‘That Hollander I took into custody,’ said Hanger, glaring at Markham. ‘I suggest that the drop is a fitting punishment. Done publicly, it will serve as another lesson to the garrison.’
Markham felt his hackles rise. Hanger had arrested Schutte, whom he’d found wandering amongst the shattered Spaniards, without even an acknowledgement that he was his responsibility. The idea of this man demanding that the Dutchman face the noose was anathema. He screwed his face up, looking perplexed.
‘Punishment, sir?’
‘Damned coward refused to go forward,’ Hanger growled, looking at Mulgrave, ‘which I think you’ll agree qualifies him for the Tyburn tippet.’
‘He obeyed the orders I gave him, sir.’
‘What orders?’
‘To stay to the rear and look to the wounded. Had you hung around long enough, or even risked riding within musket range, you might have noticed that I lost several men to enemy fire.’
Hanger opened his mouth to shout at Markham, but Mulgrave, quiet and controlled as ever, beat him to it. And in doing so, made it perfectly plain that he’d not been fooled either by Hanger’s explanations of the day’s events, or Markham’s sudden inspiration regarding his orders.
‘He is your problem, Lieutenant, and will only become mine if you choose to draw my attention to it. Now, Colonel Hanger and I have other matters to discuss, so I bid you good day.’
Mulgrave continued speaking to Hanger as Markham exited. As he began to close the door he heard the opening remarks, which slowed his actions considerably. ‘It requires someone of your standing to go to Genoa and Piedmont. I’ll not have the tars fetching in all our reinforcements. God knows, after today we need them badly. Those blue-coated bastards are unbearable enough. Never did like working with the Navy. The salt gets into their skulls and rots their brains.’
‘What brains?’ demanded Hanger.
Markham heard Mulgrave laugh as he finally closed the door.
Schutte was languishing in the guardhouse, a well-constructed affair set into the walls of Fort de la Malgue, right beside the main gate. Clearly the previous incumbents, the commanding admirals of Toulon, with thousands of sailors to man the fleet, had need of such a place. Markham had a look at him through the peephole, before ordering the guard to unbolt the door. The Dutchman looked up tentatively as it swung open, his pale blue eyes wide with fear. Markham entered and stood silently, waiting for the marine to stand up. This came slowly, almost reluctantly, like a last act of surrender that he wanted to save. But eventually he was on his feet. Still Markham waited, until the Hollander came to attention.
‘Guard. Return the sergeant’s equipment to him.’
Schutte’s eyes, which had been looking above his head, dropped suddenly, betraying a mixture of hope and confusion as he looked at the officer before him. Markham stood to one side, revealing the open door.
‘Move. I haven’t got all day.’
The hesitation was caused by disbelief, and it was short. Schutte practically ran out of the cell.
‘I need him signed for, sir,’ said the guard.
‘Of course.’
They were out of the gates before Markham spoke, pushing his way along through the teeming alleyways between the numerous works and warehouses of the Toulon dockyard, and that was to tell Schutte that he was no longer a sergeant. There was no activity in the area they were crossing, only knots of men standing around talking, groups who would cease speaking when the redcoats got close. The dockyard workers and French sailors, though not prepared to express support for the Revolution, could not be persuaded to undertake repairs or victual ships that might be stolen by the British. Emerging on to the more open area of the Vieille Darse, Markham spoke again, deciding that before they re-entered the billet, Schutte should know why he had behaved as he did. But first he told him about the action.
‘That colonel wanted to hang you, and he was right to think like that. Don’t get the notion that I’ve saved you out of any finer feelings. I’ve done it because the men performed well today, better than I could have hoped. I’ll not have that sullied by your disgrace.’ He stopped about a hundred yards from the door to the Picard warehouse, forcing the huge Dutchman to do likewise. ‘One more mistake, a single piece of insubordination, and I’ll hand you back to Hanger, to do with what he will.’
