‘If you did that, why were they pursuing you?’
‘They didn’t know who was in the coach. If they had, believe me, you and your men would have died at Ollioules. But now we have him here, safe under your guns in Toulon.’
‘Safe and mysterious.’
There was a look of desperation in Rossignol’s eyes at that point. ‘What would you have us do? Proclaim to the nation that a boy lost in a world of his own, who cannot bring himself to speak even a simple sentence, who does not respond to his own name, is the rightful King of France?’
‘This, monsieur, is incredible.’
Rossignol carried on as if he hadn’t spoken, his tone a mixture of eagerness and frustration. ‘We were making progress undoing the cruelties that have made him so. The doctors were sure that with time he would recover his wits. Now, he seems to have gone silent again. They say it is a temporary relapse …’
They were outside the house now, with Markham looking up at the hoist above the double doors on the first floor. ‘That is why Madame Picard changed her mind about accommodating us.’
Rossignol banged on the door. ‘Yes. She can see the rewards that will come to those who are at the side of the King when he takes his rightful place.’
‘Hanger and Serota?’ asked Markham as it opened.
Rossignol handed the servant his easel and telescope, then waited till he had departed before replying. ‘Are aware of the situation, plus, I am forced to admit, the problems. They agree that with the boy in his present condition, to try and proclaim him would not improve matters. Quite apart from the idea that he might be named an impostor, the increased pressure on young Louis might make a full recovery impossible. His uncles, the late king’s brothers, would take over his care, and I wonder whether they would put his welfare above their own claims to the throne.’
‘And this is a secret?’
‘Certainly! The least hint of the truth could be fatal.’
Markham, as they crossed the courtyard and entered the hallway, was thinking about Nelson and Troubridge. Then there was Lizzie Gordon. She too had referred to the possibility of a Bourbon prince coming to Toulon, which meant that the matter was not as secret as Rossignol supposed. But he was also remembering the way Jean-Baptiste had looked at Celeste, how he’d heard him singing more clearly than he had when being examined by the doctors, and her words to him when he’d found her in his room, laying out his uniform.
‘I must admit to being astonished,’ he said, temporising.
‘That would hardly be surprising, monsieur,’ replied Rossignol, with a knowing smile. Then he laid a hand on Markham’s arm and squeezed, his voice suddenly rather oily. ‘It is the most extraordinary thing. And rest assured, Lieutenant, when matters are brought to a rightful conclusion, you will have a claim, as I have, on the new King’s generosity.’
‘Colonel Hanger has no doubt received the same guarantee.’
‘Of course,’ said Rossignol, turning towards the study door. ‘Now if you will forgive me, I must appraise Monsieur Picard of these developments.’
Markham watched his back as he disappeared, then made for the kitchens. Failing to find Celeste, he carried on to Jean-Baptiste’s room, and entered without knocking. They sat on the floor, Celeste’s hand spread wide, her fingers holding the threads of a cat’s cradle. The boy was trying to copy her, but judging by the tangle of wool, was having little success. His sudden entrance made both look up in alarm. Markham asked Celeste to accompany him to his room. Once there, she stood, her head bowed, not wishing to look him in the eye.
‘The other day you implied that something was going on in this house.’ Her head stayed down. ‘Look at me, Celeste.’
She obeyed, though it took her some time to do so, her dark eyes large and sad. ‘Who is Jean-Baptiste?’
Rossignol was alone, staring at the papers on Picard’s round table, one hand fingering the heavily-bound book of royal portraits. He look up slowly as Markham entered and shut the door behind him.
‘You think of me as an English officer, monsieur.’
‘Are you about to tell me that you’re not?’
‘No, I’m Irish. But to you, probably, we are all the same. I come from Wexford, a part of the world where the telling of tall tales is a national pastime. And the trick, my friend, if you’re going to concoct a story, is to make the lie so big that most people will believe it just because it’s so damned impossible.’
Rossignol was looking at him, without expression. ‘I think you’d better tell me the truth. And that truth would include the nature of the relationship you have with Pascalle, whom you claim to be your daughter.’
