A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  Running was made harder by Fouquert, who stumbled repeatedly on the cobbles. Only the fact that he might be needed stopped Markham from killing him on the spot. Not that they were much threatened. The citizenry of Toulon, good or bad, had a well-developed sense of self preservation. Seeing a party of armed men running towards them, they quickly got out of the way.

  But that still left the crews of the ships that lined the inner basin. Above the heads of those in front he could see a group gathering at the top of one steeply angled gangplank. This ran up to the entry port of one of the 100-gun ships, where an officer was busy distributing weapons and powder. Slowing slightly, he let Rannoch catch up, the question he asked delivered with barely enough breath to be understood.

  ‘We’ve all got guns now,’ Rannoch gasped, as they came abreast of the ship’s stern. Men were leaning over the taffrail, yelling insults at them and throwing anything they could find, marlinspikes, blocks, pulleys and small kegs. ‘But they are a right mixture, two Spanish, four French and the rest from God knows. And we’ve got no way of reloading half of them.’

  ‘One volley,’ he shouted, pointing to the arched entrance that led to the maindeck of the ship, twenty feet above them. ‘Aim right into that entry port. If we don’t scare off those sailors we’ll have a mob to deal with.’

  His men stopped, chests heaving with exertion. Fouquert was on his knees again, sobbing. A chunk of hair had separated from his scalp, which was bleeding profusely. Markham grabbed a bayonet from the nearest soldier and handed it to Celeste.

  ‘Hold this hard on his neck. Hebes, form line and take aim on the ship. Sergeant Rannoch will give the order to fire.’

  A capstan bar, thrown like a spear from the upper deck, missed Rannoch by a fraction of an inch as he stepped forward to give Markham the French major’s sword. It bounced on the cobbles, and whacked Halsey right across the side of the face. The corporal collapsed in a heap, red cap flying. Rannoch yelled for them to ignore him and the rest of the flying objects, waited several seconds till he felt their breath had settled, then shouted for them to fire. The men had vacated the gangplank, taking refuge in the entry port. Half the balls peppered the side of the ship. But judging by the yells that echoed from between the narrow decks, some of those fired had found flesh.

  ‘Move,’ Markham shouted, pleased to see that Schutte had thrown his musket to Leech, grabbed hold of Halsey, picking the older man up like a doll, and slinging him over one shoulder, while with his other hand he picked up the capstan bar that had felled him. They were running again, skirting round the point where the inner basin joined the dockyard, moving through the destruction caused by the retreating Allies; smashed and burnt-out buildings, some still smoking, filling the lungs of the worn out Hebes with an acrid taste.

  Markham cursed as he threw a swift glance backwards. Sailors were pouring down the gangplank now, like bees from a threatened hive, several officers at their head, harrying them to make more speed. They were fresh, and unencumbered. He couldn’t hope to stay ahead of them, and given their numbers, even a volley from muskets, always assuming they could load them, might do little to deter them.

  Another nervous backwards glance showed them spewing onto the quay. More enthusiastic than sensible, they ran right amongst a more disciplined party of soldiers from the Bishop’s palace, throwing their ranks into disorder. The Army officer in command was lashing about with his blade, berating the crewmen and ordering them back, while his naval counterparts were doing the precise opposite, the subsequent mêlée opening the gap between the groups to something over a hundred yards. But with five times that still to cover, it was a narrow margin still.

  Fouquert was in a bad way, his distress caused as much by despair as exhaustion. He kept falling to the ground, to be hauled back to his feet with little compassion, by a man whose eyes showed just how much he cared for the Frenchman’s well-being. ‘Fall once more and I’ll skewer you where you lie.’

  ‘I can’t go on.’

  Markham swung the sword he was carrying, using the flat of the blade. In doing so he relaxed his grip on Fouquert’s oiled and bloodsoaked hair. Not much, it was just enough to let the Frenchman slip from his grasp. The sword whistled past Fouquert’s ear as he dropped to the ground. That coincided with the first volley of musket fire from their pursuers. The air was suddenly full of whistling lead balls, one of which cut a groove across Markham’s extended forearm.

