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  ‘Reload, damn you,’ he ordered. The ships were still twenty feet apart. Markham found himself staring right down the muzzle of a French cannon, which had been run out, ready to fire. He saw the man grasp the twine that would set it off and started to duck just as the Hebe slewed round to slam into the French ship. The crack of wood and breaking ropes from aloft, as the yards and rigging became tangled, was audible even over the din of battle. The long cannon, now just a few feet away, went off with a deafening roar, a streak of orange fire extending like a searing finger to engulf him. The sound was deafening and the fire struck his coat, burning his cheek and filling his nose with the acrid smell of spent powder and scorched cloth.

  A Shred of Honour

  DAVID DONACHIE

  To the Valour Boys

  Contents

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Map

  Chapter one

  Chapter two

  Chapter three

  Chapter four

  Chapter five

  Chapter six

  Chapter seven

  Chapter eight

  Chapter nine

  Chapter ten

  Chapter eleven

  Chapter twelve

  Chapter thirteen

  Chapter fourteen

  Chapter fifteen

  Chapter sixteen

  Chapter seventeen

  Chapter eighteen

  Chapter nineteen

  Chapter twenty

  Chapter twenty-one

  Chapter twenty-two

  Chapter twenty-three

  Chapter twenty-four

  Chapter twenty-five

  Chapter twenty-six

  Historical note

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Chapter one

  It was bad luck for Lieutenant George Tenby Markham that the first shot fired in the engagement took Captain Frobisher in the throat. Firing at that range, on a Mediterranean swell, the Frenchman had been very lucky. The heavy calibre musket ball should have dropped into the sea between the ships. Instead it whipped across the deck of His Britannic Majesty’s 24-gun frigate Hebe. The marine officer’s head, nearly severed from the shoulders, dropped to one side. A great gush of bright red froth erupted from the devastated artery, covering everyone who stood close to him in a layer of foaming blood.

  ‘Get that off my quarterdeck,’ shouted Captain de Lisle, as though the body were no more than offal. ‘Mr Markham, you will replace Mr Frobisher in command of the marine detachment. I intend to lay the ship alongside the enemy, fire off a broadside, and board in the smoke.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir,’ Markham replied, raising his hat in the crisp fashion that was an absolute requirement of his present position. The slight breeze was welcome, acting as it did to cool the sweat that had soaked his light brown hair. The trickle of sweat that ran down the hollow of his spine seemed continuous; the desire to throw off his heavy red uniform coat overwhelming.

  Inwardly he was troubled by all manner of conflicting emotions. An army officer, his grasp of marine tactics was near to zero, something Frobisher had failed to redress. And Hebe’s complement was a mixture that approximated to oil and water; half no-hopers from his regiment, the remainder marines who didn’t know or like him. Could he command them at all? And even if they obeyed, what was he supposed to tell them?

  A sudden piercing scream, a dark shape on the edge of his vision, made him duck involuntarily. The body of the falling seaman stretched the nettings above his head, the victim nearly impaling himself on one of his soldiers’ bayonets. But the fellow bounced up again, his body twisting in desperation as the force of his own momentum threw him over the side into the sea.

  ‘A little return fire with musketry might be of advantage, Markham,’ snapped de Lisle. ‘Otherwise, I’ll have no topmen.’

  Looking aft to the knot of men by the wheel did little to reassure him. The captain’s round face, the glowering stare full of distaste and the sneer on his lips, was matched by every officer on the ship. It had been like that since he’d come aboard. And nothing on the long voyage south had diminished it. To their rigid naval minds it was bad enough being obliged to share the wardroom with a soldier. But to have as an enforced dining companion a man who was probably a Papist, certainly a rake, and bore the stigma of cowardice, was anathema.

  Markham dragged his thoughts away from such contemplations and tried to concentrate on the task ahead. Frobisher had placed a third of his men in the tops, occupying the platforms that surrounded the caps. That vantage point, a third of the way up the masts, let them play their muskets on the enemy deck. He called up, ordering them to find a target and fire at will.

