Honour Redeemed Read Online Free Page A

him. ‘Who asked you to speak up fer us?’
    The still damp survivors had enough spark to add a growl to that, as though they heartily approved of the sentiment. Markham was watching the Negro’s eyes:large, a deep fluid brown, and so much more expressive than his face. The man who’d snapped at him turned to Markham, ducking slightly as a musket ball cracked in passing, making no attempt to defer to his rank or soften his voice.
    ‘We lost the officer, along with our sergeant and corporal, in that blast. But that don’t mean we’re free to be ordered about by any Tom or Dick that fancies it.’
    ‘Sergeant Rannoch,’ said Markham, moving closer, ‘if this bastard opens his mouth again, put a bullet through what passes for his brain.’
    Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the row of startlingly white teeth, and heard the low, warm chuckle. Another ball cracked as it sped past, underlining that wherever they went, it was time to move. He didn’t know what impulse made him act as he did then, and analysing it later he could only believe that he had suffered so much condescension himself in his chequered life that he was naturally in sympathy with anyone likewise afflicted. Spinning quickly, he looked the Negro in the eye.
    ‘Name?’
    ‘Eboluh Bellamy, sir.’
    ‘Well, Mr Bellamy, you are, while we are on the beach, in temporary charge of the Seahorses. I expect the men you lead will not disappoint me.’
    ‘I’m not taking orders from no darkie.’
    ‘Name?’ Markham barked, spinning round, as Rannoch’s musket came up to the hollow-chested marine’s ear.
    ‘Sharland, sir,’ the man replied, the anger in his eyes replaced by fear.
    ‘Well, Sharland, you will lead us across the beach. And the only way you’ll avoid being broken at the wheel after we’re finished is to ensure that I don’t see one scrap of your ugly face. Now move!’
    There was no choice and he knew it. An officer could shoot him where he stood for disobeying an order, andhis superiors would praise him. And that might be the better fate than a thousand lashes tied to a wagon wheel. Sharland turned towards the dunes and, growling at the rest of the Seahorses to join him, started to jog across the beach in the direction set by Markham’s sword. The Hebes, and his new corporal, were behind him. Their actions didn’t go unnoticed, and since the men crouching behind the dunes presented few targets, most of the French fire from the crest of the dunes came their way. The musket balls kicking up the sand around their feet added some urgency to the manoeuvre. Hanger, alerted by the change of target, was bellowing for them to join him, which Markham studiously ignored. Difficult as it was to run properly on sand, they made good speed, with Markham frantically signalling to Halsey and his party to get out of the water, then come up to the southern edge of the clump of gorse.
    ‘Dig,’ Markham gasped, as soon as they reached the point he’d chosen, a shallow depression caused by swirling winds that ran along the very base of the dune. Behind them the beach lay flat and smooth to the water’s edge, in front was a steep wall of sand topped with sea grasses. Close to this they were, like Hanger’s men, relatively safe, since anyone wanting to fire on them would risk exposure as they leant out to aim. The problem was how to get past it.
    ‘Bellamy, get your Seahorses to throw up a breastwork facing those bushes. Nothing special, just enough to protect you from musketry when you’re lying flat.’
    ‘It’s too soft,’ moaned Sharland, kicking at it with one boot.
    ‘It isn’t underneath,’ Bellamy replied, in a gentle voice. ‘There will be damp sand below.’
    ‘How the fuck would you know, soot face?’
    Markham hit him then, using the flat of his blade. For a second the marine, shovel in hand, looked set to retaliate, but good sense stopped him, since the officer’s sword waslifted once more, this time with the sharp edge