The weeks of bombardment, under a blazing summer sun had accustomed everyone to the boom of the cannon. So when the unexpected truce was called at noon the silence seemed unnatural. Despite the daily battering the walls of Calvi, the last French fortress in Corsica had not been breached. Yet artillery seemed the only way to break the defence.
Attempts at sapping across the narrow neck of rocky ground that separated the fortress from the main island had proved fruitless. Without an open breach into the town, crossing that narrow isthmus would impose a heavy a toll on the assaulting British soldiers. But in the face of determined opposition it might have to be attempted, the point from where the attack would commence just in front of the gun emplacements.
Lieutenant George Markham was, like the rest of his marine detachment, trying to find some shade behind the high sandbagged rampart of the Royal Louis Battery. Placed on a hilltop, and with the sun so high, it wasn’t easy. The defenders had suffered less than their enemy from the month-long siege, though the artillerymen at this point, French royalists from Toulon, had inflicted great damage.
Yet with a fleur-de-lis flag standing proudly over their heads to attract counter battery fire, they’d sustained almost as much in return. And the fear that the defenders would sortie out to remove the studied insult of that flag had led to the deployment of these Lobsters to defend the position. Yet nothing like that had occurred, leaving the battle, until an hour before, looking very much like a stalemate.
The beat of the drum made Markham stand up. Crouched in the shade it had been hot. But the strength of the Corsican sun doubled that, seeming to scorch his skin through his scarlet coat, and to add a ton weight to the black broad-brimmed hat he’d adopted for the climate. Below he could see the two parties moving towards each other, one under the Union Flag, the other under a Tricolour.
Did those French negotiators have any notion of how depleted the besiegers had become? General Sir Charles Stuart, with the aid of Commodore Horatio Nelson, had landed two thousand troops two months before, only to find them assailed by every known disease as the siege wore on, until they could only muster half their total strength. And that was a situation deteriorating each day, as dysentery, typhoid fever and malaria took their toll.
Appeals to the Corsicans for the kind of help they’d previously provided had foundered on the endless inter-tribal warfare that seemed such a feature of island politics. The enemy, in that near formidable fortress, even if they laboured under furious bombardment, had shade and clean water. More importantly, they’d not previously been bivouacked in the swamps around Bastia, which had exposed the British soldiers to noxious vapours and hordes of biting insects.
‘It is pleasant, without risking a wound, to be able to observe some of the effect of our shot, Lieutenant.’
Markham turned to look at the Comte de Puy, the captain who commanded the Royalist artillery. He was a slim, elegant man, of a rather melancholy disposition who, even under these torrid conditions, with not a breath of cooling wind, seemed not to perspire. He went so far in his sartorial maintenance that he wore a powdered wig underneath his lace-edged hat. And the white coat was as clean as his excellent linen. George Markham tried hard to keep himself smart. But in de Puy’s presence, he generally felt like some kind of vagabond.
‘They’ve rebuilt every stone we’ve dislodged, monsieur, more than once.’
‘Yet the scars show, Lieutenant.’
He was right, of course. New mortar and hastily laid fresh stone lined the upper parapets. The defenders of Calvi were surrounded, and each face of the fortress, barring that which looked out to the deep blue sea, looked just as bruised. The repairs would not withstand too much in the way of pounding. But they were in the wrong places; high on the ramparts that held the French cannon. The besiegers had missed the vital spot, that weakness in the defences which, once broken, could not be swiftly reconstituted, the gap that would provide the breach infantrymen needed to effect entry to the citadel.
‘The truce has been accepted?’
Both men turned to face the bemused newcomer, Markham noticing fleetingly the looks of resentment flashing across the faces of his men. Monsignor Aramon was heartily disliked by his Lobsters, first for his arrogance, and secondly for his refusal to allow them the use of the nearby church as a place of shade and shelter.
