A Shred of Honour (30 page)

‘A pity,’ said Serota. ‘That is a fine seventy-four-gun ship.’

‘It’s a French seventy-four.’

‘Yes.’ He started to cough, this time enough to make his body shake, waving his pistol. ‘Always the same with smoke.’

Markham was looking at his men, now being tied to the taffrail. A cold sensation, made up of fear and imagination, gripped him. ‘Sure, I hope it chokes you.’

Two soldiers grabbed him and tied his hands. Then they dragged him towards the wheel and lashed him to it, so that he was facing the row of Lobsters and Bullocks he’d led aboard. Leech wasn’t there, and the temptation to look aloft was almost unbearable. He had to know what was going to happen; prayed that the Spaniard’s voice would carry to the only hope they all had of survival.

‘Am I allowed to ask why?’

‘Let us just say that I am a Spanish patriot.’

‘I’m Irish, remember. I’ll need more than that.’

‘Do you really think we would want the only complete fleet in the Mediterranean to belong to the English? Can you not see where that would leave Spain?’

‘As an ally, no.’

‘But we are not allies by nature, Lieutenant. And it is a prudent man who looks to the future, who sees a day when we might be enemies once more, glad that there is a French navy big enough to help us defeat you.’

‘I’m wondering who the prudent man might be. Langara? Admiral Gravina? Or is it just you?’

‘Mention Gibraltar to any Spaniard.’

‘So it’s all of you?’

‘Sentiments vary, as do notions of honour. Some men act, while other merely choose not to see.’

‘And what’s my fate to be?’

‘Come, Lieutenant Markham. No care for the fate of your men? Is that not the first duty of an officer?’ He grinned, exposing long, yellow teeth. ‘You might die from suffocation, or even burning. But it is my guess that when this ship, which is full of gunpowder, goes up, you will go with it. And if we can time the fuses right, we shall also extinguish the brilliant career of that idiot, Sydney Smith.’

The sound of gunfire had increased. ‘As you can hear, the Republican forces are taking over the town. Soon they will be on the quayside, then out on the harbour wall, and that man who brought you here will be forced to flee. As he goes by the
Montréal
…’ He threw his arm in the air. ‘Whoosh. A French fleet with no powder won’t be tempted to pursue. But the real bonus will be no more Smith and no more Markham.

He spun round and started giving orders. Men rushed below, while others headed for the boats. Serota had gone to the side, and was listening intently to the gunfire. At the moment he judged it to be close enough, he called out the order to fire the fuses.

‘Am I allowed one more question, Colonel?’

He sniffed loudly at the acrid odour of slowmatch coming up the companionway. ‘One more, and only if the answer is short.’

‘The night we attacked Bonaparte’s guns, where were you?’

‘To the north of you, Lieutenant. Near the redoubt of La Seyne. Just close enough to ensure a proper outcome.’

‘Do you believe in God?’

‘That’s another question, Markham,’ he said, as he made his way back to the side of the ship. The effect he sought was somewhat spoiled by the weakness of his voice. But it was, nevertheless, very like a battle cry. ‘But I’ll answer it anyway. I am just like God. Both he and I believe in Spain.’

His body disappeared over the side, and just before his
head followed he said, ‘Goodbye, Lieutenant Markham. I hope you believe in God.’

‘What about Leech?’ whispered Rannoch.

‘Quiet. Let them get well away from the side.’

‘I do not know if you have noticed, but we are a little short of time.’

Markham wasn’t listening. He was wondering how many of his men could swim. Not all of them, that was certain, so just untying them would not be enough. They had to find a way of staying afloat in the water. The deck was untidy, littered with barrels, ropes and yardarms, seasoned lengths of timber that normally held the smaller sails. The flash of white made him look up. Leech slid down the blind side shrouds without making a sound. He crouched below the level of the bulwarks and slithered across the deck, his bayonet coming out before he reached Markham.

‘God be praised they didn’t see you,’ whispered Markham as Leech stuck the point of his bayonet in the knot and began to lever it open.

Markham was free, the ropes half sliced and half untied, and he scurried for the companionway immediately. The smoke from the fuses billowed up at him as he tried to go below, stinging his eyes and burning his throat. Four steps down he couldn’t breathe and had to retreat. On deck Leech was still silently trying to undo his mates, while Rannoch and Halsey had run to retrieve their own bayonets. Looking over the side, he could see Serota and his men, in both the boats, rowing for the shore.

