A Shred of Honour Read online

  ‘Man the oars and get me out of here,’ he snapped, ‘before I’m tempted to shoot someone.’

  The oarsmen, and the midshipman, fought to keep their faces straight as they took their positions. Once in motion, the other two boats fell in behind and they made their way across the short choppy swell to enter the outer roads of the harbour. Within minutes men were hanging over the side, retching into the sea. Markham lifted his eyes, to avoid the chance that by looking, he might emulate them, and, since they’d cleared the St Mandrian peninsula, he caught his first sight of the land around Toulon.

  The sun was fully up now, promising another scorching hot day. He could hear no gunfire, nor observe any evidence of fighting. Even the numerous anchored British warships, well out of range of shore-based fire, looked peaceful. It was as if the plans were still being laid, with the town yet to be taken. He’d been told that Toulon had surrendered, the citizens handing over the administration to British officers. But nothing he could see supported this, and the sudden thought occurred that they were being rowed towards a hostile shore, perhaps offered as a sacrifice to test the validity of the capitulation.

  The bay consisted of an inner and outer harbour, the former smaller and better protected. As they rowed steadily along he took in the salient features. The town was surrounded by hills, the slope beginning almost from the shoreline, rising gently at first, before suddenly increasing in gradient. The highest was right behind the town, a massive limestone rampart topped with a green fuzz of vegetation. Whoever held that could dominate the inner harbour, and if there were any Jacobins about, that was where they’d be.

  There were other massifs, all capable, in varying degrees, of dominating some part of the anchorage. They broke to the west, forming a valley which provided an easy route from the hinterland into the naval base. Inside the arm of the twin peninsulas that enclosed the Grande Rade, he could see several forts placed at strategic points, their embrasures bristling with guns which dominated the roads, with others aimed at the gap between the two headlands that formed the entrance to the inner harbour.

  And he was being rowed right into that confined space, well within range of the artillery, in a boat that would fall apart if even nicked by a cannonball. Closer and closer they came, into an opening no more than a mile wide, with Markham’s eyes jerking back and forth, from the stone fort on one side, to the round moated tower which acted as a signal station on the other.

  ‘Stay close to the right-hand side of the entrance.’

  Bernard, with his superior nautical knowledge, looked set to disagree. But Markham’s grey eyes brooked no argument, and he pushed the tiller to oblige. The place was so somnolent it smelt of a trap, with an empty boat bobbing in the watergate of the round tower as if no notion of war existed. Markham was holding his breath, alert for the first sign of movement on the cannon; the head of a gunner or a raised rammer, that would provide some warning. Nothing happened, and soon they’d passed that zone of maximum danger and entered the Petite Rade.

  He directed Bernard to turn northeast and head for the town itself. The white and ochre buildings and the long quays were hidden behind the forest of masts that constituted the French Mediterranean fleet. Bernard directed his attention to another boat, which had put off from the eastern shore, quite clearly a wealthy captain’s barge, judging by the uniform dress of the crew. He could see, sitting at the rear, an officer in a dark blue coat, white facings edged with gold. As the boat came near he raised and waved his hat.

  ‘I’d be obliged if you’d come alongside,’ he shouted, the strong Scottish accent apparent even at that loud level. Markham nodded to Bernard, and they changed course so that the two boats were on a parallel course. As soon as he was close enough, the officer called out, ‘Elphinstone, Robust.’

  ‘Lieutenant Markham, of the frigate Hebe, and Midshipman Bernard. Is the harbour secure, sir?’

  ‘Och aye, laddie. The Frenchies are hiding in their barracks and houses, waiting to see what’s going to happen.’ Elphinstone’s gaze ranged over the three boats as he replied, before coming back to rest on the barge. ‘Have we met before, Lieutenant? Your face seems a mite familiar.’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware, sir,’ he replied, giving Bernard a black look as the youngster coughed.

  ‘Maybe not,’ replied the captain, clearly showing by his expression that Markham, not he, must be mistaken. ‘Is this the entire complement from Hebe?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Thirty-four men in all, not including the tars.’

