‘Enough!’ Hood spoke without looking at either man, in a voice that had no need to be raised to be obeyed. ‘This is no time for squabbling. We have a crisis developing.’
‘It is more than a crisis, sir,’ Smith insisted. ‘It is, potentially, a defeat. I told Mulgrave that the destruction of those guns was essential. But, like all Bullocks, he thought he knew best. That Germantown medal has convinced him that he’s a fount of military wisdom. Instead he is a trough of stale ideas. Hanger is worse, so smitten with Elphinstone’s niece that he can barely be brought to concentrate on his duty. This Bonaparte, a mere artillery captain, has cooked our goose by doing the unexpected. He’ll have l’Eguillette before midnight tomorrow’
Markham turned every time the pipes blew on the maindeck to welcome a naval captain aboard, the only one to do so. He heard Hood order a boat ashore with one of Victory’s lieutenants, given instructions to request that all the senior officers attend a conference as soon as darkness fell, and that they bring with them an honest appreciation of the situation. Messages were sent to the Spanish flagship and the Commodore of the Neapolitan contingent. Listening to all this, Markham didn’t notice that Nelson had taken station beside him.
‘You too have come to observe the beginning of the final act, Markham.’
‘Is it that, sir?’ he said, turning to face the small, fair-haired captain.
Nelson pointed towards the Grosse Tour. ‘I daresay you can read the signals as well as I.’
‘Unfortunately, no.’
‘Of course,’ Nelson replied quickly. ‘Forgive me, I forgot this is all new to you. I have been watching them from Agememnon, since we sailed back into the Grande Rade. Hood asked if any troops could be spared from Mont Faron to launch an attack to protect Fort Mulgrave. The reply was a decided no.’
‘He’s called a conference of senior officers for tonight.’
‘I daresay. But he has also called for a conference of captains before that, which is why I came over.’ Seeing that Markham was confused he continued. ‘We must decide what we are going to do before we tell the soldiers, or the Dons. I just hope the French leave us enough time to reach the right decision.’
‘Sir Sydney seems to think we only have until tomorrow.’
They could hear the Chevalier still, praising his own abilities while, by association, he denigrated those of everyone else. The mention of the name made Nelson frown.
‘I wonder if he does himself any favours by being quite so forward.’ Markham observed that there was more behind those words than their mere content. Nelson didn’t like Smith, but he wasn’t prepared to say so in front of a junior officer. The frown disappeared as quickly as it came, to be followed by a smile. ‘I’ve not inquired for your health, Markham. Seeing you upright, I assume that you are wholly recovered?’
‘An ache or two, sir, when I move. But otherwise, I’m in one piece. I wish I could say the same for others.’
The rain began again, a grey curtain that swept across the deck, blotting out the signal station. No-one could move until Hood did, and he seemed to take a perverse pleasure in ensuring they all suffered a good soaking before he obliged. Markham and Nelson, both still, wearing cloaks, fared better than most.
‘That seems to have taken the shine off Sir Sydney’s star,’ said Nelson happily, as the bedraggled Chevalier rushed past them, heading for the companionway and shelter. Both men now followed the clutch of officers, as they followed in the wake of their admiral.
‘I know why I am here, Markham,’ Nelson said, ‘but what brings you to the flagship?’
‘I have sought an interview with Admiral Hood regarding the events surrounding my last engagement.’
Nelson indicated the crowd that now stood before the bulkhead that separated Hood’s quarters from the maindeck. ‘Then you’re in for a long wait, I fear, especially with what is happening ashore. Is it important?’
‘Yes, sir. Very important.’
‘My God, Markham, it cheers me to see you up and about.’ Both men turned to meet the Chevalier, who was coming towards them with a beaming smile on his face. That became fixed as he gave the slightest nod and said, ‘Nelson.’
‘Sir,’ Markham replied, pulling himself stiffly to attention. Smith leant between the two men, his voice low and conspiratorial.
‘He’s a fine officer, Nelson, despite what you may hear to the contrary. I know that I’ve inspired him by my own example, but that only goes to prove the necessity for leadership.’
