A Shred of Honour (3 page)

‘You might fetch a price,’ Markham mumbled to
himself
, fingering the dull metal of the pistol barrels. ‘But who’s going to buy red coats aboard this ship except me?’

That produced a thought. His army uniform, though not so very different from a marine one, was not only showing signs of wear; it had proved a liability. Yet that, for the little it was worth, identified him to his own
contingent
. He and Frobisher were much of a size. If he were
to take over his late superior’s uniform, then he might begin to convince the Lobsters that he was just as much their officer. The sword he would need to replace his own, and he felt no compunction about claiming it. The only two questions he couldn’t answer were obvious; how much to pay, and where the money was going to come from.

‘Briggs,’ he yelled. ‘On the double.’

The screen lifted within a second. ‘I’ve no desire to cheat the late Captain’s relatives, nor the means to buy such fine pistols, but I need to know how much his
uniforms
are worth?’

Briggs’ face screwed up in a parody of the usurer’s art. Markham could almost see him counting. ‘Before you reply let me tell you that, even if I find it
is
a custom to reward a dead man’s servant, it’s not one I propose to subscribe to. So, since you will receive nothing from the sale of anything on this cot, you might as well be honest.’

‘Ain’t worth bugger all,’ Briggs wailed, ‘if’n you don’t take ’em.’

‘A price!’

‘Twelve guineas to include the sword if anyone’s feeling generous. But the pistols is worth a lot more.’

‘They shall go home intact, on the next packet, with a letter from me informing them of how he died.’

‘That’s the captain’s job.’

‘The captain may write too,’ Markham replied
savagely
. ‘But perhaps my account might be more truthful. I might be tempted to say that he didn’t expire with much in the way of gallantry.’

The distant cries of the lookouts brought the ship to life, the thudding of the officers’ shoes as they ran for the deck adding to the air of excitement. Markham knew he should follow, but decided against. If danger threatened he would soon know. He untied the queue that held his light brown hair and picked up the brush, leaning
forward
to gaze into the mirror.

The eyes that stared back at him looked pale green in
this light; the unlined, slightly bronzed face familiar from thousands of previous encounters. He’d been told he was handsome, and wondered at the eyesight of those who’d said so. Of the many women who’d ventured such an
opinion
only his mother could be forgiven, allowed a parental mote in her eye: the face was too long, the cheekbones too pronounced and the jaw a bit too square for that to be true. His nose was no longer straight, though the way it had been broken tended to enhance the shape, not spoil it. Then there were the scars, some from childhood, others from adult encounters, the only really obvious one just visible above his left eye. Fingering that always produced a smile, given that it had come from a pretend fight, not a real one. He was lucky in his teeth, white, strong and all present, making it easy for him to smile. An interesting visage perhaps, but certainly not handsome. As if to emphasise that, he screwed up his features to produce a passable imitation of a gargoyle’s face.

By the time he’d tried on Frobisher’s coat, Markham knew they were within sight of Hood’s fleet. A good fit, it was beyond his financial reach, so he replaced it and returned to his cabin to fetch his own. Flicking through the muster and pay books, he looked at the names of the men he commanded. There were faces to go with those, but precious little in the way of knowledge that would help him command them.

Suddenly sick of the confined space, he jammed on his hat and made his way on deck, joining the others in
looking
to the east. The great ships, over twenty in number, and including the hundred-gunners
Victory
and
Britannia
, were beating to and fro off Cape Sicie, which guarded the approaches to the French naval base of Toulon. Even to a landsman’s eye, they presented a stirring sight. What a pity that the image of the King’s Navy, as portrayed by the gleaming white sails aloft on these magnificent leviathans, was so very different from the reality.

Descending the companionway that led down from the maindeck, Markham wrinkled his nose. The stench below was something he’d never get used to. Several hundred men, most with a mortal fear of fresh air, slung their hammocks here, fourteen inches to a man. If they washed at all, it was in salt water, and they ate where they slept. Right forward in the forepeak was the manger, full of the stink of cooped-up animals. Most of the crew had gone on up to the foredeck, braving sunshine and breeze to catch a sight of the fleet. That’s where he’d first looked for his men, only realising that they must still be below when he failed to spot them amongst the crowd of sailors.

