A Shred of Honour Page 3

  Briggs had indeed laid out all his possessions, even going so far as to clean the bloodstained accoutrements in which his master had expired. Frobisher, when he heard the drums beat to quarters, had changed into his very best for the forthcoming engagement. His everyday uniforms, including his spare hat, were folded at the top of the bed. His best red coat, with its frogged white facings and twisted gold aiguillettes, lay flat above two pairs of doeskin breeches. The single white crossbelt shone, as did the silver buckle in the centre.

  On top of the monogrammed sea-chest the brush and comb set, silver backed, gleamed in the dull light. At its base lay three pairs of highly polished officer’s shoes, one with silver buckles, stuffed with fine stockings; a set of excellent riding boots; a map case and a field telescope. Briggs had arranged his sword and pistols at the foot of the cot, expensive pieces set to catch the eye. There were the muster and pay books, a prayer book and a Bible, well thumbed, plus a list of the items in the chest.

  ‘You might fetch a price,’ Markham mumbled to himself, fingering the dull metal of the pistol barrels. ‘But who’s going to buy red coats aboard this ship except me?’

  That produced a thought. His army uniform, though not so very different from a marine one, was not only showing signs of wear; it had proved a liability. Yet that, for the little it was worth, identified him to his own contingent. He and Frobisher were much of a size. If he were to take over his late superior’s uniform, then he might begin to convince the Lobsters that he was just as much their officer. The sword he would need to replace his own, and he felt no compunction about claiming it. The only two questions he couldn’t answer were obvious; how much to pay, and where the money was going to come from.

  ‘Briggs,’ he yelled. ‘On the double.’

  The screen lifted within a second. ‘I’ve no desire to cheat the late Captain’s relatives, nor the means to buy such fine pistols, but I need to know how much his uniforms are worth?’

  Briggs’ face screwed up in a parody of the usurer’s art. Markham could almost see him counting. ‘Before you reply let me tell you that, even if I find it is a custom to reward a dead man’s servant, it’s not one I propose to subscribe to. So, since you will receive nothing from the sale of anything on this cot, you might as well be honest.’

  ‘Ain’t worth bugger all,’ Briggs wailed, ‘if’n you don’t take ’em.’

  ‘A price!’

  ‘Twelve guineas to include the sword if anyone’s feeling generous. But the pistols is worth a lot more.’

  ‘They shall go home intact, on the next packet, with a letter from me informing them of how he died.’

  ‘That’s the captain’s job.’

  ‘The captain may write too,’ Markham replied savagely. ‘But perhaps my account might be more truthful. I might be tempted to say that he didn’t expire with much in the way of gallantry.’

  The distant cries of the lookouts brought the ship to life, the thudding of the officers’ shoes as they ran for the deck adding to the air of excitement. Markham knew he should follow, but decided against. If danger threatened he would soon know. He untied the queue that held his light brown hair and picked up the brush, leaning forward to gaze into the mirror.

  The eyes that stared back at him looked pale green in this light; the unlined, slightly bronzed face familiar from thousands of previous encounters. He’d been told he was handsome, and wondered at the eyesight of those who’d said so. Of the many women who’d ventured such an opinion only his mother could be forgiven, allowed a parental mote in her eye: the face was too long, the cheekbones too pronounced and the jaw a bit too square for that to be true. His nose was no longer straight, though the way it had been broken tended to enhance the shape, not spoil it. Then there were the scars, some from childhood, others from adult encounters, the only really obvious one just visible above his left eye. Fingering that always produced a smile, given that it had come from a pretend fight, not a real one. He was lucky in his teeth, white, strong and all present, making it easy for him to smile. An interesting visage perhaps, but certainly not handsome. As if to emphasise that, he screwed up his features to produce a passable imitation of a gargoyle’s face.

  By the time he’d tried on Frobisher’s coat, Markham knew they were within sight of Hood’s fleet. A good fit, it was beyond his financial reach, so he replaced it and returned to his cabin to fetch his own. Flicking through the muster and pay books, he looked at the names of the men he commanded. There were faces to go with those, but precious little in the way of knowledge that would help him command them.

