‘We’ll have to go in through the back. There are too many people at the front.’
No-one even grunted an acknowledgement. They fought their way up the side alley in single file, till they found themselves in the street that ran along the rear of Picard’s property. The crush was as bad in this, the more open space of the boulevard. But people were trying to move in both directions, seeking security with only the vaguest notion of where it lay. Slowly they made their way till the whole party was pressed against the wide double doors. They were bolted and chained, and it seemed no amount of pushing would budge them.
‘Saving your presence, sir,’ said Quinlan, bowing his head to shorten even his limited stature. ‘I think this is a job for Ettrick and me.’
Markham hesitated. But Rannoch’s soft voice, right by his ear, was confident. ‘They are a right pair of villains, sir. I do not know an officer’s mess that they have not robbed.’
This was new to him. But then, he had nothing to steal. ‘As you will.’
Ettrick put his back to the wooden door and held his hands like a cup. Quinlan was on it and up in a move that would have done credit to an acrobat. The gap at the top of the door looked far too small to allow a human being passage, but Quinlan, once he got his head and shoulders through, wriggled like an angry snake till a full three-quarters of his body was hidden. Then, somehow, he managed to turn sideways, so that when he brought his legs through he could use his hands to lower himself to within a few feet of the ground.
‘There you are, sir,’ whispered Rannoch. ‘Those two have drunk more good claret in their time than any officer in Farmer George’s army.’
‘We calls Quinlan the mouse,’ said Ettrick, with some pride.
‘He still has to unbolt the door.’
‘Never fear for that, your honour,’ Ettrick scoffed. ‘Locks are no more strangers to him than floorboard cracks. He has his picks snug in his breeches, right by his most precious parts.’
The door creaked as they swung open, with Markham wondering how he hadn’t seen more of this sort of thing before, then consoling himself with the thought that part of their expertise would be in avoiding any recognition of their skills. Rossignol’s doorless coach still filled the rear courtyard, and he led the way as they skirted round it. The rear doors were open, and he was just about to go through, when he heard the unmistakable voice, accompanied by the slight hacking cough, of Colonel Serota. His hand flew up so quickly that everyone behind him froze.
‘It is nothing personal, Rossignol. It is merely that you are a loose end that requires to be tidied. Everyone in this house knows of my association with you. Even the boy could recover one day and tell the world of this little deception.’
When Rossignol replied, Markham could not help but admire him. Clearly he was in mortal danger, but there wasn’t even a hint of fear in his voice. ‘Naturally, Colonel, I understand your concern. But you must realise that Monsieur Fouquert, having ample evidence of the valuable services I can provide to the cause, will be most unhappy should anything untoward befall me or my family. You may find that it is I who need to intercede on your behalf, since your function, indeed your usefulness to the Revolution in Toulon, ended with the siege.’
‘You are such a brilliant talker, Rossignol, that killing you will provide me with no pleasure whatsoever.’
‘Then why do it?’
‘I cannot have my country branded treacherous.’
‘Even if it is true?’
The note of levity in Serota’s voice evaporated. ‘You are careless with your tongue, Rossignol.’
‘I have secreted certain papers, Colonel, that will tell all who wish to know just how much they can trust Spain as an ally.’
Markham knew it was the wrong thing to say long before Rossignol finished speaking. A bluff too far. He burst through the open door just as the shot rang out, sword extended and yelling like a banshee. Rossignol had taken the ball in the chest, the weight of the shot throwing him backwards, so that Markham cannoned into his falling body, holding it upright while he registered the shock in the Spaniard’s face. The two men escorting him were in more control of themselves, and had lowered their muskets to shoot, waiting only for this rescuer to come out from behind the already dying Rossignol.
But Serota had no intention of delaying. And the click of Rannoch’s musket, misfiring on his soaked flints, was all he needed to convince him that discretion was the better part of valour. He turned, his pistol still smoking, and headed out into the courtyard, ordering his men to cover his retreat.
Markham was stuck, his only protection Rossignol’s body. And the old man was failing, his legs beginning to bend so that he had to be supported just to remain a shield. What hit Markham’s shoulder was so overwhelming that both he and Rossignol were swept aside. Rannoch, with one of the coach doors held out in front of him, charged at the two Spaniards.