‘Who can swim?’ he called, since they were now far enough away not to hear. Three voices answered: Schutte, Ettrick and Dornan. ‘Right, that makes four. Rannoch, Schutte, get hold of this yardarm, and heave it over the side. Ettrick, Dornan, into the water and hold it close enough to the side for those jumping to reach it. Schutte, you get in the water too, and make sure you get hold of anyone who goes under.’

A sudden fusillade made him turn to the shore. By the light of the burning ships he could see the
Swallow
casting off, men poling furiously to get her clear of the mole. Others were aloft, letting drop the sails that they hoped would take them out of danger. A sudden brilliant flash highlighted Smith’s star. He was by the stern rail, directing musket fire at the party of soldiers trying to make their way towards the ship. As they got clear, Markham realised that
Swallow
’s
bowsprit was headed straight at the
Montréal
,
with the Chevalier clearly intent on sailing by to pick up him and his men.

‘Fire, for Christ’s sake, someone start a fire. We’ve got to make the
Swallow
sheer off.’

There was an oil lamp by the binnacle. Halsey grabbed it and emptied it onto an untidy pile of canvas and frayed ropes. Then he bent down, pulling out his flints. He was rubbing wildly when Rannoch pushed him aside, laid his gun by the oil and pulled the trigger. Halsey jumped back as the ball shot forth, but the Highlander had achieved his intention. The flash from the pan lit the oil, and as the fire took hold it spread rapidly, snaking across the deck. Markham grabbed one end of the tarred rope and pulled it along the deck, looping an end round the square, knotted shrouds.

‘Over the side, all of you. This bloody thing is going to go up in about five minutes.’

The yard went first, hitting the water point first and sinking like an arrow, which induced the same emotion in Markham’s heart. But it bobbed up quickly about twenty yards away. Ettrick and Dornan had taken off their coats and belts, then kicked off their boots, transferring the few personal possessions they could manage to the crutch of their breeches. They jumped out as far as they could, then swam to the log of floating wood, pulling it in close to the side. By that time Schutte was in the water himself, having thrown in several barrels to help those who needed to float independently.

‘Get your coats off. And that goes for belts, cartouches and anything else that’s heavy, including boots. They’re no good to you now. If you’re going to keep anything, make sure it’s light.’

The thud of falling kit was not followed by any enthusiastic rush to the side; the men seemed more intent on stuffing pipes, tobacco and what little money they had into their breeches. Rannoch, Halsey and Markham had to push men towards the possibility of salvation. In some cases blows were needed. Behind them the rigging had started to burn, and as the flames touched the first corner of a sail, that went up, illuminating the upperworks. The smoke coming from below was beginning to choke those still by the rail. In the water men went under, then resurfaced. If they were close enough to the yardarm they grabbed it. If not they sank again. Schutte was diving and grabbing, showing scant gentleness as he hauled men to the surface and pushed them towards the wood. Ettrick and Dornan had to yell at them to take a tight hold, one man at a time either side, or risk the whole thing rolling so much that all the non-swimmers would drown.

Markham tossed the last ranker, Leech, overboard, then turned to his two NCOs. ‘Over you go, both of you.’

Halsey complied, his fingers holding his broad nose, and his eyes closed as he jumped. But Rannoch spun round and ran towards the entry port, returning with Markham’s sword and his own musket.

‘It has taken me years to get a proper stock fitted to my Brown Bess, I will not leave it now.’

‘You’re a damn fool. Hanging on to that could kill you.’

‘Don’t worry,’ he said, handing over the sword. ‘I’ll let it go if I am drowning. Do you want this?’

‘I’d better,’ Markham replied. He managed a smile, which in the flickering light made him look slightly deranged. ‘Jesus, I haven’t paid for the damned thing yet.’

Rannoch laughed out loud as he jumped, landing with a mighty splash right alongside the log. Markham looked over the other side, glad to see that
Swallow
had spotted the danger and sheered off, and was heading away from the
Montréal
as fast as the light breeze would allow. Then, sword in hand, he followed his men.