  Suddenly sick of the confined space, he jammed on his hat and made his way on deck, joining the others in looking to the east. The great ships, over twenty in number, and including the hundred-gunners Victory and Britannia, were beating to and fro off Cape Sicie, which guarded the approaches to the French naval base of Toulon. Even to a landsman’s eye, they presented a stirring sight. What a pity that the image of the King’s Navy, as portrayed by the gleaming white sails aloft on these magnificent leviathans, was so very different from the reality.

  Descending the companionway that led down from the maindeck, Markham wrinkled his nose. The stench below was something he’d never get used to. Several hundred men, most with a mortal fear of fresh air, slung their hammocks here, fourteen inches to a man. If they washed at all, it was in salt water, and they ate where they slept. Right forward in the forepeak was the manger, full of the stink of cooped-up animals. Most of the crew had gone on up to the foredeck, braving sunshine and breeze to catch a sight of the fleet. That’s where he’d first looked for his men, only realising that they must still be below when he failed to spot them amongst the crowd of sailors.

  Somehow he had to get on terms with these people. They would certainly see action again, given that they were in the Mediterranean, and that the French had a large fleet at Toulon, one that the Admiral was determined to bring to battle. Frobisher, in all the weeks they’d been at sea, had trained no one, instead spending his days boasting to all who would listen of his intention to smite the enemy as soon as they appeared. He hated the French with such a passion that it came as no surprise to Markham to learn that the marine captain had never met one.

  His own experience told him that training was the key to success. If the two groups could be brought to act together, given time they would blend into one. And there was plenty to learn, even for the marines. They’d had no more idea of what to do in the recent engagement than he had. They might claim to be real Lobsters, but they were just as false as his soldiers. Lost in thought, and unable to see clearly by the tallow-lit glim, he walked straight into Yelland, the youngest of his troopers, an innocent blond-haired youth much put upon by his elders who, to his mind, had been included in the detachment by some error.

  The boy was looking the other way, craning slightly to see something ahead. Then his officer appeared. Habit brought the lad to attention. The low deckbeams did the rest. Hatless, he fetched himself a mighty clout right on the crown, and would have fallen if Markham hadn’t taken a firm hold. Supporting him, he inquired after his condition. The boy mumbled something which included the word fight, and started to move away. That was when Markham heard the unmistakable crunch of bone striking flesh.

  ‘Damnit, what’s going on?’ he demanded, rushing forward.

  The line of red coats, all with their backs to him, barred his view. But there was no mistaking the sounds of bare-knuckle fighting, the thud of soft flesh and brittle bone being mauled. He’d heard it too many times, and grabbed hold of a pair of shoulders to haul them apart.

  Schutte, the huge Dutch-born marine, was there, stripped to the waist. Completely bald, the only colour between his breeches and his pate the red of his face, he stood before Rannoch, the most fearsome of his soldiers, a Highlander with hair so fair it hinted at Viking blood. They were trading blow for blow, both faces already covered in blood, their bodies a mass of red weals that would soon turn to ugly black bruises. Toe to toe
, not giving an inch, the pair were pounding each other, their breath coming in hastily snatched grunts.

  ‘Enough!’ he yelled, stepping between them. Both sets of eyes, filled with hate, determination and pain, turned on him. For a moment he thought that he was about to fall victim, that they would cease to pound each other and instead lay their punches on him. ‘What in the name of Jesus, Mary and Joseph do you pair think you’re doing?’

  His hands slipped on blood and sweat as he sought to push them apart. All around him he could hear the growls of dissatisfaction as the audience, deprived of their sport and their wagers, made their feelings known. Dornan, another of his soldiers, with a bovine face to match his character, was vainly trying to hide the money from the bets inside his coat. Several coins slipped and landed on the planking, which turned some of the glares away from Markham. It said everything about these men that they’d put a simpleton in charge of the one thing that, proving complicity, would bring on the heaviest punishment.