Common sense would have had them holding fire, to let the man pass by so that he could be shot in the back. But that was a hard concept to hold to when faced with a piece of solid wood travelling at ten miles an hour, a door which emitted the stirring yet eerie battle cry of a puissant Scottish clan. Their shots splintered the wood, and slowed the Highlander a fraction. But it was no more than that, and when he was abreast of them he used the door to fell one Spaniard, before turning on the other and grabbing him round the neck with his bare hands. The bone went in what seemed like an instant, and the victim crumpled to the floor with Rannoch’s hands still around his limp neck. The man struggling to get out from under the door was dealt with by a vicious back-handed swipe that, with every ounce of the Scotsman’s strength in it, smashed the side of his face.
It was Rannoch’s turn to be brushed aside, as Markham went after Serota, sword extended once more as he crashed through the courtyard doors. The Colonel should have shut and barred the entrance to the warehouse. But a combination of panic and insecurity, brought on by the sight of a man who should have been dead, had made that obvious precaution seem superfluous. He’d run right through, and was scrabbling at the outer door, his fingers dragging at the bolts. His breath came in great gasps which seemed to sear his hollow chest.
The door swung open, to reveal a solid wall of human flesh, the refugees who filled the quays, which for Serota made escape impossible. The thought of trying to plough his way through that mob clearly terrified him more than the idea of going back. It took all his strength to shut the door again, and had those pressed against it been more alert he would have failed. But he got the bolts home, turned round, and saw the scruffy, barely dry figure of George Markham in the doorway, knees bent, sword extended, inviting him to fight.
‘You may give me your sword if you wish, Colonel Serota.’
The Spaniard was on the first rung of the stairs before Markham finished speaking, his boots pounding on the wooden treads as he shot up to the first floor. Markham followed cautiously, well aware that his quarry had even less chance of finding a way out on the upper floors than he did on the ground. He heard the high boots echoing on the bare floorboards above his head; was slightly bewildered when that noise ceased, even more mystified when he exited onto the floor his men had used as a billet. There were more stairs, of course, on the far side of the chamber, which led up the top level, an area he’d never visited.
He was just about to cross to them when he heard Serota’s footsteps coming down. Taking station with his back to the double doors that formed the loading bay, he waited, sword by his side, while the Spaniard descended, the lantern he held forming a pool of light around his feet. The long cavalry boots appeared first, then his thighs. It was only when he got down to the level of his waist that Markham realised how much trouble he was in. So much danger that he pressed back against the doors, feeling through his still damp shirt the cold chain that held them closed.
‘You’re a hard man to kill, Markham. The flares at Mulgrave were meant to destroy your command. But this one is just for you.’
‘It c
an’t be done, Serota,’ said Markham, his eyes fixed on the point of the flare, which protruded no more than an inch from the end of the firing tube. He was a good thirty feet away from the Spaniard, and in between him and the steps lay several of the makeshift cots of his Bullocks. He knew that it didn’t actually have to hit him. If it exploded close enough to his body, he would certainly be maimed, if not killed outright. ‘Light that fuse, and you will be in as much danger as I am.’
‘Do you know, Lieutenant, that at this moment you sound just like that scoundrel Rossignol? Lies come so easily to your lips. Death, I’m afraid, is sure to follow, just as it did to him.’
‘Did this warehouse provide the flares when we attacked Bonaparte’s guns as well?’
‘I have never known a man on the edge of perdition who asked so many questions.’
‘It’s a bad habit. I’m so fond of it, I’d like to keep it.’
‘The Irish have a reputation for being amusing.’
‘There are a dozen men downstairs. They won’t let you pass.’
Serota waved the open lantern at the truncated trail of fuse which hung from the edge of the rocket, cut so that it would go off in seconds. ‘Then you must order them to do so.’
