A Shred of Honour (33 page)

‘Sir,’ Rannoch replied, with a ghost of a smile.

They were ready at dawn, all in red caps, the flag sewn by Celeste tied on a pole which had previously held curtains. Those drapes had been removed, flooding the room with light, so that they could check their appearance. It was a clear crisp morning, a winter sky in which the low sun cast long shadows. Jean-Baptiste, eyes wide with excitement, if not actual knowledge, skipped around the room getting in the way, seemingly happy until Markham tried to remove from his hand the drawings he had picked up in Picard’s study. The squeal of despair, plus the stubborn tug of war that ensued, brought Celeste to his side. She pushed Markham back, looking at him in anger.

‘I don’t think, if he’s supposed to be our prisoner, he should be gaily waving bits of paper around.’

She bent down and began to talk to him softly, one hand prising the drawings out of his tightly clenched fist. The way he looked at Celeste brought a lump to Markham’s throat. The trust was absolute, a bond that excluded everyone else present and seemed to lock them in their own world. He couldn’t hear what she said to him, and was just about to tell her that it didn’t matter, when Jean-Baptiste surrendered the papers. Celeste took them and, smiling at the boy, handed them on.

The flash of colour made him examine them. That, in turn, induced a grim smile. Rossignol, true to his character, had used his time atop the Grosse Tour well. Ever the opportunist, who couldn’t be sure what had value and what didn’t, he’d copied out a whole sheaf of the signals that had been sent by the midshipmen who shared his perch. How he’d managed to identify them was a mystery, but each coloured drawing, with the bright square flags running top to bottom, was annotated with the appropriate message;
Signale priveé, nombre de bâteau
,
message.
It looked as though he had, in the time available, copied the whole book.

Jean-Baptiste was looking at him, the concern in his huge brown eyes more solicitous than words. Markham grinned, and handed the papers back to him. The expression of appreciation that earned him made him feel good for the first time in an age.

With curfew over, the square had started to fill up again, mostly with people who looked as though they’d spent the night drinking rather than sleeping. The soldiers, though sober, showed no great desire to demonstrate efficiency, probably because their officers were still abed. But even so, care had to be taken to get the men out of the door without being observed. Markham went first, to lean on the surround like a man contemplating being sick. The main body of guards was concentrated in front of the Bishop’s palace. But at the bottom of the square, on each side where it joined the roads that led to the quay, a post had been set up to vet those coming and going. The examination was cursory, but it was there and would have to be bypassed.

‘Now, Rannoch,’ he whispered, as the nearest sentry turned away to look into the faces of some recent arrivals.

The Scotsman had his musket wrapped in the flag, so it looked like an innocent curtain pole. He was out and sauntering away, in deep shadow, before the guard turned round again, stopping some twenty yards from the exit, leaning back against a wall, the hidden gun swinging up to cover the soldier. One by one they came out, hiding whatever weapons they were carrying as best they could, until Rannoch was surrounded by red-hatted revolutionaries.

Markham suddenly realised that they were attracting too much attention, and that some of the locals were wandering in their direction, drawn, as people are, to a crowd. One pipe-smoking individual was no more than
five feet from Tully’s back, the look on his swarthy face ample evidence of his confusion, as he heard words that to him made no sense.

Markham had to walk towards him, since to run would only alert others. And he was forced to proceed in an arc that kept him out of the man’s eyeline. Someone in the huddled group must have used a word that identified them as British, since the fellow straightened, the stem of his pipe shooting forward as though he were about to cry out. But he didn’t. He began to spin round towards the sentries just as Markham came up behind him.

‘Gaston, you rogue,’ he cried, slapping the man on the back so hard that he staggered forward. ‘We never thought to find you here this morning, did we lads?’

Those with their backs to him had turned, and as Markham pushed the eavesdropper hard, they opened ranks to receive him. His mouth was open to protest as Markham’s fist took him in the kidneys. Suddenly the man was surrounded by hard, unforgiving eyes, his efforts to speak stopped by fear as well as pain. Rannoch spun him round, one hand covering his mouth while the other went round his head to break his neck. Markham was the last to join, putting his arms round Tully and Dornan.

