Honour Be Damned (4 page)

Rannoch responded quite warmly when the general alluded to the Old Alliance, to the time when Scots and Frenchmen had been allies not enemies. Eboluh Bellamy showed off not only his command of French, but demonstrated, as usual, his endemic desire to hog any conversation that might show him in a flattering light. He was the only one to relax enough to respond to the general as a fellow human being, instead of the near-God-like presence his rank imposed. D’Issellin also enquired after each man’s health with a tenderness that Markham found quite touching, and expressed some surprise that none of them had succumbed to the very noxious airs and vapours with which Corsica abounded.

Markham was about to tell him about the advantages of the Royal Louis Battery, especially its cool clean water and elevated position above the humid forests. But he stopped himself just in time, because to do so would give information that the enemy might find useful. Nor did he want to mention, as a concomitant to that, the state of health of the rest of the besiegers. The next thought sobered him up in a split second.

He tried very hard to keep the same expression on his face and he looked at the smiling, weary countenance of General d’Issellin. The cunning old bastard! The French could not be entirely unaware of the health of the British troops. They must know that sickness was a problem for General Stuart. What they didn’t know was the extent of the problem, and how to apply it to the notion of extending the siege till those carrying it out were forced to retire from lack of strength.

Markham knew; that the offer of a truce from d’Issellin had come at a most fortuitous time; that Stuart had contemplated launching a premature assault just because if he waited he might lack the troops to do so at a later stage. The question buzzing about in his brain now was how to exploit this in such a way that would not raise the least suspicion in the wily old general’s mind. Silently, he thanked the gods that had stopped him from fetching along the whey-faced Midshipman Hoste.

‘I’m sure, sir, my men would wish to thank you most heartily for your evident concern for their well being.’ He turned to face the row of Lobsters and sailors, speaking rapidly and laying on the Irish accent so that anyone capable of speaking English in the room would be confused. ‘So now me boyos, we’ll be after givin’ the auld general here some damned huzzahs, the kind that you’d reserve for the last horse that won you a guinea. I want it in three, and I want the rafters to rattle.’

His men outdid the tars, perhaps because they knew him better, or even because they reckoned him half deranged. Their three times three bounced off the low ceiling, and it was gratifying for Markham to see just how much such evident healthy enthusiasm depressed the recipient.

‘I think you need your dinner now, Lieutenant,’ he growled, before turning on his heel and stomping out of the room.

Markham contemplated warning Rannoch, to say that if anyone enquired, he should tell them that the troops outside the walls of Calvi all looked the picture of rude, good health. But he decided against it. Any hint picked up by those still present would be passed on immediately to the general, who might just be desperate enough to try less benign methods of finding out what he needed to know.

The dinner d’Issellin served was plain but wholesome. And it was more than ample for the officers that sat at table. The conversation was pleasant, a discussion of past campaigns. This included an interrogation of the most gentle kind regarding Markham’s service in both the Americas during the Revolution, and in the Russian army since then. There was just a hint of surprise that given the length of his service his rank was so meagre. They discussed openly the quality of the Turks he had fought on behalf of the Czarina, while showing proper amazement at the size of the forces engaged, and the sheer vastness of the territory over which they had campaigned.

Clearly, food and wine in Calvi was not a problem. Nor from what little he had been able to observe was the health of the garrison. The men unloading the Tarantines had looked unhappy certainly, but in reasonable shape. Given that, numbers should not be a problem. He knew from personal observation that the walls, while battered, were still sound, which left only one thing lacking; powder and shot.

Was that why the frigates hadn’t fired when he was at long range? He recalled the two cutters. They’d used those cannon a mite sparingly, when to loose off plenty of shot might have secured a more successful outcome. A dose of grape across the deck of the captured ship might have achieved a better result than the round shot that smashed the mainmast. Having indulged in polite conversation, Markham made a sudden decision to change all that, and when he did speak, he shattered whatever genial atmosphere had existed at the table.

‘Well, General, now that you have your succour, do you require an officer to inform General Stuart of the changed circumstances?’

The implication that he should send Markham was obvious, and produced a flash of annoyance on the old man’s face.

‘I do not lack for officers to carry messages, monsieur.’

‘Or perhaps you could attach the message to a piece of round-shot, and fire it over to our encampment. Damn the expense, eh!’

‘There is a convention, Lieutenant, that it is bad manners to allude to military maters in a situation such as yours. I had, until now, thought you the type to respect that.’

