A Shred of Honour (29 page)

Silence had to be observed as they passed through the gap between Fort l’Eguillette and the Grosse Tour, but with so much light close to the western fortifications, as the French struggled to get their guns into place, they stood in little danger of being seen. The whole waterfront was still crowded, and over the sea came the sound of people singing. It was too early for the Revolution to have taken full control of the city, but no doubt those elements who were either true to its tenets, or determined to appear so, were busy making merry. There would be looting and robbery a’plenty. And that, with people like Fouquert on the way, was just a prelude to a river of blood.

Once they were within the Petite Rade, Smith’s little flotilla headed for the dockyard, while the Spaniards working from the shore were responsible for the main concentration of French ships, berthed in the inner basin. Aloft, a sailor was looking at the tops of the three ships of the line waiting to load at la Malgue, their limp sails reflecting the torchlight from the battlements.

Once they completed their assignments, the storehouses would be fired, which would be the signal for the final detachments of the rearguard to embark. Then the men of the
Swallow,
seeing those topsails fill with wind, could complete their mission. It was an eerie feeling, with the noises from the shore muted, and every one of the Hebes felt it. Here they were, in the midst of turmoil, suspended on a calm stretch of water, with only the faint glimmer of reflected light picking out their faces.

‘Robust
signalling, sir,’ the lookout called. A flare shot
into the sky to seawards, as an added aid to the man’s eyesight. The dull boom of explosions, as the underground storerooms of the forts were destroyed, followed immediately. Flames began to lick at the furthermost dockyard buildings as the fires took hold, igniting creosote, turpentine, oils and ropes, barrels of salted meat, canvas for sails, yards, masts and all the myriad other items needed to supply a fleet. Soon the whole area between the Grande and Petite Rades was a mass of flames, with billowing clouds of black and grey smoke rising into the night sky. The outlines of the ships of the French fleet stood stark against this glowing background, providing just the level of light Smith needed to do his work.

The explosion, coming from an entirely different direction, sent a shockwave across the harbour that nearly threw the
Swallow
on its beam ends. The brig
Union,
further inshore and closer to the source, was blown apart, its crew thrown bodily into the water. A great fiery cloud erupted into the night sky like a mushroom of red, yellow and gold. Bits of ship mingled with the flaming holocaust, and the skeleton of the shattered hull was ablaze from end to end. Scraps of burning canvas covered the sky like stars, then dropped like spills of paper, to be extinguished in the waters of the harbour.

‘They’ve blown the bloody
Iris,’
Markham heard Smith shout. Searching his mind, he recalled that she was one of the ships, marked in red on the Chevalier’s map, that was laden with gunpowder. He knew the plan had been to sink her, since fired it was more of a danger to the Allies than the French. For obvious reasons, she was moored well away from any other vessels, so those heading for the dockyard were the only ones to suffer. ‘Get one of the boats over the side and see if any of the
Union’
s
men are alive.’

Smith had taken the wheel himself, and aimed the
Swallow
for the stern of the nearest French ship of the line, the 120-gun
Dauphin
Royal.
Moored as they were, bulwark to bulwark, with the cold, light breeze coming in off the sea, setting just that one ship ablaze would destroy a dozen more. Markham made his way to the bows, followed by his men. He was thus the first to see the muskets on the poop of the
Dauphin
Royal,
which were pointing in his direction. His shouts to Smith brought the Chevalier running to join him, his Swedish star flashing as it picked up the glow from the wall of flames dead ahead.

‘Who the hell are they?’

‘They can’t be Frenchmen, sir, not yet. But whoever they are, it looks as though they’re waiting for us.’

‘Do we know if she has got guns?’ asked Rannoch.

‘It makes no odds,’ Smith replied. ‘All the line-of-battle ships were stripped of their powder.’

They opened up with a volley of musket fire, peppering the woodwork and the sea around the
Swallow.
It wasn’t deadly by any means, but it promised to be so if they got any closer.

Smith was angry. ‘The Dons were supposed to make sure none of those ships were boarded. And they were also instructed to scuttle the
Iris,
not blow her up.’

‘We were mighty close to that when it happened,’ said Markham. ‘Another half minute, and we would have been blown apart like the
Union.’

