A Shred of Honour (2 page)

‘Fire through the gap,’ he yelled, pointing his sword at the open gunport, less than twenty feet away. His men obeyed, but to little effect. Most shots went wide, with only one hitting home, striking an officer well to the rear of the intended targets.

‘Reload, damn you,’ he ordered. The ships were still twenty feet apart. Markham found himself staring right down the muzzle of a French cannon, which had been run out, ready to fire. He saw the man grasp the twine that would set it off and started to duck just as the
Hebe
slewed round to slam into the French ship. The crack of wood and breaking ropes from aloft, as the yards and rigging became tangled, was audible even over the din of battle. The long cannon, now just a few feet away, went off with a deafening roar, a streak of orange fire
extending
like a searing finger to engulf him. The sound was deafening and the fire struck his coat, burning his cheek and filling his nose with the acrid smell of spent powder and scorched cloth. Luckily the blast threw him sideways, onto his knees, so the ball, which would have cut him in two, sped past his left shoulder. It struck the mainmast and ricocheted along the deck of the ship, destroying everything, flesh, bone, and wood, that stood in its way.

‘Boarders,’ cried de Lisle, rushing down to where Markham knelt, the spittle shooting from his mouth a testimony to the violence of his language. All control had gone from a man who strove to be the epitome of
calmness
under fire. ‘You damned Irish coward! What in the devil’s name are you waiting for? Do your duty, sir!’

Fighting to control his outrage, Markham pulled
himself
to his feet. Standing nearly a foot taller than de Lisle he raised his sword aloft, and was about to order his men forward when the captain screamed again, pushing himself onto his tiptoes in an attempt to compensate for this junior officer’s superior height.

‘I’ll not have any peasant general’s bastard sully my deck again!’

Markham lost control. He swung back towards the captain, his weapon descending like a cleaver to
decapitate
the man. De Lisle’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as the sword stopped an inch from his neck, the bearer screaming at him. ‘Never use those words to me again. If you ever do and I’m sober, I’ll call you out. In drink, I’ll very likely kill you on the spot.’

Maybe it was shock that restored de Lisle’s composure. Or perhaps he realised just how much he was demeaning himself. Hating to be overlooked, he took a pace
backwards
. With some difficulty he brought his temper under restraint, his face rigid, struggling to sound normal above the crash of gunfire. There was a quality of madness to this, the normality of the captain’s voice, while all around him men wrestled with guns, received wounds, or dived to the deck to avoid shot.

‘I have no time for your sensitivities, sir. We are in the midst of a battle, which will be lost by your inaction.’

Markham suddenly felt foolish and, with his back to the enemy, very exposed. But he would not break the gaze that held de Lisle’s eyes, determined to stare him down. Vaguely, he registered the arrival of the midshipman, who was now tugging at the captain’s sleeve, an action which forced ‘Spotted Dick’ to acknowledge his presence.

Released from contesting the stare, Markham turned and roared his commands, calling for his men to follow him. He ran for the jagged gap in the bulwarks, his heart thumping with exhilaration. The flap of the enemy
gunport
was open, and a lot closer than the side. Only a fool would have tried it. But his Celtic blood had been fired by De Lisle’s insults, leaving Markham very close to
madness
. It dropped sickeningly as he landed, the ropes that supported it stretching with the increase in weight. He stood for a moment, heart in his mouth, his arms flailing as he fought to keep his balance. If he fell between the two battling ships he’d certainly die.

Another British broadside came to his rescue. As it
slammed into the Frenchman, it caused the frigate to heel just enough to lift his foothold level. With a roar he leapt for the deck, landing in amongst the terrified gunners. One swung a rammer, eight feet long, at his head. Danger heightened his already excited state, and he ducked, throwing up his sword. Sharpened for the engagement, it cut deep into the wood. The force of the blow ran up his arm with an instant jarring pain and the rammer carried on, taking his weapon with it. Knocked backwards he kicked out, and with that clarity of sight that only comes in a fight, he placed his foot right in the Frenchman’s groin. The man doubled over, his long nose bending right into the punch Markham aimed at his face.

Leaping to his feet, Markham screamed a foul Irish oath, stepped over his victim and pulled a pistol from his belt. He fired wildly at the nearest face, clubbed at another with the empty gun, then leapt for the sword embedded in the rammer. It looked like lunacy, but he was very far from out of control. Every nerve end in his body was alive to both danger and opportunity. An axe scythed towards his unprotected head as he bent down, only a violent and painful dive against the bulwark saving him. The force of the blow caused his assailant to
overreach
, so he fell over the feet of an enemy who was already halfway back to being upright. Markham was grinning as he grabbed his long hair, but it was the look of an executioner not a friend. He pulled him back, then drove his knee into the top of the man’s spine.

