A Shred of Honour (28 page)

Nelson’s hand caught Markham’s as it was on the way to the hilt of his sword, and the Brigadier-General had interposed himself between him and Hanger.

‘Enough of this,’ cried Mulgrave. ‘We have enough fighting still to do without indulging in private quarrels.’

‘Have you heard what he just said?’ Hanger shouted,
trying to push Mulgrave aside. ‘Damn my rank, sir, you will withdraw that or meet me!’

Markham’s voice was just as loud. ‘I have been waiting for that opportunity for a whole twelve years.’

The door opened and Admirals Langara and Gravina came out, followed by Serota and the rest of their staffs. Nelson, taking advantage of this, pushed him backwards, till his spine was against the bulkhead. Everyone on the deck, barring the Spaniards, was now looking in their direction as the naval captain spoke to him, softly but insistently.

‘What is the matter with you, man?’

‘I told you all. Those flares that destroyed our attack came from behind our own lines. Because of that my men were blown to bits so small that they couldn’t be identified. Somebody betrayed us to the French.’

‘You can’t believe for a moment that Colonel Hanger was responsible.’

‘He was against the attempt from the beginning, angry at Smith for proposing that something be done, even more at me for agreeing. We have a past, him and I. God knows he hates me enough.’

‘Enough to betray his country?’

‘Those flares came from behind our lines!’

‘Do you know where they were fired from?’

‘Close to the La Seyne redoubt,’ Markham replied, the first hint of doubt entering his voice, ‘which is just north of Mulgrave.’

Nelson was as quick as he was. ‘And how long was it between the flares going off and the order that was given to fire off the barrage that flattened you?’

Markham sighed and bent forward.

‘A man cannot be in two places at once, regardless of how much he hates.’ Nelson paused, waiting for Markham to look at him again, waiting for him to acknowledge openly that he accepted the obvious. ‘You must apologise.’

‘To him!’

‘Lieutenant Markham, I’ve never referred to your past. I judge a man by what he does today, not yesterday. But neither you nor I can wish it away. You’ve publicly accused a senior officer of being a traitor. If you don’t apologise, you’ll be ruined.’

Over Nelson’s shoulder, Markham saw that the Spanish officers had engaged Mulgrave and Hanger in conversation, which debarred him, temporarily, from continuing his argument.

‘I cannot. Not to his face.’

‘In writing, then?’

The pause seemed to last a long time, before Markham nodded. But all the events of his life had passed through his mind in that brief moment, and the thought had formed that to continue would only see him bested by Hanger one more time.

‘Come then,’ said Nelson, taking his arm. ‘I will get my barge crew to take you back to
Hebe
once I’m aboard
Agamemnon
.’

They turned towards the entry port, their way partially blocked by the knot of British and Spanish officers.
Skirting
round them, Nelson spoke, as Markham kept his eyes fixed firmly in front of him.

‘The Lieutenant has not fully recovered from his wounds, gentlemen, which will be obvious to you.’

It didn’t matter if it was in the words or the look. Hanger understood, and nodded in triumph.

‘What the devil are these?’ demanded de Lisle, puffing out his chest as he waved the orders which had arrived no more than an hour after the officer they mentioned.

‘It is not a duty I sought, Captain. Sir Sydney asked me to undertake it while I was aboard the flagship.’

‘Something you’ve yet to explain to me. It is not proper for you to seek an interview with the Admiral without my permission.’

‘It was a private matter, sir.’

‘There’s no such thing in the Navy. I am your captain, and you report to me.’

Spotted Dick was piqued. Captain of a frigate, he’d not been invited to the conference. The idea that his
marine
lieutenant had been aboard
Victory
at the time, and knew more about what was happening than he did, had upset him. It was doubly annoying that he’d returned in Nelson’s barge, which hinted at the kind of valuable
connections
he so assiduously pursued. Now that it seemed Markham was to be involved in the final act of the siege his ire had multiplied even more.

‘Damn Sir Sydney Smith,’ the captain shouted. Then he added, in a tone that sought to be friendly, ‘You can, of course, with my complete backing, decline the honour.’

