Honour Be Damned (11 page)

‘I’m not sure I understand that,’ Germain growled, sitting forward.

The reply was harsh. ‘It is not necessary for you to understand, Captain. It is what I wish, and you I’m sure would be the first to tell me that I am master of my own fate. If I am forced to leave the young lady behind, I will know little in the way of peace. I will worry about her. Better, for my sake, that she come along.’

Markham wasn’t surprised at the blatant lie, nor the clear-eye gaze and deliberate tone with which it was delivered. Priests everywhere, to his mind were masters of the art. The trick was to stare hard at the person you were lying to, substitute insistence for sincerity, daring them to contradict the statement you were making. He glanced at de Puy, who was concentrating on the deckbeams above his head. Then he looked at Germain, expecting
to see deep discomfort, only to observe that the captain was trying very hard to keep a smile off his face.

‘That would be the last thing we would want, Monsignor,’ he said, the gravity of his voice at variance with his expression. ‘Why, it could distract you from our purpose and jeopardise the whole endeavour.’

Markham nearly laughed himself, and might have done if the situation had not been so serious. He was thinking that when it came to mendacity the cleric and the naval officer were evenly matched. Aramon had issued his challenge to avoid exposing his truth, which was simple. Should he recover what they sought, he wanted the freedom to choose his route to Rome, something he could not do with half his party still aboard.

Germain had responded in a like manner, well aware that what the Monsignor proposed actually suited him. It wasn’t hard to imagine the trouble that would be caused when Aramon realised that, treasure in the hold, he was sailing in the wrong direction, towards Admiral Hood rather than the Pope. Yet if the women were left aboard, he could not avoid bringing the cleric back. No wonder he was struggling to hide his smile. He might as well have said, out loud, to Aramon, that as soon as success was achieved, he was planning to dump them.

And such an air of untruth was being espoused, that both men were content to accept their mutual lies, rather than to state, honestly, their individual positions. Indeed Aramon felt the need to gild the lily.

‘If you can guarantee me, captain, that we will be able to return to your ship, I will leave them. But I suspect that even Lieutenant Markham here, who has little time for me or what I represent, will tell you that getting to Notre Dame de Vacluse might be simpler than getting back.’

‘You make it sound as if we are expected,’ Germain replied, his brow creasing with concern.

‘Who knows what we will find? A subtle approach may be called for. In such circumstances a young lady with her maid can approach the church without arousing any suspicion. My
servants
, should trouble occur, are all capable of firing a pistol.’

‘It makes me wonder why you need us,’ said Markham, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm.

‘He needs us!’ said Germain hurriedly.

Aramon produced one of his superior smiles. ‘I do not know
what we face, and neither does le Comte de Puy. I’m sure even you, Lieutenant Markham, would agree that it is best not to take anything for granted.’

Markham decided to bait them both. ‘Especially the idea that you might actually be trusted.’

‘What possible grounds could I have for mistrust?’ asked Aramon, wickedly.

The look in his eye, aimed at Markham under a raised eyebrow, proved beyond any doubt that he had accurately read Germain’s thoughts. Indeed, the young captain blushed. Perhaps Aramon had known from the first what he had in mind, content to rely on his own superior intelligence to outwit him. It made little difference. There was a task at hand, and, regardless of how unpalatable the whole affair sounded, now was the time to do it.

‘I think it might be an idea for us to have a meeting with your officers, sir, Mr Booker and Conmorran, to work out how we are going to get back on board.’

‘Quite!’ said Germain, after a lengthy pause, during which he stared at the unconcerned cleric with barely disguised loathing.

T
he trip ashore, without Germain and his compass, could have turned into a disaster. The rain came down in torrents, flattening the sea just as he’d forecast, but reducing visibility to an unknown quantity of yards. The
shoreline
, including the headlands of Theroule and Cap d’Antibes, which enclosed the bay, had vanished.