‘There is, I am sure, no precedent for a general doing his own interrogation of mere rankers, sir, to find out the state of health of his opponent’s troops.’

The rest of the officers at the table looked shocked. D’Issellin just smiled, slowly for sure, but with an open acknowledgement that he had been unmasked.

‘Since you are to be our guest, Lieutenant, I may as well tell you one thing the ships did bring in, and that is the news from Paris.’

Markham suspected, by the way d’Issillen said it, that it must be good news. He had a sudden vision of peace, not really sure if he welcomed it. For a penniless rake with few prospects, war was just about the only employment he could find. Peace meant a return home, a happy prospect to some, no doubt. But not to a man who’d left Britain with the bailiffs on his heels. The vision still haunted; of him fleeing his Chatham lodgings, leaving most of his
possessions behind, and racing for the safety of one of His Majesty’s frigates moored at the Nore. He was so intent on this he almost missed what it was that d’Issillen was telling him.

‘… That culminated, at the end of July, with the fall of Robespierre and St Just. They met the same fate as their predecessors, and faced Madame Guillotine. There is a new government in Paris, one less wedded, we hope, to judicial murder.’

‘The war will end?’

‘Unlikely. Even now the Russians, Prussians and Austrians are, with subsidies from your British, forming a new alliance to invade France. And the Comte d’Artois has been particularly insensitive in his dealings with the new regime.’

‘The news must affect their decision, surely.’

‘Will it?’ d’Issillen demanded, quite sharply. He continued, becoming more heated as continued. ‘Every prince in Europe, including our own
émigré
King wants to invade us. Why! So that they may force us to take back the Bourbons without any change in their behaviour. That we will never consent to!’

The murmur from the other officers present underlined that d’Issillen spoke for them all.

‘You fail to understand all of you, that the soldiers you meet on the frontiers are Frenchmen first. Let the political clubs of Paris annihilate each other. The Revolution was not for them. It was for us all, to end a system that was rotten to the core.’

The older man had become very animated indeed, quite the firebrand. Markham, who’d seen him as the embodiment of old world charm, was forced to remind himself of one salient fact: that this was the army of the Committee of Public Safety. Not a single officer in the room, especially the general in command, could have held on to his position without the blessing of those Parisian madmen.

‘Anyway, Lieutenant,’ the general continued, struggling to soften his tone, ‘since I must keep you here, I would want your stay to be as pleasant as possible.’

‘Sure, general, if the food and drink is as good as this, and I’m allowed some shade in the daytime, I can’t see that you’ll hear me complain.’

‘And your men?’

‘As long as you feed them.’

‘We’ll do that all right, Lieutenant Markham. For if
we do
not, it will only go, in fifteen days, to your compatriots outside the walls.’

Markham soon learned that what he’d suspected was true. The Tarantines had brought to Calvi the one thing the defenders didn’t need, food. The supply of powder and shot was desperately low. He felt some sympathy for his hosts, as they searched the horizon daily for the ships that would save them from surrender. He and his party were released two weeks later, just in time to take up his position on the causeway, to salute the French as they marched out behind their general.

He was privileged enough to get a clear view of d’Issellin’s face as he saw the state of the besiegers. First there were few of them, and those standing to attention as convention demanded were almost uniformly yellow of complexion. At a quick count, General Stuart had been barely able to mount a guard of some three hundred and fifty men. It wasn’t a smile d’Issillen threw George Markham when he realised that he’d been duped into surrendering to a force which now numbered less than his own.

The interview in Nelson’s cabin was, on the whole, a very pleasant affair, private apart from his secretary. There was his dark side of course, the continuing pain of the Commodore’s wound then the list of those who had perished here at Calvi, mostly from disease. Tactfully, Markham enquired after the young midshipman who’d been in the Commodore’s boat, expecting the worst.

‘Young Hoste. He’s a gamecock, Markham, and looks set to make a full recovery.’

‘I’m pleased to hear it, sir.’

‘I don’t know why,’ Nelson replied, a twinkle of amusement in his eye. ‘His return to health bodes ill for you. He’d like to call you out for denying him a chance of distinction. He should have led that boarding party, Markham, not you.’

Markham was wondering what impression a yellow-faced Mr Hoste would have made on d’Issillen, which made his expression appear somewhat sombre.

‘I was jesting, Markham!

‘Yes, sir.’

‘The question arises, what am I now to do with you?’

‘Wherever I shift to, sir, I’d like to take my men along with me.’