‘Don’t kill him, for the love of Christ. Just silence the sod, and sit him against the wall.’

Trusting Rannoch to obey, his next task was to fetch Celeste and Jean-Baptiste, still hidden indoors. The commotion under the bishop’s classical portico distracted him, as the soldiers there came to attention in a manner which denoted the sudden appearance of a high-ranking superior. The sensation, as Fouquert appeared, was just like an unseen hand clutching his stomach, and it caused him to freeze for a split second. Then the Frenchman began to descend, four soldiers at his heels and an officer running to keep up with him, Fouquert’s eyes ranging across the square before him with an assurance born of his certain superiority.

Only distance saved Markham, who was staring at him hard, and had to fight the temptation to spin round, since that would only make his presence more obvious. Instead he moved slowly, covering the last few steps towards the door and leaning against it in his original pose, as though he were in some distress.

‘Fouquert is coming. Stay back.’

Celeste’s terrified gasp was plainly audible, and so was the crunch of soldiers’ boots as Fouquert and his escort came closer. Even in the cold air the grip on Markham’s pistol was slippery with sweat. He slipped it from his breeches and held it close to his belly, cocked and ready to fire. Underneath his arm he could see that his men were in the same huddle. There was no way to warn them, to tell them to keep their faces hidden. His only hope was that the sound of marching would alert them, and that Rannoch would do what was required.

Fouquert passed within ten feet of him, talking in a loud, rasping voice that contained the residue of the previous night’s drinking. Yet Markham’s thoughts were in such a turmoil that they made little sense. There was something about quartering off the town for a proper search, as well as an allusion to the bulk of the army, which would enter the town that day. But the bent figure in the doorway, who didn’t merit a glance from such a great man, was fighting his own inclinations to stand upright and shoot from a range at which he could hardly miss. He wanted to shout ‘Fouquert!’, have the swine turn to face him, see the look of fear in his eye as he pulled the trigger. His imaginings didn’t end there; they carried on to the point where the escort raised their muskets and filled him full of holes. Only that stopped him from acting, and by the time his breathing had returned to something approaching normality, Fouquert had passed his men and was accepting the salutes of the sentries at the exit.

‘Celeste. Now!’ If she was fearful, his sharp command
overbore it. She guided Jean-Baptiste out of the door and followed Markham’s pointed finger. He reached the huddled knot before they did, pushing them apart to let the pair enter. ‘Get that flag unfurled, muskets on your shoulders, and follow me. And for Christ’s sake try to look like killers.’

Fouquert was just out of sight as they set off. The sentries, watching the Citizen Commissioner’s back, didn’t see those behind them form up, so that when they turned it looked like a party who had marched all the way from the palace. The tricolour, though makeshift, had caught the breeze and was fluttering valiantly. With their red caps and their dirty, unshaven faces, the group must have looked threatening. In any event, the men guarding the exit, after an initial move forward to inquire their business, stepped back and waved them through.

‘God almighty,’ said Yelland. ‘That was close.’

‘Quiet,’ growled Rannoch. ‘And that goes for all of you.’

Markham could see the party still ahead, marching along in a way that made people coming towards them shy off. Fouquert himself, out ahead with the officer by his side, strutted rather than walked. Oblivious to the bloodstained cobbles, and unconcerned about the bodies still floating in the harbour, he held his head back slightly, hands behind his back as he dared any one of the citizens of Toulon to meet his eye. His arm waved at certain buildings, probably alluding to the owners, who, if they hadn’t fled, would be his future victims.

Markham saw boats in the harbour, few in number, which had started on the task of clearing away the bodies. This they achieved by stabbing at them with pikes and swords, puncturing the cavities that contained the gases that kept them afloat, then pushing them under the water with bars, not granting any of them so much as a sign of the cross to ease their passage to the afterlife.

