Honour Redeemed (10 page)

‘Sir.’

Markham replied automatically, as the realisation of the whole nature of this interview dawned on him. It was Dundas who’d requested his attendance at this gathering. Perhaps not everyone at the table had been informed of his speculations. Certainly the second in command, d’Aubent, had seemed perplexed on more than one occasion. But many had, including Hanger and very likely Nelson. There was a certain amount of amusement to be had from two things: their different interpretations, allied to the collective behaviour. In possession of a secret so comprehensively shared, they seemed debarred from any open allusion to it, which could only mean that such an act would be perceived as a breach of faith.

Dundas was determined, even if he was prevented from saying so, to blame the whole Fornali fiasco on the presence of Corsican traitors. It then followed that the same forces were at work as the French retreated. No great leap of imagination was required to see what effect that would have on any future operations. The General would have a perfect excuse to sit on his hands, regardless of what Hood urged on him. The wily Scotsman really didn’t expect exposure from Hood’s guests. He was just stalling, putting on pressure to compensate for the stress he was under himself, creating more obfuscation to avoid a prospect he abhorred: that he should be obliged to march on Bastia without the required troops or supply train.

‘Captain Serocold,’ snapped Hood, ‘take the lieutenant out and talk to him about that other matter.’

Markham saw Hanger’s face move then, and he was in no doubt about what the admiral was referring to, which was confirmed as soon as they were on the maindeck.

‘Captain de Lisle has asked that you be brought before a court martial for disobedience of specific orders, gross insubordination and a failure to honour his rank.’

‘I’m aware of that, Captain.’

‘Hood is against it,’ Serocold replied, his saturnine complexion as hard as his dark eyes. ‘He feels sure that, if he asks your captain, he can get him to drop the matter.’

‘Why would he do that?’

‘He knows that the Army’s after-action reports concerning the taking of those field guns have diminished the role of the fleet marines in the affair, in favour of the deeds of the soldiers. According to the information he received privately, you and your men behaved well.’

‘Who told him, sir?’

‘I’ve just said it was private.’

‘With respect, Captain Serocold, I should advise the admiral against interfering.’

Serocold smiled then, showing good teeth through the heavy black growth on his chin. ‘That’s not a set of words I’d care to put to someone like Admiral Hood.’

‘I mean it, sir. Or at least let him enquire as to what witnesses Captain de Lisle intends to call.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘If Colonel Hanger is listed, in order to blacken my character, then the admiral will face an embarrassing rebuff.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it will confirm that Captain de Lisle is merely acting on the Colonel’s behalf.’ Serocold was looking into his eyes, a stare that Markham returned, one that told him that the naval officer knew all about his past. Suddenly Serocold grinned.

‘That will only make the admiral more determined. The Army have never been high on his list of favourites, and after the list of objections and excuses they gave him today they have sunk to a new low.’

Leghorn, full of British civilians, from exiles to Grand Tourists, was just one day’s sailing away. As soon as news of the capture reached the Italian mainland, it seemed
every one of them wanted to visit the place. Corsica, which rarely figured on the list of places interesting to rich and spoiled travellers, had suddenly become fashionable. Markham, when he came ashore from
Victory,
landed on a San Fiorenzo quay full of babbling visitors, each one trying to negotiate accommodation and porterage with the locals. Several officers’ wives had also come ashore, to be whisked away to quarters already requisitioned from the previous, now departed, French occupants.

San Fiorenzo was an occupied town, but for the British that had to be applied with a light hand, the native islanders being very touchy about their honour. Orders had already been issued that no liberties were to be taken with women or property. This applied to officers as well as the men, who were told that any perceived insult could be on pain of a knife in the ribs. The Corsicans were held to be a lawless breed, addicted to the vendetta, who would act first and face the consequences of committing murder second.

Markham, lacking clear instructions once the battle was over, could easily have gone back aboard
Hebe.
Instead he chose to seek a billet on land, in an abandoned sail loft. Rannoch and the men had quickly set to and turned the place into a home from home, while Halsey, on his officer’s instructions, had raided the commissary for the supplies they needed to sustain themselves, using the confusion which still reigned to acquire rations for three times the number of men actually in the unit.