‘I’m sorry, Colonel, I can’t do that. You are a man who has betrayed more than your allies. You even butchered your own men in that useless attack on the Batterie de Bregaillon. I don’t know Spain, which you claim to represent. But there’s hardly a doubt in my mind that most of the people who live there would be deeply ashamed of what you’ve done. I think they’d like to see a garotte round your scrawny yellow neck as much as I would.’
Serota moved to the side of the rocket tube, and shifted the lantern till the candle touched the fuse. He was on his heels, anticipating the moment when Markham would try to rush him. Instead the cold indifferent stare from that quarter induced confusion, forcing him to look at the weapon he’d chosen to assure himself it had no faults. If he saw Markham’s hand behind his back it didn’t register. He was looking down at the short spluttering fuse, giving it more attention than his intended victim.
There is a point, when setting off a rocket, as the fuse enters the body of the piece, a moment when it seems to go silent. That is the very second at which it fires. It did so now, throwing Serota backwards as the flames shot out of the rear. He lifted his head to look at his victim, and the bang as the rocket smashed into the double doors threw him momentarily. They were blown open, crashing against the outer walls. Within the blink of an eye the flare exploded, lighting up the whole of the quay and the harbour. But then the doors swung back, to reveal his intended victim, whole and unscathed, stretched out on the floor.
Serota didn’t know his uniform was alight, smouldering where the flames had scorched it, didn’t know as he rushed at Markham that he trailed smoke behind him. His sword was out, intent on impaling the Irishman. He cut hard enough to throw Serota back. The yellow teeth were bared, the eyes maddened and the breath rasping. Serota was beyond any sense, and seemed to run himself on to Markham’s sword rather than take avoiding action.
Rannoch’s head came level with the top of the stairs as the Spaniard crumpled in a heap at Markham’s feet. ‘There was a moment there, sir, when I have to admit you had me worried. But you Irishmen, when it comes to danger, have a luck we Scotsmen lack.’
Markham, panting more from relief than effort, pulled his sword from Serota’s hollow chest.
‘Then why is it, Rannoch, that when the Scots are conquered in battle, they end up, within a decade, running the whole bloody British government?’
‘Might it be brains, do you think?’ the Scotsman replied, as he began to remove Serota’s boots.
They’d carried Rossignol into the study and laid him on a chaise. He was breathing heavily, with Pascalle kneeling, weeping, at his feet. Eveline stood by one wall clutching and unclutching her hands, her eyes unfocussed, like someone whose world had fallen apart. Celeste held Jean-Baptiste’s hand, he alone unaware of what was happening. Markham had Rannoch lead Pascalle away, then knelt to examine the wound. Then he took the hand that the old man waveringly extended.
‘There was no malice, Lieutenant,’ Rossignol whispered. ‘I hope you know that.’
‘Yes. I do.’
‘But I did lie to you many times.’ His eyes shut suddenly, his chest swelled, and a rasping noise came from this throat. But it didn’t stop him talking. ‘You thought you’d found me out, but I merely had to use one lie to disguise another.’
‘Sure, if I had a coin for every lie I’ve told, I’d own half of County Wexford.’
Rossignol didn’t understand, and the confusion showed on his face. ‘Serota never believed in the boy. But neither did you.’
‘Hanger?’
His voice gurgled as he replied, almost as if he were trying to laugh. ‘Him, yes. I count your Colonel as a success. His vanity was the greatest. That is my supreme asset, the vanity of others. No one flatters a man more than he will flatter himself. Once I have found the key to that, people make themselves my hostage. And they are so happy. The Picards were even delighted that you were not part of our shared secret. It is like conjuring, letting each person know only that which they need.’
‘Yet it all ends in tragedy, as it has here. And something tells me, Rossignol, that this isn’t the first time.’
‘It is the nature of my life. And time is an enemy. Perhaps I spent too long in Toulon. One small untruth must be used to support another. Too many, or one unguarded moment, and the edifice begins to unravel.’
Markham was tempted to ask about lies that could be classed as great whoppers, the category most of the things Rossignol had told him fell into. But to chide a dying man would be heartless.
‘Pascalle and Eveline?’ Rossignol croaked.
‘Celeste and Jean-Baptiste,’ Markham replied.
That brought a ghost of a smile to the now bloodless lips. ‘You catch me on the thorn once more, monsieur.’