The look on Schutte’s face angered him. The man, it appeared, wasn’t even listening to what he was saying, more interested in what was happening over his shoulder than the threat he was delivering. When his huge hand shot out, Markham ducked, cursing himself for a fool. But Schutte didn’t punch him, and the guttural cry that he emitted was designed to concentrate his attention. Markham spun round, following the Dutchman’s finger. The glimpse he got of the bottle-green coat and the shocked, levantine face was fleeting, but enough. He was running before his quarry disappeared, chasing the man into the alley from which he’d just emerged, wondering what Fouquert, who risked certain death if he was recognised, was doing in Toulon.
Schutte was right on his heels, his feet pounding hard on the cobbled pavé, as the two of them sped from the bright sunlit quay into the narrow, dark space between the warehouses. Markham saw Fouquert’s heels as the Frenchman ducked to the left, taking another one of the alleys that formed a labyrinth behind the main buildings on the waterfront.
Markham’s voice echoed off the walls as he shouted to Schutte. ‘Go straight on to the road that runs to the rear of the Picard house. See if you can spot him trying to get across it.’
He was still talking as he turned left. Schutte ran on, his heavy footsteps fading till all Markham could hear was his own. The alley he was in, high walls broken by an occasional doorway, ran for some distance straight ahead, and it was empty. There was no way that Fouquert could have opened up such a gap. So when it swung to the left, he followed it round, and ran full tilt into a bent figure, carrying a huge covered bundle on his back, sending him flying. He spun backwards, emitting a terrified scream, and calling on every saint in the canon to come to his aid.
Markham grabbed one of his hands and hauled him to his feet, ignoring the pleas which had turned to curses, looking back the way he’d come. Fouquert could no more have got past this fellow than him, yet he hadn’t gone straight on. Retracing his steps slowly, with curses still ringing in his ears, he tested every door he passed. None yielded to his efforts, yet the Frenchman must have used one of these to escape. Unless, that is, he’d suddenly sprouted wings.
He knew that a return to the quayside was probably futile, but he made it anyway, searching the milling crowd for any sign of Fouquert’s dark green coat. Schutte, hatless, standing head and shoulder above the crowd, appeared several hundred yards ahead. Markham stood on a bollard, so that the Dutchman could see him. The shake of the great bald head told him that he had also failed. Markham signalled that the Hollander should stay put, and walking towards him peered into every open doorway he passed.
The futility of what he was doing was soon apparent. Each warehouse was half full of chandler’s goods, barrels and boxes, bales and great wynds of hempen rope. If he wanted to search them he’d need to call out all his men, and for what? Just to catch a committed Republican in a city that was probably awash with them. If he was here now, then it would be to visit Jacobin sympathisers. That meant he had a secure way through the lines, a fact that those in command would want to know. He turned round when he reached Schutte, and gave each doorway another inspection, unwilling just to let it go. But common sense told him that Fouquert could be anywhere by now; that if he had found a way into the rear of one of these warehouses, then he could have exited at the front and got lost in the crowd long before Markham returned to the quayside.
‘Schutte. Back to the Fort de la Malgue. Get a message to Elphinstone. Tell them who we saw, what happened, and where.’
Schutte nodded curtly then hurried off along the quay. Markham watched his broad back, wondering if he’d ever see it again, all the while knowing that
if Schutte harboured any desire to desert, he’d rather have him go now than at some critical juncture which might threaten other men’s lives.
A few minutes later he entered the Picard house. The owner was, once more, complaining about his men lighting a fire in his warehouse. But this time his reaction was different. Instead of sympathy, Picard got short shrift. Lieutenant George Markham knew, even if Sergeant Rannoch hadn’t told him so, that one of the musket balls produced from that glowing brazier had, that very afternoon, killed that first cavalryman and saved his life.
It was also pleasant, later on, to hear that Schutte had returned, to be greeted, in silence, by the men he’d once led. And Rannoch, sensibly, made sure that none of the Bullocks took the opportunity to make jokes about the Lobsters. The Highlander had heard his conversation with Picard, and without comprehending the words, knew that his officer had taken the side of his men. That, when Markham gave him his orders for the following day, earned a smile, if not an acknowledgement of his status. He also accepted that he and Halsey would keep their respective ranks.
