The knock at the door obviated any need for a response. What could Markham say anyway? Young Germain was in command. He would want a bit of glory and he would grab it if chance permitted. Command of this vessel was just a stepping stone to greater things. What troubled Markham was very far removed from any fear of action, why ask personally for him?
Could that decision have something to do with Germain’s surname? Was he related to that Lord George Germain, later Lord Sackville, who’d so disgraced himself at the battle of Minden, retiring with his cavalry from the battlefield before the action was joined? If so, it would make for an interesting combination; the offspring of a man rated a coward, serving cheek by jowl with a person who, to many people, carried that stigma personally.
‘Boat approaching, sir,’ said the senior midshipman, and now acting Lieutenant, Mr Fletcher. ‘There’s a Bourbon officer on board, judging by his garb, and I think some kind of cleric with a purple soutaine.’
‘Well I’ll be damned,’ Germain exclaimed, his eyes opening wide, the voice pitched in a way that, to Markham, sounded a touch contrived. ‘Pipe them aboard, Mr Fletcher, and if it is a cleric, best break out more than one flagon of the wine. We all know how men of the cloth like to imbibe.’
Germain bustled about a bit, tidying up his small desk, trying to make his cabin look respectable, while his servant, sent for, arrived with goblets and two straw-covered flagons.
‘That at least should be good,’ Germain exclaimed. ‘It was in the captain’s storeroom when we took over the ship. Jean Crapaud never stints himself in the article of wine.’
Markham was about to suggest tasting it first. But then he realised that he had an almost certain knowledge of who was coming aboard. It might not be the Comte de Puy. But with that purple soutaine it was almost certainly Monsignor Aramon. Suddenly he found himself hoping the flagons contained vinegar.
‘Best go on deck to greet them, Markham. I hope your sergeant has had the wit to line up the Lobsters.’
‘He will, sir.’
As they exited straight on to the absurdly small deck, Rannoch was there, walking the line, tugging at straps and belts, realigning muskets, so that his men, crowded close as they were, looked the part. Markham was pleased at the standard they’d achieved. His men looked exceedingly smart in the sunlight, which showed off their white belts to advantage against their thick red coats. The brasswork of the muskets, generously returned by General d’Issellin, gleamed, and the wooden stocks were polished to perfection.
‘An excellent showing, Markham,’ exclaimed Germain, patting him on the shoulder of his own scarlet coat.
That got a single raised eyebrow from Rannoch, who knew as well as his officer who was responsible for the quality of the turnout, as well as how difficult it had been to achieve. Coming aboard Syilphide had brought back some of the divisions that existed below the surface. His original soldiers, drafted in to make up the numbers in a country newly embarked on war, had served in frigates until now. Not exactly spacious, they were palaces compared to the sixteen-gun sloop.
The ex-members of the 65th foot, led by Rannoch, had asked if they were to be obliged to serve in a canoe. Halsey and his true marines had scoffed and named it a right good billet. It wasn’t of course. It was cramped, smelly and having been tied to the shore for months, rat-infested. Bellamy, neither of one group or the other, and by far the most fastidious of the bunch, had likened it to the bowels of a West Indian slaver.
‘How I wish I could fire a salute, Markham,’ hissed Germain excitedly. ‘I do so long to let off the great guns in a proper salvo.’
Germain was looking eagerly at the approaching boat as he spoke, giving Markham a chance to examine him. The ship’s captain was like a dog at the leash in his suppressed agitation, an impression heightened by his fine aristocratic features. He had a thin angular face, lively green eyes, and a ready smile. Markham found he was cursing himself. Habit, and many years of slights, made him suspicious of any fellow officer. It had also made him, he realised, too sensitive. The young man beside him was, it appeared, entirely genuine in both his actions and his words. Yet George Markham could not accept this at face value, and had to be continually looking for extraneous reasons for perfectly normal behaviour.
‘Holy Mary, mother of Christ, Georgie, you’ve become a bit of a bloody bore.’
‘Sorry?’ asked Germain.
