Certainly it wouldn’t be legal, if it involved all this sneaking about. And what did he really know about Rossignol, apart from what the older man had told him? He certainly hadn’t been aware of the relationship he had with his own daughter! Shivering slightly, he stood up and made his way back to the house, turning over in his mind all the things that had happened since he’d met the Parisian lawyer; the way his coach had arrived just ahead of the soldiers; his singular way of finding a billet. Just what had he said to Madame Picard that turned her attitude from downright refusal to an almost simpering acceptance of their presence?
Standing in the hallway, he remembered meeting Rossignol on the morning he’d taken his men to their firing practice. He’d been heading towards the study, a sheaf of papers in his hand, covered in what looked like drawings. There was slight pang of guilt in trying the study door, which opened noiselessly; a feeling of trespassing not only on private property but the Picards’ hospitality. The room was small and circular, lined with bookshelves which went all the way to the ceiling, dominated by a large round table covered in papers which nearly filled it. Markham put the lantern down on the only clear space, and the first thing he saw was the great red and gold bound book with which Madame Picard had been attempting to coach young Jean-Baptiste all those weeks before.
He opened it and leant forward, unshading the lantern fully so that he could see the pictures. There was no need to try and guess the identity of the figures portrayed, one per page, as each had a subscription at the base. The clothing was different, as was the quality of the artwork. Charlemagne was there, as was the first Capet king, St Louis, and Henry IV, the Protestant king who’d said that Paris was well worth a mass. Catherine de Medici glowered out from the preceding page, her dark eyes seeming still to carry the menace of the secret poisoner. The great Sun King was shown young, middle-aged, and in all the glory of his last years. But the pages which interested Markham the most had several drawings stuck between the leaves, sketches of palaces one of which was unmistakably Versailles. And the twin portraits underneath those sketches, on pages which seemed well thumbed, were of King Louis XVI and his recently guillotined wife, Marie Antoinette.
He made more noise than he intended shutting the book, a thud which seemed to rebound off the ledger-lined walls. Quickly he reshaded his lantern and slipped out through the door, laying it at the head of the still sleeping servant. It was only when he re-entered his room that he remembered Eveline. Had she come to him when he was out, and if so, what would she deduce from that?
He lay back on the bed, his mind in turmoil. There was a mass of questions he could ask, but would he receive either truthful or satisfactory answers? Celeste wouldn’t speak to him, though she had the ability to answer questions. But that would mean interrogating her, and somehow that seemed wrong. Eveline Rossignol was the only person in the house he was really close to, the only one who could give him the truth. Still thinking of her, and how difficult she’d find it, naked and in his arms, to do otherwise, he fell into a troubled sleep.
If Rossignol had been up late, it didn’t show in either his face or his manner. Nor, for all his consumption of wine, did he appear to have a hangover. He was as hearty as ever at breakfast, gabbling away at Markham and the Picards, whose presence hindered any form of interrogation. This left him wondering where the girls had got to, while another layer of his thinking ran over the events of the previous night. The cold light of a November morning made everything seem less suspect.
Toulon was a seaport, therefore there would be smuggling. Lurid articles appeared in the English and Irish papers about smugglers; their collective will and desperate methods to avoid taxes. Of how every port in the land was honeycombed with tunnels and secret doorways so that the Excise officers could be evaded. How even the most apparently upright citizens in the town would be at the heart of the trade, prepared to murder to keep their secrets. Why should France be any different? Looking down the table at the tall, skeletal figure of his host, he saw Picard in an entirely new light.
And Rossignol, full of bluster and confidence, who’d taken on the task of dealing with the Allies on Picard’s behalf. Did that include the provision of scarce luxuries? Little imagination was required to guess at the level of nefarious trade going on in an occupied naval base. There were many commodities at a premium, and that was a sure recipe for underhand trading. With half a dozen nationalities, this would be a busy market. The British were no saints, officers or men, but they paled in comparison to the Spaniards when it came to corruption. And they in turn couldn’t even begin to hold a candle to the Neapolitans.