‘Permission to issue an extra tot of rum?’
‘By all means, Sergeant.’
‘What a pleasure, Lieutenant to finally have you share our table. I have to say that it is something that I’d anticipated happening before this. After all, we have been here for nearly a month.’
Markham, weary, had tried to get out of the invitation, but he’d refused so many that another ‘no’ seemed churlish. Eveline, despite the presence of her father, had come very close to him, adding a plea for him to attend, laying a pressing hand on his arm that sent a restorative thrill of pleasure through his entire body. She was wearing a loose dress of shimmering silk, which, advisable on such a warm, humid day, did little to conceal her figure. Markham would have pulled her closer still, if her father hadn’t been standing right beside them.
So, despite being exhausted from the day’s efforts, he accepted, changed into the marine uniform once more, and was now describing the attack on the battery in terms that made it sound like a matter of no importance, praising his men and the way that they’d behaved. But as he spoke, he was mentally replaying the events of the battle for those guns. Only now, with time to reflect, did he begin to understand just how lucky he had been.
He wondered why the Picards didn’t react when Rossignol said that, a guest claiming their property as his own. If they’d noticed, it didn’t show. Indeed, Madam Picard was nodding vigorously.
‘A day’s digging does not make a man fit company, monsieur.’
‘But surely,’ asked Eveline, her lovely eyes wide with disbelief, ‘you did not actually handle a spade yourself?’
‘Of course not,’ said her older sister, Pascalle. ‘The good Lieutenant is a chevalier, not a paysan.’
Markham demurred, not wishing to admit that his claim to the title chevalier was suspect, and that at one point he had done just such a thing. As an attempt to bond with his men it was an abject failure, not least because when it came to trench work he was, compared to them, useless, so what he’d intended as camaraderie was seen as condescension. Thinking back on it made him wonder why they’d followed him into battle today. But they had, which had a great deal to do with Rannoch. For the first time, thinking about the Highlander, he had no sense of anger or frustration, but that train of thought could not be pursued when he had a question still to answer.
‘Even supervising spadework, in the hot sun, is exhausting.’
‘Such a pity,’ said Eveline, looking at him from under her dark eyebrows. ‘Life here has been so dull.’
Rossignol clapped his hands. ‘With the perimeter works complete, that will improve. A formidable obstacle, wouldn’t you say?’
‘I doubt the perimeter is as sound as any of us would like.’
Rossignol frowned. ‘How so?’
‘Do you remember that Jacobin fellow in Ollioules, who we tied to the back of the coach?’
Rossignol looked up slowly, his face creased, like a man searching his memory ‘Was his name not Fouquert?’
Both the Picards responded to the name with a sudden intake of breath. So when Markham gave a positive reply, he included his hosts, adding a brief and filleted account of how they’d met. ‘He was quite a catch, which I only found out afterwards.’
Picard’s long face was grave as he cut in. ‘He nearly prevented Toulon from surrendering. He might even have chopped off Admiral Trugueff’s head if the British hadn’t come ashore.’
‘So I was told. You’d certainly think he’d be glad, once he reached Republican territory, to stay out of the city.’
‘He has not done so?’ asked Rossignol.
‘I saw him today on the quayside.’
Picard barked in disbelief as Rossignol fiddled noisily with the food on his plate. ‘Did he see you?’ demanded Picard.
‘He ran as soon as he recognised me. I gave chase, but he disappeared.’
‘He certainly sounds a dangerous fellow,’ said Rossignol, his eyes flicking anxiously between Markham and the Picards. ‘But that does not render the whole of Toulon defenceless.’
Markham knew how much effort Rossignol put into sustaining the Picards’ fluctuating morale. And since he found his billet comfortable, he too had a vested interest in that commodity. But he was unprepared to lie, or to pretend that Fouquert’s presence didn’t matter. ‘If a man like that can come and go, we must presume at will, the defences are a bit porous.’
‘One man, Lieutenant,’ Rossignol replied.
‘Just the mention of his name makes me feel as if we are in danger,’ whispered Madame Picard.