With their ship on an independent cruise, such abundance had persuaded the Seahorses to stay put; what they would live off ashore was much better than the rations they would receive aboard their host ship. But they kept themselves apart from the Hebes, while Bellamy found himself shunned by both groups, and so occupied a corner of the loft all of his own. If this bothered him, it didn’t show, his black countenance a mask of seeming serenity, this no doubt aided by the ample provender with which
he was able to satisfy his hunger. When Markham realised just what that consisted of, he had immediate words with Rannoch.

The Highlander was sitting over a small open stove, heating his bayonet, before running it down the seams of his coat to kill off any eggs left by lice. He was sanguine. ‘We only have to be concerned, sir, if a Provost Marshal or an angry local comes to our door.’

‘Which they will do shortly, given what that pair have brought in.’

Quinlan and Ettrick, despite the strict rules governing nefarious activities, had got hold of two kegs of the local wine, plus most of the carcass of a recently slaughtered pig, several hams and a coop of live chickens, claiming that these luxuries had been retrieved from abandoned French stores.

‘He knows how to stuff himself, does Johnny Crapaud,’ said Ettrick, when Markham challenged them. ‘Their storehouses was bursting at the seams.’

‘And unlocked,’ added Quinlan, who was a master at opening closed doors, his eyes angelic in their innocence.

It couldn’t be true, and Markham knew it, since the locals would have stripped any warehouses, padlocked or open, the French left behind long before the British occupied San Fiorenzo. But he was loath to enquire too deeply, because what the two men had done would see them at the end of a rope if they were found out.

‘You took a risk, did you not, carting this lot through the streets?’

‘Never in life, sir,’ protested Quinlan. ‘We got Dornan to do the humping, him and that darkie you rescued.’

‘Suitable work for the pair of ’em,’ added Ettrick, with a loud sniff, ‘though I take leave to doubt whether Dornan, dense as he is, would take kindly to bein’ ranked with a black.’

‘Just make sure whatever you have got is shared equally.’

‘There’ll be a capital dinner for you, your honour, if’n you want one.’

‘I’m dining aboard the flagship, Ettrick.’ When he saw the two men raise impressed eyebrows, he continued, ‘Believe me, I’d rather eat here. The company will be more congenial.’

‘Right kindly said, sir,’ replied Quinlan, in a wry tone. ‘But given that you’re goin’ where you’re goin’, it be just as well that we rescued that marine officer’s chest.’

‘Abandoned, like,’ added Ettrick.

‘What abandoned chest?’

‘The one in your billet, sir,’ Ettrick replied, pointing to the screened-off corner in which someone had made up a cot. What little kit he had was in there, resting on top of a polished chest. Even at this distance, Markham could see the bare patches which had, no doubt once held engraved brass nameplates. ‘As luck would have it, there are proper uniforms in there, marine ones, with good shoes and clean cambric shirts.’

‘Where did you get it?’

‘I told you,’ said Quinlan, ‘we found it abandoned. No doubt some local tried to filch it, an’ had to scarper when he saw us hove into view.’

‘There was no way to identify the true proprietor, your honour. And seeing it was marine kit, and you was short on the necessaries to look the proper part, we thought we’d fetch it back for you. If you’re to dine on the flagship, it seems we’ve had a stroke of real good fortune.’

Bent over it, examining the contents, Markham was wondering what he should do with them. They were not his, and it wouldn’t be too difficult to find the true owner, since there weren’t many marine officers ashore. That reminded him of his own troubles. If de Lisle and Hanger had their way he wouldn’t be a marine much longer himself. And the men would have a new officer to deal with, which for their sake was probably just as well. But
thinking of appearing before a court softened his initial resolve to find the real owner.

Though hardly a dandy, George Markham liked to dress well, the evidence of which had been in the chest he’d had to abandon when he fled aboard
Hebe
at Chatham. If he was going to face a court martial, it would be nice to appear before them in smart attire. When he was acquitted or found guilty, he could return these clothes to the officer who’d either lost them, or had them stolen. He held up the red coat, a beautifully cut piece of fine, soft broadcloth, with white facing, collar and cuffs, edged with braid that, like the fouled-anchor buttons, gleamed invitingly.

