‘I want the name taken of the man who shouted that.’
‘And the charge, sir?’
‘Stupidity. He must have already seen me with a shovel.’
‘If stupidity is the charge, sir, you’d be looking at your entire command. There is not a brain amongst the lot of them.’
Markham grinned, and tried, with his sleeve, to wipe some of the grime off his face.
‘So that’s why they put me here.’
Chapter eighteen
After the failed and costly assault, the French on Mont Faron reverted to proper siege tactics, though the hard, shallow topsoil made sapping forward a risky affair. Now it was obvious why Dugommier had taken such a risk with his attack. Given the shallow topsoil it was impossible to dig deep, angled trenches, which meant that most of the work was above ground. They would build a parallel with stones and earth, and work to make it impregnable before sapping forward again.
Their only advantage lay in numerical superiority. But they also benefited from the poor gunnery of the Allied artillery, which was manned in this sector by Neapolitans. As far as possible the best gunners, British sailors, were kept aboard their ships, being too valuable a commodity to risk ashore. Hood considered Toulon important, but compared to the integrity of his fleet, in an area where he could not make up his losses, it counted for nothing. The marines were needed as infantry, and could not be spared to man the guns.
Despite the wishes of their commanders, they were soon called upon to move from the top of Mont Faron. Admiral Gravina, more for the sake of his pride than out of any military sense, insisted that his troops be allowed, once more, to take over these defences. Hood, determined to keep intact the little tattered unity that remained, acquiesced. Like everyone else, he thought Toulon near impregnable, given the forces Dugommier had at his disposal.
Markham and his men were dispatched to the western end of the defences. They were reinforced by another company of marines, men from a line-of-battle ship, Alcide, both of whose officers were aboard the hospital ship. They’d fared better than the NCOs, who were buried in the cemetery. The expanded unit, eighty strong, was sent to the forward trenches in front of the Hill of Caire and Fort Mulgrave. This commanded that portion of the Petite Rade and masked the coastal defences at l’Eguillette and the Tour de Balaguier which, standing opposite the Grosse Tour, dominated the narrow approaches to the inner harbour.
Denied leave to return to their comfortable billet, they were back on army rations, stuck in trenches with no respite, which made them moan. And with the balance of Bullocks to Lobsters now heavily altered, some of the tensions that had so recently subsided resurfaced. But it was nothing like as bad as it had been before, with the Hebes unwilling to allow the taunts of the newcomers to pass without a response. Rannoch, with the help of Halsey, so established his authority, leaving their officer little to do. And given that the sole French activity seemed to be in the construction of numerous battery positions, Markham was free to wander the entire length of the western defence line.
He also had time to pursue other things, such as Guillaume Rossignol. Talking to Eveline was possible, but he thought he would achieve more by asking the man himself. Once he’d established that he was not at the house, this aim took him along the foreshore past Fort St Louis, then on to the promontory that formed the eastern arm of the inner harbour. At the very tip of this stood the Grosse Tour, ancient, round and stone built, surrounded by a moat, which had once served to defend the harbour. Now it acted as a signal station, primarily for ships approaching the anchorage, but also as a base to repeat orders from Victory to those elements of Lord Hood’s fleet that had difficulty reading her flags. Looking past it, he could see clearly the forbidding fortifications of L’Eguillette, less than a mile away.
The guard on the gate, an immaculate marine, presented arms with crisp efficiency as Markham crossed the drawbridge. Inside he noticed the mechanism for raising the heavy wooden platform. It seemed to be well lubricated and was obviously in working order, which was more than could be said for the rest of the tower. The lower chambers of the old fortress were empty of furnishing or people, the sound of his feet echoing off the walls a testimony to the way time had rendered it redundant. He passed the watergate, which lay on the seaward side, the waves lapping against the old stone walls adding to the line of green slime that denoted high water mark. A longboat, pulled back and forth by the current, creaked as it strained on its ropes.
