A Shred of Honour (21 page)

He lay back on the bed, his mind in turmoil. There was a mass of questions he could ask, but would he receive either truthful or satisfactory answers? Celeste wouldn’t speak to him, though she had the ability to answer
questions
. But that would mean interrogating her, and somehow that seemed wrong. Eveline Rossignol was the only person in the house he was really close to, the only
one who could give him the truth. Still thinking of her, and how difficult she’d find it, naked and in his arms, to do otherwise, he fell into a troubled sleep.

If Rossignol had been up late, it didn’t show in either his face or his manner. Nor, for all his consumption of wine, did he appear to have a hangover. He was as hearty as ever at breakfast, gabbling away at Markham and the Picards, whose presence hindered any form of
interrogation
. This left him wondering where the girls had got to, while another layer of his thinking ran over the events of the previous night. The cold light of a November morning made everything seem less suspect.

Toulon was a seaport, therefore there would be smuggling. Lurid articles appeared in the English and Irish papers about smugglers; their collective will and desperate methods to avoid taxes. Of how every port in the land was honeycombed with tunnels and secret doorways so that the Excise officers could be evaded. How even the most apparently upright citizens in the town would be at the heart of the trade, prepared to murder to keep their secrets. Why should France be any different? Looking down the table at the tall, skeletal figure of his host, he saw Picard in an entirely new light.

And Rossignol, full of bluster and confidence, who’d taken on the task of dealing with the Allies on Picard’s behalf. Did that include the provision of scarce luxuries? Little imagination was required to guess at the level of nefarious trade going on in an occupied naval base. There were many commodities at a premium, and that was a sure recipe for underhand trading. With half a dozen nationalities, this would be a busy market. The British were no saints, officers or men, but they paled in
comparison
to the Spaniards when it came to corruption. And they in turn couldn’t even begin to hold a candle to the Neapolitans.

And what about Eveline? Had she found his room empty? Was that why she and her sister were so late to the table? Pascalle entered at that very moment, wafting in all directions her usual cloud of heavy perfume. Her eyes were bright and her smile, somewhat enigmatic, was aimed at him, which made his heart jump. But she turned and spoke to her father.

‘Poor Eveline is indisposed, Papa, and has asked to be allowed to stay abed.’

‘A doctor?’ he inquired.

‘No doctor is needed. It is but a woman’s thing.’

Rossignol sighed with understanding, as Markham cursed under his breath. Was Pascalle telling the truth? It seemed unlikely, given that the previous night at dinner, Eveline had done everything in her power to indicate what the pair of them could look forward to. He
struggled
to remember the last occasion on which she’d been indisposed, but the date eluded him. Why had she encouraged him, when he’d been without her charms for over ten days? It seemed cruel, a thought which was immediately followed by remorse. In his experience, many women showed their greatest desire just before the peak of their cycle.

Reluctantly, he realised that he must either quiz Celeste, or put some direct questions to Rossignol. Of the two he preferred the latter.

‘Time for me to be off,’ said Rossignol, pulling himself to his feet. When he saw the look of surprise in Markham’s eye, he clearly mistook it for inquiry and responded accordingly. ‘I have taken to daubing a
painting
, which will stand as a representation of the siege. From the very top of the Grosse Tour, the whole of the landscape, harbour and hill, unfolds as a perfect panorama.’

‘Indeed?’ Markham replied, recalling the sketches he’d seen last night.

‘Land and water are not a problem,’ Rossignol
continued, ‘but the ships, with their intricate rigging, are the very devil. I’m a total amateur. But it provides pleasure and passes the time agreeably. I hope that the day provides you with as much joy.’

‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you.’

If Rossignol picked up the tightness in Markham’s voice, he didn’t respond. His voice was full of a warmth that precluded evasion. ‘As soon as I return, Lieutenant. You will, I trust, be coming back here this evening?’

‘Yes. Today will be taken up with further training.’

‘My word, Lieutenant,’ asked Pascalle. ‘Are your soldiers not proficient enough?’

