Honour Be Damned (9 page)

Markham suddenly felt she was toying with him. Not that the notion offended him. All his experience pointed to that as a good sign. Women didn’t bait men in whom they had no interest. The thought that she might set his imagination racing. It was fortunate that the Negro girl returned, carrying a stone jar with some pungent green liniment inside. Ghislane Moulins turned back, wafting that same mixture of odours up into his nose. She dipped her fingers in, then rubbed the unction back and forth across Markham’s wound. The stinging, as it penetrated his flesh, made him suck in his breath.

‘A little pain is a good sign, Lieutenant.’

‘Sure,’ Markham replied, shifting uneasily, ‘that depends on where the pain is.’

As soon as he returned to the deck, still a hive of activity, he looked aft, only to observe that the bosun’s confidence had not been misplaced.
Syilphide
was labouring, but still the
Massime
was falling behind at an almost visible rate, ploughing along, yards braced round, seeming to make little headway. Germain was no longer on the quarterdeck, and the ship was under the control of Conmorran, the master, with Midshipman Booker as officer of the watch.

‘Why does he bother to pursue when he can’t catch us.’

The master was an old grey-haired fellow, with grizzled ruddy
features. Having spent his entire life at sea, he had little time for what he would no doubt term daft questions. His tone of voice, when he replied certainly created that impression.

‘Happen he has nowt better to do, it being such a fine sunny afternoon.’

‘He’ll stay on the chase till nightfall, sir,’ said Booker, excitedly eager to share his superior knowledge, ‘hoping that he might carry something away. He cannot know the extent of the damage we have suffered.’

‘Thank you, Mister Booker,’ said Markham, giving the irascible master a glare as he turned away, a look that was meant to register and did. The voice behind his back, just loud enough for him to hear, made him wish he hadn’t bothered.

‘You don’t want to be so free lad with your explainings, certainly not to the likes of a Lobster officer. Jumped up nobodies the lot of ’em I say. And that one would be better minded explaining hisself than posing questions, especially about certain events which took place when he was no more ’n your age.’

Markham forced himself to stand still by the rail, watching the rapidly diminishing French ship. But underneath he was seething, wondering why he had bothered to do anything to save the ship. He should have just let the French come on board and skewer the lot of them.

I
t didn’t take much in the way of brainpower to work out that Germain was in trouble. In his first engagement in command of his own ship he’d received a drubbing, and that from a Frenchman who’d double bluffed him. No amount of gilding would make the ship’s log read any better. Every manoeuvre had to be detailed from the first sighting; times, courses and intentions, the amount of shot expended, as well as the damage listed. Then there was the fruitless attempt to board and the tally of dead and wounded that action had produced.

In a service that thrived on a constant diet of success, that would not be pleasant reading. Not that reading was necessary. Any interested party just had to look at the state to which
Syilphide
had been reduced to realise that had they faced an enemy any more speedy than a converted merchantman, they could hardly have avoided capture. The pumps were clanking away, trying to reduce the amount of water in the well. The carpenter had gloomily reported how often she’d been struck below the
water-line,
and his opinion of how long it would take to get at some of the shattered hull timbers. The knowledge that he was a confirmed pessimist did nothing to help.

Above there was even more damage, especially forward. Great swathes of bulwark ripped out, with only the ropes they’d rigged to stop a man falling into the sea. The dismounted cannon could not be replaced for the lack of anything with which to affix the breechings. In the sickbay there were dozens of wounded men, and they’d already had the service that had seen four canvas coffins slip over the side. A quick check on the muster roll showed that they had left a dozen men on the French ship, almost certainly dead by now if they’d not been when abandoned. The French captain would look to his own casualties before he attended to any British sailor.

Everything pointed to a return to Corsica, to the anchorage off San Fiorenzo, where repairs could be carried out and the crew
numbers made up to something like their complement.
Everything
, that is, but Aramon’s pleading. And this was allied to Germain’s own inclination to put off the day of reckoning.

In some ways Markham could sympathise. Given Germain’s name and position in the navy, a bold stroke, a success of some kind seemed very necessary. His rank of Master and Commander was honorary. He was still a lieutenant, still a long way from that grail of naval advancement; the need to be made a post captain. Nothing was more vital than that, since it opened a route to promotion. Such a prize presented many opportunities, for both glory and profit, and in time, as those above him died, Germain could be sure, if he himself survived, of being made an admiral. No doubt he’d dreamed that an opportunity would present itself to make the name Germain mean something other than a standard of cowardice.