  Elphinstone looked over the men in the barge, then nodded towards the jolly boat and the cutter. ‘Half your party seem to be in soldier’s garb.’

  ‘Sixty-fifth foot, detached for sea service.’

  Some of the men were still hanging over the side, retching, even though their stomachs must be empty. ‘And not enjoying it much, eh?’ barked Elphinstone.

  ‘I daresay some of those being sick are marines.’

  ‘Fetch my wake, Markham. I’ve a wee job that needs attending to, and a file containing some soldiers is just the thing.’

  ‘At your service, sir,’ Markham replied. ‘Just let’s get them ashore.’

  ‘I daresay,’ Elphinstone responded, with a deep booming laugh. ‘If you look yonder to the west you’ll see the bay at the head of the valley. La Seyne, it’s called. Join me there. You can leave your extra equipment in the boats.’

  ‘May I enquire what service we’re required to perform, sir?’

  ‘Oh aye, laddie. The Jacobins have taken Marseilles and set themselves up to butcher the people. There’s a portion of them on the way to do the same here. You and I are going to stop them.’

  On land, before very long, the positions reversed themselves. Now, despite the discomfort brought on by the heat, the soldiers were in their element, with boots on their feet that were well suited to the hard dusty road on which they marched. The marines in their lighter shoes, so perfect on a planked deck, were less comfortable, able to feel every stone on which they trod. But it was no pleasure for anyone, especially since Elphinstone set such a cracking pace, not stopping till they were well away from the last buildings in the town. Markham ordered his men to rest, then went to join the naval captain, who was examining the road ahead.

  ‘We need to buy time, Markham, to get some troops ashore.’

  ‘I didn’t see any evidence of haste amongst the fleet, sir. In fact, such boats as were in the water looked to be engaged in Sunday visiting.’

  ‘These things take time to organise,’ Elphinstone replied, slightly piqued perhaps that a soldier should disparage the fleet. ‘If the Jacobins arrive in numbers too soon, they’ll pitch us back on to our ships, no matter how many men we disembark.’

  He reached into his coat. ‘Take this map. It’s pretty sparse and it only goes as far as the village of Ollioules. I’ll leave it to you as to whether you think it prudent to push on from there.’

  ‘How many of the enemy are we expecting, sir?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue, laddie. Could be hundreds, could be thousands.’

  Markham tried to keep the surprise out of his voice, and when he spoke he was well aware of stating the obvious. ‘There’s a limit to how many I can hold with thirty-four men, even if I can find a good defensive position.’

  Elphinstone frowned, looking at him closely again, as if trying to place him.’ I know that. I’ll go back and see if I can muster some reinforcements. Your job is to make contact with the enemy, and give the men I bring up a position from which to fight, which I suggest would be better achieved at the double.’

  There were dozens of questions. But Markham guessed, by the steely look in Elphinstone’s eye as the Scotsman peered at him, that he would be wasting his time to ask them. He saluted slowly, and ordered his men back on to their feet.

  ‘I’ve seen you somewhere before, I’m sure of it. I rarely forget a face.’ Elphinstone shrugged when Markham didn’t respond. ‘You’d best be on your way.’

  The B
ullocks doubled smartly to annoy the Lobsters, not to please Markham. The marines, in turn, were determined not to lag behind. Rivulets of sweat streaming down inside his uniform, he didn’t care. Nor did he look behind him to see how either were faring. He was too busy with his own worries, the greatest of which was the prospect of being required to lead these men into battle.

  He was on land now, his element, without the burden of ignorance. He knew what to do. As a youngster, even before he’d put on a uniform, he’d received a depth of training denied to most of his contemporaries. Indeed, he’d grown up almost as a military brat. The break in his martial career hadn’t dented that, and service in the Empress Catherine’s army had only honed skills he’d first been taught in the Americas.

