A Shred of Honour (27 page)

‘Hebes, to me,’ he yelled, not quite sure if the sergeant was right or wrong. The flares had died away, so they only had his voice to go by, that and the flash of muskets from Smith’s party to the south. ‘Dorman, Leech, get rid of those ropes. The rest of you, keep the enemy camp fires on your right hand and move.’

‘We have got to get back, sir,’ shouted Rannoch.

‘Not across that strip of land,’ he hissed. ‘Now do as you’re told and follow me.’

A volley of musket fire, which flew over their heads, concentrated everyone’s mind. It was no time for a
discussion
of tactics, more a time to take a chance and hope that their officer had made the right decision. Another set of flares shot skywards, bursting above the broken
landscape
, throwing every hummock and hole into sharp relief, and highlighting the running, crouching figures of the redcoats. The guns opened up behind the French lines, orange flashes that added to the surreal nature of the surroundings. The pattern was laid from the previous engagement, and the shells landed right on the line of direct retreat from Bonaparte’s main battery.

As the blue lights began to fade, Markham, realising they’d reached a halfway point between the central and the southern battery, stood up, waved his sword and yelled for his men to retreat to their own lines. He was praying that a corridor would exist which had yet to be covered by crossfire, one that would be hard to conjure up in the dark. Musket flashes still appeared from the south, though fewer in number. There was nothing at all from the north, where Driberg was supposed to attack.

The next set of flares showed him why. The men
retreating at this distance, looked like ants scurrying back to their nest. Guns were going off all around him, musket balls cracking in his ears and cannon booming out as they fired salvo after salvo. So for him to try to yell orders to Driberg, whom he couldn’t distinguish from the others, was a waste of time. The midshipman hadn’t been up in the lines today, and hadn’t seen the damage wrought by Bonaparte’s covering fire. So to the
youngster
, the oblique angle at which he’d chosen to retire, one which would confuse the French infantry, made absolute sense.

That aura of time suspended returned once more. Even his hoarse and useless shouts seemed to slow in speed. His legs, carrying him towards them, seemed leaden. The guns flashed and boomed. He fancied, though it was impossible, that he saw the shells arc towards the ground in front of the main French position. But he did see them burst, well above head height, the smoke of the
explosions
, in the ethereal glow, creating great puffballs like clouds as the metal was spewed in all directions. Driberg’s men spun and writhed like maddened puppets as the case shot ripped into them. A few, miraculously, survived to stagger on. Others, wounded, dragged themselves upright and tried to follow. The next salvo, explosive shells, ripped into both them and their wounded and dying companions. Great clods of earth flew skywards, seeming to stop for a second to form a murderous and petrified forest in which the branches were mud and the leaves human limbs. Two more followed as the first cascaded back to the ground, tearing up the same bloodstained dirt, with not even a scream from a dying man to break the rhythm of the explosions.

Markham stopped, sure that to continue would mean certain death, and convinced that all he would find were remains, since no creature could live through that
barrage
. He turned back towards his own lines, praying that the Chevalier had not perished in the same manner,
wondering how many of his own party had succumbed. The British guns, right before his eyes, belched forth in such numbers that the glow of the discharge ran like a continuous strip across the skyline. His legs, as he tried to run, were like lead. Curses were mixed with prayers as he ran under the salvo, beseeching the deities to give him the strength to get clear. The blast, a wall of air, hit him in the back like a huge shovel, throwing him forward. His hands went to cover his head automatically as the ground behind him erupted.

They found him an hour later, in full daylight when the guns had fallen silent, half buried under a pile of loose earth. Concussed and confused, the words he uttered sounded like the ramblings of madman. Rannoch took him to the hospital ship personally, along with nearly half the men he’d led into battle. Markham lay
semi-delirious
as all around him men died, some from their wounds, others from the efforts of the surgeons to cure them. Legs and arms were amputated, the screams of the conscious victims mingling with those that filled his head, the sound of men dying in the dark for a piece of his own vanity, Driberg torn asunder so that he could no longer flatter Lizzie Gordon.