  ‘Stand back, damn you!’ The shouted order produced no movement, just the same look he’d seen earlier, a combination of hate and indifference. ‘Two paces to the rear, march!’

  Some had the discipline to respond immediately, but most hesitated. Markham, still between the two giants, arms outstretched to keep them separate, felt like Samson trying to bring down the temple. He knew that even if he pushed harder, he didn’t have the strength to move them. Concentrating, he didn’t see Ettrick, smaller and nimbler than the rest, in one swift movement scoop up the coins Dornan had dropped.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  The strange voice caused the men glaring at Markham to turn to face the officer of the watch, Fellows. He stood with his hands on his hips, a grin that was half a sneer on his face.

  ‘There’s nothing going on,’ Markham replied lamely.

  ‘Is that you in there, Markham?’

  ‘Mr Markham to you, Fellows. There was the risk of a fight, but I put a stop to it.’

  Fellows threw back his head and laughed. ‘A risk. Last time I looked they were at it hammer and tongs. I expected another canvas sack on the deck, with an addition to the burial service.’

  ‘You knew this was happening and did nothing to stop it?’

  ‘No I didn’t, Mr Markham!’ The emphasis on the Mister was even more insulting than its absence. ‘But I reckoned Schutte to win. Why should I take a hand if he was going to spare the purser the need to feed a Bullock?’

  ‘That way we find out who in charge,’ Schutte growled, his hairless chest heaving. He stuck one finger in his own belly, then pointed it at Rannoch. ‘Sergeant me or Sergeant Bullock.’

  Markham pushed him hard, which was dispiriting since he only went back a fraction of an inch, thinking that was another thing Frobisher had ignored in his determination to keep the two groups separate: the status of the non-commissioned officers.

  ‘There’s only one person in charge, you great hairless oaf – me! If this happens again I’ll have you all up at the grating and personally flog you till you weep. This stops now, and as for who will be a sergeant, that is something I will decide.’

  Fellows was laughing in the background, his shoulders heaving with merriment. Markham walked up to him and, leaning over, stuck his nose less than half an inch from that of the naval officer.

  ‘You! The captain’s cabin, this minute.’

  Chapter three

  ‘Are you a milksop, sir?’ de Lisle sneered, shuffling the papers on his desk. The captain was clearly enjoying himself, half smiling, his head turning slightly to include the other two naval officers in his rebuke. ‘Men will fight, even Bullocks. Damn me if that’s not why we offer them the King’s shilling. You’re worse than I supposed, Markham, a stranger to that most necessary addition to an officer’s equipment, the blind eye.’

  ‘Sir, I …’

  Without a look in his direction, de Lisle cut right across his protest. ‘Silence! There’s a hierarchy below decks, man, which is just as real as that of the quarterdeck. You’re a stranger to it who shows no sign of willingness to learn. All of which makes the order I’m about to give you more appropriate.’

  Bowen, the premier, was grinning. Fellows, who should have been shaking in his shoes, had a blank, innocent look on his face. He’d been aware, before he’d even entered the great cabin, that de Lisle would not condemn his actions. Quite the reverse, his commanding officer approved. And by the tone of his voice, he was about to pay this upstart Bullock out for his damned cheek in interfering.

  Another slight shuffling of papers, designed to underline his importance, was necessary before de Lisle continued. ‘It seems that there’s great support for the Bourbons in Provence. Marseilles has sent delegates and so has Toulon. The admiral has decided to take possession of the naval base, and is demanding contributions to form a garrison.’ He finally looked up, unable to resist a sneer. ‘I was happy to inform his lordship that Hebe was in a position to dispense with its entire complement. You can go ashore, Markham, where you belong, and take that rabble you call your command with you.’