The Basilica of the Madonna stood on the highest hill overlooking Calvi, and dominated the approach to the causeway. It was thick-walled and cool inside, standing above a spring that provided sweet cold water. Aramon, in typical priestly fashion, had denied it to the soldiers, on the ground that to use a sacred place as a military billet would defile it. The notion that as British marines they were heathens might be unspoken, but the Monsignor managed to convey it nonetheless.
At the same time he denied himself nothing. Aramon exuded comfort and well being, that smoothness which comes to a man who has not, for years, suffered any kind of real discomfort. He travelled with a retinue of three strapping servants, and a young lady that everyone supposed was his mistress, even if Aramon called himself her guardian. They, and the string of mules used to carry his possessions, had occupied a manor house on the lower slopes of the hill, well away from any chance of being upset by a stray French shell.
If the Monsignor depressed Markham and his Lobsters, that was nothing to the effect he had on the French captain. De Puy was regularly invited to dine, and always returned from such repasts in a silent, introspective mood. He was gloomy now as he responded to the Monsignor’s question.
‘It is a little less clear than that. It seems the French suggested this meeting, not General Stuart.’
‘Then it is a trick,’ Aramon spat.
Dark skinned, with heavy-lidded eyes and well-defined black eyebrows, he had no trouble appearing angry. In fact that was one of the two abiding traits he seemed determined to present to a world perceived as hostile.
‘Why offer to treat when they have just declined General Stuart’s offer of honourable surrender.’
Markham couldn’t resist a jibe, given the way Aramon was forever castigating all supporters of the French Revolution as the spawn of the devil, from Robespierre and his godless Jacobins, right down to the defenders of Calvi.
‘Perhaps they’ve had a revelation, Monsignor Aramon. And seen the light.’
That earned Markham a hearty dose of the second of Aramon’s habitual expressions, wounded piety. ‘It does you no good to mock, Lieutenant. A session in the confessional might be of more benefit to such a damaged soul.’
Markham didn’t hold the clergyman’s gaze, since he suspected the dark brown eyes had the ability to see into his innermost self. Did he somehow know that George Markham, the illegitimate son of a Protestant general, had been raised in a Catholic household? Had he in some way betrayed a secret he never referred to by some inadvertent gesture. De Puy covered his momentary confusion by seeking to explain to the Monsignor the particular rules that governed proper warfare.
Markham listened, wondering what it was that connected this pair. De Puy was not, by trade, an artilleryman. He was from one of the best of the Bourbon cavalry regiments. Serving in Toulon, he’d been evacuated with the British fleet. These gunners, also evacuees, had lacked an officer, and de Puy had taken on that role, relying heavily on his sergeant, who knew so much more than he did, to work the guns. Aramon had arrived when the siege was under way, just before the Lobsters had taken up their posting, and Markham had the distinct impression that he had deliberately sought out de Puy.
It was while he was speaking that the horseman detached himself from General Stuart’s party, and rode back towards the nearest gun position. Whatever message he imparted to the gunners produced a ragged cheer, one that was taken up as the news was passed from battery to battery. It arrived at the Royal Louis Battery in due course, the increasing sound having brought all of Markham’s men to their feet.
‘Fifteen days without succour,’ came the cry. The rasping sound that the men on the position emitted, both French and British, owed as much to thirst as to joy.
‘Explain!’ barked Aramon, to a clearly delighted de Puy.
That brought a hint of blood to the Royalist officer’s pallid cheeks, an acknowledgement that he was not accustomed to being addressed in such a fashion. But either out of deference to the cloth, a fear of damnation, or just good manners he responded calmly.
‘It means that the enemy cannot sustain the defence.’
Markham could see de Puy biting his lip slightly to contain himself, and prayed that the polite veneer would crack, and that the cavalryman would give this nosy, interfering cleric a piece of his mind. Disappointingly, it didn’t.
‘That, Monsignor Aramon, they will not impart to us. It could be many things. A pestilence, just a lack of defenders, the consternation of being unable to repair the walls, or a shortage of food or ammunition.’
