Markham clenched his jaw, but Germain, of a fairer complexion, blushed, a fact of which he was aware since he covered it with a fine outpouring of modesty. The Monsignor continued, with his head shaking and his voice carrying an air of slight disbelief.
‘And it has to be said, the prospect of relying on Lieutenant Markham and his men does not seem to trouble him unduly.’
Germain responded quickly. ‘I intend to sail at sunset, Monsignor, my orders demand it. I will go whether you are aboard or not.’
Markham suppressed a smile. He doubted if Germain had received any such orders, other than the general instruction from Admiral Hood to cruise off the southern French shores. He was keen to be off for two very good reasons. The first was to demonstrate his zeal, the second to be away from a gossipy shore, one that might just leak information regarding his unorthodox arrangements. That would certainly bring down on him unwelcome questions, as well as interference from his superiors. It might even lead to a strict command to desist.
‘We are ready to come aboard now,’ stated Aramon.
‘Then we are agreed,’ Germain said. ‘We will transport you to France, help you recover the property you seek, then transport you to your destination.’
The Monsignor smacked his lips in approval. De Puy nodded slowly, failing to respond to the eagerness in Germain’s look. Only Markham kept his head still. He had, in his mind, a nagging need to register his doubts, not least the obvious one that no actual reward had been mentioned. Clearly that was another fact that Germain and Aramon had discussed between themselves. And they had no intention of sharing the figure with anyone else. Then there was the thought of going ashore on a hostile coast, not to hit and run, but to head inland to a degree as yet unstated.
But that was being overborne by a twinge of excitement. He hated to be still, and though well aware that he could, if he wished, decline to serve with Germain, he knew he’d be forced to leave his men behind if he decided to stay in Corsica. And then there was the prospect of what duty he might be offered in place of this. Markham had enjoyed a degree of independence since coming out to the Mediterranean, both in Toulon and on Corsica, one to which his rank scarcely entitled him.
The notion of that freedom being curtailed, of his serving as a subordinate marine officer aboard a ship of the line, was not a happy prospect. What Germain was proposing to do might be hare-brained and even illegal. But it was movement, tinged with risk and adventure. And then, to a man who had enjoyed a degree of comfort and had lost it, there was always the prospect, once he’d wormed a figure out of his captain, of a little bit of profit.
Aramon was seen over the side with as much ceremony as had attended his arrival, this time, at Germain’s insistence, in the Syilphide’s own cutter. The newly appointed commander did not wish either man to communicate with anyone they didn’t have to.
‘Mr Fletcher, I would ask you to shape me a course that will take us to the southwest. Once out of sight of land, we will want to box the compass for a while.’
He was aware of Markham looking at him, aware of the unstated questions that were forming in the marine officer’s mind.
‘I must work up the crew a bit, Markham,’ he continued quietly. ‘They are all seamen, I know. But they have been gathered from any number of ships. Nothing in my experience leads me to believe that those who gave them up passed on to me their best men. Some of them are bound to be right hard bargains. I would see them work as a unit before we head for the French coast. God forbid that we should turn into an enemy ship without them knowing what it is I require of them.’
‘It is merely a bonus then, that a few days delay will provide a good opportunity to pump the good Monsignor about where it is he wants to go?’
‘I admire you, Markham,’ Germain responded, though his tone of voice made such a proposition sound doubtful, ‘and for a variety of reasons. But please try to remember that I am your superior officer.’
‘I can be sure, sir,’ Markham replied, matching Germain’s asperity, ‘that if I forget, you will be there to remind me.’
Chapter five
The first shock, when the party they were to transport returned aboard, was the sheer numbers. De Puy was not to be allowed any of his soldiers, but Monsignor Aramon saw no reason why he should forego any of his own comforts. He brought his servants, three sturdy clear-eyed men, and it seemed, all of his possessions. And that included his charge, the young lady to whom he stood as ‘guardian’.
