A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  ‘Is there a white flag in that locker?’ Markham asked Yelland. When the fair haired youngster nodded, he ordered it raised. ‘We need to buy ourselves some time.’

  As soon as it was aloft, fluttering in the breeze, he walked over to Fouquert. ‘We need you to get us out of here.’

  Fouquert shook his head slowly. Markham, as scratched and filthy as the man he was addressing, smiled. ‘We’re not about to surrender, and that white flag won’t silence Bonaparte’s guns for ever. He’s too eager to use them. So you have a choice. You can either die with us, or accept my word that if you get us clear, I’ll spare your miserable life.’

  Fouquert’s head lifted at the word surrender, and he seemed to recover some expression in his eyes. By the time Markham had finished speaking they held that same look as when he’d interrogated him at Ollioules; cunning mixed with superiority, the air of a man who thinks he has gained the upper hand. It was that which made Markham walk away, and determined the question he put to the knot of men watching the forces gathering in the harbour.

  ‘Where is Celeste?’

  ‘She’s downstairs, sir,’ said Gibbons, ‘with Sergeant Rannoch. They’re tending to Halsey and Dornan.’

  ‘Ask her to come up here, would you? Tully, Leech, tie that specimen to the mast. I want him facing Toulon.’

  He started gabbling as soon as they came for him, a spate of words telling the men that if they were prepared to surrender their officer they had nothing to fear from him. Leech slapped him hard, adding yet another red weal to those that covered his face. Markham went to the top of the circular staircase and waited for Celeste. As she emerged from the gloom he was struck by her eyes as well. They’d lost the hunted look she’d had these last months, and now seemed more luminous. He led her to the mast, behind Fouquert.

  ‘Will you guarantee a safe conduct?’

  ‘Not for you,’ he replied, then he raised his voice. ‘Your men, yes. I have no quarrel with them, and neither does the Revolution. They are as oppressed as any Frenchman.’

  ‘Then you leave me no choice but to force you.’ The sound Fouquert responded with was very close to a laugh. Markham took Celeste’s hand. ‘You think I lack the will to force you.’

  ‘You are a coward, Markham. Even I know that. Would you men give up your lives to save a coward’s neck? If you stay here you will die. Come ashore with me, you will want for nothing.’

  The note of triumph died as Markham led Celeste into view. Stark terror took over when he saw Markham hand her a bayonet. He had to look away from her face, not soft now, but cruel, the dark brown eyes full of hate.

  ‘Do you remember this girl, what you did to her, and to her father? I have promised her one part of you, Fouquert. And I think even you might be able to guess which that is likely to be.’

  The cannon boomed out on Fort l’Eguillette. This time the shot landed on the seaward side of the peninsula, away from the boats now crowding the landward approach. ‘If you don’t get us out of here, I’ll give you over to her completely.’

  He was nodding before Markham finished, too frightened to look Celeste in the eye lest by doing so he provoke her. Markham half turned to order Fouquert released, which slowed his reaction when Celeste jabbed forward with the blade. It sliced into Fouquert’s groin, deflected downwards by one of his breech buttons, and slid through the cloth just below his scrotum. The girl drew the blade back for another stab, but Markham had hold of her wrists, forced to use all his strength to restrain her.

  ‘Untie him, quick,’ he yelled, as he saw the first hint of blood seep through the cloth between his legs. ‘And get him up on the battlements.’

  He had Celeste by both arms now, holding her out of the way as his men complied. ‘I would like to kill him as much as you. But it is better to live.’

  ‘For you, perhaps,’ she said, as her shoulders slumped. All the strength had gone out of her arms, and she fell forward onto his chest, sobbing. Jean-Baptiste ran towards her and threw his arms round her hips.

  ‘He needs you,’ said Markham softly, as he spun her round so that she was embracing the boy.

  Fouquert, sobbing and trying to look at his wound, was lifted up to where he could be seen. He started screaming as soon as he saw the men in the boats, ordering messages to be sent to the forts to cease firing; giving instructions for the boats to be withdrawn; commanding that the soldiers fall back; that these British soldiers had his personal safe conduct to go aboard the frigate in the roads. It was a telling comment of the fear in which he was held that those below complied without hesitation.

  There was a mast in the boat, which they lashed him to, still bleeding, his pleas for assistance taking second place to the urgent need to get away before someone countermanded his orders. As they pulled out from the Watergate a pair of French boats fetched their wake, close enough to see Fouquert, if not the blood that covered the front of his breeches. The white flag had gone from the mast on the Grosse Tour, to be replaced by another, defiantly flapping, naval signal.

  Markham sat beside Fouquert, a pistol aimed at his head, in case he should suddenly change his mind. Looking back at the landscape where he and his men had spent the last four months, everything that had occurred ran through his mind. The battles, both triumphs and disasters. The pleasures, as well.

  ‘Eveline Rossignol,’ he said suddenly, pushing the pistol up towards Fouquert. ‘Did you murder her, too’

  ‘No,’ he pleaded, ‘she is still alive.’

  ‘Pity,’ said Markham, after a slight pause, his voice bitter. ‘The bitch helped the old man betray me.’

  It was hard to know if it had worked, but he prayed that what he had just said would make sure that if Fouquert was telling the truth, and she was alive, being known as someone he abominated would keep her that way.

  They had the guns run out on the frigate, so when they were within range Markham called the two French boats to come alongside. Fouquert, cut down from the mast, had to be helped to transfer to the waiting cutter. But he raised his head when he was aboard, to fix Markham with a malevolent stare.

  ‘It is my fond wish, Fouquert, that I never see you again. If I do, I shall most certainly kill you.’

