It was an unpleasant thing to say, and definitely not what Germain wanted to hear. But it had to be done, in an attempt to make the captain see sense. And he knew there was no perfect time for the action he proposed to take. It was just a case of personal judgement, allied to a determination that the ship would not be taken.
‘Get back aboard Syilphide sir, and do what you have to do to get us clear.’
Men were slipping through and under the Lobsters’ bayonets, including Tully and Yelland. Only the later still had his musket. But Dymock was caught in the back, falling forward at the feet of his mates, who had to leave him be as they concentrated on what needed to be done.
There were still half-a-dozen British sailors in there when Markham yelled the order to fire, the salvo filling the intervening space with a huge cloud of smoke. Bellamy’s rammer was still in his musket, and it impaled two Frenchman standing so close to each other they were like one torso. The enemy recoiled, taken totally by surprise, so most of the attackers got clear. But Markham could just see one of the men who’d baited Bellamy writhing on the deck, clutching at his gut.
Markham’s throat now felt as though it was lined with sand, but he managed enough of a shout to relay his orders. ‘Bellamy, Dornan, drag that damned tar out of there. Then try to aid Dymock.’
Dornan, as bovine as ever, was too slow to react. But Tully, since he had no musket, was there with the Negro as he moved forward on the command. Markham knew that Bellamy had only acted out of pure instinct. Had the Negro paused, to give a second’s thought to what he was being told to do, he would have stayed rock still. But he moved, dropping on one knee to clutch at the armpit of the screaming sailor. Tully had the other, and under the frisson of pointing bayonets and reloaded muskets, they hauled him clear, handing him over to two waiting sailors. Then they looked to help Dymock, now writhing between his comrades’ legs.
‘Keep going,’ Markham shouted, when he saw they had him.
The second salvo went off above the two Samaritans’ heads, the flaming wads from the cartridges landing on their coats and singing them. The French were halted, though. Even better, the men to the fore who were still standing were trying to hide, trying to find succour in the body mass of their mates who stood behind them.
All they could see was the line of red coats before them, half-a-dozen men reloading with parade ground precision. The officers who’d come down the companionway were trapped at the rear, their superior numbers now an impediment instead of an asset. There was no one amongst the original defenders with either the wit or the stature to state the obvious. That if they charged immediately after a salvo, they might have risked a bayonet, but they would easily overwhelm this meagre line of defence. Finally, one of the officers managed to make himself heard, cursing at his men to advance.
‘Behind the bulkhead,’ he rasped.
Lobsters, instead of firing, stepped back. That did cause the enemy to try a rush, a foolish move against loaded muskets. The next volley sent those still on their feet scurrying back, slipping and tripping on the blood and the bodies that littered the deck. By the time they reformed, the guns were loaded again. There was little shouting now from the rank and file, more a discontented murmuring above which their officers were calling for action.
‘Corporal Halsey, see how matters are progressing on the ship. We must have it clear and able to haul off, but not so far that they can leave us behind.’
The old man slipped back to the casement windows, through the now empty cabin, to peer through the shattered deadlights. The scream that followed was totally out of character.
‘They’ve cut loose your honour, and are polling off.’
‘Get yourself aboard, Halsey. The rest of you fall back at the double, two at a time.’
He could do no more. To rush for safety would jeopardise them all, since there was no room to get everyone out at once.
‘Sergeant Rannoch, get over by those deadlights and supervise the retreat.’
‘One more volley, sir.’
The ‘sir’ was rare, and engendered in Markham, exhausted as he was, a good feeling. But he also knew the word volley was gilding in, with so few men left.
‘As you wish, then go.’
The muskets crashed out, and before the sound had faded Rannoch was tallying off the men to go, smallest first, all the while reloading his own weapon.
‘Ettrick and Quinlan move! Yelland and Gibbons follow. Dornan, you slow arse, with me.’
Markham felt the musket pressed into his hand as Rannoch departed, and he threw his sword to the sergeant just as he reached the point of exit. The retreat had not gone unnoticed by the enemy, some of whom had already started forward.
‘Come now, man,’ shouted Rannoch, who was halfway through the deadlights. ‘I am having to jump.’
Which he did, his body disappearing to reveal a patch of bright sunlight, and some of Syilphide’s departing rigging. Time assumed another dimension. Before him the French were breaking into a run, behind there was nothing but the jagged hole made by Germain’s cannon. Was there time?
He was barely aware of pulling the trigger, and had no idea where the ball went. Then he was running, what only seemed a few steps, but which felt like a lifetime. Behind him his pursuers were yelling, a mixture of triumph and calls for revenge, the sound of their slithering feet strange on the blood-soaked deck.
He threw the musket through the hole, just as he would a spear, hard enough for it to land on Syilphide’s deck and jammed himself through, scrabbling in near panic to get his legs to follow his trunk. One foot got purchase and he was able to lever himself out, throwing his body to one side so that the thick oak would protect his vital parts.
The man who came through behind him, waving a deadly cleaver died before he could swing it, his body slumping to close that gap. Markham was vaguely aware of Rannoch, standing feet apart on the deck not ten feet away. He was also aware that ten feet was too far for him to jump without taking a decent run. Above him the enemy had reclaimed the taffrail, and it was only a matter of time before pikes would be jabbing down to impale him, despite the gunfire being aimed at them by his Lobsters. Behind him, hands were hauling the dead man out of the way.
‘Mister Markham can swim,’ yelled Rannoch. ‘Throw a line into the water.’
Putting his hands together above his head, Markham executed a perfect dive into the cooling sea, deliberately going deep to avoid the hail of missiles that were sure to follow. Coming up, he could see the musket balls that entered the water, there to die in silver streaks as the sea took away their velocity. Surfacing so close to the French ship was a chance he had to take, though he struck out at his fastest swim to fool anyone just taking aim.