‘Helmsman!’ Smith yelled, as another group of musket balls peppered the side. ‘Bring us about and head for the inner basin.’

‘Aye, aye sir.’

A last volley of musketry hit them as they spun round. There was too little wind, and with only topsails drawing they crawled across the anchorage. The opening to the basin was narrow, no more than a hundred feet across. French ships were moored along the inner side of the twin moles that protected the dry-docks and slipways of the Toulon yard. These were the hulls refitting, not ready for
sea, but no less dangerous as a long-term threat than those moored in the deeper water of the Petite Rade.

Smith was at the side of the ship, a telescope to his eye, using the burning hulk of the
Iris
as an aid to his sight. Her cables had either been blown apart or burnt through, so the flaming hull was drifting out into the middle of the harbour. They heard the hissing sound as she heeled over, the water beginning to enter her hull.

‘Thank the Lord. She’s not going to collide with the
Montréal,
he said, as Markham aproached his side. ‘Which, if there are Spaniards aboard, is a mixed blessing.’

‘I don’t follow.’

‘She’s the second powder ship. They’re supposed to sink her too.’ The burning hull of the
Iris
tilted to one side, throwing a sudden flash of illumination across the harbour, one that lit up the deck of the
Montréal.
‘There are men aboard her, I can see them moving.’

Both Markham and Smith were thrown to the deck as the
Swallow
stopped dead in the water, right between the outer edges of the twin stone walls that formed the entrance to the inner basin. Within seconds the ship was going backwards. Smith leapt to his feet, running to the bows, and was just in time to see the boom that had been placed across the mouth sink back into the blackness beneath.

‘What happened?’

When he turned to face Markham, Smith had lost all of his urbanity. His eyes were wild, and he replied with a snarl. ‘We’ve been betrayed, Markham, that’s what has happened. The only people who could have put a boom across the harbour mouth without us knowing are the Spanish.’

‘Why?’

‘I don’t know, man. But I do know this. I’m not leaving here with all these ships intact, Dons or no Dons.’ He shouted to the helmsman again. ‘Lay me alongside the mole.’

Men rushed to man the falls as an officer by the wheel shouted out the requisite orders. The ship found way, then as she swung round the falls were sheeted home again to carry her in on the breeze until her larboard bow scraped the granite. Men leapt from the bowsprit to land heavily on the
pavé
that formed a roadway from the quay. Lines were thrown to haul the
Swallow
in until she touched amidships. A cable was thrown next, wrapped round a bollard to warp in her stern. As soon as he was alongside, Smith yelled his orders, sending his shore party, with their combustibles, towards the nearest two 74-gun ships.

‘Markham, get your men into a boat. Row for the
Montréal
.’

‘I doubt my men will be much good in a boat, sir.’

‘I have no choice, man. You are the only armed party at my disposal. The Dons are on that ship. For all I know they may be trying to scuttle her, and if they are, leave them be. They may, God knows why, be intent on blowing her up as well. What worries me is that they will do nothing, and just leave all that powder for the French to salvage. You must prevent that. Shoot them if necessary. I want that ship at the bottom, and if you all have to go down with her then you’ll just have to climb the masts until I can come and get you.’

‘Sir?’

‘No ifs and buts, Markham. Just move.’

He was gone, over the side, landing on the stones and rolling over onto his feet, almost running before he was upright and heading for the stern of the closest ship.

‘Halsey!’

‘Sir?’

‘Get that damned boat we’re towing alongside. Lobsters to give their weapons to the Bullocks and man the oars.’

‘All we require now,’ said Rannoch, looking at the starlit sky, ‘is a bloody fiddler.’

It wasn’t pretty, nor was it smooth. But the Lobsters had all rowed in their time, so progress was decent. Markham called for them to be silent as they got close, and the boat, still with some momentum, drifted towards the side of the
Montréal.
Markham tapped Halsey gently on the shoulder.

‘Who’s the best man aloft?’

‘Leech is pretty handy, and his leg is as good as ever.’

‘Pass word to him. As soon as we get aboard, he’s to get up into the rigging and keep an eye out for the Chevalier.’ The side of the ship was deserted, and though he listened he could hear no sound of either voice or movement. That was odd, since Smith had said quite clearly that there were men aboard. He cursed under his breath, knowing that there was a method of doing this, honed by years of boarding practice, which every marine officer would have been trained for. But he wasn’t a marine officer.