  ‘Pay particular attention to the gun crews,’ he shouted. That produced a snort of derision from the officer commanding the quarterdeck battery, the Third Lieutenant, Fellows.

  ‘It’s a good thing we’re not under an admiral’s eye, Markham,’ he called, in a loud voice. ‘Given such a lamentable performance, the whole ship’s company might expire from embarrassment.’

  He longed to ask why, prepared to display his ignorance if it would help. Fellows, inadvertently, solved the problem by barking at his own fidgeting gunners, telling them to keep their heads down. In that position they offered no target to the enemy sharpshooters, now peppering the Hebe’s deck planking, seeking to hit the officers arrayed in front of the ship’s wheel. No-one moved to avoid them, it being a canon of a gentleman’s existence that no officer, of whatever service, ever flinched under fire.

  Fellows’ strictures had little effect, being ignored the minute he looked away. The crews below, on the maindeck, were also peering through the ports. In a high state of exhilaration, they were eager to gaze upon the enemy, men they’d do their very best to kill as soon as they received the order to open fire.

  Conscious of the sensations in his stomach, part apprehension, part excitement, Markham jerked slightly as the men aloft fired off their first volley, aimed exclusively at the enemy commanders, wondering if they might be indulging in calculated disobedience. But they were, very likely, just obeying some standard instructions about which he knew nothing.

  He turned to the rest of his men; perspiring, crammed into the forward section of the quarterdeck between the companionway and the waist, exposed to the full glare of the sun. What a mixed bag they were; Lobsters and Bullocks, the only common factor amongst them the red of their sweat-streaked coats. The Bullocks were the dregs of his regiment; hard bargains, thieves and defaulters, dispatched by a grateful Colonel to make up the numbers demanded by a short-handed fleet. They’d come aboard under the command of a strange officer, which was just another element to add to their seething resentment at the service they were being forced to perform.

  The Lobsters presented another problem. In different uniforms, carrying unfamiliar weapons somewhat shorter than the regulation army issue, they’d let him know that any order he issued would be obeyed only if their own commander approved it. In this they’d been aided by Frobisher, who’d taken every available opportunity to insult him, and belittle the soldiers. None of the marines had even exchanged a smile with the men foisted on them. They kept themselves separate, aloof, and were thus even more a mystery. He had the right to command them, without the certainty that they would obey.

  ‘Two paces forward, march. Present!’

  ‘Damnit, Markham,’ de Lisle yelled, ‘what are you about? You’re more of a threat to your own than the enemy.’

  ‘It is my intention to aim at the French gunports, sir,’ he replied, pointing with his sword.

  ‘An action which will kill any one of the quarterdeck gunners who raises his head. Clearly you know as much about shipboard tactics as you do about t
he duties of an officer. Perhaps I should spare a midshipman to instruct you.’

  The sudden boom of the enemy cannon, firing a rolling broadside, took everyone’s attention. The Hebe shuddered as half the cannonade smashed into her hull. At that range, most of the balls hit the side of the ship, but one clipped the very edge of the bulwark right before his eyes. A great shard of wood, a splinter several feet long and shaped like an enormous spearhead, sliced across the deck. One soldier, a yellow-skinned, toothless sodomite called Perkins, took it right in the lower belly. His mouth opened, a black empty hole that was too shocked to emit a scream. His eyes stared in horror at the fractured wood that protruded from his guts. Half of those, a long visceral trail of tangled intestine, had come out at his back, entrails dragged through the flesh by the rough edges of the splintered timber.

  He staggered slightly, his frightened eyes looking to his mates to help him stay upright. It wasn’t discipline that kept them in line, but indifference. Head bent, he saw the blood running down his legs to form a pool at his feet. Then, as the first piece of his innards slid into the gore, he began to scream. Two seaman grabbed him by the elbows and dragged him towards the companionway with such disregard that they left a long trail of his guts behind. By that time the screaming had ceased, the pain too much to bear.