‘Kick with your feet, all of you,’ he yelled taking in a mouthful of seawater as he sank slightly. Nothing happpened at first; they seemed stuck to a point ten feet away from the side of the ship. But slowly their strokes had an effect, and the log began to move, The
Montréal
was well alight now, flames licking through the rigging and the smoke from the fuses hanging like a cloud over the deck. They were only halfway to the shore when the first dull boom of an explosion came at them through the water. Contained by the ship’s planking, the force went upwards, removing half the deck. The rest followed as the vessel literally blew itself apart. They could feel the shockwaves in the water, pushing into them. Bits of wood rained down from a fire-filled sky. Leech let go and slid under, but Markham managed to grab his shirt and haul him back up.

‘Stay afloat, you bastard, or I’ll break your other bloody leg.’

They emerged from the water like half-drowned rats, onto a strand of beach well to the west of the main quay. There were crowds here too, many carrying flickering torches which added a hellish quality to the miserable scene. Some cried, others wailed. The majority shouted into the blackness of the harbour, as if the means to rescue them lay just out of sight. They’d been driven to the water’s edge like lemmings, fearful of what awaited them when the Jacobins came. Stories of what they’d done with the guillotine in Marseilles had grown with every league they’d travelled, and since the cruelty had been enormous, the entire population was in a state of uncontrolled panic. Markham, counting off his men, wasn’t panicking, but he was worried.

‘We’ve got to get to the Fort de la Malgue, and hope that some of the rearguard are still there.’

‘The French are between them and us,’ said Halsey, pointing towards the basin and the line of enemy warships, only a few of which were burning. His pepper and salt hair was black now, and streaked across his face, rendering his pallid complexion more startling.

‘Rannoch?’

‘Present,’ replied the Scotsman.

Peering through the tight group of men, Markham saw his sergeant sitting down, water dripping from his long blond hair into his lap, assiduously using a piece of cloth he’d found, trying to dry the firing parts of his musket.

‘Come on, or we’ll end up in a French dungeon.’

‘No spare flints, God be damned,’ he cursed, before
turning to look at the soaked, shivering party. ‘Did any of you lot think to line your private parts with a set of flints?’

The look in Rannoch’s eyes underscored the futility of the question. Whatever these men had saved in the way of personal possessions, it wouldn’t include anything to do with soldiering. But just as guilty himself, he could hardly berate them. He jumped to his feet, looking over Markham’s head towards la Malgue. ‘If you do not mind me saying so, I see no sign of any topsails where our ships once lay.’

‘There may be some still berthed there, a sloop perhaps.’

‘With respect, if you look at the route we would have to follow, there are thousands of these poor souls in the way. What we require to get away is a boat.’

Goaded by Rannoch’s ponderous delivery, Markham made no attempt to disguise the exasperation in his voice. ‘If you find the magic potion to conjure one up, don’t let me hinder you.’

‘I do not think a display of temper will do us much good. Did you see where that Spaniard went with our own cutter?’

Markham tried to match his sarcasm. ‘It was difficult, Sergeant. My head was under water.’

Rannoch beamed at him, the flickering light making his green eyes twinkle amongst the creases in his face. ‘Not as much as mine, it was not.’

‘We have to try,’ said Halsey. ‘And the longer we wait the worse it will be.’

‘Seawater clearly does something to improve the brains of Lobsters,’ Rannoch replied. ‘Do you think you can do the next bit and walk along the sea-bed?’

‘Only if you drink all the water in the harbour. And what with you being a greedy Jock, that should be easy.’

Some of the others had started to chuckle. Then, as the absurdity of doing that in their present state took hold, it
turned to general amusement. Without knowing why, Markham found himself laughing too. The people around them, fearful and abandoned, looked upon these sopping wet madmen with pity.

‘On your feet.’

They obeyed, but the giggling didn’t stop. Looking back at them staggering along, elbowing each other, sharing a very private joke, Markham thought they looked like a bunch of witless fools. When they reached the quay the numbers of refugees thickened considerably. The crush was so great that those by the water’s edge were being bundled into the harbour, now completely clear of boats. Any attempt to help them only endangered the Samaritan, so that those who couldn’t fend for themselves in the water, men, women and children, were left to drown.

