‘Back here,’ he called softly. The pegs that held the gangway in place wouldn’t budge, which obliged him to use a marlinspike, and that negated any attempt he’d made to maintain silence. Finally they came out, and he was able to open it. The men arrived at the same time and clambered aboard untidily, some with their weapons and some without.
‘Make sure to tie that boat up,’ he called.
‘Please do, Lieutenant.’
Markham spun round and found himself faced with a line of raised muskets, all in the hands of Spanish soldiers. Serota coughed before continuing. ‘After all, my men can use it to get ashore in more comfort. Our boat was exceedingly crowded on the way out.’
He had a hope, a faint one, that Hollick, who was still in the boat, would have the sense to stay quiet. But he called up, curious at the sudden stillness, his questions dying in his throat as a pair of guns were aimed over the side at his head.
‘Best come aboard, Hollick.’
‘Your weapons, please,’ said Serota. ‘Then I’d be obliged if you’d line up behind the wheel.’
‘You’re supposed to be on our side, Serota.’
‘Am I, Lieutenant?’ he coughed. ‘Next you’ll be telling me that I am, like Colonel Hanger, a traitor.’
‘I didn’t know you’d heard.’
‘I didn’t. But I could hardly fail to be informed of the accusation you made against such a fine upstanding officer.’
Markham spotted the deliberate irony in Serota’s tone. ‘If you see yourself in the same way, I can’t fault the sentiment.’
‘That is because you are English.’
‘Irish, if you don’t mind.’
‘Please,’ he said, waving the pistol in his hand. Markham nodded to his men, who moved backwards slowly, covered by the Spanish muskets. ‘You should have stayed where you were, Lieutenant, though with a little luck it will make no difference.’
A sudden whoosh of fire made both men turn. They saw the flames shoot up the side of the warship’s rigging like some animal speeding to safety. In the light they provided, they could see Smith’s men running around, torching everything they could, while in the background the rows of warehouses burned steadily. Gunfire was coming from the town itself, as the rearguard made a disciplined withdrawal.
‘A pity,’ said Serota. ‘That is a fine seventy-four-gun ship.’
‘It’s a French seventy-four.’
‘Yes.’ He started to cough, this time enough to make his body shake, waving his pistol. ‘Always the same with smoke.’
Markham was looking at his men, now being tied to the taffrail. A cold sensation, made up of fear and imagination, gripped him. ‘Sure, I hope it chokes you.’
Two soldiers grabbed him and tied his hands. Then they dragged him towards the wheel and lashed him to it, so that he was facing the row of Lobsters and Bullocks he’d led aboard. Leech wasn’t there, and the temptation to look aloft was almost unbearable. He had to know what was going to happen; prayed that the Spaniard’s voice would carry to the only hope they all had of survival.
‘Am I allowed to ask why?’
‘Let us just say that I am a Spanish patriot.’
‘I’m Irish, remember. I’ll need more than that.’
‘Do you really think we would want the only complete fleet in the Mediterranean to belong to the English? Can you not see where that would leave Spain?’
‘As an ally, no.’
‘But we are not allies by nature, Lieutenant. And it is a prudent man who looks to the future, who sees a day when we might be enemies once more, glad that there is a French navy big enough to help us defeat you.’
‘I’m wondering who the prudent man might be. Langara? Admiral Gravina? Or is it just you?’
‘Mention Gibraltar to any Spaniard.’
‘So it’s all of you?’
‘Sentiments vary, as do notions of honour. Some men act, while other merely choose not to see.’
‘And what’s my fate to be?’
‘Come, Lieutenant Markham. No care for the fate of your men? Is that not the first duty of an officer?’ He grinned, exposing long, yellow teeth. ‘You might die from suffocation, or even burning. But it is my guess that when this ship, which is full of gunpowder, goes up, you will go with it. And if we can time the fuses right, we shall also extinguish the brilliant career of that idiot, Sydney Smith.’