Nelson shook his head slowly. ‘Not easy. Especially as I have
praised you so in my despatch to Admiral Hood. There’s a recommendation for promotion there, Markham, fully deserved.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

Nelson turned to his secretary, Scott. ‘Have we anything decent that will keep this man occupied till the Admiral responds?’ Scott didn’t reply verbally. He merely shuffled the papers in his hand and gave one to Nelson. The Commodore examined it, then nodded.

‘A happy coincidence, Scott.’ Nelson fixed Markham with his good eye. ‘This might just suit. It will keep you and your men together for a while, and it might even put some coin in that scarlet coat of yours.’

‘That would be most welcome,’ Markham responded with feeling. ‘Will it keep me with my men?’

‘It will for now. Whether that holds, long term, I cannot say. Perhaps if you, and they, distinguish themselves, it will be made easy.’

‘
I
asked for you personally, Markham,’ said the Honourable George Germain. ‘Does that surprise you?’

‘Should it?’ asked Markham.

This was said guardedly, while accepting the invitation to sit down, a blessing since the alternative, in such a cramped, low cabin, was to stand half bent like a servant in mid bow. He wondered if that was what Nelson had meant by a happy coincidence.

Germain noticed the hesitation and that produced a half-smile. He was a good ten years younger than the marine officer, a lieutenant himself, recently appointed to command the sloop
Syilphide.
The ship had, along with the two frigates, been taken from the French as part of the surrender terms. His naval rank was superior to Markham’s. But now Germain was Master and Commander of the newly captured sixth rate. He had, on his own vessel, all the power and prestige of a captain.

‘Not given your actions in the Calvi approaches. I was in
Diomede
’s
cutter, one of the boats trying to give you assistance. I saw everything. The Commodore has, apparently, suggested to Lord Hood that promotion is in order. That is a sentiment with which I heartily concur. But until that is approved, you are just the kind of man I want along for the task with which I have been charged.’

Germain wanted him to ask what that was. His body position, pressed forward, made it obvious. Apart from a streak of sheer stubbornness Markham wasn’t sure what caused him to refuse to oblige. His new superior had some difficulty in masking his disappointment.

‘Syilphide
draws little water under her keel. That makes her perfect for inshore work. We are to head for the enemy coast to the east of Toulon, and there to try to harry the French communications as they seek to make inroads against our Piedmontese allies. Hood’s reports talk of that front being
reinforced, with the possibility of a major incursion into Italy. That will mean more than just attacking and sinking the transports that seek to supply the French army by sea. I intend that we should go ashore, when the opportunity permits, and do our very best to interrupt their land communications as well as destroying their installations. Be assured Markham, you and your Lobsters will be well employed.’

The knock at the door obviated any need for a response. What could Markham say anyway? Young Germain was in command. He would want a bit of glory and he would grab it if chance permitted. Command of this vessel was just a stepping stone to greater things. What troubled Markham was very far removed from any fear of action, why ask personally for him?

Could that decision have something to do with Germain’s surname? Was he related to that Lord George Germain, later Lord Sackville, who’d so disgraced himself at the battle of Minden, retiring with his cavalry from the battlefield before the action was joined? If so, it would make for an interesting combination; the offspring of a man rated a coward, serving cheek by jowl with a person who, to many people, carried that stigma personally.

‘Boat approaching, sir,’ said the senior midshipman, and now acting Lieutenant, Mr Fletcher. ‘There’s a Bourbon officer on board, judging by his garb, and I think some kind of cleric with a purple soutaine.’

‘Well I’ll be damned,’ Germain exclaimed, his eyes opening wide, the voice pitched in a way that, to Markham, sounded a touch contrived. ‘Pipe them aboard, Mr Fletcher, and if it is a cleric, best break out more than one flagon of the wine. We all know how men of the cloth like to imbibe.’

Germain bustled about a bit, tidying up his small desk, trying to make his cabin look respectable, while his servant, sent for, arrived with goblets and two straw-covered flagons.

‘That at least should be good,’ Germain exclaimed. ‘It was in the captain’s storeroom when we took over the ship. Jean Crapaud never stints himself in the article of wine.’

Markham was about to suggest tasting it first. But then he realised that he had an almost certain knowledge of who was coming aboard. It might not be the Comte de Puy. But with that purple soutaine it was almost certainly Monsignor Aramon. Suddenly he found himself hoping the flagons contained vinegar.

‘Best go on deck to greet them, Markham. I hope your sergeant has had the wit to line up the Lobsters.’

