Honour Redeemed (6 page)

‘I don’t think, as a service, sir, we have to apologise to anyone, especially King George’s army.’

Markham didn’t know Nelson well. If asked, he would have put him down as the co-operative type, more inclined to flatter a bullock officer than put him in his place. But he’d done just that in reminding Hanger that, if you excused the odd hiccup, the Navy had enjoyed almost continuous success in war for a hundred years. The way Hanger responded was typical, since he wasn’t the type to stand condescension from anyone, and in doing so, he pricked on the greatest running sore in recent inter-service history.

‘Not even for Chesapeake Bay?’

Markham, standing close to the scarred face of his old enemy, had a sudden vision of that campaign in the Carolinas. Of his own personal pain, mixed with the memory of the successes that General Cornwallis had enjoyed before being forced back, through lack of supplies and reinforcements, and his own casualties. Yorktown, the base he expected to hold, turned out to be the point of surrender, Cornwallis and his men trapped between the more numerous Continental Army, and a French fleet that the Royal Navy had been unable to dislodge.

‘I daresay your new marine lieutenant remembers,’ Hanger continued, glaring at Markham.

‘I remember, sir, how the army behaved. Or, at least, the cavalry of Tarleton’s British Legion.’

Hanger reddened then, and Markham was about to continue, to elaborate on some of the disgraceful activities, not least rape and murder, that the British Legion had indulged in. But Nelson, unseen by Hanger, was shaking his head, in a way that looked like a direct order to desist. Luckily, Markham saw the black face, so obvious against the white canvas on the passing stretcher, which gave him an excuse to comply.

The men carrying the stretcher were heading to the point set up by a Navy surgeon, a temporary field hospital under an awning. The sawbones was already working with his assistants on those wounded in the attack. His
detachment, both Hebes and Seahorses, well fed and rested, had formed another party under Rannoch’s command to help with the unloading of the naval guns.

‘With your permission, sir,’ he said, addressing Nelson.

The captain followed his eye, then nodded. ‘Carry on, Markham.’

Hanger hissed angrily again, and as he left them he could hear the colonel still complaining bitterly about his behaviour, a litany that his naval contemporary seemed determined to absorb in silence. Markham caught up with the stretcher, to find Bellamy suffering from a blow to the back of the skull that had probably rendered him unconscious. Now he was moaning softly, his eyes glazed and unfocused as he rolled his head back and forth.

Recalling what had happened during that attack, Markham could only remember one man standing to the rear of Bellamy, and that was Rannoch. The idea that his sergeant had inflicted such a blow was hard to believe. Certainly the Highlander was tough and uncompromising. But he was also, to Markham’s certain knowledge, the type to care for any man placed under his command.

‘What happened to you, Bellamy?’

‘Don’t know,’ the Negro mumbled. ‘Something hit me.’

Markham was crouched over him as they entered the shade of the awning, examining the wound more closely. Several inches long, the cut showed through the tight curls, which were matted with blood. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though the marine had taken a hard blow from something very like the butt of a musket. The men carrying him put the stretcher down at the end of a row of casualties. Judging by the number, and the state of their wounds, it would be some time before the surgeon, bloodstained, cursing and swearing as he worked, would get round to this particular patient.

‘Water, please,’ he called to one of the loblolly boys, tending to those waiting as well as the men who’d already been under the knife. The sickbay attendant, a scarecrow
with sunken cheeks, carried a leather water bucket and a ladle. He came over and looked down, first at the round black face, then at the officer. Markham reached into his uniform and produced a purse.

‘Take this,’ he said, holding out a couple of shillings. ‘And make sure he’s looked after till the surgeon’s ready.’

‘Thick skulled, them darkies,’ the man replied, shaking his long, skeletal face as he indicated the gash on Bellamy’s head. ‘And lazy, from what I’ve observed in the Sugar Islands. Scrimshanking, most like, and could get up and tend to himself if he had a mind.’

‘He needs stitches in his head, and someone to make sure his skull isn’t cracked.’

‘Then he’ll be here till doomsday, what with Mr Lewis lopping off legs and arms. Welsh he may be, but he’ll not put no blackamoor afore one of his own. He’ll be lancing boils before he gets round to this creature.’

