A Shred of Honour (18 page)

Hanger was back in Toulon in time for the ball at the Bishop’s palace, bringing with him a welcome
detachment
of Piedmontese troops. Genoa, his first destination and the best hope for a substantial increase in strength, was too close to the borders of France to assist with
anything
other than stores, too fearful that should
Republican
Terror triumph in Provence, as it had in Savoy, then their city state would be first on the list to face retribution.

The French disposed of the two commanders Cartaux and Lapoype, replacing them with General Dugommier, reputedly more energetic, so an assault of some kind was expected hourly, which added to the air of increasing gloom in the town. Several voices raised doubts about going ahead with this public entertainment, which would, of necessity, require the attendance of most of the garrison’s officers. But Admiral Hood was adamant. The palace, lit up like a defiant symbol of Royalist fervour, served to boost morale and the citizenry took their cue from that, so that every major building in the town was equally dazzling.

All this to disguise the truth that the Allies were still heavily outnumbered. The circle of works they held was some fifteen miles in length, which tied up most of their available troops. That made it impossible to mount
offensive
operations, an increasing source of friction with the bellicose Spaniards. Rumours abounded that Gravina, backed up by Colonel Serota, had threatened Hood with a complete withdrawal if his men were denied a chance to attack.

But the figures spoke for themselves. Of a nominal strength approaching 17,000, of which 2,100 were British, the Allies could only field two-thirds of that number. Dugommier outnumbered the beseiged by three to one and was receiving a steady stream of reinforcements, both men and material, on a daily basis. The few soldiers who had arrived from Malta, Naples and Sicily, while welcome, hardly did much to redress the imbalance, though the multiplicity of uniforms, of nearly every
colour
imaginable, added an air of greater gaiety to a strictly social gathering.

Markham, who might have avoided such an event, was badgered by the Rossignols into acting as their escort. Wearing Frobisher’s best uniform again, and shaved by Picard’s own valet, his dark brown hair glistening and tied back with black silk, he awaited the family in the hallway. As they came down from their various rooms he could not help but judge their appearance. Rossignol had set aside the normal solid grey of his profession to don a bright red velvet coat, fringed with gold. His eldest daughter wore elaborate, rather old-style garments, all heavy silk and petticoats. Only Eveline had the figure and looks to carry off the latest fashion. She’d piled her hair high, and had it formed into a mass of tight curls. The Burgundy dress was of a light material, slightly pleated, low-cut and tight-fitting around the bosom and flowing from there to the floor. The whole impression was of some creature from classical antiquity.

The Bishop’s palace stood back from the waterfront at the top of the largest square in the port, a magnificent three-storey building in the classical style, the brilliant illuminations seeming to pierce the air of increasing
Toulonais
gloom. The steps leading up to the entrance were lined with guards dressed in fifteenth-century uniforms. On being announced, Markham could not be sure, when heads turned, how many had reacted to his name, and how many to Eveline’s beauty. Certainly the men they
passed seemed eager to ignore him and extend their
greetings
to her.

Miss Lizzie Gordon, acting as hostess on behalf of her uncle, was close by the entrance. The contrast between her and the French girl could not have been more striking. Her dress was discreet and primrose yellow, which with her fair hair and pale complexion made her look the very image of Anglo-Saxon sobriety. Only her turban, of heavily patterned yellow and blue silk, and fixed to her head by a large pearl-encrusted pin, hinted at
extravagance
. When he bent to kiss her hand, he took his time, gently rubbing her fingertips between finger and thumb. The action, a clear signal of interest, was not
reciprocated
, but he smiled nevertheless as he stood upright, an air of amusement reflected in his eye.

‘I fear your uncle was given a jaundiced report regarding our previous meeting.’

‘He pointed out to me, Lieutenant, that having been in Italy for so long, I was not privy to the latest happenings in London.’

He could just imagine what Elphinstone had said to his niece. Serving in the Russian army wouldn’t do anything for his standing either, since that was generally
considered
to be a refuge for scoundrels. He would have been condemned utterly, with every detail of his liaisons and his duel laid out in all their gory detail, underpinned by a reflection of his status, both his lack of wealth and the old accusation of cowardice. Certainly not a suitable companion for one such as Lizzie Gordon.