She came aboard wearing a veil that hid her features, accompanied by an extensive wardrobe, a box containing a musical instrument and a young Negro maid who moved with stunning grace. Thus her face, which had only ever been glimpsed in a heavily shaded distance, remained a mystery to Markham and his men, a fact that had led to no end of speculation.
Germain hopped about from foot to foot, caught between his desire to question her presence, while at the same time seeking to appear gallant. He also had a deep need to impress this member of the opposite sex with a demonstration of his newly acquired authority, which led to a string of contradictory and useless orders. Aramon watched this with wry amusement, before condescending to offer an introduction.
‘Allow me to present to you, Captain Germain, Mademoiselle Ghislane Moulins. I am responsible for both her spiritual and physical well-being. As I shall not be returning to Corsica, she must, as I’m sure you understand, travel with me.’
The response, ‘Quite!’ was accompanied by a deep blush.
What followed was a continuation of the comedy. Talking about Aramon, Markham had passed on to Germain what he and his men suspected regarding the cleric’s domestic arrangements, which rendered the young lady in a certain light. But she was on his deck, having been introduced as a thoroughly respectable person. The young commander of the Syilphide didn’t quite know what to do, so that the bow was only half the depth he intended, while his voice, mouthing ‘charmed’ sounded decidedly gruff and carnal.
‘You will forgive me,’ he continued, almost stuttering. ‘I must be about my duties.’
‘If you will permit me, sir,’ said Markham. ‘I will see that the young lady is properly accommodated.’
The look that received spoke volumes. It was common gossip in the fleet that Markham was a gambler and a rake, a ne’er do well who had, just before joining his ship, fought and killed the husband of one of his lovers in a Finsbury Park duel. He was the very last person who should be left to care for a woman, one who, since she was still termed Mademoiselle, must be of tender years. Germain’s pinched expression at this invasion of his prerogative was matched by Aramon’s sharp rejoinder.
‘The lady has my own trusted servants, as well as Monsieur le Comte de Puy, to carry out that task, Lieutenant!’
‘Quite!’ Germain gasped, before finally scurrying away.
The master, Mr Conmorran, a portly and cheerful individual, stepped into the breach. He saw the servants and the luggage taken below and escorted Mademoiselle Moulins and her male companions to the main cabin. Then, after a long talk with Germain, they worked out a satisfactory arrangement regarding who would sleep where, a matter that involved a great deal of shifting about.
Germain was as good as his word. They were at sea before nightfall. The Syilphide’s crew had worked flat out during the remainder of the day to load the only thing the captured sloop was short on, powder to fire the cannon. Shot was less of a problem, its small calibre guns providing balls too light for the recent defence of the fortress.
Aramon and his charge were in one half of Germain’s cabin, while de Puy had to be given a berth in the tiny wardroom. Markham, not required like the midshipmen to stand a watch, offered to shift himself to a screened off cot on the main deck. The cleric then, without protest, abrogated to himself the right to the windward side of the deck without bothering to ask for permission. The young commander put this down to ignorance, a conclusion with which Markham could not agree.
Dinner, taken late to accommodate the guest
s, was a cramped affair, even with only five people around the table. Aramon’s servants and the Negro maid had been banished to the gunner’s quarters to take their meals, which had led to a long moan on ‘things not being right,’ from the man so burdened. It was, according to the warrant holder, bad enough with foreign types to contend with. But the addition of a female, and a black at that, who was ‘like to excite the hands’ was ‘coming it too high’.
Germain, not wishing to commence his commission on a sour note, had tried being emollient first. Jocularity was second and an appeal to camaraderie third. When that failed he finally lost his temper and sent the still grumbling gunner off with a flea in his ear.
It was in that harassed manner that he sat down to dinner. The night air was hot, enough to make anyone perspire, the scents Ghislane Moulins had applied filling the cabin air enough to disturb the men present. But Markham and Germain had the added burden of discovering that the young lady was, without her veil, a very pretty creature indeed.