Somehow he had to get on terms with these people. They would certainly see action again, given that they were in the Mediterranean, and that the French had a large fleet at Toulon, one that the Admiral was
determined
to bring to battle. Frobisher, in all the weeks they’d been at sea, had trained no one, instead spending his days boasting to all who would listen of his intention to smite the enemy as soon as they appeared. He hated the French with such a passion that it came as no surprise to Markham to learn that the marine captain had never met one.

His own experience told him that training was the key to success. If the two groups could be brought to act together, given time they would blend into one. And there was plenty to learn, even for the marines. They’d had no more idea of what to do in the recent engagement than he had. They might claim to be real Lobsters, but they were just as false as his soldiers. Lost in thought, and unable to see clearly by the tallow-lit glim, he walked straight into Yelland, the youngest of his troopers, an innocent
blond-haired
youth much put upon by his elders who, to his mind, had been included in the detachment by some error.

The boy was looking the other way, craning slightly to
see something ahead. Then his officer appeared. Habit brought the lad to attention. The low deckbeams did the rest. Hatless, he fetched himself a mighty clout right on the crown, and would have fallen if Markham hadn’t taken a firm hold. Supporting him, he inquired after his condition. The boy mumbled something which included the word fight, and started to move away. That was when Markham heard the unmistakable crunch of bone striking flesh.

‘Damnit, what’s going on?’ he demanded, rushing forward.

The line of red coats, all with their backs to him, barred his view. But there was no mistaking the sounds of bare-knuckle fighting, the thud of soft flesh and brittle bone being mauled. He’d heard it too many times, and grabbed hold of a pair of shoulders to haul them apart.

Schutte, the huge Dutch-born marine, was there, stripped to the waist. Completely bald, the only colour between his breeches and his pate the red of his face, he stood before Rannoch, the most fearsome of his soldiers, a Highlander with hair so fair it hinted at Viking blood. They were trading blow for blow, both faces already covered in blood, their bodies a mass of red weals that would soon turn to ugly black bruises. Toe to toe, not giving an inch, the pair were pounding each other, their breath coming in hastily snatched grunts.

‘Enough!’ he yelled, stepping between them. Both sets of eyes, filled with hate, determination and pain, turned on him. For a moment he thought that he was about to fall victim, that they would cease to pound each other and instead lay their punches on him. ‘What in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph do you pair think you’re doing?’

His hands slipped on blood and sweat as he sought to push them apart. All around him he could hear the growls of dissatisfaction as the audience, deprived of their sport and their wagers, made their feelings known.
Dornan, another of his soldiers, with a bovine face to match his character, was vainly trying to hide the money from the bets inside his coat. Several coins slipped and landed on the planking, which turned some of the glares away from Markham. It said everything about these men that they’d put a simpleton in charge of the one thing that, proving complicity, would bring on the heaviest punishment.

‘Stand back, damn you!’ The shouted order produced no movement, just the same look he’d seen earlier, a
combination
of hate and indifference. ‘Two paces to the rear, march!’

Some had the discipline to respond immediately, but most hesitated. Markham, still between the two giants, arms outstretched to keep them separate, felt like Samson trying to bring down the temple. He knew that even if he pushed harder, he didn’t have the strength to move them. Concentrating, he didn’t see Ettrick, smaller and nimbler than the rest, in one swift movement scoop up the coins Dornan had dropped.

‘What’s going on?’

The strange voice caused the men glaring at Markham to turn to face the officer of the watch, Fellows. He stood with his hands on his hips, a grin that was half a sneer on his face.

‘There’s nothing going on,’ Markham replied lamely.

‘Is that you in there, Markham?’

‘Mr Markham to you, Fellows. There was the risk of a fight, but I put a stop to it.’

Fellows threw back his head and laughed. ‘A risk. Last time I looked they were at it hammer and tongs. I
expected
another canvas sack on the deck, with an addition to the burial service.’

‘You knew this was happening and did nothing to stop it?’

‘No I didn’t,
Mr
Markham!’ The emphasis on the Mister was even more insulting than its absence. ‘But I
reckoned Schutte to win. Why should I take a hand if he was going to spare the purser the need to feed a Bullock?’

‘That way we find out who in charge,’ Schutte growled, his hairless chest heaving. He stuck one finger in his own belly, then pointed it at Rannoch. ‘Sergeant me or Sergeant Bullock.’

