A Shred of Honour (11 page)

After a brief stop in Dublin, he headed for London, that being the only place where a man like him could hope to secure a prosperous future. A wiser head would
have taken cheap lodgings, and conserved his limited resources, realised his predicament and patiently sought opportunity. But soldiers rarely possessed that attribute, and George Markham was no exception. As an officer in the Russian army, when not actually campaigning, he’d lived in some style. Habit combined with inclination. He believed that in order to achieve prosperity, it was
necessary
to show some.

He’d always had an attraction to the theatre, though never the boldness to appear professionally, and that brought him into contact with some of the leading
players
of the day. These people, with their lack of hypocrisy regarding birth or fortune, seemed natural companions, and opened doors for him that might otherwise have remained closed. That stratum of social London was only too happy to embrace George Markham. Tall, good
looking
and an excellent mimic, gifted with an Irish tongue, and the wit to match. Credit and good company were readily available to a man who’d just helped Great Catherine defeat the Turks. There was gaming, eating, drinking, riotous companionship and, of course, in a world full of aspiring or successful actresses, women.

‘If you’ll wait in here, Miss Gordon,’ said Driberg. ‘I’ll tell your uncle you’ve arrived.’

‘You are kind, sir.’ Markham sat up straight. The female voice was light and sweet, redolent of an English summer, roses, apple trees, the buzz of insects in a field of corn; the ingénue, perhaps, in a comedy of manners.

‘I cannot say how long Captain Elphinstone will be,’ Driberg continued. ‘He’s engaged in a conference of some importance.’

‘It is exceedingly warm. If I could trouble you for some form of liquid refreshment, something cool, I am happy to wait.’

Markham was on his feet before she was through the door, tugging and brushing at his uniform in a vain
attempt to remove the creases caused by the heat, and the stains that even the best efforts of Picard’s servants had failed to eradicate. She stopped as she saw him, her pale eyebrows raised in delicate surprise, her lips slightly
parted
. With his practised eye he took in the attractive quality of her clothes, the chaste nature of their cut, and made a fair guess at the graceful figure they concealed.

‘Lieutenant Markham, Miss Gordon, at your service.’ Her eyebrows went up a fraction more. ‘I heard
Midshipman
Driberg address you so. Have I made an error?’

She smiled slightly. ‘No sir, you have not.’

‘And did I hear him refer to Captain Elphinstone as your uncle?’ She nodded, as he continued. ‘A fine sailor, ma’am. It is an honour to serve under him.’

Her eyes took in the state of his apparel in one swift glance, seeming to register each point where dirt or sweat had stained it. His face was examined by pale blue eyes, the small, fresh cut from Ollioules first, then the more obvious old one above his eye, finally coming to rest at the poorly-sewn tear in the sleeve made by the French bullet.

‘Might I suggest this chair to you? Being by the
window
, it takes whatever breeze is to be had from the sea.’

For the first time, she frowned slightly. ‘I’m content to occupy another, Lieutenant.’

‘I feel I must insist, just as I also need to apologise for the state of my dress, which I’ll own, is pitiful.’ He tugged at his coat again. ‘I have come straight from fighting the enemy.’

‘You have been in battle?’

‘As soon as I came ashore your uncle ordered it so. We stopped the French at Ollioules and forced them to withdraw.’

‘How splendid, Lieutenant,’ she cried, clasping her hands.

‘I might add, that we would not have enjoyed quite such a successful outcome if it had not been for the timely support of Captain Elphinstone himself.’

Markham was operating on instinct, Hanger and the problems he portended suppressed by the sudden arrival of this attractive creature. Her skin was pale and her hair fair, the whole set off by the deep cream of her hat and dress. The blue eyes, under their near-white lashes, were of a startling intensity, her nose straight above the full, slightly moist lips. He felt alive as well, the thrill of the chase taking over from whatever worries had preceded it. Nothing demonstrated that more than the way his remark regarding Elphinstone, the complete opposite of his true feelings, tripped glibly off his tongue.

‘That is a most gallant thing to say, sir,’ she purred, her bosom drawing his gaze as it heaved with pride. But the eyes didn’t linger, Markham sensing that this girl was too chaste to appreciate such attentions. ‘I shall tell my uncle that you said it, which will please him, I’m sure.’

‘I admit to some surprise at seeing you here, Miss
Gordon
. Toulon, under siege, is hardly the place for such a gentle creature.’