Her skin was pale olive and flawless, with just a hint of that excess of flesh that goes with female youth, the eyes large dark brown orbs. She spoke little, revealing strong white teeth under full lips, and only really employed more than two consecutive words when Aramon addressed a question directly to her, the voice made to sound more thin and nervous by her guardian’s brusque, slightly hectoring tone.
Markham knew that any hint of gallantry on his part would be squashed, so, in that department, he left the field clear for Germain. That proved unwise. The young man proved totally incapable of even the rudiments of dalliance. When not boasting, any questions he posed to her were either rhetorical and short, or so long-winded as to be abstract in the extreme. He then launched into a long and tedious explanation of what training he had in mind for the ship’s crew, apologising in advance for the discomfort and the noise this would create. Designed to make the young lady feel relaxed, everything he attempted clearly had the opposite effect.
De Puy evoked greater curiosity. Markham knew about women. He liked and admired them, while well aware that his interest had often led him into trouble. He would have had a lot more if he hadn’t possessed the very necessary ability to assess how other men responded to their presence. The Frenchman rarely took his eyes off the young lady. And his expression, though admiring, also carried with it that extra tinge of gloom that Markham had witnessed whenever he returned for dinner with Aramon. His position, sitting to one side of her, made it more obvious to the observer than the subject. But her guardian must be aware of it too, even if the cleric showed no sign of having noticed.
Germain, finally aware that his pleasantries were falling on stony ground, instead began to interrogate the Monsignor. He had all the enthusiasm of his youth, and a hide thick enough to deflect Aramon’s evident annoyance at being subjected to constant questions. It was interesting to watch the youngster’s mind at work. He probed with what he considered to be deep artifice for some clue at to what it was the man was after. But he was up against a much more sophisticated opponent, who never let slip any detail that was not a deliberate leak designed to excite or tease.
But it was during that duel of wits that the young Ghislane showed the first hint of vitality. As Germain probed and Aramon fielded, her eyes darted between them, her lips occasionally pursing, he assumed at either the temerity of a question or the sharp response it received. Altogether such animation showed her in a more flattering light. It was some time before she noticed how closely the man opposite was watching her. She responded with a sniff of disapproval, and a glare, to the slight smile of interest on Markham’s face.
Aramon heard the sniff and followed the direction of the look. But George Markham was too experienced to be caught out. He was already gone, engaging de Puy in a discussion of how General Stuart had humbugged his fellow countrymen; of how d’Issillen must have felt at surrendering to so few, fever-ridden troops. Engaging him fully was hard work, since his attention kept wandering towards the young lady. But Markham stuck at it until the port had done the rounds and the dinner could reasonably end. His final task, before retiring for the night, was to check on the well being of his men, and to forewarn Rannoch of a busy day on the morrow.
On deck he paused, to let the heat and fug of the small cabin clear from his head. The night was clear, the sky a mass of stars, with the ship sailing easy on a gentle but steady breeze. It was simple to imagine that this was not a posting but a cruise, a privilege to be enjoyed by a wealthy man who had hired a yacht for his own amusement. There was even the remembered smell of a woman to go with the tang of the sea. Perfect to imagine, as long as you removed Aramon, Germain and de Puy from the reverie.
The Monsignor’s servants had also come up from below to escape the ’tween-deck heat. They sat on the forepeak in shirtsleeves, talking, shadow-boxing and occasionally laughing. Their shape, a uniform height and fitness, struck Markham as odd.
Servants normally came in varying sizes, short, tall, fat and thin. It was rare that they had any physical grace whatsoever, once you took them away from the place in which they were most comfortable, the house of their master. These men were different. But then Markham reasoned that they must serve a dual function to a wealthy travelling cleric, acting perhaps as bodyguards.
Reluctantly he went below, sensing immediately the warmth and odour of packed humanity, mixed with the smell of bilge. Ducking low at the bottom of the companionway, and entering on to the mess deck, Markham had the distinct impression that he was interrupting something. All serving men, of whatever kind, were adept at avoiding too much attention from officers. But normality in an encampment, or here in the cramped area that provided both living a sleeping accommodation to seamen and marines, entailed a certain amount of bustle.