Markham pushed him hard, which was dispiriting since he only went back a fraction of an inch, thinking that was another thing Frobisher had ignored in his determination to keep the two groups separate: the status of the non-commissioned officers.

‘There’s only one person in charge, you great hairless oaf – me! If this happens again I’ll have you all up at the grating and personally flog you till you weep. This stops now, and as for who will be a sergeant, that is something I will decide.’

Fellows was laughing in the background, his shoulders heaving with merriment. Markham walked up to him and, leaning over, stuck his nose less than half an inch from that of the naval officer.

‘You! The captain’s cabin, this minute.’

‘Are you a milksop, sir?’ de Lisle sneered, shuffling the papers on his desk. The captain was clearly enjoying
himself
, half smiling, his head turning slightly to include the other two naval officers in his rebuke. ‘Men will fight, even Bullocks. Damn me if that’s not why we offer them the King’s shilling. You’re worse than I supposed, Markham, a stranger to that most necessary addition to an officer’s equipment, the blind eye.’

‘Sir, I …’

Without a look in his direction, de Lisle cut right across his protest. ‘Silence! There’s a hierarchy below decks, man, which is just as real as that of the quarterdeck. You’re a stranger to it who shows no sign of willingness to learn. All of which makes the order I’m about to give you more appropriate.’

Bowen, the premier, was grinning. Fellows, who should have been shaking in his shoes, had a blank, innocent look on his face. He’d been aware, before he’d even entered the great cabin, that de Lisle would not condemn his actions. Quite the reverse, his commanding officer approved. And by the tone of his voice, he was about to pay this upstart Bullock out for his damned cheek in interfering.

Another slight shuffling of papers, designed to
underline
his importance, was necessary before de Lisle continued. ‘It seems that there’s great support for the Bourbons in Provence. Marseilles has sent delegates and so has Toulon. The admiral has decided to take
possession
of the naval base, and is demanding contributions to
form a garrison.’ He finally looked up, unable to resist a sneer. ‘I was happy to inform his lordship that
Hebe
was in a position to dispense with its entire complement. You can go ashore, Markham, where you belong, and take that rabble you call your command with you.’

‘Including the Lobsters, sir?’

‘Yes.’

Nothing went well. His soldiers were happy to be going ashore, the marines less so. And when it came to getting in the boats, it only served to widen their divisions. The men of the 65th had been seasick in the Channel, useless lubbers in the storms of the Bay of Biscay, a damned nuisance at Gibraltar and hopeless fighters in the Gulf of Loins. Here, off Toulon, in their attempts to go over the side with some dignity, they excelled themselves.

The marines, led by Schutte, had got themselves into
Hebe
’s cutter before the sun rose. They’d then rowed to a position where they could observe the fun, before the men of the 65th emerged from below. As the other boats pulled alongside nearly every member of the crew had come on deck to witness the ineptitude of these lubbers.

The rope ladder was the first obstacle. Hanging by the open gangway, it dropped from the side of the vessel, an arrangement of hemp that seemed imbued with a life of its own. Pressure exerted on one strand produced a
corresponding
movement in another, so that even if the man descending could stay upright, difficult in itself, he tended to be spun round to slam into the planking. Wet and slippery, the soldiers’ iron-shod boots produced an added handicap, as did the encumbrance of their equipment. The long Brown Bess muskets were the very devil, while the full infantry packs acted like dead weights.

The first contingent were invited to board the jolly boat, the smallest conveyance on offer, a target that from the side of Hebe looked to be miles away. Two grinning tars, with boathooks, were there to assist. Encouraged to
add to the fun, they took a savage delight in making
matters
worse. Every time a man looked like falling, they pushed off so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. This meant he landed in the sea. Then the boathooks, applied with no gentleness, could be used to fish him out.

Markham’s order to remove their equipment improved matters, but only marginally. One or two managed it without difficulty, but most took an age to descend,
spinning
first, then slipping and dropping, emitting terrified yells. Every mistake produced a great belch of laughter from the assembled hands that de Lisle did nothing to inhibit. Finally the barge came alongside and, after it had taken on the last half-dozen soldiers, it was his turn.