A circular staircase ran up the outer wall. As he ascended he heard a babble of voices, high-pitched and excited. Emerging from the darkness of the stairwell he found himself on the battlements, a flat stone area, surrounded by heavy embrasured walls, and dominated by a copy of a ship’s mast. Rossignol stood at his canvas, his back to Markham, dabbing repeatedly, then looking through the telescope set up by the side of his easel.
Flags flicked in the stiff breeze, as a midshipman read off the orders on the Victory’s yards. These detailed a ship’s number, followed by a message that the Commander-in-Chief wished to convey. Another pair of mids pulled the required flags from the lockers, handed them to a couple of sailors, who tied them on and hauled the signal aloft. The folded flags, at the flick of the wrist, burst open and streamed to windward.
‘Monsieur Rossignol,’ he said quietly, after passing and acknowledging the salutes of the chattering midshipmen.
The Frenchman spun round, an alarmed expression on his face, brush extended defensively, which forced Markham to lean back to avoid a stain on his uniform.
‘Lieutenant Markham.’
‘I fear I startled you, monsieur.’
‘Yes, yes,’ Rossignol replied breathlessly, moving his body to hide the canvas on the easel. ‘I was so taken with my work.’
‘Would I be permitted to look?’ asked Markham.
Rossignol’s loss of composure evaporated, to be replaced by a demeanour as blustery as the wind which tugged at his coat.
‘Please, Lieutenant. No artist likes his work to be observed while still only half-completed. But I promise you, when I am done, you will be one of the first to be granted a view.’
‘Of course.’
‘What brings you to the Grosse Tour?’
‘I had arranged to talk with you, do you remember? But circumstances have contrived to keep us from that appointment.’
‘You came all the way out here just to talk to me?’
Markham shrugged. ‘It’s a part of the defences I’ve never visited, and since I needed to walk and think …’
‘I sense you are troubled by something?’
Markham was about to tell Rossignol exactly what that was. But in order to avoid glancing at the painting, he’d looked at the view instead. That caused him to remain silent. The whole of Toulon was laid out before his eyes. Without a telescope, and with a mere turn of his head, he could see most of the defences, all the way from the tip of the St Mandrian Peninsula, past the Tour de Balaguier and l’Eguillette, round to Malbousquet, the old town and Forts St Louis and de la Malgue. Most of the forts on Mont Faron were hidden by low cloud, but not the steady stream of men and materials inching its way up the steep road to the summit. And by turning round, he knew without looking that every ship in the fleet was visible from this position.
‘If I was to burden you with my troubles,’ he said with a wry smile, ‘it would ruin your mood as much as it has affected mine.’
‘I hope you know, Lieutenant Markham, that in me you have a friend with a ready ear.’
‘Of course,’ Markham responded. Then he turned away. ‘Forgive me for interrupting your labours.’
He made his way to the other side of the terrace, to where the senior midshipman stood, leaning out through an embrasure, his telescope fixed on the flagship. Sensing his presence the youth came smartly to attention, then went back to his task when Markham told him to carry on.
‘How do you feel about sharing your loft with a civilian?’
‘It was awkward at first
, sir, what with him wanting to chatter with us, and lacking much in the way of English. He was inclined to get in the way, and we tried to persuade Colonel Hanger that it weren’t on.’
‘Hanger?’ Markham snapped, unable to control his surprise.
The youngster sounded aggrieved as he replied. ‘I got a flea in my ear and no mistake, which was galling with that Spaniard consumptive, Serota, standing right by him.’
‘The Colonel is not one to spare anyone’s feelings.’
‘You know him, sir?’ asked the mid, looking closely at him, trying to discern what he thought of the Colonel. Markham pulled a grim face, which served to reassure the youngster.
‘Only too well.’
‘I hope he ain’t commissioned the work, for if he has, he’s in for a shock.’
‘You’ve seen it?
The midshipman rolled his eyes, then lifted the telescope, pointing it towards Rossignol’s back, almost inviting Markham to have a look. At that moment, a signal gun boomed out and flags started shooting up the Victory’s mast. The invitation was withdrawn as the youngster set about his duties. In an even voice he read off and called out the message.