‘He will, sir.’

As they exited straight on to the absurdly small deck, Rannoch was there, walking the line, tugging at straps and belts, realigning muskets, so that his men, crowded close as they were, looked the part. Markham was pleased at the standard they’d achieved. His men looked exceedingly smart in the sunlight, which showed off their white belts to advantage against their thick red coats. The brasswork of the muskets, generously returned by General d’Issellin, gleamed, and the wooden stocks were polished to perfection.

‘An excellent showing, Markham,’ exclaimed Germain, patting him on the shoulder of his own scarlet coat.

That got a single raised eyebrow from Rannoch, who knew as well as his officer who was responsible for the quality of the turnout, as well as how difficult it had been to achieve. Coming aboard
Syilphide
had brought back some of the divisions that existed below the surface. His original soldiers, drafted in to make up the numbers in a country newly embarked on war, had served in frigates until now. Not exactly spacious, they were palaces compared to the sixteen-gun sloop.

The ex-members of the 65
^th
foot, led by Rannoch, had asked if they were to be obliged to serve in a canoe. Halsey and his true marines had scoffed and named it a right good billet. It wasn’t of course. It was cramped, smelly and having been tied to the shore for months, rat-infested. Bellamy, neither of one group or the other, and by far the most fastidious of the bunch, had likened it to the bowels of a West Indian slaver.

‘How I wish I could fire a salute, Markham,’ hissed Germain excitedly. ‘I do so long to let off the great guns in a proper salvo.’

Germain was looking eagerly at the approaching boat as he spoke, giving Markham a chance to examine him. The ship’s captain was like a dog at the leash in his suppressed agitation, an impression heightened by his fine aristocratic features. He had a thin angular face, lively green eyes, and a ready smile. Markham found he was cursing himself. Habit, and many years of slights, made him suspicious of any fellow officer. It had also made him, he realised, too sensitive. The young man beside him was, it appeared, entirely genuine in both his actions and his words. Yet George Markham could not accept this at face value, and had to
be continually looking for extraneous reasons for perfectly normal behaviour.

‘Holy Mary, mother of Christ, Georgie, you’ve become a bit of a bloody bore.’

‘Sorry?’ asked Germain.

Markham was unaware that he’d spoken. It was having identified Aramon that saved him. ‘I said to watch for that cleric, sir. He’s a bit of a bore.’

‘Well, since he’s a papist, we shall ply him with the Thirty-Nine Articles, and see how he takes a jest.’

That earned Germain another sideways look. Those were the articles of his father’s faith, and they had caused him nothing but trouble all his life. But the youngster killed any suspicion by his next remark.

‘Give him your sword, Markham. He ranks as a bishop, don’t you know, in our church.’

Markham pulled his sword from its scabbard, and as Aramon followed de Puy up the side, he raised it till the blade stood upright between his eyes, at the same time calling his men sharply to attention. As the face appeared, he felt there was some doubt if Aramon had ever been greeted in such a manner. But his countenance betrayed no surprise. He took the compliment of a military salute as nothing more than his due.

‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ cried Germain, stepping forward, his hands outstretched. ‘You stand as the first non-naval visitor to my ship, and therefore make the circumstance memorable.’

Aramon held out his hand to be kissed. It was either an oversight or a deliberate piece of clerical condescension. Whichever, it was wasted on the young commander. He merely grasped the outstretched hand and shook it vigorously.

‘Allow me to present to you Lieutenant Markham, sir.’

‘You should know that I have met the officer before.’

‘Indeed! Then will you inspect his men?’

Aramon made no attempt to keep the distaste out of his voice.

‘They too I have met before, Captain. And it has been my misfortune to see too much of their slovenliness. I am unlikely in any way to be impressed by a sudden dab of polish.’

Behind Aramon, Colonel le Comte de Puy was sucking hard on his teeth. He stepped forward smartly, almost brushing the Monsignor aside, and lifting his hat in salute, addressed Germain.
‘The duty of inspection falls to me, Captain, as the military part of this small embassy.’

‘Of course,’ Germain replied, clearly somewhat confused.

De Puy stepped forward, and by acknowledging Markham’s salute permitted him to lower his sword. Then, with the marine officer one pace behind, he carried out the inspection like a royal prince, addressing several men by name, and with many a jaundiced reference to the duty they suffered on the Royal Louis Battery. The Lobsters responded in kind, having taken to de Puy while serving with him, naming him a true gent.