‘I have always thought it a most commendable quality,’ Nelson replied, the only sign of his amusement the ghost of a smile around his lips. Smith opened his mouth to proffer further advice just as a loud voice behind them invited all the captains to enter the great cabin. As the Chevalier spun round, Nelson addressed his next words to Markham.
‘I do hope you don’t have to wait too long, Lieutenant. It all depends on how long-winded some of my colleagues are.’
‘You’re right, Nelson,’ said Smith. ‘Some of these fellows do go on. I wonder sometimes how the Admiral stays awake.’
Military life, by land or sea, inures a man to waiting, patience being an absoloutely essential component of martial existence. So Markham, like the others queuing for an interview, sat on a gun, or paced up and down, as a stream of messengers came and went throughout the day, each one bringing further depressing news about events ashore. Croix de Faron had been abandoned, giving the French a perfect point for an artillery bombardment of the other forts. Mulgrave, fearful of casualties, had ordered Des Pomets, Faron, l’Artigues to be given up, likewise the now outflanked Rouge and Blanc, and pulled his troops back to the Camp de St Anne and Fort St Catherine, close to the northern edge of Toulon.
The meeting of naval officers continued all the while, which left those waiting wondering what it was these men could find to talk about. The smell of food wafted through the bulkhead and the admiral’s steward, no doubt used to a continuous stream of supplicants, sent a servant out with something to eat. And all the while, Lieutenant George Markham rehearsed, over and over again, what it was he was going to say to Admiral Hood.
Darkness came early in December, the fall of night hastened by the appalling weather. Yet that teeming rain had one good quality. It made night fighting arduous, and imposed some check on the enemy’s attacks, which apart from the guns before Fort Mulgrave faltered and died away. The sound of whistles could again be heard, as those in command on shore came aboard. Admiral Langara, the Spanish commander, came first, followed by Serota and Gravina, looking neither left nor right as they strode across the maindeck. Elphinstone acknowledged him with an unfriendly glare. Mulgrave, with Hanger at his heels, was the last to arrive, looking depressed. If either man, in the dim lantern light, saw the look of hate that Markham directed at the Colonel, they ignored it. Not that they had much time to do so, since the Brigadier-General was ushered into Hood’s cabin without pause.
Another hour passed, while a steady stream of captains, all with an air of purpose, left through the entry port. Their boats, which had been sitting in the water all this time, were hailed by name. Whatever was in their demeanour had an effect, since the flock of supplicants thinned, until only one was left. Nelson was one of the last to exit, and he at least seemed to have time to spare to tell Markham what was happening.
‘We’re abandoning Toulon,’ he said. ‘Mulgrave cannot hold the east and the defences are in tatters everywhere else. That Bonaparte fellow could be in l’Eguillette within forty-eight hours, sooner if Dugommier gives him a few battalions of infantry.’
‘When, sir?’
‘Beginning tonight, though it could take days.’
Despite his own concerns, Markham couldn’t help thinking about those in the Picard house. ‘Will we be taking off any civilians?’
‘As many as we can, but they cannot have priority over the embarkation of the soldiers. The Spaniards are falling back from La Seyne and Malbousquet and will pull out first, then the Neapolitans will go aboard Sam
ara. Robust, Leviathan and Courageux will load our marines from la Malgue as soon as they have destroyed the installations.’ Suddenly Nelson snorted, unhappily. ‘And guess who has secured for himself the task of destroying those ships we cannot take with us.’
It wasn’t difficult, given the look in his eyes, to guess. Markham was just about to say the name when the Chevalier burst out of the cabin doors. ‘Markham. Just the fellow I want to see. I need a party of marines to be under my personal command. If you’re up to it, I’d like you to lead them. I’ll send the orders over to Hebe. You get back there yourself and prepare your men.’
He was gone, calling for a boat, before Markham got a chance to reply. Seeing him stamping his foot impatiently by the entry port, he was just about to follow when Mulgrave and Hanger came out. They nodded to Nelson, and Mulgrave spared Markham a quick glance. But Hanger stopped.
‘What are you doing here?’ he demanded. ‘If you’re fit for duty you should be ashore where you’re needed.’
‘I’m waiting to see the Admiral,’ Markham replied calmly. Mulgrave stooped a few feet away, lost in his own thoughts. ‘I’ve something to say to him about the attack on Bonaparte’s guns.’