Concentrating on the task ahead he didn’t notice that Briggs had lashed Frobisher’s sea-chest to the whip along with his canvas sack. The bundle was lifted up and out, sat there for a moment before the men holding the line let go. The chest dropped like a stone, and the boatmen pushed off. They held the line just as they reached the water, and, to a gale of laughter, they were hooked and loaded into the boat.

Markham realised the error just as he was turning to raise his hat in a salute to the quarterdeck. Not one of the officers responded, with a discourtesy so blatant it
penetrated
the thick skin he’d created to protect himself. Hurt, he could not speak. Turning quickly, he went over the side. The rope dipped under his foot and he tried his other leg on the next strand. That sank and pushed inwards, which left him hanging, his back out over the sea. Slightly panicking, he grabbed at the first rung with his hand, which, stretching, only increased the angle. He felt it begin to spin, then heard the first cackle of the laughter that was sure to follow.

Progress from that point was swift and terrifying, with Markham unsure of what rungs he hit or held, and how many he missed altogether. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boathooks pressing against the side as the
sailors pushed off. Fearing nothing more than an
ignominious
drop into the sea he jumped, landing on top of one of the tars. The man fell back into the thwarts,
cushioning
the fall, nearly capsizing the boat. Only the action of the other sailor saved everyone aboard from a
drubbing
, as he pulled hard on his hook to keep them level.

Markham found himself staring into the pained eyes of the man he’d landed on, who looked as if he were about to tell him what he thought. There was nothing stagey about Markham’s Irish accent now. It had all the passion associated with his race.

‘One word, you stinking, pigtailed bag of shite, and I’ll ram every inch of that boathook right up your arse.’

The hoots of merriment behind him were loud enough to carry to the whole fleet. In his fall, Markham had provided the icing on the cake of the day’s humour.
Hebe
’s whole side was lined with grinning faces, some so taken with the farce that they could hardly draw breath. Likewise the men in the other boats, soldiers, sailors and marines, were convulsed with laughter. Insult was added to injury by the way Bernard, a midshipman who looked about twelve years old, skipped down nimbly to take command of the small flotilla.

‘Man the oars and get me out of here,’ he snapped, ‘before I’m tempted to shoot someone.’

The oarsmen, and the midshipman, fought to keep their faces straight as they took their positions. Once in motion, the other two boats fell in behind and they made their way across the short choppy swell to enter the outer roads of the harbour. Within minutes men were hanging over the side, retching into the sea. Markham lifted his eyes, to avoid the chance that by looking, he might emulate them, and, since they’d cleared the St Mandrian peninsula, he caught his first sight of the land around Toulon.

The sun was fully up now, promising another scorching hot day. He could hear no gunfire, nor observe any
evidence
of fighting. Even the numerous anchored British warships, well out of range of shore-based fire, looked peaceful. It was as if the plans were still being laid, with the town yet to be taken. He’d been told that Toulon had surrendered, the citizens handing over the administration to British officers. But nothing he could see supported this, and the sudden thought occurred that they were being rowed towards a hostile shore, perhaps offered as a sacrifice to test the validity of the capitulation.

The bay consisted of an inner and outer harbour, the former smaller and better protected. As they rowed
steadily
along he took in the salient features. The town was surrounded by hills, the slope beginning almost from the shoreline, rising gently at first, before suddenly increasing in gradient. The highest was right behind the town, a massive limestone rampart topped with a green fuzz of vegetation. Whoever held that could dominate the inner harbour, and if there were any Jacobins about, that was where they’d be.

There were other
massifs
, all capable, in varying degrees, of dominating some part of the anchorage. They broke to the west, forming a valley which provided an easy route from the hinterland into the naval base. Inside the arm of the twin peninsulas that enclosed the Grande Rade, he could see several forts placed at strategic points, their embrasures bristling with guns which dominated the roads, with others aimed at the gap between the two headlands that formed the entrance to the inner harbour.

And he was being rowed right into that confined space, well within range of the artillery, in a boat that would fall apart if even nicked by a cannonball. Closer and closer they came, into an opening no more than a mile wide, with Markham’s eyes jerking back and forth, from the stone fort on one side, to the round moated tower which acted as a signal station on the other.

‘Stay close to the right-hand side of the entrance.’