To return with his ship in its present condition would certainly put a blight on that rosy prospect. He might find himself beached at his present rank. Markham had no idea how much influence it had taken to get Germain to sea in the first place. But after such a comprehensive failure, it might be that no amount of that commodity would see him re-employed. So Aramon, insisting that they continue, was pushing at an open door. But it turned out that the Monsignor was taking no chances, as Markham found out when Germain, in the middle of the night, lantern in hand, crept into his screened off quarters.

Markham was halfway out of his cot, a hand reaching for his sword, when he realised who it was. In the low light from the tallow in the lantern, the young man looked a touch fevered, especially about the eyes. The finger he put to his lips stopped Markham from speaking, and the ship’s captain was sat on his cot before the owner could ask him what he thought he was about.

‘I would have asked you to come to my cabin,’ he whispered, ‘but that, for what I have to impart, is the least secure part of the ship.’

The wave of the arm indicated that Markham should come even closer, a difficult thing to achieve, since, as it was, Germain was practically sitting on top of him.

‘The old Papist has told me what it is we are after ashore. Only he, de Puy and now I, are in on the secret. He made me swear that I wouldn’t tell a soul, but I cannot avoid telling you. Believe me Markham, when you hear the details, you will be astounded.’

Markham had a sudden feeling that he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to share the secret. Money was tempting, but dying was not, and after today his faith in the captain was severely dented. There was also his own position to consider, which would not be enhanced by Germain’s failure. Care had to be taken not to compound a less than perfect situation.

If his superior officer ordered him ashore, he would be bound to obey, and in ignorance he could at least plead the excuse of duty. But once part of this conspiracy, he would have the right to accept or reject any command he was given. And that, if things went wrong, would do nothing to aid his situation. Germain didn’t seem to realise that he wasn’t the only one with a reputation to worry about.

Probably, if he was sent home for what happened to the
Syilphide
, Germain would return to a family and some form of stability. All that waited for George Markham back in England was a bailiff seeking money he didn’t have, with quite possibly a Bow Street Runner on hand to take him up for killing his fellow duellist. And in Ireland it was even worse. His half-sister Hannah hated him for the stain his birth had placed on the family name. Worse, she had demanded back from him every penny gifted to him by his late father, and he lacked the means to fight an action in court. He needed to stay in military employment more than the man sat on his cot. But the hand he held up was ignored.

‘I was right about Avignon. But not even I, in my wildest imaginings, guessed what was at stake.’

‘Sir,’ Markham said firmly. ‘Please accede to the Monsignor’s wishes, and keep whatever it is he told you to yourself.’

‘Keep your voice down, man.’ Germain hissed, ‘do you want us to be overheard.’

Saying yes to that was as absurd as saying no. And faced with the anger in Germain’s voice he had no choice but to drop his voice to a whisper.

‘I would not want you to break your word.’

‘It was given to a Papist, man, and has no value.’ Germain must have seen the sudden danger in Markham’s eyes, since he continued hurriedly. ‘The man is French!’

‘Aramon is a Royalist if he is anything. And they, sir, might I remind you, are on our side.’

Germain wasn’t about to be deflected by inconvenient facts.

‘You may make a distinction, I will not. It matters little who
rules France. They are all against Britannia. But the men we have aboard have access to untold wealth, the treasure of the papal state at Avignon, removed before the Revolutionaries took it over in ’92. Imagine, Markham, what that papal enclave accumulated as an independent fief. The plate, the crucifixes, the jewels and the sheer amount of coin.’

Germain was right, and even reluctantly, Markham couldn’t keep out of his mind a vision of such ecclesiastical riches. Avignon was in one of the most fertile parts of France, a wholly owned fiefdom of St Peter’s, exempt from any form of levy from Parisian kings. It had been rich for hundreds of years, a place where Papal Nuncios ruled, and wealthy individuals, seeking a guaranteed entry into heaven, had paid handsomely to have prayers said for their souls.

The priests who ruled there must have had forewarning that their fate was sealed when the monarchy lost power. The threat of excommunication, so feared by a succession of kings, held no terrors for the commoners who took over the government. The Assembly had voted to confiscate church property and French soldiers marched in to claim a piece of land that had been an independent state since the Middle Ages.

Markham decided on a last throw, a final effort to bring Germain to his senses. ‘You do not fear exceeding your orders, sir?’

‘What do you mean, man. I will be obeying them. My orders are to confound the enemy on land and sea, you know that.’

‘Where is it?’ asked Markham wearily.

‘That Aramon has not told me.’

‘There’s a surprise,’ Markham responded, but the irony was wasted on Germain.