Her eyes flashed slightly. ‘I am not to be deflected by a few Jacobin rogues, Lieutenant Markham, any more than you are. When my ship was diverted here I could not countenance passing on to Gibraltar without seeing Uncle George.’

‘Why, Miss Gordon, your uncle and I share a name, something of which I was unaware.’

He leant much closer as he said this, but was forced to withdraw quickly as the door opened. Driberg returned, followed by a servant bearing a tray. He looked from one to the other, as though sensing, in the way that interested parties sometimes do, a form of connection. Such a thought didn’t please him, and he frowned as he directed that the tray be placed on the table. The servant departed, but the midshipman showed no signs of doing so,
stopping
to pour the drink. Markham had spared him no more than a glance, eager to see how this development affected the girl. He felt a thrill of satisfaction as the two
thin lines appeared just above her nose. But they soon disappeared, to be replaced with a ravishing smile as Driberg delivered the drink, a smile that made the young man blush to his roots.

‘Lieutenant Markham has been telling me about his battle,’ she said, turning to smile at him. ‘At Ollioules, did you say?’

‘I was there too, Miss Gordon,’ the youngster replied eagerly, ‘ranging the guns from the church belfry.’

‘Indeed?’

‘Why if it hadn’t been for my efforts, I beg to represent that there would have been no victory.’

Markham had to suppress a grin as she frowned, this time heavily, adding several more grooves to the lines that had previously creased her forehead. ‘That is a touch at odds with what I’ve heard already, sir.’

‘I do assure you it is the case, Miss Gordon.’

The way she looked at his pristine uniform, then glanced at Markham’s, spoke volumes. ‘Odd, sir, that this officer, who so nearly sustained a fearful wound by the look of his coat, was good enough to praise my uncle.’

‘I was under his command, of course.’

‘Which,’ she snapped, ‘makes the victory his, not yours!’

Markham felt a stab of guilt as he saw Driberg’s face fall. Eager to impress, he’d been both boastful and forgetful.

‘Midshipman Driberg behaved most gallantly, Miss Gordon. His ranging of the cannon was masterly, and contributed greatly to the ease with which we routed the enemy.’

The eyes that swept his face, as Driberg looked at him, contained such a depth of gratitude that he felt like a louse, a feeling made worse by the reaction of the girl.

‘That is a most noble thing to say, Lieutenant,’ she added in an arch tone. ‘One that sets an example for others to follow.’

Driberg bobbed rather than bowed, his cheeks even redder, and shot out of the door, leaving Markham to speculate that the youngster probably thought his attempt to aid him had been a ploy to further undermine him. The episode had dented the feeling of burgeoning intimacy that had existed before Driberg entered. Markham set himself to recreating it, content to listen while Miss Gordon recounted her recent adventures.

‘Naples itself is a cesspit, yet the surrounding
countryside
is delightful, full of antiquities.’

‘Did you visit the excavations at Pompey?’

‘I would have done, sir, had they not been
recommended
to me by that odious creature, Lady Hamilton. I can only assume, that if she recommended them, they must be of such a lewd quality as to be unfit for the decent to peruse. She disports herself semi-naked to be viewed by any passing rake or poltroon, in what she calls her attitudes. How someone who acts as His Majesty’s Ambassador could have brought himself to wed such a creature escapes me.’

‘I know the lady by name, though I’ve never met her.’

‘Then, sir, you are fortunate, for she is nothing but a common whore. No amount of finery or education can disguise it.’

Emma Hamilton sounded, to him, like a diverting creature. He was just reflecting that the seduction of such a prig as Miss Gordon would add a great deal of spice to the contest when the door burst open. Hanger stood there, his eyes fixed on Markham with a look full of hate.

‘Why Colonel Hanger, allow me to introduce …’

‘I know this man, Miss Gordon, thank you,’ he growled. ‘And you, Markham, obviously require to be reminded of the custom of standing up in the presence of a senior officer.’

Markham got to his feet with slow deliberation, determined to convey to Hanger that his action was mere convention. The girl was slightly flustered by the turn
matters had taken, and spoke, when she really should have stayed quiet.

‘The good lieutenant has been in the thick of things.’

‘He has that,’ snapped Hanger, his eyes still on Markham. ‘And in twelve years nothing has changed. He was a coward then and he’s still one now.’

‘You will withdraw that,’ said Markham coldly.

‘I will not, and before you threaten to call me out I would remind you of our respective ranks.’

