Rannoch was best placed to take his mind off both things. The Highlander was not by nature given to moaning, but when it came to the Brown Bess musket he could barely be stopped, and two days in the gravel pits had him ranting. He railed against the stupidity that allotted each man a standard pattern gun, regardless of his size and build, insisting that by merely tailoring the stock to the individual, accuracy could be improved a hundredfold.
Not that it was held to be that simple. He knew better than anyone that practice was the key, just as he knew that at anything over a hundred yards, even firing into massed infantry, the best trained unit would struggle to hit their target regularly. Muskets were inherently inaccurate, wherever they came from. But the Brown Bess had more faults than most, being a mule of a weapon. The large calibre ball was normally fired through a forty-six inch barrel, and had a kick on discharge that could break an unwary shoulder. But Rannoch was the only one still to possess his original army-issue Land Pattern musket; the rest of the Hebes, as well as the Seahorses, now carried the Sea Service weapon, four inches shorter, and a mite easier to control. Yet many of the same faults that plagued the bigger weapon still persisted.
The flash in the priming pan, as the flintlock struck home, was right beside the soldier’s upper cheek, which meant that at the moment of firing, most men using the musket had their eyes shut. After ten or twelve continuous rounds, the gunmetal barrel became very warm, and further rounds expended could render it too hot to hold. Any crosswind, with such a large ball, was another factor militating against accuracy: the one thing, both Markham and his sergeant knew, that could stop even the most determined enemy in their tracks.
And everything was made even more difficult by the varying nature of the supplies they received. Now, having taken over Lacombe’s arsenal, they’d been issued with French cartridges, containing balls that were far too small. Rannoch had immediately begun to melt them down so they could be recast, before stitching the improved balls back into their cartridge cases.
‘We require a gunmaker,’ said Rannoch, ‘just as we did in Toulon.’
‘This isn’t a naval base, Sergeant, in fact it’s not much of a town. You’d be lucky to purchase a pair of decent pistols here, never mind find someone who makes the damned things.’
‘There must be a fellow here who can make me a better mould. We need a woodworker too, some creature who can trim the stocks to fit each man.’
Rannoch saw the look on Markham’s face, and continued at speed, which for him was unusual. ‘We are out of sight here from Captain de Lisle, so there is no one to object. And if the rumours we hear are correct, then we have a few days spare to do the thing properly.’
‘The first time we order arms on deck, he’ll go straight through the maincourse.’
‘And what, I ask, can he do about it? Nearly every stock needs to be shortened. He may throw a fit if he likes, and jump about like a banshee. But unless he can make dead wood grow he must live with it.’
Markham grinned, recalling his forthcoming court martial. ‘I doubt I’ll be there to see it.’
‘That would be a true pity,’ Rannoch replied. When Markham flushed slightly, the Scotsman continued, pale blue eyes twinkling with mirth. ‘Just when we have got you properly schooled in our ways.’
The search of the town, in pursuit of a gunsmith, was a fruitless one. In the history of the island, both Genoese and French overlords had suffered much from Corsican insurgency. The idea that locals should be encouraged to manufacture any form of weaponry was anathema. There was plenty of activity, but it was dispersed, with each islander his own expert, who brought into any conflict a gun that had all his own features stamped on it. Markham, considering this, thought perhaps that some explanation for the lack of Corsican success could be laid at the door of such behaviour, a notion with which Rannoch was quick to disagree.
‘There’s many a good man working on a gun away from towns,’ he said, holding up his own weapon. ‘This one was fashioned in such a manner.’
‘In the Highlands?’
‘Not quite that far north.’
‘You’ve never actually told me which part of Scotland you’re from.’
‘No, sir,’ Rannoch replied, a note of reserve in his voice. ‘I have not.’
‘I’d be interested to know.’
Rannoch pointed to a Corsican soldier, who’d been a few yards in front of them ever since they’d left their billet. ‘It might be worth asking that fellow, since you speak the lingo, if there’s a man in the town who works in metal.’
