A Shred of Honour (32 page)

With everyone still and silent, he heard clearly the first high-pitched squeaks. The noise didn’t increase slowly, it arrived suddenly, filling the whole of their narrow tunnel till it was difficult to communicate.

‘Get the boy off the ground!’ he bellowed. ‘And Celeste. The rest of you, open your legs as wide as you can.’

Seconds later he felt the first of the rats run over his
shoes, picking up at the same time a faint trace of the smell of smoke. Within seconds, the tunnel was flooded with the creatures, scratching and biting as they sought escape from the threat of the flames behind them. The Picard warehouse would have been home to these vermin. Now that it was ablaze, they were heading for safety. Markham, lantern held high, watched the writhing grey sea of bodies ahead of him. He didn’t like rats at all. But in their flight they were certainly heading for a way out.

The frenzy soon passed, a few stragglers disappearing out of the circle of his light. Celeste and Jean-Baptiste were put back on the ground, and with a quick word to ensure that everyone was all right, Markham set off again. His step was certain now, but his thoughts were anything but. For all the distance they were covering, they’d not come across a single exit.

‘That looks like a ladder ahead,’ said Rannoch.

His hand was pointing over Markham’s shoulder to where the worn wooden rungs disappeared into a dark, narrow shaft. The rest of the tunnel was nothing but a black hole beyond the range of his lantern. Opening it, he exposed the flame, which didn’t even flicker in the still, fetid air. He walked forward, only to find himself standing in front of solid rock.

‘Let’s hope this one isn’t blocked as well, Rannoch,’ he whispered, as he returned to the group. Handing the lantern to his sergeant, he took off his sword and pulled his pistols from his belt. Both, in the narrow shaft above his head, were too bulky to be anything other than an impediment. ‘I’ll take your bayonet, if you don’t mind.’

Grasping the lowest rung, he began to haul himself up. There was barely enough space in the shaft to accommodate him, and no light at all, since his own body blocked what little filtered up from below. And it was hot. Through his shirt he could feel the bricks of the right-hand wall getting hotter, at one point close to causing actual pain. He eased himself up a bit further, every sense
alert for the exit that this must surely lead to, aware that the bricks were now merely warm. He could smell nothing but the acrid reek of long-dry dust. No crack of white appeared, the gap at the base of a door that would indicate an escape route, so that he was forced to blink, just to make sure his eyes were actually open. Then, as the bricks grew hot again, the top of his head touched unyielding stone, and he could ascend no further.

Hanging on the ladder, Markham fought the sense of panic induced by his disappointment and dark isolation. There had to be a way out, or the ladder served no purpose. He racked his brains for a solution based on logic. Hot bricks at his side could not hold a way out, since they must be a lot warmer on the other side. Why were they warm? It had to be some kind of fire. And given the construction of his narrow shaft, and the number of rungs he’d climbed, were these bricks part of a chimney?

If there was an exit, it could only be on two of the four sides. One was blocked by the ladder, the other by heat. If it was a chimney then the logical place to conceal an entrance was at the side, not the front. He descended slowly, tapping very gently on the wall to his left. The hollow sound, as the stone changed to wood, made every nerve in his body jump. Scrabbling around for a handle proved fruitless, so, placing his knees and hands against the searing bricks, he used his back to push hard.

The wrenching, tearing sound barely registered, since Markham was too busy trying to grab a rung to stop himself falling. Fine dust filled his nostrils and his mouth, making him gag and sneeze. Something furry landed on his face and, fearing a rat, he screamed and lashed out. The light that suddenly flooded in, as another door crashed open, blinded him, so it was several seconds before he realised that the dust that filled the air was powder, and the creature he was trying to fight off, which seemed to envelope half of his arm, was a full-bottomed wig.

