A Shred of Honour

by David Donachie

  Eveline was in the doorway, holding the silver stick with the flickering candle on top. That made him stretch to his full height, and renewed the ache of desire. Markham had no wish to disguise his amorous state from her. Nor she from him, judging by the way she shuddered as he passed her, taking the candlestick from her. He leant over to kiss her hand, sure that the words he whispered hadn’t fallen on deaf ears.

  He climbed the stairs with a stiffness that had more to do with his condition than any of the day’s exertions, a feeling of lassitude only adding to the mental anticipation of his invitation to Eveline. The soft singing he heard added to the sense of unreality, and as it grew louder he couldn’t resist following it. Celeste was sitting on Jean-Baptiste’s bed beside the boy, holding his hand, singing him a lullaby. He lay back on the pillows, smiling, the whole scene one of such tranquil beauty that for a moment Markham forgot all about Eveline Rossignol. Celeste turned her head, and spying him in the doorway put her fingers to her lips. He nodded and carried on to his room.

  He had no idea of the time at which Eveline Rossignol slipped into his bed. He hadn’t even heard the door open and close. All he knew was that she was beside him, naked, and as eager as he was. He registered some surprise at her lack of inhibitions, as well as her expertise. Eveline was no novice at love-making. She was either promiscuous or had enjoyed a long-term relationship with an experienced partner. This thought was fleeting, overborne quickly by a desire she fully shared.

  Markham loved women; their company as much as their bodies. And nothing pleased him more than the intimacy of a conversation carried out in the dark with someone to whom he’d just made love. There were no barriers of convention to debar honesty, no need for formal manners that disguised true feelings. Candour was pleasant, even if some of the things he told her were less so. It was easy to talk about his life, and tell stories of disaster that made her shake; to admit that his excellent knowledge of her language had come, not from schooling, but from an amour of long duration with a French woman, plus his service in Russia were it was in daily use.

  That country, so remote and full of mystery, fascinated her. So he talked of St Petersburg, of the near oriental splendour of the Czarina’s court, confirmed to Eveline the fact of her unbridled libido, told tales of the fantastic Prince Potemkin, of the patience of the long-suffering peasants and serfs he’d commanded, their willingness to die just to please their little mother, Catherine. Mention of the Turks made her shiver, though the frisson of fear was mingled with fantasies of the seraglio.

  And he spoke quietly of his family, including his own illegitimacy, in a way that established the difference between gentle, kind Freddy and Hannah, though he made his half-sister sound like an amusing villainess instead of a hard-hearted termagant.

  ‘Hannah craves respectability, of course.’

  Eveline raised her head from his chest a fraction, her voice full of feigned shock. ‘Are you not respectable?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ he replied, gently stroking her nose, adding with an amused sigh, ‘I’m a blot on the Markham escutcheon. My mother is Mary O’Connell, the daughter of an Irish doctor, who never quite got round to marrying my father.

  ‘You see,’ he added with a deep yawn, ‘Hannah worries about how she is perceived. Her main aim in life is to make a good marriage. She has the money to attract a noble husband, perhaps even a peer. Someone like me, hanging about, doesn’t do anything to further that ambition.’

  ‘She doesn’t need a husband, this sister of yours,’ she murmured, her hand moving down over his lower belly. ‘She needs a lover. Then she would learn that to be generous has its own reward. Perhaps you should hand her over to the Turks.’

  Markham turned slightly, pulling her warm, pliant body close to his. ‘I’m not sure I dislike them that much.’

  The commotion woke him, as it had everyone in the house. The first thing to register was that Eveline had gone, leaving him asleep. The noise, coming from the hall, made him get up. Wrapped in a sheet, he went out, strode along the corridor and stopped at the top of the stairs. The Picards were there below him, dressed in their nightclothes, the old man who owned the house, tall and thin with a lantern in hand, looking like some low comedian. His wife was crying copiously, snuffling loudly and emitting low moans. Eveline was halfway down the stairs with Pascalle, her hand to her mouth. Picard turned to Markham as soon as he appeared.