Markham was piqued at the way his sergeant deliberately changed the subject. It seemed like years since they’d first met, yet it was a mere nine months, and then in circumstances so unpropitious as to presage disaster. Half the Hebe’s crew had been real marines, with the soldiers drafted in to make up the full compliment. Bullocks serving on ships was a commonplace of every new war. What was singular was mixing them with real Lobsters in the same hull. Their mutual antipathy was tempered by only one thing, a collective hatred of him, made manifest in the way they’d practically deserted him in their first engagement.
If relations with his men were bad, they proved even worse in the case of Rannoch, any exchange between them soundly based on the man’s hatred of all officers. Both had been sent to sea service by a colonel anxious to get rid of them, a dubious honour they shared with all the Hebes, men who’d been considered rotten apples by every officer in the 65th foot. George Markham was merely an embarrassment to his regimental commander, a man who’d taken up a commission which he and the colonel had thought dormant. Given his background, he could quite easily understand his own posting. There was little mystery regarding the colonel’s desire to get rid of what he considered the dregs in his ranks.
But why Rannoch? The man was an excellent soldier, a crack shot and a very competent sergeant. The mutual respect which had grown between them would have been impossible otherwise. And the gun Rannoch cherished so highly, plus his skill, had saved Markham’s life more than once. Action and adversity had forged a good relationship with the men he commanded, but it had been the sergeant’s efforts which had made the whole greater than the sum of its parts, not least his willingness to work in harmony with Corporal Halsey.
They’d lost two thirds of their men in Toulon, a higher casualty rate than most. But, as a testimony to the Highlander’s care and attention, the survivors hadn’t fallen apart. Quite the reverse. Their escape from the place, by the skin of their teeth, had been a collective achievement. As far as Markham was concerned, animosity had been replaced by respect, initially grudging but later wholehearted. Perhaps there existed, within the bounds of military discipline, a near friendship, as Rannoch realised that the officer he had was unlike many of his contemporaries. But Markham couldn’t refer to any of these things. Nor to his feeling that, since they’d landed in Corsica, Rannoch’s regard for him had cooled.
Silent for a long time, Markham finally spoke, aware that his growling voice was betraying his emotions, ‘If there is a gunmaker, we’ll find him soon enough in a place this size.’
San Fiorenzo being a small port, all the merchants’ shops and warehouses were crowded into a compact centre. Other disconsolate officers were trudging aimlessly about, their long faces betraying clear evidence that they too were suffering in whatever quest they set themselves. There was a tailor, but he was not the type to have either the cloth or the skill to produce a proper replacement for a damaged army coat. Likewise hats, though the leather work was of a higher standard. As to the finer things required by campaigning officers – plate, cutlery, linen wear and the very best in food – the place was bereft. Fishing nets, canvas for sails, brasswork for boats, nails, tar, turps, linseed oil and all the other chandlers’ goods they had in abundance. The merchants of San Fiorenzo traded in necessities, not luxuries.
Markham wasn’t searching for luxuries, but Lizzie Gordon was. And so in the dark interior of one warehouse he bumped into her, without he
r husband, accompanied only by an Italian maid. Fortunately he was spared any hard looks, since Rannoch had stayed out in the street.
At first she pretended not to notice him, suddenly concentrating instead on a bolt of canvas that couldn’t possibly be of interest to her. The small warehouse was poorly lit, and smelt musty from goods kept too long unsold. But as he moved a little closer he could just pick up a trace of her perfume, a lemony odour that he recalled from their first meeting. That made his blood race.
‘I’ve often thought women in ducks an attractive notion,’ he said in a low voice. She didn’t reply, or turn round, but he saw the slight shiver of her ear and cheek as she set her face. ‘The ladies at Sadler’s Wells are wont to wear them when they do a naval pageant, and very fetching it looks.’
There was a significant pause before she finally spoke. ‘I daresay you know quite a few of them intimately enough.’