‘If you wish to take refuge behind your commission …’

Hanger cut right across him, his voice rising to a shout that made the girl cringe. ‘Don’t use that word to me! Not you. The only commission you deserve is to lead a detail digging latrines. And since I intend to stay here, I’ll make sure that shovelling shit is all you get!’

‘Colonel Hanger,’ Miss Gordon spluttered.

‘Your pardon, ma’am,’ he replied, without a trace of apology evident in his voice or manner. ‘But this
specimen
before you deserted his post.’

‘But he told me …’

‘Lies. He was ordered to hold at Ollioules, but he ran before a bunch of disorganised deserters. If you don’t believe me, Miss Gordon, you may ask him yourself. And while you’re at it, ask him about a place called Guilford, in North Carolina.’

He was gone before she could open her mouth, her eyes on the empty doorway where he had stood. ‘Well. I must say I shan’t be sorry he’s no longer aboard our ship.’

‘No.’

She turned to look at him, and he could see she was dying to ask him if what Hanger had said was the truth. But her nerve didn’t hold and she took refuge in an aside. ‘Mind you, for all his coarse manner, he is said to be exceedingly rich.’

With that, she turned and looked out of the window, effectively killing any atmosphere, or vestige of
familiarity
, which had existed.

For the first time in an age, Markham and his men were not required to dig at some point on the Toulon
perimeter
. The material might not have been as Hanger described, but the shovel was in use for weeks after the remark. It was backbreaking work, hacking out soil that had turned to a rock-like consistency after the long, hot summer months. When the sun wasn’t shining it was cloudy and humid, often with a hot southern wind to add to their discomfort. Only the arrival of full darkness brought the longed for orders to return to their billets. But all that toil had one positive advantage. It served to level out some of the ongoing differences between the two groups of men, their mutual antipathy tempered by shared exhaustion. That this did not include their officer, whose task it was to supervise and direct their efforts, was only to be expected.

Markham drove them hard. They were up before dawn, and on their way to the workings with the sun still low in the eastern sky. When not digging trenches, throwing up glacis or building revets with lengths of timber, they were called upon to haul naval guns, these heaved out of the French arsenal and manhandled up to the various bastions nearing completion. With too few men, Lord Mulgrave, who had arrived to take command of the British troops on the ground, could mount no offensive operations.

Nor did the Spaniards, for all their bellicose
statements
. Gravina’s troops showed as much inclination to dig as their commander did to fight. They also caused
mayhem in the city, robbing civilians and assuming any Frenchman who looked them in the eye deserved a sword in the guts. But it was their treatment of the women which led to numerous heated exchanges between British and Spanish officers, some of which, at the lower levels, threatened to come to blows. At ranker level, fuelled by cheap drink, they often did. Hanger, who had been given equal status and a shared responsibility with Colonel Serota, had the pleasure of stringing up several men of both nationalities. A Neapolitan contingent, brought in by Captain Nelson, proved even more of a liability. Indeed, only the dilatory nature of the French advance allowed the allies time to complete their outworks.

Events at the Picard house proceeded in their own way, though fortunately all their kit, including Frobisher’s trunk, had arrived. During his fleeting visits, Markham heard that the doctors continued to make progress with Jean-Baptiste, but never catching sight of the boy he had no way of knowing if this was true or false. Contact with the other members of the family consisted of nothing but the polite exchanges attendant upon an officer who was either consuming a hurried meal, sleeping, or leading his men off to their labours. His conversations with Rossignol were snatched affairs, his glimpses of Eveline momentary, both laced with moans from Monsieur Picard about the various infractions, real or imagined, made by his men.

But this morning was different. He had time to take more care about his dress, raiding Frobisher’s possessions to ensure he turned out at his best. While shaving he noticed that his face had thinned, some of the fleshiness he’d acquired in London now gone, making his nose, high cheekbones and square jaw slightly more
pronounced
. The stone that had hit him at Ollioules added another small blemish. Touching the tiny scar revived the memory of that battle and the consequences.

He still wasn’t on the kind of terms with those he
commanded that he would have liked. Some of the things he’d done – saving Leech, getting them out of Ollioules, and his care of the wounded – had softened the outright hostility of most of the men. They moaned continually, as soldiers do, but sometimes aired their complaints
within
his hearing, which was a very good way of indicating that they didn’t see him as the cause. Some, like Yelland, were quite friendly, though in his case it was in his nature. Halsey was efficient and Schutte cautious, both of them working the men hard. Rannoch had emerged as a
natural
leader, a man whom even some of the Lobsters responded to.