‘No!’ he replied, with a look of assurance. ‘Toulon is a natural fortress. As Monsieur Rossignol says, he is but one man. For an army it would be very different.’
‘And when does our army arrive, Lieutenant?’ asked Picard, ‘The one that will drive Jacobins out of Provence.’
‘Soon, I’m sure,’ said Rossignol, before Markham could reply. He leant forward and frowned, adding a slight shake of the head and a gesture towards the others present. He didn’t want Markham to repeat, in front of them, what he’d said about the garrison’s shortage of numbers, or the unlikelihood of reinforcements. The true state of affairs, that they were in for a long and bitter siege, would be bound to depress them.
‘We none of us actually saw this Fouquert, Lieutenant,’ he added. ‘Perhaps you should describe him to us.’
‘Shorter than me, and thinner. He’s careful about his dress. He was wearing a good quality bottle-green coat, high boots and tight white breeches, both today and when we took him.’
Rossignol smiled, nodding to Frobisher’s best uniform. ‘A man may change his coat.’
‘Thin face,’ Markham continued, ‘very dark, nearly black eyes. Not much given to blinking, wears a thin moustache, also black, like his curled hair which looks carefully barbered. His nose is hooked enough to give him the appearance of a Moor.’
‘You studied this man in some depth, Lieutenant.’
‘No. I recognised what I saw there, especially in his eyes.’
‘And what was that?’
‘Certainty. A knowledge of his own superiority. And cruelty. I think he enjoys death, destruction and inflicting pain.’
The whole table had gone quiet, the mood quite spoiled. Rossignol, seeing this, changed the subject abruptly, talking of happier times. Both his daughters aided him in this, and the atmosphere began to lighten. Markham needed no encouragement to participate. The idea of Fouquert could not compete for his attentions with Eveline. On the brief occasions he’d spied her, he’d been forcibly reminded of her beauty, as well as her knowing look. Here at table, sitting right opposite her, was hard to bear. Moving the conversation on, in a way that satisfied Rossignol, he set out to charm her, including her sister and their hostess so that his attentions shouldn’t appear too obvious. In a besieged city full of soldiers, both the girls were disappointed at the dearth of social life. Markham plea
ded that those in command be excused on similar grounds to himself.
‘Now that matters have eased somewhat, Lord Hood will see the need for a ball or two in order to raise civilian morale.’
The boom of the cannon, rolling across the harbour, made them all jump. Picard, Rossignol and Markham were on their feet, making for the front of the building. The quay, now that it was dark, was less crowded than during the day. Several people had emerged from other buildings, or stopped to look. The orange glow, slightly to the south beyond the Fort de Malbousquet, lit up the night sky, the boom of the guns following after a second. With a sinking feeling, Markham realised that the shots, whatever they were aimed at, were coming from the same position he had destroyed earlier that day, the Batterie de Bregaillon.
‘Does this signify danger, Lieutenant?’ asked Picard.
‘No, monsieur. It is just General Cartaux flexing his muscles. All he’s doing is churning up some seawater.’
‘You’re sure?’ demanded Rossignol, peering at him in the darkness, observing the sad look on his face. Assaulting those guns had killed nearly half a regiment of Spaniards.
‘I am. And I think we can safely go back to our dinner.’
The boom of the cannon accompanied them through the meal. The depression it induced, plus the wine he consumed, made it ever harder for Markham to maintain any semblance of wakefulness. Try as he might, yawns came frequently, and his head felt as though it were hollow, with each sound magnified by an echo.
‘I fear we have overtaxed you, Lieutenant,’ said Madame Picard.
‘Inexcusable,’ snapped Rossignol, standing up. ‘Eveline, fetch the lieutenant a candle.’
The girl stood up, and seeing her body move so easily in her loose dress sent a surge of energy through his tired limbs. It was so easy to imagine that garment removed and, for a man to whom women were a weakness, hard to put from his mind. He stood up abruptly, aware that if he didn’t move his breeches would fail to disguise the way his thoughts were developing. He bowed before he was fully upright, muttering fulsome thanks to the Picards for their hospitality.
A Shred of Honour Page 18