  The blistering late August heat formed a haze over the sea that, mixed with the billowing black smoke of the broadside, turned the approaching enemy frigate into a chimera. With little wind to disperse it, the smoke hung like a cloud. The two warships were closing at a snail’s pace, and in Captain de Lisle the navy had an officer who believed shot expended at anything other than point-blank range was a waste. The whole scene had a dreamlike quality. But there was nothing surreal about the continuing crack of the passing musket balls.

  ‘Get your men up onto the bulwarks, sir,’ cried de Lisle, ‘where they can see the enemy. And you, Lieutenant Markham, if you have a shred of honour, will join them.’

  It was a foolish command that would offer his men as sitting ducks to anyone capable of responding, either with cannon, musket, or pistol. A half-decent broadside would decimate them. It was also a direct order publicly delivered by an officer with the ability to break him, so the temptation to comply was strong. No man likes to be perceived as a coward, especially when the suspicion existed, deep in his own mind, that the accusation might have some foundation. The men hated him, a fact which they demonstrated daily. But that didn’t absolve him of responsibility. He was damned if he was going to have them butchered just to satisfy the captain’s bilious temperament.

  ‘My duty to my command does not permit me to comply, sir.’

  ‘What!’ de Lisle yelled. He opened his mouth to continue, but the words were drowned out by the crashing roar of another French salvo. Two of the Hebe’s gun captains, no doubt inexperienced men shaken to the core by the noise, touched off their own cannon. The maindeck eighteen-pounders bellowed black smoke and shot inboard, rocked back on their carriages, their muzzles jumping skywards as they were brought up by the straining breechings. The quarterdeck gunners, fearing they’d missed the command, followed suit. And then the rest of Hebe’s larboard maindeck battery went off in a ragged discharge.

  Captain Richard de Lisle, a man habitually reserved in his demeanour, had gone puce with passion. As the sound of the guns died away he could be heard screaming for names to be taken, so that the culprits could be flogged for insubordination. Only Markham, it seemed, had any interest in the result of their accidental efforts. Peering through the smoke he observed the great black balls smashing into the side of the enemy frigate. Even at that crawling pace it shuddered and slowed, as if slapped by some great hand. Screams came across the water to match those on Hebe’s deck, as Markham gave his men their orders.

  ‘Aim careful now, my boyos,’ he called, adding a knowing grin to the overstated Irish accent. ‘Don’t hit one of them gunners, or sure, the captain will be after stoppin’ our grog.’

  Intended as a joke, it was met with a stony silence. They presented on command, though in an undisciplined way that shamed him, followed by a ragged volley which owed as much to poorly-loaded weaponry as it did to their ineptitude. He felt the sense of excitement, which had come upon him at the moment of going into action, evaporate, to be replaced by one of extreme frustration. He tried to keep his face rigid, so that these feelings would remain hidden. But suppressing his anger was one emotion he’d never mastered. Every man in his party, looking at those cold grey eyes, tight lips and clenched square jaw, knew that he was livid.

  He wasn’t alone. The volley attracted de Lisle’s attention to the fact that Markham had blatantly disobeyed him. But with the ships closing, supervising the final preparations for the forthcoming battle, he could do little.

  Both frigates were moving out of their own smoke, bowsprits angled inwards. In such close proximity Markham could see, for the first time, the faces of the enemy. The officers stood as rigidly formal in bearing as their British counterparts, their glittering uniforms marking them out as the men in command. This surprised him. In the four years since 1789 the Revolution had, supposedly, changed France out of all recognition. In the previous twelve months it had swept away the King and the aristocracy in the maelstrom of the Terror. He’d expected this to show, anticipated less of a distinction between officers and men. Whatever happened to Liberté, Egalité and Fraternité?

