A Shred of Honour (12 page)

From amongst the stream of near incomprehensible babble, he understood that the problem this time was a fire. Picard dragged him through the doorway, his voice now turned to a whine as he explained that his men had lit an open fire within the warehouse, which, given the
timber construction, the age of the building, and the fact that the wood was dry, was dangerous enough. But as Picard had supplied the French navy with combustibles, gunpowder, flares and inflammable spirits, which were stacked on the floor above the soldiers, such an action threatened to blow them all to Kingdom Come.

Markham made his way to the stairs, requesting the civilian to wait for him, and ascended to the first floor. The smell was obvious before he’d climbed a single step, a fragrance of burning wood, hot gun oil. Then, up closer, what seemed like the acrid odour of fiery metal.

Emerging on to the first floor, he was struck, once more, by the way that his men had turned it into a version of their own favoured accommodation. The Bullocks had constructed a replica barracks on one side of the double doors, with beds made of boxes and straw stuffed into empty sacks, while the Lobsters had slung hammocks on the other, and lined their limited possessions neatly against the wall. Given a day of rest after all their toil, it was hardly surprising that most of the beds and
hammocks
were occupied. Nor did it shock him that none of the occupants saw fit to leap to their feet just because he’d arrived.

The glowing brazier stood between the two sets of accommodation, by the open double doors that
overlooked
the quay. Rannoch was bent over it, working on something, his broad back drenched with sweat that stained his calico shirt. Markham approached gingerly, curious to see what this man was doing. At his feet lay a short metal tube, very like part of a musket barrel, and a primitive pair of scales, with a rod attached to a tripod, an empty pan at one end, and a brass ball at the other.

Schutte and this Highlander still occupied their respective ranks. If they were going to return to being soldiers instead of navvies, that needed to be sorted out. The Dutchman had come into the marine service as an alternative to residence in a prisoner-of-war hulk. As
dense as he was bald, prone to sulk, with only his uncommon strength, added to a brutal nature, to
recommend
him, he would never earn the respect of both sets of men. But Rannoch was different. He was certainly insubordinate, but there was nothing bovine about his actions or his words. They were calculated, always just on the edge of an unpleasant truth. Markham was sure he could discern, in those green eyes, the workings of a brain, without being sure whether he was seeing evidence of mental prowess or low cunning.

‘You will not mind if I do not get to my feet,’ said Rannoch, in his slow, clear way.

‘I’ve long since given up expecting any disciplined behaviour from the likes of you,’ he snapped in reply, wondering how the Scotsman had known, without
turning
round, that it was him. ‘It’s my misfortune to be burdened with you, something I intend to change at the first opportunity.’

‘If you can make it on solid earth, I will not complain.’

Markham had come close enough to see over the
sergeant’s
shoulder. He’d placed a tin ladle into the brazier, with several musket balls. Markham watched as the lead slowly melted. As soon as it was liquid, Rannoch lifted it out and poured the metal slowly into a hinged mould, which had half a dozen bowls on either side. The spare lead was tipped into a tin mug, and after waiting for a moment until the metal started to set, Rannoch gingerly picked the first hot ball out with a pair of pliers, then plunged that into a bucket of water by his leg. The metal hissed, sending a cloud of steam into the low rafters. After a second, the sergeant took it out, opened it,
exposing
the now formed ball to view, before tipping it into the bucket, there to cool completely. He repeated this until the main mould was empty.

‘Monsieur Picard is somewhat upset about the fire.’

Rannoch, who was loading more musket balls into his
tin ladle, looked round and grinned. It was the first time Markham had seen him show any pleasure, let alone smile, and the change was pleasing. But it didn’t last. It was a fleeting thing, soon gone. He reached into the bucket, produced a dull grey ball, scraped the flakes off the edges and held it up.

‘Well tell him that when his friends come to chop off his head at the neck, on that infernal toy they use, he might just be thankful for me doing this.’

‘Douse it,’ snapped Markham. ‘Get the men on their feet and downstairs.’