‘Where are the Picards and their servants?’
‘Gone,’ he growled. ‘Took ship as soon as they knew that the town would fall.’
‘Without telling you?’
‘Their money and their lives meant more to them than their loyalty to their King.’
‘But he wasn’t their King.’
Rossignol tried to raise himself, his voice rasping and angry. ‘They thought he was. And these are the kind of people who look down on such as me.’
Markham changed the subject to calm him down, his voice dropping even more so that only Rossignol coud hear him. ‘You told me about Pascalle, but who exactly is Eveline? Not your daughter, I’m sure.’
‘No. A collaborator, a good one, who enjoys subterfuge as much as I do. Shall I call her an actress, and a consummate one, who has been unlucky in her chosen profession. With me, she had a chance to exercise a wasted talent.’ That, no doubt evasive, still imparted a great deal, and had him lifting his head to look at Eveline. The appellation actress covered a great variety of vocations, which, in an overcrowded milieu, ranged from leading lady to common whore. Just where she stood on the rungs of this ladder was something he really didn’t want to know. ‘But she was fond of you, Lieutenant, truly so. I didn’t deceive you about that. It would grieve me if anything happened to either of them.’
‘I cannot guarantee anything for my men, let alone the rest of the people in this house. Right now we are all safer here. Perhaps, when the streets have cleared, we will be able to get out of Toulon.’
‘But you will try.’
‘Yes.’
Rossignol’s body was racked by deep pain as Markham nodded, but the words he managed to gasp made him considerably tighten his grip on the old man’s hand. ‘Fouquert will come here, looking for me.’
‘Why?’
‘I was his liaison with Serota. They communicated through Guillaume Rossignol. That is why we didn’t flee when we saw your troops withdraw. We knew we were safe.’
‘Ho
w did this come about?’
The head turned away. ‘Circumstances.’
‘You released him from the coach while I was asleep.’
Rossignol’s eyes, when he turned to face Markham again, held not a trace of guilt. ‘You left the wounded soldier’s bayonet beside me. It was an opportunity. It is unhealthy, in today’s troubled world, to make enemies in any quarter. And it was you who told me that the British would not send troops. A man like me must prepare for everything.’
‘Did you offer to sell him Jean-Baptiste?’
That produced a fit of coughing, and the first hint of frothy blood around Rossignol’s lips. But he didn’t answer the question. ‘Use the old smuggling tunnels. They lead from an entrance in Picard’s study. Eveline and Pascalle will show you.’ The pain he was suffering made him screw up his face. ‘Are you a Catholic, Lieutenant?’
‘If you want a priest,’ Markham whispered, ‘I don’t think I can get you one.’
‘No priests!’ He clutched Markham’s hand a bit tighter. ‘If I must confess, let it be to a man who feels he has as many faults as me.’
‘And what, pray, are my faults?’
‘Vanity, monsieur, like all men. But not so much that you do not know your own weaknesses. Your past troubles you, and sometimes blinds you.’
The light was beginning to go from the eyes. Markham had seen it before, that moment of approaching death, when pain ceases and only the surprise shows in the pupils.
‘I can’t confess you, Rossignol, since any faith I had died long ago. But there is an English writer called Shakespeare, who said something about every exit being an entrance somewhere else. If there is a supreme being, I’m sure he’ll open the door for a scoundrel like you.’
‘Sure,’ he sighed.
‘Even Almighty God needs a laugh.’
Guillaume Rossignol died as the first sounds of the Rape of Toulon penetrated the thick walls of the Picard house.
Chapter twenty-four
There was no time for sobbing, and little time for sleep. Markham had his men carry Rossignol’s body up to the first floor of the warehouse, there to join that of Serota. His boots had been removed too, and now graced the feet of Quinlan. The two Spanish soldiers felled by Rannoch, one dead and the other unconscious, had been stripped, though looking at Dymock and Leech, both with Spanish muskets in their hands, he could see that their footwear was of poor quality. All the while, loud enough to penetrate the thick stone walls, the sounds of death increased outside on the quay.
A Shred of Honour Page 33