The sound of gunfire had increased. ‘As you can hear, the Republican forces are taking over the town. Soon they will be on the quayside, then out on the harbour wall, and that man who brought you here will be forced to flee. As he goes by the Montréal …’ He threw his arm in the air. ‘Whoosh. A French fleet with no powder won’t be tempted to pursue. But the real bonus will be no more Smith and no more Markham.
He spun round and started giving orders. Men rushed below, while others headed for the boats. Serota had gone to the side, and was listening intently to the gunfire. At the moment he judged it to be close enough, he called out the order to fire the fuses.
‘Am I allowed one more question, Colonel?’
He sniffed loudly at the acrid odour of slowmatch coming up the companionway. ‘One more, and only if the answer is short.’
‘The night we attacked Bonaparte’s guns, where were you?’
‘To the north of you, Lieutenant. Near the redoubt of La Seyne. Just close enough to ensure a proper outcome.’
‘Do you believe in God?’
‘That’s another question, Markham,’ he said, as he made his way back to the side of the ship. The effect he sought was somewhat spoiled by the weakness of his voice. But it was, nevertheless, very like a battle cry. ‘But I’ll answer it anyway. I am just like God. Both he and I believe in Spain.’
His body disappeared over the side, and just before his head followed he said, ‘Goodbye, Lieutenant Markham. I hope you believe in God.’
‘What about Leech?’ whispered Rannoch.
‘Quiet. Let them get well away from the side.’
‘I do not know if you have noticed, but we are a little short of time.’
Markham wasn’t listening. He was wondering how many of his men could swim. Not all of them, that was certain, so just untying them would not be enough. They had to find a way of staying afloat in the water. The deck was untidy, littered with barrels, ropes and yardarms, seasoned lengths of timber that normally held the smaller sails. The flash of white made him look up. Leech slid down the blind side shrouds without making a sound. He crouched below the level of the bulwarks and slithered across the deck, his bayonet coming out before he reached Markham.
‘God be praised they didn’t see you,’ whispered Markham as Leech stuck the point of his bayonet in the knot and began to lever it open.
Markham was free, the ropes half sliced and half untied, and he scurried for the companionway immediately. The smoke from the fuses billowed up at him as he tried to go below, stinging his eyes and burning his throat. Four steps down he couldn’t breathe and had to retreat. On deck Leech was still silently trying to undo his mates, while Rannoch and Halsey had run to retrieve their own bayonets. Looking over the side, he could see Serota and his men, in both the boats, rowing for the shore.
‘Who can swim?’ he called, since they were now far enough away not to hear. Three voices answered: Schutte, Ettrick and Dornan. ‘Right, that makes four. Rannoch, Schutte, get hold of this yardarm, and heave it over the side. Ettrick, Dornan, into the water and hold it close enough to the side for those jumping to reach it. Schutte, you get in the water too, and make sure you get hold of anyone who goes under.’
A sudden fusillade made him turn to the shore. By the light of the burning ships he could see the Swallow casting off, men poling furiously to get her clear of the mole. Others were aloft, letting drop the sails that they hoped would take them out of danger. A sudden brilliant flash highlighted Smith’s star. He was by the stern rail, directing musket fire at the party of soldiers trying to make their way towards the ship. As they got clear, Ma
rkham realised that Swallow’s bowsprit was headed straight at the Montréal, with the Chevalier clearly intent on sailing by to pick up him and his men.
‘Fire, for Christ’s sake, someone start a fire. We’ve got to make the Swallow sheer off.’
There was an oil lamp by the binnacle. Halsey grabbed it and emptied it onto an untidy pile of canvas and frayed ropes. Then he bent down, pulling out his flints. He was rubbing wildly when Rannoch pushed him aside, laid his gun by the oil and pulled the trigger. Halsey jumped back as the ball shot forth, but the Highlander had achieved his intention. The flash from the pan lit the oil, and as the fire took hold it spread rapidly, snaking across the deck. Markham grabbed one end of the tarred rope and pulled it along the deck, looping an end round the square, knotted shrouds.
