A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  The French commander was surprised and clearly intended to treat them with respect, not sure if they were the whole force opposing him, or bait for a trap. He rode forward to extreme musket range, the gold that fringed his uniform coat flashing in the sun. Markham saw him point several times to the left and right of his position, indicating that Rannoch was doing what he’d been asked. He didn’t dare turn round to confirm that, lest by doing so he nullify their efforts. The other officers gathered round their commander when he rode back, colourful plumes mixing to form a tricolour whole as they conferred.

  After some fifteen minutes they dispersed, riding back to organise the first units of an attacking force, detaching, what looked like half the regiment and bringing them forward. The untidy lines made them difficult to count, but Markham reckoned they numbered around two hundred men, which produced much fidgeting amongst the marines. His voice was loud but steady as he sought to calm them.

  ‘You will stand until I order a retreat, d’you hear me now? Which means that you’re going to have to face several volleys. I have no intention of trading fire with the enemy. Our task is to draw them on, hopefully in disorder. The men behind those walls are just waiting for a target to present itself. And just in case you’re feeling shy, I did tell them if it’s a single marine they can practise on him.’

  As the front rank of the French began to advance he noticed the big Dutchman edging his way backwards. ‘Schutte, take station beside me. Halsey, you inspect the weapons, then take position on the left of the line.’

  The corporal moved along the row of marines, checking that muskets were loaded and cartouches open. Before them, the broad column, six men wide, over thirty deep, began its approach. They moved off in the proper prescribed manner, at a slightly oblique angle, taking them to the left of the road, the sound of a drum beating out a tattoo that kept them in step. Even at this distance, without the aid of a telescope, he could see the variegated uniforms of his enemies.

  Some wore green coats, others blue, with many barefoot, in torn striped breeches. A perfect example of the levée en masse conscripts, brainchild of Lazare Carnot, they gave every appearance of being untrained. But troops like these had beaten Brunswick at Valmy and the Austrians at Jemmapes. Only when they turned to face his men, and musket balls started flying, would he know their true quality.

  The first stage of column order marching was simple, and told him little. Would they attempt to deploy from their present formation into a three-deep line, a manoeuvre only to be attempted with highly disciplined soldiers? He prayed not, since such tactics, performed with precision, given the consequent increase in the amount of fire that could be brought to bear on his small detachment, would annihilate them.

  They could, of course, stay to his right, in an attempt to draw forward any forces on the reverse slopes. Or if Markham moved to cover them, establish that they didn’t actually exist. The steep sides of the escarpment, given the numbers they faced, meant they could be outflanked, so they could be forced to withdraw without firing a shot, just to keep a safe distance. On the other hand, they could deploy into scaled-down columns of division, perhaps to a depth of around twenty men, extend themselves to their right astride the road and try to rush forward and overwhelm the redcoats.

  The waiting was agony, the point of decision a matter of guesswork. But if they weren’t going to turn, why did the officer at the head of the forward column, dressed in a black coat and wearing a tricolour sash, have his sword raised? And why was he waving his hat in the air above his head, using the red, white and blue feathers that adorned it to encourage his troops? Any command would be indicated by that same sword, and Markham watched it, holding his breath. On and on they came, the head of the column now well to the right of his position. The sword came down, sweeping to one side to aim at Markham’s chest. He opened his mouth to order the retreat.

  What happened then was so far from what was required that Markham nearly laughed. The column, its head now no more than a hundred yards away, became a jumbled, untidy mass of bodies, with only the leading two files showing any sign of holding their formation.

  ‘Take aim on the extreme right of the line.’ He waited while the muskets swung round, let the men steady themselves to compensate for the long range, then shouted: ‘Fire!’

  Smoke, cocooning the bright orange flashes, billowed from the line of guns. If the French infantry drill was a shambles, the marines’ musketry wasn’t much better. Partly, as Markham remembered from fighting in the Americas, it was the weapon itself. The heavy trigger tended to make men open their hand in order to aid the action of the forefinger. This gave full scope to the recoil, notorious on the Brown Bess. Fear of that inclined the firer to throw his head and body back at the very moment of discharge. Not trained to aim, they also shut their eyes to avoid the flash of the powder igniting in the pan, leaving the direction of the shot more of an accident than a design.

  Against well-trained troops, in such superior numbers, it would have proved useless. It was luck that the French were worse than their opponents. The officer, who should have stayed upright, dropped to his knees. What little control he had of his unit evaporated completely, as they enveloped him, spilling right across the road. The Frenchmen knew they had to advance, but they did so as a rabble, which meant that their fire was erratic. Some fired off their weapons then turned back towards their own troops, as though their task were complete, crashing into the men still trying to come forward. Some seemed to be threatening to fight each other. Muskets which should have been aimed at the redcoats were discharged uselessly into the air. And those who bothered to reload were just as unco-ordinated, with each man stopping as he saw fit, and facing in every conceivable direction, to perform the necessary actions.