And what about Eveline? Had she found his room empty? Was that why she and her sister were so late to the table? Pascalle entered at that very moment, wafting in all directions her usual cloud of heavy perfume. Her eyes were bright and her smile, somewhat enigmatic, was aimed at him, which made his heart jump. But she turned and spoke to her father.
‘Poor Eveline is indisposed, Papa, and has asked to be allowed to stay abed.’
‘A doctor?’ he inquired.
‘No doctor is needed. It is but a woman’s thing.’
Rossignol sighed with understanding, as Markham cursed under his breath. Was Pascalle telling the truth? It seemed unlikely, given that the previous night at dinner, Eveline had done everything in her power to indicate what the pair of them could look forward to. He struggled to remember the last occasion on which she’d been indisposed, but the date eluded him. Why had she encouraged him, when he’d been without her charms for over ten days? It seemed cruel, a thought which was immediately followed by remorse. In his experience, many women showed their greatest desire just before the peak of their cycle.
Reluctantly, he realised that he must either quiz Celeste, or put some direct questions to Rossignol. Of the two he preferred the latter.
‘Time for me to be off,’ said Rossignol, pulling himself to his feet. When he saw the look of surprise in Markham’s eye, he clearly mistook it for inquiry and responded accordingly. ‘I have taken to daubing a painting, which will stand as a representation of the siege. From the very top of the Grosse Tour, the whole of the landscape, harbour and hill, unfolds as a perfect panorama.’
‘Indeed?’ Markham replied, recalling the sketches he’d seen last night.
‘Land and water are not a problem,’ Rossignol continued, ‘but the ships, with their intricate rigging, are the very devil. I’m a total amateur. But it provides pleasure and passes the time agreeably. I hope that the day provides you with as much joy.’
‘I was wondering if I could have a word with you.’
If Rossignol picked up the tightness in Markham’s voice, he didn’t respond. His voice was full of a warmth that precluded evasion. ‘As soon as I return, Lieutenant. You will, I trust, be coming back here this evening?’
‘Yes. Today will be taken up with further training.’
‘My word, Lieutenant,’ asked Pascalle. ‘Are your soldiers not proficient enough?’
The reply was emphatic. ‘No, mademoiselle, they are not.’
There was no sign of Rossignol at dinner. Picard informed him that the Frenchman had been called to the Fort de la Malgue to discuss future supplies, and intended to dine there. Nor was Eveline at the table, and he anticipated another solitary night.
‘What happened last night?’ he said, as soon as she appeared in his room.
‘That old witch was watching.’
‘Madame Picard?’
‘Who else?’ She rushed forward to embrace him, but he held her off slightly. ‘Is your father up to something, Eveline?’
He felt her shoulders tense, saw the worry in the eyes, and heard the sharp intake of breath. Suddenly the indelicacy of alluding to what he’d seen and heard on the landing the previous night was too much. And his confusion made him stutter slightly.
‘Sneaking out of the house at all hours of the night.’
‘You were spying on him.’
‘I was looking
for you.’
‘And here I am, chéri.’ She leant forward and blew out the candle.
‘I want to talk to you.’
‘Not now.’
Unfortunately, the guns on Mont Faron began firing almost at precisely the wrong moment. He did everything he could to shut out the sound, and might have succeeded if the whole city of Toulon had not come awake. The church bells were rung, the agreed signal for a general alarm, which in his case was a standing order that he should proceed with his men to the Fort de la Malgue. Haste, plus the prospect of imminent peril, gave their lovemaking, already frantic, an added piquancy. But there was no time for post-coital inquests. He struggled into his clothes, jammed on his hat, grabbed his sword, coat, and pistols, and with his shirt still flapping outside his breeches ran through to the ground floor of the warehouse.