‘Flag to shore, repeat to Bulldog, make private signal and inform that it is safe to enter inner harbour. Captain to repair aboard Flag when anchored.’
Markham was about to observe that, with the Grande Rade full of Allied shipping, such a reference to safety was obvious. But he bit his tongue, knowing, even from his short acquaintance with the Navy, that they were sticklers for the rules.
‘I don’t think I’ll ever understand messages sent by flag.’
‘It ain’t difficult, sir, once you get the basics.’
‘What happens if you make a mistake?’
‘Why, sir,’ the midshipman replied, his eyes rolling, ‘if we did that, we’d be stretched across the gun and given fifty of the best. And Bulldog would spot it right off, up her helm and be back out to sea in a flash.’
He stood for an age, apparently watching the activities of the signal station, but in a deeply pensive mood, even more worried now than he had been earlier. To place a civilian, and a stranger, at the very top of the Grosse Tour was singular enough. To allow him the use of a powerful. telescope bordered on stupidity. Nothing that happened on land would escape his notice. Not a single gun could be moved, nor a unit redeployed, without being seen. Had all those pinprick attacks, in which Dugommier had always known where to strike, really been the fault of the now absent French sailors? Or was it all Guillaume Rossignol, with his easel and his telescope, atop the Grosse Tour?
He couldn’t bring himself to believe that, partly because he liked him, and even more for Eveline’s sake. Rossignol had a bluff and hearty manner which he used to disguise a shrewd brain. His relationship with Pascalle, of which Markham had perceived no hint, meant he was capable of deep dissimulation. He was up to something at night, either on his own account or on behalf of Picard. And what of his relationship with Hanger? The Honourable Augustus might be a bully, with a gross and disobliging manner. But he was no traitor, and much as Markham despised the man he could not bring himself to think of him as a complete fool, duped into letting a French spy occupy such a sensitive spot. Then there was Colonel Serota, whose sense of his own importance was extremely profound, yet who had personally delivered the message of Marie Antoinette’s death on the guillotine to a mere tradesman.
What was going on in the house that had Madame Picard permanently on tenterhooks? And what was she doing coaching Jean-Baptiste with that book of portraits? What did Celeste mean when she hinted that nothing was as it seemed? Perhaps if he’d paid more attention he would have seen more. Looking back over his time spent in the house, when not sleeping and dealing with the needs of his men, he’d concentrated almost entirely on Eveline, and his attentions to her had obscured whatever undercurrents existed between the rest of the occupants.
Yet there could be a perfectly innocent explanation, or, if not entirely above board, one that was acceptable to him. The atmosphere in Toulon was febrile in the extreme, something only to be expected in a city under siege. British and Spaniards totally distrusted each other, while the rest of the allies were, at best, indifferent in their support for the cause. Even with an open door to the sea, supplies of certain things were naturally scarce, and thieves or looters, where they had been found, had been summarily hanged. Talk of spies, when Frenchman was pitted against his own countrymen, was endemic. And justice, if it could be called that, was swift. An accusation placed against Rossignol could see him at the end of a rope before he had a chance to offer an explanation, and that was not something Markham was prepared to contemplate without proof.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you further, Monsieur Rossignol.’ The older man spun round again, if anything faster than he had before, his eyes locking on to Markham’s, in a challenging way that seemed designed to put him off his stride. ‘There are certain things troubling me, things that require explanation.’
‘Such as?’
Markham, now that he was actually embarked on his quest, didn’t quite know where to start, so he decided to go right back to the beginning, referring to the moment when he’d first sighted the coach. ‘You never actually explained to me why you were fleeing in the first place.’
‘I should have thought that was obvious.’
‘I don’t mean that. Where had you come from?’
Rossignol’s eyes narrowed. ‘Marseilles, and before that Lyons. Both cities sacked by the revolutionary mobs.’
‘And from Paris originally.’
‘Yes.’