  ‘They have murdered the Queen, those barbarians, taken her to that damned guillotine and chopped off her head.’

  Rossignol stepped forward, to pat Madame Picard on the shoulder, which exposed the shadowy figure behind him. ‘If the good people of Toulon needed to be convinced of the evil of the Terror, this is the very thing to do it.’ He turned to face Markham, a gleam in his eye. ‘It will stiffen their resolve.’

  ‘Oh my God,’ sobbed Madame Picard, walking towards the staircase with her arms outstretched. ‘Who will …’

  Rossignol cut her off, both physically and verbally, his voice sharp and insistent. ‘Monsieur Picard! Take your wife back to bed, and let sleep restore her.’

  ‘Of course,’ Picard replied, pulling at his wife’s arm with a force that seemed to Markham a trifle excessive. As he spun round the lantern in his hand lifted to reveal the yellow-skinned face of Colonel Serota, his hand covering his mouth as he coughed. Then he was plunged into shadow again, so swiftly that Markham wondered if he’d truly seen him.

  Then Rossignol spoke quietly. ‘Thank you, Colonel, for personally bringing us this terrible news.’

  Chapter fourteen

  The inactivity of the French Republican generals, particularly Cartaux, was Hood’s greatest asset. Only a ponderous engagement between the reconstituted Batterie de Bregaillon and a couple of line-of-battle ships aided by gunboats broke the calm. That useless exchange lasted for several weeks, against a navy more stung than threatened. Eventually the action was broken off, with the French still in place and the Royal Navy back at its moorings, in an area of the harbour well out of danger.

  The whole siege settled down into a desultory exchange of occasional fire just for the sake of morale, though it served to remind the inhabitants of Toulon that they were cut off from anything but help from the sea. Every time a salvo was fired, people would stop and look around, checking that the enemy had not moved closer, putting them in personal danger. The French were quiet because of half-hearted generalship, the Allies because of necessity. Mulgrave, the true military commander even though Gravina held the title, prayed daily for more reinforcements. The Neapolitan troops brought in by Captain Nelson were worse than the Spaniards, lacking in discipline, addicted to wine, and such a nuisance they were kept in the trenches, away from temptation, which served to destroy what little morale they possessed.

  Markham, temporarily relieved of any specific duty, was determined to use the time to drill the remainder of his men, now only twenty-three in number. If they still resented him, it was now more the endemic attitude of any serving man to authority than personal dislike. And instead of being mere faces, they took on names and personalities, a great number of which were, to say the least, uninspiring. Hardly one of the Bullocks came without the blemish of a criminal conviction of some kind. The marines, though less forthcoming, could not aspire to virtue either. Through occasional contact with other soldiers of the garrison, they got to hear the gossip about their officer. Markham wasn’t sure if his reputation as an illegitimate rake and known duellist stood to his advantage in such company.

  He knew enough about the common soldier to be aware that they liked their officers aristocratic, wealthy or both. The government rarely paid wages on time, forgot that uniforms and equipment wore through, and were singularly inept at treating and caring for those who were wounded. So a rich, well-connected commander, particularly one who felt a responsibility to his men, was a definite advantage. In that respect he failed completely, and if the gossip about him was comprehensive enough they’d know it only too well. His indebt
edness was common knowledge, so any man who hoped that Markham could lend him money or buy him equipment was doomed to disappointment.

  He had slipped some of his meagre purse to the surgeons on the hospital ship, to ensure that those wounded during the recent action received decent treatment. Fortunately, with so little activity, the medical branch had scant work to do, most of their patients suffering from venereal ailments, rather than wounds. Only one of the men shipped there looked likely to recover enough to resume his duties and Leech, hobbling about with his broken leg, had been left behind to see to his needs.