‘Claim?’
‘I was outside your door, Rossignol, long before you came out to put on that cloak. And the measure of the affection you showed Pascalle, while deep enough, was not that normally demonstrated by a loving parent.’
The Frenchman threw back his head and laughed, which surprised Markham. ‘You’re sharp enough, Lieutenant. Eveline told me that you were getting suspicious. But it’s only by being in this house that you could have found the means to doubt me.’
‘Jean-Baptiste?’
‘King Louis,’ Rossignol answered, but with an expression that implied it was done more in hope than expectation. Markham shook his head slowly. Tempted to mention Celeste, but unsure what would happen to her if he wasn’t here, he kept silent.
The Frenchman caved in immediately. ‘The boy is an orphan I picked up on the way south. He is, you will admit, a handsome lad, who could well be a king.’
‘Except he’s not.’
‘No. But the food and lodging you receive from those prepared to believe it’s possible has two distinct advantages. It is excellent, and it is free.’
‘Are you a lawyer?’
Rossignol’s eyes narrowed. ‘Does that make a difference?’
‘Only in so far, monsieur, that if I don’t have the whole truth, I won’t know what to do about you.’
‘The truth?’ Markham just stared at him, until he started to speak. ‘I’m many things, Lieutenant, but not, strictly, a lawyer. I am what you might call a trader, who seeing opportunity, finds it difficult to let it go by.’
‘A projector?’ asked Markham, wondering if the word had the same connotation in French as it had in English.
He’d met the type, men who always had a scheme to make money in their back pocket, usually a fortune and all for no effort. Gold and silver mines were a favourite, or navigation canals that the investor would pay for, but never see dug out. Clearly it did, since Rossignol nodded. His story, as it emerged, confirmed that description, though he was careful not to be very specific about his previous activities, in fact quite able to talk of himself as if he were an upright and honest man. With everything lost in the Revolution, and a government in power that was inimical to the kind of activity he excelled in, security could only be found away from Paris. But with limited funds transport was hard to come by, as was food and lodging. The lucky coincidence that had turned up Jean-Baptiste, just as speculation became rife about the fate of the Dauphin, was extremely fortuitous, allowing him to progress south in comfort.
‘And these people believed you?’ asked Markham doubtfully.
‘It is not so very surprising Lieutenant, since I did not seek to appeal to their loyalty, but to their greed.’
‘Does that include Hanger and Serota?’
‘Yes. Especially Colonel Hanger.’
‘Has he told his superiors?’
‘We agreed that he should not, that is until we had effected a recovery. Lord Hood and Admiral Langara would, we felt, be obliged to communicate his presence to the Bourbon princes.’
Markham smiled slightly. Hanger would keep such information to himself only to secure what he considered a proper reward. His smile broadened as he imagined Rossignol playing on his avarice and vanity to block off the information being passed to Hood.
‘You are amused by something, Lieutenant?’
‘It’s the idea of you duping Hanger, monsieur.’
‘He is, I believe, the second son of a Lord. I think he hankers after a title of his own. I think he suspects that Lord Hood has quite enough already.’ Markham actually laughed then, which produced a grin of pleasure from the Frenchman. ‘You see, Lieutenant, it is, in my business, very necessary to promise people that which they want, while also advising them of the quickest way to forgo it.’
‘You’re a rogue and no mistake.’
‘Do I detect by your tone you no longer disapprove of me?’
‘Pascalle?’
Rossignol shrugged. ‘She is sometimes my daughter, at other times my sister, or even my wife. It very much depends on what seems most appropriate.’
‘Was distracting my attention appropriate for Eveline?’
Rossignol leant forward, his look sincere. ‘Let me say. Lieutenant Markham, that your attention was fortuitous. Of the many tasks dear Eveline has been required to perform, that one has given her the most pleasure.’
His manner changed, become suddenly more serious. ‘The question I must now pose to you, is what are you going to do about what I have said?’