‘Have you ever done this before, Halsey?’

‘No, sir. Nor has anyone else, that I’m aware. But generally, the trick is to board forward, using the chains or the catheads.’

‘Row for the side,’ he called gently. ‘Leech, this is going to be untidy. You get aboard on your own as soon as we touch. If you wait for the rest of us it will be dawn.’

‘Straight to the cap, sir?’

‘If you please.’

They hit the side about half a dozen times before anyone got a hold. Leech was already gone. He’d taken his shoes off and as soon as the boat skirted the side he seemed to run up the planking. It was only when they were past it that Markham saw the rope hanging down from the shrouds. Looking up, he saw the white soles of his feet disappearing up those same knotted ropes, which ran like a ladder from the side of the ship to the tops.
He’d seen men do that whenever they set sail, but it was not something he ever fancied trying himself.

Tully grabbed at another line and missed, falling headfirst into the water, only saved from going right overboard by the grip Gibbons took on his belt. Finally Dymock stood up under the cathead, grabbing hold of one of the ropes that hung from the great square block of wood that protruded from the side of the vessel.

‘Right, up we go,’ Markham called. No-one moved, but many a pale face was turned in his direction. Cursing, he stood up, took off his sword, handed his pistol to Yelland, and jumped. That action, rocking the boat, took all the momentum out of his effort. He did grab one rope and, by a mighty effort, got one foot over the beam. But it was damp from rain and slime, so he could feel himself slipping. Hands pressed into his back and pushed him higher. Looking over his shoulder he just glimpsed the bald head of Schutte.

That help allowed him to get both legs on top, the rest of his body following. Standing up, he staggered along the cathead till he could leap over the side. Looking along the deck, which seemed empty, left him wondering if Sir Sydney had been imagining things. But that thought had to be put aside. He had to get his men aboard and he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Walking along the side of the ship, he finally spied what he was after: the point where the bulwark could be removed to provide a gangway, and below that the neat line of wooden steps attached to the ship’s side.

‘Back here,’ he called softly. The pegs that held the gangway in place wouldn’t budge, which obliged him to use a marlinspike, and that negated any attempt he’d made to maintain silence. Finally they came out, and he was able to open it. The men arrived at the same time and clambered aboard untidily, some with their weapons and some without.

‘Make sure to tie that boat up,’ he called.

‘Please do, Lieutenant.’

Markham spun round and found himself faced with a line of raised muskets, all in the hands of Spanish soldiers. Serota coughed before continuing. ‘After all, my men can use it to get ashore in more comfort. Our boat was exceedingly crowded on the way out.’

He had a hope, a faint one, that Hollick, who was still in the boat, would have the sense to stay quiet. But he called up, curious at the sudden stillness, his questions dying in his throat as a pair of guns were aimed over the side at his head.

‘Best come aboard, Hollick.’

‘Your weapons, please,’ said Serota. ‘Then I’d be obliged if you’d line up behind the wheel.’

‘You’re supposed to be on our side, Serota.’

‘Am I, Lieutenant?’ he coughed. ‘Next you’ll be telling me that I am, like Colonel Hanger, a traitor.’

‘I didn’t know you’d heard.’

‘I didn’t. But I could hardly fail to be informed of the accusation you made against such a fine upstanding officer.’

Markham spotted the deliberate irony in Serota’s tone. ‘If you see yourself in the same way, I can’t fault the sentiment.’

‘That is because you are English.’

‘Irish, if you don’t mind.’

‘Please,’ he said, waving the pistol in his hand. Markham nodded to his men, who moved backwards slowly, covered by the Spanish muskets. ‘You should have stayed where you were, Lieutenant, though with a little luck it will make no difference.’

A sudden whoosh of fire made both men turn. They saw the flames shoot up the side of the warship’s rigging like some animal speeding to safety. In the light they provided, they could see Smith’s men running around, torching everything they could, while in the background the rows of warehouses burned steadily. Gunfire
was coming from the town itself, as the rearguard made a disciplined withdrawal.