Rannoch had the men lined up and ready to move out as he clattered across the flagstoned floor. Every eye turned to take in the state of his dress, until a sharp command from the sergeant brought them to attention. While it removed their gaze, it failed to eradicate the smirks they wore on their faces, or entirely to suppress the laughter that was bubbling up in their breasts, making some of them shake uncontrollably. Rannoch stepped towards him smartly, his bulk cutting off the men’s view.
‘If we are not about to surrender, sir, it would be an idea to stow the white flag.’
‘What are you …?’
Markham was in the act of putting on his coat, but his eyes followed the sergeant’s downwards to where his shirt tail flapped. Rannoch would have seen him blush if the light had been strong enough. But he heard him curse, so he knew his officer was berating himself for a fool. Markham was still doing that as they doubled along the quayside. Having spent weeks trying to gain the respect of these men he’d thrown it all away, and made himself look like an complete idiot. It wasn’t the first time in his life that the presence of a woman had been his downfall. Not that he blamed them. The fault, he knew, lay with him.
They barely paused by the fort, ordered towards the guns, booming and flashing at the top of the great sweep of hills that dominated the town, to the flat, featureless plateau of Mont Faron. Marching uphill at such a serious pace meant that when they arrived, he and his men were near to exhaustion. But the situation was too serious for any hope of respite. The French had confounded expectations by launching an attack before standard military logic said they were ready.
They should have sapped forward for weeks from their redoubts above the village of La Valette, inching obliquely upwards across the scrub-covered ground for a hundred yards, then constructing a defensive line that, once secured, allowed them to move forward once more. But Dugommier eschewed this and attacked with the whole Army of Savoy from half a mile distant. Ten thousand men in great infantry waves, ignoring the rules of war and manoeuvre, bugles blowing and tricolours waving as they advanced uphill towards the trench lines between the Forts of Faron and L’Artigues, under murderous shellfire with precious little artillery support of their own.
Musket fire, concentrated and deadly at short range, didn’t slow them either. These were the tactics of the Revolution, mass assaults in overwhelming numbers, which had proved so successful in the north. But here on Mont Faron, with a clear view of the French lines, it looked like folly. At that distance from the defences, they should have been repulsed with ease by the men holding the perimeter, leaving free the British marines who’d been brought up to act as a reserve. But they were thrown into action at soon as they arrived.
Again, it was the allied troops that had failed to hold, Neapolitans and Spaniards, and the British who were called upon to take back the defences they had lost. Even as he cursed their inability to maintain their ground, Markham could sympathise. They were badly equipped and led by men who stole everything they could from their soldiers, officers who were often the first to retreat at any sign of danger.
That, at least, could not be said of those leading the marines into action. Elphinstone and Mulgrave were everywhere, shouting, cajoling and leading confused charges to throw back pockets of Frenchmen who’d established themselves in the casernes and redoubts. No longer moving forward to the sound of their bugles, some of their revolutionary fervour deserted them. And any cohesion the enemy might have had was gone after stumbling, in the gloom, up over half a mile of uneven scree. Content to try and hold what they’d taken, they looked to those still coming from La Valette to finish the battle.
He might hate Augustus Hanger, but no-one could doubt the man’s courage. Sword waving in the ethereal glow from gun flashes, flares and blue lights, he led one counter-attack after another, always at the head of his men, in the position of maximum danger, taking the attacking French detachments in the flank and driving them relentlessly back down the hill, then turning to traverse the slopes so that he could slash into those Frenchmen who’d been cut off by their earlier successes.
Markham and his men, shifted from command to command, were ordered to clear one section of trench after another, with no idea, as they entered a new part of the line, how many men they would face. Night fighting in such a constricted space was deadly, with nothing but the light of the occasional flares and the orange glow of spitting cannon to show an enemy silhouette. Silent at first, screams soon drowned out the blaring trumpets as the enemy tried to reinforce their gains. Success below ground level was swiftly followed by an order to form up and advance, never knowing who was to the left or right as they did so.