The room he walked into, once a bedroom, lit by the red glow of dying embers from the huge fireplace, had been demolished. Mirrors and pictures had been ripped from their frames, drapes pulled from the windows and trampled underfoot, the four-poster bed smashed, the sheets torn and stained. In between the folds lay the remains of a small chandelier. A buzz of noise, like a swarm of angry bees, puncuated by the odd cry, came through the smashed windows. As he walked towards them the noise increased in volume.

Lights from hundreds of torches lit the scene. The windows, on the second floor of the building, overlooked a large square, which he recognised as the one which stood before the Bishop’s palace. Leaning out, he could see that it was packed with people, a tumbril full of dejected souls, all with their hands bound, parked at the foot of the steps that led up to the palace entrance. On the elevated porch under the classical portico lay a long table, with a clear space around it. Before that stood a woman in a ragged dress, her hair in disarray. Five men sat behind the table, lit by flambeaux affixed to the walls. They wore, in their hats, the red, white and blue feathers of the Revolution. One of them, his face in shadow, barked a question, which produced a whimpering response from the woman, followed by a growl from the crowd.

The man in the centre of the group, who held a wine bottle, stood up and shouted, his free hand shooting forward towards the victim before him. A great yell erupted from the throats of the mob, and the woman sank to her knees in supplication. But the finger remained in place, as two soldiers stepped forward to lift her to her feet. This they did, applying some force. The woman screamed, a clear plea for pity, as she was dragged through the crowd.

The guillotine stood in the middle of the square, surrounded by a sea of eager faces. The avenue from the portico to the rough wooden steps was lined with troops,
so that the poor victim, still refusing to walk, could be observed easily as she was pulled across the cobbles. They practically had to lift her up the steps on to the square, planked platform, this action accompanied by the raising of the blade. Over the swelling sound of the mob, Markham imagined he could hear the ropes squeaking through the pulleys, the gentle bump as the heavy sliver of steel slotted into the catch that held it in place.

They dragged her forward, pulling her head back and forcing her to confront the mob. A shiver went through Markham’s body as he recognised Pascalle. In her torn dress, with hair wild and unkempt, her identity had been hidden. Now her tear-stained face and reddened eyes seemed to be looking straight at him, as if in accusation for this unwarranted fate. They shoved her head onto the block, lashing her body so that she could not squirm. The five men who’d sat at the table came out, their plumes dancing in the wind. When they reached the platform the crowd fell silent, as if some heavenly conductor had waved a wand.

Pascalle’s accuser, having handed over his bottle, raised his arm as he spoke, the words indistinct as they floated up, yet clearly a sentence of execution. Then one arm dropped, and the executioner pulled at the rope. It required no imagination now. The whoosh of the blade as it fell, gathering speed between the two wooden channels, was all too plain. The roar of approval from the mob was but a split second behind the thud as it hit the solid oak block under Pascalle’s neck, the yells of frenzy full-throated as the blade bounced up, sending a fount of blood shooting forward, to cover the decapitated head as it dropped into the waiting basket.

The man who’d given the order raised his hat, and now his features were no longer in shadow. Reaching for a pistol that wasn’t there, his teeth grinding so hard they threatened to break, Markham saw the grinning, drunken, hook-nosed face of Pierre-Michel Fouquert.

The whole party was up the ladder and in the room before the next victim was dispatched. Markham sent two of his men to bar any access from the ground floor, then took station by the window to observe the carnage below. The murderous activity continued throughout the night, the guillotine slamming down time and again as those disliked by the Revolution, or denounced by their neighbours, rich, poor and innocent, were butchered like so much red meat. Fouquert had relinquished the task of announcing the sentences to his fellow deputies, and stayed behind the tribunal table, drinking from his bottle.

With each female victim, Markham found it hard to breathe, praying that it would not be Eveline. Whatever her motives, they had been lovers. That attachment could not just be broken by Rossignol. He, knowing he was dying, may well have spoken the truth. Markham was well aware that he didn’t love Eveline, but he was indebted to her for the hours of happiness she had given him. Yet he also knew, in his heart, that her death could very easily have preceded Pascalle’s; that her beautiful features might adorn one of the spikes which, jammed between the cobbles, surrounded the place of execution.

