Honour Redeemed by David Donachie Read Free Book Online Page B

the officers’ swords.
    The push in the back sent him flying, tripping over his own boots, and unable to stay upright, tumbling in a heapat the feet of the two Frenchmen. In the act of rolling to rise up, he saw in their eyes the fear that must have been present in his, as faced with a line of charging bayonets they stared death in the face. The younger of the pair had the sense to drop both his weapon and to his knees. But the captain stood his ground, and the Brown Bess, over five feet long with bayonet attached, skewered him long before he could sweep his sword down to cut at the marine officer, now struggling to rise.
    The thud, as Tully clubbed the lieutenant with his butt, was right beside Markham’s ear. He was on his feet just in time to yell at the marine to stop, as he raised his bayonet over the recumbent officer. For a second, he was convinced that Tully would not obey, the light of battle in his pig-like eyes was so strong. But the point stopped half an inch from the Frenchman’s breast, and a shove from Markham sent Tully after his mates.
    ‘Face left and reload.’
    Markham’s command was understood by only half his own men, and none of the Seahorses. Dornan, even when it was repeated, still laid about him, for once his strength an advantage over his habitual ponderous behaviour. Tully, with his best friend Hollick by his side, was stabbing right and left, even bayonetting Frenchmen who were clearly out of the combat. But Rannoch had halted, lining up Quinlan, Ettrick, Yelland and Leech, while Halsey, sensibly, had taken Dymock and Gibbons to examine the guns, and finding one loaded, was already smashing at the elevating screw to drop the muzzle.
    So, when the line of French infantry showed through the thinning trees before the gun position, there was very little to oppose them. Markham had anticipated this, just as he knew he’d be outnumbered, his only hope that they could sell their lives so dearly that the soldiers could get off that beach before the guns could be brought back into play. Rannoch had them firing at long range, just to slow the enemy down, as he yelled at the Seahorses, millingabout in confusion, to form up, while simultaneously lambasting the remaining Hebes.
    It was only partially successful, not delaying the enemy for more than the time it took for their officer to get them to their feet again. They let off a fusillade of their own, at extreme range, which was rendered useless by the protection afforded to the British by the captured cannon. It was hard, given the pine trees, to make out how many of them were in the attack, but Markham was sure they were outnumbered ten times at least, with plenty more Frenchmen behind this lot should they succeed in checking them. While Rannoch controlled the reloading, he jumped on one of the rear limbers, looking desperately for a position they might retire to if they could. Resolving to do or die was one thing, actually carrying it through quite another. His heart sank when he saw the terrain, though: open fields, flat and devoid of ditch or embankment.
    Rannoch’s voice rose over all the other noises, calling on the marines to aim, then shouting the command to fire. It was probably the first proper, controlled, volley the enemy had faced that morning, and even with so few weapons it had an effect. Even the officers out in front of their men, brandishing their swords and calling them on, hesitated. Rannoch had killed one of them before they got moving again.
    Markham was about to run to join the line, his heart beating, it seemed, in time to the reloading orders, when he caught sight of Halsey out of the corner of his eye. The corporal was bent over, looking along the barrel of a cannon, a length of smouldering match in his hand. That dropped almost immediately, and the gun fired, shooting back in a recoil that lifted the front of it right off the ground. The shell, originally aimed at the beach, scythed through the trees, taking lumps out of