Translated, that meant that de Lisle couldn’t interfere with what looked like a direct order. Angry he might be, but the idea of crossing swords with someone who was said to be close to the King was out of the question. In the short time he’d been aboard, Markham had heard how his men had been treated, put to swabbing the decks and other such duties normally confined to sailors. Even the Lobsters, who should have been happy to be back aboard ship, seemed keen to get off
Hebe
, even if was only for what looked like a day and a night.

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Markham replied, with a feeling of pleasure he’d not had since he’d first accused Hanger. ‘You will readily appreciate that for me, that is impossible.’

The evacuation had started before he left the ship, the forts that fronted the Grande Rade filling up with Spanish soldiers as they fell back, through British marines who remained to fight a rearguard action from the ancient town walls. The rest of the marines were massed in Fort St Catherine, the only force that stood between the French and total victory. Fort Mulgrave had been
overrun, and with all the heights in their hands the French were shelling the town. All around the harbour emplacements, ammunition, guns and stores were being destroyed. This, added to the flickering torches and the continual gunfire, presented what looked like a scene from hell.

Ashore, he was ordered to assist with the Neapolitans, who’d panicked as soon as the order to withdraw had been given, and were now threatening the whole process by their eagerness to get onto their hundred-gun ship, the
Samara
. They crowded the routes that ran through the dockyard buildings on to the quay, their flaring torches throwing giant shadows onto the brickwork and windows, and reflecting in the black water of the harbour.

The line-of-battle ship was slowly warped in, to tower over the ropewalk and sail lofts, the sheds and
storehouses
, a long gangplank stretching from the entry port to the cobbled quayside. The unfurled but empty sails, and the flag of Bourbon Naples, looked dejected, as if they reflected the feelings of those now desperate to abandon Toulon. Shouted commands from officers of their own nationality had little effect on the Neapolitans who were screaming too loud to hear them. They broke through the cordon of sailors who had been sent ashore to get them in line and herd them aboard. What had been a pretty poor bunch of soldiers turned, very swiftly, into a screeching, dangerous mob.

Markham ordered the Hebes to form a line at the
bottom
of the gangplank as the evacuees jostled foward. Every insult in the Italian canon was aimed in their direction, and judging by the races of those at the very forefront, faced with a mere dozen redcoats, they definitely thought they had the advantage, and would brush them back into the water.

‘Hebes, present,’ Markham yelled. They still pressed forward, shouting and gesticulating wildly, using their
thumbs to spit imprecations about British manhood. ‘Fire!’

The first volley went over their heads, with Rannoch screaming at his men to reload. He needn’t have even raised his voice. The entire mob went silent as if they had one, now sealed, throat. The effect on their behaviour was also instantaneous, making another volley superfluous. Each face before them was now full of silent pleading, the odd sob or plea to God adding to the air of unreality. The sailors had got in front of them again, and, with a discipline that would have shamed the Foot Guards, they were arranged in lines, shuffling towards the gangplank of the
Samara
, which was waiting to take them aboard, smiling as they passed the redcoats who’d forced them to behave.

Troubridge appeared, and seeing what they’d achieved ordered them off towards the arsenal, quite oblivious to Markham’s objection that they were under the orders of Sir Sydney Smith. His previous antipathy to Markham seemed to have evaporated. In fact, his voice was almost friendly.

‘You’ll have time for a bit of pyromania before that buffoon needs you, God rot his vainglorious soul.’

The quay was crowded with civilians, thousands of them, all carrying heaped bundles of possessions, each one eager to find a way out of the port before the Terror arrived. The quays, once home to hundreds of fishing boats and small trading ships, was emptying rapidly as the better off, who had their own transport, departed with their furniture and fortunes. No pity was shown to their fellow Frenchmen, and shots were fired to discourage anyone trying to board a ship that wasn’t theirs.

‘When will the civilians be taken off?’ asked Markham, running alongside the naval captain.

‘We’ll take off what we can when we’ve got the soldiers away,’ he replied, in a voice that, even running, held a
note of deep sorrow. ‘But it will be nowhere near enough. Mercy is the only thing that will save most of these pour souls.’

