The coach stood where he’d left it, in the yard, with the sun beating down. His men had found a patch of shade by the wall of the arsenal building, and had stretched out to rest. Seeing them, he cursed the billeting officer even more roundly. Amongst the many yardsticks that men used to judge their officers, about the highest was the ability to find a decent billet. Food and freedom from risk were secondary. A good body of troops would accept privation and possible death with an equanimity they’d never show when deprived of a place to sleep.
‘Rannoch, Schutte, Halsey,’ he shouted. The last called was first to his feet, with the two ‘sergeants’ taking their own sweet time to respond. Schutte was reluctant to arrive before Rannoch. He, busily cleaning his musket, seemed disinclined to put the task aside. Markham waited, his limited stock of patience rapidly evaporating, while the Highlander finished working on his weapon. Only then did he stand up. All three then came over to where he stood.
‘That is the last piece of insubordination I am ever going to put up with,’ growled Markham, his eyes ranging over the three men. ‘And it won’t be your stripes I’ll take away, it will be your lifeblood. I’ll have you transferred, and when I do it I’ll make sure that you end up on a duty that not even Lucifer himself could survive.’
He looked at them each in turn. Halsey, the least troublesome, was at attention, gazing at a point above Markham’s head. Schutte dropped his eyes the second he made contact. Only Rannoch held his gaze, the stare steady and the very slightest of smiles playing round his lips. It was a ‘do your worst’ look, for which many an officer would break a man. Indeed, he felt he was being challenged to do so. The image of Rannoch cleaning his weapon came into his mind. None of the others had seen fit to do so, not surprisingly since he had issued no such order.
‘Fetch your musket,’ he snapped.
That registered; a small move of the eyebrow and tightening of the lips denoted his surprise. He spun on his heel and walked back to the point where he had leant it on the brick wall, picked it up, and after a quick examination came back. Markham held out his hand for the weapon, which Rannoch surrendered. It was spotless and smelt of fresh gun oil. Each metal part shone in its own way, the barrel, flintlock, and trigger guard grey and gleaming, the brass on the firing plate and butt sparkling. The pan, normally encrusted with a deep residue of burnt powder, was scraped clean. The wood of the stock looked like a well polished piece of prized furniture.
‘You take good care of this.’
‘I do at that.’
‘Are you a good shot as well, sergeant?’
‘I manage.’
Their eyes locked again. ‘When I was on the crest at Ollioules, my sword was shot out of my hand. The ball wasn’t fired by the French, Rannoch, and I don’t suppose it went exactly where it was intended.’
‘Would that be right, now?’ Rannoch replied, with the kind of mockery in his voice that practically admitted responsibility. Markham fingered the strap, a replacement for the one he’d cut with that same sword before they’d entered the village.
‘And someone took out that French officer with the tricolour plumes.’ Markham raised his hand and put one finger in the middle of his forehead. ‘The ball took him right here.’
‘Then he would not survive it, would he?’
‘Remarkable shooting, don’t you think?’
‘It is not my place to put forward an opinion in the presence of an officer.’
If Rannoch knew what he was implying, nothing registered in his face. And neither Halsey or Schutte so much as moved an eyebrow. What had happened, where the shot that had hit his sword had come from, would remain a mystery. And, in truth, given the poor quality of the musketry, it was more likely an accident than deliberate.
‘It is when you’re asked to, sergeant,’ said Markham. ‘And you will oblige me by never forgetting that. I have to find us somewhere to lay our heads, since while we’ve been fighting all the other men who’ve come ashore have had the chance to pinch the decent accommodation.’
‘Bastards,’ said Halsey, then realising he’d spoken out, as well as what he’d said, he looked flustered.
‘A very accurate description, corporal. And damned awkward for us. But I’ve no intention of letting such a thing bother us. First I must indent for powder and shot to replenish our losses.’
