Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘Sure, I don’t remember being too polite when I was your age,’ Markham replied.

  ‘Nevertheless, sir, in someone who aspires to be an officer and a gentleman, it is unbecoming.’

  ‘Just make sure you do become that, boyo, for it is something I have never yet managed. Answer the questions you’re asked as a gentleman would, and I for one will be content. More importantly for you, so will Captain de Lisle, and the rest of the Navy you’re so anxious to serve in.’

  The marine lieutenant who had himself rowed out to Victory looked smart enough to attend a levée at King George’s court. He was shaved, powdered and pomaded enough to turn the odd head as he made his passage, and again when he came aboard the flagship. He felt a twinge of guilt at his love of attention, while at the same time being well aware that his height and bearing gave others good cause to look in admiration. And dressed in another’s clothes, for all the world like a theatrical costume, he set out to act his way through the forthcoming ordeal. Not least to show people like de Lisle and Hanger, who were bound to be present, that he didn’t give a fig for their malice or their intentions.

  ‘Ten minutes I was out of that damned villa,’ barked a bucolic-looking marine captain, ‘doing the honours in the article of meeting my dear cousin from Leghorn.’

  The man half turned to include the lady, plump and overdressed, his eyes straying to his nearby fellow officer as he did so, quite unable to avoid the up and down look of a man who’d just been robbed. Markham realised suddenly that, before telling him about the chest, Ettrick and Quinlan, by means best not inquired into, must have already altered the rank insignia.

  ‘They’re a desperate crew, Metcalf, the Corsicans,’ replied another guest. ‘Take your eyes and come back for the holes, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Corsicans be damned. The cook I inherited was absolutely certain that the men who climbed my walls were redcoats. This is the work of some thieving Bullocks.’

  ‘Are you sure it wasn’t your own man?’ asked another.

  ‘He was down at the quay, to warn me of my cousin’s arrival. It was a damn shame; had he been there he would have shot the sods for certain. He hates the Army even more than I do.’

  Markham had been rooted to the spot throughout this exchange, having seen the look in Metcalf’s eyes. He could also see the coat the captain was wearing, a touch like his own old garment, worn in places and showing traces of the stains of battle. He turned away abruptly, only to find himself under scrutiny from a pair of pale blue eyes under a burgundy silk turban.

  He’d already taken in the low cut of the matching dress, and the promise of pleasure barely concealed, when the lady spoke.

  ‘Why Lieutenant Markham, I never thought to meet you here.’

  ‘Miss Gordon,’ he replied, bowing slightly.

  There was a note of triumph in her voice when she responded, and a quick flick of her fan sent a heady dose of perfume wafting under his nostrils.

  ‘Not Miss Gordon, Lieutenant. You must be aware that the proper form of address is now Mrs Hanger.

  Chapter nine

  Jealousy was not one of George Markham’s faults, but he felt a strong flash of it then. The beautiful creature before him, with the wisps of corn-coloured hair trailing from her turban had, when he’d first encountered her in Toulon, been Miss Gordon. More than that: although he’d not underrated the difficulties, he had contemplated a serious attempt at seduction. The reasons, quite apart from mere physical attraction, were still there now. That slightly knowing and superior smile, mixed with a reserve that stated quite clearly that no man should contemplate trifling with her affections unless he was considering matrimony. The thought of that now redundant word made him laugh, which brought to her forehead, just above her nose, the twin lines of anger he remembered so well.

  ‘You find something amusing?’

  ‘No.’

  The lines deepened. ‘Yet you laugh?’

  ‘Such a reaction can be caused by despair as well, ma’am.’

  ‘Despair, Lieutenant?’ The word clearly confused her, the puzzled look staying on her face as the voice barked at her: ‘Elizabeth!’

  She spun round to look at her new husband. His face was puce with anger, which threw the ragged scar, behind which no blood ran, into sharp relief.

  ‘Sir,’ she responded.

  Hanger glared at Markham, then took her arm, and with scant gentility pulled her away. Even though he was whispering, Markham was close enough to hear his terse outburst.

  ‘You will oblige me in future, madam, by refraining from any contact with that scoundrel. Quite apart from my own dislike of the knave, there is my reputation to consider.’