Underground, they’d felt the blast as the Picard
warehouse went up, so they’d known it to be serious. But Markham wondered if any of them would have recognised their location if Fouquert hadn’t stopped. The whole of the top half of the building was gone, the rest a mere shell of still smoking timbers. The warehouses on either side had lost great chunks of their upper storeys, and the air was filled with the acrid odour of burnt wood soaked with water.

They too had to halt. Markham turning towards the quay, his hand shooting out as if he were identifying one of the hundreds of bodies in the water. Out of the corner of his eye, he knew that the move had attracted Fouquert’s attention, since he threw a quick glance in their direction. But it was no more than that, and he went back to telling the officer escorting him whatever it was he wanted to impart. That was the moment when Jean-Baptiste, who’d been silent, decided to speak.

It wasn’t coherent, but it was high-pitched and excited, just the sort of thing to arouse curiosity in the other people on the quay. The boy was waving his coloured drawings, pointing out into the harbour and tugging at Celeste’s sleeve. Markham grabbed Rannoch and Leech, practically dragging them till their bulk hid the girl. A sharp word to Schutte had the bald Dutchman bending his knees so that he was less prominent. But Jean-Baptiste squealed on, as an increasing number of heads turned to look.

‘For Christ’s sake shut him up, Celeste.’

Tully showed less concern, if more presence of mind, by stepping forward and clapping his hand over the boy’s mouth. Dragging his head back into his stomach made Jean-Baptiste spread his arms. This gave Markham the opportunity to grab the drawings, obviously the spur of the youngster’s excitement.

‘Gently, Tully. Don’t hurt him,’ he said, kneeling down so that he could calm the boy.

He looked at the top drawing, on which Rossignol had
sketched the private signal. Jean-Baptiste’s eyes, fearful, wide and looking past him, made him glance towards the Grosse Tour. The first thing he saw was a boat pulling for the watergate, the rate of the oars indicating haste. Then he looked up. Flags streamed from the ship’s mast on the top of the old tower, and they precisely replicated the flags on the drawing in his hand.

Another set was hauled upon the other side of the mast, the jerk of the man on the halyard bursting them open. Scrabbling through the drawings, Markham eventually came to the one that told him the signal. That did nothing to enlighten him. Quite the opposite. Why should the French be sending Lord Hood’s private signal to an approaching ship, and telling that vessel it was safe to enter harbour?

‘Holy Mother of God,’ he said softly, standing upright. ‘It has to be one of ours.’

Standing upright, he threw a nervous glance towards Fouquert, who still hadn’t moved. Then he looked down into Jean-Baptiste’s eyes, trying to smile and nod to let the boy know that he understood. But that occupied only a fraction of his mind. The rest was taken up with the consequences of what he’d seen. A British ship, definitely a warship, was approaching Toulon. Less than twenty-four hours since the end of the siege, and having missed any patrolling frigates, whoever it was didn’t know that the French had taken the port. So they were coming on, enticed by the very signals they had in their own book.

A warship, probably with several hundred men on board, was going to glide straight into a trap, which was something he and his men could not allow to happen.

Time for explanations didn’t exist. That ship wouldn’t need actually to enter the Petite Rade. Brought within range of the crossfire from Forts St Louis and l’Eguillette, and with its own guns housed, it would be reduced to matchwood within minutes. So all his men got was a staccato few words before Markham, pistol out, was heading straight for Fouquert.

The Frenchman’s turn was slow; his face, when they saw it, puffy. The bloodshot black eyes nearly popped out of his head when he recognised his assailant. A flick to the side showed him Celeste standing by the water’s edge. And if he doubted the danger he was in from Markham, he only had to look at her to guess his fate. The soldiers, with the exception of the officer, had stayed facing forward, and their commander, still examining the damage to the building, had no chance to intervene. Markham put his pistol under Fouquert’s chin, an action which made him shut his eyes. The whole party was surrounded before anyone could utter a word. Quickly, his men took the soldiers’ weapons, Rannoch relieving the officer of his sword and pistol.

