‘Sleep,’ he said loudly, ‘and that is an order.’
Rannoch nodded, and then turned away. ‘You heard what the good lieutenant said. Get your heads down.’
Later, lying in his cot, Markham ruminated over that, as well as the events of the day. And much as he tried to avoid it, on his past, which intruded constantly. The image of Ghislane Moulins was at the forefront of his consciousness, though it inevitably faded into a more distant vision, to that of the first girl he’d ever paid court to.
He always had to shut his eyes tight then, to blur out the way his imagination led him to her death, the flames that had consumed Flora Imrie and her family inevitably mixed with the sound on fury of the battle he’d left in an attempt to save them.
Had Germain asked for him personally because, even to someone bearing his name, George Markham had a worse reputation? The more he nagged at that thought the more annoyed he became. He’d been branded a coward at the Battle of Guilford. Lord George Germain had been called the same at the Battle of Minden, and for much the same reason; leaving the field.
Yet there was difference. George Markham had been a fifteen-year-old ensign, Germain the commander of the King’s cavalry. He had faced a court martial, which had acquitted him; Germain had escaped even that, and carried on a political career, merely taking the title Lord Sackville, as if nothing untoward had happened.
There was no escaping the past though, and his own reaction to his new commander’s surname proved it. The Markham name had stood proud before he’d besmirched it, with a father who’d risen from humble soldier to full general. He’d been elevated initially for his outstanding bravery at the siege of Cartagena, and from that famous siege had accumulated enough money to purchase his way up the promotion ladder.
Yet the old man had kept a firm grip on the common touch, and had never allowed neighbourly disapproval, a potent force in the Wexford military district he commanded, to stop him acknowledging his bastard son. Nor had he paid the slightest heed to the wagging tongues of the local Catholics, making a point of visiting the boy’s mother on a regular basis, and acting, within the walls of her house, as if they were a normal family.
He’d been appointed Governor of New York during the American war, and it was his influence that had gained illegitimate George his commission. It was only later the youngster discovered that the Colonel of the 65th foot had owed General Markham a good deal of money. Still he was in the army, with a promising future that all went to pieces in the forests of Carolina. His father had arranged his court martial as well, which was why no one took the acquittal seriously.
So, would future Markhams carry the stigma of his name in the same way as Germain? Would there be young Markhams to worry about? That thought led to a review of the possibilities, each woman he’d made love to, and those with whom he’d failed, appearing in a whirring catalogue of faces and bodies, dressed and naked, which brought him right back to Ghislane Moulins.
‘You keep your pego in your breeches, Georgie,’ he said quietly to himself, one hand running across the prominent bones on his face, fingers rubbing at the numerous scars.
His thoughts were at odds with his whispered admonition. She was a pretty creature. And he, if not quite classically handsome himself, knew that he had good-enough looks and the wit to interest most women. ‘Sure, she’s only a bairn,’ was the last thought he had, as he drifted into sleep.
Though still hot in the morning, there was at sea a breeze to keep them from frying, though it was not one, as Germain explained, to favour a swift passage to the French coast. Aramon, who had come on deck early, while it was still being swabbed, looked pointedly at the sun over the larboard rail, as if to say he new they were sailing south, not north. With a new crew on an unfamiliar ship, and plenty to keep them occupied, Germain had a good excuse to avoid further explanation by demanding that his guests stay clear of the deck. He was, he explained, a modern young officer, who believed in training his men for every eventuality.
So, as Aramon and his party sweltered below decks, there were mock alarms, with the drums beating to quarters twice in every watch. The guns were loosed, hauled out and fired in dumb show, the expense of powder to actually shoot at targets beyond the captain’s means.
‘One prize will see to that, Markham,’ he cried, as his men piled into the cutter for the fourth time. ‘A decent merchantman will provide either the means or the money. And if I can’t lay alongside an enemy ship, I know the value of your Lobsters when it comes to boarding from a boat.’
Markham’s men, without the presence of their officer, practised that too. An opposed boarding followed the swift entry to the cutter, with half the crew using padded capstan bars and marlin to fend off the mock attackers. Their officer watched them carefully, keeping in mind the events of last night, as well as Germain’s supposition; that asked to cull the crew of one fighting ship to man the new captures, few captains would strip out their best men.
He was half convinced that some of those who fought most heartily in a rehearsal would prove the most shy in a real action. They were also the type to cause most of the ’tween decks trouble. Germain, he noticed, watched with as much care, constantly turning to the junior midshipman, Booker, requiring him to make a note in the ledger he carried.
There was animosity between the Lobsters and tars on any ship, and any given chance to clip each other round the ear without fear of punishment was never one to be passed up. But what Markham saw here was an excessive dimension to the dislike, an extra effort in each blow that stood as a determined attempt to make a point. After a few rehearsals it wasn’t hard to see that Bellamy was the main target of the sailors, while his own men made great efforts to get between the Negro and those who were clearly after him.