‘Or it could be that God has struck fear into their hearts.’
‘It could be,’ de Puy replied, in a weary tone of voice that showed just how much he valued that notion. ‘What is certain is this. That if in the next two weeks the defenders do not receive any outside assistance, unlikely in a sea so well patrolled by the British navy, then they will lay down their arms and evacuate Calvi.’
‘Do I have your permission to leave the battery, Monsieur le Comte?’ The Frenchman turned to face Markham. ‘With my men, of course.’
‘You will leave the place undefended,’ protested Aramon. ‘Might I remind you that my residence is no more than a few hundred metres from this very spot.’
That interference finally cracked de Puy’s carefully controlled demeanour. He positively snapped at Aramon. ‘There are certain matters that are the province of the church, Monsignor. But this is not one of them.’
‘It’s much cooler down by the shore, Monsieur,’ Markham continued hastily, cutting off Aramon’s irate response. ‘And my men can get out of their uniforms and perhaps bathe in the sea.’
De Puy pointedly ignored the grunt from the priest as he surveyed the scene beneath their position. Out on the causeway, the talking continued, a civilised discussion, with the parties now seated, their conversations aided by the provision from both sides of food and wine. On the lower batteries, gunners, soldiers and sailors, who until now had never raised an eyebrow above the parapets for fear of shot, were standing on the sandbags waving and dancing.
‘The enemy will not break the truce without prior notice,’ Markham insisted.
‘You would trust those apostates? Men with no soul who have denied God!’
De Puy, to whom this outburst was aimed, threw a quick glance at Aramon, a slightly defiant look in his eye, before answering Markham.
‘They will give us at least twelve hours notice before renewing hostilities. Besides, we would know well before that if any ships had got through. Therefore your request is granted.’
‘Sergeant Rannoch,’ Markham called. ‘Get the men ready to move down to the shore.’
He turned as he said this, aware of the looks, part pleasure, part anxiety on the faces of his dozen Lobsters. Like marines everywhere, they saw any change in circumstances as some kind of threat, as well as a possible opportunity for relief.
Not Rannoch! His bright red face was creased by a huge grin that showed clearly the places where the unrelenting heat had cracked his lips. Huge of frame, with his hair bleached near white by the sun, he looked more than ever like a Viking. And even with a bone-dry throat, his voice was strong as he called on the men to fall in.
‘Light order, sergeant,’ Markham continued. ‘We’ll leave our packs here.’
‘Does that mean we’re coming back,’ asked Corporal Halsey, in a dispirited tone.
Markham smiled at the old marine, grey haired and the daddy of his unit, normally the steadiest of men. If he moaned, it didn’t take a genius to guess what the others thought of this posting. That thought nagged at him constantly, that feeling he could never quite rid himself of, that his command of these men was some mistake. The differences were less obvious now. But it surfaced occasionally that half of his men were soldiers rather than proper marines. Markham turned to salute de Puy. But the motion to raise his hat died when he noticed the look of near despair on the Frenchman’s face, as he listened to the whispered lecture he was receiving from Aramon.
If anything it was hotter on the heavily wooded slopes than it had been on the top of the hill, a sticky heat that not even shade could lessen. But by the time they reached the shoreline it was late afternoon. With the intensity gone out of the sun they were blessed by the beginnings of a northerly breeze, one that was cooled by its proximity to the water. The beach was piled with stores, and littered with tents, the fascines which had been used to haul up the guns running from the edge of the water to the thick scrub that covered the lower parts of the hills. There in the shade lay butts full of lukewarm water, from which everyone drank greedily.
News of the truce had preceded them, creating a carnival atmosphere. Yet Markham was amazed at how few of the Army officers had followed his example and brought their men to the shore to cool off. Rannoch, having ensured that the men stood their muskets correctly, was quick to get his coat and boots off then wade into the water, there to join both officer and men as they splashed about wildly.