‘What is the meaning …?’

‘Shut up,’ hissed Fouquert, the words difficult because of the metal pressed against his windpipe.

‘I hope you do open your mouth,’ said Markham, pushing so hard that Fouquert’s head was forced back. The Frenchman gagged. ‘Open your eyes, and look at the Grosse Tour. There are signals on those masts. British signals to an approaching warship. We are going to go out there and get them cut down.’

Fouquert couldn’t nod, but several blinks indicated agreement. Markham eased the pressure just enough for him to order the officer of his escort, a heavily moustachioed major of chasseurs, to comply. That produced from him an explosive response, which pushed his chest out several inches.

‘Never!’

Seeing the slight commotion, some people had stopped. That induced curiosity in others, and a crowd was beginning to form.

‘A clever trick, citizens,’ Markham called, careful to keep Fouquert from talking, ‘to disguise yourselves as soldiers in a bid to try and escape.’

‘Lies!’ shouted the major.

That earned him a punch from Rannoch that first knocked him to his knees, then had him falling forward onto his hands. The four soldiers were ordered to take an arm and a leg each. Weaponless and confused, they could do little but obey. Markham was facing the crowd again as he called out: ‘To the Fort de la Malgue. Let Citizen Fouquert decide what to do with these vermin.’

Halsey and Leech detached themselves, pushing through the stationary Toulonais to fetch Celeste and Jean-Baptiste.

‘That is Citizen Fouquert,’ said one of them. ‘I saw him in the square last night.’

Markham pulled at Fouquert’s hair, first to drive him to his knees, then to show his face to the crowd. In evident pain, he didn’t look quite so superior as he had the night before. ‘If you want to escape Madame Guillotine, what better way can there be than do yourself up to look like the Citizen Commissioner?’

‘But …’

The interloper got no further. ‘Look at the clothes, man. They’re false. Anyone saying otherwise we’ll take along with us.’

That halved the crowd in the space of two seconds. Even if they hadn’t witnessed the tribunal, they knew it to be capricious, more interested in the quantity than the quality of its victims. But the man who’d been talking wouldn’t be cowed.

‘Well, they look like soldiers to me.’

Markham grinned at him, then half turned, speaking under his breath to Dornan and Gibbons, standing behind him. ‘Fetch him a clout and throw him in the harbour.’

He must have guessed what was coming when they started to move, and he was nimble. Dornan reached for his shirt, but failed to get a grip, and the man slipped out of his grasp and began to run. Dornan lowered the musket he was carrying, and uttered the fatal words, in clear, plain English.

‘Halt or I’ll fire.’

The stunned silence that followed affected everyone, French and British alike. Markham had a moment when his heart sank. Fouquert one where his nostrils flared and his eyes lost their look of stark terror. Then they all moved at once. Halsey and Leech ducked under Dornan’s weapon, to bring their charges into the circle of safety. Some of the braver souls in the crowd moved forward, only to backtrack when they were faced with lowered weapons. The French soldiers dropped their officer on the cobbles and tried to grab the nearest enemy. They had their back to them and were taken slightly by surprise, so this quickly became a brawl.

Markham, still holding Fouquert’s hair, fired his pistol over the heads of those closest to him, passing the empty weapon to Celeste, pulling the second one from his belt. The crowd had broken up, but no-one seemed sure of which way to head for safety. The discharge of the second pistol seemed to untangle their wits, and they ran off in both directions. Fouquert, trying to take advantage of the mêlée, squirmed in an attempt to get free. Celeste, who’d
hardly taken her eyes off him, hit him with barrel of the gun she was holding. Not enough to knock him out, it certainly changed the Frenchman’s mind, and Markham found that he was supporting him by the hair, rather than restraining him.

‘On your feet, you shit,’ he yelled, tugging hard. Behind him the French soldiers had been clubbed to ground, and were lying with their hands over their head as the Lobsters and Bullocks, with Schutte to the fore, piled into them with the butts of their muskets. The moustachioed major, who’d obviously tried to take part, was in a heap by the warehouse wall, with blood streaming from his head.