  Ordered to step two paces back, his men were reloading their muskets, some fumbling with rammers and wads as their own sweat mixed with oil and grease. Silence had descended on both decks, broken only by the whispered sound of prayer. Markham might know nothing about the ways of the navy, but he’d been in battle before. Men were going to die, and in significant numbers. The French captain had guessed de Lisle’s aim and was prepared to match it. He wanted a prize to take back to Marseilles just as much as the Englishman wanted a present for his commander, Lord Hood. So they crept towards each other, under topsails, hardly making anything in the way of speed, each ear cocked for the first hint of the command to open fire.

  ‘Now, lads!’

  De Lisle had stepped away from the wheel, far enough forward to see down into the waist, so that his voice would carry to the whole ship’s company. The dark brown eyes in his pale, round face were steady and compelling. Never had he looked more like his nickname, ‘Spotted Dick’. He was a short, compact man, with bland features that rarely showed emotion. The glare of the bright sun, which reddened the features of every other man aboard, gave him a bloodless appearance. That was heightened by the ghost of a grin which looked fixed, as though underneath that rigid exterior lay a degree of terror. But Markham guessed that the only thing the captain feared was disgrace. He’d die willingly, if only he could be assured of doing so with nobility.

  ‘They’re only Johnny Crapaud, who we’ve had sport with for fifty years. They ain’t got the stomach for real fighting. So just you ply your guns at the right rate and we’ll see them to perdition.’ He paused, his eyes raking the deck. ‘Any man runs, leaves his post, will answer to me, d’ye hear?’

  Then he filled his lungs with air and, in a voice that could be heard a mile away, bellowed, ‘Fire!’

  The enemy commander must have issued his command simultaneously, since the gap was too small to register. Suddenly the air was full of flying death, as both sets of guns opened up. It was no odd splinter now. Great chunks of the ship’s side were blown asunder and the wood sent in all directions. One of the ship’s cannon took a direct hit on the muzzle, the clang of contact resounding like a hellish bell. The gun was blown inboard so hard its breechings parted, the flying, snapping ropes adding yet more terror to the dangers the crew faced. The cannon, including its carriage, slewed sideways, taking both the legs off the gun captain, who’d stood ready to haul on the flintlock. The barrel, flying apart, added metal shards to those of wood, and gutted the men closest with deadly efficiency. Through the gap that had once been the side of the ship, Markha
m could see the Frenchmen who’d done such damage, an enemy gun crew already straining furiously to reload.

  ‘Fire through the gap,’ he yelled, pointing his sword at the open gunport, less than twenty feet away. His men obeyed, but to little effect. Most shots went wide, with only one hitting home, striking an officer well to the rear of the intended targets.

  ‘Reload, damn you,’ he ordered. The ships were still twenty feet apart. Markham found himself staring right down the muzzle of a French cannon, which had been run out, ready to fire. He saw the man grasp the twine that would set it off and started to duck just as the Hebe slewed round to slam into the French ship. The crack of wood and breaking ropes from aloft, as the yards and rigging became tangled, was audible even over the din of battle. The long cannon, now just a few feet away, went off with a deafening roar, a streak of orange fire extending like a searing finger to engulf him. The sound was deafening and the fire struck his coat, burning his cheek and filling his nose with the acrid smell of spent powder and scorched cloth. Luckily the blast threw him sideways, onto his knees, so the ball, which would have cut him in two, sped past his left shoulder. It struck the mainmast and ricocheted along the deck of the ship, destroying everything, flesh, bone, and wood, that stood in its way.

  ‘Boarders,’ cried de Lisle, rushing down to where Markham knelt, the spittle shooting from his mouth a testimony to the violence of his language. All control had gone from a man who strove to be the epitome of calmness under fire. ‘You damned Irish coward! What in the devil’s name are you waiting for? Do your duty, sir!’

  Fighting to control his outrage, Markham pulled himself to his feet. Standing nearly a foot taller than de Lisle he raised his sword aloft, and was about to order his men forward when the captain screamed again, pushing himself onto his tiptoes in an attempt to compensate for this junior officer’s superior height.

  ‘I’ll not have any peasant general’s bastard sully my deck again!’