‘What about the rest of the lads?’
‘I’ve got to get them out of there. Which I intend to do. We’ll pick you both up on the way through.’
‘And what if you don’t manage it?’
‘Sir!’ snapped Markham, finally exasperated. ‘If we don’t make it, get back to Toulon and tell them to come and bloody well get us.’
‘Sir,’ the marine replied softly.
But Markham didn’t hear him. He was already gone, half crouched and running, praying that his sword wouldn’t hit some tree or stone that would alert those on the roadway to his presence. The bright stars showed him the gnarled tops of the olive grove, which provided some point of reference. That also enabled him to move swiftly through the trees, until he saw the black outline of Rossignol’s coach. He shot up onto the pavé, then ducked as someone raised a musket to take aim at him.
‘Hold your fire,’ he called, as he slithered over the patch of road and dived under the coach. It was only when he came up the other side that he realised it was now resting on four wheels. Yelland confirmed that it was repaired, and that the two other marines who had been with Halsey were back in the village.
‘Get on the shafts, you men. Push this damned thing back across the bridge. If they attack I want it close enough to the first pair of houses to block the road. Leave just enough room to get the horses through for now.’
While he was talking, he kept his eyes on the steady flow of sailors, nothing but dark shapes, emerging from the undergrowth to swell the ranks of those he’d have to face. He started to walk backwards himself as the coach began to move, its metal-rimmed wheels grinding loudly on the surface of the road, a sound which carried, judging by the sudden number of ghostly white faces looking in their direction. He had to fight the temptation to borrow a musket and shoot at them, since the last thing he wanted at that moment was that they should disperse.
More importantly, they didn’t follow, giving him time to work out what to do next. Markham had the distinct impression that they were a mob without a central directing authority. Everything about their behaviour on the hillside, as they’d shouted to each other, indicated that. He could hear the buzz of much conversation as various opinions were stated as to what course of action they should adopt.
Once the coach was close to the narrow gap between the buildings, practically blocking the route, he ran back towards the main square, Rannoch had evacuated the crest, as ordered. The men were arguing noisily when he appeared, duplicating what was happening with the deserters on the Toulon road. Those who’d run before him had spread a degree of alarm and despondency. The silence that fell as he walked amongst them was nothing to do with his rank, more a measure of their curiosity about this officer, who should by all accounts be dead, and what he was up to now.
‘Get the horses out from the paddock,’ he shouted, ‘and that bugger Fouquert who’s tied up in the back room.’
They were looking at each other, in that way men do when they assume a task to be another’s responsibility. It was Schutte, perhaps stung enough by his preferment of Halsey to assert himself, who saved him repeating the orders. Markham heard him tallying off men to the task as he burst in through the inn door. Rossignol was standing by his hampers, now repacked, he and his party ready to depart.
‘The coach?’ the Frenchman demanded.
‘Is repaired. I’ve called for the horses.’
Quickly, he explained their predicament. The men on the Toulon road might wait for daylight. But he, with an army on the other side of him, dare not. They had to break out or risk capture, and the best time to achieve that was by using the darkness to aid them against what he hoped was a rabble.
‘My men will secure the road ahead. As soon as they do so you are to drive through as fast as you can. Your horses are rested now, so they should manage some speed.’
‘But they will be bound to fire on us, monsieur. We will present such an easy target compared to your soldiers.’
Markham nodded, spun on his heel and walked outside, calling to the first two men he saw. ‘Ettrick, find some hay, a length of rope and a couple of torches. Quinlan, go and tell Yelland that I want the doors taken off the coach.’
They moved out with a discipline they’d not shown since coming ashore, such was the threat these French sailors posed. Rannoch was issuing crisp, clear orders to keep his men in place. There’d not be a single member in his unit who had not heard of the fate of Celeste’s father, and such knowledge kept them tight and alert. On the narrow roadway they couldn’t deploy, so he arranged them in ranks of ten. As soon as he saw the crowd of Frenchmen, who were still milling around and arguing, he opened fire. As the front rank discharged their muskets he brought forward the second and gave the men before them another salvo.
The first had shocked them; the second, no more than ten seconds later, added to the surprise. The third caught them as they started to run and the fourth made them scatter. Many didn’t make it. Firing along such a narrow causeway into such a mass of flesh, even the most inept musketry was effective, and the cries of men wounded and dying rose above the crash of the guns. As soon as they had dispersed he broke his men into two files, each to take one side of the road and provide a screen for the coach, with Schutte leading a party along the causeway to clear any bodies. Yelland, lying on the roof rather than sitting on the box, held the reins tight. There was no need to steer the beasts on the old, straight, Roman route, only to hold them steady and keep them moving. Lying down he made less of a target.
Behind him the twin torches flared and flickered as the coach increased speed. Grabbing two men, he crashed into the undergrowth to the right, calling out for Dymock, and firing high and wild to keep the enemy on the move. Dymock’s strangled tones rose above every other sound. Recognising the gnarled profile of the tree under which he’d left them, Markham headed for it, ordered those with him to lift the wounded Leech, and then covered the retreat as they made it back to the road. The coach was rattling along, nearly abreast, and he halted it for a second to load on the wounded man.
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.’
Chapter eight
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.
A Shred of Honour Page 10