The reply was emphatic. ‘No, mademoiselle, they are not.’

There was no sign of Rossignol at dinner. Picard informed him that the Frenchman had been called to the Fort de la Malgue to discuss future supplies, and
intended
to dine there. Nor was Eveline at the table, and he anticipated another solitary night.

‘What happened last night?’ he said, as soon as she appeared in his room.

‘That old witch was watching.’

‘Madame Picard?’

‘Who else?’ She rushed forward to embrace him, but he held her off slightly. ‘Is your father up to something, Eveline?’

He felt her shoulders tense, saw the worry in the eyes, and heard the sharp intake of breath. Suddenly the indelicacy of alluding to what he’d seen and heard on the landing the previous night was too much. And his confusion made him stutter slightly.

‘Sneaking out of the house at all hours of the night.’

‘You were spying on him.’

‘I was looking for you.’

‘And here I am, chéri.’ She leant forward and blew out the candle.

‘I want to talk to you.’

‘Not now.’

Unfortunately, the guns on Mont Faron began firing almost at precisely the wrong moment. He did everything he could to shut out the sound, and might have succeeded if the whole city of Toulon had not come awake. The church bells were rung, the agreed signal for a general alarm, which in his case was a standing order that he should proceed with his men to the Fort de la Malgue. Haste, plus the prospect of imminent peril, gave their lovemaking, already frantic, an added piquancy. But there was no time for post-coital inquests. He struggled into his clothes, jammed on his hat, grabbed his sword, coat, and pistols, and with his shirt still flapping outside his breeches ran through to the ground floor of the warehouse.

Rannoch had the men lined up and ready to move out as he clattered across the flagstoned floor. Every eye turned to take in the state of his dress, until a sharp command from the sergeant brought them to attention. While it removed their gaze, it failed to eradicate the smirks they wore on their faces, or entirely to suppress the laughter that was bubbling up in their breasts, making some of them shake uncontrollably. Rannoch stepped towards him smartly, his bulk cutting off the men’s view.

‘If we are not about to surrender, sir, it would be an idea to stow the white flag.’

‘What are you …?’

Markham was in the act of putting on his coat, but his eyes followed the sergeant’s downwards to where his shirt tail flapped. Rannoch would have seen him blush if the light had been strong enough. But he heard him curse, so he knew his officer was berating himself for a fool. Markham was still doing that as they doubled along the quayside. Having spent weeks trying to gain the respect of these men he’d thrown it all away, and made himself look like an complete idiot. It wasn’t the first time in his
life that the presence of a woman had been his downfall. Not that he blamed them. The fault, he knew, lay with him.

They barely paused by the fort, ordered towards the guns, booming and flashing at the top of the great sweep of hills that dominated the town, to the flat, featureless plateau of Mont Faron. Marching uphill at such a serious pace meant that when they arrived, he and his men were near to exhaustion. But the situation was too serious for any hope of respite. The French had confounded
expectations
by launching an attack before standard military logic said they were ready.

They should have sapped forward for weeks from their redoubts above the village of La Valette, inching
obliquely
upwards across the scrub-covered ground for a hundred yards, then constructing a defensive line that, once secured, allowed them to move forward once more. But Dugommier eschewed this and attacked with the whole Army of Savoy from half a mile distant. Ten thousand men in great infantry waves, ignoring the rules of war and manoeuvre, bugles blowing and tricolours waving as they advanced uphill towards the trench lines between the Forts of Faron and L’Artigues, under murderous shellfire with precious little artillery support of their own.

Musket fire, concentrated and deadly at short range, didn’t slow them either. These were the tactics of the Revolution, mass assaults in overwhelming numbers, which had proved so successful in the north. But here on Mont Faron, with a clear view of the French lines, it looked like folly. At that distance from the defences, they should have been repulsed with ease by the men holding the perimeter, leaving free the British marines who’d been brought up to act as a reserve. But they were thrown into action at soon as they arrived.