But she didn’t appear. The mob that watched, sustained on a diet of bloodlust and ample drink, grew hoarse with yelling, until it seemed that even the endless stream of decapitated corpses, the severed heads passed around to be spat on and abused, were insufficient to keep them entertained. His men watched alongside him with grim fascination, wondering when, if at all, the
supply of victims would dry up. Endlessly, the notorious Committee of Public Safety sat in judgment, applying laws that contained no justice, since not one of those brought before it was granted mercy.

Finally Fouquert staggered back to the execution platform, to see to the dispatch of an elderly, white-haired priest. The sight of him had Markham reaching for a musket, only to find that another, stronger, hand had taken hold of it as well.

‘I would like to kill him as well,’ said Rannoch.

‘Not as much as me.’

‘That is as maybe. But to do so now would only see us all with our heads on pikes.’

Fouquert, in the meantime, had raised his hands to speak to the crowd, the slurred words reverberating off the surrounding buildings. ‘Citizens! We have only just begun the work that needs to be done. There are thousands of traitors still out there, hiding like the vermin that they are from the bright gaze of revolutionary justice.’

The voice dropped, exactly matching the needs of the audience, who had, apart from the odd drunken yell, gone silent. ‘Let them have one more night. Let them sit and ponder the fate that awaits them, an ordeal as cruel as any known to man. They know they are going to die, as surely as the sun rises and sets. Nothing can save them. So, tired, weary and in despair, they will not sleep. They will weep until they are found. Then, fellow citizens of Toulon, we will make them weep some more.’

The crowd responded to that, but in a low-key fashion which demonstrated that they were near exhaustion themselves. ‘Reason and truth will triumph, and those who have had their feet on your necks for centuries will pay with their blood for the crimes they have committed. But the hand of vengeance must rest. A curfew must be imposed, so that our enemies cannot use the hours of darkness to effect their escape. Go back to your homes
and stay indoors. Anyone seen out after curfew will be shot. Tomorrow, at noon, the work of the Revolutionary Tribunal will resume. And since we are few in numbers, we depend upon our citizens to ensure that Madame Guillotine does not want for the means to apply our rightful vengeance. Sleep, friends. When you wake, tear this town of traitors apart, so that every one of their scrawny necks can be placed where it belongs, on the block of history.’

They watched as the mob began to disperse, the soldiers gently shepherding them out of the square. An officer was detailing men to guard the guillotine, as well as the entrances to the palace. The long table was now empty, and soldiers’ boots rang on the cobbles, as those not set as sentries were allowed to go to their billets. They were, if not actually in the lion’s jaws, certainly in the jungle. But, for this one night, Markham felt safe in rooms which had already been looted. His only fear, the reason he’d insisted that everyone stay on the alert, was simple: that once the butchery was over, the mob would try to use this place as somewhere to lay their heads, smashing the flimsy barrier he’d erected.

Clearly this was not to be. Indeed, he could see some of the troops steering tired
sans-culottes
away from some of the other buildings. The palace was Fouquert’s headquarters, and for all his professed love of the children of the Revolution, he had no desire to share his surroundings with them. The square was soon devoid of people, the empty tumbril long gone, its iron-bound wheels faint in the distance as it headed for the prison within the Fort de la Malgue. A party of men were busy sluicing down the blood-soaked guillotine, and somehow that act, so mundane, made the whole of what he’d witnessed that much more barbaric.

‘We’re safe here, at least until dawn,’ he said, checking the drapes that had been put back over the window so that
they could safely use their lantern. The room had been tidied, his men laying the mattress to provide a cot for Celeste and Jean-Baptiste. The girl lay on her back, dark, liquid eyes wide open, with the boy asleep, still clutching his drawings, in the crook of her arm. His men had eaten, and, with Rannoch watching them closely, had sipped sparingly from their canteens. ‘What I can’t tell you is how long that will last.’