‘Well, if you’ve got Augustus Hanger salivating, I’m not one to want to interfere.’
‘I doubt that he’d accept the truth with understanding.’
‘He’d hang you, Rossignol, and God knows what fate he’d dictate for Pascalle and Eveline.’
‘That, I must admit, is what troubles me most.’
Markham was quite prepared to take that statement with a pinch of salt. But there was no doubt about the sentiment. Hanger, having found he’d been practised on, would probably go berserk. As to the Picards, they could afford to feed and defer to Rossignol, as well as billet his men in an ease they’d never manage to equal elsewhere. Then there were his own comforts. The siege would go on for months yet. Eveline, who was no more of a daughter than Pascalle, found his company congenial. It would be a pity to let that go, the chance to come from the pressure of war to a welcoming pair of soft, enveloping arms.
‘The boy must stay mute,’ he said, watching Rossignol closely. When he nodded, Markham knew that the Frenchman had no idea that Celeste could communicate with Jean-Baptiste. Not properly, but enough to establish a bond. Somehow the idea that Rossignol, too, was being fooled added spice to the whole thing.
‘I see no purpose in exposing you, monsieur.’
‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ said Rossignol, as Markham turned to leave. ‘I will be forever in your debt.’
Chapter nineteen
‘What are those stupid sods about?’ said Tully, the arm emerging from his stolen cloak pointing to the field piece being hauled, by hand, onto the open ground, well to the fore of the other French emplacements. The officer in front, small and slim, was looking towards the British lines, as if defying them to react.
‘Perhaps he wants to hawk it,’ Halsey replied, indicating the cloak, which Tully had acquired one day after a visit to a whorehouse. ‘In which case he’s come to the right spot. He must know this ditch we’re in is full of villains who’d trade with the devil hisself. Best double back and fetch Rannoch.’
Tully shivered. ‘Ain’t that a job for a Lobster?’
‘Don’t fuck me about,’ said Halsey wearily, realising that Tully was grinning. ‘Just do as you’re told, there’s a good lad.’
Markham, just returned from the Picard house, came forward with Rannoch. By that time the cannon was set up, the men who had hauled it into place now working furiously to construct defences. Behind him Fort Mulgrave lay atop the Hill of Caire, with his positions in the trench line on the forward slopes. The French were dug in on another incline opposite, the floor of a shallow valley marking no man’s land. It was into this exposed position that the gun had been manhandled. Enough fascines had been erected in front to deal with musket balls. Now they were shovelling hard to throw up the kind of revetted earthworks that would provide effective protection against counter-battery fire.
‘That’s a crazy place for a field gun,’ said Markham, his gaze sweeping round to take in the positions to his rear, the deep bays both north and south, including the pontoons with mortars. Those in the north supported both Mulgrave and the Spanish position at La Seyne. Others lay close to the southern bay, to protect that flank, as well as the narrow, fortified bottleneck that led to the St Mandrian peninsula.
General opinion held that whoever was in charge of the guns opposite Mulgrave, already spiked once, had made several odd decisions, sighting emplacements that did little to threaten the garrison. One in particular, the Batterie des Sablettes, halfway between Markham’s trench line and the southern peninsula, could hardly be brought to bear effectively on either position. It was therefore useless. But this one was the strangest of the lot.
‘They can’t avoid being caught in a crossfire.’
Rannoch nodded in agreement. But what bothered him most was. the fact that the elevated muzzle was pointed straight at their position. A low charge and a short fuse could produce a shell which would explode right above their heads.
‘I think they are getting ready to let fly with a round,’ he said. ‘It might be shrapnel.’
‘Everybody down,’ yelled Markham, jumping into the trench. The boom of the cannon followed within a second. But it wasn’t case shot. It was a shell, and it came nowhere near them. Every head lifted and turned as it arced over their position. They stood up to follow its path as, clear against the pale blue winter sky, it carried on to land on the main works of Fort Mulgrave. The shell struck one of the casernes near the northern wall, then exploded, sending up a great cloud of dust.
