To return with his ship in its present condition would certainly put a blight on that rosy prospect. He might find himself beached at his present rank. Markham had no idea how much influence it had taken to get Germain to sea in the first place. But after such a comprehensive failure, it might be that no amount of that commodity would see him re-employed. So Aramon, insisting that they continue, was pushing at an open door. But it turned out that the Monsignor was taking no chances, as Markham found out when Germain, in the middle of the night, lantern in hand, crept into his screened off quarters.
Markham was halfway out of his cot, a hand reaching for his sword, when he realised who it was. In the low light from the tallow in the lantern, the young man looked a touch fevered, especially about the eyes. The finger he put to his lips stopped Markham from speaking, and the ship’s captain was sat on his cot before the owner could ask him what he thought he was about.
‘I would have asked you to come to my cabin,’ he whispered, ‘but that, for what I have to impart, is the least secure part of the ship.’
The wave of the arm indicated that Markham should come even closer, a difficult thing to achieve, since, as it was, Germain was practically sitting on top of him.
‘The old Papist has told me what it is we are after ashore. Only he, de Puy and now I, are in on the secret. He made me swear that I wouldn’t tell a soul, but I cannot avoid telling you. Believe me Markham, when you hear the details, you will be astounded.’
Markham had a sudden feeling that he didn’t want to know, didn’t want to share the secret. Money was tempting, but dying was not, and after today his faith in the captain was severely dented. There was also his own position to consider, which would not be enhanced by Germain’s failure. Care had to be taken not to compound a less than perfect situation.
If his superior officer ordered him ashore, he would be bound to obey, and in ignorance he could at least plead the excuse of duty. But once part of this conspiracy, he would have the right to accept or reject any command he was given. And that, if things went wrong, would do nothing to aid his situation. Germain didn’t seem to realise that he wasn’t the only one with a reputation to worry about.
Probably, if he was sent home for what happened to the Syilphide, Germain would return to a family and some form of stability. All that waited for George Markham back in England was a bailiff seeking money he didn’t have, with quite possibly a Bow Street Runner on hand to take him up for killing his fellow duellist. And in Ireland it was even worse. His half-sister Hannah hated him for the stain his birth had placed on the family name. Worse, she had demanded back from him every penny gifted to him by his late father, and he lacked the means to fight an action in court. He needed to stay in military employment more than the man sat on his cot. But the hand he held up was ignored.
‘I was right about Avignon. But not even I, in my wildest imaginings, guessed what was at stake.’
‘Sir,’ Markham said firmly. ‘Please accede to the Monsignor’s wishes, and keep whatever it is he told you to yourself.’
‘Keep your voice down, man.’ Germain hissed, ‘do you want us to be overheard.’
Saying yes to that was as absurd as saying no. And faced with the anger in Germain’s voice he had no choice but to drop his voice to a whisper.
‘I would not want you to break your word.’
‘It was given to a Papist, man, and has no value.’ Germain must have seen the sudden danger in Markham’s eyes, since he continued hurriedly. ‘The man is French!’
‘Aramon is a Royalist if he is anything. And they, sir, might I remind you, are on our side.’
Germain wasn’t about to be deflected by inconvenient facts.
‘You may make a distinction, I will not. It matters little who rules France. They are all against Britannia. But the men we have aboard have access to untold wealth, the treasure of the papal state at Avignon, removed before the Revolutionaries took it over in ’92. Imagine, Markham, what that papal enclave accumulated as an independent fief. The plate, the crucifixes, the jewels and the sheer amount of coin.’
Germain was right, and even reluctantly, Markham couldn’t keep out of his mind a vision of such ecclesiastical riches. Avignon was in one of the most fertile parts of France, a wholly owned fiefdom of St Peter’s, exempt from any form of levy from Parisian kings. It had been rich for hundreds of years, a place where Papal Nuncios ruled, and wealthy individuals, seeking a guaranteed entry into heaven, had paid handsomely to have prayers said for their souls.
The priests who ruled there must have had forewarning that their fate was sealed when the monarchy lost power. The threat of excommunication, so feared by a succession of kings, held no terrors for the commoners who took over the government. The Assembly had voted to confiscate church property and French soldiers marched in to claim a piece of land that had been an independent state since the Middle Ages.
Markham decided on a last throw, a final effort to bring Germain to his senses. ‘You do not fear exceeding your orders, sir?’
‘What do you mean, man. I will be obeying them. My orders are to confound the enemy on land and sea, you know that.’
‘Where is it?’ asked Markham wearily.
‘That Aramon has not told me.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ Markham responded, but the irony was wasted on Germain.
‘De Puy was the man tasked with escorting it to Rome. But, as you know, the French annexed Savoy as well. He had, quite naturally, avoided going over the high mountain passes, and elected to head for the coast west of the town of Nice. He stayed off the main roads to Italy, using obscure trails through the hills. By the time he was ready to come down into what was Piedmontese territory, the French army was in his way. In danger, he had no option but to secrete it in a safe place, and wait. When that became intolerable he then made for Toulon, hoping to take ship to Rome and inform Aramon. As you know, he was trapped there by the siege. So all that treasure is still where he left it.’