‘We could go back to the tunnels,’ Rannoch replied, without enthusiasm, ‘and hide out there till matters settle a bit.’

Markham shook his head. ‘As far as we know they don’t go anywhere except back to the Picard house. Besides, Fouquert is aware they exist.’

‘There is no certainty that those poor women betrayed us,’ Rannoch continued. Markham, just as he wished Eveline alive, would have liked to agree, even if he didn’t believe it either. ‘I would be right in thinking that we will still require the use of a boat?’

The Scotsman had just as much knowledge as he did about how matters stood. The question was being posed on behalf of the men. They sat on the floor, watching him, eager to hear him say that he knew how to get them to freedom. But he didn’t. With anyone but Fouquert, he might have advised surrender. But having watched that drunken butcher at work, little imagination was required to guess what fate would await his men. His own, no doubt, would be that much worse.

‘Time for sleep. I will keep watch for the first hour.’ Rannoch was looking at him quizzically. ‘I speak French. If we’re in any danger, I’ll hear it first. Later on, when the whole garrison’s bedded down, it won’t matter quite so much.’

Time passed as they each struggled for comfort on the hard floorboards. Being soldiers, they required less of that commodity than others, and soon the sounds of gentle snoring punctuated the silence. Markham sat
staring at the ceiling, his mind going back to that day he had confronted Fouquert at Malbousquet. No doubt now why he’d called him a mercenary. All the time the city had been under siege, he’d had comprehensive information, from Rossignol and Serota, about the entire garrison. What a pity that he couldn’t make good the desire to meet him on equal terms. One to one, with sword or pistol, he knew he could take the Frenchman.

Try as he might, he couldn’t keep Eveline’s face from his thoughts, nor help recalling every word or movement, intimate and conversational, that they’d exchanged. She’d deceived him, of course, though he was a willing victim. But since love didn’t enter into their relationship, it was hard to see it as betrayal. They had merely been two people who had enjoyed each other, who in other circumstances would have gone their own way without recrimination. And, while deeply sad about Pascalle, he was tormented by the thought of Eveline’s beautiful head adorning some pike. He could imagine Fouquert taunting her, perhaps treating her the way he’d abused Celeste, a thought that had him easing his pistol in his belt. Perhaps, given her beauty, he hadn’t guillotined her after all. It could be that she was a prisoner in the palace across the square.

The snoring was regular now. In the faint gleam of the shaded lantern light not one of his men, apart from the odd twitch, showed any signs of being awake. Gently, he eased himself to his feet and crept past them. The door to the landing presented no obstacle, having been torn from its hinges. But the lack of light forced him to stop on the landing to allow his eyes to adjust. Just as he was about to put his foot on the first step of the staircase, the soft, lilting voice made him freeze.

‘It is not wise, Lieutenant Markham,’ whispered Rannoch, ‘to be considering rescuing damsels in distress.’

‘I need to know if she’s dead.’

‘You do not. You need to look after the men you command. That is your duty. And I cannot help but think, that once you are out in the square, you might, on one of those pikes, find a sight that will destroy what little sense you have.’

‘You can’t talk to me like that, Sergeant.’

‘I can and I will. You said earlier that you speak the language. That could be a priceless asset to every one of us.’

‘I need to know.’

‘With respect, you needed to know at the Battle of Guilford, too, and look where that led you. If fate has it in mind for you to kill that pig Fouquert, then the opportunity will come in time. But this, with the man surrounded by guards, is not it.’ Rannoch took Markham’s arm, and with very little force pulled him back towards the room. ‘You sleep, and I will keep watch.’