The ropes thrown from the deck straddled him, and Markham, in his panic, grabbed and missed the first one. But he got the second, twisting it round his wrist. The men on Syilphide began to haul just as the next round of musket fire came from the stern of the converted merchantman. Most missed, but one caught him in the leg that had come out of the water, searing across his breeches, and he was sure, drawing blood.
Germain was firing his cannon now, smashing the deadlights again, as well as the taffrail, driving the enemy from the positions they’d occupied. And he was setting as much sail as he could, heading into the wind, which took him clear slowly. But could he be certain, with the damage he’d suffered, that he could sail closer to the wind that his opponent? Could they get clear, or would his first task on getting on board be to prepare for another battle?
Markham observed all this from the sea, hauled in like a caught fish to the side. Some of the Syilphides had dropped a line from the yards, and he took hold of that so that when they hauled him aboard, he was not scrapped bloodily up the rough planking, nor dragged across the barnacle-encrusted copper that showed as the ship heeled over. Finally he was on deck, able to look down and see the slash across his calf, just above his left boot, and the blood streaming from the wound to run into the pool of seawater gathering
around his feet.
He could also see the tally of dead and wounded, which did not include those they’d left aboard the enemy ship. Germain took refuge in his toil, the need to get the ship back to some semblance of its former self. He did not even look in Markham’s direction, though there was no doubt he had a sight of him firmly in the corner of his eye, as the marine officer removed his soaking coat.
‘Might I suggest you go below, Lieutenant Markham,’ said the Comte de Puy. ‘Mademoiselle Moulins and her maid have set up a sick bay, and will attend to your wounds.’
He was just about to reply that there might still be work to do, but the Frenchman’s doleful expression changed the words on his lips. ‘Where is Monsignor Aramon?’
De Puy gestured to the hunched figure, bent over an inert body of a sailor by the shattered bulwark. ‘The man, it seems, is a Catholic.’
‘Then God rest his soul,’ Markham replied softly.
But he stopped himself from making the sign of the cross, something no commissioned officer in the British forces would do. Instead he hobbled across the deck.
‘Sergeant, how many of the men are fit for duty?’
‘Dymock is bad, with a cutlass wound in his back that you could put your hand in. The young French lady and her black maid have bandaged him up. For the rest, there is many a cut and bruise, though nothing that will see them unfit for another bout.’
‘We got off light just now.’
Rannoch glared at Germain’s back. ‘If that man had been given his way, we would not have got off at all. You had best go below, and get that wound of your own seen to.’ Markham jerked his head to indicate the enemy, a factor that the Highlander acknowledged with a nod.
‘There will be time.’
‘You’re right. Can you get someone to fetch me a drink.’
‘Water?’ asked Rannoch, smiling.
‘That first, sergeant. Then I’d like a flagon of that stuff Germain purloined when he took over the ship.’
‘Enemy coming about,’ came the shout from the masthead.
Markham raised himself just enough to see the truth of that. But he could see that the manoeuvre was slow, that the merchant ship seemed a poor sailer. But given his endemic nautical ignorance he needed to have the fact confirmed by the bosun, close by him supervising repairs.
‘Catch us, your honour? That barky! Never in life, ’cepting he sprouts wings.’
‘We have suffered some damage.’
The sailor grinned. ‘Why, we could outrun him wi’ no more’n your stock on a yard.’
The whole of the lower deck had been turned into a sickbay, with recumbent bodies everywhere. The most serious wounds were laying flat on the planking, some still, others softly moaning. Those less badly hurt were sitting against the side, patiently waiting for attention. Mademoiselle Moulins and her maid moved amongst them, the Negro girl dispensing much needed water while her mistress distributed bandages, requesting those who could manage to attend to those who could not.
Markham found a chest to sit on, and, removing his boot and stocking, he rolled up his breeches to reveal a deep gash. The ball had gouged out a goodly section of flesh, which was stinging from the seawater that ran into it. But it was a surface wound, and not one for which he needed much in the way of treatment. Still probing at his calf to try and ease the pain, he was suddenly aware of the bloodstained apron in front of him.
‘If you oblige me with a clean bandage, Mademoiselle Moulins, I can tend to the article myself.’
She dropped down on her knees, the musky smell of her perspiration filling his nostrils, that mixed with whatever scented preparation she used to set her hair. Her fingers, as they brushed gently across the back of his leg were cool and gentle, the combined effect of all three making George Markham decidedly uncomfortable. Gratefully, he took the ladle the Negro girl offered him, and drank deeply.
‘I have some salve that will ease the pain, Lieutenant,’ she said.
A quick word to her maid sent the girl scurrying off. Markham saw Bellamy in the gloom, laying a solicitous hand on Renate as she slipped past him. Was he one of the walking wounded? That was a fleeting thought. His attention was taken with the girl close by.
‘The mere fact of your presence does that,’ Markham replied gently.
She looked up at his, a slight smile playing on the corners of her lips. ‘But I am only with you for a second. You will need something that lasts longer than that.’
‘Sure, that is a pity. But I thank the gods that I am blessed with a good memory.’
‘Good enough to know what kind of behaviour my present situation demands?’
‘Had I ever been told, I’m sure I would remember. We have all been left to make assumptions.’
She turned away to bathe the face of one of the sailors lying on the deck. ‘And which were yours.’
‘I try not to make them,’ he lied. ‘But were I prone to, seeing you like this could not render them anything but flattering. The word angelic springs to mind.’
‘That is too great a credit. Having been raised by nuns, tending to wounds was part of my schooling. So how you now see me at this moment has no special significance.’
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.
Chapter eight
It 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.
Honour Be Damned Page 10