When he did come round, there was silence. Those too badly damaged to survive had expired, taking their noise with them. Those who’d lived lay still, either
praying
to God, or silently reliving the nightmare they’d passed through. His tongue was as dry as parchment, his lips cracked and sore. Consciousness brought pain, as the multitude of cuts and bruises made themselves known. A croak brought a loblolly boy, a bucket and a ladle, and the welcome relief of clean refreshing water, most of which seemed to spill across his naked chest. The loud bang made him jump with fear, and try to sit up.

‘Rest easy, sir,’ said the loblolly boy, his face full of concern. ‘It’s only lightning and thunder you’re a’hearin’,
a December storm. You just lay back while I fetch the surgeon.’

‘They feared for your wits, of course,’ said the Chevalier, ‘what with you raving away about treachery. There was a woman in there somewhere, as well.’

‘Driberg?’

Smith shook his head slowly. ‘They found his hat, I believe, but like the rest of his party there was precious little left to bury, and not enough clothing on the pieces to identify them.

‘Your Captain Bonaparte pounded that particular stretch of ground right up till we asked for a ceasefire.’

‘And you?’

‘Light casualties, wounds only and not a single man lost. From what Rannoch told me my thoughts were very like your own, that to retreat direct was to invite Johnny Crapaud to shoot us in the back. I made for the southeast shore, got behind the dunes and set up a defence. At first light someone had the sense to stretch the terms of the truce and take us off by boat.’

‘I need Rannoch to report to me.’

‘Then I shall make it so, Markham. I know that what he will have to tell you will wound you, but I cannot have you thinking that you were foolish.’

‘Who said I was foolish?’

‘You did, according to the surgeon, in your ravings. Mind, how he would know when he’s full to the brim with rum, I cannot tell. The attack on the guns was my idea, and it was a sound one, as I told Admiral Hood. As for the losses, you cannot make war without risk.’

To Markham’s recollection, the notion of the danger Bonaparte’s dispositions posed had been outlined by Smith. But the actual idea of taking the guns had been his. But even if he’d wanted to say that, he was given no chance, as the Chevalier rattled on.

‘And I see it as a fine piece of work, Markham. I was
taken to task for presuming to lead it, of course, with Elphinstone being very sour. He and that Hanger fellow seem to have suddenly become bosom companions. Some of the things he said might have had me calling him out. But I imagine the loss of young Driberg weighs on him, so I let his insults pass. I stuck to my main purpose, which was that I be given the task of writing the despatch. I hazard that when you read it you will be pleased. I have detailed the events of the action most accurately, and rest assured your part in advising me has not gone unmentioned.’

Markham lay back and closed his eyes, which the Chevalier saw as tiredness, not disbelief. ‘I make you weary, I see. The surgeon reckons you to be up and about in a day or two, and I have bespoken you a cabin of your own at my expense.’

‘I must see Rannoch.’

‘Of course, man. And you will need him to fetch you a change of uniform. Yours was sadly tattered when they found you. But another day will make no difference. Better that you see him well, than still swaying from your knock.’

He was on deck at first light, sheltering from the teeming rain under an awning, when the boat brought Rannoch and Frobisher’s sea-chest out to the hospital ship. The first flash of lightning streaked across the sky as they exchanged a look that spoke volumes for the tale he was about to hear. He took his dripping sergeant below to the tiny cabin that the Chevalier had bribed the ship’s captain to put at his disposal and listened, head bowed, as Rannoch, in his clear, precise Highland lilt, told him what he wanted to know. In the background, the crack of lightning and the rumbling of thunder seemed a fitting accompaniment.

‘Twenty-six killed and fourteen wounded.’

The groan was muted, but still audible. ‘Forty
casualties
out of less than eighty, a third dead just to appease my vanity.’

‘We have been broken up. The Alcides have been sent back to their ship.’

‘Hebes?’

‘Six dead and the same number near enough to warrant a ticket home. Yelland took a ball across his backside and Tully lost half of his ear.’

‘How many men do we muster now?’

‘Twelve, with Leech back on duty.’