The remark about Guilford, no less than the absolute truth, stunned him, and he allowed himself to be shepherded back to the spot he’d chosen by the window. But sleep wouldn’t come, and now his thoughts had returned to the problem of making an escape. He lay back and closed his eyes, racking his brain for a solution. They needed a boat, and the only ones that would still be in the harbour were those lashed to the decks of the French warships, which could be the moon for all the good it would do them.

In time, despite the revolutionary fervour, Toulon would return to being a naval port. The quay would then be full of boats. But by then, through either capture, hunger or sheer desperation, this last remnant of the British presence in the city would have been forced to surrender. Part of his mind was accepting the inevitable, while another was screaming ‘No!’ Just to give up was anathema. Better that they die fighting. He opened his eyes again, to look at what he had at his disposal.

‘Sergeant Rannoch, a word if you please,’ he said loudly, which woke everyone in the room bar Jean-Baptiste.

‘I have no more mind than you to surrender to the likes of Fouquert,’ the Scotsman replied, when he’d posed the question.

‘And the others?’

‘Halsey is a good man, even if he is a Lobster, and will obey orders. And I think the rest of his men will follow. Schutte and Leech owe you their lives, after all.’

‘The soldiers?’ Markham added, realising as he did so the implicit admission that, even after all this time, and all they’d been through, he didn’t really know his own men.

‘They could very well agree, and do the exact opposite when the time comes. Quinlan and Ettrick are thieves, as you’ve seen for yourself. Tully ran for the colours to avoid being strung up for rape. Dornan will be fine, since he’s too stupid to think.’

‘What a bunch,’ sighed Markham. ‘The only one who seems to carry an honest streak is Yelland.’

‘Not that honest.’

‘A bit of poaching hardly makes him much of a criminal.’

‘Is that what he told you?’ Markham nodded, knowing as he did so that he was about to be exposed as a gullible fool. ‘They say the girl he loved wed another. They found blood by the gallon, but no bodies. Rumour has it that he chopped them both to bits, and spread their remains over half of England.’

‘Then he should have hung.’

‘No bodies, no crime. That is the law. And he is such a sweet-looking youth that older heads, who should know better, are easily taken in.’

Stung, he nearly spat the next question. ‘And you, Rannoch? Perhaps you’re with us because of that brand on your thumb.’

The whispered reply was much more damning for its utter lack of passion. ‘I’m here because one of your kind, a damned pig of an officer, ordered it so. He did it out of malice, not good sense. And hell will freeze over before I tell you anything more, for it is none of your affair.’

Rannoch moved away, watched by the others, all their eyes searching his face to try and discover the nature of that whispered, bitter conversation. Markham felt like a wretch, wondering how much of what he’d asked had been revenge for Rannoch’s allusion to his behaviour at the Battle of Guilford.

Still cursing himself, he was thinking that if they were not true soldiers before, with uniform coats and hats, they were even less so now, Lobsters or Bullocks. Their shirts and breeches were torn and filthy, their faces haggard and unwashed. They had an assortment of weapons and footwear, plus a few possessions in makeshift bundles. The only red coat the group possessed was the one he wore. In fact, they were no different from the mob outside. With the addition of a little smeared blood, plus a few curses in French, they could mingle easily. Not even Fouquert would spot them. The notion was in his head before he’d finished looking.

‘Did anyone bring needle and thread with them?’

‘I did, sir,’ Yelland replied, reaching into the tied bundle that lay at his feet. Others had raised their hands to let him know they, too, had the means to sew. He stood up and slipped off his coat, beckoning to Rannoch. ‘Cut that up and get the men sewing. I want every one of them wearing a red cap of liberty. We’ll trim some of that cloth Hollick’s wrapped in to make cockades, though we must leave enough for a flag.’

‘Permission to ask what you have in mind, sir?’ said Rannoch, in a stiff tone that he’d not used for weeks.

‘I intend to disguise us as Frenchmen, and march out of here, escorting Celeste and the boy as though they are our prisoners. And I am also sorry for prying too deeply. Your
past, if you choose to keep it to yourself, is none of my business.’