‘Leave them!’ Markham shouted, an order he had to repeat, with his men intent on taking revenge for what they’d been forced to witness the previous night. ‘Follow me.’

The fellow who’d recognised Fouquert had run back to the sentries at the exit to the square. Not that he needed to raise the alarm; Markham’s gunfire had done that. But those soldiers, too few in number, were disinclined to move. They would want to send back for an officer, someone to take responsibility, before they set off in pursuit. That hesitation was his only chance to gain some distance. Even then, he wasn’t sure that he’d achieve what was required. It was half a mile to the Grosse Tour. The remaining ships of the French fleet, those not burned by Sydney Smith, lay in the inner basin, dominating the right of the quay halfway to his goal.

Running was made harder by Fouquert, who stumbled repeatedly on the cobbles. Only the fact that he might be needed stopped Markham from killing him on the spot. Not that they were much threatened. The citizenry of Toulon, good or bad, had a well-developed sense of self preservation. Seeing a party of armed men running towards them, they quickly got out of the way.

But that still left the crews of the ships that lined the
inner basin. Above the heads of those in front he could see a group gathering at the top of one steeply angled gangplank. This ran up to the entry port of one of the 100-gun ships, where an officer was busy distributing weapons and powder. Slowing slightly, he let Rannoch catch up, the question he asked delivered with barely enough breath to be understood.

‘We’ve all got guns now,’ Rannoch gasped, as they came abreast of the ship’s stern. Men were leaning over the taffrail, yelling insults at them and throwing anything they could find, marlinspikes, blocks, pulleys and small kegs. ‘But they are a right mixture, two Spanish, four French and the rest from God knows. And we’ve got no way of reloading half of them.’

‘One volley,’ he shouted, pointing to the arched entrance that led to the maindeck of the ship, twenty feet above them. ‘Aim right into that entry port. If we don’t scare off those sailors we’ll have a mob to deal with.’

His men stopped, chests heaving with exertion. Fouquert was on his knees again, sobbing. A chunk of hair had separated from his scalp, which was bleeding profusely. Markham grabbed a bayonet from the nearest soldier and handed it to Celeste.

‘Hold this hard on his neck. Hebes, form line and take aim on the ship. Sergeant Rannoch will give the order to fire.’

A capstan bar, thrown like a spear from the upper deck, missed Rannoch by a fraction of an inch as he stepped forward to give Markham the French major’s sword. It bounced on the cobbles, and whacked Halsey right across the side of the face. The corporal collapsed in a heap, red cap flying. Rannoch yelled for them to ignore him and the rest of the flying objects, waited several seconds till he felt their breath had settled, then shouted for them to fire. The men had vacated the gangplank, taking refuge in the entry port. Half the balls peppered the side of the ship. But judging by the yells that echoed from
between the narrow decks, some of those fired had found flesh.

‘Move,’ Markham shouted, pleased to see that Schutte had thrown his musket to Leech, grabbed hold of Halsey, picking the older man up like a doll, and slinging him over one shoulder, while with his other hand he picked up the capstan bar that had felled him. They were running again, skirting round the point where the inner basin joined the dockyard, moving through the destruction caused by the retreating Allies; smashed and burnt-out buildings, some still smoking, filling the lungs of the worn out Hebes with an acrid taste.

Markham cursed as he threw a swift glance backwards. Sailors were pouring down the gangplank now, like bees from a threatened hive, several officers at their head, harrying them to make more speed. They were fresh, and unencumbered. He couldn’t hope to stay ahead of them, and given their numbers, even a volley from muskets, always assuming they could load them, might do little to deter them.

Another nervous backwards glance showed them spewing onto the quay. More enthusiastic than sensible, they ran right amongst a more disciplined party of soldiers from the Bishop’s palace, throwing their ranks into disorder. The Army officer in command was lashing about with his blade, berating the crewmen and ordering them back, while his naval counterparts were doing the precise opposite, the subsequent mêlée opening the gap between the groups to something over a hundred yards. But with five times that still to cover, it was a narrow margin still.