‘The only thing you can say about that, Markham, is that you failed again. Thank God I was on hand and could order a barrage to stop the Frogs.’
‘I didn’t think you’d stayed away.’
‘D’you imagine I’d leave the fate of the whole position to you and that dandy, Smith?’ Hanger looked at Markham hard, not wishing him to mistake his meaning. ‘Damned fool of a gunner wanted to wait, to make sure you all got clear. I had to order him to fire. It pains me that, by all accounts, I hesitated a fraction too long.’
‘You also sent up those blue lights, didn’t you, Hanger?’
‘What blue lights?’
‘The ones that illuminated the whole position, and every man under my command, when we were lying out in the open.’
Mulgrave had turned back towards them, the rising sound of Markham’s voice impossible to ignore.
‘What are you talking about?’ demanded Hanger.
‘I’m talking about what I want to tell Admiral Hood. Those flares didn’t come from the French side of the line, they came from ours. What was the reason? Were you so determined that we should fail that you sabotaged the whole thing?’
Hanger’s face had gone bright red, the scar on his cheek a ragged creamy-white, and Mulgrave had moved towards them. ‘Damn you, you cowardly bastard.’
Nelson’s hand caught Markham’s as it was on the way to the hilt of his sword, and the Brigadier-General had interposed himself between him and Hanger.
‘Enough of this,’ cried Mulgrave. ‘We have enough fighting still to do without indulging in private quarrels.’
‘Have you heard what he just said?’ Hanger shouted, trying to push Mulgrave aside. ‘Damn my rank, sir, you will withdraw that or meet me!’
Markham’s voice was just as loud. ‘I have been waiting for that opportunity for a whole twelve years.’
The door opened and Admirals Langara and Gravina came out, followed by Serota and the rest of their staffs. Nelson, taking advantage of this, pushed him backwards, till his spine was against the bulkhead. Everyone on the deck, barring the Spaniards, was now looking in their direction as the naval captain spoke to him, softly but insistently.
‘What is the matter with you, man?’
‘I told you all. Those flares that destroyed our attack came from behind our own lines. Because of that my men were blown to bits so small that they couldn’t be identified. Somebody betrayed us to the French.’
‘You can’t believe for a moment that Colonel Hanger was responsible.’
‘He was against the attempt from the beginning, angry at Smith for proposing that something be done, even more at me for agreeing. We have a past, him and I. God knows he hates me enough.’
‘Enough to betray his country?’
‘Those flares came from behind our lines!’
‘Do you know where they were fired from?’
‘Close to the La Seyne redoubt,’ Markham replied, the first hint of doubt entering his voice, ‘which is just north of Mulgrave.’
Nelson was as quick as he was. ‘And how long was it between the flares going off and the order that was given to fire off the barrage that flattened you?’
Markham sighed and bent forward.
‘A man cannot be in two places at once, regardless of how much he hates.’ Nelson paused, waiting for Markham to look at him again, waiting for him to acknowledge openly that he accepted the obvious. ‘You must apologise.’
‘To him!’
‘Lieutenant Markham, I’ve never referred to your past. I judge a man by what he does today, not yesterday. But neither you nor I can wish it away. You’ve publicly accused a senior officer of being a traitor. If you don’t apologise, you’ll be ruined.’
Over Nelson’s shoulder, Markham saw that the Spanish officers had engaged Mulgrave and Hanger in conversation, which debarred him, temporarily, from continuing his argument.
‘I cannot. Not to his face.’
‘In writing, then?’
The pause seemed to last a long time, before Markham nodded. But all the events of his life had passed through his mind in that brief moment, and the thought had formed that to continue would only see him bested by Hanger one more time.
‘Come then,’ said Nelson, taking his arm. ‘I will get my barge crew to take you back to Hebe once I’m aboard Agamemnon.’
They turned towards the entry port, their way partially blocked by the knot of British and Spanish officers. Skirting round them, Nelson spoke, as Markham kept his eyes fixed firmly in front of him.
‘The Lieutenant has not fully recovered from his wounds, gentlemen, which will be obvious to you.’