  The heat was intense and getting worse, with clouds of dust thrown up by their feet making life hell for the stragglers. Good order was less important than speed. Elphinstone had made it clear, and this was proved by his map, that failure to hold the French at Ollioules would mean trying to stop them on the very outskirts of Toulon, which as yet had no troops to man the defensive perimeter.

  The youngster, Yelland, was ordered to remove his coat and share out his equipment, then sent ahead to reconnoitre. When, after about an hour, in which he’d only allowed his men one stop, Yelland came back into view, Markham held up his sword to call a halt, fighting to stay upright himself as his men collapsed where they stood.

  ‘You may drink some water, two sips each.’

  Yelland was in a worse state, his face running with sweat and his chest heaving. Markham gave him a drink from his own canteen before he asked him to report.

  ‘The village is about a mile ahead, sir. Not a soul in sight, that I could see. But it does have a well full of water.’

  ‘Any sign of the enemy?’

  ‘None, though there’s a rate of abandoned equipment on the road leading to the village. I went clear to the other end, and it carries straight on until it disappears into a deep gorge.’

  Markham looked at his map. Ollioules was just a hamlet, a post stop to change horses on the way to Marseilles. The problem was simple. He had no idea what lay further on, beyond the gorge that Yelland had mentioned. Perhaps, even though the youngster thought the village deserted, he could find a local inhabitant to tell him how matters lay. He held out his canteen again.

  ‘Take this. Get to the other side of the village, no more than two hundred yards up the road, so you can keep an eye on the entrance to that gorge. Wait there till I join you.’

  Yelland grabbed it and ran off, as Markham shouted to the rest to get to their feet. The curses and groans resurfaced long before they resumed their double march. It wasn’t long before he saw the debris that Yelland had remarked on; cartouches, pikes, casks and the odd musket dropped by the roadside. Elphinstone had said nothing about the enemy retreating, only advancing, which was strange.

  The double pace quickly brought the stunted church tower and the rooftops of the village into sight. Calling another halt, he scrambled up the nearest knoll and examined the terrain. The hillsides were low and undulating to the south. But just on the other side of the village a rampart of rocks formed an impassable barrier. To the north, on the inland side, they steepened considerably until they became an unclimbable escarpment. That accorded with Elphinstone’s rough map, which showed that the only route an army could take from Marseilles lay through Ollioules.

  He needed a defensive position on the Toulon road. That had to be on the inland hillside, and it had to overlook the road. There was some question about the range of the shortened marine muskets, but his soldiers, even if they were, as he suspected, indifferent shots, would be adequate at volley fire from a defensive position. He spotted what he was seeking ahead, a cluster of heavy rocks around the base of a gully. They could be levered closer together and provide some cover if he was forced into a hasty withdrawal. Really worrying, should the enemy appear in strength, there was nothing behind that: neither decent cover on the long straight Roman road, nor the security of more troops to provide support.

  His men were spread out over a long stretch of road. Some of the marines had kept pace with the leaders, while a few of his soldiers, supposedly trained to this, were well to the rear. He called on them to close up, fretting while the most laggardly joined. These included the two pugilists, Schutte and Rannoch. He pointed to the spot he’d selected up ahead.

  ‘Since you two are keen to see who’s the strongest, get up that slope and shift those rocks to the head of the gully. I want them as a rampart at right angles to the road. And if you can clear any cover from the other side it will help.’

  ‘Help who?’ growled Rannoch.

  He’d expected it, so there was no shock in the man’s. insubordinate response. Aboard ship he had thought he was going to have to train these men into submission. Now circumstances had changed. He was going to have to blood them, no easy task.

  Everyone was watching him, seeing how he would react to the challenge from a man half of them considered a natural leader. He could shout, quite possibly to no avail. Yet to plead would prove fatal. So, without the faintest idea of the effect, he smiled, and spoke as quietly as his heaving chest would allow.

  ‘Don’t ever question my orders, d’you hear? It’s not your place. But since this is all new, just this once, I’ll tell you. There are Frenchmen coming this way, how many we don’t know. The first place we’re going to stop them is somewhere on the road past the village. Then we’re going to make them pay to get through it, since it’s the only available route to Toulon. And after that, we will block the road so that they have to outflank us. By that time, I expect we will be reinforced.’

