Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  One of the Agamemnons waded out towards him, his request that he come by the barge jumbled in his excitement. Markham obliged, to find the midshipman called Hoste sat on the counter, bent over. The youngster roused himself, the strain on his yellowing face ample evidence of how much effort that required.

  ‘You have seen the signal, Lieutenant Markham?’

  ‘I have,’ Markham replied, without adding that it meant nothing to him.

  ‘Then you will appreciate the gravity of the situation, given the nature of the truce the French had agreed.’

  The simplest thing would have been to say no, to admit that all flags of whatever arrangement were incomprehensible. He knew that was probably true of half the officers in the navy as well, since few he’d met sought out the duties of reading signals. But he couldn’t do it, since to publicly admit his ignorance would only underline his unfitness for his post. And it would be a tale to spread, another potential insult to add to those he knew were already whispered, behind his back, by men who despised him.

  ‘Is it so grave?’ he replied, temporising.

  ‘Of course it is, sir,’ the boy gasped.

  In his eye, Markham could see that look. The shame of his past was no secret to any British officer, army or navy, serving in the Mediterranean. The prominence of his actions, well received as they should have been, had only brought attention upon his chequered history. The least emotion he felt his presence engendered was resentment. But in some cases it was upped to actual hatred by officers who considered it demeaning to serve alongside a known coward.

  ‘If those ships get unscathed into Calvi harbour, then the truce will cease to hold.’

  ‘Ships!’ Markham expostulated, managing to make it sound like a statement instead of a question.

  ‘Without succour,’ Hoste replied, trying to haul himself to his feet. In this he had to be aided by two pigtailed sailors, who made no attempt in their glares to hide how much they blamed Markham for the boy’s condition. ‘That is what the truce says. Those three small vessels are succour, sir, and we do not know any more about what they carry than we do about what the defenders of Calvi lack.’

  No genius was required to deduce what young Hoste was implying. General Stuart had asked the French to accept terms from the weakness of his own position, not theirs. It was, in fact, a bluff. Illness was decimating his numbers daily, and if the siege continued, he would soon be forced to raise it for lack of men to even properly man his guns. Markham and his men had been lucky, posted high above the malodorous macchia that some of the other batteries had occupied. And even if they’d had to fetch it in cow-skin bags, they’d had access to the clean water from the church well.

  ‘You will observe, sir, that the breeze is northerly,’ Hoste continued, ‘so that even if our ships get under way they will have to beat up into the wind. I fear we will not close the gap in time.’

  ‘Commodore Nelson.’

  ‘Is right up at the siegeworks, sir,’ Hoste gasped, rubbing a hand across his sweating brow. He patently thought Markham was prevaricating. ‘We have no time to consult him or the officers aboard Agamemnon. We must seize the moment and act ourselves. You have the marines, and I have the sailors to get them to where they can have an effect.’

  ‘A boat attack?’

  Markham hadn’t meant to sound surprised.

  ‘It is a tricky notion in open water,’ Hoste agreed, a weak hand rubbing his sweating brow. ‘But perhaps if we can put a volley of musketry across their decks they will turn away.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Then we must board them.’

  ‘You, young sir, will do no such thing.’

  ‘I …’

  Hoste got no further, his feeble protest cut off by Markham’s bellow to his sergeant. Rannoch didn’t even move to enquire what was afoot. He merely yelled in turn at the men to get their coats on and their muskets off the stand, before leading them at a run towards a boat already floating into the water.

  ‘Mr Hoste, try to get a message to the Commodore, but under no circumstances are you to attempt to deliver it yourself.’

  ‘I must come with you, sir, to steer the boat.’

  That was sophistry of a high order, since there were ample sailors available to man the tiller.

  ‘I freely admit to being a nautical novice, Mr Hoste, but even I can point a boat northwards so close to the shore.’ Markham didn’t like saying what came next, but it was necessary to stop a brave young man who would not admit that in the boat he would be no more than a liability. ‘I am giving you an order, which you will disobey at your peril.’

