Troubridge appeared, and seeing what they’d achieved ordered them off towards the arsenal, quite oblivious to Markham’s objection that they were under the orders of Sir Sydney Smith. His previous antipathy to Markham seemed to have evaporated. In fact, his voice was almost friendly.
‘You’ll have time for a bit of pyromania before that buffoon needs you, God rot his vainglorious soul.’
The quay was crowded with civilians, thousands of them, all carrying heaped bundles of possessions, each one eager to find a way out of the port before the Terror arrived. The quays, once home to hundreds of fishing boats and small trading ships, was emptying rapidly as the better off, who had their own transport, departed with their furniture and fortunes. No pity was shown to their fellow Frenchmen, and shots were fired to discourage anyone trying to board a ship that wasn’t theirs.
‘When will the civilians be taken off?’ asked Markham, running alongside the naval captain.
‘We’ll take off what we can when we’ve got the soldiers away,’ he replied, in a voice that, even running, held a note of deep sorrow. ‘But it will be nowhere near enough. Mercy is the only thing that will save most of these pour souls.’
The arsenal was still under guard, red-coated marines standing sentry beneath the flaring torches. Troubridge ordered the men outside to stay at their posts and make sure no one entered. Once inside he issued a string of orders, which had the Hebes smashing open barrels, distributing their contents liberally all over the ground-floor area. Markham and Troubridge were cutting lengths of slowmatch, which were then tied to the bottom of the ceiling supports, before being entirely covered in black gunpowder. Turpentine from the naval stores was poured across the floor to aid in the spreading of the fire, its pungent odour so overpowering that the men could hardly breathe.
‘There’ll be quite a display when this lot goes up,’ said Troubridge, when he was satisfied. Then he ordered them outside, where they gratefully sucked in mouthfuls of air. All around the arc of the Petite Rade, guns were blazing. Through the drifting smoke, highlighted by leaping flames, Markham saw that the final battle for Fort l’Eguillette was in progress, with boats off the stone bastions, taking the last of the defenders to safety.
‘Best get your men back to la Malgue. Your buffoon is there, boasting away as to how he’s going to sink every ship in the harbour.’
They fought their way back through the crowds, Markham praying that those in the Picard house had found the sense to depart. The Toulon merchant had several boats of his own, and in Rossignol, a source of information which should have given him ample warning. He could only hope that they’d take off Celeste as well. At that moment the arsenal went up with an enormous blast of sound and fury, which added to the increased screams of the poor people around him, and wiped any thoughts of Rossignol, his family and his charges from his mind.
‘I would be happier without the Dons, myself,’ said the Chevalier. ‘But Admiral Langara offered to do the job without us, and Hood had to argue hard that we should share the duty. Langara wasn’t pleased, and I thought that Colonel Serota was about to get a sword in his ribs for the way he addressed His Lordship.’
‘But we’re not actually working together?’ said Markham, the only man aboard who’d had that unfortunate experience.
‘No, thank God. And if they operate in their usual dilatory manner, we might find we have to take over some of their duties.’
The cabin of the Swallow could barely contain the number of officers present. Sixteen in all, including two commanders, there was not one of them over the age of twenty-one, which made Markham feel like an old man. None of the condescension he’d been exposed to in the past was present here. Either they were too young to know or care, too buoyed up with the excitement of what they were being asked to do, or Sir Sydney Smith’s introduction, which would not have disgraced the Grand Cham of Tartary himself for fulsomeness, had quelled any doubts they had about him.
The drawing on the table showed every feature of the harbours and the inner basin, with each French ship named. Those containing powder, and due to be sunk by the Dons, were coloured red, and were to be avoided at all costs. Smith was issuing instructions to the sailors about getting the ships they were going to burn into a position that would inflict the most damage on the stationary fleet. Since his job was to stay with the Chevalier, and to provide protection for the entire party against any kind of attack, these details didn’t really concern him.