Both armies struggled for advantage, aware that the loss of these heights could break the siege. All the musketry practice of the last few days was useless. In trenches, on the loose marl slopes and shallow earth of the limestone plateau, this was hand-to-hand work; stabbing with bayonets, clubbing with butts, gouging at the faint glow of an opponent’s eye, biting any hand that was laid close enough to the mouth. Cursing, swearing, sometimes crying, they fought each other like demons, stepping over their own wounded and dead to engage.
Still more men came on, only the occasional blue light to show their progress, each advancing wave at least a thousand men, with double that amount already engaged, the whole easily outnumbering the defenders. The enemy established themselves around Fort Faron, then attacked the lower defences around L’Artigues, for once with the sloping ground to their advantage. British reserves, scraped from all over the battlefield, were sent in, piecemeal, to try and hold the line. Risking everything, Mulgrave denuded the defences around the other forts, St Catherine, Rouge and Blanc, plus the high western redoubt at Des Pomets, to stop up the gaps that inevitably appeared.
How they drove the French back, Markham didn’t know. But they did, time and again, with confused bayonet charges that looked doomed but somehow succeeded, ragged volleys of musketry that imposed just enough of a check on the enemy to permit a counter-attack. All through the night the battle raged, until sheer exhaustion took over on both sides, and like two pugilists driven to their knees, they ceased to inflict any telling punishment.
As dawn broke the French withdrew, leaving at least a thousand of their fellows as casualties on the hillsides. The guns behind their lines, which had been sporadically active throughout the night, began a steady cannonade, churning up the ground between the positions, blowing already shattered bodies of friend and foe into tiny fragments.
Food came, with water to drink, and a chance to dress the innumerable wounds that every man had sustained. Then the bugles blew and a flag appeared, with an officer from each side to agree the obligatory truce. Markham dragged his men to their feet, and pushed and shoved them unmercifully, as they mingled with the soldiers they’d just fought, helping to clear the field of the thousands of casualties. Elphinstone and Hanger rode along behind the lines, bloody, bandaged and haggard, showing evidence of their own endeavours. Dragged away from his work, Markham stood to attention beside their snorting mounts.
‘We stay here, Markham,’ said Hanger hoarsely, too tired to sneer. ‘We can’t trust these po
sitions to our so-called allies, so we must hold them ourselves.’
‘Sir.’
Elphinstone, his thick, grey eyebrows twitching, looked at the damaged trenches, at the casernes destroyed and exposed, at the earthworks cast down, the timber and stone walls they’d so recently toiled to construct. His florid face was covered by a thin coating of dust, which in the light from the fires made him look ethereal. ‘Get your men to work on those defences as soon as the truce ends. I want them back to what they were before a day is passed.’
‘The men are exhausted, sir, and carrying a number of wounds. And I doubt the French are in any better state.’
‘I don’t care if they are on one leg,’ he yelled. ‘Just do as I say.’
It was a stupid thing to do. He’d made enough enemies without adding to the list. But he couldn’t resist it, couldn’t entirely subsume his natural personality into the military role that wearing his uniform demanded.
‘Aye, aye, sir,’ he replied. ‘And when you return to the comfort of your quarters, after you’ve had a good sleep, be so good as to give my compliments to your niece. She still owes me one or two dances.’
The black look that received, added to the tired smirk that Hanger managed, convinced him that he’d struck home. Elphinstone hauled on the reins angrily and trotted off.
‘Right, my boyos,’ he shouted, laying on the brogue. ‘We’re back on the bloody shovel.’
‘That’s a job for a Paddy.’
Markham spun round to see who had shouted. Quinlan and Ettrick were just behind Dornan, and that was the direction from which the sound had come. But he knew that the man they’d pushed to the front was innocent. He always was.
‘Sergeant Rannoch.’
‘Sir!’
A Shred of Honour Page 24