  At least Markham was favoured in that respect. Whatever training his men had received, it had included ordered reloading. Halsey at one end, and Schutte beside him, called out the instructions, too slow to be perfect, but steady and effective, so that he could swiftly order another volley. Despite the confusion, the majority of Frenchmen were still edging forward. The range had closed, and the second salvo had a profound effect. Those shots that hit threw their victims back amongst their companions, adding stark terror to the already fearful turmoil.

  For those which missed, the spurts of dust affected the front ranks while the cracking noise of passing balls confused the mob at the rear. They didn’t halt, but they slowed to a crawl, exacerbated by their need to advance up the steadily increasing slope. For a moment Markham thought they might break and retire, a fantastic result given that he was outnumbered by more than ten to one.

  Then the officer with the tricolour sash reappeared, pushing his way through the throng to the front, belabouring everyone he could reach with the flat of his blade. His face was contorted with passion as he yelled at his troops to move forward, taking the lead himself, jamming his hat onto the tip of his blade and running at the hill. Markham had his sword raised again, waiting for the last of his men to present. One marine, faced with the line of screaming Frenchmen, dropped his weapon, which distracted those close to him. Fearing a general loss of cohesion, he gave the order, and as soon as the crash of the weapons subsided, yelled for his men to run.

  The line of redcoats, never perfect, dissolved, as those with either quick wits or overwhelming fear headed first for the crest. The triumphant yells from the throats of their attackers drowned out both Markham’s bellowing and their own cries of encouragement. Two of his men in the centre of the line, too slow to move, took the full force of the ragged French volley, their bodies spinning and dropping. One managed to get back to his feet and stagger on.

  ‘Leave him, damn you,’ Markham yelled, as he saw Halsey hesitate beside the still body. At the crest he stopped himself, waving his sword at the stragglers, an act which attracted its own response. He felt one ball tug at his sleeve, while the others whistled and cracked around him. His sword took one right on the tip and was knocked clean out of hi
s hand. He was halfway back to the dry stone wall when the thought registered that the ball had come from behind him, knocking his blade towards the enemy, not away from them.

  There was no time to ponder on that as he followed his men through the gap that ran between the road and the walls. There he span round to shout at the crouching soldiers. What he saw in their eyes made him hesitate for a split second. It was fear, of course, the sight of a mass of French soldiers spilling onto the crest, the shock of a threat now visible instead of imagined. It made no difference that the enemy was a rabble, nor that the redcoats were in a reasonable defensive position. As the numbers in front of them increased to fill the skyline, so did the apprehension, with several of his men beginning to inch backwards.

  ‘Sixty-fifth, on your feet, present, fire!’

  What followed made the marines look like marksmen. All the same faults were there, this time made worse by firing uphill with longer barrelled weapons. It was hard to tell if they’d taken aim at all, judging by the amount of earth they dislodged. But at fifty yards some found flesh, driving those struck by a ball into the arms of men only too willing to drag them back out of danger.

  ‘Reload,’ Markham yelled, as chips of stone exploded off the wall, the balls ricocheting skywards; a small fragment hit the top of his cheek, drawing an immediate flow of blood.

  That reloading was a shambles, with some of the men leaning their muskets on the wall so that they could open cartouches that should never have been closed. Rams were dropped, the powder from the cartridges going everywhere but into the barrels, so that it seemed like an eternity before they presented for a second volley, with those that had shown more dexterity, forced to hold their fire, swearing at their mates.

  Again, it was only the inexperience of the enemy that averted disaster. They’d halted, shaken more by the sight of extra redcoats than their musketry. The marines, with Halsey yelling at them, had formed up and come forward again, giving an impression of a solid line of defenders. The French officer tried to rally his troops for the final charge, just as the 65th’s second attempt was released. As he turned, sword raised, a ball took him right between the eyes, with a force that threw him back like a rag doll, causing those around him to stop in shock.

  Nothing in soldiering was worse than facing fire, without cover, when standing still. That, the very essence of successful infantry tactics, required steadfast reliance on a collective will not to give way. The French didn’t have even an ounce of such discipline. Before their leader’s body had stopped twitching, they began to retire, running over the crest, retreat degenerating into a rout before the last man was out of sight.

  His men should have cheered, should have had him yelling at them to stand still as they ran forward to drive home their success. That didn’t happen. The silence that descended was total. Markham took a musket from the man nearest him and made for the crest alone, feeling the eyes of both Lobsters and Bullocks boring into his back. The road before him was dotted with more than a dozen bodies. Some wounded men were stumbling back. The rest were still running, ignoring the officers who were trying to halt them.

  He stepped forward to examine the one red-coated cadaver, now bleeding from dozens of bayonet wounds. It was a young face, probably unblemished before being struck by French gun butts, one that he had seen from time to time on the Hebe. But he didn’t know the boy’s name, and that made him feel ashamed. Returning to the rim of the hill he stooped and retrieved his sword, looked at it meaningfully before turning to face his troops. The body of the French officer was right at his feet, the red-rimmed hole in his head dead centre, side to side, eyebrows to hairline. Deliberate, it was a brilliant shot; certainly better than the one that had been aimed at him, and had only managed to hit his blade.

