A Shred of Honour (9 page)

Fire began to pour down from the hillsides as the
renegades
, having found some cover, started to play their muskets on the men beneath them. Two went down immediately, and he called for them to be lifted aboard, which was swiftly followed by the command to run. Every man in his detachment had already been told to stay ahead of the coach, if necessary to hang on to the traces and be pulled along. The wounded were thrown through the open doors, inside which the passengers cowered behind thick bales of hay.

Markham himself jumped up onto the step, then threw himself across the box, wondering what the Frenchmen would make of his little surprise. The
quantity
of fire, which had been extreme, suddenly began to fade away. In the space illuminated by the twin torches the renegade sailors could see Fouquert, lashed to the rear of the vehicle, screaming his head off, a perfect
target
for any man who didn’t care whether he hit friend or foe.

They couldn’t keep up the pace for any length of time, and it wasn’t long before Markham had to order Yelland to slow the horses. The men ahead slowed too, some so out of breath that they nearly collapsed where they stood. Jumping down, Markham ordered them to keep moving, waited till the noise of the wheels faded, then gazed back down the road. The night was clear and warm, though with a slim moon he could see little. But his ears told him more than his eyes. There was no evidence of any pursuit.

Fouquert was covered in the dust thrown up by the wheels of the coach, his face caked so that he looked like a pierrot, the curly black hair, eyelids and thin moustache doubly coated. When he begged to be cut down his voice was cracked, partly from the dirt, but more, Markham
suspected, from shouting at his compatriots. His wrists, where the ropes had rubbed against them, showed angry red, made more obvious by the still flickering torches. Disliking needless cruelty, Markham was tempted to oblige. But if he did, Fouquert would have to walk, and that would mean putting some of his exhausted men to guard him.

‘There’s no room in the coach,’ Markham replied, checking his bonds to see that they were still secure. ‘Besides, you are such a useful talisman, I would be loath to surrender the protection you provide.’

Fouquert tried to spit on him, though he lacked the saliva to do so. But his black eyes held enough hate to render the liquid unnecessary. Loping round to jump back aboard, he saw that both Lobsters and Bullocks were well ahead. A last glance to the rear killed any
temptation
he had to call them back. Jumping aboard, Markham called for the interior lantern to be unshaded and passed to him.

He examined the wounded. Leech had a broken leg, though it looked clean enough. One of the men shot on the road, a Bullock called Firman, was dead. The other, a marine, had a shoulder wound which didn’t appear too serious. He spoke to the older of Rossignol’s daughters, as he removed the injured man’s belt, bayonet and pouches.

‘Mademoiselle, you must help me tend to these men.’

‘I cannot, monsieur,’ Pascalle Rossignol replied,
cowering
even further behind her hay. ‘I swoon at the sight of blood.’

‘I shall assist you, Lieutenant,’ said Eveline. Leaning forward, she immediately removed her cloak and knelt to cover the man’s legs. As she did so, her beautiful face came full into the light, and Markham smiled at her. She returned the smile, which broadened as his eyes, of their own volition, fell to take in the slim neck, the pale skin beneath it, and her proud breasts.

‘I must warn you, I am not equipped to nurse, monsieur.’

Recognising it for what it was, a
double
entendre
, Markham’s face broke into a grin, that followed by shared laughter. It took a supreme effort to drag his mind back to his responsibilities as an officer, and he gingerly started to remove the wounded soldier’s coat.

‘Torches ahead, lieutenant,’ called Yelland from the box. ‘Lots of them.’

‘That will be the Toulon defences,’ Markham said, to reassure the passengers. ‘We’re safe now.’

The first hint of the new dawn was edging over the
eastern
horizon before they’d finished. Markham, under the watchful eye of her father, saw Eveline seated and covered her with her cloak. Then, exhausted himself, he lay across a bale of hay to try and snatch a brief sleep.

A runner had been sent back into Toulon as soon as they were sighted. De Lisle, still ashore, had been roused out of his bed and dispatched to investigate. Halsey shook his officer awake as soon as the captain came into view. De Lisle, typically, made no attempt to disguise his feelings in front of the civilians. His countenance was livid as Markham, suppressing a yawn as well as a curse, climbed down from the coach to report.

‘What is this?’ he demanded. ‘You were given clear orders to stay in Ollioules.’

‘I had to pull back, sir, or risk losing everyone.’

‘Why, damnit?’

‘French deserters, sir, sailors from the Toulon fleet. They were coming out of the hills. I suspect our initial approach to the village drove them up there in the first place. Having seen Captain Elphinstone heading back here, they probably thought it was safe to come down.’

De Lisle had stretched himself as Markham spoke, his haughty features showing increasing disbelief. ‘I know nothing of French deserters?’

