A Shred of Honour (34 page)

‘Aim for the cobblestones in front of them,’ yelled Markham, looking anxiously at Rannoch, who was taking an age to steady himself, then at the drawbridge, creeping inexorably up. He was hoping that the shot would send up some stone fragments. And perhaps a lucky ricochet would do damage. ‘Schutte, you give the command.’

The huge, bald-headed Hollander, halfway through reloading, turned a fraction, and Markham was sure he saw him grin. The French were now less than seventy-five yards away. Turning, he hissed at Rannoch. ‘Now, for Christ’s sake. Now!’

Rannoch’s weapon went off with a crash. Fouquert, with the crack of that shot in his ear, fell flat on his face. The Scotsman didn’t look and see what effect, if any, he’d achieved. The rammer was out by the time the butt crashed to the ground, into the barrel with the swabber on the end. Out it came, to be replaced by a cartridge and a ball, then it was back in, pressing them down. He threw the heavy gun up, as if it was feather-light, so that it landed flat in his left hand, while his right brought the powder flask up to his lips. The stopper was out, the pan primed almost before the musket had stopped moving. Rannoch let the vessel drop, raised his gun, and within twenty seconds put another ball in exactly the same place as he’d aimed the first. Fouquert, who seemed winded, had just got to his feet. He threw himself sideways this time, rolling over and over on the rough cobbles, no more than fifty yards from the now still drawbridge.

‘I was tempted to take him,’ said Rannoch.

‘He’s mine,’ Markham croaked, rushing forward with Rannoch at his heels. Schutte’s command rang out simultaneously, and the muskets behind exploded. The
roadway in front of the advancing French soldiers threw up spurts of stone and dust, and one ball clipped the officer in charge, causing him to spin away. But he pulled himself round again, standing upright, calling on his men to prepare to return fire.

Fouquert was on his knees, trying to get to his feet, when Markham’s foot took him in the stomach. He fell to one side as the next blow, delivered with the point of Frobisher’s best right shoe, took the Frenchman in the groin. Markham hauled him to his feet and began to drag him on. Rannoch, standing above the hunched Frenchman, was reloading as he moved. Schutte and his party were retiring steadily, their guns facing the French, too slowly for their own ultimate safety.

‘Come on, men, let’s get to that bloody tower.’

Markham, aware of Rannoch reloading beside him, cursed when he saw the drawbridge move again. The French were gaining, the officer more determined than ever to catch up, which left no time to reload and impose any more delay.

‘Hold him,’ Markham barked, as he raced for the rising platform. He didn’t see Rannoch club Fouquert hard with the butt of his Brown Bess, but was vaguely aware of the sound of boots behind him, and the shout that was aimed at those following to bring the Frenchman on. The gap between the quay and the drawbridge opened at increased speed, getting to about waist height as Markham reached it. He leapt onto the top, rolling over to retrieve his footing, then rushing down the sloping platform, his curses echoing off the narrow stone archway.

Of the four men working the mechanism, only two stood their ground, the other pair rushing for the watergate. And only one of his opponents had a weapon ready, a musket which he was raising to aim at Markham. It was momentum which saved him, carrying him too far forwards to stay upright on the gradient. He fell as the
musket fired, the sword flying out of his hand as he rolled over and over, to cannon into the man’s legs before he had the wit to lower his bayonet. But with his first enemy falling over him and trapping his arms, he was at the mercy of the second, who had a club raised, ready to batter his head.

Rannoch didn’t try to climb onto the drawbridge. Instead he used it as a rest, the long muzzle steady as he fired. At no more than twelve yards, the man with the club had little chance. The ball took him right in the chest, throwing him back against the wheel that operated the drawbridge. His body dislodged the pawl that acted as a brake, his weight holding it away from the gears so that the bridge slammed down. Markham, meanwhile, had managed to get one of his empty pistols out, and was trying to brain the Frenchman lying across him. Success at that did little for his mobility, the man’s dead weight pinning him to the stone floor, until Rannoch arrived to pull his victim off.

‘Fouquert?’ Markham gasped, looking out at the men streaming towards the tower. Celeste ran alongside Dymock, who was still carrying Jean-Baptiste. Ettrick and Quinlan had Halsey between them, the other seven men strung out behind, with Schutte bringing up the rear. The line of French soldiers, now fifty yards behind him, stopped, muskets raised, preparing to fire.