In the small quantity of light provided by the ship’s lanterns, everyone appeared to be standing so still that Markham felt as if he was witnessing a tableau, as though they’d stopped dead as soon as someone had seen his legs descending the ladder.
‘Sergeant Rannoch?’ Markham called, peering into the gloom.
‘Here.’
Rannoch stepped forward, ducking below the crossbeams because of his height. He was, like nearly everyone else, stripped to the waist, his muscled torso gleaming with sweat, the pallid white of his body in sharp contrast to the bright red of his face and neck. Markham looked past him, observing that his men were bunched on one side of the deck, while the more numerous tars filled the other. More telling than that was the clear gap in between.
‘I came below to warn you that we are set for a busy day tomorrow. Mr Germain is keen to work up the crew, and I fear our exploits at Calvi so impressed him that he will certainly demand that we repeat our boarding exploits.’
‘It will be warm work, right enough.’
Markham was close to Rannoch now, and able to whisper so that only he could hear. ‘Is everything as it should be?’
Rannoch, when he replied, didn’t look him in the eye. The Highlander hated officers as a breed, and never failed to exchange an insolent stare with one in order that they should be aware if it. Having observed this, Markham took as a mark of respect that the man normally treated him with some deference.
He had, though, opined on more than one occasion, in a voice larded with irony, that this superior was such a poor specimen that he hardly rated the title. And Rannoch held on to certain habits so that mutual esteem was never sacrificed. For Markham to get an acknowledgement of his rank without there being present another officer, was like drawing teeth from a bad-tempered elephant.
But the Highlander brought the same passion to the care of those he led, and that, to Markham, forgave a great deal. They’d clashed on first meeting. But shared danger, and the knowledge that his superior was intent on keeping his men alive rather than getting them killed in pursuit of personal glory, had softened that to something that was more akin to friendship.
‘Apart for the heat, which is no good to man nor beast in the article of s
lumber.’
There had been some kind of dispute going on, of that Markham was certain. The whole mess deck reeked of it, a feeling of trouble so all pervasive as to be almost tangible. And no great wit was required to see where the lines were drawn.
‘Heat is not much good for short tempers, either.’
That did make Rannoch look him in the eye. But there was no deference or regard there, just a blank stare that was designed to tell him that what was happening was none of his business. Markham knew he should withdraw, turn a blind eye, to leave whatever was going on to the men concerned. But he couldn’t help himself, seeing that his Lobsters were outnumbered by at least three to one, and that was without the presence of the watch on duty.
‘Captain Germain strikes me as a bit of a flogger. He is also keen to see how we all perform. So he’ll want to see all his men, Lobsters and tars, fit and well, ready for duty, as soon as he’s downed his breakfast.’
‘That is his right,’ said Rannoch formally.
‘Then let us not disappoint him. It would be a shame to start the opening day of his first independent cruise with some poor creature rigged to the grating.’
Markham had taken one step up the companionway as he said this, which allowed him to look over Rannoch’s shoulder. His eyes flicked to the item each man was carrying, a chain here, a mess kid there, and one or two with half-knotted ropes; innocent enough if you didn’t anticipate trouble. His own men were very close to their muskets, and he had to hope they would get the message as he deliberately addressed the sailors.
‘But he’ll flog every man jack of you if he has to, even if the man who heads your division pleads your case. He has guests aboard and will not stand to be embarrassed.’
That pleading part only made sense if you accepted his presence. He was telling the sailors that he had seen and understood what was happening; that any mark on one of his own men would lead to an enquiry, one in which he would be bound take the side of those he led. It wasn’t the commander who would see them flogged, but him. Some shoulders slumped, a release of tension that spread rapidly, and to avoid his stare men began to shuffle around. He was tempted to take Rannoch up with him, to read him the riot act and cap a stopper on any trouble. But that might undermine the man. He had no way of knowing for certain whether his sergeant had been just about to start a fight, or just about to stop one.
Honour Be Damned Page 6
