‘Your presence is not a prerequisite of success, Lieutenant.’
‘And neither will my men.’
‘They will have to if I order them,’ growled Germain.
Markham glared at him, as much for his stupidity as anything else. There was only one way to get anything out of Aramon, and that was by out-bluffing him. Germain was right, but the Monsignor didn’t know that. He tried, in his stare, to get the captain to either shut up or agree, as he continued on the same tack.
‘Rest assured they would obey me. I am their officer, and I expect, at any subsequent court-martial, that both their actions, and mine, will be fully vindicated.’
Germain was frowning, like a man trying, and failing to deal with two irreconcilable facts. Had he spoken then, nothing would have been achieved, but he didn’t. Aramon’s smile, which had never wavered, now deepened.
‘I asked about you, when I entertained some of the officers who served around Calvi. From what they told me, a court of any kind is something you would be keen to avoid. Certain past difficulties might surface.’
The captain went pale. If Markham had reason to fear a court, he had even more, a fact that the Monsignor would have realised if he’d had any knowledge of recent British history. Markham pressed home the advantage.
‘You misunderstand, sir. Mr Germain would have to ask for the court, and he would have to be quite specific about what orders I’d declined to carry out. At present, we are being asked to partake of a wild goose chase, which is of far more importance to you than it is to the success of the British forces in the region.’
Aramon made a steeple of his fingers then pressed his lips to the points, as if in deep contemplation. To Markham this was sheer nonsense, prevarication for no other reason than the need to retain control. Surely he didn’t expect to lead them personally once they were on dry land. Then his eyes drifted to the silent de Puy, who refused to meet his eye, and he understood. He wanted the marines, and he’d probably tolerate Germain, feeling that he was easy to dominate. But he, Markham, was surplus to requirements, not least because he was prone to ask too many awkward questions. Besides, de Puy was on hand for military advice.
‘My men are on attachment to this ship, obliged to obey any legitimate command. I will make it my business to point out that this escapade is anything but that.’
‘You have a point there, Markham,’ said Germain, finally assisting, even if, judging by his expression, he had no idea why.
‘Our destination is the church of Notre Dame de Vacluse,’ said Aramon suddenly, making a gesture towards de Puy that immediately brought forth a map from inside his immaculate white coat. The parchment, once spread, was very detailed and on a very small scale, showing numerous tracks, as well as a well-defined road that twisted up through the hills, each gradient penned in. ‘It is situated in the hills behind the bay, some way to the west of the town of Grasse.’
‘Distance?’
‘Ten miles as the crow flies.’
‘Twice that, probably,’ said de Puy, ‘We cannot get there in a straight line.’
‘And what do you expect to find there?’
‘Expect?’ said Aramon, with a quick look at de Puy, clearly nonplussed. ‘We know what we will find.’
‘Then would you mind sharing it with us?’
‘Captain Germain already knows.’
‘Loot from Avignon, Markham,’ Germain blurted out, in a silly attempt to cover the indiscretions of the previous night.
‘Hardly loot, captain,’ snapped Aramon, holding up a hand to still a shocked de Puy, the cleric himself roused for once out of his studied languor.
‘Forgive me, Monsignor,’ blurted Germain, ‘a slip of the tongue.’
‘It would be best to know in detail,’ said Markham. ‘Whether it is loot or not, the description is too vague.’
Aramon refused to be drawn. ‘I have told you it is valuable, extremely so, and was transported to Notre Dame de Vacluse by men carrying packs. Thus, it can be brought out by the same method. I do not see that an inventory would help.’
Markham turned abruptly to the other Frenchman. ‘Captain de Puy. You recently served in King Louis’ army. I daresay there were plans then to take over the land now occupied by troops of the revolution.’ De Puy nodded, as Markham continued. ‘So how close will we be to the supply route for the men fighting the Piedmontese?’
‘We will have to cross it. It is but a thin strip of road, unless we come across a depot or an encampment.’