Bernard, with his superior nautical knowledge, looked
set to disagree. But Markham’s grey eyes brooked no argument, and he pushed the tiller to oblige. The place was so somnolent it smelt of a trap, with an empty boat bobbing in the watergate of the round tower as if no notion of war existed. Markham was holding his breath, alert for the first sign of movement on the cannon; the head of a gunner or a raised rammer, that would provide some warning. Nothing happened, and soon they’d passed that zone of maximum danger and entered the Petite Rade.

He directed Bernard to turn northeast and head for the town itself. The white and ochre buildings and the long quays were hidden behind the forest of masts that
constituted
the French Mediterranean fleet. Bernard directed his attention to another boat, which had put off from the eastern shore, quite clearly a wealthy captain’s barge, judging by the uniform dress of the crew. He could see, sitting at the rear, an officer in a dark blue coat, white facings edged with gold. As the boat came near he raised and waved his hat.

‘I’d be obliged if you’d come alongside,’ he shouted, the strong Scottish accent apparent even at that loud level. Markham nodded to Bernard, and they changed course so that the two boats were on a parallel course. As soon as he was close enough, the officer called out, ‘Elphinstone,
Robust
.’

‘Lieutenant Markham, of the frigate
Hebe
,
and
Midshipman
Bernard. Is the harbour secure, sir?’

‘Och aye, laddie. The Frenchies are hiding in their
barracks
and houses, waiting to see what’s going to happen.’ Elphinstone’s gaze ranged over the three boats as he replied, before coming back to rest on the barge. ‘Have we met before, Lieutenant? Your face seems a mite familiar.’

‘Not as far as I’m aware, sir,’ he replied, giving Bernard a black look as the youngster coughed.

‘Maybe not,’ replied the captain, clearly showing by his
expression that Markham, not he, must be mistaken. ‘Is this the entire complement from
Hebe
?’

‘Yes, sir. Thirty-four men in all, not including the tars.’

Elphinstone looked over the men in the barge, then nodded towards the jolly boat and the cutter. ‘Half your party seem to be in soldier’s garb.’

‘Sixty-fifth foot, detached for sea service.’

Some of the men were still hanging over the side,
retching
, even though their stomachs must be empty. ‘And not enjoying it much, eh?’ barked Elphinstone.

‘I daresay some of those being sick are marines.’

‘Fetch my wake, Markham. I’ve a wee job that needs attending to, and a file containing some soldiers is just the thing.’

‘At your service, sir,’ Markham replied. ‘Just let’s get them ashore.’

‘I daresay,’ Elphinstone responded, with a deep
booming
laugh. ‘If you look yonder to the west you’ll see the bay at the head of the valley. La Seyne, it’s called. Join me there. You can leave your extra equipment in the boats.’

‘May I enquire what service we’re required to perform, sir?’

‘Oh aye, laddie. The Jacobins have taken Marseilles and set themselves up to butcher the people. There’s a portion of them on the way to do the same here. You and I are going to stop them.’

On land, before very long, the positions reversed
themselves
. Now, despite the discomfort brought on by the heat, the soldiers were in their element, with boots on their feet that were well suited to the hard dusty road on which they marched. The marines in their lighter shoes, so perfect on a planked deck, were less comfortable, able to feel every stone on which they trod. But it was no pleasure for anyone, especially since Elphinstone set such a cracking pace, not stopping till they were well away from the last buildings in the town. Markham ordered his
men to rest, then went to join the naval captain, who was examining the road ahead.

‘We need to buy time, Markham, to get some troops ashore.’

‘I didn’t see any evidence of haste amongst the fleet, sir. In fact, such boats as were in the water looked to be engaged in Sunday visiting.’

‘These things take time to organise,’ Elphinstone replied, slightly piqued perhaps that a soldier should
disparage
the fleet. ‘If the Jacobins arrive in numbers too soon, they’ll pitch us back on to our ships, no matter how many men we disembark.’

He reached into his coat. ‘Take this map. It’s pretty sparse and it only goes as far as the village of Ollioules. I’ll leave it to you as to whether you think it prudent to push on from there.’

‘How many of the enemy are we expecting, sir?’

‘I don’t have a clue, laddie. Could be hundreds, could be thousands.’

Markham tried to keep the surprise out of his voice, and when he spoke he was well aware of stating the
obvious
. ‘There’s a limit to how many I can hold with
thirty-four
men, even if I can find a good defensive position.’