Markham was looking at the Italian maid, small, dark-haired and rather plump, who with the acute antennae of her type had immediately picked up the sensuality of the exchange, the brown eyes widening as they swept from her mistress to this officer and back again.
‘I won’t deny that fortune has favoured me on occasions with a view closer than that from the stalls.’
‘Which would go some way to explaining your reputation as a rake.’
‘It would perhaps justify the ease I feel in the company of women.’
She turned slowly, her finger still rubbing the thick, cream canvas. ‘So much less brutal in judgment than your fellow men.’
‘Certainly,’ he smiled, though there was a harsher note in his voice. ‘And far less boorish when full of claret. They have such a civilised attitude, women, and not just to killing and maiming.’
Lizzie knew he was referring to Hanger, and declined to respond. She hadn’t missed the maid’s expression either, and her blue eyes flicked very slightly in that direction. ‘You will forgive me, Lieutenant, I must return to our villa.’
‘A villa?’ he replied, without moving aside to let her pass. ‘A pleasant situation, I trust.’
‘It is.’
‘Does it have a name?’
‘The Villa Ancona. Occupied by a French officer before us. He took most of the comforts of civilised existence with him when he departed. My husband wishes to entertain, but will struggle to do so without plates.’
Markham bit his tongue. The name Hanger and the word entertain sat very ill together. ‘But at least your Frenchman left you a maid?’
‘No. I brought Maria from Leghorn. She has the advantage of a little English.’
‘How very convenient,’ Markham said, with a note of deep irony, since the strain on that modicum of language was obvious. Maria was trying very hard to understand the words, as well as the mood, of what she was witnessing. ‘And where is your Villa Ancona?’
She looked him right in the eye then, knowing he was asking a question the answer to which he could pick up easily elsewhere. The location of Colonel Hanger’s quarters would be common knowledge. Both were aware that another small piece of her defence was being challenged. He wanted her to say it, to give an indication of her position. He knew he’d won when the eyes dropped.
‘The square is termed la Place des Chaumettes, though I believe the locals give it a different, more Italianate name.’
‘Then with your permission, ma’am, I will call on you there.’ He paused for half a second before continuing. ‘And your husband, Colonel Hanger, of course.’
That brought the eyes back onto his, and they had a blaze of anger in them. The idea of George Markham calling on Augustus Hanger was ludicrous, said only for the benefit of Maria. He could see the strain in her, as she fought back the hard words she wanted to belabour him with, also constrained by the maid’s presence.
‘That will not be possible, Lieutenant. My husband has gone over the passes to Cardo to carry out an examination of the French fortress line.’
It was a delight to him to observe the confusion that followed those words, in a woman who wasn’t absolutely sure of her motives for using them. And she could see, plainly, by the smile on Markham’s face, that he was choosing to interpret them as an invitation.
‘It wouldn’t be seemly,’ she continued, with a slight catch in her throat, ‘for you to call when Colonel Hanger is absent.’
His smile had evaporated. He wanted to move in closer, to see how she would react. But Maria made that impossible. The doubts that raged inside him became unbearable – not a new situation to Markham, who had done just such a thing with many women, only to be rebuffed for effrontery. But it was one of those moments of truth, too rare in any attempt to establish a mutual attraction, an occasion when, to win an inch forward, he had to risk a complete reversal.
‘I told you before this that I would feel myself under no such constraints. And if I did call upon you, it would be the act of a deep and committed friend, who holds you in the very highest regard.’
The blood filled her cheeks, and he steeled himself for a slap. But even though her fists were balled, she didn’t strike him, and the air which had filled her body to provide energy for the blow slipped out slowly. The lips, which had been pressed together, parted slightly, in a very inviting way. Lizzie Gordon didn’t smile, but as far as Markham was concerned she didn’t have to.
‘Come Maria,’ she said to the maid. ‘Let us continue our task, and see if we can find the wherewithal to provide a decent table for the moment when my husband returns.’ She swept past him in a wave of lemon scent. ‘Good day, Lieutenant.’