‘De Puy was the man tasked with escorting it to Rome. But, as you know, the French annexed Savoy as well. He had, quite naturally, avoided going over the high mountain passes, and elected to head for the coast west of the town of Nice. He stayed off the main roads to Italy, using obscure trails through the hills. By the time he was ready to come down into what was Piedmontese territory, the French army was in his way. In danger, he had no option but to secrete it in a safe place, and wait. When that became intolerable he then made for Toulon, hoping to take ship to Rome and inform Aramon. As you know, he was trapped there by the siege. So all that treasure is still where he left it.’

‘The location of which you don’t know.’

‘That’s not strictly true, Markham,’ said Germain
triumphantly
. ‘The old goat may think he’s sharp, but I have ears. He let slip that it is in close proximity to the shore where he wants to land, in a bay by the name of Golfe Juan.’

‘But not how close?’

‘It can be no more than a few leagues.’

That, to Markham’s way of thinking, was not close.

‘You have explained de Puy. Where does Monsignor Aramon fit in all this?’

There was a note of impatience in the captain’s voice, as though the answer was so obvious it had no need to be stated.

‘He’s the man who arranged the transfer in the first place, who went to Rome and waited. Nothing came, of course, so he set out to find de Puy, and, of course, the treasure.’

If Germain hadn’t caught his breath then, Markham would not have heard the soft sound of a foot scraping on the deck planking. Hurriedly stopping the youngster from saying any more, he moved gingerly towards the curtain. The next sound made him move quicker; a dull but quiet thud, like a heel being dug in, which was speedily followed by another. The deck outside was in near darkness, and he could not be sure of anything other than a vague impression of the departing shape. It seemed too small to be Aramon, but Markham didn’t doubt it was he. Who else on the ship wore a long black cassock?

‘Do you think he heard us?’

‘How can I say. We were whispering, so it wouldn’t have been easy. But then, he must have had his suspicions when he followed you.’

‘How do you know he followed me?’

‘Because you were in here when he was outside. You don’t make a habit of coming to my berth in the middle of the night, do you? And what purpose could you have in coming tonight, just after he has told you the secret of what it is he wants to recover.’

‘So he will know I’ve told you.’

‘I doubt that will affect his ultimate course of action.’

Germain was looking at him intently again, seeking an
explanation
of Markham’s certainty. But the man in question was too tired to explain. All he wanted to do was to get back to sleep. How could the youngster not deduce that Aramon was teasing him,
letting him have snips of information just before the need to impart it became essential?

He would have had to tell the ship’s captain something to get the ship inshore at the right spot. Given the damage they’d sustained, with the risk that Germain might head back to Corsica, Aramon had opened up just a little earlier than he’d originally planned. But he’d told him something pretty useless, it being information Germain would have demanded to know before even approaching the shore.

‘The real, question, sir, is what effect it has on you?’

‘I don’t follow?’

‘You are still determined to proceed?’

‘Of course, man. Don’t you see how a stroke like this will elevate us in the admiral’s estimation? I must say I can’t comprehend your reluctance, Markham. I had you down as just the fellow I needed for this task.’

Markham was too bored to protest again. It was clear that Germain was obsessed to the point that no amount of cautionary advice or pessimism would sway him. He needed to shine, and whatever danger that put other people into was secondary.

‘So you’re ordering me to escort Monsignor Aramon and his party ashore?’

‘That sounds damned formal, Markham.’

‘It is so formal, sir, that I would like those orders in writing.’

Germain stiffened. ‘That will not be necessary. I will lead the shore party personally, with you as my second in command.’

‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about the ship!’ demanded Markham.

Germain put his fingers to his lips again, and insisted on silence, though he couldn’t look his marine lieutenant in the eye, lest the man in the cot observe the captain’s desperation. He wanted any success for himself, a factor which had changed since leaving Corsica. Sharing it, after what had happened during the recent action, was no longer possible.

‘Mr Booker and the master will look after the ship.’

‘He’s no more than a boy.’

‘She is barely fit for action, Markham, so their main task will be to effect decent repairs. I will require Conmorran to stand off the shore, once we are on our way, then send in the cutter at an agreed
time every night from three days hence. We will arrange a signal with blue lights that will tell them to take us off at dawn.’

‘And if danger threatens, like a bloody great ship of the line hoving into view.’

‘Don’t judge us by the standards of the army. Booker has been at sea long enough to know what action to take. The master, Mr Conmorran, is even better equipped.’

Germain followed that with a heavy sniff designed to tell Markham the matter was closed. ‘Anyway, I have requested the master to shape us a course for this Golfe Juan. The place is dotted with fishing villages, but looking at his charts, there seem to be some islands in the bay. Les Lerins, they’re called. We can anchor near those just this once to avoid observation. I expect to have them in view at first light.’

‘Then we will need to be alert, will we not?’

‘Of course.’

‘Then sir, if you have no objection, I will bid you good night.’