dark could prove worse. Even within their own groupings there was little common purpose.

  Halsey had rejoined from the village, and was being interrogated by Schutte, with the Dutchman’s finger regularly poking the corporal in the chest. ‘Line up the marines,’ Markham barked as he approached the pair, deliberately aiming his instructions at both men. Close to, Schutte’s heavy frame dwarfed the older man. His small eyes, in a shaven skull that was almost square, held a hostile stare designed to let Markham know that he was the senior of the pair. There was an ugliness about the Hollander that spoke of the kind of belligerence which bordered on stupidity. It was there in the reclining forehead, a furrowed narrow strip, well defined despite his bald head, in the heavy lobes and fighter’s flat nose.

  ‘You’re improperly dressed, Schutte,’ Markham barked, forcing the Dutchman to put on the tricorne hat he carried, a headpiece which had a grey wig sewn inside. ‘How’s your knowledge of infantry tactics?’

  Schutte looked blank, but Halsey replied with an eagerness that stood in sharp contrast to his previous attitude. ‘We did a bit at Chatham. Not much, but enough to get the root of the thing.’

  He suddenly remembered himself; the faint hint of enthusiasm disappeared, and the look he gave Schutte had a trace of supplication, designed to show that he was only trying to be helpful. Markham, addressing him, only increased his unease.

  ‘Fine. I want you to get your men up here and line them up in column. We’re going to march over that hill like a pack of fools, deploy halfway down the crest and take on all the appearance of men preparing to stand and fight. There’s a French force coming up that road, with men out front who’re more like a rabble than an army. I want to give them a fright.’

  ‘I lead,’ snarled Schutte.

  ‘No,’ Markham replied coldly.

  ‘I sergeant!’

  ‘Only if I say so. Rank is something you earn by soldiering, not by using your fists. Captain Frobisher is dead. It’s me you have to satisfy. If you don’t, I’ll break you back to private.’

  The implication was obvious, even to the slow-witted Hollander. If he didn’t perform, Halsey would replace him. Markham was sure Schutte was feared rather than popular. Certainly Halsey, a marine to his fingertips, was afraid of him. Such a demotion, and the elevation of a better man, might do something for his own standing amongst the majority of the Lobsters. He turned his back on the pair of them to cut off further discussion.

  ‘Carry on.’

  The temptation to look round was hard to resist, since some form of drama was being played out behind his back. Schutte, if he wanted to assault him physically, couldn’t do so in full view of the entire company. And Halsey, if he wished to decline the responsibility, could hardly make such a request to the back of his head. There was a pause, some hasty whispering, then the crunching of shoes as they moved away.

  Markham waited till that faded before moving behind one of the stone walls to address the men of the 65th Foot. Quinlan and Ettrick, an inseparable pair of skinny individuals whose self-assurance troubled him, were playing cards with the slow-witted Dornan. They stopped for a moment, checking to see how he would react. He ignored them, his words aimed at Rannoch.

  ‘On your feet, sergeant.’

  He rose slowly, hatless, and looked his officer right in the eye. Markham observed that in a face that appeared to have suffered as much punishment as Schutte’s, the result was very different. The thick blond hair, nearly white in the sunlight, helped. He had a larger forehead that made him look perceptive instead of stupid, a nose that was broad rather than flattened. Certainly the eyes were not dead like the Dutchman’s. They were lively, questioning, carrying a look at that moment utterly lacking in subservience. Markham briefly explained the position.

  ‘Your job is to march just far enough up the slope on either side of the road to show your bayonets or your hats. I want the enemy to think there are troops hidden by the crest. If they do attack us, fall back to these walls, and keep out of sight.’

  He pointed to the marines, beginning to line up. ‘We’re going to try and get the French to chase us over the crest. I want you to surprise them. As soon as you have a cl
ear field of fire, I need you on your feet giving three rounds per minute of steady, well aimed musketry. Who knows, if it’s poured into the head of their ranks we might even drive them back.’

  ‘What if there are cavalry?’ Rannoch asked.

  ‘I haven’t seen any.’

  ‘That does not mean they are not about,’ he replied, lifting his musket and cradling it in his thick forearms. Rannoch had a slow, measured way of speaking, words delivered in a lilting Highland voice that would have been quite pleasing if he’d shown any respect. Vaguely, Markham noted that his weapon was gleaming, the metal clean and the stock highly polished.

  ‘If there were horse soldiers around, that fine head of yours would already be atop one of their sabres. And believe me, if I see any approaching, you’ll have to run like the devil to catch me up. Forget cavalry and just think about stopping the infantry. The Lobsters and I will turn to support you as soon as we can. If you are forced back we will cover your retreat. Good luck.’

  He chose to ignore the long slow sound of a derogatory fart, as well as the silent amusement it engendered, which emanated from the card school. The marines were ready, in an untidy column, with Schutte at the front. He took station at their head and issued the order to advance.

  Their appearance, marching over the crest, had an immediate effect on the enemy, the first sign a ragged volley of musket fire from the rabble out front. Having delivered that, they ran back towards the main body, creating quite a commotion.

  Sabre blades flashed in the leading enemy ranks as the marines formed a line, the flat of the French metal being used to suppress the confusion. A bugle blew, seemingly in vain, as the plumed officers dashed about trying to control their men. They got them in some kind of order, but there was no headlong rush to attack. Markham allowed himself a smile. He had every right to feel pleased. With no more than eighteen marines, including himself, facing a force that numbered something like three hundred men, he’d achieved his first aim, to halt the advance.