  ‘As you wish, sir,’ Lizzie replied, in a louder voice than that of her husband, and moreover one that showed no trace of apprehension. ‘Though I will not forget the necessity of proper social grace.’

  All attempt at control went from Hanger’s voice then. ‘Grace be damned, madam. That rake is out of bounds, and if I see you talking to him again, then damn me, rest assured, you will feel the consequences.’

  ‘Husband!’

  ‘That is what I am. And I will exercise rights other than those which come to me conjugally, if you dare to disobey me.’

  Lizzie had pluck, even if she also had a quaver in her voice. ‘Be so kind as to keep your voice down, sir.’

  Hanger, suddenly realising that people had turned to stare, jerked at his new bride’s arm to lead her away from them. Behind him, Markham was glaring at his back, as much for his mere existence as for the way he was treating his wife. He knew enough about the man to suspect he had a predilection for the whip. Augustus Hanger was a bully, a gruff, ill-mannered brute who lorded it over the weak and defenceless, while toadying to those in power. Lizzie Gordon might be a trifle snobbish in her ways, and demand attentions without surrendering anything as compensation, but she was far too good for a lout like him.

  ‘Money,’ Markham said to himself. ‘Just remember, boyo, the creature is stinking rich.’

  ‘Now just who would that be?’

  Markham turned to find Major Lanester standing beside him, glass in hand, white waistcoat stretched to the limit, his plump face already flushed with drink, his eyebrows raised as though he was in ignorance of who was being referred to. Yet Markham knew he wasn’t confused but amused, a fact betrayed by his inability to stop his lips from twitching.

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Well it certainly ain’t me, son. If I was rich I’d buy myself a colonelcy, take a young and feisty woman for a wife, and bribe some government official to give me a profitable and peaceable posting.’

  ‘No hankering after glory, Major?’

  ‘No thanks, boy,’ Lanester growled. ‘I’ve seen too many folks like that in my years, and they are a damned nuisance to a man. Your Papa had the right notion. Get your soldiering over when you’re young, then settle down in a nice lucrative billet.’

  Markham wasn’t sure whether to be angry with Lanester or grateful. Few people even referred to his parentage, unless intent on undermining him. And no one ever alluded to venality in his father’s behaviour while maintaining a warm smile. Yet this Virginian talked as if no stain was apparent in either case, with an ease that sounded too friendly to be condescending.

  ‘I doubt Corsica will provide you with what you seek. According to one of my Lobsters, even Seneca found it barren.’

  ‘I know it will be barren for me, Lieutenant,’ Lanester replied, looking after Hanger and Lizzie. ‘And for the sake of the peace, I hope the gods deny you what you’re after as well.’

  As a warning to watch his step, it was as subtle as Lanester could be. Markham wondered if he could see inside his head, could detect the way his blood was racing through his veins, understand the thoughts that exhilarated him. Lizzie Gordon would have been a hard nut to crack as a single woman, requiring time and patience. But now she was Mrs Elizabeth Hanger, even if, in his head, he could not bring himself to style her so
. And that, given any lack of finer feelings in her spouse, might make her an easier prospect. And then there was the delicious thrill in the notion; that as well as introducing her to a degree of pleasure he was certain she could not have experienced, he might actually cuckold Hanger.

  ‘So what did you deduce from your earlier interview?’ Lanester said, changing the subject.

  ‘That there is as much love lost as honour shared amongst our seniors. Hood didn’t show him my letter, did he?’

  The round, red face creased with frustration. ‘I should have known Dundas would blab.’

  ‘I got the impression he didn’t tell everyone.’

  ‘You’re right. But he dropped enough hints for the ignorant to get the rumour mills working overtime. They cleared the cabin after you left. It was just Dundas and Hood, goin’ at it, hammer and tongs.’

  ‘I can guess what about, though not the details.’

  ‘Ships are hell for eavesdropping, boy,’ the major replied. ‘All that thick oak.’

  ‘Is d’Aubent right? Do they need the presence of General Paoli? And if they do, can they get him?’