‘And he,’ he said to his image in the mirror, ‘wouldn’t give George Tenby Markham an inch. And sure, why the hell should he?’

Hair trimmed and freshly washed, he donned clean linen, snow-white breeches, the long waistcoat and the shoes with silver buckles. Frobisher’s red coat was of the finest material, thick, smooth and perfectly tailored. He put the bronze gorget around his neck, adjusting it so that it sat right between the broad white lapels. The burgundy silk sash was tied around his waist with special care, so that both ends hung down an equal length from the knot. He used one of the dead marine’s cambric handkerchiefs to give a final polish to the royal device on the silver buckle, before slipping it, and the sword it carried, over his head. Gold-trimmed hat under his arm, he took one last look at himself, and left.

Wearing good clothes put an extra spring in his step, so he was slightly disappointed that no-one else was about when he came down to take breakfast. The servants informed him that Madame Picard was with the boy, her husband down at the quay supervising the unloading of a newly arrived cargo, while the Rossignol girls were still abed. Their father had, it seemed, left the house at the very crack of dawn.

As he made his way to the Fort de la Malgue, there to
receive his orders, he was aware of a slight chill in the clear morning air, an indication that autumn had arrived. Before entering the portals of the fort, he stopped to adjust his hat and coat. Perhaps because of its newness it seemed very strange, and felt a good deal heavier than his own. He’d appropriated the uniform without being absolutely sure that he was entitled to wear it, even with the rank tabs adjusted. Yet he soon discovered he was not likely to stand out in the unfamiliar apparel. The entrance to the military headquarters was full to overflowing, with well-dressed officers of all three nationalities crowding into the corridors, eager to find out anything they could about the state of the siege.

The sight of Rossignol, edging his way through the throng, was a surprise. The Frenchman stopped when he saw him, his eyes holding a startled expression. Then those same eyes took in the uniform, so much more becoming than the grubby clothes he’d appeared in these last weeks. A small bow followed, and he pushed his way past some gorgeously clad Spaniards to talk, as expansive and confident in his manner as Markham had ever seen him.

‘I have just had the good fortune to be appointed as a sutler to your forces. I am, of course, acting as an agent for our host, Monsieur Picard. Am I to assume by your finery, Lieutenant, that you too have prospered, that your life as a mole is over?’

‘I wouldn’t swear to it, monsieur. It very much depends on what your fellow countrymen do.’

‘Please do not refer to them as that,’ Rossignol replied, with some distaste. ‘Those Republican canaille are scum. It is my fond hope that you and your allies will drive them back into the gutters whence they came.’

‘That’s rather unlikely,’ said Markham.

Rossignol frowned. ‘But I’ve just spoken with two of your officers, one a British colonel. He and the Spaniard, Serota, assured me that Toulon is safe. That troops will
be poured in over the next few months and that you will, when ready, take the offensive.’

Markham hesitated before replying. His first thought was that the only British army colonel in the city was Augustus Hanger, a man he’d managed to avoid since the day he arrived. His only sighting had been the distant one of the man on his horse, supervising a multiple execution, which all troops had been obliged to attend as a form of warning. The next thought was that Hanger had lied to Rossignol. Though it was never openly stated, the British were not here for either Toulonais or Bourbon honour. It was the fleet that provided the bait, and if Admiral Hood could have manned the ships, he might just have sailed out of the anchorage and left the city to its fate. But he couldn’t. The sailors didn’t even exist in England to
provide
crews for the seventeen line-of-battle ships that the French had ready for sea, let alone the other fourteen either refitting or under repair. And if the sailors were not available, neither were the soldiers. In its long history of conflict between the two countries, Britain had never had enough men to invade and conquer France.

Despite his loathing of the man he had to admit that, given the military situation, it was a perfectly natural thing for a soldier to do. The last thing the occupying army wanted was despair or panic amongst the
inhabitants
, most of whom had adopted a wait-and-see attitude. Reasonably safe, they were in for a long haul. But telling them that would not keep them calm, secure,
co-operative
and prepared to advance goods on credit.

But most curious of all was the simple fact that
Rossignol
had got to see people as elevated as Hanger and Serota in the first place. A glance around the courtyard showed numerous officers of a higher rank than himself waiting to be ushered in to see some staff member. Yet this Frenchman, with no official position that he knew of, who was merely seeking a trading concession, had taken precedence over the lot of them.

‘I’m afraid the officers you spoke with have been too sanguine, monsieur.’