‘I’ve been told that they number near five thousand, all armed. I have the man who informed me of this. He, it seems, is one of the officers responsible for their flight. He took part in the insurrection which so nearly
scuppered
our landing.’

‘This is more nonsense, Markham.’

‘It is not, sir. Fouquert …’

He got no further, since de Lisle repeated the name with a great explosion of air. ‘Fouquert?’

‘You know the name?’

‘The whole of Toulon knows the name. He’s a damned Jacobin and a bloody butcher, who hanged several dozen loyal naval officers the day Trugueff offered to surrender.’ The captain poked his head into the coach, turning first left, then right, his eyes alighting on Rossignol. ‘Is this he?’

‘No, sir. I tied him to the back,’ Markham replied. He couldn’t help smiling, or adding a small, ironic bow, as he invited his superior to follow him.

De Lisle did so reluctantly, like a man who expected he was about to be made to look a fool. That was heightened as he looked at the back of the coach. The sinking feeling Markham experienced made him wonder if his blood was emptying into his boots. The ropes were there, as were the torches, now extinguished. But they hung loose, with no sign of the prisoner.

‘He was there,’ he stammered. ‘Not two hours ago.’

‘Where?’ demanded de Lisle, confused.

Markham felt like a schoolboy, advancing an excuse that though truthful, was never likely to be believed. And he was aware, as he spoke, that such a feeling was evident in his voice.

‘We tied him to the back of the coach, between these torches, thinking his men would recognise him and stop shooting at us. It worked brilliantly.’

De Lisle could have shouted at him, and probably if he had, Markham would have accepted even so public a
rebuke. But the captain wasn’t like that. He hissed his response, his voice dripping with well controlled distaste.

‘Then I must assume you tied the knots, sir, which would just about match the competence of every other task you’ve undertaken.’

‘I resent that, sir. I have told you that I was forced to withdraw. If I had not done so we could not have avoided being captured.’

‘It’s very easy to avoid that, Markham. All you have to do is behave properly, perhaps even act like an officer and a gentleman, something which is clearly alien to you.’

Toulon was crowded, not only with its own inhabitants, but with British sailors and marines, and those people from the hinterland who were afraid to face the possible arrival of the Terror and its bloody mistress, the guillotine. The anchorage was packed with shipping, the original French fleet in the inner basin by the dockyard, while the outer roadstead was choked with Hood’s fleet, plus the recently arrived Spanish contingent under the command of Admiral Don Juan de Langara. But for all the bustle there was a peaceful air in Toulon itself, more like a town on a busy market day than a city facing an imminent siege.

Unable to find the equipment they’d left with
Elphinstone
, and bereft of orders, Markham was obliged to ask for the use of Rossignol’s coach. So it was a heavily-laden conveyance that made its way round the Petite Rade, first to the hospital, then towards the bakehouse, where the detachment was entitled to collect some badly needed supplies of food, bread and biscuit. Markham, noticing that confusion reigned in the commissary, took enough of those fresh commodities to supply the Rossignols and Celeste. They then made their way to the arsenal to indent for powder and shot, and possibly to receive further orders. That was where they encountered the first manifest signs of confusion. There were no orders, and neither was there accommodation.

‘It’s fend for yourself,’ said the officer, a naval lieutenant, charged with billeting the troops, who, in looking at his filthy army uniform, and his haggard face, had
confirmed
a prejudice without stating it. ‘The barracks are full and the Dons have taken over the rope walk. All the major buildings have long since been filled by marines, so it’s down to haylofts and warehouses for your lot. Still, it’s what the army’s used to.’

The news that Markham was leading a detachment of marines was met with incredulity. What it didn’t produce was a place to lay his head. ‘My men have spent the last twenty-four hours without either sleep or decent food, having been damn near the first troops ashore. They need proper rest and somewhere to cook up a hot meal.’

‘Then you should have sorted out your
accommodation
first.’

‘I’m sorry,’ Markham, making no attempt to soften the irony in his tone. ‘We had the small matter of a battle to fight.’

‘What battle?’ he asked doubtfully.

‘Ollioules.’

‘Ah!’ said the lieutenant, suddenly brightening, ‘You mean Captain Elphinstone’s victory. Damn my eyes, I wish I’d been there to see him lead the charge.’

‘Charge?’

‘It’s the talk of the town! A naval officer mounted on a horse, sword in hand, leading the Lobsters forward and routing the frog guns almost single-handed.’ He suddenly looked suspicious. ‘But if you were there, you must have witnessed it.’

‘I was there all right, Lieutenant, and I can testify that Captain Elphinstone never led any charge. Indeed, since he stayed very close to his own cannon till the French were beaten, he barely got within half a mile of the enemy.’

The billeting officer’s face went red. ‘Damn you sir, for a lying dog! How dare you come in here and say such things? I’ve a good mind to report you.’