Rannoch picked up the metal tube lying at his feet, and as he stood up he slipped the musket ball into it, holding it up to the light. Then he tilted the tube so that the ball ran through it, to land in his waiting hand. The bellow that followed, delivered so close to Markham’s ear, achieved what was intended. It roused the soldiers, and made their officer jump.

‘On your feet, you lazy, heathen bastards! We are off to the war again.’

‘Schutte, Halsey,’ shouted Markham. ‘You too. I want you downstairs in full equipment in five minutes.’

Rannoch was gathering his tools, in a leisurely and infuriating way. After a quick glance below, to make sure the quay was clear, Markham hooked his foot around the leg of the brazier and tipped it out of the open door.

‘If you don’t get a move on, the bucket will follow.’

The Highlander suppressed his anger very well, pulling himself slowly to his full height. For a moment Markham thought he was going to hit him, and prepared to jump back out of reach. But Rannoch just looked at him hard, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion or respect.

‘It would be a pity to do that, now. Those balls, they are measured to perfection, barring the weight. They have a home to go to in the flesh of some poor soul.’

The way the sergeant was looking at him, Markham suspected that some of the flesh might be his. He spun on
his heel and made his way downstairs, reassuring Picard on the way that his warehouse, as well as his combustibles, were now safe from a conflagration. Crossing the inner courtyard he caught sight of Eveline at one of the upstairs windows. She waved to him and smiled invitingly, which made him curse the duty that removed any opportunity to follow up and find out just what lay behind the look.

As he passed the small salon he heard Madame Picard talking slowly and deliberately, as if to herself. Curiosity made him push the door open further. The boy sat on a stool, looking at her with that bland lack of expression that he’d had the day he’d first seen him. She, with a reverential air, was kneeling in front of him, holding a large book of colourful drawings to the boy’s face, saying ‘mama’ and ‘papa’ over and over again.

With no children of her own, Madame Picard had taken to the boy, spending much time in his company, no doubt engaged in the very same activity he was now observing. Such maternal feelings in a woman who lacked, to his knowledge, much natural compassion, was good to behold, proving that even the most hardened breast was home to finer feelings. Markham found
himself
staring at the embossed gold and red background of the book’s cover, thinking that both she, and the doctors, had made very little progress.

Suddenly aware of his presence, Madame Picard spun round, her puffy, pale face full of consternation. She snapped the book shut with a resounding thud and
started
to get to her feet. The boy looked round slowly, his handsome, sallow countenance registering no emotion as he too saw the soldier in the doorway. Markham opened his mouth to apologise for the intrusion.

‘Pardon, monsieur.’

He reacted to the voice behind him, for all that it was soft and respectful, like a man caught at a keyhole. Celeste stood with a tray in her hand, a steaming bowl of soup lying alongside a hunk of bread. Markham had seen
even less of her than he had of the others these last weeks. She had lost some of the hunted air he remembered from the day they arrived, and any physical scars she bore had long since healed. But she was painfully thin, her olive skin rather translucent, giving her an undernourished air.

‘Celeste. Are you well?’

She curtsied, her body moving while the tray stayed still, her long dark hair dropping to her waist. ‘Perfectly, monsieur.’

‘And you are comfortable?’

‘Yes.’

He decided to take the ritual reassurance for what it was, a desire to avoid discussion. He stood aside to let her enter, his eyes following her as she passed him. Her body was beginning to develop, though fate had made her a woman before nature had the chance. Her hips seemed larger, swaying under her loose dress, something which he realised he was examining with surprising dispassion. One day, he thought, she’d be an attractive young lady. Not a beauty, but very pleasant.

For the first time, as she approached the centre of the room, he saw the boy react to another human being. His lips moved in the merest ghost of a smile. But the deep eyes, so much more expressive than any other part of him, looked pleased. And they followed Celeste as she passed by to lay the tray on the table, in such a way that Madame Picard could not avoid barking at her. Celeste put the tray down and bobbed a hurried curtsy before running out. Looking back into the room he saw that the old lady, her position challenged, was angry. But he noticed that the boy, for just a fraction of a second, looked sad.