‘How did Schutte behave?’

‘He went forward and came back. That is all I know.’

‘Where are the men now?’

‘Back aboard the
Hebe
, being rested, they say.’ Markham looked up then, his eyes fixed on those of the Sergeant. ‘Spotted Dick still finds it hard to accept us soldiers, and since we are without an officer he has seen fit to question my position. Both Schutte and Halsey, however, refused to oblige him by replacing me. That threw him into a rare passion, I can tell you.’

‘I don’t think there is anything I can do to change that, Rannoch. At least not till I’m back aboard.’

‘No, sir. I do not suppose there is.’

‘Yet he let you come over from
Hebe
to visit me?’

‘Only because that gabbling captain with the gaudy star insisted. I did not overhear it myself, but Halsey was told by the steward that the man threatened to tell the King, in person no less, of Captain de Lisle’s behaviour.’

‘He’s quite a fellow, our Chevalier.’

‘A little bit less of the talking would do him no harm, though I will grant you he is a kindly fellow.’

‘You might as well ask a stallion to ignore a mare.’

‘Speaking of that, Sir Sydney took word to the Picard house, at my request.’

‘Thank you for dragging me back from my one-man attempt to end the siege.’

‘It was only the kind of folly that comes to a man when he feels betrayed.’

‘I wondered if anyone else noticed.’

‘I did, sir. But I have had the good sense to keep my mouth shut until I could speak with you.’

‘I have sent a letter, requesting an interview with Lord Hood. It is my intention that he shall be the first to hear it.’

‘Did you say anything to Sir Sydney?’

‘No Rannoch, I did not.’

The muted noise of the storm altered as Markham began to change his clothes, becoming louder, and both knew that the extra level of sound was caused by gunfire. This was interrupted by a cough, which strained to be polite, since it had to be loud to be heard. The canvas screen was pulled back and one of the
Dolphin’
s midshipmen stood there.

‘I have a boat standing by, Lieutenant Markham, with orders to ship you over to
Victory
.’

Rannoch stood up, crouching low to avoid the
deckbeams
. ‘I’d best return to the
Hebe
, sir, in case we are required ashore.’

‘This kit here, Rannoch,’ he said, pointing to the things he’d discarded. ‘Take it back with you. I will join you as soon as I’ve seen the Admiral.’

Gunfire vied with the storm to make the greater noise, as he was rowed across the choppy waters of the Grande Rade under a black winter sky. The sea wasn’t blue now, it was grey and forbidding, which perfectly matched his mood. The quarterdeck of the flagship was crowded with officers as he came aboard, Hood very obvious in the middle. They all had telescopes to their eyes, switching them between Mont Faron and Fort Mulgrave. The party on the Grosse Tour was sending a steady stream of
signals
, each one of which seemed to add to the gloom of the assembled dignitaries. He was met at the entry port by one of Hood’s civilian clerks.

‘As you will have seen, Lieutenant, Admiral Hood is somewhat engaged at the moment. There are,
unfortunately, quite a number of officers waiting to see him.’

‘Something is obviously happening.’

The civilian’s pinched face screwed up even more. ‘The French have launched an assault on Mont Faron, as well as Fort Mulgrave. It seems our guns are outclassed at the latter, while Mont Faron is held by our allies. I need hardly point out what an unsatisfactory situation the Admiral is presented with.’

Markham looked along the gloomy gundeck, at the cannon bowsed tight to the sides, with mess tables in between. All the implements to man the guns, swabs, rammers, wormers and the like, were neatly stowed by the bulkheads. The planking beneath his feet, as in all warships, was painted red, so that the blood would not show in the heat of the battle, to inform those righting of the carnage in which they were engaged. That colour made him think of the losses he had suffered in front of Fort Mulgrave.

‘Would I be permitted to go onto the upper deck?’

‘If you do so, you risk forfeiting a place.’

‘I’ll chance that.’