‘Don’t fret, sir, I shall make my own report. That is, if the good Captain is to be found anywhere close to the conflict.’

The lieutenant’s tone was icy. ‘You will find him at the French Admiral’s old headquarters, Fort de la Malgue.’

‘Powder and shot?’

He flicked a finger towards the open doorway. ‘The arsenal is right across the yard.’

‘And what about a billet?’

There was a palpable degree of satisfaction in the man’s reply. ‘I told you, fend for yourself.’

‘I shall,’ Markham replied coldly.

Then he spun on his heel and marched out. Inwardly he was seething: having twice seen off the French, the credit was not to be his. That wasn’t an uncommon thing in any military enterprise. Whole reputations, including those of very senior officers, were based on good fortune rather than leadership or bravery. And any officer who saw his glory stolen was bound to feel aggrieved. All the same, there was a part of his mind, nagging him, wondering if his reaction would have been quite so extreme if he hadn’t arrived on this campaign carrying the baggage of his own chequered past.

The coach stood where he’d left it, in the yard, with the sun beating down. His men had found a patch of shade by the wall of the arsenal building, and had stretched out to rest. Seeing them, he cursed the billeting officer even more roundly. Amongst the many yardsticks that men used to judge their officers, about the highest was the ability to find a decent billet. Food and freedom from risk were secondary. A good body of troops would accept privation and possible death with an equanimity they’d never show when deprived of a place to sleep.

‘Rannoch, Schutte, Halsey,’ he shouted. The last called was first to his feet, with the two ‘sergeants’ taking their own sweet time to respond. Schutte was reluctant to arrive before Rannoch. He, busily cleaning his musket, seemed disinclined to put the task aside. Markham
waited
, his limited stock of patience rapidly evaporating, while the Highlander finished working on his weapon.
Only then did he stand up. All three then came over to where he stood.

‘That is the last piece of insubordination I am ever going to put up with,’ growled Markham, his eyes ranging over the three men. ‘And it won’t be your stripes I’ll take away, it will be your lifeblood. I’ll have you transferred, and when I do it I’ll make sure that you end up on a duty that not even Lucifer himself could survive.’

He looked at them each in turn. Halsey, the least troublesome, was at attention, gazing at a point above Markham’s head. Schutte dropped his eyes the second he made contact. Only Rannoch held his gaze, the stare steady and the very slightest of smiles playing round his lips. It was a ‘do your worst’ look, for which many an officer would break a man. Indeed, he felt he was being challenged to do so. The image of Rannoch cleaning his weapon came into his mind. None of the others had seen fit to do so, not surprisingly since he had issued no such order.

‘Fetch your musket,’ he snapped.

That registered; a small move of the eyebrow and tightening of the lips denoted his surprise. He spun on his heel and walked back to the point where he had leant it on the brick wall, picked it up, and after a quick
examination
came back. Markham held out his hand for the weapon, which Rannoch surrendered. It was spotless and smelt of fresh gun oil. Each metal part shone in its own way, the barrel, flintlock, and trigger guard grey and gleaming, the brass on the firing plate and butt sparkling. The pan, normally encrusted with a deep residue of burnt powder, was scraped clean. The wood of the stock looked like a well polished piece of prized furniture.

‘You take good care of this.’

‘I do at that.’

‘Are you a good shot as well, sergeant?’

‘I manage.’

Their eyes locked again. ‘When I was on the crest at
Ollioules, my sword was shot out of my hand. The ball wasn’t fired by the French, Rannoch, and I don’t suppose it went exactly where it was intended.’

‘Would that be right, now?’ Rannoch replied, with the kind of mockery in his voice that practically admitted responsibility. Markham fingered the strap, a replacement for the one he’d cut with that same sword before they’d entered the village.

‘And someone took out that French officer with the tricolour plumes.’ Markham raised his hand and put one finger in the middle of his forehead. ‘The ball took him right here.’

‘Then he would not survive it, would he?’

‘Remarkable shooting, don’t you think?’

‘It is not my place to put forward an opinion in the presence of an officer.’

If Rannoch knew what he was implying, nothing
registered
in his face. And neither Halsey or Schutte so much as moved an eyebrow. What had happened, where the shot that had hit his sword had come from, would remain a mystery. And, in truth, given the poor quality of the musketry, it was more likely an accident than deliberate.

‘It is when you’re asked to, sergeant,’ said Markham. ‘And you will oblige me by never forgetting that. I have to find us somewhere to lay our heads, since while we’ve been fighting all the other men who’ve come ashore have had the chance to pinch the decent accommodation.’

‘Bastards,’ said Halsey, then realising he’d spoken out, as well as what he’d said, he looked flustered.