Markham looked back towards Rannoch. The man’s natural authority made any other choice foolish. Schutte could match him for size, but was all muscle and no brain. Halsey had been a marine all his adult life, and was a good subordinate. But this sergeant of the 65th foot was a man apart.
‘As soon as I’ve done that, I want you to take charge. Distribute the ammunition and then get every man to clean his musket. And Rannoch,’ he added, handing the man’s weapon back, ‘I expect them all to look like this.’
Still that stare, which was very close to contempt. ‘Should any of you fancy deserting, you have a fine choice. Castration inland, or a hanging at sea.’
Having signed for the supplies, Markham went over to the coach to explain to the passengers what had happened. He found Rossignol eating again, the same hampers that had occupied Celeste’s table now occupying the space between the seats. Yelland, who’d acted as driver, was sitting on the blind side, consuming his fill.
‘You must have a glass of wine, monsieur. I had your soldier chill it in the sea, and while not cold, it is quite palatable.’
‘Obliged,’ Markham replied, unable to avoid shooting a glance at Eveline. After a welcome sip he explained about his problems with billeting, adding that the town was exceedingly full. ‘In your case, it is not something with which I can help. My first task is to find accommodation for my own men. Of course, should I happen on anything suitable, I will inform you.’
‘It strikes me, Lieutenant,’ said Rossignol, his mouth full of the bread Markham had supplied, ‘that I might have more luck than you. After all, I am a Frenchman, as you are not, despite your facility with the language. And if all the barracks and dockyard buildings are already gone, it stands to reason that anything left will be in the grasping hands of the locals. Together, with your uniform, which will terrify them, and my knowledge of their wiles, we might succeed where individually we would fail.’
‘That’s most kind, monsieur, but I rather think that what I’m in search of would hardly suffice for your daughters.’
‘That may be so. But neither do I wish to drag these poor weak creatures all over the town on such a hot day. Shall we try first as a pair, just to see what we can find? At the very least it may speed up your own search.’
It was the last thing he wanted to do. But faced with such a direct offer he couldn’t really refuse. ‘I would be most grateful for any assistance.’
Rossignol threw the rest of his bread out of the opposite side, narrowly missing Yelland’s ear, drained his cup of wine, smacked his lips and beamed at Markham. He then grabbed his hat and a large stick from the rack above his head.
‘Then let us be off.’
Rossignol’s tactics first embarrassed Markham, then amused him, and finally, quite frankly amazed him. There was no supplication in his approach, which was peremptory and very close to being threatening. He brushed aside the idea that something suitable might be found outside the old town walls, and was loath to contemplate any accommodation that did not have some view of the harbour. The stick was first banged on any likely looking door, and when a servant appeared, Rossignol entered, brushing him aside. The owner of the property, naturally nervous at the turn events had taken in Toulon, wilted before his air of authority, made so much more potent by the unkempt British officer at his side. Having got Hood’s name from Markham, he acted as though he were the Admiral’s personal representative.
And he was fussy, inspecting both the public rooms and the bedrooms, as well as the outbuildings and the view of the inner harbour, then interrogating the occupants to see how much space they were prepared to sacrifice to the common purpose of fighting the revol
ution. Dismissal, or even a stated intention to think about it, after his verbal onslaught, seemed to induce feelings of guilt and disappointment in those he chose not to immediately favour. After looking at two dozen houses, all with major or minor defects, they happened on the home and business premises of a certain Monsieur Picard, who made a substantial living from supplying the French fleet.
The exterior was unprepossessing, a flat-fronted, detached building with no windows on the ground floor and only a double-doored loading bay with a hoist on the first. The main, ground floor entrance, a narrow door, was of sturdy oak, warped with age and heavily studded. But the interior was quite a revelation. Once through the dingy warehouse that fronted the quay, they entered a courtyard with a central fountain. The building at the rear, though old, was large and graceful, timber-framed in antique style and graced, like the surrounding walls, with climbing, sweet scented vines. The owner who, judging by his property, must be one of the leading business men of the town, was interrogated by Rossignol in the same manner he applied to all the others. As soon as he saw the rear courtyard and entrance, with a set of doors big enough to take the most substantial coach, the Frenchman pronounced himself satisfied and went back to beard the owner in his own salon.