His own ineptitude was more to blame for the blows he did receive, rather than any failure by the rest of the Lobsters. Being late in boarding, he left himself isolated. When required to re-enter the cutter for another attempt, he was always last to the rail. This, on one occasion, when the tars thought no one was looking, earned Bellamy a vicious jab from a pike that send him flying over the side. Only Rannoch’s strength and speed saved him from landing headfirst. The laugh that followed, rippling across the deck, must have wounded the Negro more than anything. He was a proud individual, too much so for his own well being, and humiliation was the one thing he couldn’t stand.
But he was far from being a good fighter, lacking that instinct that can turn even the most passive soul into an animal. Markham knew that self-preservation was where it started. But in a professional fighter it went on from that, to become a feeling of pride in ability for its own sake, a cold-blooded determination that in a scrap, it was the other man who would die, not you.
He couldn’t interfere, but Markham was angry. He’d managed to isolate the four main culprits who made it their business to go after Bellamy, often passing up on an easier target in the process. His request that he partake of the next boarding was readily agreed to, and wrapping canvas around his sword, he dropped down into the cutter, his eyes meeting those of Rannoch as the sailors rowing the boat pulled away from the side. The Highlander gave him a slow smile, then addressed the Lobsters.
‘We will be required to perform to perfection with Mr Markham aboard, lads. It would be a hellish thing to do, to let him down. So go aboard with right good intent, and let us drive those sodomitical tars from their own deck.’
Rannoch’s eyes flicked along those sailors rowing the cutter, as if challenging them to disagree, before alighting on those of his officer. Then he winked.
‘Look sharp this time, Bellamy,’ Rannoch said.
Markham gave the order to close with the Syilphide then took a tight grip on his sword. The blade he would use flat, but the guard was just the thing to aid a punch. As the boat struck, he was the first up the side. The tars were shy of trying too hard to stop an officer, which allowed him get on to the deck with ease. He knew what he was about as he plunged into the sailors,
shoving aside several as he made for those awaiting the arrival of Bellamy. The Negro was barely out of the boat, aware that four pairs of eyes were on him, and anticipating the blows that would be coming his way.
Markham’s sword took the back marker right across the crown of his head, felling him immediately. Then he was amongst them, cursing and swearing as he slashed right and left to break up their formation. One got the guard right under the nose, he was poleaxed in a spraying cloud of blood; the third, dropping low to jab at his belly, got Markham’s boot right on the chin. The last man swung his pike, and did make contact, though the officer fell more in expectation of the blow than any strength it had. As he hit the deck, Markham swung a leg that took the pikeman’s feet from under him. He was upright in a flash, the canvas tipped point of his blade pressed on the sailor’s neck.
‘Single out one of my men again, and the next time you see this, you bastard, it will be naked steel.’
‘My god, Markham, you’re a scrapper,’ called Germain. ‘Play-acting is clearly not your forte after all. You must have a care, sir. I cannot afford to have men on the sick list.’
He held the blade where it was, as he replied, his chest heaving from his exertions. ‘I have had the good fortune to mix with theatre people, sir. And they are all of the opinion that only total belief in the part will sustain a performance.’
The voice dropped as he said his parting words to the recumbent sailor. ‘And I’ll act on you so well, you’ll be lucky to have limbs enough to warrant a berth in Greenwich Hospital.’
Markham spun away, and as he did so he saw Bellamy, well to the rear of his fellow Lobsters, dancing around disengaged, jabbing with his musket at the fresh air, pretending to look for a target while actually avoiding contact, which made him wonder if his intervention had been worthwhile.
‘Belay!’ shouted Germain. ‘That was the best yet, all of you. But it is time for a rest. Mr Booker, you may tell the bosun to pipe the hands to dinner.’
The officer’s dinner not yet being ready, de Puy was allowed on deck for fencing practice, and since that freed the poop, Germain invited the rest of Aramon’s party to take the air. Given that the Monsignor was unhappy about their course, there was little actual conversation. He stood his servants around him, taking a keen interest in the techniques being displayed.
They ceased when dinner was called. Germain excused himself with the need to consult with the master, so taking his meal in Conmorran’s tiny deck cabin. The following day it was his midshipmen. Clearly he had no intention of engaging in more communal dinners where he would be bound to face questions about his intentions.
And he kept everyone alert. He did this by creating alarms, pretending either the threat of an attack or a sudden change of course and sail. His aim seemed to be to exhaust everyone aboard, sailors and passengers, since, with half of these taking place during the hours of darkness, no one could sleep through the noise and commotion of the ship clearing for action.
But it had to be said he did not spare himself. Finally, after four days, a red-eyed Master and Commander pronounced himself satisfied, tinkered with the watches to balance his crew, then called Aramon on deck. There the cleric was required to witness his turn to the north, the prow set for the coast of France, his yards almost fore and aft to take advantage of the quartering west wind.
‘She’s a handsome sailer. Don’t you reckon, Markham?’
‘Very good on a bowline,’ Markham replied, using an expression he’d heard aboard another vessel.
‘Well spotted, sir,’ Germain cried. ‘It’s not often a Lobster appreciates how close a ship can carry the wind. My Syilphide will still hold it eleven points free. What do you say to that, sir!’