  Lanester shrugged. ‘Plates will fly if he does respond. Pasquale Paoli might be revered as a saint by the rank and file, but there are those with braid on their cuff, Corsican and English, who reckon him an interfering old pest. Truth is, they’re both right.’

  ‘You sound as if you know him.’

  ‘I do, Lieutenant.’

  Markham opened his mouth to pursue that, Paoli being a very famous hero whose exploits had formed the basis of childhood adventures.

  ‘Dinner, ladies and gentlemen.’ The shout from Hood’s steward killed every conversation, not just theirs. Those on the maindeck began to file through the double doors on either side of the ship that led to the great cabin. Serocold was just inside, and as soon as he spotted Markham he gestured to him.

  ‘The admiral wants you close to both him and his Corsican guests, but on the opposite side of the high table from General Dundas.’

  ‘What about precedence?’

  ‘I quote,’ Serocold replied. ‘“Precedence be damned, and if anyone sees fit to mention Markham’s elevation, let them know it is by my express invitation.”’

  Judging by the looks he received, many of them extremely baleful, there were quite a number of people who wished to question his place. In a situation that demanded seating according to rank and importance, the placing of a mere marine lieutenant so close to the host was a case for raised eyebrows, none more elevated than those of Captain Richard de Lisle. But he was above others too, senior officers of both services, many of whom clearly felt slighted.

  Markham found himself some five places to the right of Hood, seated next to one of the Corsican officers, a General of Brigade called Grimaldi, who patently had reservations about eating aboard ship, even one securely moored in harbour. Regardless of his swarthy skin, he showed a trace of pallid flesh, particularly between ears and chin, that led his fellow diner to conclude the man was a martyr to seasickness. This was an affliction which few at the table had managed to avoid during the service life, though not one of them could be brought to consider it as anything other than unmanly. But, despite his inner disquiet, Grimaldi spoke French with fluency, and so did George Markham, so they conversed easily.

  Well travelled, the Corsican general was nevertheless rather parochial in outlook, able to reduce any subject to the effect it would have on his native island. Small and wiry, with a fine black moustache, he had the dark Italian eyes of his race, a very prominent nose and a craggy quality to the remainder of his features. The excitability which seemed habitual obviously had to be kept in check at such a formal gathering, which gave his conversation a breathless air, as he tried to contain his enthusiasms.

  All of these revolved around the nature of Corsican society, the beauty and probity of the womenfolk, the outstanding bravery of the men, who had tamed a landscape so alien to human habitation it was a wonder of the world, while retaining standards of honour that were unsurpassed. Sanpiero Corso was mentioned with breathless awe, a low-born islander who’d risen to become a French general in the sixteenth century, aided by his patron Catherine de Medici. (Grimaldi failed to add that Sanpiero fell to an assassin’s knife, as a result of a vendetta caused by his own murder of a wife thirty-five years his junior.) Markham learned that no Corsican would bow the knee to a tyrant, permit another man even to kiss his wife’s hand, let alone her cheeks, and kill anyone who attempted to steal his sheep. At the peak of this paragon society stood the puissant figure of General Pasquale Paoli, the Great Liberator.

  Even though the events Grimaldi seemed keen for him to remember had happened a long time ago, before his listener had reached the age of ten, the name had a resonance for Markham. Pasquale Paoli was world-famous, a philosopher soldier who seemed to embody the ideas of Voltaire and Rousseau, a true figure of the Age of Enlightenment. Celibate, deeply religious and learned, he was rightly credited with uniting one of the most fractious races on earth, then imbuing them with a common purpose so profound that they’d ejected their Genoese overlords from the island after an occupation of several hundred years.

  Fighting a corrupt and ailing city state was one thing, taking on the power of the King of France quite another. Paoli had fought long and hard, and had inflicted several stunning defeats on a succession of French generals. But eventually, fearing that the British had designs on the Corsican harbours, the French brought from the mainland enough men and material to complete the conquest of the island. Even then, it had taken bribes to make any headway, gold that detached people from their allegiance to the nationalist cause.

  Paoli was finally defeated at the battle of Ponte Nuovo, and chose to flee to England rather than face capture and either death or incarceration. In London he’d been lionised as a standard-bearer against tyranny, granted a pension by the King, and had lived in comfort for twenty years, until the advent of the French Revolution had allowed him to return home in triumph to his native soil.