  The weakness of the ‘sir’ was heartrending. But Markham couldn’t indulge in sentiment, he didn’t have time. His men had piled into the boat, joining an equal number of sailors, and he had to run out into the water to catch up. It was only then he realised he himself had neither coat nor weapons. And it was doubly galling to see the grin on the black gleaming face of Eboluh Bellamy as he handed them to him.

  ‘As Patroclus armed Achilles,’ the Negro said, his refined voice adding an extra degree of impertinence to the classical Homeric allusion, ‘I am here to arm you.’

  ‘Row!’ he barked at the sailors, the Irish accent made strong by passion and resentment, ‘as if we are faced by the hobs of hell.’

  Chapter two

  Rowing a boat into the increasing wind, and the choppy sea it was throwing up, was no easy matter. But at least it had the advantage of forward motion, which was more than could be said for the warships struggling to make sail. The breeze, for them, was dead foul, which would mean a long tack out to sea before they could come round the headland and cut off the northern approach to the Calvi anchorage. The officers on board must have been aware of that, but with most of their ships’ boats occupied in the duties of onshore re-supply, there was precious little they could do about it.

  A couple, full of sailors, had got away, a crowded jolly boat from Agamemnon and a cutter from the escorting frigate, Diomede. But they were in deeper, rougher water than Markham, and further out the headwind was even more telling. What was plain, judging by the commotion in the crosstrees, was that whatever was approaching from the north was in view. A host of flags had been run up Agamemnon’s mast, emphasised with a gun, that Markham half suspected were aimed at passing information to him. If that was true, they were wasting their time. Not one of the sailors aboard could read signals, and even if they could, they were too busy rowing to bother.

  It was a good fifteen minutes before he could see from his elevation what they had identified from the warships’ upper masts. Three sets of topsails, not square and white like those to their rear, but triangular and red, the peak of each surmounted by a tricolour pennant whipping forward on the wind. Barring the flags, there was a familiarity to the shape; a sensation that increased as Markham saw more of their sails. He had seen any number of such rigs since arriving in the Mediterranean, on the kind of small cargo ships which abounded, especially close inshore.

  ‘Tarantines!’ he exclaimed suddenly.

  Markham had feared a well armed ship carrying great guns, one he’d be forced to attack because he had no option, an opponent who would blow the barge out of the water before they even got close. But a Tarantine was a different case. In a small arms duel, he would back his Lobsters against anyone, even firing from a bobbing boat.

  One by one the men facing him finished checking their muskets, flints and ammunition. Not that there was much chance of the weapons being unready. Rannoch, the slow-talking Highlander, was a real stickler regarding the use and the maintenance of the Brown Bess. A crack shot himself, he had pushed at an open door when he sought to persuade Markham of the value of well aimed fire.

  Both officer and NCO had gone to great lengths to drill the men in good musketry. Each stock had been adjusted in length and shape to suit the user, while Rannoch insisted on sights being fitted at all times. Reloading had been cut from nearly two minutes in the worst cases t
o an almost uniform twenty-five seconds. But most of all, the Scotsman carried with him a mould to cast balls that actually fitted the barrels, a rarity in the British forces. And he’d trained them with an ample supply of powder until nearly every man could keep his eyes open when, right by his cheek, the flash went off in the pan.

  As they progressed, more and more of the Calvi anchorage became visible. Markham cast a wary eye over the two French frigates anchored head and stern presenting, under the fortress cannon, a formidable defence that made any notion of cutting them out akin to suicide. They were in range, if the French wanted to try a broadside, relying on weight of shot rather than any accuracy.

  But he could see little activity on deck, nor any sign that either the ships or the garrison were intent on sending out any form of assistance to the approaching cargo ships. Looking back, he could also observe how far ahead he was of any assistance from his own side. He had one boat and twelve armed marines, plus any sailor who fancied joining in a boarding operation. Not much to stop three vessels, even if they could only muster a pistol between them.