Markham didn’t have to be on deck long to discover what was happening, especially with Sir Sydney Smith reeling off ‘I told you so’s’ every two minutes. The rain had eased, lifting the cloud cover. The signal station on the Grosse Tour was in plain view and, just beyond the Tour de Balaguier, some of the action could be observed from aloft. The looks Smith was getting seemed to have no effect on his absolute confidence in his own opinion. Much as his contemporaries were annoyed, they were stymied by the fact that he was being proved right.

Dugommier had finished his sapping and attacked on Mont Faron, driving several wedges into the Allied lines around the highest defensive post, the redoubt Croix de Faron: A major assault, it sucked in every available man in the Allied reserve. As soon as that happened the French opened a secondary attack from la Valette, again
investing
the Forts of Faron and l’Artigues. Attacking from a much closer trench line, they’d driven in the forward piquets and were now fighting for the main bastions. Finally, with all the defenders committed, including units from the other redoubts, Bonaparte had started to employ his guns against Fort Mulgrave, destroying one position after another before bringing his cannon forward to bombard the remainder. The attack had commenced in the midst of a ferocious storm, which continued throughout, the violence of that exaggerating the drama being played out all round the perimeter.

Reports were coming in of the wavering nature of the battle, as the Allies regained ground lost, only to be taken
in the flank and driven back. Markham heard the
messenger
who delivered even more ominous news, that the French were massing before the forts on the western edge of Toulon, Des Pomets, Rouge, Blanc and Malbousquet, in numbers that indicated an imminent assault. But Fort Mulgrave caused the greatest concern, as Bonaparte, moving his guns independently of infantry, bore out everything the Chevalier had said about the new tactics. The battery names were reeled off with increasing gloom as report after report came in.
Grande
Rade
supported
Sans
Peur.
Jacobins
and
Chasse
Coquins
were pushed forward to either side of
Sans
Peur,
the latter flanking the Mulgrave defences. Any infantry attack trying to take them was beaten back by two factors: lack of numbers, and the devastating barrage that Bonaparte could lay down on the approaches to his positions.

‘I cannot emphasise enough, gentlemen,’ boomed the Chevalier, ‘the necessity of reading everything published of a military nature, especially the opinions of our enemies.’

‘Perhaps if you had a ship to run, Sir Sydney, you would find yourself with less leisure to read and write.’

Markham recognised Troubridge’s voice, which had a confident tone, since he knew that he was speaking for every serving sailor on the quarterdeck. The Chevalier turned sharply, quite prepared to put this interloper in his place, especially since the officer was junior to him on the captains’ list.

‘Might I recommend you an efficient First Lieutenant, Troubridge? Those who gain a place with me have the good sense to leave their captain time to hone the skills of his profession.’

‘I dislike the inference, sir,’ snapped Troubridge.

‘Enough!’ Hood spoke without looking at either man, in a voice that had no need to be raised to be obeyed. ‘This is no time for squabbling. We have a crisis developing.’

‘It is more than a crisis, sir,’ Smith insisted. ‘It is,
potentially
, a defeat. I told Mulgrave that the destruction of those guns was essential. But, like all Bullocks, he thought he knew best. That Germantown medal has
convinced
him that he’s a fount of military wisdom. Instead he is a trough of stale ideas. Hanger is worse, so smitten with Elphinstone’s niece that he can barely be brought to concentrate on his duty. This Bonaparte, a mere artillery captain, has cooked our goose by doing the unexpected. He’ll have l’Eguillette before midnight tomorrow’

Markham turned every time the pipes blew on the maindeck to welcome a naval captain aboard, the only one to do so. He heard Hood order a boat ashore with one of
Victory
’s lieutenants, given instructions to request that all the senior officers attend a conference as soon as darkness fell, and that they bring with them an honest appreciation of the situation. Messages were sent to the Spanish flagship and the Commodore of the Neapolitan contingent. Listening to all this, Markham didn’t notice that Nelson had taken station beside him.

‘You too have come to observe the beginning of the final act, Markham.’

‘Is it that, sir?’ he said, turning to face the small, fair-haired captain.