Markham had studied maps of the area, and the road was typical of coastal routes in mountainous terrain. Flat, easy stretches in the bays and marshlands, precipitous climbs and descents where it wound round the numerous rocky headlands. Any army dragging itself and supplies round those would use the bays, where they must land, as places of rest.
‘There is no doubt that it will be well used, but once we ascend into the interior, I would anticipate little danger.’
‘And can I ask you, do you approve of this operation?’
‘Wholeheartedly,’ de Puy replied. It hardly sounded like a complete endorsement, but that could be attributed to his being such a gloomy soul.
Again Markham heard that distant rumble of thunder. It was time to decide. The destination was some two leagues inland, nearly twelve miles, all uphill. They would have to rendezvous with Syilphide and bring off whatever it was they found, which might prove to be a more difficult task than getting ashore. He looked at Germain, to make sure that the captain was still determined to proceed, and was left in no doubt by the stubborn cast of the man’s jaw of his intentions. There was no way he could entrust his Lobsters to such a commander.
‘Then, sir, if we are going, I would like to go now.’
‘Without a reconnaissance?’
‘What good would that do, sir. It would only tell the enemy why Syilphide is here.’
‘If I’m not mistaken,’ Germain said, cocking an ear to the dull, far away thud, ‘we are in for some pretty foul weather.’
‘I hope so sir. That is when I want to get on to that beach. I have no notion to cross in sunlight, even less to take someone like the Monsignor ashore in darkness. Might I suggest you issue both he and Captain de Puy with oilskins.’
Germain thought for a moment, before he grinned, clearly comprehending his marine officer’s idea. ‘That’s damned sharp, Markham, damned sharp. The rain will blind those on shore.’
‘Will the sea not be rough?’ asked de Puy.
‘No, Monsieur, it will not. There might be a bit of a squall before the storm arrives. But if we have anything like the torrent we had last night, it will be beaten as flat as melted cheese.’
‘There was a great deal of lightning, too, Captain.’
Markham cut in. ‘I daresay you have time for a quick prayer, Monsignor Aramon, one that will keep us safe, even if it does not keep us dry.’
The sour look that earned him almost made the whole stupid enterprise worthwhile.
‘How long do you need to get your men ready, Markham?’ asked Germain.
‘They are ready now, sir. I took the liberty of asking them to prepare before you convened this gathering. All we are waiting for is the people they have to escort.’
Aramon nodded. ‘Then I will gather my possessions. Monsieur de Puy, perhaps you would oblige me by rousing out my servants. Tell them to wrap my possessions in oilskin, using the cases we brought aboard. They will know what you mean.’
‘Surely you don’t intend to take your valets?’ Germain said, his face clearly intending the remark as a joke.
‘Of course. Mademoiselle Moulins and her maid will also accompany us.’
‘I’m not sure I understand that,’ Germain growled, sitting forward.
The reply was harsh. ‘It is not necessary for you to understand, Captain. It is what I wish, and you I’m sure would be the first to tell me that I am master of my own fate. If I am forced to leave the young lady behind, I will know little in the way of peace. I
will worry about her. Better, for my sake, that she come along.’
Markham wasn’t surprised at the blatant lie, nor the clear-eye gaze and deliberate tone with which it was delivered. Priests everywhere, to his mind were masters of the art. The trick was to stare hard at the person you were lying to, substitute insistence for sincerity, daring them to contradict the statement you were making. He glanced at de Puy, who was concentrating on the deckbeams above his head. Then he looked at Germain, expecting to see deep discomfort, only to observe that the captain was trying very hard to keep a smile off his face.
‘That would be the last thing we would want, Monsignor,’ he said, the gravity of his voice at variance with his expression. ‘Why, it could distract you from our purpose and jeopardise the whole endeavour.’
Markham nearly laughed himself, and might have done if the situation had not been so serious. He was thinking that when it came to mendacity the cleric and the naval officer were evenly matched. Aramon had issued his challenge to avoid exposing his truth, which was simple. Should he recover what they sought, he wanted the freedom to choose his route to Rome, something he could not do with half his party still aboard.