Every flash of lightning was timed with the accompanying thunder, and as half a minute reduced itself to half a second, they had a fair idea of how close they were to receiving a strike. One bolt seemed to enter the water right ahead of the boat,
illuminating
the rain-filled air around them in a golden glow. The thunder was so loud, a sudden crack that split the air, that even the most stout hearted cowered from nature.

The sailors were rowing hard, water running of their noses, chins and greased pigtails, though warm enough to be pleasant. The passengers cocooned in oilskins or heavy greatcoats were less exposed. But they were also a lot less comfortable, since the rain did little to take the heat out of the air. Indeed it set up a slight mist which enveloped them, so that when they ground on the shore it came as something of a surprise.

It was still raining by the time they’d unloaded the cutter and crossed the steep strand of beach, some shelter provided by the thin layer of trees that stood between the sand and the road. Markham was out ahead, his Lobsters, packs on their backs lined up in a screen, inching forward through the trees. In their greatcoats, they looked like ghosts in the mist, the main blessing being that their red uniform jackets were hidden. Behind him the cutter was hauling out to sea, to be as far away as possible from the land when the rain finally lifted.

They heard the scrunch of hundreds of boots long before they came to the road, the steady tread of a column marching across their route, this accompanied by the grinding of metal-hooped wheels, a sound which denoted the presence of carts. The rain was
beginning to ease, the increasing amount of light obvious even in the mist-filled greenery. With sunlight, in these trees, Markham reckoned they would be visible as soon as the sun reappeared through. And the arrival of that would necessitate the removal of the greatcoats that disguised their nationality.

The light broke through suddenly, a shaft of gold filled with thin drizzle. The road emerged like some chimera, first the ghostly movement of hunched bodies, the eye drawn to the rumbling wheels of the indistinct carts. Then there were the colours, uniform coats green and blue soaked through and steaming from the body heat of their owners; hats of all shapes dripping water, the tricolour cockades limp and damp. Markham had seen soldiers like these outside Toulon, part of the
levee
en
masse
that Lazare Carnot, the commissioner responsible for the conduct of the war, had called upon to save the revolution. They had weapons and powder but few complete uniforms. And from what he could recall, little discipline. He scanned the column for officers, but could see none, either mounted or on foot.

Markham knew he had to get to the other side of that road, and into the gnarled forests and olive groves that rose up into the mountains. That meant moving right now, or waiting until nightfall, an unpleasant prospect given the nature of the cover, as well as the proximity of so many soldiers. The fishermen were another worry. They would have stayed out in the bay while the rain poured down, ready to resume their toil once it lifted. Stranded on the beach, or even in the sparse pines, the party would be visible to them. Matters could only get worse as the greatcoats, near black because of the rain, dried out to their more normal grey.

‘Captain Germain. I would want all of our party to remove their oilskins.’

‘The rain hasn’t yet ceased, Markham.’

‘No. But we must get across that road. I want to pretend that you are prisoners, the Monsignor, de Puy, the ladies and servants, plus you, being escorted by a disciplined body of men. If we can get amongst them while it’s still raining, we can march in their midst till an exit presents itself.’

‘The risk is too great,’ said Aramon.

‘Monsignor, the risk of staying still is even greater. What you see before you is an army marching towards the enemy. This could be the very tail of that, or the very tip. At some point they will call
a halt, and the men on the road will disperse into the trees to take their ease and perhaps dry their clothes. You can see for yourself there is no place to readily hide.’

‘I’m not sure, Markham,’ murmured Germain.

There was no time for his finer feelings.

‘And I am. This is land. I will defer readily to you at sea, sir, but not now. I insist that you do as I ask.’

Rannoch, following this exchange had already began to place the Lobsters in position, though not before he’d thrown a questioning glance at his officer, one that demanded to know what the hell they were playing at. But there was no time for any enquiry. Another bright shaft of sunlight burst through the trees as if to highlight the urgency. Markham was looking at Bellamy, whose black face was glistening as much from sweat as from rainfall. That skin would attract attention in a greatcoat. There were Negroes a’plenty in France, some of them in uniform, for certain. Yet they must remain an oddity, and he had to do all he could to minimise the risk of too close attention. The order was received badly.