Nelson pointed towards the Grosse Tour. ‘I daresay you can read the signals as well as I.’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘Of course,’ Nelson replied quickly. ‘Forgive me, I
forgot
this is all new to you. I have been watching them from
Agememnon
, since we sailed back into the Grande Rade. Hood asked if any troops could be spared from Mont Faron to launch an attack to protect Fort Mulgrave. The reply was a decided no.’

‘He’s called a conference of senior officers for tonight.’

‘I daresay. But he has also called for a conference of captains before that, which is why I came over.’ Seeing
that Markham was confused he continued. ‘We must decide what we are going to do before we tell the soldiers, or the Dons. I just hope the French leave us enough time to reach the right decision.’

‘Sir Sydney seems to think we only have until tomorrow.’

They could hear the Chevalier still, praising his own abilities while, by association, he denigrated those of everyone else. The mention of the name made Nelson frown.

‘I wonder if he does himself any favours by being quite so forward.’ Markham observed that there was more behind those words than their mere content. Nelson didn’t like Smith, but he wasn’t prepared to say so in front of a junior officer. The frown disappeared as
quickly
as it came, to be followed by a smile. ‘I’ve not inquired for your health, Markham. Seeing you upright, I assume that you are wholly recovered?’

‘An ache or two, sir, when I move. But otherwise, I’m in one piece. I wish I could say the same for others.’

The rain began again, a grey curtain that swept across the deck, blotting out the signal station. No-one could move until Hood did, and he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in ensuring they all suffered a good soaking before he obliged. Markham and Nelson, both still, wearing cloaks, fared better than most.

‘That seems to have taken the shine off Sir Sydney’s star,’ said Nelson happily, as the bedraggled Chevalier rushed past them, heading for the companionway and shelter. Both men now followed the clutch of officers, as they followed in the wake of their admiral.

‘I know why I am here, Markham,’ Nelson said, ‘but what brings you to the flagship?’

‘I have sought an interview with Admiral Hood regarding the events surrounding my last engagement.’

Nelson indicated the crowd that now stood before the bulkhead that separated Hood’s quarters from the
maindeck. ‘Then you’re in for a long wait, I fear,
especially
with what is happening ashore. Is it important?’

‘Yes, sir. Very important.’

‘My God, Markham, it cheers me to see you up and about.’ Both men turned to meet the Chevalier, who was coming towards them with a beaming smile on his face. That became fixed as he gave the slightest nod and said, ‘Nelson.’

‘Sir,’ Markham replied, pulling himself stiffly to
attention
. Smith leant between the two men, his voice low and conspiratorial.

‘He’s a fine officer, Nelson, despite what you may hear to the contrary. I know that I’ve inspired him by my own example, but that only goes to prove the necessity for leadership.’

‘I have always thought it a most commendable quality,’ Nelson replied, the only sign of his amusement the ghost of a smile around his lips. Smith opened his mouth to proffer further advice just as a loud voice behind them invited all the captains to enter the great cabin. As the Chevalier spun round, Nelson addressed his next words to Markham.

‘I do hope you don’t have to wait too long,
Lieutenant
. It all depends on how long-winded some of my colleagues are.’

‘You’re right, Nelson,’ said Smith. ‘Some of these fellows do go on. I wonder sometimes how the Admiral stays awake.’

Military life, by land or sea, inures a man to waiting, patience being an absoloutely essential component of martial existence. So Markham, like the others queuing for an interview, sat on a gun, or paced up and down, as a stream of messengers came and went throughout the day, each one bringing further depressing news about events ashore. Croix de Faron had been abandoned, giving the French a perfect point for an artillery bombardment of
the other forts. Mulgrave, fearful of casualties, had ordered Des Pomets, Faron, l’Artigues to be given up, likewise the now outflanked Rouge and Blanc, and pulled his troops back to the Camp de St Anne and Fort St Catherine, close to the northern edge of Toulon.

The meeting of naval officers continued all the while, which left those waiting wondering what it was these men could find to talk about. The smell of food wafted through the bulkhead and the admiral’s steward, no doubt used to a continuous stream of supplicants, sent a servant out with something to eat. And all the while, Lieutenant George Markham rehearsed, over and over again, what it was he was going to say to Admiral Hood.