‘How so?’ Rossignol snapped.

Markham ignored the rude tone, enjoying the
sensation
of undermining Hanger too much to care about that or the consequences of replying. ‘We’re outnumbered at present, by a margin of perhaps eight to one. I admit that the enemy have not been active, but that is a situation which cannot continue. They have access to the whole of France for supplies and reinforcements, while we must fetch everything we require by sea.’

‘But we are close to them, Naples and the like.’

‘I wouldn’t go putting too much store in the
Neapolitans
. If their ability with a musket is anything like their use of a shovel, they may prove more of a liability than an asset.’

‘There will be troops from England.’

‘Did Colonel Hanger tell you this?’

‘Yes.’

Markham shrugged. ‘He is, of course, privy to
information
that I do not have. But I would point out to you that England is many hundreds of miles away, and may have commitments that are more important than the retention of a French naval base.’

He knew he’d gone too far and opened his mouth to say so; to remind the Frenchman that Toulon, given the topography, was near impregnable. Rossignol didn’t give him the chance. Spinning round, he barrelled his way out into the courtyard, then stopped outside the gates for a moment, examining the harbour full of shipping. Then he slammed his cane angrily into the cobblestones, before stomping off in the direction of the Picard house.

A commotion behind him made Markham look round. The knot of officers had parted to allow their
commanders
through. Judging by the scowls on their faces, and the distance they seemed determined to maintain, they had little common purpose. Markham tried to
shrink back into the stone wall as he saw Hanger, more through dread of what he might do or say than any
physical
fear of the man. But Elphinstone spotted him. His face creased as though he were trying to place Markham, then, recognition seemingly dawning, he walked over and addressed him. That didn’t bother him half as much as the fact that Hanger followed.

‘You’ve changed your coat, as well as your breeks!’ barked the Scotsman, looking him up and down. Then he leant forward, brow knitted, to examine the coat buttons, which bore the fouled anchor device of the marines.

‘I have, sir. It is my understanding that I have been transferred from the army.’

Elphinstone’s thick eyebrows shot up in surprise, though he looked amused rather than angry. ‘Never in life, laddie. It takes more than a scrawl by some Bullock colonel to make a marine officer.’ He must have realised that Hanger was close by, within earshot, and that the words he used were rather insulting, since he continued quickly. ‘Have you and your Hebes been assigned any duties?’

‘No, sir. That is why I came here this morning, to receive my orders.’

‘If I could have them for my mobile reserve, Captain?’ said Hanger, stepping forward, his cold eyes fixed on Markham’s face. ‘I’m sure I can find them suitable employment.’

He opened his mouth to protest, but Elphinstone, unaware of any reason to refuse, was too quick. ‘Make it so, Colonel.’ He made to walk away, then turned back to face him, his eyes suddenly as cold as those of the soldier. ‘I understand you made advances towards my niece, Markham.’

‘Hardly advances, sir. We engaged in a brief conversation.’

‘That is not the way it was told to me. Miss Lizzie Gordon is a bonny creature, and a trifle unworldly. Not
for the likes of you, upon my word. Your reputation as a rake is as public as your other handicaps, sir. You will kindly assure me that, should your paths cross in the future, you will stay out of her orbit.’

He opened his mouth to deny both the accusation and the restriction. But Elphinstone wasn’t finished, though he spoke so softly that only Markham could hear him.

‘“That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me
bastard
.” Laertes to the king, I believe. I told you I never forget a face. And I well remember the way you got that scar above your eye.’

It spoke volumes, that line from
Hamlet
. He racked his brain for a reply. But Elphinstone had already turned away, exposing, behind him, the bland innocent look on the spot-covered face of Midshipman Driberg.

‘Take your Hebes to the Fort Malbousquet, Markham,’ snarled Hanger. ‘Wait for me there.’

‘Upon what duty, sir?’

The green eyes bored into his. ‘Whatever I choose to command. But it will be warm, that I do assure you.’

Picard caught him before he’d made it to the warehouse door, his thin frame shaking with rage and his hands held high in a gesture of apparent despair. It had been like this ever since they’d taken up residence, a constant stream of complaints directed against his men and the way they behaved. Markham didn’t miss out on the irony, didn’t tell this ageing French merchant that, though many of them had mellowed, any strictures from him were more likely to be ignored than obeyed. Really, he couldn’t comprehend why Picard didn’t throw them all out, leaving them to find another, more suitable billet.