Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  Bowing acknowledgement, Markham followed the colonel along the quay, two other officers, and a file of troops bringing up his rear. They passed the two Tarantines which had evaded him, which were now tied up and in the process of being unloaded by men of the garrison. Considering that the ships had brought succour to the besieged, there seemed, to Markham’s way of thinking, little joy in the task. Looking at the disgruntled faces of the French troopers, he put their dejection down to the lateness of the hour, plus the fact that they were being obliged to perform a task that could easily have been undertaken by civilians.

  But his mind was working on a quite separate level, his interest in the sweating troopers extending to their physical condition, which appeared to be good. Morale was too nebulous a concept to pursue in such a short space of time, and once he was off the quay, and inside the walls of the town, he could observe little. There were few civilians about, and those he did see tended to scurry out of the way as soon as they heard the boots striking the cobbles of the narrow streets. The route was uphill from the shore all the way to the citadel, the central castillion that dominated the town.

  He was received in the French headquarters with a punctiliousness he’d not expected. Which made him think of Monsignor Aramon, and his charge that the besieged were ‘Godless heathens and apostates’, the implication being that neither their word nor their behaviour could be deemed civilised. Nothing was further from the truth. Could these men really be the military representatives of the Terror, with its trial of blood and innocent, headless corpses? In a long soldiering career, during which he’d mingled with the officers of several armies, French, Russian, Austrian and even Turkish, Markham knew what constituted proper conduct. He could observe no departure from that here.

  The General, Pierre Francois d’Issillen, when he entered his chamber, stood to receive him, even though he was a mere marine lieutenant, introducing himself with old world courtesy. The enquiry after his well being, delivered at the same time as a glass of wine, was genuine, as was the relief on the commander’s face when he confirmed he had suffered no wounds. But that was as nothing to the praise heaped upon his recent exploits.

  ‘A most gallant affair, Lieutenant.’ This was followed by a subdued agreement from the other officers in the room, all now hatless, and standing stiffly and respectfully in the presence of their general. ‘I watched the whole thing from the very top of this tower. You acted with despatch and courage, and not one of my officers could fault a single decision you made. Your superiors will, I’m sure, be very proud of you.’

  Markham, being dog tired, nearly blurted out ‘some of them’. But he stopped himself just in time, murmuring a modest response that included a reference to the quality of the men he led.

  ‘Do you think it would be in order for me to visit those men?’ d’Issillen enquired. ‘I would want them to know how much I admired their application.’

  Markham was slightly startled by that, since it seemed to be carrying the bonds of polite military conduct too far. But he was quick to concede, since nothing would ensure their proper treatment more than a visit to the dungeons by such an elevated personage.

  ‘We could perhaps do so before I invite you to dine.’

  ‘Of course,’ Markham replied, suppressing the selfish thought that had first come to mind; that he was ravenous, very thirsty, filthy, and impatient to be rid of all these encumbrances.

  D’Issellin smiled, which went some way to lightening the look on his old tired face. ‘I think you will require another glass of this fortifying wine to sustain you.’

  Markham accepted, and it was only when they were leaving and he hit the warm evening air that he realised it was probably a mistake. With no food in his belly, the wine had gone straight to his head, making him feel fuzzy. He had to hold himself stiff to avoid any hint of a stagger, not easy on the uneven, steeply cobbled streets, and he was sweating in the humid night air, which doubled his discomfort.

  At least the room in which his men had been accommodated was cool and roomy. The general asked him to interpret for him, himself having no English, so that Markham was privy to every question posed. Not that he needed to worry. D’Issellin avoided all reference to anything pertaining to the nature of the siege. He enquired about the place of birth of each individual, where it was and what kind of occupation they had pursued before taking the King’s shilling.

  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 b
ehalf 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.’

  Chapter four

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

  ‘Should it?’ asked Markham.

  This was said guardedly, while accep
ting 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.’