Germain had responded in a like manner, well aware that what the Monsignor proposed actually suited him. It wasn’t hard to imagine the trouble that would be caused when Aramon realised that, treasure in the hold, he was sailing in the wrong direction, towards Admiral Hood rather than the Pope. Yet if the women were left aboard, he could not avoid bringing the cleric back. No wonder he was struggling to hide his smile. He might as well have said, out loud, to Aramon, that as soon as success was achieved, he was planning to dump them.
And such an air of untruth was being espoused, that both men were content to accept their mutual lies, rather than to state, honestly, their individual positions. Indeed Aramon felt the need to gild the lily.
‘If you can guarantee me, captain, that we will be able to return to your ship, I will leave them. But I suspect that even Lieutenant Markham here, who has little time for me or what I represent, will tell you that getting to Notre Dame de Vacluse might be simpler than getting back.’
‘You make it sound as if we are expected,’ Germain replied, his brow creasing with concern.
‘Who knows what we will find? A subtle approach may be called for. In such circumstances a young lady with her maid can approach the church without arousing any suspicion. My servants, should trouble occur, are all capable of firing a pistol.’
‘It makes me wonder why you need us,’ said Markham, making no attempt to hide the sarcasm.
‘He needs us!’ said Germain hurriedly.
Aramon produced one of his superior smiles. ‘I do not know what we face, and neither does le Comte de Puy. I’m sure even you, Lieutenant Markham, would agree that it is best not to take anything for granted.’
Markham decided to bait them both. ‘Especially the idea that you might actually be trusted.’
‘What possible grounds could I have for mistrust?’ asked Aramon, wickedly.
The look in his eye, aimed at Markham under a raised eyebrow, proved beyond any doubt that he had accurately read Germain’s thoughts. Indeed, the young captain blushed. Perhaps Aramon had known from the first what he had in mind, content to rely on his own superior intelligence to outwit him. It made little difference. There was a task at hand, and, regardless of how unpalatable the whole affair sounded, now was the time to do it.
‘I think it might be an idea for us to have a meeting with your officers, sir, Mr Booker and Conmorran, to work out how we are going to get back on board.’
‘Quite!’ said Germain, after a lengthy pause, during which he stared at the unconcerned cleric with barely disguised loathing.
Chapter nine
The trip ashore, without Germain and his compass, could have turned into a disaster. The rain came down in torrents, flattening the sea just as he’d forecast, but reducing visibility to an unknown quantity of yards. The shoreline, including the headlands of Theroule and Cap d’Antibes, which enclosed the bay, had vanished.
Every flash of lightning was timed with the accompanying thunder, and as half a minute reduced itself to half a second, they had a fair idea of how close they were to receiving a strike. One bolt seemed to enter the water right ahead of the boat, illuminating the rain-filled air around them in a golden glow. The thunder was so loud, a sudden crack that split the air, that even the most stout hearted cowered from nature.
The sailors were rowing hard, water running of their noses, chins and greased pigtails, though warm enough to be pleasant. The passengers cocooned in oilskins or heavy greatcoats were less exposed. But they were also a lot less comfortable, since the rain did little to take the heat out of the air. Indeed it set up a slight mist which enveloped them, so that when they ground on the shore it came as something of a surprise.
It was still raining by the time they’d unloaded the cutter and crossed the steep strand of beach, some shelter provided by the thin layer of trees that stood between the sand and the road. Markham was out ahead, his Lobsters, packs on their backs lined up in a screen, inching forward through the trees. In their greatcoats, they looked like ghosts in the mist, the main blessing being that their red uniform jackets were hidden. Behind him the cutter was hauling out to sea, to be as far away as possible from the land when the rain finally lifted.
They heard the scrunch of hundreds of boots long before they came to the road, the steady tread of a column marching across their route, this accompanied by the grinding of metal-hooped wheels, a sound which denoted the presence of carts. The rain was beginning to ease, the increasing amount of light obvious even in the mist-filled greenery. With sunlight, in these trees, Markham reckoned they would be visible as soon as the sun reappeared through. And the arrival of that would necessitate the removal of the greatcoats that disguised their nationality.