Markham was unaware that he’d spoken. It was having identified Aramon that saved him. ‘I said to watch for that cleric, sir. He’s a bit of a bore.’
‘Well, since he’s a papist, we shall ply him with the Thirty-Nine Articles, and see how he takes a jest.’
That earned Germain another sideways look. Those were the articles of his father’s faith, and they had caused him nothing but trouble all his life. But the youngster killed any suspicion by his next remark.
‘Give him your sword, Markham. He ranks as a bishop, don’t you know, in our church.’
Markham pulled his sword from its scabbard, and as Aramon followed de Puy up the side, he raised it till the blade stood upright between his eyes, at the same time calling his men sharply to attention. As the face appeared, he felt there was some doubt if Aramon had ever been greeted in such a manner. But his countenance betrayed no surprise. He took the compliment of a military salute as nothing more than his due.
‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ cried Germain, stepping forward, his hands outstretched. ‘You stand as the first non-naval visitor to my ship, and therefore make the circumstance memorable.’
Aramon held out his hand to be kissed. It was either an oversight or a deliberate piece of clerical condescension. Whichever, it was wasted on the young commander. He merely grasped the outstretched hand and shook it vigorously.
‘Allow me to present to you Lieutenant Markham, sir.’
‘You should know that I have met the officer before.’
‘Indeed! Then will you inspect his men?’
Aramon made no attempt to keep the distaste out of his voice.
‘They too I have met before, Captain. And it has been my misfortune to see too much of their slovenliness. I am unlikely in any way to be impressed by a sudden dab of polish.’
Behind Aramon, Colonel le Comte de Puy was sucking hard on his teeth. He stepped forward smartly, almost brushing the Monsignor aside, and lifting his hat in salute, addressed Germain. ‘The duty of inspection falls to me, Captain, as the military part of this small embassy.’
‘Of course,’ Germain replied, clearly somewhat confused.
De Puy stepped forward, and by acknowledging Markham’s salute permitted him to lower his sword. Then, with the marine officer one pace behind, he carried out the inspection like a royal prince, addressing several men by name, and with many a jaundiced reference to the duty they suffered on the Royal Louis Battery. The Lobsters responded in kind, having taken to de Puy while serving with him, naming him a true gent.
‘I have refreshments waiting in my cabin,’ said Germain, as soon as he finished. ‘I would be obliged if you would join us, Lieutenant Markham.’
‘Is that strictly necessary?’ hissed Aramon.
‘Why it is essential, sir,’ Germain said, his thin eyebrows rising. ‘Apart from myself, Mr Markham is the only commissioned officer on the ship. I can hardly listen to your proposal, or conceive of acting on it, without both his opinion, and his active participation.’
‘Proposal,’ Markham thought. ‘What bloody proposal.’
Aramon seemed to fill the cabin. He was a big man. But it was the way he spread himself that counted, as though no one else in the place was entitled to any consideration. Germain, behind his desk, was fine. But de Puy and Markham were pushed against the two cannon that stood either side, eventually required to sit on them to avoid standing in a half stoop. Wine was poured and tasted. That at least seemed to the cleric’s satisfaction, as he grunted with approval.
‘I’m curious, Monsignor, of how you came to know so much about my orders?’
‘You should not be, Captain Germain.’ The recipient of this preened slightly at the title. ‘Even if Calvi was not a hotbed of rumour, few good sons of the church would dare to prevaricate when I tax them with a direct enquiry.’
‘Which was it?’ asked Markham.
That interjection earned him a look from Germain that told him, in no uncertain terms, not to interrupt. It was quite interesting to note how commanding he could be when he wished it, the green eyes narrowing and the bones of his thin cheeks becoming much more prominent. It was as well to remember that this stripling had been at sea for years, and had probably served a good few of them as someone’s First Lieutenant. The fact that the Monsignor ignored the same question came as no surprise. He’d taken to ignoring Markham after only a short, awkward acquaintance.
‘And what is it you seek?’
