A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  ‘But we are close to them, Naples and the like.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go putting too much store in the Neapolitans. If their ability with a musket is anything like their use of a shovel, they may prove more of a liability than an asset.’

  ‘There will be troops from England.’

  ‘Did Colonel Hanger tell you this?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Markham shrugged. ‘He is, of course, privy to information that I do not have. But I would point out to you that England is many hundreds of miles away, and may have commitments that are more important than the retention of a French naval base.’

  He knew he’d gone too far and opened his mouth to say so; to remind the Frenchman that Toulon, given the topography, was near impregnable. Rossignol didn’t give him the chance. Spinning round, he barrelled his way out into the courtyard, then stopped outside the gates for a moment, examining the harbour full of shipping. Then he slammed his cane angrily into the cobblestones, before stomping off in the direction of the Picard house.

  A commotion behind him made Markham look round. The knot of officers had parted to allow their commanders through. Judging by the scowls on their faces, and the distance they seemed determined to maintain, they had little common purpose. Markham tried to shrink back into the stone wall as he saw Hanger, more through dread of what he might do or say than any physical fear of the man. But Elphinstone spotted him. His face creased as though he were trying to place Markham, then, recognition seemingly dawning, he walked over and addressed him. That didn’t bother him half as much as the fact that Hanger followed.

  ‘You’ve changed your coat, as well as your breeks!’ barked the Scotsman, looking him up and down. Then he leant forward, brow knitted, to examine the coat buttons, which bore the fouled anchor device of the marines.

  ‘I have, sir. It is my understanding that I have been transferred from the army.’

  Elphinstone’s thick eyebrows shot up in surprise, though he looked amused rather than angry. ‘Never in life, laddie. It takes more than a scrawl by some Bullock colonel to make a marine officer.’ He must have realised that Hanger was close by, within earshot, and that the words he used were rather insulting, since he continued quickly. ‘Have you and your Hebes been assigned any duties?’

  ‘No, sir. That is why I came here this morning, to receive my orders.’

  ‘If I could have them for my mobile reserve, Captain?’ said Hanger, stepping forward, his cold eyes fixed on Markham’s face. ‘I’m sure I can find them suitable employment.’

  He opened his mouth to protest, but Elphinstone, unaware of any reason to refuse, was too quick. ‘Make it so, Colonel.’ He made to walk away, then turned back to face him, his eyes suddenly as cold as those of the soldier. ‘I understand you made advances towards my niece, Markham.’

  ‘Hardly advances, sir. We engaged in a brief conversation.’

  ‘That is not the way it was told to me. Miss Lizzie Gordon is a bonny creature, and a trifle unworldly. Not for the likes of you, upon my word. Your reputation as a rake is as public as your other handicaps, sir. You will kindly assure me that, should your paths cross in the future, you will stay out of her orbit.’

  He opened his mouth to deny both the accusation and the restriction. But Elphinstone wasn’t finished, though he spoke so softly that only Markham could hear him.

  ‘“That drop of blood that’s calm proclaims me bastard.” Laertes to the king, I believe. I told you I never forget a face. And I well remember the way you got that scar above your eye.’

  It spoke volumes, that line from Hamlet. He racked his brain for a reply. But Elphinstone had already turned away, exposing, behind him, the bland innocent look on the spot-covered face of Midshipman Driberg.

  ‘Take your Hebes to the Fort Malbousquet, Markham,’ snarled Hanger. ‘Wait for me there.’

  ‘Upon what duty, sir?’

  The green eyes bored into his. ‘Whatever I choose to command. But it will be warm, that I do assure you.’

  Picard caught him before he’d made it to the warehouse door, his thin frame shaking with rage and his hands held high in a gesture of apparent despair. It had been like this ever since they’d taken up residence, a constant stream of complaints directed against his men and the way they behaved. Markham didn’t miss out on the irony, didn’t tell this ageing French merchant that, though many of them had mellowed, any strictures from him were more likely to be ignored than obeyed. Really, he couldn’t comprehend why Picard didn’t throw them all out, leaving them to find another, more suitable billet.