The distant clash of boots and equipment reminded him of his duty, and he rushed off to change into his army uniform coat. He had no idea what Hanger had in mind for him and his Hebes. But it would be unpleasant and very likely dirty work, not something that would do Frobisher’s best outfit much good.

‘If you look over yonder, Markham, you’ll see a pair of masked cannon.’ Hanger turned to include Serota, who sat on a horse by his side, in the conversation. ‘That is the newly constructed Batterie de Bregaillon, manned with field guns that have a part of the harbour in range.’

Serota coughed softly, covering his yellowing face with his hand, as Markham swung Frobisher’s small telescope in an arc from the hill called La Seyne to the south, through the freshly dug defences in front of the northern heights, to the great bight of water to his rear. He’d met plenty of emigré French officers in Russia who’d waxed lyrical about the advances their country had made in the use of artillery. The armies of the Revolution had
certainly
surprised everyone by the ferocity and mobility with which they used their guns at Valmy. But none of that applied to what he could observe in front of him now.

‘I can see that they don’t have a hope of either
bombarding
the dockyard, the basin, or closing off the entrance to the Petite Rade, sir. And even if they did, two field guns hardly constitute a serious threat.’

Hanger glowered at him, not wishing to hear the
obvious
. That, in truth, Cartaux had sited this artillery too far away from the centre of activity to do much harm. Any ship that wanted could engage these emplacements by shifting their moorings. But for all practical purposes they were offensively useless.

‘The only thing they have done,’ Markham continued, ‘is to deny us a site we had no intention of occupying anyway.’

‘How do you know that?’ asked Serota. The answer was so obvious that Markham merely shrugged, throwing a glance past the Spaniard’s horse to the regiment of soldiers he’d brought forward from Fort Malbousquet. Caught between coughing and speech, Serota’s next words, which he tried to deliver with a flourish, exited his throat in a wheeze. ‘They impugn our honour.’

‘We can’t have the buggers getting the wrong idea.’ growled Hanger, more prosaically. ‘I think they should be taught that if they leave themselves exposed, they’ll be punished.’

‘With respect,’ Markham replied, trying hard to keep his voice even. ‘It’s a bad idea to throw away men’s lives. The best way to show the French we’re not fools is to leave that battery alone. And since we’re in range, and not under fire, I daresay the man commanding those field pieces thinks exactly the same.’

‘If you wish to decline the honour, Markham?’

The hope that he would shone in Hanger’s eyes. For Markham it would be a further loss of face. As an officer he had every right to reject such an order, and if
admonished
, ask for a court of inquiry to vindicate him. But with his past that would be a sure way to invite
retribution
for what many perceived as his past errors. It would allow Hanger to air, publicly, every detail of what had happened at the Battle of Guilford, to say
outright
that any other group of officers than one convened by his natural father would have found him guilty of cowardice.

But he was not being asked to assault these positions on his own. The Spaniards, a Catalan regiment, he could do nothing about. But the Hebes would have to attack with him. Even a military novice could see that such an assault couldn’t be undertaken without risking serious casualties. To give himself time to think, Markham
re-examined
the ground. Between the shoreline and the guns, it was dotted with gentle hillocks, making it, by
Toulonais standards, relatively flat. But it was still nearly a third of a mile of open country, with little in the way of cover. On the extreme left, it was grassland, and that ran right across the front of the embankments protecting the guns, providing a perfect avenue for an attack by cavalry. Where the ground began to break up there were a series a small hillocks, a few trees and some gorse.

To the very right, where his men were assembled, lay bad infantry country, rising steadily towards the
mountains
inland, broken and hilly, dotted with fallen rocks, which would make an ordered advance impossible.
Ideally
, they should have brought forward artillery to subdue and distract the guns, thrown out a cavalry screen to the left to suppress any mounted counter-attack, and brought up enough infantry to convince the French commander that discretion, and withdrawal, was his best course.

A pure infantry attack would only convince the same fellow that his enemies were mad. Advancing in line, they would have to cover over half the distance without firing a shot. Then, at extreme musket range, they could open up with a volley that might do no more than make the
gunners
duck. To stand still and reload would be marginally less hazardous than rushing the guns, always assuming that enough men survived to attempt it.