‘A couple of nights ago I heard a noise in the corridor.’ The look of alarm in the older man’s face made him speak quickly, having no actual desire to refer to the sexual content of that observation unless it was absolutely necessary. ‘I saw you on the landing. You put on a cloak. I presume that you then went out.’
‘I did.’
‘But not by either of the main doors.’
‘You followed me?’
Markham ignored the shock in his voice, and continued calmly. ‘How could I, since your method of entering and leaving the Picard house is a secret?’
‘I had business to conduct.’
Markham looked out over the Petite Rade. ‘Might I be permitted to ask what kind of business?’
The look in Rossignol’s eye, as he opened his mouth to answer, made Markham suspect he was going to be fobbed off with a lie. Which was the last thing he wanted, since if the old man did that, he’d have no choice but to take his suspicions elsewhere.
‘Before you answer, monsieur, let me add some of the other things that trouble me. I cannot comprehend how you persuaded the Picards to allow us to billet in their warehouse. What treatments are the doctors you’ve employed engaged in? Why do you coach young Jean-Baptiste with a book of royal portraits? And just what makes you so important that Colonel Serota feels it necessary to come to the house to tell you personally of the Queen’s demise?’
As Markham fired his stream of questions, he could see Rossignol’s mind working.
‘Colonel Serota does not think me important, Lieutenant.’
‘Monsieur Picard?’ said Markham, incredulously. The absurdity of that notion had him close to the obvious conclusion just as Rossignol answered.
‘No. It is the boy himself.’
‘Jean-Baptiste?’
Rossignol dropped his voice to a whisper, indicating with a sharp nod that the others on the top of the tower should not hear what he was about to say. ‘Perhaps, Lieutenant, you’d be better to address him by his proper name and title.’
‘Title?’
‘His Majesty, King Louis the Seventeenth of France. I had better complete my labour for the day,’ said Rossignol, waving a soothing hand. ‘We can talk on the way back to the Picard house.’
‘How much do you know about events in Paris, Lieutenant?’
‘What I read in the London newspapers.’
‘Then you w
ill perhaps be aware that the whereabouts of the Dauphin, once he’d been separated from his mother, was a secret.’
‘Vaguely aware, yes.’
‘I wish I knew what they did to that boy,’ Rossignol sighed. Seeing the look of inquiry on Markham’s face, the Frenchman continued, ‘If we had information regarding the cause, we would perhaps have a path to the cure.’
‘I have seen men in a similar state after a battle.’
‘God knows the battles the poor boy has had to fight. Perhaps they made him witness the death of his father. He was certainly subjected to a very harsh régime.’
‘Some recover naturally.’
‘And many never do, Lieutenant. Pity him, and France.’
Markham had been thinking about Jean-Baptiste and his bland expressionless face. But Rossignol’s melancholy mention of France brought him back to the present. His next question had more than a trace of incredulity in it, evidence despite all Rossignol’s assurances that what he was saying was true, and his own sudden deductions, he didn’t actually believe him.
‘How did he come to be here?’
‘We tried to save the King and Queen by helping them flee, and failed when they were apprehended at Varennes.’
‘We?’
‘All right-thinking Frenchmen, Lieutenant, those who believe that to murder an anointed sovereign is sacrilege. And that is not just the nobility, it is most of the people of France. Those Jacobin madmen who run the Committee of Public Safety are but a small minority.’
‘You failed at Varennes,’ said Markham, bringing him back to the point.
‘We did, though his late Majesty must bear most of the blame. Then, when Louis was murdered, we tried to save the Queen.’
‘And failed once more.’
‘You have a cruel way of alluding to the truth,’ replied Rossignol softly, with a catch in his throat. He turned away, pulling out a handkerchief to dab at his eyes. ‘But it’s nothing less than that. We failed them, may their souls rest in peace.’
Suddenly his voice recovered its normal strength, and he began to wave a triumphal fist. ‘Yet we succeeded with the son. Against all the odds, when everyone despaired, we managed to seize him from their grasp, to put another in his place.’
A Shred of Honour Page 25