  The pain made him recoil. Fouquert scrabbled out of reach; driven by terror, he opened enough distance to get to his feet. Everyone else had turned to face the gunfire, those with the means trying desperately to reload, with only Rannoch’s Brown Bess presented and ready.

  Fouquert was now upright, running for his life, screaming and yelling to the men on the top of the Grosse Tour to help him. They were too far away to hear, standing on the battlements under their streaming signal flags. But the gunfire had alerted them. Behind, order had been imposed, with the soldiers out front reloading while their officers restrained the more eager sailors. Guns loaded, the whole mass set off in pursuit, the front line setting a good pace that kept their formation intact.

  Markham was screaming too, yelling frantically to get his men moving. Even if they’d had their own muskets, they didn’t have the firepower to check the pursuit. Their only hope was to get to the Grosse Tour and use it as a place of defence. Even if that didn’t last, they would, at least, chop those signal flags down and alert the men on that warship.

  He was running out in front, with only the sound of pounding feet evidence that his command was being obeyed, his eyes fixed on Fouquert’s back, and the flapping green coat that he was still wearing. He kept shouting, trying to wave his arms in a way that wouldn’t slow his speed. Markham saw some of the signallers move back from the battlements, but with he and his quarry matched for pace he had to concentrate on running rather than speculation. Sweating, his breath coming in great gulps, he had the consolation that Fouquert was certainly in a worse state.

  Another volley of gunfire swished past, the crack making him duck involuntarily. One ball seemed to pluck at the shoulder of the dark green coat. The irony that the sod had nearly fallen to his own side forced a smile from Markham. That faded as he saw the result. The threat had given Fouquert an extra bit of speed, and he was now opening up the gap.

  At that moment, at about a hundred yards distance, they both caught sight of the same thing: the very edge of the old wooden drawbridge as it began to rise. Markham remembered the well-oiled mechanism, which lay just inside the left-hand side of the gateway. If the men who manned the tower succeeded in raising it, he would be left standing in the open, there to face a foe who would overwhelm him in seconds.

  The drawbridge inched up, too slow to be in the good working order that he’d supposed. Suddenly he stopped and turned, reeling as first Dornan, who was pulling Celeste, and then Dymock, carrying Jean-Baptiste, ran into him. Rannoch was at the rear, chivvying everyone along, his face showing the strain of his exertions.

  ‘Rannoch, your musket,’ shouted Markham, when the Highlander skidded to a halt. ‘Take aim on that gateway to the tower, to the left, about six feet inside. There are men there trying to haul up that drawbridge.’

  No further explanation was necessary, especially as the leading edge moved up another fraction. ‘The rest of you, face the rear and load. Let’s slow the bastards up.’

  Schutte dropped the capstan bar and rolled Halsey off his shoulder. The corporal had regained some measure of consciousness; he was able to stand, unsteadily, on his feet. Then the Dutchman took his musket, which hadn’t been discharged, and aimed it at the French soldiers, waiting for the rest of those with cartouches to complete their task. Seven or eight muskets was a pitiful number against such odds. But the aim wasn’t to kill, merely to slow them a little.

  ‘Aim for the cobblestones in front of them,’ yelled Markham, looking anxiously at Rannoch, who was taking an age to steady himself, then at the drawbridge, creep
ing inexorably up. He was hoping that the shot would send up some stone fragments. And perhaps a lucky ricochet would do damage. ‘Schutte, you give the command.’

  The huge, bald-headed Hollander, halfway through reloading, turned a fraction, and Markham was sure he saw him grin. The French were now less than seventy-five yards away. Turning, he hissed at Rannoch. ‘Now, for Christ’s sake. Now!’

  Rannoch’s weapon went off with a crash. Fouquert, with the crack of that shot in his ear, fell flat on his face. The Scotsman didn’t look and see what effect, if any, he’d achieved. The rammer was out by the time the butt crashed to the ground, into the barrel with the swabber on the end. Out it came, to be replaced by a cartridge and a ball, then it was back in, pressing them down. He threw the heavy gun up, as if it was feather-light, so that it landed flat in his left hand, while his right brought the powder flask up to his lips. The stopper was out, the pan primed almost before the musket had stopped moving. Rannoch let the vessel drop, raised his gun, and within twenty seconds put another ball in exactly the same place as he’d aimed the first. Fouquert, who seemed winded, had just got to his feet. He threw himself sideways this time, rolling over and over on the rough cobbles, no more than fifty yards from the now still drawbridge.