  From amongst the stream of near incomprehensible babble, he understood that the problem this time was a fire. Picard dragged him through the doorway, his voice now turned to a whine as he explained that his men had lit an open fire within the warehouse, which, given the timber construction, the age of the building, and the fact that the wood was dry, was dangerous enough. But as Picard had supplied the French navy with combustibles, gunpowder, flares and inflammable spirits, which were stacked on the floor above the soldiers, such an action threatened to blow them all to Kingdom Come.

  Markham made his way to the stairs, requesting the civilian to wait for him, and ascended to the first floor. The smell was obvious before he’d climbed a single step, a fragrance of burning wood, hot gun oil. Then, up closer, what seemed like the acrid odour of fiery metal.

  Emerging on to the first floor, he was struck, once more, by the way that his men had turned it into a version of their own favoured accommodation. The Bullocks had constructed a replica barracks on one side of the double doors, with beds made of boxes and straw stuffed into empty sacks, while the Lobsters had slung hammocks on the other, and lined their limited possessions neatly against the wall. Given a day of rest after all their toil, it was hardly surprising that most of the beds and hammocks were occupied. Nor did it shock him that none of the occupants saw fit to leap to their feet just because he’d arrived.

  The glowing brazier stood between the two sets of accommodation, by the open double doors that overlooked the quay. Rannoch was bent over it, working on something, his broad back drenched with sweat that stained his calico shirt. Markham approached gingerly, curious to see what this man was doing. At his feet lay a short metal tube, very like part of a musket barrel, and a primitive pair of scales, with a rod attached to a tripod, an empty pan at one end, and a brass ball at the other.

  Schutte and this Highlander still occupied their respective ranks. If they were going to return to being soldiers instead of navvies, that needed to be sorted out. The Dutchman had come into the marine service as an alternative to residence in a prisoner-of-war hulk. As dense as he was bald, prone to sulk, with only his uncommon strength, added to a brutal nature, to recommend him, he would never earn the respect of both sets of men. But Rannoch was different. He was certainly insubordinate, but there was nothing bovine about his actions or his words. They were calculated, always just on the edge of an unpleasant truth. Markham was sure he could discern, in those green eyes, the workings of a brain, without being sure whether he was seeing evidence of mental prowess or low cunning.

  ‘You will not mind if I do not get to my feet,’ said Rannoch, in his slow, clear way.

  ‘I’ve long since given up expecting any disciplined behaviour from the likes of you,’ he snapped in reply, wondering how the Scotsman had known, without turning round, that it was him. ‘It’s my misfortune to be burdened with you, something I intend to change at the first opportunity.’

  ‘If you can make it on solid earth, I will not complain.’

  Markham had come close enough to see over the sergeant’s shoulder. He’d placed a tin ladle into the brazier, with several musket balls. Markham watched as the lead slowly melted. As soon as it was liquid, Rannoch lifted it out and poured the metal slowly into a hinged mould, which had half a dozen bowls on either side. The spare lead was tipped into a tin mug, and after waiting for a moment until the metal started to set, Rannoch gingerly picked the first
hot ball out with a pair of pliers, then plunged that into a bucket of water by his leg. The metal hissed, sending a cloud of steam into the low rafters. After a second, the sergeant took it out, opened it, exposing the now formed ball to view, before tipping it into the bucket, there to cool completely. He repeated this until the main mould was empty.

  ‘Monsieur Picard is somewhat upset about the fire.’

  Rannoch, who was loading more musket balls into his tin ladle, looked round and grinned. It was the first time Markham had seen him show any pleasure, let alone smile, and the change was pleasing. But it didn’t last. It was a fleeting thing, soon gone. He reached into the bucket, produced a dull grey ball, scraped the flakes off the edges and held it up.