‘The location of which you don’t know.’
‘That’s not strictly true, Markham,’ said Germain triumphantly. ‘The old goat may think he’s sharp, but I have ears. He let slip that it is in close proximity to the shore where he wants to land, in a bay by the name of Golfe Juan.’
‘But not how close?’
‘It can be no more than a few leagues.’
That, to Markham’s way of thinking, was not close.
‘You have explained de Puy. Where does Monsignor Aramon fit in all this?’
There was a note of impatience in the captain’s voice, as though the answer was so obvious it had no need to be stated.
‘He’s the man who arranged the transfer in the first place, who went to Rome and waited. Nothing came, of course, so he set out to find de Puy, and, of course, the treasure.’
If Germain hadn’t caught his breath then, Markham would not have heard the soft sound of a foot scraping on the deck planking. Hurriedly stopping the youngster from saying any more, he moved gingerly towards the curtain. The next sound made him move quicker; a dull but quiet thud, like a heel being dug in, which was speedily followed by another. The deck outside was in near darkness, and he could not be sure of anything other than a vague impression of the departing shape. It seemed too small to be Aramon, but Markham didn’t doubt it was he. Who else on the ship wore a long black cassock?
‘Do you think he heard us?’
‘How can I say. We were whispering, so it wouldn’t have been easy. But then, he must have had his suspicions when he followed you.’
‘How do you know he followed me?’
‘Because you were in here when he was outside. You don’t make a habit of coming to my berth in the middle of the night, do you? And what purpose could you have in coming tonight, just after he has told you the secret of what it is he wants to recover.’
‘So he will know I’ve told you.’
‘I doubt that will affect his ultimate course of action.’
Ge
rmain was looking at him intently again, seeking an explanation of Markham’s certainty. But the man in question was too tired to explain. All he wanted to do was to get back to sleep. How could the youngster not deduce that Aramon was teasing him, letting him have snips of information just before the need to impart it became essential?
He would have had to tell the ship’s captain something to get the ship inshore at the right spot. Given the damage they’d sustained, with the risk that Germain might head back to Corsica, Aramon had opened up just a little earlier than he’d originally planned. But he’d told him something pretty useless, it being information Germain would have demanded to know before even approaching the shore.
‘The real, question, sir, is what effect it has on you?’
‘I don’t follow?’
‘You are still determined to proceed?’
‘Of course, man. Don’t you see how a stroke like this will elevate us in the admiral’s estimation? I must say I can’t comprehend your reluctance, Markham. I had you down as just the fellow I needed for this task.’
Markham was too bored to protest again. It was clear that Germain was obsessed to the point that no amount of cautionary advice or pessimism would sway him. He needed to shine, and whatever danger that put other people into was secondary.
‘So you’re ordering me to escort Monsignor Aramon and his party ashore?’
‘That sounds damned formal, Markham.’
‘It is so formal, sir, that I would like those orders in writing.’
Germain stiffened. ‘That will not be necessary. I will lead the shore party personally, with you as my second in command.’
‘You?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the ship!’ demanded Markham.
Germain put his fingers to his lips again, and insisted on silence, though he couldn’t look his marine lieutenant in the eye, lest the man in the cot observe the captain’s desperation. He wanted any success for himself, a factor which had changed since leaving Corsica. Sharing it, after what had happened during the recent action, was no longer possible.
‘Mr Booker and the master will look after the ship.’
‘He’s no more than a boy.’
‘She is barely fit for action, Markham, so their main task will be to effect decent repairs. I will require Conmorran to stand off the shore, once we are on our way, then send in the cutter at an agreed time every night from three days hence. We will arrange a signal with blue lights that will tell them to take us off at dawn.’
‘And if danger threatens, like a bloody great ship of the line hoving into view.’
‘Don’t judge us by the standards of the army. Booker has been at sea long enough to know what action to take. The master, Mr Conmorran, is even better equipped.’
Germain followed that with a heavy sniff designed to tell Markham the matter was closed. ‘Anyway, I have requested the master to shape us a course for this Golfe Juan. The place is dotted with fishing villages, but looking at his charts, there seem to be some islands in the bay. Les Lerins, they’re called. We can anchor near those just this once to avoid observation. I expect to have them in view at first light.’
‘Then we will need to be alert, will we not?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then sir, if you have no objection, I will bid you good night.’
‘How can you sleep at a time like this?’
‘I can easily, Mr Germain,’ hissed Markham angrily, ‘because I have had years of practice. That is something you learn young in the army. I have also learned that soldiers, even Lobsters, are often obliged to go without for long periods. Therefore, I tend to take, gratefully, whatever opportunities are gifted to me.’
‘I shan’t sleep,’ Germain replied, dolefully. But then he saw the look bordering on hate that the marine officer was giving him, so he stood up, nodded and exited through the curtain.
