A Shred of Honour (35 page)

‘For you, perhaps,’ she said, as her shoulders slumped. All the strength had gone out of her arms, and she fell forward onto his chest, sobbing. Jean-Baptiste ran towards her and threw his arms round her hips.

‘He needs you,’ said Markham softly, as he spun her round so that she was embracing the boy.

Fouquert, sobbing and trying to look at his wound, was lifted up to where he could be seen. He started screaming as soon as he saw the men in the boats, ordering messages to be sent to the forts to cease firing; giving instructions for the boats to be withdrawn; commanding that the soldiers fall back; that these British soldiers had his personal safe conduct to go aboard the frigate in the roads. It was a telling comment of the fear in which he was held that those below complied without hesitation.

There was a mast in the boat, which they lashed him to, still bleeding, his pleas for assistance taking second place to the urgent need to get away before someone countermanded his orders. As they pulled out from the Watergate a pair of French boats fetched their wake, close enough to see Fouquert, if not the blood that covered the front of his breeches. The white flag had gone from the mast on the Grosse Tour, to be replaced by another, defiantly flapping, naval signal.

Markham sat beside Fouquert, a pistol aimed at his head, in case he should suddenly change his mind. Looking back at the landscape where he and his men had spent the last four months, everything that had occurred ran through his mind. The battles, both triumphs and disasters. The pleasures, as well.

‘Eveline Rossignol,’ he said suddenly, pushing the pistol up towards Fouquert. ‘Did you murder her, too’

‘No,’ he pleaded, ‘she is still alive.’

‘Pity,’ said Markham, after a slight pause, his voice bitter. ‘The bitch helped the old man betray me.’

It was hard to know if it had worked, but he prayed that what he had just said would make sure that if Fouquert was telling the truth, and she was alive, being known as someone he abominated would keep her that way.

They had the guns run out on the frigate, so when they were within range Markham called the two French boats to come alongside. Fouquert, cut down from the mast, had to be helped to transfer to the waiting cutter. But he raised his head when he was aboard, to fix Markham with a malevolent stare.

‘It is my fond wish, Fouquert, that I never see you again. If I do, I shall most certainly kill you.’

The Frenchman didn’t have the strength to reply, but the look on that Moorish face, particularly in the black eyes, was enough to tell Markham that if he didn’t take the first opportunity, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed a second.

As they came alongside, every man on the frigate fetched them a spontaneous cheer. The captain had put a proper ladder out, with red silk-covered side ropes, and ship’s boys standing by to help them aboard. Markham went first and found himself, dirty of face and apparel, on a spotless deck, lined with officers in their very best uniforms. Pipes squealed and hats were raised, before the captain, a stocky individual, stepped forward.

‘Who, in the name of God be damned, are you, sir?’

‘George Markham, sir. Lieutenant, either of the Sixty-fifth Foot or the Marines, I know not which.’

‘And you sent that signal?’

‘I did.’

‘That is a damned cheek, sir.’

‘I accept the reprimand, captain, but having saved your ship from certain destruction, I claim the privilege.’

‘And you shall damn well have it,’ the captain replied, stepping forward with a broad smile, hand outstretched. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, and thank you heartily. I am Captain Samuel Hood, and this is the frigate
Juno.
’

‘Hood?’

‘My father is Lord Bridport, but I am named after my uncle.’

‘Admiral Lord Hood?’

‘That’s him.’

‘The signal,’ Markham stuttered. ‘If it caused offence?’

‘It caused mayhem, sir,’ Hood replied with an even wider grin. ‘How dare you send my ship’s number, and follow it with the signal “Prepare to receive Flag”?’

‘I don’t run to army clothing, Markham,’ said Hood, passing a bowl of nuts. ‘But I’ll stake you as many Lobster uniforms as you like. And I’m sure my marine officer will oblige you with a loan of some of his kit.’

‘Would that I had the right to wear it, sir.’

‘What’s this nonsense?’