Again, it was the allied troops that had failed to hold, Neapolitans and Spaniards, and the British who were called upon to take back the defences they had lost. Even
as he cursed their inability to maintain their ground, Markham could sympathise. They were badly equipped and led by men who stole everything they could from their soldiers, officers who were often the first to retreat at any sign of danger.

That, at least, could not be said of those leading the marines into action. Elphinstone and Mulgrave were everywhere, shouting, cajoling and leading confused charges to throw back pockets of Frenchmen who’d
established
themselves in the casernes and redoubts. No longer moving forward to the sound of their bugles, some of their revolutionary fervour deserted them. And any
cohesion
the enemy might have had was gone after stumbling, in the gloom, up over half a mile of uneven scree. Content to try and hold what they’d taken, they looked to those still coming from La Valette to finish the battle.

He might hate Augustus Hanger, but no-one could doubt the man’s courage. Sword waving in the ethereal glow from gun flashes, flares and blue lights, he led one counter-attack after another, always at the head of his men, in the position of maximum danger, taking the attacking French detachments in the flank and driving them relentlessly back down the hill, then turning to traverse the slopes so that he could slash into those Frenchmen who’d been cut off by their earlier successes.

Markham and his men, shifted from command to command, were ordered to clear one section of trench after another, with no idea, as they entered a new part of the line, how many men they would face. Night fighting in such a constricted space was deadly, with nothing but the light of the occasional flares and the orange glow of spitting cannon to show an enemy silhouette. Silent at first, screams soon drowned out the blaring trumpets as the enemy tried to reinforce their gains. Success below ground level was swiftly followed by an order to form up and advance, never knowing who was to the left or right as they did so.

Both armies struggled for advantage, aware that the loss of these heights could break the siege. All the musketry practice of the last few days was useless. In trenches, on the loose marl slopes and shallow earth of the limestone plateau, this was hand-to-hand work; stabbing with bayonets, clubbing with butts, gouging at the faint glow of an opponent’s eye, biting any hand that was laid close enough to the mouth. Cursing, swearing, sometimes crying, they fought each other like demons, stepping over their own wounded and dead to engage.

Still more men came on, only the occasional blue light to show their progress, each advancing wave at least a thousand men, with double that amount already engaged, the whole easily outnumbering the defenders. The enemy established themselves around Fort Faron, then attacked the lower defences around L’Artigues, for once with the sloping ground to their advantage. British reserves, scraped from all over the battlefield, were sent in, piecemeal, to try and hold the line. Risking
everything
, Mulgrave denuded the defences around the other forts, St Catherine, Rouge and Blanc, plus the high
western
redoubt at Des Pomets, to stop up the gaps that inevitably appeared.

How they drove the French back, Markham didn’t know. But they did, time and again, with confused bayonet charges that looked doomed but somehow
succeeded
, ragged volleys of musketry that imposed just enough of a check on the enemy to permit a
counter-attack
. All through the night the battle raged, until sheer exhaustion took over on both sides, and like two pugilists driven to their knees, they ceased to inflict any telling punishment.

As dawn broke the French withdrew, leaving at least a thousand of their fellows as casualties on the hillsides. The guns behind their lines, which had been sporadically active throughout the night, began a steady cannonade, churning up the ground between the positions, blowing
already shattered bodies of friend and foe into tiny fragments.

Food came, with water to drink, and a chance to dress the innumerable wounds that every man had sustained. Then the bugles blew and a flag appeared, with an officer from each side to agree the obligatory truce. Markham dragged his men to their feet, and pushed and shoved them unmercifully, as they mingled with the soldiers they’d just fought, helping to clear the field of the
thousands
of casualties. Elphinstone and Hanger rode along behind the lines, bloody, bandaged and haggard, showing evidence of their own endeavours. Dragged away from his work, Markham stood to attention beside their snorting mounts.

‘We stay here, Markham,’ said Hanger hoarsely, too tired to sneer. ‘We can’t trust these positions to our so-called allies, so we must hold them ourselves.’