  ‘Put up your helm,’ he said to the man on the tiller.

  The order earned him a long enquiring look. Markham, momentarily confused, pointed with his right arm, and said, as the word ‘larboard failed to surface in his mind, ‘I want to go that way, to get across heir entry to the anchorage.’

  The look his ignorance produced nearly earned the sailor a rebuke, but he bit off his anger. Dressed as he was, smart of coat, with a long greased and beribboned pigtail, the man on the tiller was a member of Nelson’s barge crew. That would make him a cut above the average, a handy man in a fight, given that the officer he served was never out of the action. The sailor was a man to consult, not reprimand.

  ‘Name?’

  ‘Brownlee, your honour.’

  ‘Well, Mr Brownlee,’ said Markham, waving airily at the Tarantines, now hull up and in plain view. ‘I can’t see any way to stop them on our own, lest we block the entrance and hope they shy off.’

  ‘Makes sense, your honour,’ the sailor replied. ‘But they’s bound to see them other boats that’s on the way. Even if they’s well off, they will come into play afore it be dark.’

  ‘I’d appreciate any suggestions you might have.’

  That brought forth a surprised reaction, hastily masked. Brownlee wasn’t used to being consulted. But then he wasn’t used to being in the presence of an officer prepared not only to demonstrate ignorance, but also to admit it.

  ‘We’ll never stop them all. One will suffice. If we can halt a second, happen by ramming or the like, it will be nowt but a bonus.’ Brownlee paused for a second, before adding, ‘Best head for one and try and take it, your honour. At least under sail we’d have more chance of adding a mite of extra damage.’

  Markham nodded. Whatever they achieved, it would cut the supply to Calvi garrison, and that had to be a good thing. Unbidden, it came into his mind words that Nelson was fond of using, an expression he had inherited from a much-admired older sea officer.

  ‘Then you oblige me, Mr Brownlee, by using your knowledge to select a target, then lay me alongside the enemy.’

  That made Brownlee grin. No doubt heard the very same words himself from the lips of the Commodore. ‘Ain’t no doubt to it, your honour. Whichever one’s got lead position is the one we’re after.’

  That was followed by a string of personal orders, to named individuals, all delivered in an even, friendly voice, as he adjusted the tiller. If the speed of the barge picked up as a result, it was not something Markham could discern. But Brownlee had clearly identified certain faults, since their progress seemed smoother.

  Craning his neck round, Markham could see the lead Tarantine, easy to identify because of a recent repair to the mainsail. With a small crew, seeking maximum speed, most of the men would be employed. But there were a few in the bows, looking anxiously towards them and ready with an array of muskets and pistols.

  ‘I want to get off a volley of musketry across their deck before we close them.’

  ‘Then we’d best boat our oars, your honour, to make it like smoother. The question is how near do you want it to be.’

  ‘Very close, Brownlee. One volley with just enough time to reload for a second before we board.’

  ‘Saving your presence, lieutenant. Might it not be better if we Agamemnons were to try to board first, us being more used to ships than Lobsters, especially them who’s been ashore for weeks.’

  ‘Weapons?’

  ‘Your lads could spare us their bayonets.’

  ‘Boats coming out, Jack, armed cutters.’

  Markham followed Brownlee’s gaze, and saw the two heavily laden boats heading out from Calvi. There was something odd about them, but he lacked the clear view to see, especially since they seemed so low in the water. Then the lead cutter lifted on a wave, and the snout of the cannon protruding over the bows was silhouetted against the flannel shirts of the men in the thwarts.

  ‘Four pounders, looks like, Jack.’

  ‘You mind to your oar,’ Brownlee snapped.

  His head was turning right and forward as he calculated their rate of progress, against that of the barge and the fast approaching Tarantines. He continued that as he spoke, never once looking at the marine officer sitting in front of him.

  ‘They would have had those rigged to ward off any cutting out capers Old Nellie might spring.’

  ‘How much of a threat are they?’