  ‘Well tell him that when his friends come to chop off his head at the neck, on that infernal toy they use, he might just be thankful for me doing this.’

  ‘Douse it,’ snapped Markham. ‘Get the men on their feet and downstairs.’

  Rannoch picked up the metal tube lying at his feet, and as he stood up he slipped the musket ball into it, holding it up to the light. Then he tilted the tube so that the ball ran through it, to land in his waiting hand. The bellow that followed, delivered so close to Markham’s ear, achieved what was intended. It roused the soldiers, and made their officer jump.

  ‘On your feet, you lazy, heathen bastards! We are off to the war again.’

  ‘Schutte, Halsey,’ shouted Markham. ‘You too. I want you downstairs in full equipment in five minutes.’

  Rannoch was gathering his tools, in a leisurely and infuriating way. After a quick glance below, to make sure the quay was clear, Markham hooked his foot around the leg of the brazier and tipped it out of the open door.

  ‘If you don’t get a move on, the bucket will follow.’

  The Highlander suppressed his anger very well, pulling himself slowly to his full height. For a moment Markham thought he was going to hit him, and prepared to jump back out of reach. But Rannoch just looked at him hard, and spoke in a voice devoid of emotion or respect.

  ‘It would be a pity to do that, now. Those balls, they are measured to perfection, barring the weight. They have a home to go to in the flesh of some poor soul.’

  The way the sergeant was looking at him, Markham suspected that some of the flesh might be his. He spun on his heel and made his way downstairs, reassuring Picard on the way that his warehouse, as well as his combustibles, were now safe from a conflagration. Crossing the inner courtyard he caught sight of Eveline at one of the upstairs windows. She waved to him and smiled invitingly, which made him curse the duty that removed any opportunity to follow up and find out just what lay behind the look.

  As he passed the small salon he heard Madame Picard talking slowly and deliberately, as if to herself. Curiosity made him push the door open further. The boy sat on a stool, looking at her with that bland lack of expression that he’d had the day he’d first seen him. She, with a reverential air, was kneeling in front of him, holding a large book of colourful drawings to the boy’s face, saying ‘mama’ and ‘papa’ over and over again.

  With no children of her own, Madame Picard had taken to the boy, spending much time in his company, no doubt engaged in the very same activity he was now observing. Such maternal feelings in a woman who lacked, to his knowledge, much natural compassion, was good to behold, proving that even the most hardened breast was home to finer feelings. Markham found himself staring at the embossed gold and red background of the book’s cover, thinking that both she, and the doctors, had made very little progress.

  Suddenly aware of his presence, Madame Picard spun round, her puffy, pale face full of consternation. She snapped the book shut with a resounding thud and started to get to her feet. The boy looked round slowly, his handsome, sallow countenance registering no emotion as he too saw the soldier in the doorway. Markham opened his mouth to apologise for the intrusion.

  ‘Pardon, monsieur.’

  He reacted to the voice behind him, for all that it was soft and respectful, like a man caught at a keyhole. Celeste stood with a tray in her hand, a steaming bowl of soup lying alongside a hunk of bread. Markham had seen even less of her than he had of the others these last weeks. She had lost some of the hunted air he remembered from the day they arrived, and any physical scars she bore had long since healed. But she was painfully thin, her olive skin rather translucent, giving her an undernourished air.

  ‘Celeste. Are you well?’

  She curtsied, her body moving while the tray stayed still, her long dark hair dropping to her waist. ‘Perfectly, monsieur.’

  ‘And you are comfortable?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He decided to take the ritual reassurance for what it was, a desire to avoid discussion. He stood aside to let her enter, his eyes following her as she passed him. Her body was beginning to develop, though fate had made her a woman before nature had the chance. Her hips seemed larger, swaying under her loose dress, something which he realised he was examining with surprising dispassion. One day, he thought, she’d be an attractive young lady. Not a beauty, but very pleasant.