‘These are difficult times, Monsieur Picard,’ said Rossignol, addressing the tall skeletal figure who stood before him. The man’s plump wife was just behind, scowling at what she probably saw as her husband’s cowardice. ‘And you have so much space that you may occupy a whole wing of the house and not even notice your guests. Why, with such an abundance it will be hard to remember we are here.’
‘No!’ said Madame Picard.
Her husband held up a hand to stop her, which only served to make her scowl even more. Yet Markham had the distinct impression that he intended to turn them down as well, albeit in a manner less brusque. Rossignol responded to Madame Picard’s abrupt refusal with a gesture of despair. Then he turned to Markham, who was doing his best to conceal his own embarrassment.
‘Lieutenant, would you mind leaving us alone for a moment?’
‘Happily,’ he replied.
Outside the salon door, in a cool hallway lined with expensive tapestries, he heard Rossignol speaking quietly, but insistently. He also heard numerous questions posed, some in a male voice but more from Madame Picard. After about ten minutes the door opened and Rossignol, smiling, invited him to re-enter.
It was like walking into a different room. Certainly the furnishings were the same, rich pieces heavy with age and deep beeswax. But the owners, by their change of mood, seemed to have altered the effect. All was now light and welcome. Monsieur Picard looked as though he’d added another pair of inches to his already decent height; while his wife was somewhat swollen, clasping and unclasping her hands, and actually smiling at this strange, handsome, but rather dishevelled British officer.
‘As you see, Lieutenant,’ said Rossignol, his round red face beaming with pleasure, ‘our hosts’ fears are laid to rest. Monsieur Picard has kindly agreed to allow your men to occupy the first floor of the warehouse, while you will, of course, join us in the selection of the premises they have so kindly given over to our use. The girl, Celeste, will be accommodated in the servants’ quarters, with a modicum of work to compensate for her keep.’
Picard bowed and his wife was very near to a curtsy.
‘Why, that is very decent of you, sir.’
‘The very least we could do, Lieutenant,’ Monsieur Picard replied. ‘France would not forgive us for anything less.’
‘That is settled then,’ said Rossignol quickly. ‘And since you’re here as allies and protectors, our hosts have agreed to supplement your rations so that your men will have plenty to eat.’
In the absence of any other suitable response, Markham bowed.
‘I can’t think what you said to them that made them change their minds so quickly.’
Rossignol spread his hands, his smooth white palms reflecting the sunlight. They were walking along the commercial quay, by the inner basin, heading for the Vielle Darse, which housed the arsenal. The great ships of the French fleet, warped in close to the dockyard, towered above them.
‘What does he see as he looks up from his ledgers, Lieutenant? His own nation’s ships, indeed the major part of his livelihood, lying idle while the harbour is full of the vessels of England and Spain. What does he hear from outside Provence? I mentioned the name Fouquert to him, and what little blood his body contains ended up in his feet. He knows that should the Revolution triumph in Toulon, and he is still here, his head will be lopped off his shoulders, along with that of his wife.’
‘But he knew all that before he arrived,’ said Markham.
‘True. But he had not considered that, even with the port under British control, he might not be safe.’
‘Who would threaten him?’
‘There are thousands of idle sailors in the town, thrown off their vessels. And while I have no desire to denigrate the profession of arms, monsieur, even you must acknowledge that in the best trained army there are those whose standards of behaviour fall somewhat short of perfect.’ He must have mistaken the look Markham gave him, because he continued hurriedly. ‘I refer of course to the Spaniards.’
‘Of course,’ Markham replied, with deep irony. If Rossignol had cared to look carefully at the men he commanded, he’d have seen just how right he was.
‘What better for a rich man, in these troubled times, than to have a detachment of troops under his own roof, armed and comfortable, able to deal with anyone who seeks to trouble him?’