As an organised party, they carved a path through the mob in a way denied to most, and benign fate did not let them see how that barging and shoving impacted in other places. It was Schutte, a fraction taller than Rannoch, who picked up the hint of approaching danger. It was heralded by distant screaming, mingled with the odd crash of a shot; that overborne, closer to them, by loud singing, a rendering of the ‘Ça ira’ with those right ahead seeking mercy by cloaking themselves in the anthem of the Revolution. Schutte’s warning was louder still, and the group used their strength to get off the quay, throwing less fortunate people out of the alleys so that they could escape.

‘Have you seen where we are, sir?’ said Tully. The bandage he’d worn on his ear had come off, leaving the scabbed wound on his lobe exposed. ‘It’s the bloody Picard house.’

‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re right.’

Markham was tired, and nothing underlined that more than the use of such an avowedly Papist curse. That, and the way he’d missed this familiar building. But then
no-one else other than Tully had seen it, which indicated that they were in a similar state. The boom of musket fire reverberated off the high walls, so that they could almost feel it physically. The Jacobin army was between them and the Fort de la Malgue. And even if they could get there, it wasn’t certain that they’d find a ship. They needed rest, a place to hide, and they needed it now. Being close to a building they knew so well, it seemed stupid to go on.

‘We’ll have to go in through the back. There are too many people at the front.’

No-one even grunted an acknowledgement. They fought their way up the side alley in single file, till they found themselves in the street that ran along the rear of Picard’s property. The crush was as bad in this, the more open space of the boulevard. But people were trying to move in both directions, seeking security with only the vaguest notion of where it lay. Slowly they made their way till the whole party was pressed against the wide double doors. They were bolted and chained, and it seemed no amount of pushing would budge them.

‘Saving your presence, sir,’ said Quinlan, bowing his head to shorten even his limited stature. ‘I think this is a job for Ettrick and me.’

Markham hesitated. But Rannoch’s soft voice, right by his ear, was confident. ‘They are a right pair of villains, sir. I do not know an officer’s mess that they have not robbed.’

This was new to him. But then, he had nothing to steal. ‘As you will.’

Ettrick put his back to the wooden door and held his hands like a cup. Quinlan was on it and up in a move that would have done credit to an acrobat. The gap at the top of the door looked far too small to allow a human being passage, but Quinlan, once he got his head and shoulders through, wriggled like an angry snake till a full three-quarters of his body was hidden. Then, somehow, he
managed to turn sideways, so that when he brought his legs through he could use his hands to lower himself to within a few feet of the ground.

‘There you are, sir,’ whispered Rannoch. ‘Those two have drunk more good claret in their time than any officer in Farmer George’s army.’

‘We calls Quinlan the mouse,’ said Ettrick, with some pride.

‘He still has to unbolt the door.’

‘Never fear for that, your honour,’ Ettrick scoffed. ‘Locks are no more strangers to him than floorboard cracks. He has his picks snug in his breeches, right by his most precious parts.’

The door creaked as they swung open, with Markham wondering how he hadn’t seen more of this sort of thing before, then consoling himself with the thought that part of their expertise would be in avoiding any recognition of their skills. Rossignol’s doorless coach still filled the rear courtyard, and he led the way as they skirted round it. The rear doors were open, and he was just about to go through, when he heard the unmistakable voice, accompanied by the slight hacking cough, of Colonel Serota. His hand flew up so quickly that everyone behind him froze.

‘It is nothing personal, Rossignol. It is merely that you are a loose end that requires to be tidied. Everyone in this house knows of my association with you. Even the boy could recover one day and tell the world of this little deception.’

When Rossignol replied, Markham could not help but admire him. Clearly he was in mortal danger, but there wasn’t even a hint of fear in his voice. ‘Naturally, Colonel, I understand your concern. But you must realise that Monsieur Fouquert, having ample evidence of the valuable services I can provide to the cause, will be most unhappy should anything untoward befall me or my family. You may find that it is I who need to intercede on your
behalf, since your function, indeed your usefulness to the Revolution in Toulon, ended with the siege.’

‘You are such a brilliant talker, Rossignol, that killing you will provide me with no pleasure whatsoever.’

‘Then why do it?’

‘I cannot have my country branded treacherous.’

‘Even if it is true?’

The note of levity in Serota’s voice evaporated. ‘You are careless with your tongue, Rossignol.’

‘I have secreted certain papers, Colonel, that will tell all who wish to know just how much they can trust Spain as an ally.’