Fouquert was in a bad way, his distress caused as much by despair as exhaustion. He kept falling to the ground, to be hauled back to his feet with little compassion, by a man whose eyes showed just how much he cared for the Frenchman’s well-being. ‘Fall once more and I’ll skewer you where you lie.’

‘I can’t go on.’

Markham swung the sword he was carrying, using the flat of the blade. In doing so he relaxed his grip on Fouquert’s oiled and bloodsoaked hair. Not much, it was just enough to let the Frenchman slip from his grasp. The sword whistled past Fouquert’s ear as he dropped to the ground. That coincided with the first volley of musket fire from their pursuers. The air was suddenly full of whistling lead balls, one of which cut a groove across Markham’s extended forearm.

The pain made him recoil. Fouquert scrabbled out of reach; driven by terror, he opened enough distance to get to his feet. Everyone else had turned to face the gunfire, those with the means trying desperately to reload, with only Rannoch’s Brown Bess presented and ready.

Fouquert was now upright, running for his life, screaming and yelling to the men on the top of the Grosse Tour to help him. They were too far away to hear, standing on the battlements under their streaming signal flags. But the gunfire had alerted them. Behind, order had been imposed, with the soldiers out front reloading while their officers restrained the more eager sailors. Guns loaded, the whole mass set off in pursuit, the front line setting a good pace that kept their formation intact.

Markham was screaming too, yelling frantically to get his men moving. Even if they’d had their own muskets, they didn’t have the firepower to check the pursuit. Their only hope was to get to the Grosse Tour and use it as a place of defence. Even if that didn’t last, they would, at least, chop those signal flags down and alert the men on that warship.

He was running out in front, with only the sound of pounding feet evidence that his command was being obeyed, his eyes fixed on Fouquert’s back, and the flapping green coat that he was still wearing. He kept shouting, trying to wave his arms in a way that wouldn’t slow his speed. Markham saw some of the signallers move back from the battlements, but with he and his
quarry matched for pace he had to concentrate on running rather than speculation. Sweating, his breath coming in great gulps, he had the consolation that Fouquert was certainly in a worse state.

Another volley of gunfire swished past, the crack making him duck involuntarily. One ball seemed to pluck at the shoulder of the dark green coat. The irony that the sod had nearly fallen to his own side forced a smile from Markham. That faded as he saw the result. The threat had given Fouquert an extra bit of speed, and he was now opening up the gap.

At that moment, at about a hundred yards distance, they both caught sight of the same thing: the very edge of the old wooden drawbridge as it began to rise. Markham remembered the well-oiled mechanism, which lay just inside the left-hand side of the gateway. If the men who manned the tower succeeded in raising it, he would be left standing in the open, there to face a foe who would overwhelm him in seconds.

The drawbridge inched up, too slow to be in the good working order that he’d supposed. Suddenly he stopped and turned, reeling as first Dornan, who was pulling Celeste, and then Dymock, carrying Jean-Baptiste, ran into him. Rannoch was at the rear, chivvying everyone along, his face showing the strain of his exertions.

‘Rannoch, your musket,’ shouted Markham, when the Highlander skidded to a halt. ‘Take aim on that gateway to the tower, to the left, about six feet inside. There are men there trying to haul up that drawbridge.’

No further explanation was necessary, especially as the leading edge moved up another fraction. ‘The rest of you, face the rear and load. Let’s slow the bastards up.’

Schutte dropped the capstan bar and rolled Halsey off his shoulder. The corporal had regained some measure of consciousness; he was able to stand, unsteadily, on his feet. Then the Dutchman took his musket, which hadn’t been discharged, and aimed it at the French soldiers,
waiting for the rest of those with cartouches to complete their task. Seven or eight muskets was a pitiful number against such odds. But the aim wasn’t to kill, merely to slow them a little.