A Shred of Honour by David Donachie

Author:David Donachie [David Donachie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780749015541
Publisher: Allison & Busby
Published: 2013-09-01T04:00:00+00:00

They found a gunsmith close to the dockyard who could make moulds, though deflecting his attempts to sell them other weapons took half of the morning. Some of the pieces he offered, originally made for the French naval officers, were handsome. But they were also expensive. And when Markham had paid for the castings to be made, and also the huge tub of beeswax that Rannoch demanded, there was little left for luxuries. On the way back to the Picard warehouse they stopped off at the arsenal to order powder and shot for the morrow, and pick up a barrel of gun oil, which Rannoch hoisted on his shoulder and carried back.

Getting permission to set up a training range was much harder. Markham only managed to persuade Lord Mulgrave to agree because Hanger was away from headquarters. In such a confined and crowded area, with refugees from all over Provence occupying every available space, that commodity was at a premium. But the General allocated them a piece of ground in the reserve trench system that had been dug to the north of the city.

Markham watched as Rannoch set up the targets, straw bales covered in painted cloth, while the rest of the men sorted out positions on the firestep. The sergeant was fussy about their placing, demanding exact measurements of the distance from the trenches. He was likewise adamant, in the face of all precedent, that it was a waste of time to try and teach them standing musketry until they had mastered the art of shooting recumbent.

‘No man comes to a gun as anything other than a bairn,’ he explained. ‘No more than he is born to walk, is he born to shoot. Let them lie on their bellies for a while, then get to their feet. When they have put a ball or two into yonder straw they will do the standing in a willing fashion. That is how I was taught, and it is the right way.’

‘Where did you learn to shoot?’

The reply was quite fierce, a reminder that inquiries about the Scotsman’s past were unwelcome. ‘In a place where there was room to do so, and something other than men to aim at.’

‘Deer, rabbits, wolves?’ Markham persisted.

‘The targets are set. It seems fitting that we get started. Otherwise the day will be gone and nothing worthwhile done.’

Rannoch’s limited supply of balls meant that little could be achieved anyway. But he took each man individually, had them tie a piece of canvas, which acted as a cheek guard, round their head, then set them to practise pulling the trigger with one finger until their hand ached. The canvas at least meant that when they succeeded, using the French musket balls, their faces weren’t blackened and burned by the discharged powder in the pan. The sergeant then gave them one of his own true balls to fire. The results were mixed, with some still blinking and lifting the barrel as they fired. The sky had clouded over, presaging rain, and the Scotsman suggested an early stop.

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