  The Frenchman didn’t have the strength to reply, but the look on that Moorish face, particularly in the black eyes, was enough to tell Markham that if he didn’t take the first opportunity, he certainly wouldn’t be allowed a second.

  As they came alongside, every man on the frigate fetched them a spontaneous cheer. The captain had put a proper ladder out, with red silk-covered side ropes, and ship’s boys standing by to help them aboard. Markham went first and found himself, dirty of face and apparel, on a spotless deck, lined with officers in their very best uniforms. Pipes squealed and hats were raised, before the captain, a stocky individual, stepped forward.

  ‘Who, in the name of God be damned, are you, sir?’

  ‘George Markham, sir. Lieutenant, either of the Sixty-fifth Foot or the Marines, I know not which.’

  ‘And you sent that signal?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘That is a damned cheek, sir.’

  ‘I accept the reprimand, captain, but having saved your ship from certain destruction, I claim the privilege.’

  ‘And you shall damn well have it,’ the captain replied, stepping forward with a broad smile, hand outstretched. ‘Allow me to introduce myself, and thank you heartily. I am Captain Samuel Hood, and this is the frigate Juno.’

  ‘Hood?’

  ‘My father is Lord Bridport, but I am named after my uncle.’

  ‘Admiral Lord Hood?’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘The signal,’ Markham stuttered. ‘If it caused offence?’

  ‘It caused mayhem, sir,’ Hood replied with an even wider grin. ‘How dare you send my ship’s number, and follow it with the signal “Prepare to receive Flag”?’

  ‘I don’t run to army clothing, Markham,’ said Hood, passing a bowl of nuts. ‘But I’ll sta
ke you as many Lobster uniforms as you like. And I’m sure my marine officer will oblige you with a loan of some of his kit.’

  ‘Would that I had the right to wear it, sir.’

  ‘What’s this nonsense?’

  The explanation that followed was brief but accurate. ‘And I have been informed many times, Captain, that it takes a degree of patronage to be granted a marine officer’s commission. That, I fear, is something I lack.’

  ‘You may have lacked it, Markham. But that is the past, this is the present. If my Uncle Sam won’t grant you a commission, he’ll have to deal with my father, who is not someone he cares to trifle with. Consider it as good as done.’ He saw the slight look of doubt on Markham’s face, which made him frown. ‘That is, if you want the damned thing.’

  ‘Could I be excused a moment, sir?’

  Hood looked at him oddly. ‘Of course.’

  Below decks, it smelled as bad as he remembered. They’d put his men in a mess of their own, and every tar aboard had brought them food and drink. Halsey, bandaged, wasn’t white-faced now; he was bright red with too much rum and warm air. Even Rannoch was affected. But over it all there was a sadness, a combination of weariness and a sense of comrades lost. They’d started out thirty-four strong, and now they numbered less than a dozen. He struggled to remember some of the names of the dead, but they wouldn’t come.

  The survivors all began to stand as he came close, and he had to insist that they sat while he was present. Dornan, with his one good arm, passed him a tot of rum.

  ‘God bless all here,’ he said, raising his tankard, pleased, though he tried to hide it, by the murmured replies. Suddenly, the image of the huge blond Dutchman dying on those French bayonets filled his mind. Without that sacrifice, and the precious seconds it had bought, they might not be here. ‘And raise your drinks once more, lads, to the bravest of us all.’

  ‘Schutte,’ said Rannoch, unbidden.

  There was no murmuring now. Every man spoke that name loud and clear, and drained his cup to show he meant it.

  ‘I have a question to ask,’ said Markham, talking as the men refilled their cups.

  ‘So what you are saying, sir,’ Rannoch said, when he’d finished, ‘is that we can all be fitted out as marines.’

  ‘Including me, it seems.’

  There was an exchange of looks, some pulling of faces, but many smiles, and all ended up as nods. He held out his tankard for his own refill, then raised it again, laying on the Irish with a trowel.

  ‘Well, my brave boyos,’ he toasted. ‘It seems we’re all bloody Lobsters now.’

  Historical note

  While the characters in this book are fictional, the action described is real. Since the siege of Toulon lasted four months, certain events have been somewhat telescoped for the sake of the narrative. Also, students of naval history will note that, as a piece of dramatic licence, I have kept Captain Horatio Nelson and his ship, Agamemnon, engaged in the action, when they were in fact detached for service under Commodore Linzee, and sent to North Africa to threaten and cajole the Bay of Tunis. They rejoined Hood at Leghorn, prior to the assault on Corsica, which will provide the setting for the second in the Lobsters series.

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  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  THE JOHN PEARCE SERIES

  BY THE MAST DIVIDED

  A SHOT ROLLING SHIP

  AN AWKWARD COMMISSION

  A FLAG OF TRUCE

  THE ADMIRALS’ GAME

  AN ILL WIND

  BLOWN OFF COURSE

  ENEMIES AT EVERY TURN

  A SEA OF TROUBLES

  WRITTEN AS JACK LUDLOW

  THE REPUBLIC SERIES

  THE PILLARS OF ROME

  THE SWORD OF REVENGE

  THE GODS OF WAR

  THE CONQUEST SERIES

  MERCENARIES

  WARRIORS

  CONQUEST

  THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES

  THE BURNING SKY

  A BROKEN LAND

  A BITTER FIELD

  THE CRUSADES SERIES

  SON OF BLOOD

  SOLDIER OF CRUSADE

  PRINCE OF LEGEND

  About the Author

  DAVID DONACHIE was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain in 1996 under the name Tom Connery.

  This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.

  Copyright © 1996 by DAVID DONACHIE

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All charac ters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  ISBN 978–0–7490–1554–1