‘I have refreshments waiting in my cabin,’ said Germain, as soon as he finished. ‘I would be obliged if you would join us, Lieutenant Markham.’

‘Is that strictly necessary?’ hissed Aramon.

‘Why it is essential, sir,’ Germain said, his thin eyebrows rising. ‘Apart from myself, Mr Markham is the only commissioned officer on the ship. I can hardly listen to your proposal, or conceive of acting on it, without both his opinion, and his active participation.’

‘Proposal,’ Markham thought. ‘What bloody proposal.’

Aramon seemed to fill the cabin. He was a big man. But it was the way he spread himself that counted, as though no one else in the place was entitled to any consideration. Germain, behind his desk, was fine. But de Puy and Markham were pushed against the two cannon that stood either side, eventually required to sit on them to avoid standing in a half stoop. Wine was poured and tasted. That at least seemed to the cleric’s satisfaction, as he grunted with approval.

‘I’m curious, Monsignor, of how you came to know so much about my orders?’

‘You should not be, Captain Germain.’ The recipient of this preened slightly at the title. ‘Even if Calvi was not a hotbed of rumour, few good sons of the church would dare to prevaricate when I tax them with a direct enquiry.’

‘Which was it?’ asked Markham.

That interjection earned him a look from Germain that told him, in no uncertain terms, not to interrupt. It was quite interesting to note how commanding he could be when he wished it, the green eyes narrowing and the bones of his thin cheeks becoming much more prominent. It was as well to remember that
this stripling had been at sea for years, and had probably served a good few of them as someone’s First Lieutenant. The fact that the Monsignor ignored the same question came as no surprise. He’d taken to ignoring Markham after only a short, awkward
acquaintance.

‘And what is it you seek?’

‘The recovery of something extremely valuable.’

‘Valuable is a very inexact term, Monsignor.’

Aramon parried him expertly. ‘Extremely is not, Captain.’

‘And I can be of service in this?’

‘You have the means to carry the Comte de Puy and I to where we need to be, the coast of France.’

‘This item of extreme value is there?’

‘Not on the coast. It is some way inland.’

‘You could hire a ship to take you there.’

‘We may wish to be taken off again, sure that what we have recovered will get to its proper destination.’ Aramon sat forward suddenly, his voice dropping an octave, as if he was imparting a secret. ‘And if we succeed in our aim, it would be in your own interest as well as that of your country. We are as one in our desire to defeat the forces of Revolution, are we not?’

‘Of course.’

‘Quite apart from any personal gain, you will receive the gratitude of all Europe, as well as that of your own government, when you transport us to our next port of call.’

‘Which is?’

Aramon sat back and smiled, waving an admonitory finger before picking up his wine. ‘One thing at a time, young man.’

Germain bridled at that. He was young compared to the others in the room. But he was also Master and Commander of the
Syilphide,
newly promoted, and that made him sensitive. Aramon, his face deep in the goblet, didn’t notice. De Puy did, and sought once more to cover up for the cleric’s manner.

‘You come to us highly recommended as a most zealous officer, Captain Germain. If you will consent to the transport of the Monsignor, myself and my men.’

‘Your men?’ Germain interrupted, in a quiet voice.

There was a degree of uncertainty in the way that de Puy nodded, accompanied by a quick glance at Aramon, as if what was being discussed should have already been agreed. Markham, watching carefully, was confused. If Germain was hearing their
proposal for the first time, nothing should be settled. But then he’d been subjected to an odd feeling previously, in the way that his new commander had reacted to the news of the Monsignor’s arrival.

‘I cannot consent to take a party of soldiers aboard.’

‘Even for such a short journey?’

Germain became quite animated, arms waving and eyes bright, in the way a man does when he is unsure that what he is saying deserves to be believed.

‘Do not be deceived by looking at a map, sir. This is the sea. We are subject to wind and weather. A journey that, on land, would take a mere two days, could, at sea, take a week. You will have observed that the ship is not spacious, and you will also have seen, on the deck, that the crew is numerous.’

That provided another reason for suspicion in Markham’s mind. Even he knew that with a reasonable wind, the coast of France was no further away than a day’s sailing.

‘It is scarcely possible that what we seek can be recovered without the aid of an armed escort,’ said Aramon. ‘First, we must land in, and traverse what to us is hostile territory. Then, having recovered what it is we seek, we must re-embark on your vessel. Can we achieve that without some news of our presence becoming known?’