‘I have no time to ease your feelings, Bellamy, nor to explain my motives. Just do as I ask. You may mingle with Monsignor Aramon’s attendants.’

The huge brown eyes, normally so passive, now flashed with anger. ‘I am not a servant!’

‘We all know that!’ Markham snapped, making a futile gesture to indicate that the rain had nearly stopped. He motioned to Rannoch to move out, then pushed Bellamy out of his position and into the throng of supposed prisoners.

‘But those men on the road will doubt you are a soldier, and may, because of you, look too closely at us. Here, take my pistol and my cloak, then give me your musket and greatcoat. You will then look like an officer. Perhaps you and Mademoiselle Moulins’ maid can act as a couple.’

The offer of that didn’t only mollify Bellamy somewhat, it clearly excited him. He was by the ladies’ side in a flash and Markham heard him suggest that the charade they were engaged in might not be helped by her continuing to carry some of her mistress’s possessions on her head.

He did not get away without a great deal of chivvying from his fellow Lobsters. They did it to allay their own fears of course; they were men who felt very exposed as they were, and probably had a
vision of ending up in some festering French goal. The sun was on the water now, racing towards them as the clouds drifted away. Even Dornan, stupid as he was, knew they had little time. If anything, it was his plea that swung the argument. Bellamy was shot of his outer garments and in amongst the prisoners before they’d moved ten paces. Markham held back for a second or two, examining the group to see if it looked right.

It was an odd assembly; a British naval officer, a high churchman, de Puy’s Bourbon uniform, a young lady in a good quality cloak and the two Negroes. Aramon’s servants were carrying his squat oilskin packages on their backs. Even though they seemed to manage their loads with surprising ease, they looked the most incongruous, and he nearly called for the possessions to be abandoned. Then he realised that it didn’t matter. They were committed; too close to the enemy to effect any changes, so he ran to the front where his knowledge of French would be necessary.

‘Make way, make way,’ Markham called, adopting a guttural accent, which owed more to sounds he’d heard in the Dublin fish market than anything he’d picked up in France.

The soldiers, listless from marching, looked up with scant interest at the approaching party. They saw only the dark greatcoats and tricorne hats of the men at the front marching towards them, muskets sloped, as if on parade. What they didn’t do was provide an opening. Markham cursed under his breath, now sure that he’d been too impetuous. If they halted by the roadside they might never get in amongst the column. They would thus become an object of curiosity to every passing eye. And it could only be a matter of time till an officer appeared, and stopped to demand of them their business.

‘Move aside, damn you,’ he yelled in desperation, as he came abreast of the column, poking forward with Bellamy’s musket.

The reply, even delivered in a foreign tongue, left no one in no doubt where to stick both his anger and the weapon. But he was not going to be deflected, and suddenly inspiration struck. He used, with a dramatic flourish, the one name he suspected, in this part of the world, might just have an effect.

‘Then you will have to deal with Citizen Commissioner Fouquert.’

The reaction was immediate, but wrong. There were men in this column that might struggle to recall the name of the king the regicides had beheaded two years previously. But the most blood-thirsty
tyrants of the revolution should be famous, their names whispered with a mixture of fear and admiration. Robespierre and St Just, even if they were dead, consumed by the guillotine which had brought death to so many of their victims. Fouche, who’d cleaned out Nantes to help quell the revolt in the Vendee and then went on to help Fouquier-Tinville in the butchery of Lyon. The pair claimed to have taken more lives in one day than any other commissioners.

These were the Representatives on Mission from the Committee of Public Safety, whose power exceeded that of the generals who led the armies. Indeed those very senior officers were frequently their victims, forced either to flee to save their necks, or dragged to the guillotine to be executed in front of the troops they’d led.