Markham looked at the surgeon’s back, at a filthy grey shirt streaked with the dark stain of excessive perspiration. To appeal to Lewis would probably be counter-productive. All he could do was leave Bellamy here, and drop by occasionally to see if he’d been treated. He stood up, passing over the coins.

‘Then make sure he doesn’t die of thirst.’

‘Happily,’ the loblolly boy replied, lifting his leather bucket and tipping it over Bellamy’s face. The Negro sat up suddenly, shaking his head, and cursing in an unintelligible tongue. The medical attendant looked at Markham triumphantly, with a toothless grin. ‘See, I told you he was lead-swingin’, didn’t I just?’

‘Which ship are you off?’ Markham demanded.

‘Agamemnon.’

‘Then I’ll have you know that your captain is a personal friend. So if you don’t want to find yourself out of this cushioned billet, digging trenches, you’ll do as I ask.’

‘I’ll take care of him, all right, your honour,’ the man replied, completely unabashed. Then he laughed, exposing
his gums again. ‘Can’t let him pass over, can I. If a sweep brings you luck with a dirty face and hands, stands to reason this crow will bring on double.’

‘Markham!’

He recognised the voice well before he turned to face Captain Richard de Lisle, the commanding officer of the
Hebe.
Standing in the entrance, against the white bright sand, he was no more than a tubby silhouette. Small, compact and a stickler for his
amour
propre,
he didn’t realise how such a position demeaned him.

‘Sir.’

‘I watched you disobey your orders coming ashore, and Bernard has confirmed that your deviation was deliberate. And what am I subjected to the minute I myself land? Colonel Hanger giving me chapter and verse about your damned insubordination.’

‘Have you, sir?’ Markham replied. He felt suddenly weary, too tired to stand to attention. The sun might be deflected by the awning, but the breeze had fallen away and the late afternoon heat was trapped and stifling in the confined space. Lanester’s food, which had revived him originally, was now inducing its own post-prandial torpor. Normally, facing de Lisle, he stood rigidly to attention and never looked the man in the eye. This was not through fear, but from a desire to avoid the little smirks that touched the captain’s lips every time he delivered one of his insults.

Forced to weigh anchor from the Nore with the rest of the fleet, and told that he would have to take soldiers aboard to make up for his lack of proper marines, de Lisle had hit the cabin roof when he’d found out the identity of the officer who led them. He was careful to avoid the word bastard, having already discovered such a barb might cause Markham to strike a blow. But there were plenty of other cracks in his locker for an illegitimate rake, a known duellist who clearly lacked two guineas to rub together. That applied even if his natural father had been
a full general, since dead parents had no influence. Hints that Markham was a Papist, and should never have been given a commission in the first place, surfaced often, as did references to what had happened in the American war, during and after the Battle of Guildford.

If George Markham had withstood these insults with seeming fortitude, it was only through long exposure. There had hardly been a time in his life when he’d not been vulnerable to such gibes from some source. His parentage, when he was a child, had been no mystery. With a wealthy Protestant father not married to a middling Catholic mother, he’d fallen foul of both religious groups, an outsider to one and a traitor to the other. That had at least taught him to fight from a very early age, especially since Sir John Markham refused to follow the practice of his ascendancy peers and ignore his very existence.

He not only acknowledged George as his child; he visited both him and his mother regularly, and such was his standing locally that he forced others to acknowledge them too, though the fact that they resented the need was ill disguised. School in Dublin had been little better than Wexford. He’d known peace when Sir John, as Governor of New York, had taken him to America, and allowed the boy to revel in the life of a Headquarters brat. To be gazetted an Ensign in the 65th foot was a dream come true, and he’d marched to war against the colonists, head high and proud. But that had all ended in his first real battle.

If relations with the ship’s captain had been bad from the start, they were now even worse. Hood’s intention to allow him a marine commission had sent de Lisle into a towering rage, during which he’d written an intemperate letter to the Admiral. The reply, couched with equal severity, and including a reminder to the captain of a 24-gun frigate of precisely where he stood in the naval hierarchy, had first cast him down. But it wasn’t too long before it caused him to redouble his efforts to undermine the person
he blamed for the whole affair, a task in which he was aided by every other officer aboard the
Hebe.
Personal dislike was now supported by the belief that Markham had, by making the Admiral angry, blighted all their prospects.