‘The recovery of something extremely valuable.’
‘Valuable is a very inexact term, Monsignor.’
Aramon parried him expertly. ‘Extremely is not, Captain.’
‘And I can be of service in this?’
‘You have the means to carry the Comte de Puy and I to where we need to be, the coast of France.’
‘This item of extreme value is there?’
‘Not on the coast. It is some way inland.’
‘You could hire a ship to take you there.’
‘We may wish to be taken off again, sure that what we have recovered will get to its proper destination.’ Aramon sat forward suddenly, his voice dropping an octave, as if he was imparting a secret. ‘And if we succeed in our aim, it would be in your own interest as well as that of your country. We are as one in our desire to defeat the forces of Revolution, are we not?’
‘Of course.’
‘Quite apart from any personal gain, you will receive the gratitude of all Europe, as well as that of your own government, when you transport us to our next port of call.’
‘Which is?’
Aramon sat back and smiled, waving an admonitory finger before picking up his wine. ‘One thing at a time, young man.’
Germain bridled at that. He was young compared to the others in the room. But he was also Master and Commander of the Syilphide, newly promoted, and that made him sensitive. Aramon, his face deep in the goblet, didn’t notice. De Puy did, and sought once more to cover up for the cleric’s manner.
‘You come to us highly recommended as a most zealous officer, Captain Germain. If you will consent to the transport of the Monsignor, myself and my men.’
‘Your men?’ Germain interrupted, in a quiet voice.
There was a degree of uncertainty in the way that de Puy nodded, accompanied by a quick glance at Aramon, as if what was being discussed should have already been agreed. Markham, watching carefully, was confused. If Germain was hearing their proposal for the first time, nothing should be settled. But then he’d been subjected to an odd feeling previously, in the way that his new commander had reacted to the news of the Monsignor’s arrival.
‘I cannot consent to take a party of soldiers aboard.’
‘Even for such a short journey?’
Germain became quite animated, arms waving and eyes bright, in the way a man does when he is unsure that what he is saying deserves to be believed.
‘Do not be deceived by looking at a map, sir. This is the sea. We are subject to wind and weather. A journey that, on land, would take a mere two days, could, at sea, take a week. You will have observed that the ship is not spacious, and you will also have seen, on the deck, that the crew is numerous.’
That provided another reason for suspicion in Markham’s mind. Even he knew that with a reasonable wind, the coast of France was no further away than a day’s sailing.
‘It is scarcely possible that what we seek can be recovered without the aid of an armed escort,’ said Aramon. ‘First, we must land in, and traverse what to us is hostile territory. Then, having recovered what it is we seek, we must re-embark on your vessel. Can we achieve that without some news of our presence becoming known?’
‘I shouldn’t be concerned on that score, Monsignor.’ He looked at Markham and smiled. ‘We have the means to provide you with armed assistance.’
Aramon followed his gaze, his dark brown eyes ranging over the marine lieutenant in a way that made Markham bridle.
‘I would need to confer with Monsieur de Puy.’
Germain was off his seat in a flash, head bent to avoid the low deckbeams. ‘Please use my cabin. Mr Markham and I will take a turn around the deck.’
He had his hand on Markham’s elbow, and was hustling him out before anyone could speak. On deck, it was now clear of marines, and those sailors working moved away to leeward as Germain made for the windward rail. This, on any ship, was the preserve of the captain, his to walk in peace and tranquillity whenever he chose. The fact that on Syilphide it measured not more than ten feet from poop to gangway did not distract from the obvious pleasure Germain took in claiming it.
‘He’s a rum cove that priest, don’t you think, Markham.’
‘He is more than that. He’s devious and self serving, and to my mind, totally untrustworthy.’
‘You know more of priests than I,’ Germain replied, before adding hurriedly. ‘Being Irish, of course.’
‘Not just priests.’ It was the tone rather than the words that stopped Germain. He looked at his marine lieutenant quizzically, before Markham added. ‘It would be nice, sir, to be aware of what is going on.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Yes you do,’ said Markham, with some asperity. ‘You knew Aramon was coming, knew he had a proposal, and for all I can tell, were well aware of the nature of it before he set foot in your cabin.’