‘Reloading,’ murmured Halsey, who’d kept his eye on the gun. ‘They seem a sharp bunch, even if they’re as thick as pig shit.’
‘This is all wrong,’ said Markham, almost to himself. Fort Mulgrave was strong enough by itself to warrant caution, but the shape of the land that projected out into the harbour like the head and beak of a bird allowed naval guns to operate, which made what they were about suicidal. Yet the calm behaviour of the French officer engendered a nagging suspicion that, although it might look like stupidity, it was exactly the opposite.
‘He’d best be off, sir,’ Halsey said, pointing out to the south. One of the bomb ketches, with a pair of mortars aboard, was using its sweeps to get into a firing position. ‘They’s got about ten minutes before our lot put a ball right down their gullet. Even if they’re full of rum they can hardly miss.’
The French field piece, which looked like a twelve-pounder, boomed out again, sending a second shell into the defences. Markham was wondering if he should form up, ignoring the dangers of mounting an impromptu attack. But that might just send the French artillerymen scurrying back to their original emplacement.
‘Jesus Christ, they’re fetching out another one,’ said Yelland, pointing to the left.
It was true. Hunched soldiers, pulling on long, thick ropes lashed to the trunnions, raced forward in a long arc that left the muzzle of another cannon facing the British lines. As soon as they reached their position they slewed to a halt, the gunners following up to detach their ropes. Those who’d hauled now set to work, in a carbon copy of the original, laying defences to protect the guns. Legs straining, the sweating gunners manhandled the second heavy field piece into place alongside the first cannon, which fired its third shell as a greeting.
‘On your feet,’ called Markham. ‘And fix bayonets.’
‘Our guns will be at it in a minute, sir,’ said Rannoch.
‘If we attack now, there are no defences. We’ll concentrate on the second gun. Who knows, maybe we can take it before it gets to fire a round.’
‘Form yourselves up,’ shouted Rannoch, waving his arms to hurry all eighty men out of the trench. The Frenchmen appeared on the opposite slope as soon as they did, twice their number and equally ready with their bayonets. The diminutive artillery officer, still standing before the newly-dug earthworks, wa
s using a small telescope, ranging it along the line of redcoats.
‘Ten paces forward,’ Markham said quietly. ‘Let’s see what they do.’
As soon as Rannoch relayed the order, and the men started to advance, the French did likewise, the sun gleaming off their weaponry. When the British stopped, so did the enemy. The message was plain. If you attack, so will we, but if you stay still then we will do likewise. The boom of the British guns came to their ears just as the first ranging shot swished overhead. They hit a point just between the French defences and the rogue battery, sending a great clod of brown earth high into the sky.
‘Yelland, take my watch. Get back to the officer on those guns. Ask for a full salvo just short of the French line in ten minutes. Until then, keep his cannon ranging to fool the enemy. Rannoch, we’re going to try and draw the Frogs out, far enough from their own defences to be at the mercy of our artillery.’
‘Sir.’
It was like the kind of game a child might play on a table with toy soldiers. The British would move forward a few feet, matched by the enemy infantry, while the first French cannon kept up a steady fire, and the second was trundled into place some twenty metres to the right, men shovelling earth into the empty cane fascines that they’d laid along the front of the position. Meanwhile single shots would come over Markham’s head as each gun behind him sought to fix its range. Earth flew up about the French position, though none was close enough to cause real damage. Then the entire artillery section opened up, the great boom sending Shockwaves through the air. Markham twirled his sword above his head and, praying that the guns of Fort Mulgrave were accurate, ordered the advance.
The French were running within seconds, desperate to get out of the arc of deadly fire that was beginning to rain down on them. It was almost as if their officer had heard his instructions to Yelland and taken precautions to thwart them. Smoke and dust rose to obscure the churned-up ground in between the two sets of defences. But when it cleared, Markham could see, quite plainly, that the French infantry had retreated unscathed, while the guns were still in place. So was the diminutive officer who’d led them out into their present position.
A Shred of Honour Page 26