The explanation that followed was brief but accurate. ‘And I have been informed many times, Captain, that it takes a degree of patronage to be granted a marine officer’s commission. That, I fear, is something I lack.’

‘You may have lacked it, Markham. But that is the past, this is the present. If my Uncle Sam won’t grant you a commission, he’ll have to deal with my father, who is not someone he cares to trifle with. Consider it as good as done.’ He saw the slight look of doubt on Markham’s face, which made him frown. ‘That is, if you want the damned thing.’

‘Could I be excused a moment, sir?’

Hood looked at him oddly. ‘Of course.’

Below decks, it smelled as bad as he remembered. They’d put his men in a mess of their own, and every tar aboard had brought them food and drink. Halsey, bandaged, wasn’t white-faced now; he was bright red with too much rum and warm air. Even Rannoch was affected. But over it all there was a sadness, a combination of weariness and a sense of comrades lost. They’d started out thirty-four strong, and now they numbered less than a dozen. He struggled to remember some of the names of the dead, but they wouldn’t come.

The survivors all began to stand as he came close, and
he had to insist that they sat while he was present. Dornan, with his one good arm, passed him a tot of rum.

‘God bless all here,’ he said, raising his tankard, pleased, though he tried to hide it, by the murmured replies. Suddenly, the image of the huge blond Dutchman dying on those French bayonets filled his mind. Without that sacrifice, and the precious seconds it had bought, they might not be here. ‘And raise your drinks once more, lads, to the bravest of us all.’

‘Schutte,’ said Rannoch, unbidden.

There was no murmuring now. Every man spoke that name loud and clear, and drained his cup to show he meant it.

‘I have a question to ask,’ said Markham, talking as the men refilled their cups.

‘So what you are saying, sir,’ Rannoch said, when he’d finished, ‘is that we can all be fitted out as marines.’

‘Including me, it seems.’

There was an exchange of looks, some pulling of faces, but many smiles, and all ended up as nods. He held out his tankard for his own refill, then raised it again, laying on the Irish with a trowel.

‘Well, my brave boyos,’ he toasted. ‘It seems we’re all bloody Lobsters now.’

While the characters in this book are fictional, the action described is real. Since the siege of Toulon lasted four months, certain events have been somewhat telescoped for the sake of the narrative. Also, students of naval history will note that, as a piece of dramatic licence, I have kept Captain Horatio Nelson and his ship,
Agamemnon,
engaged in the action, when they were in fact detached for service under Commodore Linzee, and sent to North Africa to threaten and cajole the Bay of Tunis. They rejoined Hood at Leghorn, prior to the assault on Corsica, which will provide the setting for the second in the
Lobsters
series.

We hope you enjoyed this book.
Do you want to know about our other great reads, download free extracts and enter competitions?
If so, visit our website
www.allisonandbusby.com.
Click to sign up to our monthly newsletter
for exclusive content and offers, news of our brand new releases, upcoming events with your favourite authors and much more.
And why not click to follow us on
Facebook
and
Twitter
?
We’d love to hear from you!

BY DAVID DONACHIE

THE JOHN PEARCE SERIES

BY THE MAST DIVIDED

A SHOT ROLLING SHIP

AN AWKWARD COMMISSION

A FLAG OF TRUCE

THE ADMIRALS’ GAME

AN ILL WIND

BLOWN OFF COURSE

ENEMIES AT EVERY TURN

A SEA OF TROUBLES

WRITTEN AS JACK LUDLOW

THE REPUBLIC SERIES

THE PILLARS OF ROME

THE SWORD OF REVENGE

THE GODS OF WAR

THE CONQUEST SERIES

MERCENARIES

WARRIORS

CONQUEST

THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES

THE BURNING SKY

A BROKEN LAND

A BITTER FIELD

THE CRUSADES SERIES

SON OF BLOOD

SOLDIER OF CRUSADE

PRINCE OF LEGEND

D
AVID
D
ONACHIE
was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.