‘Over the side, all of you. This bloody thing is going to go up in about five minutes.’
The yard went first, hitting the water point first and sinking like an arrow, which induced the same emotion in Markham’s heart. But it bobbed up quickly about twenty yards away. Ettrick and Dornan had taken off their coats and belts, then kicked off their boots, transferring the few personal possessions they could manage to the crutch of their breeches. They jumped out as far as they could, then swam to the log of floating wood, pulling it in close to the side. By that time Schutte was in the water himself, having thrown in several barrels to help those who needed to float independently.
‘Get your coats off. And that goes for belts, cartouches and anything else that’s heavy, including boots. They’re no good to you now. If you’re going to keep anything, make sure it’s light.’
The thud of falling kit was not followed by any enthusiastic rush to the side; the men seemed more intent on stuffing pipes, tobacco and what little money they had into their breeches. Rannoch, Halsey and Markham had to push men towards the possibility of salvation. In some cases blows were needed. Behind them the rigging had started to burn, and as the flames touched the first corner of a sail, that went up, illuminating the upperworks. The smoke coming from below was beginning to choke those still by the rail. In the water men went under, then resurfaced. If they were close enough to the yardarm they grabbed it. If not they sank again. Schutte was diving and grabbing, showing scant gentleness as he hauled men to the surface and pushed them towards the wood. Ettrick and Dornan had to yell at them to take a tight hold, one man at a time either side, or risk the whole thing rolling so much that all the non-swimmers would drown.
Markham tossed the last ranker, Leech, overboard, then turned to his two NCOs. ‘Over you go, both of you.’
Halsey complied, his fingers holding his broad nose, and his eyes closed as he jumped. But Rannoch spun round and ran towards the entry port, returning with Markham’s sword and his own musket.
‘It has taken me years to get a proper stock fitted to my Brown Bess, I will not leave it now.’
‘You’re a damn fool. Hanging on to that could kill you.’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said, handing over the sword. ‘I’ll let it go if I am drowning. Do you want this?’
‘I’d better,’ Markham replied. He managed a smile, which in the flickering light made him look slightly deranged. ‘Jesus, I haven’t paid for the damned thing yet.’
Rannoch laughed out loud as he jumped, landing with a mighty splash right alongside the log. Markham looked over the other side, glad to see that Swallow had spotted the danger and sheered off, and was heading away from the Montréal as fast as the light breeze would allow. Then, sword in hand, he followed his men.
‘Kick with your feet, all of you,’ he yelled taking in a mouthful of seawater as he sank slightly. Nothing happpened at first; they seemed stuck to a point ten feet away from the side of the ship. But slowly their strokes had an effect, and the log began to move, The Montréal was well alight now, flames licking through the rigging and the smoke from the fuses hanging like a cloud over the deck. They were only halfway to the shore when the first dull boom of an explosion came at them through the water. Contained by the ship’s planking, the force went upwards, removing half the deck. The rest followed as the vessel literally blew itself apart. They could feel the shockwaves in the water, pushing into them. Bits of wood rained down from a fire-filled sky. Leech let go and slid under, but Markham managed to grab his shirt and haul him back up.
‘Stay afloat, you bastard, or I’ll break your other bloody leg.’
Chapter twenty-three
They emerged from the water like half-drowned rats, onto a strand of beach well to the west of the main quay. There were crowds here too, many carrying flickering torches which added a hellish quality to the miserable scene. Some cried, others wailed. The majority shouted into the blackness of the harbour, as if the means to rescue them lay just out of sight. They’d been driven to the water’s edge like lemmings, fearful of what awaited them when the Jacobins came. Stories of what they’d done with the guillotine in Marseilles had grown with every league they’d travelled, and since the cruelty had been enormous, the entire population was in a state of uncontrolled panic. Markham, counting off his men, wasn’t panicking, but he was worried.
‘We’ve got to get to the Fort de la Malgue, and hope that some of the rearguard are still there.’