That was how Midshipman Bernard found him, causing Markham to drop the coat and shut the sea-chest abruptly. A quick call for a glass of wine was necessary to cover his confusion – a temporary alleviation, as it recurred when the youngster remarked on the outstanding quality of the drink. His host, taking a deep and satisfying gulp himself, quickly demanded an explanation for his visit.

‘I have tried, several times,’ the boy said, ‘to tell Captain de Lisle that I will not testify against you, sir. But my courage fails me at the last moment.’

‘No wonder, Mr Bernard. You’re risking everything for someone you hardly know.’

Bernard held his position entirely at the whim of his captain. There would be a connection, of course, some person who’d exercised the influence that had got him his berth in the first place. Markham resisted the temptation to ask the boy if that someone was powerful enough to check de Lisle’s anger. If he was, Bernard would know it already and be less concerned.

‘Besides,’ Markham continued, ‘if called before a court martial you will be asked to tell the truth. That is something you can hardly avoid.’

‘I could show confusion.’

It wasn’t necessary to actually lie, since what he said next had a grain of truth in it. ‘A waste of time. “Spotted
Dick” will call all the ship’s officers, as well as the purser. I’ve said enough damning things in their presence to make your testimony superfluous.’

Bernard smiled at the use of de Lisle’s nickname. ‘He goaded you, sir.’

‘It has to be said, Bernard, that it didn’t take much.’

The boy stood up, trying to add as many inches to his slight frame as he could. ‘I wish to apologise to you, sir, for any previous occasions when my behaviour has been less than polite.’

‘Sure, I don’t remember being too polite when I was your age,’ Markham replied.

‘Nevertheless, sir, in someone who aspires to be an officer and a gentleman, it is unbecoming.’

‘Just make sure you do become that, boyo, for it is something I have never yet managed. Answer the questions you’re asked as a gentleman would, and I for one will be content. More importantly for you, so will Captain de Lisle, and the rest of the Navy you’re so anxious to serve in.’

The marine lieutenant who had himself rowed out to
Victory
looked smart enough to attend a levée at King George’s court. He was shaved, powdered and pomaded enough to turn the odd head as he made his passage, and again when he came aboard the flagship. He felt a twinge of guilt at his love of attention, while at the same time being well aware that his height and bearing gave others good cause to look in admiration. And dressed in another’s clothes, for all the world like a theatrical costume, he set out to act his way through the forthcoming ordeal. Not least to show people like de Lisle and Hanger, who were bound to be present, that he didn’t give a fig for their malice or their intentions.

‘Ten minutes I was out of that damned villa,’ barked a bucolic-looking marine captain, ‘doing the honours in the article of meeting my dear cousin from Leghorn.’

The man half turned to include the lady, plump and overdressed, his eyes straying to his nearby fellow officer as he did so, quite unable to avoid the up and down look of a man who’d just been robbed. Markham realised suddenly that, before telling him about the chest, Ettrick and Quinlan, by means best not inquired into, must have already altered the rank insignia.

‘They’re a desperate crew, Metcalf, the Corsicans,’ replied another guest. ‘Take your eyes and come back for the holes, I’ve heard.’

‘Corsicans be damned. The cook I inherited was absolutely certain that the men who climbed my walls were redcoats. This is the work of some thieving Bullocks.’

‘Are you sure it wasn’t your own man?’ asked another.

‘He was down at the quay, to warn me of my cousin’s arrival. It was a damn shame; had he been there he would have shot the sods for certain. He hates the Army even more than I do.’

Markham had been rooted to the spot throughout this exchange, having seen the look in Metcalf’s eyes. He could also see the coat the captain was wearing, a touch like his own old garment, worn in places and showing traces of the stains of battle. He turned away abruptly, only to find himself under scrutiny from a pair of pale blue eyes under a burgundy silk turban.

He’d already taken in the low cut of the matching dress, and the promise of pleasure barely concealed, when the lady spoke.