‘I await an explanation, sir,’ snapped de Lisle, dragging Markham back to reality.

‘I did what all my experience suggested was correct, sir. If that displeases Colonel Hanger it can only be because he is ignorant of war, or a damned fool. I suggest you speak to either General d’Aubent or Major Lanester, who will give you a true appreciation of what we achieved.’

‘According to Colonel Hanger, you sat uselessly on the enemy flank until the army attacked and took the French field guns. Then you appeared out of the woods when the enemy was in retreat, and it was safe to do so.’

‘And you, sir, like a fool, believed him.’

‘How dare you speak to me in that tone! Might I remind you that you carried the honour of my ship in your actions? And once again you appear to have been found wanting.’

Markham blew then, the strength of his voice seeming to move the still air under the awning. ‘The honour of your vessel, sir, is akin to your own, and would not comfortably reside in a flea carried by a ship’s rat.’

‘You will withdraw that remark!’

‘No, sir, I will not.’

De Lisle didn’t shout in reply. In fact, his voice was soft and silky, as if he had achieved some prior purpose. ‘You will consider yourself under arrest, Lieutenant, until such time as I can convene a court. Colonel Hanger may not be able to haul you before the judgment of the Army, but given your present status, I will be able to see you brought before a naval hearing. I’ll see you damned, Markham, as much for what you are as for the gross insubordination which you have demonstrated since we left Chatham.’

‘Did Colonel Hanger hint at a reward for this, or actually promise you something tangible?’

De Lisle reacted as though he’d been slapped. Yet, once that shot in the dark had been fired, it was so obvious. His captain was a climber, with all the attributes of the type, which included an ability to sacrifice both principles and people to ambition. Hanger was very rich, and well connected in both London and the Mediterranean. At home, he caroused in the company of the Prince of Wales. Here, he’d lately become betrothed to Lizzie Gordon, the niece of another man of influence, the recently ennobled and promoted Admiral Lord Keith.

‘I should be wary of him, Captain de Lisle,’ Markham continued. ‘Colonel Hanger has the morals of a snake.’

‘I doubt your opinion of his moral standing would impress the colonel much.’

‘This arrest, Captain. Does it confine me to the ship?’

‘No, it does not,’ snapped de Lisle. ‘We are far too short-handed to have you skulking in your cabin. You may go about your duties. And if there is a god for a heathen like you, then perhaps he will see fit to arm a French ball to take off your insolent head.’

‘There won’t be one for you, sir. They do not have sufficient range.’

The silhouette turned sideways, and de Lisle spoke softly. ‘Mr Bernard.’

The midshipman was outside, in the sunlight. Markham wasn’t sure, as the boy stepped into view, if his face was red from excessive heat or embarrassment. And he kept his eyes resolutely on the face of the captain, not willing to engage those of the marine officer.

‘You will have overheard every word exchanged here?’ said de Lisle.

‘Sir,’ the boy replied noncommittally.

‘Good,’ the captain responded, unaware of Bernard’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘You will be called at Mr Markham’s court, and you will be asked to repeat what he said.’

The silhouette was square-on again, but Markham didn’t have to use much imagination to put a smirk on the pasty round face. ‘We will see if half a dozen naval captains take kindly to the notion of a marine officer of this ilk. One who disobeys orders with impunity, and chooses also to call his commander’s bravery into account.’

‘Don’t leave out your motives, sir,’ said Markham.

‘Have you turned in your army commission yet?’

‘Yes,’ Markham lied.

De Lisle, knowing how strapped he was for cash, must have supposed he’d done so. After all, he’d come aboard at Chatham with the bailiffs on his heels, further evidence of his raffish nature. Not that a lieutenant’s commission was worth much, especially in a normal line regiment like the 65th. What the captain didn’t know was that the commission in question was the last gift he had had from his late father. Since Sir John had died while he was serving in Russia, his half-sister Hannah had demanded back every penny that his natural father had gifted him. Even if he had no use for it, he’d keep that commission till his dying day.