His men sat on the equally crowded deck, checking their equipment over and over again. Going round each one, he issued a quiet encouragement that he realised carried more than a touch of King Harry in the night. But they were names now, not just faces. He wondered if they had come to trust him, but had no way to ask. Not even Rannoch, who’d mellowed to point where he felt free to exercise a degree of irony, would have answered that question.
By the rail, as they sailed past la Malgue, he fingered the parchment in his pocket, the note from a gloating Hanger accepting his apology, and the addendum that announced his forthcoming engagement to Miss Elizabeth Gordon. Ashore, a steady stream of Toulonais were edging up the gangplank onto the British men o’ war, bundles too big to be accommodated being unceremoniously thrown aside, to land in the sea with a great splash. The collective misery of these people seemed to waft across the still waters as they played out the last act of their drama. The aims of the revolution they so feared were being applied here. Neither wealth nor position could guarantee security. Places aboard these ships were going to the first person in the long straggling queue.
Markham turned away from that miserable scene, towards the darkened area of the Petite Rade. He could just see the departing warships, their great white sails billowing as they took the wind. They were leaving. But the Swallow, with the brig Union in company, was heading to perform the coda to the long drama which had-been the siege of Toulon.
Chapter twenty-two
Silence had to be observed as they passed through the gap between Fort l’Eguillette and the Grosse Tour, but with so much light close to the western fortifications, as the French struggled to get their guns into place, they stood in little danger of being seen. The whole waterfront was still crowded, and over the sea came the sound of people singing. It was too early for the Revolution to have taken full control of the city, but no doubt those elements who were either true to its tenets, or determined to appear so, were busy making merry. There would be looting and robbery a’plenty. And that, with people like Fouquert on the way, was just a prelude to a river of blood.
Once they were within the Petite Rade, Smith’s little flotilla headed for the dockyard, while the Spaniards working from the shore were responsible for the main concentration of French ships, berthed in the inner basin. Aloft, a sailor was looking at the tops of the three ships of the line waiting to load at la Malgue, their limp sails reflecting the torchlight from the battlements.
Once they completed their assignments, the storehouses would be fired, which would be the signal for the final detachments of the rearguard to embark. Then the men of the Swallow, seeing those topsails fill with wind, could complete their mission. It was an eerie feeling, with the noises from the shore muted, and every one of the Hebes felt it. Here they were, in the midst of turmoil, suspended on a calm stretch of water, with only the faint glimmer of reflected light picking out their faces.
‘Robust signalling, sir,’ the lookout called. A flare shot into the sky to seawards, as an added aid to the man’s eyesight. The dull boom of explosions, as the underground storerooms of the forts were destroyed, followed immediately. Flames began to lick at the furthermost dockyard buildings as the fires took hold, igniting creosote, turpentine, oils and ropes, barrels of salted meat, canvas for sails, yards, masts and all the myriad other items needed to supply a fleet. Soon the whole area between the Grande and Petite Rades was a mass of flames, with billowing clouds of black and grey smoke rising into the night sky. The outlines of the ships of the French fleet st
ood stark against this glowing background, providing just the level of light Smith needed to do his work.
The explosion, coming from an entirely different direction, sent a shockwave across the harbour that nearly threw the Swallow on its beam ends. The brig Union, further inshore and closer to the source, was blown apart, its crew thrown bodily into the water. A great fiery cloud erupted into the night sky like a mushroom of red, yellow and gold. Bits of ship mingled with the flaming holocaust, and the skeleton of the shattered hull was ablaze from end to end. Scraps of burning canvas covered the sky like stars, then dropped like spills of paper, to be extinguished in the waters of the harbour.
‘They’ve blown the bloody Iris,’ Markham heard Smith shout. Searching his mind, he recalled that she was one of the ships, marked in red on the Chevalier’s map, that was laden with gunpowder. He knew the plan had been to sink her, since fired it was more of a danger to the Allies than the French. For obvious reasons, she was moored well away from any other vessels, so those heading for the dockyard were the only ones to suffer. ‘Get one of the boats over the side and see if any of the Union’s men are alive.’