  As to accusations of cowardice, he hoped, should his men hear of them, his own behaviour had rendered them false. Not that he was sure himself. He was able to recognise a grain of truth in what Hanger had said about the differing levels of fear, having had cause to examine himself in that regard many times. In reality, what his mixed bag of Lobsters and Bullocks thought of him should have been an irrelevance. He had the command of them and they must obey. He was inclined to berate himself at the slightest hint that he cared about their opinion, good or bad.

  Relations with Rannoch, particularly, were hard to pin down. But they had certainly improved from the days before the assault on the Batterie de Bregaillon. The Scotsman had no time for officers as a race, but now seemed to accept that, stuck with Markham, he had to make the best of it. Was it that hint of the Viking, apparent in his physical appearance, that gave him a contrary streak, friendly one minute and resentful the next? He particularly disliked any probing into his past, or any casual assumption of superiority by his officer. Markham soon learned that a form of meticulous politeness served best, clear instructions given in a way that denoted a degree of respect.

  In return, Rannoch disciplined the men who’d come to sea with him, and had the good sense to work through Halsey when he was required to treat with the marines. Schutte had become very subdued, his initial gratitude for the gift of his life seeming to weigh heavily on him. Markham wasn’t sure if resentment was building up in the Hollander, caused by anger at him, or a degree of self-loathing brought on by his own failure to attack with the rest. Taking their lead from Halsey, the Lobsters stayed out of his orbit, leaving him to his brooding, glad that at least he seemed submissive enough to obey any instructions he was given.

  Practice at musketry was a priority, and having captured the entire arsenal of the French Mediterranean fleet, the supply of powder was plentiful. In this respect, Rannoch was a far superior instructor to Markham. As an officer, he knew all about the problems of musketry, but it was a knowledge that came to him more through conversation than actual use. Rannoch was just the opposite. The man was a crack shot, adding to his ability to aim and fire the Brown Bess a care for his weapon that bordered on love. He was particular in the selection of his musket balls and the quantity of powder he used, and that made him, on a windless day, deadly even at long range.

  Before he lectured the men, he felt it necessary to teach his officer the inherent problems of the weapon they needed to use. Even though Markham knew, he listened intently so that the sergeant would not assume he was taking the matter lightly. Rannoch talked knowledgeably about the gun itself. The Brown Bess had been in service with the British army since the time of Marlborough. Originally the barrel had been fifty-four inches long, but that had been shortened in the 1770s to the standard weapon in use, the so-called Land Pattern Musket with a barrel four inches shorter. And in the nature of things, their weapons had come from several different gunmakers in London, Birmingham and yet more from Ireland. The marines had an equally mixed bag of the Sea Service Pattern. They’d been deprived of a further six inches of barrel to facilitate the problems of firing and reloading aboard ship, a deletion which had done nothing for the accuracy of the weapon, though it had helped with the fearsome recoil. Rannoch had fired them all, and could tell, without looking at the markings on the firing plates, how old each gun was. As he spoke, his lilting Highland voice made him sound like a particularly pedantic schoolmaster.

  ‘It does not matter what length it is, Sea Service or Land Pattern. Brown Bess is big in the barrel, half as much again as a French musket, and while that means a ball that will take a man’s head off, or give him a body wound that will tear his innards apart, it also produces a kick that most men cannot hold steady. It also happens that if the ball does not fit in the proper manner, once it’s fired off it can go in any direction.’

  ‘Which is why you cast your own?’

  ‘Not only cast them,’ Rannoch replied, holding up the short length of tubing. ‘Barrel sizes can vary a wee bit too. This is a piece from a true gun, a Long Pattern that saw service in the Forty-five rebellion. After I have cast the balls, filed them and rolled them in a touch of gun oil, I slide them down here. They have got to go through without sticking at all. And when I hold it up to the light, if I see a glint I throw them back to melt.’

  Markham took the barrel from him, selected one of his musket balls and tried it for himself. The grey lead sphere was slippery to the touch, and the smell of the clean oil rose to his nostrils. Suddenly his mind was cast back to Finsbury Park, to that cold morning when he faced the emigré French count across that damp patch of grass. He’d inspected the ball before his second loaded it, and that same odour had been present then. How much easier it would have been if the Count had withdrawn. But he could not countenance giving way to a man he’d nearly caught in flagrante, in his very own house, with a wife half his age.