‘The French are between them and us,’ said Halsey, pointing towards the basin and the line of enemy warships, only a few of which were burning. His pepper and salt hair was black now, and streaked across his face, rendering his pallid complexion more startling.
‘Rannoch?’
‘Present,’ replied the Scotsman.
Peering through the tight group of men, Markham saw his sergeant sitting down, water dripping from his long blond hair into his lap, assiduously using a piece of cloth he’d found, trying to dry the firing parts of his musket.
‘Come on, or we’ll end up in a French dungeon.’
‘No spare flints, God be damned,’ he cursed, before turning to look at the soaked, shivering party. ‘Did any of you lot think to line your private parts with a set of flints?’
The look in Rannoch’s eyes underscored the futility of the question. Whatever these men had saved in the way of personal possessions, it wouldn’t include anything to do with soldiering. But just as guilty himself, he could hardly berate them. He jumped to his feet, looking over Markham’s head towards la Malgue. ‘If you do not mind me saying so, I see no sign of any topsails where our ships once lay.’
‘There may be some still berthed there, a sloop perhaps.’
‘With respect, if you look at the route we would have to follow, there are thousands of these poor souls in the way. What we require to get away is a boat.’
Goaded by Rannoch’s ponderous delivery, Markham made no attempt to disguise the exasperation in his voice. ‘If you find the magic potion to conjure one up, don’t let me hinder you.’
‘I do not think a display of temper will do us much good. Did you see where that Spaniard went with our own cutter?’
Markham tried to match his sarcasm. ‘It was difficult, Sergeant. My head was under water.’
Rannoch beamed at him, the flickering light making his green eyes twinkle amongst the creases in his face. ‘Not as much as mine, it was not.’
‘We have to try,’ said Halsey. ‘And the longer we wait the worse it will be.’
‘Seawater clearly does something to improve the brains of Lobsters,’ Rannoch replied. ‘Do you think you can do the next bit and walk along the sea-bed?’
‘Only if you drink all the water in the harbour. And what with you being a greedy Jock, that should be easy.’
Some of the others had started to chuckle. Then, as the absurdity of doing that in their present state took hold, it turned to general amusement. Without knowing why, Markham found himself laughing too. The people around them, fearful and abandoned, looked upon these sopping wet madmen with pity.
‘On your feet.’
They obeyed, but the giggling didn’t stop. Looking back at them staggering along, elbo
wing each other, sharing a very private joke, Markham thought they looked like a bunch of witless fools. When they reached the quay the numbers of refugees thickened considerably. The crush was so great that those by the water’s edge were being bundled into the harbour, now completely clear of boats. Any attempt to help them only endangered the Samaritan, so that those who couldn’t fend for themselves in the water, men, women and children, were left to drown.
As an organised party, they carved a path through the mob in a way denied to most, and benign fate did not let them see how that barging and shoving impacted in other places. It was Schutte, a fraction taller than Rannoch, who picked up the hint of approaching danger. It was heralded by distant screaming, mingled with the odd crash of a shot; that overborne, closer to them, by loud singing, a rendering of the ‘Ça ira’ with those right ahead seeking mercy by cloaking themselves in the anthem of the Revolution. Schutte’s warning was louder still, and the group used their strength to get off the quay, throwing less fortunate people out of the alleys so that they could escape.
‘Have you seen where we are, sir?’ said Tully. The bandage he’d worn on his ear had come off, leaving the scabbed wound on his lobe exposed. ‘It’s the bloody Picard house.’
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph, you’re right.’
Markham was tired, and nothing underlined that more than the use of such an avowedly Papist curse. That, and the way he’d missed this familiar building. But then no-one else other than Tully had seen it, which indicated that they were in a similar state. The boom of musket fire reverberated off the high walls, so that they could almost feel it physically. The Jacobin army was between them and the Fort de la Malgue. And even if they could get there, it wasn’t certain that they’d find a ship. They needed rest, a place to hide, and they needed it now. Being close to a building they knew so well, it seemed stupid to go on.
A Shred of Honour Page 32