Smith had taken the wheel himself, and aimed the Swallow for the stern of the nearest French ship of the line, the 120-gun Dauphin Royal. Moored as they were, bulwark to bulwark, with the cold, light breeze coming in off the sea, setting just that one ship ablaze would destroy a dozen more. Markham made his way to the bows, followed by his men. He was thus the first to see the muskets on the poop of the Dauphin Royal, which were pointing in his direction. His shouts to Smith brought the Chevalier running to join him, his Swedish star flashing as it picked up the glow from the wall of flames dead ahead.
‘Who the hell are they?’
‘They can’t be Frenchmen, sir, not yet. But whoever they are, it looks as though they’re waiting for us.’
‘Do we know if she has got guns?’ asked Rannoch.
‘It makes no odds,’ Smith replied. ‘All the line-of-battle ships were stripped of their powder.’
They opened up with a volley of musket fire, peppering the woodwork and the sea around the Swallow. It wasn’t deadly by any means, but it promised to be so if they got any closer.
Smith was angry. ‘The Dons were supposed to make sure none of those ships were boarded. And they were also instructed to scuttle the Iris, not blow her up.’
‘We were mighty close to that when it happened,’ said Markham. ‘Another half minute, and we would have been blown apart like the Union.’
‘Helmsman!’ Smith yelled, as another group of musket balls peppered the side. ‘Bring us about and head for the inner basin.’
‘Aye, aye sir.’
A last volley of musketry hit them as they spun round. There was too little wind, and with only topsails drawing they crawled across the anchorage. The opening to the basin was narrow, no more than a hundred feet across. French ships were moored along the inner side of the twin moles that protected the dry-docks and slipways of the Toulon yard. These were the hulls refitting, not ready for sea, but no less dangerous as a long-term threat than those moored in the deeper water of the Petite Rade.
Smith was at the side of the ship, a telescope to his eye, using the burning hulk of the Iris as an aid to his sight. Her cables had either been blown apart or burnt through, so the flaming hull was drifting out into the middle of the harbour. They heard the hissing sound as she heeled over, the water beginning to enter her hull.
‘Thank the Lord. She’s not going to collide with the Montréal, he said, as Markham aproached his side. ‘Which, if there are Spaniards aboard, is a mixed blessing.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘She’s the second powder ship. They’re supposed to sink her too.’ The burning hull of the Iris tilted to one side, throwing a sudden flash of illumination across the harbour, one that lit up the deck of the Montréal. ‘There are men aboard her, I can see them moving.’
Both Markham and Smith were thrown to the deck as the Swallow stopped dead in the water, right between the outer edges of the twin stone walls that formed the entrance to the inner basin. Within seconds the ship was going backwards. Smith leapt to his feet, running to the bows, and was just in time to see the boom that had been placed across the mouth sink back into the blackness beneath.
‘What happened?’
When he turned to face Markham, Smith had lost all of his urbanity. His eyes were wild, and he replied with a snarl. ‘We’ve been betrayed, Markham, that’s what has happened. The only people who could have put a boom across the harbour mouth without us knowing are the Spanish.’
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, man. But I do know this. I’m not leaving here with all these ships intact, Dons or no Dons.’ He shouted to the helmsman again. ‘Lay me alongside the mole.’
Men rushed to man the falls as an officer by the wheel shouted out the requisite orders. The ship found way, then as she swung round the falls were sheeted home again to carry her in on the breeze until her larboard bow scraped the granite. Men leapt from the bowsprit to land heavily on the pavé that formed a roadway from the quay. Lines were thrown to haul the Swallow in until she touched amidships. A cable was thrown next, wrapped round a bollard to warp in her stern. As soon as he was alongside, Smith yelled his orders, sending his shore party, with their combustibles, towards the nearest two 74-gun ships.