  For the first time, as she approached the centre of the room, he saw the boy react to another human being. His lips moved in the merest ghost of a smile. But the deep eyes, so much more expressive than any other part of him, looked pleased. And they followed Celeste as she passed by to lay the tray on the table, in such a way that Madame Picard could not avoid barking at her. Celeste put the tray down and bobbed a hurried curtsy before running out. Looking back into the room he saw that the old lady, her position challenged, was angry. But he noticed that the boy, for just a fraction of a second, looked sad.

  The distant clash of boots and equipment reminded him of his duty, and he rushed off to change into his army uniform coat. He had no idea what Hanger had in mind for him and his Hebes. But it would be unpleasant and very likely dirty work, not something that would do Frobisher’s best outfit much good.

  Chapter eleven

  ‘If you look over yonder, Markham, you’ll see a pair of masked cannon.’ Hanger turned to include Serota, who sat on a horse by his side, in the conversation. ‘That is the newly constructed Batterie de Bregaillon, manned with field guns that have a part of the harbour in range.’

  Serota coughed softly, covering his yellowing face with his hand, as Markham swung Frobisher’s small telescope in an arc from the hill called La Seyne to the south, through the freshly dug defences in front of the northern heights, to the great bight of water to his rear. He’d met plenty of emigré French officers in Russia who’d waxed lyrical about the advances their country had made in the use of artillery. The armies of the Revolution had certainly surprised everyone by the ferocity and mobility with which they used their guns at Valmy. But none of that applied to what he could observe in front of him now.

  ‘I can see that they don’t have a hope of either bombarding the dockyard, the basin, or closing off the entrance to the Petite Rade, sir. And even if they did, two field guns hardly constitute a serious threat.’

  Hanger glowered at him, not wishing to hear the obvious. That, in truth, Cartaux had sited this artillery too far away from the centre of activity to do much harm. Any ship that wanted could engage these emplacements by shifting their moorings. But for all practical purposes they were offensively useless.

  ‘The only thing they have done,’ Markham continued, ‘is to deny us a site we had no intention of occupying anyway.’

  ‘How do you know that?’ asked Serota. The answer was so obvious that Markham merely shrugged, throwing a glance past the Spaniard’s horse to the regiment of soldiers he’d brought forward from Fort Malbousquet. Caught between coughing and speech, Serota’s next words, which he tried to deliver with a flourish, exited his throat in a wheeze. ‘They impugn our honour.’

  ‘We can’t have the buggers getting the wrong idea.’ growled Hanger, more prosaically. ‘I think they should be taught that if they leave themselves exposed, they’ll be punished.�
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  ‘With respect,’ Markham replied, trying hard to keep his voice even. ‘It’s a bad idea to throw away men’s lives. The best way to show the French we’re not fools is to leave that battery alone. And since we’re in range, and not under fire, I daresay the man commanding those field pieces thinks exactly the same.’

  ‘If you wish to decline the honour, Markham?’

  The hope that he would shone in Hanger’s eyes. For Markham it would be a further loss of face. As an officer he had every right to reject such an order, and if admonished, ask for a court of inquiry to vindicate him. But with his past that would be a sure way to invite retribution for what many perceived as his past errors. It would allow Hanger to air, publicly, every detail of what had happened at the Battle of Guilford, to say outright that any other group of officers than one convened by his natural father would have found him guilty of cowardice.

  But he was not being asked to assault these positions on his own. The Spaniards, a Catalan regiment, he could do nothing about. But the Hebes would have to attack with him. Even a military novice could see that such an assault couldn’t be undertaken without risking serious casualties. To give himself time to think, Markham re-examined the ground. Between the shoreline and the guns, it was dotted with gentle hillocks, making it, by Toulonais standards, relatively flat. But it was still nearly a third of a mile of open country, with little in the way of cover. On the extreme left, it was grassland, and that ran right across the front of the embankments protecting the guns, providing a perfect avenue for an attack by cavalry. Where the ground began to break up there were a series a small hillocks, a few trees and some gorse.