The neck went with a resounding crack and with a triumphant scream, sword in hand, Markham leapt to his feet, chest heaving, eyes searching for his next victim. The sound died in his throat. The look he cast around produced first bewilderment, then anger, and finally a slight sense of panic. He spun round to look back towards the
Hebe
’s deck. The line of red coats, standing in exactly the same place as he’d left them, was mockery of the highest order. Not one of his men, Bullock or Lobster, had
followed him onto the enemy deck. Worse, he could see de Lisle issuing frantic instructions to cut his ship free. Men were no longer serving the guns; they were running up the shrouds to disentangle the rigging, while others struggled to set sail.

‘Monsieur?’

Markham span round again, his mouth suddenly dry, to find himself facing a row of angry faces; men holding pikes and axes, and a lieutenant with his hand
outstretched
. It was clear what he wanted. This mad British officer was being invited to surrender and hand over his sword.

There was an air of unreality about the whole scene, almost like one of those patriotic pieces they performed at Sadler’s Wells, in which Britannia’s enemies were humiliated. The costumes were right, and so were the expressions on the faces. Only this time, instead of a Frenchman surrendering, it was him. They’d take him to Marseilles, there to parade him before the populace. Given what he’d done, and their bloodthirsty reputation, they might even guillotine him.

Taking a breath so deep it seared his throat, Markham bowed, fighting to control his trembling, sweat-soaked limbs. As he stood upright, sword held out, he threw it at the Frenchman’s head. He was over the side, standing on that same gunport flap, before the first pike could reach him. Now the stretching ropes came to his assistance. As the flap dropped, it took him just out of reach of those intent on spearing him. His feet began to slip and, frantic with fear, cursing every saint he knew, he leapt into the air. If the French hadn’t shot away the side of the ship he’d have been doomed. As it was he landed badly, and fell at the feet of his own men. Looking up into the row of glistening, red faces, he saw nothing in their eyes but contempt.

‘Spotted Dick’ was berating him again, first for his failure to board, then for his single-handed attempt to capture the Frenchman. Safe behind his desk, voice under control, his manner seemed slightly bored, as if he were
recounting
a particularly tedious anecdote to a rather dim child. Only his eyes hinted at the depth of his emotions, flicking occasionally as he fought the desire to be more forthright. While careful to avoid any reference to the nature of his antecedents, de Lisle had managed to include numerous facets of Markham’s background that he found
objectionable
, not least his hot temper. A month before he had fought a duel in Finsbury Park, his opponent a French emigré, le Comte des Ardres, who’d caught Markham in bed with his wife. This seemed to provide de Lisle with ample evidence of his unsuitability both as human being and an officer. He professed himself amazed that even a regiment as uncultured as the 65th Foot should allow a man with such a background to purchase a commission. All this came together in a general condemnation of Markham and the military arm of which he was a member.

‘First you won’t damn well go, and then when the orders are to stay put you’re off on your own. If this is the way the Army behaves, Lieutenant, thank God we’ve got a Navy.’

Conveniently, he forgot that Markham would not have heard the panicky orders to make sail, issued just as he leapt through the gap in the bulwarks. The captain
himself
had only found out about the approaching French
three-decker because he’d been passed a written message by one of his midshipmen. Faced with a 74-gun warship that could blow
Hebe
out of the water, they’d been forced to run. Did that change in circumstances exonerate Markham’s men, who’d so signally failed to support him? Or had they stayed put for another reason? To the
captain
’s way of looking at things, it didn’t provide an excuse for this officer.

‘Is it the Irish in you, that damned contrary Celtic streak, that makes you do the very opposite of what you’re told? Or is it, Lieutenant, plain stupidity?’

Markham wasn’t really listening. His eyes never even flickered towards ‘Spotted Dick’s’ pallid face. Mentally he was recalling exactly the same actions, trying to assess them objectively. He had tried hard, these last twelve years, to live down the stigma attached to his name. The
accusation
that he’d deserted his post while in command of his regiment, going off to settle a private matter. The memory of that day was burned into his consciousness, as well as the disdain with which his peers had subsequently treated him.

The
Hebe
’s officers felt the same. Judging by the way they’d responded to him throughout the voyage, his very name seemed to stink in their nostrils. All Englishmen, and subscribers to the Thirty-Nine Articles of the Protestant faith, they sneered at his Irish background, mimicked his accent, rehashing all the old Paddy jokes they could, which saw his race as either devious or stupid. They were convinced that his status, as the illegitimate son of a rich, retired general, had not only influenced his court martial; it had been used to disguise his
Catholicism
, thus allowing him to sidestep the statute that ensured no Papist was ever permitted to hold the King’s commission.