‘Tully’s got him, and Hollick.’

The hint of the green, dust-smeared coat between the two men reassured Markham. His voice was nearly drowned out by the French salvo, mingled with the thunder of boots on the wooden platform. Dornan shrieked and spun round as a ball took him in the arm. Luckily his good arm hooked round the lifting chain, which prevented him from falling into the moat. Yelland and Hollick grabbed him and hustled him under the arch, where Markham was issuing a stream of shouted orders; to secure one of the watergate boats; two men should
guard the circular staircase, four by the wheel to begin raising the drawbridge; anyone spare to load muskets. Fouquert, as soon as he was inside the arch, was dropped on to the flagstones, with Tully standing on him instead of stepping over.

The enemy commander, bleeding from a wound in his right shoulder, must have realised that he risked losing contact. He ordered his men to rush the archway. Schutte, at the last salvo, had thrown himself flat, and was now struggling to his feet. Encumbered by his musket and the capstan bar that had felled Halsey, he still had twenty yards to cover.

‘Drop that damned wood,’ Markham yelled, as the edge of the drawbridge creaked, and began to rise. The advancing French were now so close Markham could see the expression of determination on the officer’s face, as he harried his men to get them to the drawbridge before these British soldiers could raise it. Given the distance they had to cover, and the speed at which they were doing it, they looked very likely to succeed.

Schutte stopped and looked both ways, so must have come to the same conclusion. He dropped his musket and began to run back towards the enemy, oblivious to the men under the arch who were screaming at him. The capstan bar came up, and spreading it flat, the Dutchman rushed at the enemy. Their bayonets were presented, but he made no attempt to avoid them. The wounded officer, in front, couldn’t raise his sword, so was forced back by Schutte on to the blades of his own men. But the Hollander took them too, the grey, bloodstained steel shafts emerging from his back. But he kept going forward, the strength of the dying man, added to his bull-like roar, stopped the French advance in its tracks, bundling half their pursuers into the waters of the harbour.

‘Pull,’ yelled Markham to the men on the wheel. Nothing could be done for Schutte now. The only reward
he could give the Dutchman was to ensure that his sacrifice was not in vain. The gears moved with agonising slowness, a fraction at a time, each inch registered by the smack of a pawl locking home. But the effect on the actual drawbridge was greater, and soon the angle increased. It was at waist level again before the remaining Frenchmen, stepping over Schutte’s mangled body, recommenced their advance. By the time they made the edge it was above chest height. Two men, braver or more foolish than their fellows, jumped up and swung themselves onto the tilted platform.

Markham felt the warm wood of a bayonet handle pressed into his hand, and turned to look into the frightened dark eyes of Celeste. He pushed her behind him and turned to face the two soldiers, who were trying, without much success, to keep their footing. The point came where the weight of the structure began to aid, rather than thwart those trying to raise it. One attacker slipped, spinning over the edge. The other ran forward, using the slope to gain speed. Rannoch, Hollick and Yelland stepped past Markham, bayonets fixed. The Frenchman knew he was going to die two or three seconds before he impaled himself on their blades.

Markham called on them to follow and ran for the circular staircase, noticing that at least one boat was still wallowing in the Watergate, with Halsey bent over beside it. The signal party were poorly equipped to withstand an assault, armed only with the most rudimentary weapons. As soon as their attackers appeared on the roof they began to surrender, one club dropping to the ground, swiftly followed by knives and the odd sword.

‘Chuck them into the moat,’ he shouted, turning to look at the ship in the outer roads. A frigate, it was probably already within range of the shore-based guns. He ran to the mast, the bayonet already swinging to cut the halyards. But he stopped just in time, reached forward,
and untied the knots instead, stepping back as the flags fell about his ears.

The guns of Forts St Louis and L’Eguillette, loaded and ready, fired the second the ship put up her helm. The water around the hull boiled furiously as the heated iron balls dropped short. Then the ship was round, heading away from danger, the deck full of frantic sailors clearing for action.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Rannoch.