Here, in the very far south, Fouquert had been that
representative
. He’d engendered the same level of fear as his fellow murderers, first for his actions in Marseilles, then for what he’d done in Toulon once the British had abandoned it. Innocent people, trying to flee, had been pushed into the harbour to drown. At the same time Fouquert had set up the guillotine in the main square, and there presided over a drunken orgy of formal,
quasi-judicial
killings.

To Markham the man was scum, typical of the type thrown up by the turmoil of the Revolution. Initially, he had applauded the way the French had thrown of the yoke of absolute monarchy, and despaired when they’d fallen victim to an even more despotic regime. The fact that the whole of Europe was ranged against them was due to men like Fouquert, who’d risen only by their blind attachment to dubious dogma, added to an ability to inspire fear. He was a killer. And Markham knew from personal experience he was not just that. No political convictions shaped his actions; he was a man who took great personal pleasure in the act. He would decimate this regiment without a qualm. So why were these French soldiers laughing?

At least that flash of humour created a small break in the column, which allowed him, Rannoch and Tully to muscle in, then hold the position until the whole party was on the road, with that same trio now bringing up the rear.

‘What you got, there, friend?’ a still-amused voice called from behind them.

‘
Émigrés
, brother, and a couple of foreigners they’re in league with. They’re all traitors. Take a look at the heads on the swine.
Next time you see them, Fouquert will have them raised on a pike.’

Was it a sudden flash of fear that made Ghislane Moulins stumble, so that Bellamy, and her maid, on either side, had to grab her to keep her upright? It looked like it. And the way that de Puy and Aramon squared their backs added even more verisimilitude to the scene. Tense himself, he was at least in communication with the men behind him. They were not, and would be racked with all the fears that their imaginations could provide.

‘That black pair’ll look a treat. Happen we should polish them up a bit.’

Markham had to jab Bellamy with his own musket then, to stop him from spinning round. Rannoch, in an act that could only be pure guesswork, since he spoke no French, laughed out loud.

‘You could pass us the womenfolk, citizen, both colours. Seeing as they’re going to meet their maker, anyhow, they might as well expire from pleasures.’

‘I heard they’d stopped all that game with the chopper,’ came another voice, the call mixed in with raucous laughter. ‘Ceptin’ for the Jacobins, of course. They got theirs on Thermidor.’

‘Not Fouquert, though. Mind, he’s shitting himself after what they done to those bastards in Paris. He’s a’feart, with good cause, that he might go the same route himself.’

‘Would you to tell him that to his face?’ asked Markham, with a feeling of uncertainty.

‘I would have done if the bastard had hung around to look me in the eye.’

‘Had?’ asked Markham

A third voice called out, louder, carrying more authority. ‘Where have you been, you arse in a greatcoat. Fouquert has been had up, like all the others.’

That produced more laughter, and a question from Markham.

‘He was in Frejus, under arrest, when we passed through there. Now you might not know where the sun rises and falls mate, but I do, and that is behind us. As far behind us as you are behind the times.’

‘Thick ain’t in it mate, they ain’t even got the sense to get out of them coats.’

The sun was high now, beating down on their shoulders, raising steam that had that strange, stale smell which emanated from damp cloth. They’d have to take them off soon, since to wear them
now, in bright sunlight, was madness. And Markham’s mind was whirring for another reason. He had used Fouquert’s name to frighten the marching soldiers, and that had backfired, though the news that he was at risk of losing his own head was welcome. But he had to get away from these men, as originally planned, because another wrong answer could be fatal. There was a gate on the left, a broken affair that led to a muddy yard.

‘We’d best get back to Frejus and find out what is goin’ on. Up ahead there, get off the road.’

Naturally, without any knowledge of French, nothing
happened
. Markham began to swear, and made such a poor fist of pushing to the front of his party that he provoked even more amusement. But he got there just as Halsey, on point, came abreast of the hanging gate. The old man was marching, head down and slowly, having opened up enough of a gap between him and the French in front to avoid conversation. It needed a shove to move him sideways.