Markham knew it was the wrong thing to say long before Rossignol finished speaking. A bluff too far. He burst through the open door just as the shot rang out, sword extended and yelling like a banshee. Rossignol had taken the ball in the chest, the weight of the shot throwing him backwards, so that Markham cannoned into his falling body, holding it upright while he registered the shock in the Spaniard’s face. The two men escorting him were in more control of themselves, and had lowered their muskets to shoot, waiting only for this rescuer to come out from behind the already dying Rossignol.

But Serota had no intention of delaying. And the click of Rannoch’s musket, misfiring on his soaked flints, was all he needed to convince him that discretion was the better part of valour. He turned, his pistol still smoking, and headed out into the courtyard, ordering his men to cover his retreat.

Markham was stuck, his only protection Rossignol’s body. And the old man was failing, his legs beginning to bend so that he had to be supported just to remain a shield. What hit Markham’s shoulder was so overwhelming that both he and Rossignol were swept aside. Rannoch, with one of the coach doors held out in front of him, charged at the two Spaniards.

Common sense would have had them holding fire, to let the man pass by so that he could be shot in the back. But that was a hard concept to hold to when faced with a piece of solid wood travelling at ten miles an hour, a door which emitted the stirring yet eerie battle cry of a puissant Scottish clan. Their shots splintered the wood, and slowed the Highlander a fraction. But it was no more than that, and when he was abreast of them he used the door to fell one Spaniard, before turning on the other and grabbing him round the neck with his bare hands. The bone went in what seemed like an instant, and the victim crumpled to the floor with Rannoch’s hands still around his limp neck. The man struggling to get out from under the door was dealt with by a vicious back-handed swipe that, with every ounce of the Scotsman’s strength in it, smashed the side of his face.

It was Rannoch’s turn to be brushed aside, as Markham went after Serota, sword extended once more as he crashed through the courtyard doors. The Colonel should have shut and barred the entrance to the warehouse. But a combination of panic and insecurity, brought on by the sight of a man who should have been dead, had made that obvious precaution seem superfluous. He’d run right through, and was scrabbling at the outer door, his fingers dragging at the bolts. His breath came in great gasps which seemed to sear his hollow chest.

The door swung open, to reveal a solid wall of human flesh, the refugees who filled the quays, which for Serota made escape impossible. The thought of trying to plough his way through that mob clearly terrified him more than the idea of going back. It took all his strength to shut the door again, and had those pressed against it been more alert he would have failed. But he got the bolts home, turned round, and saw the scruffy, barely dry figure of George Markham in the doorway, knees bent, sword extended, inviting him to fight.

‘You may give me your sword if you wish, Colonel Serota.’

The Spaniard was on the first rung of the stairs before Markham finished speaking, his boots pounding on the wooden treads as he shot up to the first floor. Markham followed cautiously, well aware that his quarry had even less chance of finding a way out on the upper floors than he did on the ground. He heard the high boots echoing on the bare floorboards above his head; was slightly bewildered when that noise ceased, even more mystified when he exited onto the floor his men had used as a billet. There were more stairs, of course, on the far side of the chamber, which led up the top level, an area he’d never visited.

He was just about to cross to them when he heard Serota’s footsteps coming down. Taking station with his back to the double doors that formed the loading bay, he waited, sword by his side, while the Spaniard descended, the lantern he held forming a pool of light around his feet. The long cavalry boots appeared first, then his thighs. It was only when he got down to the level of his waist that Markham realised how much trouble he was in. So much danger that he pressed back against the doors, feeling through his still damp shirt the cold chain that held them closed.

‘You’re a hard man to kill, Markham. The flares at Mulgrave were meant to destroy your command. But this one is just for you.’

‘It can’t be done, Serota,’ said Markham, his eyes fixed on the point of the flare, which protruded no more than an inch from the end of the firing tube. He was a good thirty feet away from the Spaniard, and in between him and the steps lay several of the makeshift cots of his Bullocks. He knew that it didn’t actually have to hit him. If it exploded close enough to his body, he would certainly be maimed, if not killed outright. ‘Light that fuse, and you will be in as much danger as I am.’

‘Do you know, Lieutenant, that at this moment you sound just like that scoundrel Rossignol? Lies come so easily to your lips. Death, I’m afraid, is sure to follow, just as it did to him.’