The light broke through suddenly, a shaft of gold filled with thin drizzle. The road emerged like some chimera, first the ghostly movement of hunched bodies, the eye drawn to the rumbling wheels of the indistinct carts. Then there were the colours, uniform coats green and blue soaked through and steaming from the body heat of their owners; hats of all shapes dripping water, the tricolour cockades limp and damp. Markham had seen soldiers like these outside Toulon, part of the levee en masse that Lazare Carnot, the commissioner responsible for the conduct of the war, had called upon to save the revolution. They had weapons and powder but few complete uniforms. And from what he could recall, little discipline. He scanned the column for officers, but could see none, either mounted or on foot.
Markham knew he had to get to the other side of that road, and into the gnarled forests and olive groves that rose up into the mountains. That meant moving right now, or waiting until nightfall, an unpleasant prospect given the nature of the cover, as well as the proximity of so many soldiers. The fishermen were another worry. They would have stayed out in the bay while the rain poured down, ready to resume their toil once it lifted. Stranded on the beach, or even in the sparse pines, the party would be visible to them. Matters could only get worse as the greatcoats, near black because of the rain, dried out to their more normal grey.
‘Captain Germain. I would want all of our party to remove their oilskins.’
‘The rain hasn’t yet ceased, Markham.’
‘No. But we must get across that road. I want to pretend that you are prisoners, the Monsignor, de Puy, the ladies and servants, plus you, being escorted by a disciplined body of men. If we can get amongst them while it’s still raining, we can march in their midst till an exit presents itself.’
‘The risk is too great,’ said Aramon.
‘Monsignor, the risk of staying still is even greater. What you see before you is an army marching towards the enemy. This could be the very tail of that, or the very tip. At some point they will call a halt, and the men on the road will disperse into the trees to take their ease and perhaps dry their clothes. You can see for yourself
there is no place to readily hide.’
‘I’m not sure, Markham,’ murmured Germain.
There was no time for his finer feelings.
‘And I am. This is land. I will defer readily to you at sea, sir, but not now. I insist that you do as I ask.’
Rannoch, following this exchange had already began to place the Lobsters in position, though not before he’d thrown a questioning glance at his officer, one that demanded to know what the hell they were playing at. But there was no time for any enquiry. Another bright shaft of sunlight burst through the trees as if to highlight the urgency. Markham was looking at Bellamy, whose black face was glistening as much from sweat as from rainfall. That skin would attract attention in a greatcoat. There were Negroes a’plenty in France, some of them in uniform, for certain. Yet they must remain an oddity, and he had to do all he could to minimise the risk of too close attention. The order was received badly.
‘I have no time to ease your feelings, Bellamy, nor to explain my motives. Just do as I ask. You may mingle with Monsignor Aramon’s attendants.’
The huge brown eyes, normally so passive, now flashed with anger. ‘I am not a servant!’
‘We all know that!’ Markham snapped, making a futile gesture to indicate that the rain had nearly stopped. He motioned to Rannoch to move out, then pushed Bellamy out of his position and into the throng of supposed prisoners.
‘But those men on the road will doubt you are a soldier, and may, because of you, look too closely at us. Here, take my pistol and my cloak, then give me your musket and greatcoat. You will then look like an officer. Perhaps you and Mademoiselle Moulins’ maid can act as a couple.’
The offer of that didn’t only mollify Bellamy somewhat, it clearly excited him. He was by the ladies’ side in a flash and Markham heard him suggest that the charade they were engaged in might not be helped by her continuing to carry some of her mistress’s possessions on her head.
He did not get away without a great deal of chivvying from his fellow Lobsters. They did it to allay their own fears of course; they were men who felt very exposed as they were, and probably had a vision of ending up in some festering French goal. The sun was on the water now, racing towards them as the clouds drifted away. Even Dornan, stupid as he was, knew they had little time. If anything, it was his plea that swung the argument. Bellamy was shot of his outer garments and in amongst the prisoners before they’d moved ten paces. Markham held back for a second or two, examining the group to see if it looked right.
Honour Be Damned Page 12