‘Why the delay, Markham? Is this the way they do things in Muscovy?’ That made Markham turn around sharply. He’d kept very quiet about being on foreign
service
aboard the
Hebe
, and since Hanger had come from Naples he could hardly be aware of any gossip prevalent in London. The Colonel was grinning at him, glad to see that his remark had caused surprise. ‘I know all about your Russian service, Markham. And it’s the right place for someone like you.’

Clearly Hanger didn’t know everything, how that
service
had ended. ‘It will give me great pleasure to hand your men over to another officer, one who has a little fire
in his belly, a proper soldier who will not embarrass me in front of our allies.’

As Hanger stared at him, Markham was trying to work out more than a method of attack. He was wondering why he should care about his mixed command of Lobsters and Bullocks, who had so comprehensively undermined him when he was forced to take over from Frobisher. At Ollioules he suspected that someone had taken a shot at him. And in the final assault their tardiness, up against a better equipped opponent, could have cost him
everything
. The improved atmosphere that had surfaced when digging trenches was no guarantee that when called upon to fight, they wouldn’t revert to their previous behaviour.

Occupied with his own thoughts, the words he heard were slow to filter through. But they did eventually, and the conclusion was sobering. The same men would be used to attack the batteries regardless of his
participation
. Hanger would sacrifice them, and the life of another officer, just to see him damned.

‘Well?’

Markham looked at Serota, hoping that in those eyes he might see some common sense. But the face was expressionless, leaving him to wonder if this madcap idea, in which the Dons would suffer many more
casualties
than the British, had been his or Hanger’s.

‘I accept.’

Serota coughed, which in another man would have sounded like surprise. Had he hoped that Markham would decline, giving him an honourable way to do the same? Hanger, grinned, his pleasure so profound that it turned the long, ragged scar on his face white.

‘It’s an interesting reflection on the nature of
cowardice
, Markham, that a man can actually be more afraid of a refusal than a bayonet in his guts.’

‘I’m always willing to follow you, Hanger.’

‘Colonel!’ he yelled, startling the Spanish officer at his side, busy signalling for his own men to get to their feet.

‘Not to me.’ Markham replied coldly. ‘I think of you as a bully and a murderer, a man who’s a disgrace to the uniform you wear. I don’t suppose Salisbury was the only town you burned. No doubt you’re fit for service in some Maharajah’s Indian rabble.’

‘I see your game,’ said Hanger, struggling to control his temper. ‘I’ll not call off our portion of the attack just to see you court-martialled for insubordination.’

‘I never thought you would.’

‘Line up your men.’

‘My orders, if you please?’

Hanger pointed his riding crop towards the French guns. ‘You’re to attack that position, taking station to the right of Colonel Serota’s Spaniards. And if you cannot capture the cannon, destroy them.’

‘In writing.’

‘Most happily, Markham,’ said Hanger, reaching into his saddlebag for the necessary materials. He scribbled quickly, tore off the page, and handed it over. Markham took the slip of paper, turned on his heel and marched over to where his men were gathered. As usual the marines were in one group, the soldiers in another, but both were eyeing their allies warily, as the Spanish officers bullied them into untidy lines.

‘Gather round, all of you. I want to talk to you.’

They looked at each other, suspicion evident in almost every eye. In the world they inhabited, afloat or ashore, officers shouted at them, if they bothered to address them at all. They certainly didn’t engage in cosy chats like this one was suggesting. Markham waited patiently, watching the nudging and shoving that was needed to make some men move.

‘Come along, Lieutenant,’ shouted Hanger, ‘get them lined up. We haven’t got all day.’

Markham ignored him, his eyes still on his reluctant command. Because of that, he picked up the first sign that they had a common purpose. Every eye that flickered
in Hanger’s direction held a degree of hate in it that, undisguised, surpassed anything he’d ever had directed at him. He’d been about to issue some words of encouragement, but that suddenly decided him to tell the unvarnished truth.

‘Both those Colonels over there, the British one
especially
, would like to see us killed.’

‘Then he is no different to most officers,’ said
Rannoch
, the lilt of his Highland tone so at odds with the venom of the sentiment.

