Honour Redeemed (33 page)

‘Sir, the whole purpose of this march is to get you to a boat.’

‘Which I will achieve in the company of my escort.’

Markham was thinking that Paoli’s claim to be a poor commander was not, as he’d thought, self-deprecation, just the plain truth. But he didn’t say so.

‘As you wish. But for the sake of Christ get on with it.’

The response to that was quite sharp. ‘Profanity will not serve your cause, young man.’

‘The Moor will,’ said Magdalena, gesturing to one of her troopers to come forward with the sheathed pole. Then she looked questioningly at Markham, and when he nodded, the flagstaff was handed to Bellamy. The Negro hesitated before accepting, but only for a second. Once he had the shaft in his hand, he dipped it and she removed the leather cover. ‘You carry the honour of the island, Eboluh Bellamy.’

The reply, delivered in his normal cultured voice, was larded with double meaning, and a sideways look at his own officer, as he raised the standard to let it fall open.

‘I can think of few greater compliments you could pay me, Commandatore.’

Sharland’s voice was low, but the venom didn’t suffer for that. ‘Like givin’ the true cross to Lucifer, that is.’

Halsey made no attempt to lower the tone of his response. ‘Will you give over, you miserable bastard. You never stop.’

Markham, still blushing slightly from Bellamy’s knowing look, was again amazed to see at least half the heads of his men nodding in agreement. And when the Negro wrapped another white bandage round his head, so that he looked like the Moor on the flag, the buzz of approval from men who had spent weeks cursing him was palpable. Wondering what had brought about the change, he had to drag his thoughts back to what needed to be done.

Rannoch was looking at the retreating Corsicans, his eyes full of doubt, his voice even more gentle than usual. ‘Do you think, if they get through, the girls can keep them occupied, sir?’

‘Why not?’ Markham replied, grinning. ‘They managed to keep most of you lot occupied last night.’

‘Dip before you die, I always say,’ quipped Ettrick, a joke that was met with a variety of looks and very few laughs, proving that not many of his men were in any doubt about the task they had been elected to perform.

‘And not too fussed about the port of entry,’ Tully wheezed.

‘I can always learn new tricks from a bilge bugger like you, Tully.’

That did produce humour. Halsey laughed along with the rest, but he had never taken his eyes off the cavalry.

‘Why ain’t they moving, sir?’

‘I don’t know,’ Markham replied. He looked over his shoulder to where Magdalena Calheri’s troopers, having made their distance, were lining up. ‘Yelland, back to the Commandatore. Ask her to retire at the same pace as us, and keep the distance. We will engage only if the enemy attacks us.’

It was cat and mouse from then on, as Markham fell back and the cavalry moved up, never getting into range of even Rannoch’s musket. Aleria loomed large in both their vision and their thoughts, though it didn’t look like much of a port, especially when they reached the barren marshland that formed the final approaches. The dilemma
was whether to cut and run or to continue this slow retreat, the latter likely to favour the horsemen less.

‘What does this remind you of, Sergeant?’

‘Herding sheep into a pen.’

‘Are the French in Aleria, Quinlan?’

‘There was no flags flying that I could see, your honour.’

Still confused by the French behaviour, Markham
continued
his retreat across the featureless landscape, Bellamy in the middle, white flag aloft, while all around him the others cursed the irritant of the cavalry. When they’d covered half the distance, the front they had to defend began to narrow. On their left the sea had encroached to form a salt-water lake, edged with reeds. That would be soft underfoot, bad for men, worse for heavy animals. On their right the river had broadened out, too deep to cross.

The cavalry suddenly became more active, prancing and moving as if getting ready to engage, which was puzzling. Normally horse soldiers liked as much space as possible. But whoever commanded this lot had waited until the attacking ground narrowed. It was never a good idea, by Markham’s way of thinking, to rate your opponent a fool, even if he was making what seemed like basic errors. Better to assume a deliberate plan. But the question remained how to respond, whatever the quality of the enemy.

Common sense dictated good husbandry, since the time was approaching when Calheri could run with some hope of making the small farmhouse and barn. Was it the Irish in him that was loath just to let that happen while these Frenchmen remained an unblooded threat, or just the certainty that he and his Lobsters were going to have to fight them anyway, in order to cover the withdrawal?

‘Form up properly,’ he called, to a line which had become very ragged. ‘Let’s see what they are made of.’

Bellamy just stood still, and the Hebes were in place quicker than Ebden and Sharland, who seemed more
nervous than their fellow marines. That highlighted how many of his men were ex-soldiers. This was what they’d been trained for, fighting with solid earth under their feet instead of the pitching timber of a ships’ deck.