It didn’t matter if it was in the words or the look. Hanger understood, and nodded in triumph.
‘What the devil are these?’ demanded de Lisle, puffing out his chest as he waved the orders which had arrived no more than an hour after the officer they mentioned.
‘It is not a duty I sought, Captain. Sir Sydney asked me to undertake it while I was aboard the flagship.’
‘Something you’ve yet to explain to me. It is not proper for you to seek an interview with the Admiral without my permission.’
‘It was a private matter, sir.’
‘There’s no such thing in the Navy. I am your captain, and you report to me.’
Spotted Dick was piqued. Captain of a frigate, he’d not been invited to the conference. The idea that his marine lieutenant had been aboard Victory at the time, and knew more about what was happening than he did, had upset him. It was doubly annoying that he’d returned in Nelson’s barge, which hinted at the kind of valuable connections he so assiduously pursued. Now that it seemed Markham was to be involved in the final act of the siege his ire had multiplied even more.
‘Damn Sir Sydney Smith,’ the captain shouted. Then he added, in a tone that sought to be friendly, ‘You can, of course, with my complete backing, decline the honour.’
Translated, that meant that de Lisle couldn’t interfere with what looked like a direct order. Angry he might be, but the idea of crossing swords with someone who was said to be close to the King was out of the question. In the short time he’d been aboard, Markham had heard how his men had been treated, put to swabbing the decks and other such duties normally confined to sailors. Even the Lobsters, who should have been happy to be back aboard ship, seemed keen to get off Hebe, even if was only for what looked like a day and a night.
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ Markham replied, with a feeling of pleasure he’d not had since he’d first accused Hanger. ‘You will readily appreciate that for me, that is impossible.’
The evacuation had started before he left the ship, the forts that fronted the Grande Rade filling up with Spanish soldiers as they fell back, through British marines who remained to fight a rearguard action from the ancie
nt town walls. The rest of the marines were massed in Fort St Catherine, the only force that stood between the French and total victory. Fort Mulgrave had been overrun, and with all the heights in their hands the French were shelling the town. All around the harbour emplacements, ammunition, guns and stores were being destroyed. This, added to the flickering torches and the continual gunfire, presented what looked like a scene from hell.
Ashore, he was ordered to assist with the Neapolitans, who’d panicked as soon as the order to withdraw had been given, and were now threatening the whole process by their eagerness to get onto their hundred-gun ship, the Samara. They crowded the routes that ran through the dockyard buildings on to the quay, their flaring torches throwing giant shadows onto the brickwork and windows, and reflecting in the black water of the harbour.
The line-of-battle ship was slowly warped in, to tower over the ropewalk and sail lofts, the sheds and storehouses, a long gangplank stretching from the entry port to the cobbled quayside. The unfurled but empty sails, and the flag of Bourbon Naples, looked dejected, as if they reflected the feelings of those now desperate to abandon Toulon. Shouted commands from officers of their own nationality had little effect on the Neapolitans who were screaming too loud to hear them. They broke through the cordon of sailors who had been sent ashore to get them in line and herd them aboard. What had been a pretty poor bunch of soldiers turned, very swiftly, into a screeching, dangerous mob.
Markham ordered the Hebes to form a line at the bottom of the gangplank as the evacuees jostled foward. Every insult in the Italian canon was aimed in their direction, and judging by the races of those at the very forefront, faced with a mere dozen redcoats, they definitely thought they had the advantage, and would brush them back into the water.
‘Hebes, present,’ Markham yelled. They still pressed forward, shouting and gesticulating wildly, using their thumbs to spit imprecations about British manhood. ‘Fire!’
The first volley went over their heads, with Rannoch screaming at his men to reload. He needn’t have even raised his voice. The entire mob went silent as if they had one, now sealed, throat. The effect on their behaviour was also instantaneous, making another volley superfluous. Each face before them was now full of silent pleading, the odd sob or plea to God adding to the air of unreality. The sailors had got in front of them again, and, with a discipline that would have shamed the Foot Guards, they were arranged in lines, shuffling towards the gangplank of the Samara, which was waiting to take them aboard, smiling as they passed the redcoats who’d forced them to behave.
A Shred of Honour Page 30