‘Such things can be much exaggerated.’

‘Indeed?’ she replied, as though eager to hear how that could be so.

‘Close to, I’m as dull a creature as the next man. I do hope you have space on your card to permit me a dance, Miss Gordon, so that I can prove this?’

‘Of course,’ she replied, flushing slightly. He could almost see her lack of propriety fighting with her sense of
decorum. Part of her was afire with curiosity about the man in front of her. Yet she was also alarmed by his presence, fearful that her knowledge of his reputation as a rake would not protect her. The hint of rouge in her cheeks made his smile even more marked.

‘Good.’ He came forward a fraction, enough to smell the scent wafted upwards by the warmth of her body, his eyes boring into hers. ‘Now, if you will permit me, I have undertaken to escort a family of French refugees. I
cannot
, regardless of my own inclinations, leave them to their own devices.’

The flash of anger cheered him immensely, hinting as it did at an independent spirit, a person who, regardless of their upbringing and education, could be expected to rebel against convention. ‘If they are the people you arrived with, I hardly think the word refugee appropriate.’

That was a statement it was hard to argue with, given their evident affluence. Nor did they lack the social graces. Eveline was surrounded by men eager to catch her eye, and Rossignol
père
was in a heated discussion with Hanger. The Picards were walking around the room, introducing Pascalle Rossignol to the leading citizens of the town, which effectively left him at a loose end. He walked over to fetch a drink, aware that people, seeing him coming, tended to avoid his eye. All except one.

‘Markham, is it not?’

‘Captain Nelson,’ he replied, with a slight bow. He turned to the man with Nelson, a bull-like individual whose ruddy countenance was screwed up in evident disapproval.

‘Allow me to name Captain Troubridge, of the frigate
Castor
.’

‘Sir.’

‘You’re off the
Hebe
?’ he said abruptly.

The tone was unfriendly, the look damning. ‘I am, sir.’

‘De Lisle told me of you. We had dinner, him, myself and his officers, not two nights ago.’

The sarcasm was unnecessary and probably a mistake, but he couldn’t help himself. ‘Alas, sir, as a mere soldier, I can’t hope to dine in such elevated company. Nor could I pretend to match the wit of the
Hebe
’s
wardroom. Why, I’m all envy.’

A small growl started in Troubridge’s throat, but was overborne by Nelson, who spoke as though the nuances of that short exchange had completely passed him by. He patted Markham reassuringly on the arm.

‘I came across this fellow showing his men the art of musketry, Troubridge. He’s a damn fine shot, who’ll see off any Frenchman who comes within range. I daresay he’s a dab hand with pistols too.’

Markham looked at Nelson, to see if there was some kind of warning there for his fellow captain, that
Troubridge
should not react to the quite blatant way this marine officer had put him down. But Nelson’s pale blue eyes held no expression other than a degree of regard.

‘It was edifying to see that,’ he continued. ‘Just as I was delighted to see you taking instruction from your
sergeant
. You are, I believe, an army officer, despite your coat.’

‘He is that,’ said Troubridge sharply. ‘Your notoriety precedes you, sir. I doubt you’d be still commissioned in the navy. That is, if you’d ever had the wit to achieve it.’

‘Hush, Thomas,’ said Nelson. Then he turned back to Markham. ‘I fear we sailors hold ourselves a cut above Bullocks.’

‘So I have observed,’ Markham replied, glaring at Troubridge. ‘Though nothing I have experienced warrants it.’

Nelson laughed. ‘We do have some cause. We’re all obliged to serve our time as mids’, studying the art of what we do. And we’re examined, which makes us feel very sure of ourselves.’

Markham was just about to list the fields of battle on which he’d been examined, but the other naval officer spoke first.

‘Hood,’ said Troubridge softly, responding to a sudden commotion by the door.

The commander-in-chief stood there, surrounded by all the senior officers, admirals British and Spanish, and generals from all the nationalities, surveying the room. Mulgrave was missing, having been indisposed for days by a bilious attack. Regardless of the splendid uniforms that surrounded him, his air of authority was obvious. After a few bows to those he recognised, he stepped forward into the throng, the good burghers of Toulon rushing eagerly to engage his attention.