The arsenal was still under guard, red-coated marines standing sentry beneath the flaring torches. Troubridge ordered the men outside to stay at their posts and make sure no one entered. Once inside he issued a string of orders, which had the Hebes smashing open barrels, distributing their contents liberally all over the ground-floor area. Markham and Troubridge were cutting lengths of
slowmatch
, which were then tied to the bottom of the ceiling supports, before being entirely covered in black gunpowder. Turpentine from the naval stores was poured across the floor to aid in the spreading of the fire, its pungent odour so overpowering that the men could hardly breathe.

‘There’ll be quite a display when this lot goes up,’ said Troubridge, when he was satisfied. Then he ordered them outside, where they gratefully sucked in mouthfuls of air. All around the arc of the Petite Rade, guns were blazing. Through the drifting smoke, highlighted by leaping flames, Markham saw that the final battle for Fort l’Eguillette was in progress, with boats off the stone bastions, taking the last of the defenders to safety.

‘Best get your men back to la Malgue. Your buffoon is there, boasting away as to how he’s going to sink every ship in the harbour.’

They fought their way back through the crowds, Markham praying that those in the Picard house had found the sense to depart. The Toulon merchant had
several
boats of his own, and in Rossignol, a source of information which should have given him ample warning. He could only hope that they’d take off Celeste as well. At that moment the arsenal went up with an enormous blast of sound and fury, which added to the increased screams of the poor people around him, and wiped any thoughts of Rossignol, his family and his charges from his mind.

‘I would be happier without the Dons, myself,’ said the Chevalier. ‘But Admiral Langara offered to do the job without us, and Hood had to argue hard that we should share the duty. Langara wasn’t pleased, and I thought that Colonel Serota was about to get a sword in his ribs for the way he addressed His Lordship.’

‘But we’re not actually working together?’ said Markham, the only man aboard who’d had that unfortunate experience.

‘No, thank God. And if they operate in their usual dilatory manner, we might find we have to take over some of their duties.’

The cabin of the
Swallow
could barely contain the number of officers present. Sixteen in all, including two commanders, there was not one of them over the age of twenty-one, which made Markham feel like an old man. None of the condescension he’d been exposed to in the past was present here. Either they were too young to know or care, too buoyed up with the excitement of what they were being asked to do, or Sir Sydney Smith’s
introduction
, which would not have disgraced the Grand Cham of Tartary himself for fulsomeness, had quelled any doubts they had about him.

The drawing on the table showed every feature of the harbours and the inner basin, with each French ship named. Those containing powder, and due to be sunk by the Dons, were coloured red, and were to be avoided at all costs. Smith was issuing instructions to the sailors about getting the ships they were going to burn into a position that would inflict the most damage on the stationary fleet. Since his job was to stay with the Chevalier, and to provide protection for the entire party against any kind of attack, these details didn’t really concern him.

His men sat on the equally crowded deck, checking their equipment over and over again. Going round each one, he issued a quiet encouragement that he realised carried more than a touch of King Harry in the night. But
they were names now, not just faces. He wondered if they had come to trust him, but had no way to ask. Not even Rannoch, who’d mellowed to point where he felt free to exercise a degree of irony, would have answered that question.

By the rail, as they sailed past la Malgue, he fingered the parchment in his pocket, the note from a gloating Hanger accepting his apology, and the addendum that announced his forthcoming engagement to Miss
Elizabeth
Gordon. Ashore, a steady stream of Toulonais were edging up the gangplank onto the British men o’ war, bundles too big to be accommodated being
unceremoniously
thrown aside, to land in the sea with a great splash. The collective misery of these people seemed to waft across the still waters as they played out the last act of their drama. The aims of the revolution they so feared were being applied here. Neither wealth nor position could guarantee security. Places aboard these ships were going to the first person in the long straggling queue.

Markham turned away from that miserable scene, towards the darkened area of the Petite Rade. He could just see the departing warships, their great white sails billowing as they took the wind. They were leaving. But the
Swallow,
with the brig
Union
in company, was
heading
to perform the coda to the long drama which
had-been
the siege of Toulon.