There was a certain delightful irony in the way that none of his sire’s wealth had found its way into the hands of the natural son. He’d come aboard at Chatham with the bailiffs on his heels, most of his possessions still
ashore, unable to retrieve them while the fleet lay at anchor lest they clap him in Newgate for debt. George Markham wasn’t prepared to discuss his past or present life. So they’d never know that his only asset, after four years spent fighting for the Czarina Catherine, was the commission bought and paid for by his father, one that he’d declined to exercise since the end of the American war.

‘Your soldiers are a disgrace to their red coats,’ de Lisle continued, this time with a force in the words that made his chest swell. ‘Frobisher, God rest him, was right about that.’

‘They didn’t volunteer for sea service, sir. They were given this posting without the option to decline.’

‘Volunteer!’ De Lisle actually spluttered, his face betraying indignation despite his best efforts to contain it.

Markham derived some pleasure from his ability to rile ‘Spotted Dick’, cracking his studied demeanour.
Something
he’d never seen anyone else achieve, it made him feel less inadequate. Then he recalled the probable reason. It wasn’t wit or sophistry that upset de Lisle, just his mere presence.

‘Volunteers! You have the gall to name them that? They’re the scrapings of the gaol, man, and you know it. There probably isn’t one of them that doesn’t deserve to be hanged.’

It was true, though he was loath to admit it. The way the British Army recruited didn’t bring in anything but gaolbirds and vagabonds and he’d been saddled with the very worst apples in a rotten barrel. They’d stood fast when they should have advanced, leaving him in the lurch. Even as he opened his mouth to defend them, he was cursing himself for a fool.

‘They are no better, sir, and no worse, than Captain Frobisher’s marines.’

De Lisle’s lips seemed to disappear as again he struggled
in vain to contain his anger, his efforts betrayed by the rush of blood to his cheeks. ‘Rubbish! Properly led, the Lobsters are the finest fighting men in the world. I repeat, properly led. Someone who behaves as if he’s
participating
in a costume drama, does not fit anyone’s notion of a proper leader.’

That made Markham go red in turn. Partly because, deep down, ‘Spotted Dick’ had touched a nerve. He
harboured
a suspicion that the accusation might be true: there had been a theatrical quality to his ‘death defying leap’. But he was still angry with his superior, even if he knew that to continue this dispute was to invite more insults like the one the captain had just delivered.

‘I saw no evidence of that today, sir. They were no more keen to follow me aboard that Frenchman than my infantrymen.’

‘What you saw today, sir, were men wisely disinclined to engage on behalf of anybody behaving like a fool.’

‘I believe, sir, if you are dissatisfied with my conduct, I have the right to demand a court.’

‘You have that right, Markham. But I should beware. This is the navy not the army, the Mediterranean not New York. This time you won’t have a blood relative selecting who sits in the judging chair. In fact, if I were you, I’d worry about the state of your command rather than your already blemished reputation.’

Markham had to fight to control his voice. ‘I resent those remarks.’

There was no passion in ‘Spotted Dick’s’ voice now. His face was composed, bloodless, and he even managed a thin humourless smile as he delivered the
coup
de
grâce
. ‘I do hope so, Lieutenant Markham. Now be so good as to get out of my cabin.’

The wardroom was no more welcoming. Every officer in that cramped space had mentally grasped prize money before that aborted fight. To see it taken away from them,
when it was so nearly theirs, hurt badly. In the nature of things a scapegoat was required, and since de Lisle’s dislike of Markham was plain, and self-criticism alien, he walked into an atmosphere that was arctic in its cold intensity. Bowen, the barrel-chested First Lieutenant, didn’t even wait till he’d made it to the strip of canvas that acted as a door to his tiny, cell-like cabin.

‘To think that Bullocks have to buy their rank as officers! You’d wonder at what they get for their money, when any bogtrotting Croppie prepared to deny his church can enlist.’

‘The 65th are less fussy than most,’ added Smyth, the purser. ‘Even their regimental goat’s poxed and manged, I’ve been told.’

‘I’ve heard the animal is a-scared of sheep, never mind the vagabond types that they’ve sent us,’ Bowen
continued
, adding an hollow laugh. ‘Since they were getting rid of everything rotten, I’m surprised
Hebe
wasn’t lumbered with that creature as well.’

Markham turned, the canvas lifted in his hand. ‘The goat can handle sheep all right, and men if they stay the right end of him. But with the kind of whoremongers serving in this fleet, I wouldn’t let him near a ship’s
manger
unless I intended to sell him into debauchery, and that at tuppence a throw.’

The ‘Damn you, sir!’ was muffled by the dropping screen. More remarks followed, all aimed at the army, and in particular his regiment. These were hard to refute, at least for social cachet. The 65th was no more than a normal line regiment, with a former Colonel indebted enough to his father to allow young George a
commission
. Yet, newly returned from Russia, and hounded by his relatives to return everything his father had gifted to him, that had been his only tangible resource, suddenly worth something because of the outbreak of war.