  ‘Including the Lobsters, sir?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Nothing went well. His soldiers were happy to be going ashore, the marines less so. And when it came to getting in the boats, it only served to widen their divisions. The men of the 65th had been seasick in the Channel, useless lubbers in the storms of the Bay of Biscay, a damned nuisance at Gibraltar and hopeless fighters in the Gulf of Loins. Here, off Toulon, in their attempts to go over the side with some dignity, they excelled themselves.

  The marines, led by Schutte, had got themselves into Hebe’s cutter before the sun rose. They’d then rowed to a position where they could observe the fun, before the men of the 65th emerged from below. As the other boats pulled alongside nearly every member of the crew had come on deck to witness the ineptitude of these lubbers.

  The rope ladder was the first obstacle. Hanging by the open gangway, it dropped from the side of the vessel, an arrangement of hemp that seemed imbued with a life of its own. Pressure exerted on one strand produced a corresponding movement in another, so that even if the man descending could stay upright, difficult in itself, he tended to be spun round to slam into the planking. Wet and slippery, the soldiers’ iron-shod boots produced an added handicap, as did the encumbrance of their equipment. The long Brown Bess muskets were the very devil, while the full infantry packs acted like dead weights.

  The first contingent were invited to board the jolly boat, the smallest conveyance on offer, a target that from the side of Hebe looked to be miles away. Two grinning tars, with boathooks, were there to assist. Encouraged to add to the fun, they took a savage delight in making matters worse. Every time a man looked like falling, they pushed off so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. This meant he landed in the sea. Then the boathooks, applied with no gentleness, could be used to fish him out.

  Markham’s order to remove their equipment improved matters, but only marginally. One or two managed it without difficulty, but most took an age to descend, spinning first, then slipping and dropping, emitting terrified yells. Every mistake produced a great belch of laughter from the assembled hands that de Lisle did nothing to inhibit. Finally the barge came alongside and, after it had taken on the last half-dozen soldiers, it was his turn.

  Concentrating on the task ahead he didn’t notice that Briggs had lashed Frobisher’s sea-chest to the whip along with his canvas sack. The bundle was lifted up and out, sat there for a moment before the men holding the line let go. The chest dropped like a stone, and the boatmen pushed off. They held the line just as they reached the water, and, to a gale of laughter, they were hooked and loaded into the boat.

  Markham realised the error just as he was turning to raise his hat in a salute to the quarterdeck. Not one of the officers responded, with a discourtesy so blatant it penetrated the thick skin he’d created to protect himself. Hurt, he could not speak. Turning quickly, he went over the side. The rope dipped under his
foot and he tried his other leg on the next strand. That sank and pushed inwards, which left him hanging, his back out over the sea. Slightly panicking, he grabbed at the first rung with his hand, which, stretching, only increased the angle. He felt it begin to spin, then heard the first cackle of the laughter that was sure to follow.

  Progress from that point was swift and terrifying, with Markham unsure of what rungs he hit or held, and how many he missed altogether. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the boathooks pressing against the side as the sailors pushed off. Fearing nothing more than an ignominious drop into the sea he jumped, landing on top of one of the tars. The man fell back into the thwarts, cushioning the fall, nearly capsizing the boat. Only the action of the other sailor saved everyone aboard from a drubbing, as he pulled hard on his hook to keep them level.

  Markham found himself staring into the pained eyes of the man he’d landed on, who looked as if he were about to tell him what he thought. There was nothing stagey about Markham’s Irish accent now. It had all the passion associated with his race.

  ‘One word, you stinking, pigtailed bag of shite, and I’ll ram every inch of that boathook right up your arse.’

  The hoots of merriment behind him were loud enough to carry to the whole fleet. In his fall, Markham had provided the icing on the cake of the day’s humour. Hebe’s whole side was lined with grinning faces, some so taken with the farce that they could hardly draw breath. Likewise the men in the other boats, soldiers, sailors and marines, were convulsed with laughter. Insult was added to injury by the way Bernard, a midshipman who looked about twelve years old, skipped down nimbly to take command of the small flotilla.