Only one marine didn’t partake. Eboluh Bellamy, being a Negro, scoffed at the heat that so affected his fellow marines. And he had an abiding fear of anything other than fresh water, convinced from his Caribbean upbringing that every shark in the world would foregather as soon as he chanced a toe.
Markham swam out, away from his men. None of them would willingly venture into a depth that barred their feet from touching the bottom, even the pair that could stay afloat in water. After weeks of being mewed up in close proximity, the solitude was, in itself, welcome. Occasionally he dived as far as he could, feeling the temperature cool as he went deeper, sucking the heat from a body that seemed to have been boiling for weeks.
Returning to the surface for the fifth time, he saw the dark shape of the approaching boat through the clear water. Markham hauled sideways to take himself away from the arc of the oars. His head, bobbing out of the water, brought forth a startled cry from the thwarts and a hasty command to boat oars, that followed by a laugh as the Captain being transported ashore recognised the soaking apparition.
‘Damn me, Markham, you frightened young Mr Hoste here half to death.’
Recognition of the voice helped, since Nelson had a bandage covering one half of his face. Markham knew he’d suffered a wound, hardly surprising since the man was never far from the action. But he’d heard that it was slight. The bandage made him wonder if that information had been disseminated to keep up morale. The midshipman in charge of the boat looked even worse, the yellowish tinge to his skin an indication that he was exceedingly ill.
‘I trust I find you well, sir?’ Markham replied, treading water until the absurd formality of the remark, more suited to a drawing room, made him duck his head under the surface.
‘You find me alarmed, man,’ Nelson replied when he resurfaced. ‘I am all for a sail over the side to cool the hands, but this larking about in ten-fathom water is hazardous.’
‘How is the eye?’ the swimmer asked, too bored by constant repetition to explain the benefits of deep-sea swimming.
‘It does nicely, Markham, and I’m obliged by your concern. Don’t be fooled by this swaddling cloth. My surgeon insisted I wear it to keep out the glare from the sun on the water. I shall whip it off ashore.’
Nelson smiled, and even with his face half bandaged it had real warmth. ‘Can we offer you rescue from the wiles of Neptune.’
‘Thank you sir, no. I shall return the way I came.’
‘Then you must have gills, sir,’ Nelson replied, looking towards the shoreline and squinting through his good eye. ‘And you must scarce be human. Haul away Mr Hoste, lest we be beaten to the beach by this amphibian.’
The whey-faced youngster gave the order in a weak voice, which earned him a concerned look from his captain. But Nelson said nothing as the barge began to gather speed, the swimmer trailing in its wake. Vaguely, as he swam, Markham was aware that the barge had grounded, and that Nelson had set off up the beach with a small party to escort him.
Markham stood up as his feet found the bottom, his first glance aimed towards his own men, all standing soaking wet to take full advantage of the evening breeze. Then his eye was drawn by a slight commotion near Nelson’s barge, with several fingers pointing to a spot behind his head. Turning, Markham saw the flags streaming from the masthead of Agamemnon, obviously conveying to those on the shore an important message. Whatever it was, it was a complete mystery to a man who’d only become a Lieutenant of Marines by the merest fluke.
One of the Agamemnons waded out towards him, his request that he come by the barge jumbled in his excitement. Markham obliged, to find the midshipman called Hoste sat on the counter, bent over. The youngster roused himself, the strain on his yellowing face ample evidence of how much effort that required.
‘You have seen the signal, Lieutenant Markham?’
‘I have,’ Markham replied, without adding that it meant nothing to him.
‘Then you will appreciate the gravity of the situation, given the nature of the truce the French had agreed.’
The simplest thing would have been to say no, to admit that all flags of whatever arrangement were incomprehensible. He knew that was probably true of half the officers in the navy as well, since few he’d met sought out the duties of reading signals. But he couldn’t do it, since to publicly admit his ignorance would only underline his unfitness for his post. And it would be a tale to spread, another potential insult to add to those he knew were already whispered, behind his back, by men who despised him.