‘Markham, get your men into a boat. Row for the Montréal.’
‘I doubt my men will be much good in a boat, sir.’
‘I have no choice, man. You are the only armed party at my disposal. The Dons are on that ship. For all I know they may be trying to scuttle her, and if they are, leave them be. They may, God knows why, be intent on blowing her up as well. What worries me is that they will do nothing, and just leave all that powder for the French to salvage. You must prevent that. Shoot them if necessary. I want that ship at the bottom, and if you all have to go down with her then you’ll just have to climb the masts until I can come and get you.’
‘Sir?’
‘No ifs and buts, Markham. Just move.’
He was gone, over the side, landing on the stones and rolling over onto his feet, almost running before he was upright and heading for the stern of the closest ship.
‘Halsey!’
‘Sir?’
‘Get that damned boat we’re towing alongside. Lobsters to give their weapons to the Bullocks and man the oars.’
‘All we require now,’ said Rannoch, looking at the starlit sky, ‘is a bloody fiddler.’
It wasn’t pretty, nor was it smooth. But the Lobsters had all rowed in their time, so progress was decent. Markham called for them to be silent as they got close, and the boat, still with some momentum, drifted towards the side of the Montréal. Markham tapped Halsey gently on the shoulder.
‘Who’s the best man aloft?’
‘Leech is pretty handy, and his leg is as good as ever.’
‘Pass word to him. As soon as we get aboard, he’s to get up into the rigging and keep an eye out for the Chevalier.’ The side of the ship was deserted, and though he listened he could hear no sound of either voice or movement. That was odd, since Smith had said quite clearly that there were men aboard. He cursed under his breath, knowing that there was a method of doing this, honed by years of boarding practice, which every marine officer would have been trained for. But he wasn’t a marine officer.
‘Have you ever done this before, Halsey?’
‘No, sir. Nor has anyone else, that I’m aware. But generally, the trick is to board forward, using the chains or the catheads.’
‘Row for the side,’ he called gently. ‘Leech, this is going to be untidy. You get aboard on your own as soon as we touch. If you wait for the rest of us it will be dawn.’
‘Straight to the cap, sir?’
‘If you please.’
They hit the side about half a dozen times before anyone got a hold. Leech was already gone. He’d taken his shoes off and as soon as the boat s
kirted the side he seemed to run up the planking. It was only when they were past it that Markham saw the rope hanging down from the shrouds. Looking up, he saw the white soles of his feet disappearing up those same knotted ropes, which ran like a ladder from the side of the ship to the tops. He’d seen men do that whenever they set sail, but it was not something he ever fancied trying himself.
Tully grabbed at another line and missed, falling headfirst into the water, only saved from going right overboard by the grip Gibbons took on his belt. Finally Dymock stood up under the cathead, grabbing hold of one of the ropes that hung from the great square block of wood that protruded from the side of the vessel.
‘Right, up we go,’ Markham called. No-one moved, but many a pale face was turned in his direction. Cursing, he stood up, took off his sword, handed his pistol to Yelland, and jumped. That action, rocking the boat, took all the momentum out of his effort. He did grab one rope and, by a mighty effort, got one foot over the beam. But it was damp from rain and slime, so he could feel himself slipping. Hands pressed into his back and pushed him higher. Looking over his shoulder he just glimpsed the bald head of Schutte.
That help allowed him to get both legs on top, the rest of his body following. Standing up, he staggered along the cathead till he could leap over the side. Looking along the deck, which seemed empty, left him wondering if Sir Sydney had been imagining things. But that thought had to be put aside. He had to get his men aboard and he wasn’t quite sure how to do it. Walking along the side of the ship, he finally spied what he was after: the point where the bulwark could be removed to provide a gangway, and below that the neat line of wooden steps attached to the ship’s side.
A Shred of Honour Page 31