‘Bayonets!’

The steel rasped out of the scabbards as the butts hit the ground, and Markham listened to the rhythmic clicks as they were clipped on to the muzzles.

‘Present!’

He saw the reaction immediately, in the way the riders were handling their mounts. By stopping he had surprised them. They weren’t prancing about now, but getting ready to respond with a close-order charge, three-quarters of the command, with ten men and an officer as reserve. Markham wanted them to do that, just to break the deadlock, to get off a round or two of musketry and dent their insufferable superiority.

‘Sabres,’ said Rannoch softly. ‘No guns.’

‘Real Prussian stuff,’ Markham replied, a remark which mystified most of his men. But he’d studied war, its history as well as its future. This was the doctrine of Frederick der Grosse. No carbines or horse pistols, just
boot-to-boot
shock tactics to drive the infantry under, a good tactic against poor troops. Dressed as they were, like Corsicans, the Cavalry commander would rate their courage high, but their training low.

‘When they come, everybody aim for the left of centre. We can’t hit them all, so let’s try and hit a few and open up their formation to our advantage.’

He aimed this at his Hebes, assuming that the remaining Seahorses still lacked the skill necessary to zero in on the right spot for cavalry, right between the animals’ ears. High, that would take the rider, and low it would kill the horse. They would aim for the animals’ chests, and perhaps they would get lucky and strike something vital. But a musket ball, even a big round from a Brown Bess, would have little chance of stopping a charging cavalry
mount. Only luck would damage a swiftly moving leg so badly that the horse would fall.

Charging forward at speed, their herd instinct high, they were a formidable weapon of war. In full flow, they would come on even if they were hit, absorbing the
punishment
inflicted into their heavy shoulder muscles. It was necessary to hit them mid-forehead, and the safest method of all was to kill the rider. Markham had seen men die from stabs and sabre slashes, delivered by a mounted soldier on an animal so wounded that it was sinking to its knees, blood pumping out of the jugular groove.

They started to trot, a solid line, thirty wide, of hard flesh, each horses’ flank practically touching the next. There was a sudden shout from the rear, floating across the fields, probably an injunction to withdraw. But it was too late for that: the cavalry were in motion, at the trot, the thud of their hooves growing louder by the second. Trot, then canter, so that the rhythm of the sound changed.

‘Hebes, take aim.’

Markham knew that whatever else happened, the cavalry were in for a shock. Not the kind of blow that would destroy them, but a standard of musketry they’d probably never experienced. Every one of his men was using sights, something almost unheard-of in the British forces. He knew that, squinting along their muzzles, the Hebes especially would have picked a rider, and not be deflected from that as the horses’ tossing heads obscured their target. Markham waited, calling the range down inside his head. One-fifty, one-twenty-five, one hundred, seventy-five. He was also watching for the moment they spurred into a gallop, that second of real elation for a horse soldier, and the very second at which he yelled, ‘Fire!’

True to his command, every ball was aimed at the six men left of centre, each gun firing slightly low to allow for the upward kick of the forty-six-inch barrel. Like the Brown Bess muskets themselves, every ball in the muzzles
was regulation British Army issue, which if it wasn’t as good as Rannoch’s own, was at least a great improvement on half-sized French balls. The salvo scythed into the line, several shots taking one man in the chest, thudding against his breastplate with such force as to knock it back into his vulnerable ribs.

He and two others disappeared over the back of the mounts, several of which had taken a ball, but not in a vital spot. The effect on both human and animal gave Markham what he’d prayed for. The closest, seeing the results of the volley, were shocked enough to react, putting a check on the headlong rush of the charge. One or two of the horses changed their stride so that the line began to expand, especially to the right, daylight opening up between each horse.

They were no longer the shock chargers of a few minutes ago, but disorganised cavalry in the kind of order they’d use if they were up against a running foe. Their confidence was, quite rightly, still high, because they were closing the distance so quickly on what they thought to be troops of low quality. Against such men, shepherds and farmers, they would never have had to face another salvo. But these were British marines, who’d been schooled by Rannoch, a man who’d scarcely give his men the pleasure of firing a gun if they couldn’t reload in twenty seconds maximum.

‘Aim right,’ Markham shouted, gratified to see every muzzle swing round together. The dozen men nearest the reed beds were so close they could see the foam on their horses’ lips; so near that the moment of discharge and the moment of striking seemed to be the same. The four who didn’t pull up ran into a fretwork of a dozen bayonets, something which did affect their wild-eyed mounts. Faced with a threat they could see, the horses gnashed and tried to bite, reared and attempted to kick, only to be slashed and stabbed in their vulnerable bellies.

