Free A Shred of Honour by David Donachie Page B

was obvious, even to the slow-witted Hollander. If he didn’t perform, Halsey would replace him. Markham was sure Schutte was feared rather than popular. Certainly Halsey, a marine to his fingertips, was afraid of him. Such a demotion, and the elevation of a better man, might do something for his own standing amongst the majority of the Lobsters. He turned his back on the pair of them to cut off further discussion.
    ‘Carry on.’
    The temptation to look round was hard to resist, since some form of drama was being played out behind his back. Schutte, if he wanted to assault him physically, couldn’t do so in full view of the entire company. And Halsey, if he wished to decline the responsibility, could hardly make such a request to the back of his head. There was a pause, some hasty whispering, then the crunching of shoes as they moved away.
    Markham waited till that faded before moving behind one of the stone walls to address the men of the 65th Foot. Quinlan and Ettrick, an inseparable pair of skinny individuals whose self-assurance troubled him, were playing cards with the slow-witted Dornan. They stopped for a moment, checking to see how he would react. He ignored them, his words aimed at Rannoch.
    ‘On your feet, sergeant.’
    He rose slowly, hatless, and looked his officer right in the eye. Markham observed that in a face that appeared to have suffered as much punishment as Schutte’s, the result was very different. The thick blond hair, nearly white in the sunlight, helped. He had a larger forehead that made him look perceptive instead of stupid, a nose that was broad rather than flattened. Certainly the eyes were not dead like the Dutchman’s. They were lively, questioning, carrying a look at that moment utterly lacking in subservience. Markham briefly explained the position.
    ‘Your job is to march just far enough up the slope oneither side of the road to show your bayonets or your hats. I want the enemy to think there are troops hidden by the crest. If they do attack us, fall back to these walls, and keep out of sight.’
    He pointed to the marines, beginning to line up. ‘We’re going to try and get the French to chase us over the crest. I want you to surprise them. As soon as you have a clear field of fire, I need you on your feet giving three rounds per minute of steady, well aimed musketry. Who knows, if it’s poured into the head of their ranks we might even drive them back.’
    ‘What if there are cavalry?’ Rannoch asked.
    ‘I haven’t seen any.’
    ‘That does not mean they are not about,’ he replied, lifting his musket and cradling it in his thick forearms. Rannoch had a slow, measured way of speaking, words delivered in a lilting Highland voice that would have been quite pleasing if he’d shown any respect. Vaguely, Markham noted that his weapon was gleaming, the metal clean and the stock highly polished.
    ‘If there were horse soldiers around, that fine head of yours would already be atop one of their sabres. And believe me, if I see any approaching, you’ll have to run like the devil to catch me up. Forget cavalry and just think about stopping the infantry. The Lobsters and I will turn to support you as soon as we can. If you are forced back we will cover your retreat. Good luck.’
    He chose to ignore the long slow sound of a derogatory fart, as well as the silent amusement it engendered, which emanated from the card school. The marines were ready, in an untidy column, with Schutte at the front. He took station at their head and issued the order to advance.
    Their appearance, marching over the crest, had an immediate effect on the enemy, the first sign a ragged volley of musket fire from the rabble out front. Having delivered that, they ran back towards the main body, creating quite a commotion.
    Sabre blades flashed in the leading enemy ranks as the marines formed a line, the flat of the French metal being used to suppress the confusion. A bugle blew, seemingly in vain, as the plumed