‘A very accurate description, corporal. And damned awkward for us. But I’ve no intention of letting such a thing bother us. First I must indent for powder and shot to replenish our losses.’

Markham looked back towards Rannoch. The man’s natural authority made any other choice foolish. Schutte could match him for size, but was all muscle and no
brain. Halsey had been a marine all his adult life, and was a good subordinate. But this sergeant of the 65th foot was a man apart.

‘As soon as I’ve done that, I want you to take charge. Distribute the ammunition and then get every man to clean his musket. And Rannoch,’ he added, handing the man’s weapon back, ‘I expect them all to look like this.’

Still that stare, which was very close to contempt. ‘Should any of you fancy deserting, you have a fine choice. Castration inland, or a hanging at sea.’

Having signed for the supplies, Markham went over to the coach to explain to the passengers what had
happened
. He found Rossignol eating again, the same
hampers
that had occupied Celeste’s table now occupying the space between the seats. Yelland, who’d acted as driver, was sitting on the blind side, consuming his fill.

‘You must have a glass of wine, monsieur. I had your soldier chill it in the sea, and while not cold, it is quite palatable.’

‘Obliged,’ Markham replied, unable to avoid shooting a glance at Eveline. After a welcome sip he explained about his problems with billeting, adding that the town was exceedingly full. ‘In your case, it is not something with which I can help. My first task is to find
accommodation
for my own men. Of course, should I happen on anything suitable, I will inform you.’

‘It strikes me, Lieutenant,’ said Rossignol, his mouth full of the bread Markham had supplied, ‘that I might have more luck than you. After all, I am a Frenchman, as you are not, despite your facility with the language. And if all the barracks and dockyard buildings are already gone, it stands to reason that anything left will be in the grasping hands of the locals. Together, with your
uniform
, which will terrify them, and my knowledge of their wiles, we might succeed where individually we would fail.’

‘That’s most kind, monsieur, but I rather think that
what I’m in search of would hardly suffice for your daughters.’

‘That may be so. But neither do I wish to drag these poor weak creatures all over the town on such a hot day. Shall we try first as a pair, just to see what we can find? At the very least it may speed up your own search.’

It was the last thing he wanted to do. But faced with such a direct offer he couldn’t really refuse. ‘I would be most grateful for any assistance.’

Rossignol threw the rest of his bread out of the
opposite
side, narrowly missing Yelland’s ear, drained his cup of wine, smacked his lips and beamed at Markham. He then grabbed his hat and a large stick from the rack above his head.

‘Then let us be off.’

Rossignol’s tactics first embarrassed Markham, then amused him, and finally, quite frankly amazed him. There was no supplication in his approach, which was peremptory and very close to being threatening. He brushed aside the idea that something suitable might be found outside the old town walls, and was loath to
contemplate
any accommodation that did not have some view of the harbour. The stick was first banged on any likely looking door, and when a servant appeared,
Rossignol
entered, brushing him aside. The owner of the property, naturally nervous at the turn events had taken in Toulon, wilted before his air of authority, made so much more potent by the unkempt British officer at his side. Having got Hood’s name from Markham, he acted as though he were the Admiral’s personal representative.

And he was fussy, inspecting both the public rooms and the bedrooms, as well as the outbuildings and the view of the inner harbour, then interrogating the
occupants
to see how much space they were prepared to
sacrifice
to the common purpose of fighting the revolution. Dismissal, or even a stated intention to think about it,
after his verbal onslaught, seemed to induce feelings of guilt and disappointment in those he chose not to immediately favour. After looking at two dozen houses, all with major or minor defects, they happened on the home and business premises of a certain Monsieur Picard, who made a substantial living from supplying the French fleet.

The exterior was unprepossessing, a flat-fronted, detached building with no windows on the ground floor and only a double-doored loading bay with a hoist on the first. The main, ground floor entrance, a narrow door, was of sturdy oak, warped with age and heavily studded. But the interior was quite a revelation. Once through the dingy warehouse that fronted the quay, they entered a courtyard with a central fountain. The building at the rear, though old, was large and graceful, timber-framed in antique style and graced, like the surrounding walls, with climbing, sweet scented vines. The owner who,
judging
by his property, must be one of the leading business men of the town, was interrogated by Rossignol in the same manner he applied to all the others. As soon as he saw the rear courtyard and entrance, with a set of doors big enough to take the most substantial coach, the Frenchman pronounced himself satisfied and went back to beard the owner in his own salon.

‘These are difficult times, Monsieur Picard,’ said
Rossignol
, addressing the tall skeletal figure who stood before him. The man’s plump wife was just behind, scowling at what she probably saw as her husband’s cowardice. ‘And you have so much space that you may occupy a whole wing of the house and not even notice your guests. Why, with such an abundance it will be hard to remember we are here.’