Free A Shred of Honour by David Donachie

But to do so too overtly would give away his position as well as his numbers , and thus sacrifice the only thing, surprise, that might hold an initial assault. He had to assume that whoever was in that coach would have the good sense to get out and walk if it ground to a halt. But without any idea how close the enemy was, they might get caught in the open without protection.
    He ran back down to the dry stone walls, tallying off the first ten Bullocks. ‘Up to the crest. Five men each side. Stay below the skyline, and that means the tops of your hats.’
    They definitely hesitated, but it seemed that no one wanted to take a prominent position to question his orders. But the way they dragged their feet was infuriating.
    ‘Damn you, move!’ he yelled. ‘At the double!’
    He directed his men into position on either side of the road, fuming at the way they exaggerated their confusion. The sounds of shots mingled steadily with the crack of the whip, seeming to increase in tempo as the first pair of horses’ heads came over the lip. The white foam of sweat streaked their bodies and even in the heat the steam rose from their backs. The tip of the whip cracked above their heads, the driver standing to egg them on. All four animals looked as if their legs were about to give way, just at the moment when the lead wheels were at the top of the rise. The driver, his own mouth flecked with foam, was yelling and swearing. He raised his hand to hit them oncemore when a bullet took him in the back. He fell sideways , his eyes suddenly looking into the clear blue sky, dropping into the gap between the horses’ flanks and the coach, then rolling clear of the wheels and down the blind side of the hill.
    The animals, no longer pressured to move, stopped dead, with the coach balanced right across the crest. Markham leapt forward, calling to Gibbons, as the only name he could remember, to come and assist him. He grabbed the bridle of the horse nearest him and hauled hard, dragging it reluctantly forward. Gibbons, responding to his shout, had the other one. Dornan had stood up to help and between them they got the wheels onto the downhill slope. The horses, now required to hold the weight, seemed set to sink to their knees, but a thump on their flanks produced a final surge of energy. A glimpse of the shaded interior showed him what appeared to be a family group, one male, two girls and a young boy, all looking fearful.
    ‘Gibbons, get this damned thing down to the village and out of sight. The rest of you men, fall back to the stone walls.’

Chapter five
    The coach rattled down the hill, with several men hanging on to the traces. Lying on the crest, Markham took stock of the situation. The dust began to settle, revealing those who had been in pursuit. They had slowed to a walk, indicating it was a target of opportunity, not something they were actually pursuing. Within minutes an untidy column of infantry appeared, led by half a dozen officers, mounted and plumed. One was waving, earnestly, ordering the men out in front to get back into column of march. If that was his instruction, it was being comprehensively disobeyed by a group of soldiers who looked as if they were out for a Sunday stroll. That delayed the need for an immediate withdrawal, allowing him some time to contemplate the options.
    It would be impossible to stop the increasing number of soldiers spilling out of the gorge, at least a whole regiment. But could he find a way to delay them? They were marching without skirmishers, which was certainly foolhardy. Such a lack of even the most basic reconnaissance could only mean one thing; they believed they had nothing before them but the terrified citizenry of Toulon. If they knew that Hood had taken over the port, they had no intelligence regarding his intentions, and were in ignorance of the fact that he was prepared to come out and fight.
    If Markham stayed hidden, the undisciplined rabble out in front would just come on, forcing