There was a slight smile playing on the corners of Germain’s lips. ‘Now it’s me that you make sound devious and self serving.’
‘Are you?’
‘I admit to a hint of deviousness. But my aim is to serve my king and country, rather than myself.’ He began pacing again, somewhat faster than before, forcing Markham to follow suit. ‘You are right, of course. Aramon approached me ashore. I admit that he came out here quicker than I supposed, though I ought to have guessed, him being an ardent sort. Still …’
Markham cut across him, ignoring the convention that stated he should remain silent while a superior officer was speaking.
‘He needs de Puy for whatever it is he has planned. The Colonel wants his men. It is your job to persuade him that my Lobsters can do a better job than his own soldiers.’
Germain was looking at him quizzically, not sure whether to be pleased or angry. ‘I shall have to watch you, Markham. I had you down as game, and I reckoned you sharp-witted. But not quite the stropped razor, if you get my drift.’
‘Which one of the two induced you to ask for me personally?’
Germain turned away abruptly at that, leaving his marine lieutenant to speculate that it was probably neither.
‘I have a job to do, orders to obey. It just so happens that Aramon’s proposition accords with those. There is nothing to say that I can’t land shore parties, in fact I could well be damned if I don’t. You heard what he said. That which he seeks is not far inland, though he keeps the actual location close.’
‘It would be better to know what it is, don’t you think?’
‘He won’t say.’
Germain had responded ruefully, before dropping his voice to a near whisper that became more eager the more he spoke. He seemed totally unaware that by saying that he’d admitted to prior knowledge.
‘But he keeps harping on about the value. I reckon it to be some kind of treasure. He was at Avignon before fleeing to save his neck, a small detail that I did wheedle out of him. That was a papal palace once, rich as Croesus, even by a Papist yardstick. You know these places, stuffed to the lintels with precious articles. Gawd, even the everyday plate they use can be worth a mint.’
‘So you intend to put me ashore to find and gift to Aramon the poss
essions which he deems so extremely valuable, before transporting him to where he wants to go. That seems a rather commercial approach to duty, sir.’
‘Find and take possession of, Markham! And if it is legitimate booty we will do so on behalf of the King of England. We might well find ourselves handing both Aramon and his treasure over to Lord Hood to decide what happens next. That will earn us both a feather for our caps. And perhaps, if what we find is big enough, a reward somewhat greater than that hinted at by the priest.’
Markham had the feeling that it mattered little what Aramon recovered. Germain would take it to Hood anyway, less concerned by the value than by the proof it would provide of his diligence. There might be advantage for him there too, a chance to produce that stroke that Nelson alluded to, one that might allow him to request a favour from Hood; that if he was promoted, he could take his men with him.
‘So we are going to steal it?’ he said, wickedly.
‘Good God, no!’ exclaimed Germain. ‘I will not indulge in theft. It grieves me that you think of me in those terms, Markham. I certainly have a higher regard for you.’
‘You mustn’t go supposing the notion of theft bothers me, sir. Relieving that stuck up bastard of his possessions will make both my Lobsters, as well as the officer who leads them, very happy.’
Aramon had consumed half the contents of the wine flask by the time they returned to the cabin, though that induced no more than a slight flush on his dark olive cheeks. De Puy looked more unsettled. He wasn’t, by nature, a happy man; Markham knew that, just as he knew that Aramon always seemed to depress him even further. But now he was more downcast than ever, the fact that he had acquiesced in what was being demanded of him fairly obvious, given the self-satisfied air of his clerical companion.
‘The captain accepts that you possess too little space to transport his men. I have pointed out the obvious to him. That to take a hired vessel and his soldiers would leave us at the mercy of men unknown to us, men on whom we might not be able to rely to fully aid us. That, I am happy to say does not apply in the confines of a British warship.’
Honour Be Damned Page 5