  ‘We can get alongside well afore they can do ’owt to stop us, your honour. But when they get close, they can sink us easy, be we in the barge or on that there Tarantines deck. A four-pounder ball will go through that kind of hull, easy as warm cheese. As for the barge, it don’t need to strike too hard to have it fall apart strake by strake.’

  ‘Then let’s pray we’re on the Tarantines deck, Brownlee. Because we’ll be standing on the supplies they need to keep up the siege. Somehow I don’t think they’ll be too quick to put any shot into that.’

  Markham half turned, amazed that the lead boat was now so close. Their speed across the bay had seemed lamentable, with the target they were aiming to intercept rarely appearing to come any nearer. Now the combined speed of oar and sail had closed the gap so that the men in the Tarantines bows were in plain view. They had their weapons up to take aim, the muzzles swaying in a circle that stood testimony to the unsteadiness of their platform. The other pair seemed to have slowed, spilling a little wind from the sails, content to let the lead vessel take whatever it was their British attackers had in mind.

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch. The men will pass their bayonets into the lap of the sailor nearest to them! Brownlee here will then give the command to boat oars. As soon as they are raised, I want that deck of that ship cleared with a volley.’

  Rannoch replied in that slow way of his, that lilting highland tone which so annoyed Markham when he was, himself, keyed up.

  ‘It will not be a task simple to put in an accurate volley from a bobbing about boat, especially being sat down.’

  ‘Then Dornan and Bellamy should do great damage.’ Markham snapped.

  The former, a ponderous, well-meaning dimwit, was the worst shot in his command. Eboluh Bellamy, the only black marine Markham had ever come across, was a recent addition, and one who’d failed to respond well to training. A cunning naval commander had foisted the Negro, educated and proud of it, on Markham. The officer was happy to rid himself of a man who, by merely speaking, could cause so much trouble between his decks. Bellamy hated ignorance as much as he hated firing a musket. That was something he carried out with eyes firmly shut, never even attempting to take aim.

  Rannoch didn’t respond to that jibe. He merely confirmed his superiority in a certain area by instructing the men to aim their weapons at the ship’s rail, reminding them that the combined recoil of a dozen muskets, acting on an unstable boat, would be likely to lift every Brown Bess barrel at once.

  The water around the ster
n suddenly showed small spurts, as musket and pistol balls sprayed the top of a wave. Markham reckoned they were as much at risk as if they had faced the best shots in the French army. With the rise and fall of the Tarantine, and being shot at, probably, by people of indifferent skill, luck would play a great part in any hit they secured. That dependence of fortune induced a very odd feeling.

  Suddenly Brownlee swung the tiller and shouted his command, Rannoch’s order to aim so swift as seem part of the word. The larboard side oars rose sharply and evenly, as befitted the men who rowed a senior captain. Markham felt the seawater from the nearest oar on his face as he turned to see the volley.

  Those Lobsters on the starboard side had aimed their muskets through the gaps of their larboard side comrades, presenting an even row of muzzles that would have look fine on any parade ground. It certainly looked threatening to those armed opponents, who gave up any idea of reloading their own weapons and ducked below the rail as the guns went off.

  Markham grabbed the side of the barge to steady himself as the boat dipped to starboard, an action halted by the rowers on that side laying their blades flat on the water. Apart from two balls which clipped the rail itself, sending up a shower of splinters, and another that went through the sail well aft, it was impossible to see the final effect of the volley. But it must have been close enough to frighten the defenders, since not one put his head or a weapon above the side of the ship as Markham’s men reloaded. Brownlee, close by, was issuing a string of orders; to get some way back on the barge and close the Tarantine.

  ‘I will go first,’ Markham said, a remark which got the coxswain’s undivided attention. He opened his mouth to speak, but the marine lieutenant was looking into his eyes, seeing there what he’d half suspected; that even amongst the lower deck of a ship he’d never served on, his name and reputation were common knowledge. If Brownlee had intended to protest, to point out his own superior skill in that direction, the words died on his lips in the face of Markham’s cold stare.