  Delivered with brio, the tale was suffocating in its intensity. But Grimaldi was so engrossed he barely noticed that his fellow diner had given up listening. Most of Markham’s attention was directed to the opposite table, where Lizzie Gordon sat, several places away from her husband. One of the few women present, she had no difficulty in monopolising the guests on either side. But she would not have had a problem regardless of competition. A beauty before, her face had filled out just enough to remove any trace of pinched ill-humour. She knew he was watching her, it was plain from the occasional flick of an eye in his direction. Her reluctance to insist that he stop, which only required one steady glare, was encouraging.

  ‘General Grimaldi,’ said Dundas, calling across from the far side of the table, some half-dozen places away. ‘What opinion do you have regarding General Paoli?’

  Markham could almost feel the man stiffen beside him. ‘In what way do you mean?’

  Dundas indicated Grimaldi’s two superiors, fellow generals seated either side of the admiral, neither of whom looked entirely happy. It was Hood who spoke, his face as bland as his tone.

  ‘General Dundas proposed that it would be a boost to your troops’ morale if he were to come and join the army.’

  ‘Indeed it would, sir,’ replied Grimaldi, so heartily that it seemed to increase his compatriots’ gloom. ‘Why, his mere presence would be worth ten regiments!’

  ‘Truly, an army with faith in its leaders can achieve wonders.’

  Hood said this with an air of mock gravity, following it with what he imagined was a look of pure innocence aimed at Dundas. Close to the top table, their fellow diners kept up the appearance of conversation. But it was a sham. Every ear, Army and Navy, was engaged in listening, breath held. Dundas had reddened even more, taking it for what it was, a barely-disguised insult. But he responded with seeming equanimity, aiming his words at Hood’s guests, rather than to the admiral himself.

  ‘That is to underm
ine the quality of the troops themselves, something I cannot subscribe to. It requires a combination of soldiers and leaders to achieve success.’

  ‘Hear him,’ said several officers lower down the board, men who’d forgotten they were not supposed to be listening.

  ‘Then, of course, there is luck,’ added Dundas. There was a twinkle in his bright blue eyes, though he’d introduced a harder tone into his voice. ‘It was damned bad luck that the troops we expected were not there to meet us when we landed at Fornali.’

  Grimaldi responded on behalf of all the Corsican officers, who nodded sagely as he spoke. ‘That was most unfortunate, General Dundas. We did all in our power to get there on time. But good intentions are often a victim of war.’

  ‘And Lacombe was lucky to get clear, was he not?’ hissed Dundas, suddenly like a man whose patience was being sorely tried. ‘But perhaps it wasn’t all dependent on fortune. The fellow on your right has an opinion on that!’

  Grimaldi turned to look at Markham, a degree of confusion on his face, as Dundas continued, ‘Has Lieutenant Markham told you who he is?’

  The Corsican was slightly taken aback. Hood had gone as stiff as a board, and was looking straight down the centre of the cabin, jaw tightly clenched. Markham raised his eyes to look over the General’s shoulder, praying that he would say no more.

  ‘Yes, General, he has,’ nodded Grimaldi.

  ‘I don’t mean his name and rank, sir. Perhaps you wondered why he was placed above the salt. The fact is that he was the officer who spotted that the French were abandoning Fornali. Pure luck, as we were just discussing. He fired off the flares and raised the alarm. Ain’t that true, Markham?’

  ‘Sir!’

  It was the only reply he could give, since to try and elaborate would only make matters worse. Hood obviously felt the same, since he too said nothing. In terms of subtlety, Dundas’s words, particularly his way of pointing up the seating arrangements, equated to dropping a cannonball into a plate of soup. Markham, determined to stare straight ahead, only saw Grimaldi out of the corner of his eye. But he reacted like the other Corsican officers in the cabin. Apart from the two generals either side of Hood, they’d been relaxed, smiling and conversational. Now they stiffened perceptibly, and the way they avoided looking at the object of Dundas’s remark was only another indication of their acute discomfort.