Honour Redeemed by David Donachie Read Free Book Online Page A

wasn’t deep, and as they approached open country, Markham could see the hard-packed earth of a road that stood between them and the flat fieldsbeyond, an artery that probably ran all the way along the rear of the French position. This had allowed Lacombe to deploy his field guns quickly opposite the chosen landing site. It said a great deal about the plan for the attack that, in the topography he’d been given before coming ashore, such a vital piece of information had not been mentioned.
    There was no time to ponder on that, but it made him turn sharp left, and he called back for everyone to move quickly and keep a sharp lookout, before sending Yelland, his fastest runner, on ahead as point. Markham had no illusions about those he’d just faced. The officer who commanded them, always assuming that he wasn’t among the casualties, must guess his intentions. There was no reason for a small party of troops to head inland unless they were after the field guns, so the only chance he had of reaching them was to do so before the pursuit could get between him and his target.
    ‘Enemy,’ gasped Yelland, his chest heaving, ‘at around ten of the clock, moving quick through the trees.’
    The boy had stopped to impart this, which earned him a shove and a wheezing rebuke, followed by a question, from his officer. ‘How close?’
    ‘’Bout three hundred yards.’
    The guns were near at hand now, the sound so loud that each tree magnified the report. The still air was full of the smell of discharged powder, and Markham was sure he could actually hear the artillery officers shouting their commands. That fleeting impression was washed away by the crack of musket balls as the enemy infantry tried a long-range salvo through the trees just to slow them down.
    ‘Bayonets, Sergeant Rannoch,’ he yelled, slowing a fraction. Even with all the other sounds that assailed him, he heard the deadly scrape as well over a dozen bayonets were pulled from their scabbards, on the run, and slotted home. ‘I’m going to push out onto the roadway. We have about three seconds to form up in a line, two ranks. Thenit’s one volley each followed by the charge, bayonets out, and screaming like fiends from hell.’
    Rannoch couldn’t wait. His first yell, a Highland battle cry that only he understood, rent the air as they emerged into clear country and brilliant sunlight. Yet he had the presence of mind to order that line of Hebes into place and get off the salvo Markham wanted within seconds. The Seahorses followed suit, most of them fumbling, and sending off a wild discharge that threatened their own more than the enemy.
    But they followed fast enough, through fear as much as excitement, when the Hebes lowered their bayonets. They’d already run a long way, so the rush that Markham intended could not be achieved. Nor did they pause to form an unbroken line. But as soon as the gunners saw their red coats, the cry of ‘Sauve qui peut’ went up, especially from those nearest to the marines. Markham was at the head, sword and pistol fully extended, blessing silently one fact; that despite his fears, General Lacombe had not deemed it necessary to detach any infantry to protect his cannon.
    Some gunners, even those who’d been in the act of loading, stood to fight, grabbing anything they could to protect themselves; swords, rammers, with one having the presence of mind to roll an empty barrel towards them in an attempt to slow the charge. The artillery officers came to the fore, two men, a captain and a lieutenant, trying to shout and steady their troopers at the same time as they aimed their pistols. Markham, his scarlet coat too obviously different from the red of his men’s, was their target. He had to start weaving, though in doing so he exposed the men running behind him. The unwelcome yell of pain reached his ears as he jumped over the barrel, unsure of who had been hit – and not much concerned, since he looked set to run right onto one of