‘You offered us as an armed guard?’
‘Nothing so absolute. Let us say the lesser of two evils.’
‘Let us hope you’re right.’
‘I think I am. And I know that my daughters will feel much safer knowing that you are there to protect them.’
Markham stared at him hard then, but Rossignol was looking elsewhere; judging by his face, seemingly content. Could he really not have noticed the looks that his daughter Eveline had thrown in Markham’s direction, glances that had been returned with compound interest; could he really believe that she would be safe with him under the same roof?
It was an exhausted contingent that finally arrived at the Picard house, with Rossignol taking the conveyance round to the back of the building, while Markham and his men entered the warehouse from the front. One of Picard’s servants showed them to the vacant first floor, where they were ordered to rest. Markham left the organisation of the billet to the men themselves, too weary to take any notice of their internal dissensions, and followed the same servant to the room that had been set aside for him.
This was at the far end of a corridor that housed all of Picard’s visitors. Rossignol’s room was the closest to the stairs, while his daughters’ room lay opposite that which was given over solely to the young boy. Markham stopped briefly there to thank Madame Picard, who was fussing about the room, ordering a serving girl to tidy this and remove that, watched all the while by the silent Jean-Baptiste. Finally satisfied, she turned to face the boy, a most peculiar gleam in her eye. She extended her hand and touched his cheek, recoiling almost immediately as though stung. Seeing her occupied, and aware that something private was happening, Markham responded to the servant who tugged his sleeve, and moved on to his own room.
Sleep should have come to him instantly, but instead he lay for what seemed like an age, tossing and turning, the events of the last two days played over and over again in his mind. Each time he examined any of his actions, he could see how flawed they were, driven by his own demons rather than either bravery or good sense. That impulsive desire to be better than other men, examined when alone, depressed him utterly. And as for his command, they were probably more divided now than they had been throughout the entire voyage.
Things looked very different when he woke, the momentary unease at the strange surroundings set to rest by those same recollections. It was dark, and until he made it t
o the candlelit hallway he had no idea of the time. A tray lay outside the door, the cold collation and bread covered, only the carafe of wine showing. They’d let him sleep throughout the day, and judging by the tightly shut door of the girls’ room, and the untouched trays outside, they’d done the same. But Jean-Baptiste’s door was ajar, just like Rossignol’s, both rooms vacant.
He grabbed a hunk of bread and a slice of ham, munching them greedily as he washed them down with the rough wine. Taking a candle into his room, and placing it before the mirror, he saw just how wretched he looked. Several days’ growth of stubble covered his chin; his eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot from exposure to sun and dust, and that same commodity caked his face. He needed hot water, a razor and soap, plus hazel twigs to clean his teeth. His uniform, hat, coat and breeches and gaiters, were filthy, needing to be sponged and brushed, while his boots required a strong application of blacking and polish. Still munching, he set out to look for the servants’ quarters. In the main hallway, the sound of voices behind an open door was too tempting to pass, and he knocked gently before opening it.
Rossignol was there, heading for the door, hand extended as though intent on keeping it shut. But Markham swung it wide before he could get there, leaving the Frenchman looking rather foolish. The tightness of his facial muscles was fleeting, immediately replaced by a bland look, as the extended arm swung to introduce the other occupants. Markham could see that the Picards were there, standing well away from the two strangers who crouched before Jean-Baptiste, one examining the boy while the other watched his every move.
‘Forgive me if I don’t introduce you, Lieutenant,’ whispered Rossignol. ‘But matters are at a crucial stage, and to disturb the doctors now might be regressive.’
It was that final word, so unfamiliar, which alerted him to what was happening. But Rossignol carried on with his whispering, just in case he hadn’t understood.
‘They are examining the boy, to see if they can find the seat of his malaise. The very best doctors in the city, I do assure you, renowned far and wide. They were employed by Admiral Trugueff himself before the surrender.’
A Shred of Honour Page 11