  ‘I was tempted to take him,’ said Rannoch.

  ‘He’s mine,’ Markham croaked, rushing forward with Rannoch at his heels. Schutte’s command rang out simultaneously, and the muskets behind exploded. The roadway in front of the advancing French soldiers threw up spurts of stone and dust, and one ball clipped the officer in charge, causing him to spin away. But he pulled himself round again, standing upright, calling on his men to prepare to return fire.

  Fouquert was on his knees, trying to get to his feet, when Markham’s foot took him in the stomach. He fell to one side as the next blow, delivered with the point of Frobisher’s best right shoe, took the Frenchman in the groin. Markham hauled him to his feet and began to drag him on. Rannoch, standing above the hunched Frenchman, was reloading as he moved. Schutte and his party were retiring steadily, their guns facing the French, too slowly for their own ultimate safety.

  ‘Come on, men, let’s get to that bloody tower.’

  Markham, aware of Rannoch reloading beside him, cursed when he saw the drawbridge move again. The French were gaining, the officer more determined than ever to catch up, which left no time to reload and impose any more delay.

  ‘Hold him,’ Markham barked, as he raced for the rising platform. He didn’t see Rannoch club Fouquert hard with the butt of his Brown Bess, but was vaguely aware of the sound of boots behind him, and the shout that was aimed at those following to bring the Frenchman on. The gap between the quay and the drawbridge opened at increased speed, getting to about waist height as Markham reached it. He leapt onto the top, rolling over to retrieve his footing, then rushing down the sloping platform, his curses echoing off the narrow stone archway.

  Of the four men working the mechanism, only two stood their ground, the other pair rushing for the watergate. And only one of his opponents had a weapon ready, a musket which he was raising to aim at Markham. It was momentum which saved him, carrying him too far forwards to stay upright on the gradient. He fell as the musket fired, the sword flying out of his hand as he rolled over and over, to cannon into the man’s legs before he had the wit to lower his bayonet. But with his first enemy falling over him and trapping his arms, he was at the mercy of the second, who had a club raised, ready to batter his head.

  Rannoch didn’t try to climb onto the drawbridge. Instead he used it as a rest, the long muzzle steady as he fired. At no more than twelve yards, the man with the club had little chance. The ball took him right in the chest, throwing him back against the wheel that operated the drawbridge. His body dislodged the pawl that acted as a brake, his weight holding it away from the gears so that the bridge slammed down. Markham, meanwhile, had managed to get one of his empty pistols out, and was trying to brain the Frenchman lying across him. Success at that did little for his mobility, the man’s dead weight pinning him to the stone floor, until Rannoch arrived to pull his victim off.

  ‘Fouquert?’ Markham gasped, looking out at the men streaming towards the tower. Celeste ran alongside Dymock, who was still carrying Jean-Baptiste. Ettrick and Quinlan had Halsey between them, the other seven men strung out behind, with Schutte bringing up the rear. The line of French soldiers, now fifty yards behind him, stopped, muskets raised, preparing to fire.

  ‘Tully’s got him, and Hollick.’

  The hint of the green, dust-smeared coat between the two men reassured Markham. His voice was nearly drowned out by the French salvo, mingled with the thunder of boots on the wooden platform. Dornan shrieked and spun round as a ball took him in the arm. Luckily his good arm hooked round the lifting chain, which prevented him from falling into the moat. Yelland and Hollick grabbed him and hustled him under the arch, where Markham was issuing a stream of shouted orders; to secure one of the watergate boats; two men should guard the circular staircase, four by the wheel to begin raising the drawbridge; anyone spare to load muskets. Fouquert, as soon as he was inside the arch, was dropped on to the flagstones, with Tully standing on him instead of stepping over.