Hard as he tried, Markham couldn’t sleep. But it wasn’t the notion of untold wealth that kept him awake, it was the idea that Germain was intent on leading the thing personally. Had he formed that notion before Aramon opened up to him about the treasure or afterwards? Was his desire to be there prompted by the need to impress his superiors, a distrust of his inferiors and accomplices, or even worse, personal greed?
Then there were the risks inherent in landing on a very hostile shore. He’d looked at maps of the southern coast since coming aboard, noting that the terrain became mountainous very quickly, rising towards the not too distant Alps. That forced all traffic onto the narrow flat strip of coastline. There was a road from Toulon to what had been the Piedmontese border, connecting France to city-states like Genoa. With a war in progress that would be a main supply route for the forward elements of the French army. He, and his men, were being asked to move through country that might well be swarming with enemy troops.
Could he refuse? There were certainly good grounds. But Markham knew that the navy was not very different from the army when it came to dealing with officers who declined a command. A man once damned a coward for his desertion could expect little understanding from his superiors. Never mind promotion, he’d be lucky to remain a marine. Hood had gifted him that after Toulon, and the admiral could just as easily remove it. Worse, Germain would go ahead without him. And he would take, as was his right, the ship’s marine detachment. That was scarcely something the men would thank him for.
There was deep and distant rumble, which given the way he was thinking, sounded like a far off battle, a huge cannonade by a large army. But it was only thunder, a sound that grew louder as the storm approached, until, over an hour later, it was right over the ship. The noise of that, and the clatter of torrential rain beating on the planking above his head, made any notion of further slumber impossible, so he rose from his cot and slipped into his breeches.
It was a delicious feeling, on the deserted forepeak, to stand under the teeming downpour, letting the lukewarm rain wash off the exertions of the last twenty-four hours. Fanciful as it was, it even seemed to cleanse his memory of some of the less pleasant things that had happened in his life, and inducing, once he had returned to his cot, a deep and refreshing slumber.
Markham was on deck with the morning watch, side-stepping their swabbing and flogging of the planking to keep his eye on the shore. It looked peaceful enough in the clear dawn light, a string of sleepy fishing villages nestling in a thin line of trees. Each was named after some saint, with the largest at both ends of the long sweeping bay. Behind, the hills stood blue-grey, with the odd granite bluff protruding from the thick vegetation. There would be tracks in that, steep, climbing affairs that would lead into the communities of the interior.
Far away to the east lay a line of thick black clouds, a curtain hanging from them that promised another heavy downpour. Sweeping with his glass again, Markham was alarmed by the clarity of vision that it afforded, one that would also apply to anyone on the shore. Certainly the overnight rain had cleared whatever mist may have obscured that view. But with a line of mountains behind, observation of shipping was easy in anything but the most inclement weather. A lookout would be able to see anything on the water many miles from shore. Even hiding behind the Isles de Lerins, there was no way a party could boat to the long open strand of beach without being seen, no way that Syilphide could come and go to this location without being under constant observation.
He disliked the idea of going ashore at night. There might be a moon, which in this seascape would obviate any advantage. And on a strange shore, with a limited view of what lay in front of them, his men, who could not be asked to move quietly, would be at an even greater disadvantage than they would be in daylight. But if that storm on the horizon swept over them, it would obscure the view of any observers, and send those on shore scurrying for shelter.
‘Mr Booker.’
‘Sir.’
‘You had the watch last night.’ Markham paused, wonder if the boy had seen him, half-naked on the forepeak, rain pouring through his
hair. The innocent look in the eyes reassured him.
‘I did, sir.’
‘Which direction did that thunderstorm come from?’
‘There were two, sir, both from the east, which sir, you will notice, is the direction of the wind.’
‘And that on the horizon?’
‘Looks like another. It will be on us in couple of hours.’
‘Would you oblige me, Mr Booker, by sending someone to fetch my sergeant.’ As the boy acknowledged and agreed, Markham turned towards the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Germain, a word if you please?’
His conversation with Rannoch had to be brief and succinct. Rations for a week, with ample powder and shot, plus one man to carry flares, while another was given the task of transporting the tube that would fire them. He could see, in the highlander’s eyes, the desire to ask questions. But Markham didn’t have time to answer them if he was going to have any chance of achieving what he wanted.
He had to insist that Aramon be roused out to listen, and once they were gathered in Germain’s cramped cabin, with de Puy once more obliged to sit on a cannon, Markham made no attempt to be polite to the cleric. He told him quite plainly that if they were to go ashore, it had to be under the cover of a storm.
‘I insist, sir, that you cease to be obtuse, and tell us quite plainly what it is you are after, where it is located, and some notion of what route by which we can get there. And since we need to get back it would also be of some use to know what these valuables consist of.’
‘And if I don’t?’ asked Aramon, producing an infuriating smile.
‘Then I, for one,’ Markham snapped, ‘will refuse to go ashore.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Germain.
Honour Be Damned Page 11
