Honour Redeemed Read Online Free

footing in the soft, dry sand.
    There was a moment’s hesitation as he stood there, half listening to Rannoch as he pushed the rearmed marines, new to his ways, into some form of order. The man in command of the landing had given him quite specific instructions, and he was about to disobey them – badenough in itself, but made ten times more dangerous by his relationship to the colonel. Augustus Hanger, always assuming he couldn’t contrive a way to get him killed, would love nothing more than to get George Markham in front of a court martial. There, the chance would exist to redress what he saw as the mistakes of New York, and kick this one time Lieutenant of the 65th foot, masquerading as a Lobster, out of both services.
    But looking up the beach, Markham knew he had two choices: to prolong the folly of a frontal assault, or to make some kind of effort to go round the enemy before the French commander could bring up more defenders. It might be his first amphibious landing, but he’d heard often enough how awkward they were. Timing was everything; the ability to get enough troops ashore to secure the landing area before the enemy could gather the strength to throw the assault back into the sea.
    And things on this beach were at a critical juncture. Did General Lacombe have field artillery at his disposal, guns which, at this very moment, were being wheeled into position? If he had, and could concentrate enough troops, he would impose himself on the second wave of soldiers, now being loaded offshore into the returned boats. Discipline and the burden of his reputation tugged him one way, while everything he’d ever learned, fighting in both America and Russia, pulled him inexorably towards the other.
    In total, including himself, he had twenty men, eleven of his own, plus eight from the sunken launch. These showed little or no fighting spirit, but he put that down to the fact that not one of them had a whole uniform and they’d all received a fright.
    The crack of ordered musketry, so different from the individual shots being fired from behind the dunes, made him turn back to look towards Halsey, just in time to see the spurts of sand that seemed to spring up around his feet. The corporal was only too eager to obey his officer’sorders, and lifting both musket and powder horn above his head, he turned round and plunged into the sea, followed by his men, until the protective water was up to his chest. That salvo of musket fire had told Markham all he needed to know. If the spot was defended it must represent a weakness that the French feared might be exploited.
    ‘Rannoch, we’ll close on Halsey. No packs. Just muskets, bayonets, a bag of grenades and entrenching tools.’
    It would be best to advance diagonally across the beach to the edge of the dunes, just below the spot where Halsey had attracted fire. Beyond that lay the clump of bushes which hinted at a possible way through. If they could throw up enough sand to protect themselves, they could move up on the enemy position.
    ‘With respect, sir,’ said Rannoch slowly, looking straight up the beach to where Hanger, half crouched in the sand, was waving his sword and berating his men, urging them forward, ‘we have been given our orders.’
    Markham smiled, having become accustomed to the way Rannoch felt free to question him. His sergeant was trying to tell him, without saying so in front of the others, what he was risking.
    ‘We are joining Colonel Hanger, Sergeant, but just a tad left of where he thinks. Bring up the rear. And try and keep those Agamemnons in some form of order.’
    ‘We’re not Agamemnons, sir,’ said the Negro marine, his voice deep, resonant, and surprisingly cultured. ‘They took us out of Seahorse to make up the numbers for the attack.’
    ‘Shut it, you black bastard,’ growled another man. Tall, hollow-chested, with thick eyebrows over angry eyes, he clearly exerted some leadership over the Seahorses, given the way they looked at