  Order was, at last, driving out the chaos in the French ranks. Their commander had ridden amongst them to find out what had happened, shouting at the top of his voice. Within minutes Markham saw the first lines form up, taking up positions to recommence the advance. No columns now. The man who led them had learned his lesson. He had his men in open order, like skirmishers, and was waving his sword to bring them forward personally to the base of the rise.

  ‘Back to the crest,’ Markham shouted, ‘on the double.’

  They made the French pay for the top of that hill, each man firing individually, with Markham moving amongst them, trying to encourage them to fire properly. A battlefield was no place for such instruction, even if he’d been capable of providing it, but the marginal improvement he managed was shown by the number of dead Frenchmen whose bodies were added to those that already littered the plain.

  His frustration grew with every glance he threw back along the empty road to Toulon. And all the time French troops were arriving, debouching out of the narrow gorge onto the open ground, enough men to walk through his small detachment without raising a sweat. He had no idea what made them hesitate, his sole object being to stay were he was until the inevitable happened and he was forced to withdraw. As soon as the first artillery arrived, he was obliged to do so anyway. Only two six-pound field pieces, they were enough to make his position untenable, since without return fire they could adjust their range at their leisure, and fire case shot over the crown of the hill to kill men on the opposite side.

  They had to abandon the dry stone wall as well. With the guns moved up and a spotter to guide their fire, they could become a death trap of flying rock splinters. He’d swapped positions with the French commander. Now Markham would be unable to see any developing assault on the reverse slope. He ordered everyone back to the edge of the village, and began to distribute them in small packets throughout the three houses which had walls facing the west. Holes were knocked through the soft masonry for each musket.

  To each group, his instructions were the same. ‘Make sure you have plenty of water. Eat now, because once they settle themselves on that hill, unless we’re seriously reinforced, you’ll have to be ready to retire. When the time comes, fall back to the well and I will allocate you new positions. When we get to the last houses and there’s no more cover, you’re to run for the gully where I left Schutte and Rannoch.’

  He went back to the inn, stopping only to watch the artillerymen on the hill. They were hacking grooves in the rim that would act as an embankment, allowing them to fire on Ollioules undisturbed, destroying the buildings while lessening the risk to themselves of suffering from return fire. It would be a time-consuming business, requiring a rampart on the back slope to contain the recoil. Clearly the officer in command was prepared to indulge them, and had decided against a second infantry assault. He wanted to blast the redcoats out of the village, prepared to destroy the whole place rather than face the casualties house-to-house fighting might entail.

  The coach stood outside the inn, horses removed from the shafts, the sweat on their bodies dried to a white line. Heads lowered, they munched greedily at the bale of hay that had been spread at their feet. Entering the interior, he was surprised at the heat. With the sun full up the room was no longer cool; instead it was warm and stuffy. He found Celeste in conversation with a small, rather plump man, red-faced and perspiring under his wig. His cheeks were half covered with a large white handkerchief, already limp from the amount of sweat it had been required to absorb. As her eyes strayed past his shoulder, he span round to face the British officer.

  ‘Monsieur,’ he cried, throwing up his hands. ‘Is it true that Toulon has surrendered to your Admiral?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then I require you to instruct this wretch to surrender to me her horses.’

  ‘It’s not my place, sir.’

  ‘I must get my passengers to Toulon.’

  ‘If you’ve looked at the horses you’re asking for, you might decide you’d be better off walking.’

  ‘I have a child with me, who is delicate.’ The man paused for a second before continuing. ‘Not to mention my daughters.’

  ‘If you were running from the revolutionaries
, I must tell you that they could be here within the hour.’

  ‘Do you not intend to stop them?’

  ‘I don’t have the means. They have artillery and numbers. I have neither.’

  ‘Then it is even more imperative that we get away.’ He gestured towards the doorway. ‘You will have observed my own animals. They will require to be rested. I can only proceed by using two for a short time.’

  Markham turned to the girl. ‘Celeste. What I just said is true. And I don’t have any reason to suppose the men who are going to take over the village have any more respect for property than those renegade sailors who came here earlier.’ That produced a sudden look of alarm. ‘In fact, you’d be better off in Toulon, as well.’

  She searched his face then, as if to ensure that he was telling the truth. The older man, wiping his brow with his handkerchief, missed her quick nod of consent.

  ‘I must insist.’

  ‘I think, sir, if you offer to take this young lady with you, she might agree to let you have them.’

  He looked her up and down then, taking in her bruised face, as well as the badly mended rips in her dull-coloured dress. ‘I cannot consent to have such a filthy creature mix with us. We are people of some quality.’

  ‘Then they shall have to walk, after all.’

  ‘Oh, all right,’ he snapped. ‘If it must be so, I can be consoled that the journey is short. Can you provide me with one of your men to drive them?’

  ‘No sir, I cannot. You will just have to drive them yourself, which will at least spare you the need to share the interior with this girl you so loosely refer to as a wretch.’

  Chapter six

  The bombardment started sooner than Markham had hoped, the first ranging shots dropping well short of the buildings that edged the village, with each succeeding salvo creeping ever closer. The baking, midday heat had killed what little breeze had existed. But now, in the late afternoon, the air began to stir again. Soon the first house, on the very edge of the village, was hit, sending up a great cloud of dust as the walls were breached.