‘Like pigs at the trough,’ said Troubridge.

‘An unkind allusion, Thomas,’ said Nelson before turning back to Markham. ‘My good friend has little time for our hosts.’

‘They’re Frenchmen, aren’t they? God knows, Nelson, I’ve heard you curse that race enough.’

‘We must, I think, count as a friend any man who resists the Revolutionaries. They, after all, are the enemy.’

‘You’re dissembling,’ Troubridge growled. ‘You’ve no more patience with our presence here than I have.’

‘Captain Troubridge maligns me, Markham,’ replied Nelson, without rancour. ‘He is of the opinion that we should never have landed in the first place. He feels that rather than defend the place we should have destroyed it, burnt every ship that we could not man, then sailed away.’

‘An opinion I thought you shared.’

‘I admit a degree of ambivalence.’ He indicated Hood coming their way, and finished his sentence quickly before turning to face the admiral. ‘And since the responsibility does not rest with me. I’m content to obey my orders.’

‘Nelson, Troubridge,’ said Hood, before turning to look at Markham, standing to attention by their side.

‘Good evening, sir,’ Nelson responded, following the
admiral’s look. ‘May I present Lieutenant Markham, of the
Hebe
. He is the fellow who destroyed the guns at Bregaillon, the first time the enemy set them up.’

‘Are you, indeed?’ demanded Hood, which made the object of this abrupt question turn back to face him. His eyes had been on Nelson, who’d behaved, up till now, as though he didn’t really know George Markham from Adam. Clearly that wasn’t the case. And if he knew about the attack of the Batterie de Bregaillon, he knew about everything else.

‘The operation failed,’ said Troubridge. ‘The Dons lost half their men and the guns were back in place before nightfall.’

‘But it was exceeding gallant, Thomas, was it not?’ These words were spoken without Nelson taking his eyes off the admiral for a second.

Hood nodded. ‘I suppose it was, Nelson.’

‘I think that sentiment would be best conveyed to the officer involved, sir.’

‘I daresay he can hear me at this range,’ growled Hood.

Markham was embarrassed as Hood passed on.
Clearly
he’d responded reluctantly, which left Nelson beaming with pleasure. Sam Hood was notoriously reserved, and apparently not given to praising anyone if it could be avoided. Nelson had forced the remark out of him for what seemed like his own amusement.

‘If you will forgive me,’ Markham said, as the band struck up, ‘I have several dances booked.’

‘How lucky you are, Markham, to be so accomplished that the fair sex queue up to dance with you. It is not a skill that I have mastered.’

He nearly blurted out the question of which skill Nelson was alluding to. But the warm smile, at once both so ingenuous and deep, stopped him. He bowed again and turned to leave, finding himself hemmed in by the crush that followed in Hood’s wake. As he eased a way through he heard Troubridge admonish his friend.

‘You baited Hood, there, Horatio, and he won’t forget it.’

‘Good!’ Nelson replied emphatically, in a voice very different to the one Markham had heard up until now. ‘Perhaps he’ll learn that a little recognition goes far, and cease to be so damned stiff.’

‘What do you think of this rumour about a Bourbon Prince coming to help us hold Provence?’

The reply Nelson made to that was lost in the babble of conversation that surrounded Markham. On the other side of the crush he saw several men leading ladies onto the dance floor, Eveline and Miss Gordon amongst them. He also noticed a party of Spanish officers leaving, and wondered idly where they were off to. Several brothels existed in Toulon, as they did in any port. For all their rigid decorum, and deep religion, it looked as though these men preferred such places to an organised ball. Normally he was of the same opinion, and in his mind’s eye he could not avoid conjuring up the memories of some of the better bawdy houses he’d visited. On
balance
, London was better than St Petersburg. Madrid, he suspected, being a pious Catholic city, was the most comprehensively served in that respect.

‘What are you smiling at, Lieutenant?’ asked Pascalle Rossignol.

‘The music, mademoiselle,’ he responded hurriedly, well aware that his true thoughts would shock her to the marrow.

‘It affects me in the same way,’ she replied, adding a coquettish look.