  ‘Most of the men in this army,’ Rannoch continued, cutting across his thoughts, ‘are using French musket balls in British guns. And it will not do for accuracy, not ever. They try to compensate by increasing the wadding, thinking that will make the ball fire true. But they are fooling themselves. If they hit anything at all, it is only luck.’

  ‘It would help if they’d just take aim, sergeant.’

  ‘It’s hard not to blink, with that flash of powder right by your eye. And the trigger is a devil, as you know.’

  ‘Can that be eased?’

  ‘Never. It has to be stiff so that the pressure on the flint gives you the spark. I have known men file them down for ease, and misfire five times out of ten even on a dry day.’

  ‘So how do you overcome that?’

  ‘Only by practice, and some of the men we have will never manage it. They lack the strength. But if they pull hard on the butt end, and keep it well into their shoulder, then they might just send a ball in the direction they are pointing.’

  Markham looked him straight in the eye, for once abandoning his tone of rigid politeness. ‘If you inspect most of the guns we have, Rannoch, Lobsters or Bullocks, you’ll see as I have that, unlike yours, most of them lack any sights.’

  For once Rannoch didn’t bridle. Safe on his own subject, he could afford to smile. ‘Nor will they profit from what I have, which is a stock that has been fashioned to suit my own size. The army cannot accept that each man is a different shape, and the gun needs to be made to fit him if it is to aim true.’

  ‘Are you saying sights don’t matter?’

  ‘Not much point in fitting them, fiddly things they are, too, if you are not going to be aiming.’

  ‘I want them to aim,’ Markham growled. ‘I want them to fire steadily and I want them to hit whatever it is we’re trying to kill. We could have fought that squadron of cavalry to a standstill with accurate fire. Instead we had to run.’

  ‘That is so,’ said Rannoch softly. ‘It must have been galling, with that colonel you like so much looking on.’

  Markham was stung by Rannoch’s gentle admonishment, intimating that his only reason for wishing to improve the performance of his men was to impress Hanger. He wanted to refute it, to say that more men would have survived if they’d been better shots. But to do so would sound like a lame excuse.

  ‘I’m less concerned about the why, more about the solution.’

  ‘Training, only training,’ said Rannoch, pulling his lead mould to from his pouch.
‘And perhaps a few more of these to make enough true musket balls.’

  ‘Is that enough?’

  ‘You would be amazed how it cheers a man to really hit something for the first time in his life. It makes him want to do it again. It is a bit like winning a wee skirmish.’

  Markham looked at the Scotsman hard then, but the irony was masked by a bland look that conveyed nothing.

  They found a gunsmith close to the dockyard who could make moulds, though deflecting his attempts to sell them other weapons took half of the morning. Some of the pieces he offered, originally made for the French naval officers, were handsome. But they were also expensive. And when Markham had paid for the castings to be made, and also the huge tub of beeswax that Rannoch demanded, there was little left for luxuries. On the way back to the Picard warehouse they stopped off at the arsenal to order powder and shot for the morrow, and pick up a barrel of gun oil, which Rannoch hoisted on his shoulder and carried back.

  Getting permission to set up a training range was much harder. Markham only managed to persuade Lord Mulgrave to agree because Hanger was away from headquarters. In such a confined and crowded area, with refugees from all over Provence occupying every available space, that commodity was at a premium. But the General allocated them a piece of ground in the reserve trench system that had been dug to the north of the city.

  Markham watched as Rannoch set up the targets, straw bales covered in painted cloth, while the rest of the men sorted out positions on the firestep. The sergeant was fussy about their placing, demanding exact measurements of the distance from the trenches. He was likewise adamant, in the face of all precedent, that it was a waste of time to try and teach them standing musketry until they had mastered the art of shooting recumbent.