Markham had very little idea of what the youngster was talking about. But he knew how naval officers felt about their ships. They spoke of them as a man might talk of a chaste and beautiful wife, even if the creature in question was a toothless, whey-faced wanton. Germain was no different. He would be blind to any fault in his new command. At least he seemed to be satisfied with the single word Markham employed.
‘Amazing!’
‘We will be well to the north of Cap Corse before the first dog watch. Then we must keep our eyes peeled, for it is there, between Marseilles and the Italian states that we might pick up a prize.’
‘I think a day’s rest might be in order, sir.’
‘I daresay you have the right of it, Markham. I am puffed myself from our exertions. We shall have a capital dinner tonight, and an uninterrupted night’s sleep.’
The voice, sounding disembodied, floated down from aloft. ‘Sail, capt’n, fine on the larboard bow.’
Chapter six
Germain was taking no chances. These were hostile waters and he beat to quarters immediately. Suddenly the deck was, once again, full of running sailors. And from below decks came the crashing sound as the ship was cleared fore and aft. In the main cabin, the officers’ servants were busy breaking down the furniture so that it could be struck down into the hold, while the carpenter and his mates hammered out the wedges that held the walls in place. These too were struck down below, and the crews assigned the cabin guns were at last free to cast them off from the tight breechings that held them to the hull.
‘Mr Fletcher, we will have a French pennant at the masthead if you please. They may well know this ship. What they will not know is the fact that she has been taken.’
Markham wasn’t aware that he’d pulled a face. But he must have, since Germain addressed something that was to a professional soldier, anathema.
‘It is a legitimate ruse of war, Markham, but only in the approach. As long as I haul down that pennant before we open fire, I will have acted properly.’
‘I give way to your greater experience in these matters,’ Markham replied.
‘Boarding nets, sir?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Not yet! Let’s see what we have first.’
On the lower deck the gunner shooed his enforced guests out of the way, sending them to make out as best they could in the sail room, while he made sure the blankets covering his private domain were good and wet, so that the risk of a spark was minimised. Then he set to making up the charges necessary to fire the guns. Men were busy in the shot locker, passing out the freshly chipped six-pounder balls which were manhandled on to the deck, there to be laid in the rope garlands which would hold them against the pitch and roll of the ship. The youngsters, powder monkeys, ran from below in a constant stream, laying the canvas charges where the loader could get at them.
In the galley the one-legged cook dowsed the fire under his coppers, then joined with the armourer, working to ensure that cutlass blades were razor sharp, and that pike points were fine enough to penetrate human flesh. Rannoch was checking on the muskets, Markham’s men lined up between the mainmast and the waist, awaiting instructions. The person who would give them, the Honourable George Germain, stood by the rail, telescope in hand, waiting to pick up a sight of what the man aloft had spotted. Midshipman Booker had joined him at the crosstrees and he was calling down a stream of information, first identifying the approaching vessel as a merchantman, then sending a frisson of anticipation and excitement through the ship by pronouncing it to be French.
‘Is he coming on, Mr Booker?’
‘He is, sir. If he’s spied the tricolour pennant, you have completely fooled him.’
‘We are going to have a chance to test the guns, Mr Markham,’ cried Germain excitedly, a red flush tingeing his high cheekbones. ‘Not much of a battle, of course, but even a merchant vessel will not strike to us without a broadside. This is just what the ship’s company needs. That is prize money you are staring at, sir. So let the men know it. They’ll ply more hearty if they know they’re lining their pockets.’
There was an air of excitability about Germain that troubled Markham. He’d been in too many fights to get passionate himself, long ago realising that cool objective appraisal was worth ten tons of élan. The sound of
gunfire was not, to him, a new experience. He wondered if it was for Germain. He knew the ship’s captain had seen service, he could not have achieved his present rank without it. But the state he was in now led him to question how much action he’d been through. There was, Markham knew, a difference between talk of battle and the actuality.
He could not, of course, ask. Besides, what they were engaged in looked simple enough. For a second Germain looked at Aramon and de Puy, who came on deck and, with the trio of servants, now stood a few paces behind the captain. But he said nothing, instead he spun round and lifted his glass again, that followed by a shout to tell everyone he had ‘the enemy topsails in sight.’
‘Can you tell yet what she is, Mr Booker.’
‘Two-masted and square-rigged. Broad in the beam. A merchant vessel for certain. Might be a Levant trader.’
‘Would that you were a warship,’ Germain murmured to himself.
‘You sound disappointed,’ said Aramon, who had moved close enough to Germain to hear.
‘There’s not much glory in taking a merchant vessel, Monsignor. I would want a rated French ship before this cruise is over, that is if I can have one. But I will not shy from a fat and easy merchant capture that will provide us all with some income. Especially one that seems intent on sailing into my pocket without so much as a fluff of her sail.’
‘That might not last when they see the guns run out,’ said Markham, quietly.
Under normal circumstances, given his ignorance of matters nautical, he would have held his tongue. He was still unhappy about sailing under a false flag. But he also knew that with little coin in his purse, he was as eager as anyone aboard to acquire a bit of prize money. The flag and the guns were sending two contradictory messages and that could not be right.
Honour Be Damned Page 7