As he bowed, he caught once more the brown eyes of Maria, open slightly too wide, an indication of her poorly concealed curiosity. When he smiled, it looked as if it was aimed at her. But it was more of an internal than an external pleasure. Lizzie Gordon didn’t trust her maid, a wise precaution with any servant. And just so Maria couldn’t hint to Hanger who her mistress had met while out shopping, his name hadn’t been used once. Given the means to kill his pursuit stone dead, Mrs Elizabeth Hanger hadn’t employed it, which left him wondering about the internal arrangements of the Villa Ancona, as well as the disposition of the other servants that must belong to the place.
Rannoch had seen her exit, and gave him a sour look when he emerged. Markham ignored him, and they continued in their quest, eventually finding a woodworker down by the harbour who would be happy to adjust the stocks. As soon as they returned to the billet, Markham requested that Quinlan and Ettrick be required to stand by, which earned him a deeply questioning stare from his sergeant.
‘Regarding that woodworker,’ Markham said quickly. ‘We can’t send all the weapons in at once, so when I’ve finished with these two, we must sit down and work out our schedule.’
Rannoch didn’t answer. He favoured his officer with a cold stare, the like of which Markham hadn’t seen for months, that had him speaking for the mere sake of it. ‘Then we must make sure we have enough balls to fit the guns.’
‘We will not achieve what we managed before,’ Rannoch said after a long pause, during which he picked up a French cartridge. ‘Even if I work all night.’
‘Put someone else to it.’
‘Never. There are too many sloppy hands.’
‘At least let some of the other men re-stitch the cartridges.’
‘You’re taking away the two most nimble,’ Rannoch replied, nodding to Quinlan and Ettrick, who had donned their coats and were waiting for him near the doorway. As an oblique way of asking him what he was up to, it would have been perfect if he’d been prepared, for one second, to answer.
‘Try some of the Seahorses,’ Markham replied gaily, as he turned to leave. ‘Who knows, one of them might be a true seamstress in disguise.’
Quinlan and Ettrick had gone outside by the time he emerged himself, and were trying unsuccessfully to trade for some tobacco with the Corsican soldiers who were lounging about. He called to them impatiently, and they fell in quickly, staying at his heels as he made his way
through the narrow streets full of locals. The men had the grace to step aside when they saw a red coat coming: the British were allies. But judging by the fierce expressions in their black eyes, that was not a courtesy they’d extend to an enemy, even if that man was a conqueror.
‘They’re an ill-looking bunch,’ said Quinlan, which was odd coming from him, given that he was no hundred-guinea portrait himself. ‘Half the buggers are ever on the move, dashing this way and that, yet there are more, like them rankers outside our billet, who just stand around an’ watch us.’
‘As if they was waitin’ for somewhat to happen,’ Ettrick replied. ‘Or actin’ as a Runner’s snitch.’
Markham was only listening with half an ear, aware that these two were a couple of proper villains, whose presence in the colours was either a timely escape or a sentence handed down by a beak as an alternative to hanging or transportation. He had seen Quinlan pick locks with ease, and the way they worked was clear enough proof that they had been a team in civilian life too. Sharp-tongued, small and wiry, both with a foxy air to their features, they were the slipperiest pair in the Hebes, adept at ducking unpleasant duties. But that didn’t matter to Markham. They’d proved themselves as fighters, and that was what interested him in the main.
‘That’s it,’ he said, pointing across the small square to the thick wooden gates of a stunted villa. ‘I want the number of servants, where they sleep, and the layout of the main rooms inside.’
‘That last be the hard part,’ said Quinlan, his face screwed up.
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if there are a couple of soldiers in there too,’ Markham added, with an air of innocence.
‘Whose abode is it?’
‘Colonel Hanger’s.’ Both men whistled a little, then looked at each other. They knew the occupant of the house just as well as their officer did. ‘He’s away at present.’
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