‘Fall back left and reload,’ he yelled, praying that Paoli and Magdalena had taken the chance to run, happy at
least in the knowledge that he’d cut the pursuing cavalry force in half. But they didn’t go after the others; instead they seemed intent on pressing home the attack on him.

That made what he’d thought a relatively safe manoeuvre, wheeling round to retire through the reeds, deadly dangerous. The safety of soft ground and water, sodden earth through which horses couldn’t charge, was too far away. And they were faced by men who’d had a shock, but had yet to sustain a scratch. And the reeds slowed him down more than he’d anticipated, breaking his own line up so they no longer presented a solid front. Markham knew he was going to sustain casualties now, the cavalrymen attacking him incensed enough to throw any idea of caution to the winds, his only reward the time he was buying.

Hauling their horses round, the Frenchmen spurred to gain momentum. The ragged fusillade which took them in the flank surprised him as much as them. And in truth its effect was in the mind rather than the body. Paoli on his horse managed to look magnificent, even if he was old and frail. But it was the sight of twenty women of all shapes and sizes, screaming as they charged, which put the riders off their stroke. And once they lost forward movement, unable to decide who to fight, it was easier to wheel and retire than to press home the attack.

‘Run!’ Markham yelled, as soon as he saw that everyone had reloaded their weapons. Magdalena Calheri yelled just as loud at her own troopers, and they began to trot back to the spot from which they’d advanced.

The need for the cavalry to withdraw and regroup, on horses that were more than a little blown, gave the whole of Paoli’s escort a chance they hadn’t had before. Not that it was easy. Whoever commanded the enemy was stung enough to order a fresh assault long before his men were truly ready. This meant that those he kept in reserve got
ahead of the others, and by enough distance to be slightly isolated.

Paoli had the authority to command both groups, and it was he, able to get ahead on his horse and turn to see events unfolding, who gave the order to turn about face. Those ten cavalry troopers found themselves facing a solid line of thirty-odd muskets, all with bayonets fixed, on ground that restricted their ability to wheel right of left. The Hebes stuck to their training, but for the rest there was no aiming at breastplates. But such was the
concentration
of the fusillade, fired low at mounts not yet at full speed, that it had the black horses tripping and rearing, to form a barrier that prevented those following from coming through with anything approaching a disciplined charge.

Markham got off two rounds to Calheri’s one into a mêlée of beasts and men, some mounted, others trying desperately to avoid being trampled by their own animals. Paoli’s next command had them running again, heading for the farm buildings, stumbling under the black face and white single eye of the Corsican Moor.

Paoli was cock-a-hoop, waving his hat as though they’d won a great victory instead of a stalemate skirmish. The cavalry were too disordered to pursue, quite a few having dismounted to put themselves to rights. Markham could feel the tension draining from his body when the first musket opened up from the windows of the farmhouse.

The sight of blue Corsican caps, flopped to one side, behind the cloud of smoke, nearly stopped Markham in his tracks. And he wasn’t alone, since several other muskets opened up. Two of Calheri’s troopers went down, as well as Ebden from the Seahorse, Sharland, who’d paused to help him, getting a furious shove in the back from Rannoch for his pains. Bellamy, either through fear or the elation of battle, raised the Moor’s head flag higher and screamed. Certainly the Highlander knew that to stop
between the cavalry and the barn would lead to a
massacre
. Perhaps the Negro understood that too.

Markham was shouting individual names, telling half his men to poke their bayonets through the farm windows, while the rest were ordered to get the walls at their backs and reload. Calheri’s troopers were milling about around Paoli’s horse, which was spinning in a circle, presenting the rider as a target almost impossible to miss. It was fortunate that no shots were aimed in his direction – indeed, none of the Corsican women were coming under any fire.

Magdalena did the right thing. She hauled her uncle, without any ceremony, off his horse and pushed him towards the small barn, her troopers following her, one dragging on the bridle to bring the animal in. Some had reloaded, and fired off what they could just to keep the cavalry confused. Then it was butts on the barn door, smashing it down so they could get into some cover.

‘A trap!’ Rannoch spat.

Markham was so breathless with running he could barely speak, his words coming out in gasps. ‘No wonder … damned dragoons … why charge?’

‘No grenades,’ Rannoch responded, jerking his head towards the open shutters.

The Lobsters were all lined up on the farmhouse wall, backs flat to the mud and lime as they reloaded their muskets.

‘Rannoch, take half the men,’ Markham barked. ‘Fire without aiming through the windows.’