  Rannoch was glaring at him, in his mind no doubt working up to a refusal. Frobisher’s sword sang as Markham swung it hard, gratified to see the sudden flash of shock in the soldier’s eye. The tip sliced across the strap holding his musket, parting it so that the weapon clattered onto the hard surface of the road.

  ‘You’ll need to take that off,’ he said, flicking the sword so that it was pointed to the buckle on his belly. ‘Would you like me to remove your pack as well?’

  They locked stares, Rannoch’s eyes deep green and surprisingly feline for a man of his bulk. Markham felt like a fieldmouse about to be swiped by a great paw. But he held his own look steady, along with the slight, detached smile on his face, trying to convey two things; that he was not afraid, and that he was prepared to kill to be obeyed. He spoke to the Dutchman as soon as Rannoch’s hand moved to undo his belt.

  ‘You too, Schutte. And I want a result. If I find you’ve been scrapping, I’ll break you on the first wheel I can find, with a thousand lashes per man. The rest of you, follow me.’

  The village hardly warranted the title. On the far side of a dry riverbed, over an ancient stone bridge, it consisted of a single dusty street, located at the point where the valley narrowed to form a shallow defile. Half a dozen shuttered houses lined the dusty, rutted road on either side of the central square, all empty. The church, square and plain Romanesque, stood equally bereft on one side, the tower too low to provide a long-range vantage point towards Marseilles. The post house, the only other substantial building, stood directly opposite, with a well beaten track that led down an alley, the dusty paddock at the rear just visible. A couple of undernourished horses were up against the fence. The sound of the soldiers’ boots, echoing off the stones around the well, startled them, and from somewhere close by, a mule brayed its response.

  ‘Keep going,’ he yelled, as the leaders stopped by the well. Others had done so before them, since the stone surround was stacked with debris. ‘We’ll send someone back for water.’

  A few more houses, then the floor of the valley opened out again, onto a narrow, rising hill bisected by the road. The crest, three hundred yards from the village, was some hundred yards across, hemmed in by the steep surrounding hills. It looked a good place to defend, but with his limited resources, a shade too wide. The landscape
provided little shelter, barring a couple of dry stone walls shaded by stunted trees on the northern side, about fifty yards from the point where the road topped the crest.

  ‘Packs off, all of you. Get into the shade of those walls.’

  He didn’t wait to see them comply but marched on till he breasted the rise. The road led straight on, undulating slightly, with no sign of any enemy, until it ran into a narrow gorge in the massive limestone crags that rose up half a mile distant. The sloping lea, which widened out to form a circular pasture, was dotted with trees and edged with fallen boulders. But none of them stood close enough to the crest to provide decent cover. Anyone wishing to take this crest would require to advance, uphill, over several hundred yards of open ground, making it a place that could be held, easily, given adequate forces.

  Yelland, seeing him against the skyline, stepped out from behind one of the trees and waved. The temptation to push on was strong. But his men were tired from double marching in the heat. To keep them going in this kind of weather, with the sun full up and little shade, might render even the good ones useless. Although the position he occupied was too shallow to be perfect, it might be better than anything he’d find off Elphinstone’s map.

  But there was another reason. All that equipment on the road, and around the well, indicated a force in retreat. Judging by the amount of abandoned kit, it was one that certainly outnumbered his own. It was hard to tell how long it had been since they’d passed this way, and with no-one in the houses of Ollioules he couldn’t ask. But one thing he did suspect. If they discovered they were being pursued they’d turn and fight in a place of their own choosing, and that was a battle he couldn’t win.

  He waved to Yelland again, then span on his heel and made his way back. Halsey, the marine corporal, in the absence of Schutte, was now in charge of the Lobsters. He knew his name, but struggled to remember that of the taller man next to him.

  ‘Leech,’ Halsey replied, when he was forced to enquire.