‘Get Jean-Baptiste up here with his drawings. I have a signal I want to send.’ A glance around the harbour showed any number of boats putting off, all heading for the Grosse Tour. And the quay was filling with soldiers. Worse than that, Markham knew they were well within the range of the guns of Fort l’Eguillette, manned by an artillery officer who would happily blow the ancient tower to pieces. ‘And bring Fouquert up here as well.’

The Citizen Commissioner was in a terrible state, barely able to stand, his clothing ripped, his face scratched and swollen, with blood congealing at the base of his hooked nose. He watched, with unfocussed eyes, as Markham, using Jean-Baptiste’s drawings, sent up a series of flagborne messages. Hardly proper in the naval sense, they kept the frigate away from shore, while also ensuring it didn’t disappear altogether. If Fouquert knew how many people were coming to rescue him, it didn’t register until the first warning shot hit the water just inshore of the Grosse Tour.

‘Is there a white flag in that locker?’ Markham asked Yelland. When the fair haired youngster nodded, he ordered it raised. ‘We need to buy ourselves some time.’

As soon as it was aloft, fluttering in the breeze, he walked over to Fouquert. ‘We need you to get us out of here.’

Fouquert shook his head slowly. Markham, as scratched and filthy as the man he was addressing, smiled.
‘We’re not about to surrender, and that white flag won’t silence Bonaparte’s guns for ever. He’s too eager to use them. So you have a choice. You can either die with us, or accept my word that if you get us clear, I’ll spare your miserable life.’

Fouquert’s head lifted at the word surrender, and he seemed to recover some expression in his eyes. By the time Markham had finished speaking they held that same look as when he’d interrogated him at Ollioules; cunning mixed with superiority, the air of a man who thinks he has gained the upper hand. It was that which made Markham walk away, and determined the question he put to the knot of men watching the forces gathering in the harbour.

‘Where is Celeste?’

‘She’s downstairs, sir,’ said Gibbons, ‘with Sergeant Rannoch. They’re tending to Halsey and Dornan.’

‘Ask her to come up here, would you? Tully, Leech, tie that specimen to the mast. I want him facing Toulon.’

He started gabbling as soon as they came for him, a spate of words telling the men that if they were prepared to surrender their officer they had nothing to fear from him. Leech slapped him hard, adding yet another red weal to those that covered his face. Markham went to the top of the circular staircase and waited for Celeste. As she emerged from the gloom he was struck by her eyes as well. They’d lost the hunted look she’d had these last months, and now seemed more luminous. He led her to the mast, behind Fouquert.

‘Will you guarantee a safe conduct?’

‘Not for you,’ he replied, then he raised his voice. ‘Your men, yes. I have no quarrel with them, and neither does the Revolution. They are as oppressed as any Frenchman.’

‘Then you leave me no choice but to force you.’ The sound Fouquert responded with was very close to a laugh. Markham took Celeste’s hand. ‘You think I lack the will to force you.’

‘You are a coward, Markham. Even I know that. Would you men give up your lives to save a coward’s neck? If you stay here you will die. Come ashore with me, you will want for nothing.’

The note of triumph died as Markham led Celeste into view. Stark terror took over when he saw Markham hand her a bayonet. He had to look away from her face, not soft now, but cruel, the dark brown eyes full of hate.

‘Do you remember this girl, what you did to her, and to her father? I have promised her one part of you, Fouquert. And I think even you might be able to guess which that is likely to be.’

The cannon boomed out on Fort l’Eguillette. This time the shot landed on the seaward side of the peninsula, away from the boats now crowding the landward approach. ‘If you don’t get us out of here, I’ll give you over to her completely.’

He was nodding before Markham finished, too frightened to look Celeste in the eye lest by doing so he provoke her. Markham half turned to order Fouquert released, which slowed his reaction when Celeste jabbed forward with the blade. It sliced into Fouquert’s groin, deflected downwards by one of his breech buttons, and slid through the cloth just below his scrotum. The girl drew the blade back for another stab, but Markham had hold of her wrists, forced to use all his strength to restrain her.

‘Untie him, quick,’ he yelled, as he saw the first hint of blood seep through the cloth between his legs. ‘And get him up on the battlements.’

He had Celeste by both arms now, holding her out of the way as his men complied. ‘I would like to kill him as much as you. But it is better to live.’