The present Colonel had snarled with rage when he insisted on taking up his duties; had been delighted to see
his back when the orders arrived that required him to provide a platoon for sea service. He transferred not only his most persistent defaulters but, in the officer required to command them, a potential embarrassment. In fact, he’d done Markham a favour, putting him in a place where no tipstaff, acting on behalf of his creditors, could touch him. Nor could the law, who were after him for duelling. As an added bonus, serving in a fleet on distant service placed him beyond the reach of his grasping blood relatives.

‘We had that sod in our grip,’ growled Bowen. ‘If we’d boarded at the right time, instead of holding back, we could have taken her and still got clear.’

‘How much d’you reckon she was worth?’ asked the purser dolefully. As the money man on the ship he’d know better than most how much they’d lost, so the question was posed only to annoy Markham.

‘Admiral Hood would have bought her in, no doubt about it. Then there was head money for the crew and gun money for the cannon.’

‘And she was fresh from port, fully provisioned, I
daresay
, with her holds packed with fresh stores. That would have fetched a mint of money, Mr Bowen, a mint.’

There was a tired quality to their speech, as though this were something that had been said several times before, and was merely being repeated to rub salt into his
supposed
wound. He’d never thought about prize money himself. Loot and booty were more the soldier’s way of supplementing poor pay. But in sea service, however unpleasant, he would have qualified for a share of the officer’s eighths, a sum of money that would have been very welcome in his present circumstances.

He eased off his coat, relishing the sudden chill as the cool, lower-deck air acted on his damp linen. Habit had him feeling his chin, before he remembered that he’d shaved just before his interview with the captain. The screen was pulled back suddenly, and Frobisher’s servant,
Briggs, appeared, his pinched features screwed up in exaggerated concentration.

‘I need tellin’ what to do with the late Captain’s dunnage.’

‘Sorry?’

‘His sea-chest, clothes, weapons and the like.’

‘Why in God’s name ask me?’

‘You’re the marine officer now,’ Briggs replied, not attempting to hide his annoyance. ‘It be your duty to sort it out.’

‘Is there a common method?’

‘It’s normal to auction.’

Markham conjured up an image of his late superior. Frobisher had served in the marines all his military life, and like all men who’d never seen action, hankered
endlessly
after glory. The very first ball of his very first engagement had killed him. Now he was sewn up in
canvas
, with a piece of roundshot at his feet, lying on the deck awaiting the moment when his body would be slid over the side.

‘He hasn’t even been buried yet.’

‘Makes no odds to him, one way or t’other.’

‘I suppose I’d be right in thinking that such an auction takes place in the wardroom?’

‘Or on deck if it’s clement. I’ve laid it all out on his cot, good an’ ready. And at the end, it be the custom to slip some of the proceeds to the officer’s servant. The rest goes home to his kinfolk.’

‘Get out!’ Markham snapped. ‘I’ll see to it after he’s buried.’

The head disappeared, as though Briggs had been shamed. But that was just wishful thinking. Given his first personal servant as a fifteen-year-old ensign, he’d soon realised that most of the men who took the job did so because it allowed them better food, as well as a chance to steal. Nationality made no difference. Those he’d had in the Baltic, the Caucasus and Moldavia were just as bad.
Bowen hadn’t provided him with a servant and Markham hadn’t asked for one, happy to rely on the wardroom stewards to see to his limited needs, which had only added to the contempt of his fellow officers.

He stood up and lifted the screen. Ignoring the cold glares that came his way he skirted the narrow table that filled the centre of the room and entered Frobisher’s cabin, a space only slightly bigger than his own, made to look much more spacious by the mirror on the bulkhead, and the lantern close enough to that to multiply the light.

Briggs had indeed laid out all his possessions, even going so far as to clean the bloodstained accoutrements in which his master had expired. Frobisher, when he heard the drums beat to quarters, had changed into his very best for the forthcoming engagement. His everyday
uniforms
, including his spare hat, were folded at the top of the bed. His best red coat, with its frogged white facings and twisted gold aiguillettes, lay flat above two pairs of doeskin breeches. The single white crossbelt shone, as did the silver buckle in the centre.

On top of the monogrammed sea-chest the brush and comb set, silver backed, gleamed in the dull light. At its base lay three pairs of highly polished officer’s shoes, one with silver buckles, stuffed with fine stockings; a set of excellent riding boots; a map case and a field telescope. Briggs had arranged his sword and pistols at the foot of the cot, expensive pieces set to catch the eye. There were the muster and pay books, a prayer book and a Bible, well thumbed, plus a list of the items in the chest.