‘No,’ Markham replied, looking straight into his eyes. Instinct told him that if he could convince this man, he might at least carry the soldiers with him. The marines, especially Schutte, were another matter. ‘I don’t suppose he is. But his particular reason for doing so is to spite me, not you.’

‘That is none of our concern.’

‘Unfortunately it is, Rannoch. He’s selected us to take part in an attack on those French guns. If I don’t lead you then another officer will, someone who hasn’t got the sense to see that the whole affair is unnecessary, nor the wit to realise that the ground between us and them is no good for a standard infantry assault. Any line trying to march across that terrain will be in tatters before they get halfway. It’s a job for skirmishers.’

‘Which we are not trained for, in case you had not noticed.’

‘Then you’d better damn well learn,’ Markham snapped. ‘And just in case you’re thinking of being shy, then I can tell you that redcoat Colonel is aptly named. You’ve seen him in action. He loves to watch a hanging almost as much as he likes the idea of seeing me dead. He’ll dangle the lot of you from a rope, and grin from ear to ear while he does it. And that will be after he’s treated you each to a thousand lashes.’

‘Fuckin’ officers,’ said Tully, ducking his head to avoid being seen by Markham.

Markham mimicked Hanger’s gravelly voice, so
accurately
that half his men looked at the colonel, wondering how he could sound so close. ‘How right you are, Tully. I’ve no time for most of the sods myself.’

Several of his men gasped audibly. Those who’d been looking at him turned away. Yet they declined to engage any other eye, lest by doing so they indicate agreement. But underneath that were one or two faint negative murmurs, which might just mean that perhaps they were beginning to see him differently.

‘There is of course one way to get out unscathed. Put a ball in my back and trust that your retreat will be seen as a panic instead of cowardice.’

‘Are you going to be much longer, Markham?’ Hanger shouted. The Catalan regiment was lined up, ready to begin the advance.

Markham’s reply was even louder. ‘If you’d care to lead us yourself, sir, I’m sure my men would, like me, consider it an honour. They admire valour in an officer.’

Rannoch laughed, a clear indication that he
understood
the nuances of what was happening better than his fellows. They, less sure, joined in only to avoid being seen to have missed a joke. Markham was grinning himself as he turned back to face them.

‘That shut his trap, sir,’ said Yelland.

‘We have no choice, sergeant,’ he said to Rannoch, the grin turning earnest very easily.

‘I do not suppose we do,’ he replied, fingering his musket.

Markham’s hand swung and his finger jabbed as he issued instructions that might just keep some of them alive. ‘We’re not going to form a line, but move forward in two groups. Stay off that clear ground to the south. Let the Spaniards occupy that, so that they draw the
defenders
’ fire, as well as any cavalry. Use the terrain and stay low. They won’t ignore us, no matter how tempting a target the Dons provide. Hide when you feel you can, then
advance when the fire shifts to another target. Above all, keep moving forward. Any man who gets stuck, and tries to avoid the fighting, I’ll probably hang myself. We’ve got to cover at least four hundred yards before we can fire a shot. I will signal extreme range. Don’t blaze off at
anything
you don’t think you can hit. If you haven’t fired a musket lying down before, you’ll find it’s actually a lot easier to aim it. Use the ground to rest the muzzle. Don’t reload until you can find cover to stand upright.’

His mind was racing, trying to convert a complex military operation into a few simple orders. Really, it would come down to common sense. Those who had the wit to see the way to fight would employ it, those who didn’t would either take refuge or die. At least, dispersed, they might not be subjected to salvoes of case shot, something they’d certainly face if they attacked in line.

‘Right, we’re going to move off in two groups, the Sixty-fifth to that run of hillocks on the left, marines to that dip at the foot of the hill nearest the guns. Rannoch, you will lead the Bullocks, and I’ll take charge of the Lobsters.’

There was a pause, with Markham wondering if Rannoch was considering refusal. But his expression, followed by the slow nod, demonstrated that he saw the sense in what was being proposed. The men Markham had brought to France were a rum bunch. But whatever training they’d had, it was in land warfare, which was not the case with the bulk of the marines.