  The enemy commander, bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder, must have realised that he risked losing contact. He ordered his men to rush the archway. Schutte, at the last salvo, had thrown himself flat, and was now struggling to his feet. Encumbered by his musket and the capstan bar that had felled Halsey, he still had twenty yards to cover.

  ‘Drop that damned wood,’ Markham yelled, as the edge of the drawbridge creaked, and began to rise. The advancing French were now so close Markham could see the expression of determination on the officer’s face, as he harried his men to get them to the drawbridge before these British soldiers could raise it. Given the distance they had to cover, and the speed at which they were doing it, they looked very likely to succeed.

  Schutte stopped and looked both ways, so must have come to the same conclusion. He dropped his musket and began to run back towards the enemy, oblivious to the men under the arch who were screaming at him. The capstan bar came up, and spreading it flat, the Dutchman rushed at the enemy. Their bayonets were presented, but he made no attempt to avoid them. The wounded officer, in front, couldn’t raise his sword, so was forced back by Schutte on to the blades of his own men. But the Hollander took them too, the grey, bloodstained steel shafts emerging from his back. But he kept going forward, the strength of the dying man, added to his bull-like roar, stopped the French advance in its tracks, bundling half their pursuers into the waters of the harbour.

  ‘Pull,’ yelled Markham to the men on the wheel. Nothing could be done for Schutte now. The only reward he could give the Dutchman was to ensure that his sacrifice was not in vain. The gears moved with agonising slowness, a fraction at a time, each inch registered by the smack of a pawl locking home. But the effect on the actual drawbridge was greater, and soon the angle increased. It was at waist level again before the remaining Frenchmen, stepping over Schutte’s mangled body, recommenced their advance. By the time they made the edge it was above chest height. Two men, braver or more foolish than their fellows, jumped up and swung themselves onto the tilted platform.

  Markham felt the warm wood of a bayonet handle pressed into his hand, and turned to look into the frightened dark eyes of Celeste. He pushed her behind him and turned to face the two soldiers, who were trying, without much success, to keep their footing. The point came where the weight of the structure began to aid, rather than thwart those trying to raise it. One attacker slipped, spinning over the edge. The other ran forward, using the slope to gain speed. Rannoch, Hollick and Yelland stepped past Markham, bayonets fixed. The Frenchman knew he was going to die two or three seconds before he impaled himself on their blades.

  Markham called on them to follow and ran for the circular staircase, noticing that at least one boat was still wallowing in the Watergate, with Halsey ben
t over beside it. The signal party were poorly equipped to withstand an assault, armed only with the most rudimentary weapons. As soon as their attackers appeared on the roof they began to surrender, one club dropping to the ground, swiftly followed by knives and the odd sword.

  ‘Chuck them into the moat,’ he shouted, turning to look at the ship in the outer roads. A frigate, it was probably already within range of the shore-based guns. He ran to the mast, the bayonet already swinging to cut the halyards. But he stopped just in time, reached forward, and untied the knots instead, stepping back as the flags fell about his ears.

  The guns of Forts St Louis and L’Eguillette, loaded and ready, fired the second the ship put up her helm. The water around the hull boiled furiously as the heated iron balls dropped short. Then the ship was round, heading away from danger, the deck full of frantic sailors clearing for action.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Rannoch.

  ‘Get Jean-Baptiste up here with his drawings. I have a signal I want to send.’ A glance around the harbour showed any number of boats putting off, all heading for the Grosse Tour. And the quay was filling with soldiers. Worse than that, Markham knew they were well within the range of the guns of Fort l’Eguillette, manned by an artillery officer who would happily blow the ancient tower to pieces. ‘And bring Fouquert up here as well.’

  The Citizen Commissioner was in a terrible state, barely able to stand, his clothing ripped, his face scratched and swollen, with blood congealing at the base of his hooked nose. He watched, with unfocussed eyes, as Markham, using Jean-Baptiste’s drawings, sent up a series of flagborne messages. Hardly proper in the naval sense, they kept the frigate away from shore, while also ensuring it didn’t disappear altogether. If Fouquert knew how many people were coming to rescue him, it didn’t register until the first warning shot hit the water just inshore of the Grosse Tour.