Darkness came early in December, the fall of night hastened by the appalling weather. Yet that teeming rain had one good quality. It made night fighting arduous, and imposed some check on the enemy’s attacks, which apart from the guns before Fort Mulgrave faltered and died away. The sound of whistles could again be heard, as those in command on shore came aboard. Admiral Langara, the Spanish commander, came first, followed by Serota and Gravina, looking neither left nor right as they strode across the maindeck. Elphinstone acknowledged him with an unfriendly glare. Mulgrave, with Hanger at his heels, was the last to arrive, looking depressed. If either man, in the dim lantern light, saw the look of hate that Markham directed at the Colonel, they ignored it. Not that they had much time to do so, since the Brigadier-General was ushered into Hood’s cabin without pause.

Another hour passed, while a steady stream of
captains
, all with an air of purpose, left through the entry port. Their boats, which had been sitting in the water all this time, were hailed by name. Whatever was in their demeanour had an effect, since the flock of supplicants thinned, until only one was left. Nelson was one of the
last to exit, and he at least seemed to have time to spare to tell Markham what was happening.

‘We’re abandoning Toulon,’ he said. ‘Mulgrave cannot hold the east and the defences are in tatters everywhere else. That Bonaparte fellow could be in l’Eguillette within forty-eight hours, sooner if Dugommier gives him a few battalions of infantry.’

‘When, sir?’

‘Beginning tonight, though it could take days.’

Despite his own concerns, Markham couldn’t help thinking about those in the Picard house. ‘Will we be taking off any civilians?’

‘As many as we can, but they cannot have priority over the embarkation of the soldiers. The Spaniards are falling back from La Seyne and Malbousquet and will pull out first, then the Neapolitans will go aboard
Samara.
Robust,
Leviathan
and
Courageux
will load our marines from la Malgue as soon as they have destroyed the
installations
.’ Suddenly Nelson snorted, unhappily. ‘And guess who has secured for himself the task of destroying those ships we cannot take with us.’

It wasn’t difficult, given the look in his eyes, to guess. Markham was just about to say the name when the Chevalier burst out of the cabin doors. ‘Markham. Just the fellow I want to see. I need a party of marines to be under my personal command. If you’re up to it, I’d like you to lead them. I’ll send the orders over to
Hebe
. You get back there yourself and prepare your men.’

He was gone, calling for a boat, before Markham got a chance to reply. Seeing him stamping his foot impatiently by the entry port, he was just about to follow when Mulgrave and Hanger came out. They nodded to Nelson, and Mulgrave spared Markham a quick glance. But Hanger stopped.

‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘If you’re fit for duty you should be ashore where you’re needed.’

‘I’m waiting to see the Admiral,’ Markham replied
calmly. Mulgrave stooped a few feet away, lost in his own thoughts. ‘I’ve something to say to him about the attack on Bonaparte’s guns.’

‘The only thing you can say about that, Markham, is that you failed again. Thank God I was on hand and could order a barrage to stop the Frogs.’

‘I didn’t think you’d stayed away.’

‘D’you imagine I’d leave the fate of the whole position to you and that dandy, Smith?’ Hanger looked at Markham hard, not wishing him to mistake his
meaning
. ‘Damned fool of a gunner wanted to wait, to make sure you all got clear. I had to order him to fire. It pains me that, by all accounts, I hesitated a fraction too long.’

‘You also sent up those blue lights, didn’t you, Hanger?’

‘What blue lights?’

‘The ones that illuminated the whole position, and every man under my command, when we were lying out in the open.’

Mulgrave had turned back towards them, the rising sound of Markham’s voice impossible to ignore.

‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Hanger.

‘I’m talking about what I want to tell Admiral Hood. Those flares didn’t come from the French side of the line, they came from ours. What was the reason? Were you so determined that we should fail that you sabotaged the whole thing?’

Hanger’s face had gone bright red, the scar on his cheek a ragged creamy-white, and Mulgrave had moved towards them. ‘Damn you, you cowardly bastard.’