‘Is it so grave?’ he replied, temporising.
‘Of course it is, sir,’ the boy gasped.
In his eye, Markham could see that look. The shame of his past was no secret to any British officer, army or navy, serving in the Mediterranean. The prominence of his actions, well received as they should have been, had only brought attention upon his chequered history. The least emotion he felt his presence engendered was resentment. But in some cases it was upped to actual hatred by officers who considered it demeaning to serve alongside a known coward.
‘If those ships get unscathed into Calvi harbour, then the truce will cease to hold.’
‘Ships!’ Markham expostulated, managing to make it sound like a statement instead of a question.
‘Without succour,’ Hoste replied, trying to haul himself to his feet. In this he had to be aided by two pigtailed sailors, who made no attempt in their glares to hide how much they blamed Markham for the boy’s condition. ‘That is what the truce says. Those three small vessels are succour, sir, and we do not know any more about what they carry than we do about what the defenders of Calvi lack.’
No genius was required to deduce what young Hoste was implying. General Stuart had asked the French to accept terms from the weakness of his own position, not theirs. It was, in fact, a bluff. Illness was decimating his numbers daily, and if the siege continued, he would soon be forced to raise it for lack of men to even properly man his guns. Markham and his men had been lucky, posted high above the malodorous macchia that some of the other batteries had occupied. And even if they’d had to fetch it in cow-skin bags, they’d had access to the clean water from the church well.
‘You will observe, sir, that the breeze is northerly,’ Hoste continued, ‘so that even if our ships get under way they will have to beat up into the wind. I fear we will not close the gap in time.’
‘Commodore Nelson.’
‘Is right up at the siegeworks, sir,’ Hoste gasped, rubbing a hand across his sweating brow. He patently thought Markham was prevaricating. ‘We have no time to consult him or the officers aboard Agamemnon. We must seize the moment and act ourselves. You have the marines, and I have the sailors to get them to where they can have an effect.’
‘A boat attack?’
Markham hadn’t meant to sound surprised.
‘It is a tricky notion in open water,’ Hoste agreed, a weak hand rubbing his sweating brow. ‘But perhaps if we can put a volley of musketry across their decks they will turn away.’
‘And if they don’t?’
‘Then we must board them.’
‘You, young sir, will do no such thing.’
‘I …’
Hoste got no further, his feeble protest cut off by Markham’s bellow to his sergeant. Rannoch didn’t even move to enquire what was afoot. He merely yelled in turn at the men to get their coats on and their muskets off the stand, before leading them at a run towards a boat already floating into the water.
‘Mr Hoste, try to get a message to the Commodore, but under no circumstances are you to attempt to deliver it yourself.’
‘I must come with you, sir, to steer the boat.’
That was sophistry of a high order, since there were ample sailors available to man the tiller.
‘I freely admit to being a nautical novice, Mr Hoste, but even I can point a boat northwards so close to the shore.’ Markham didn’t like saying what came next, but it was necessary to stop a brave young man who would not admit that in the boat he would be no more than a liability. ‘I am giving you an order, which you will disobey at your peril.’
The weakness of the ‘sir’ was heartrending. But Markham couldn’t indulge in sentiment, he didn’t have time. His men had piled into the boat, joining an equal number of sailors, and he had to run out into the water to catch up. It was only then he realised he himself had neither coat nor weapons. And it was doubly galling to see the grin on the black gleaming face of Eboluh Bellamy as he handed them to him.
‘As Patroclus armed Achilles,’ the Negro said, his refined voice adding an extra degree of impertinence to the classical Homeric allusion, ‘I am here to arm you.’
‘Row!’ he barked at the sailors, the Irish accent made strong by passion and resentment, ‘as if we are faced by the hobs of hell.’