The first shock, when the party they were to transport returned aboard, was the sheer numbers. De Puy was not to be allowed any of his soldiers, but Monsignor Aramon saw no reason why he should forego any of his own comforts. He brought his servants, three sturdy clear-eyed men, and it seemed, all of his possessions. And that included his charge, the young lady to whom he stood as ‘guardian’.
She came aboard wearing a veil that hid her features, accompanied by an extensive wardrobe, a box containing a musical instrument and a young Negro maid who moved with stunning grace. Thus her face, which had only ever been glimpsed in a heavily shaded distance, remained a mystery to Markham and his men, a fact that had led to no end of speculation.
Germain hopped about from foot to foot, caught between his desire to question her presence, while at the same time seeking to appear gallant. He also had a deep need to impress this member of the opposite sex with a demonstration of his newly acquired authority, which led to a string of contradictory and useless orders. Aramon watched this with wry amusement, before condescending to offer an introduction.
‘Allow me to present to you, Captain Germain, Mademoiselle Ghislane Moulins. I am responsible for both her spiritual and physical well-being. As I shall not be returning to Corsica, she must, as I’m sure you understand, travel with me.’
The response, ‘Quite!’ was accompanied by a deep blush.
What followed was a continuation of the comedy. Talking about Aramon, Markham had passed on to Germain what he and his men suspected regarding the cleric’s domestic arrangements, which rendered the young lady in a certain light. But she was on his deck, having been introduced as a thoroughly respectable person. The young commander of the Syilphide didn’t quite know what to do, so that the bow was only half the depth he intended, while his voice, mouthing ‘charmed’ sounded decidedly gruff and carnal.
‘You will forgive me,’ he continued, almost stuttering. ‘I must be about my duties.’
‘If you will permit me, sir,’ said Markham. ‘I will see that the young lady is properly accommodated.’
The look that received spoke volumes. It was common gossip in the fleet that Markham was a gambler and a rake, a ne’er do well who had, just before joining his ship, fought and killed the husband of one of his lovers in a Finsbury Park duel. He was the very last person who should be left to care for a woman, one who, since she was still termed Mademoiselle, must be of tender years. Germain’s pinched expression at this invasion of his prerogative was matched by Aramon’s sharp rejoinder.
‘The lady has my own trusted servants, as well as Monsieur le Comte de Puy, to carry out that task, Lieutenant!’
‘Quite!’ Germain gasped, before finally scurrying away.
The master, Mr Conmorran, a portly and cheerful individual, stepped into the breach. He saw the servants and the luggage taken below and escorted Mademoiselle Moulins and her male companions to the main cabin. Then, after a long talk with Germain, they worked out a satisfactory arrangement regarding who would sleep where, a matter that involved a great deal of shifting about.
Germain was as good as his word. They were at sea before nightfall. The Syilphide’s crew had worked flat out during the remainder of the day to load the only thing the captured sloop was short on, powder to fire the cannon. Shot was less of a problem, its small calibre guns providing balls too light for the recent defence of the fortress.
Aramon and his charge were in one half of Germain’s cabin, while de Puy had to be given a berth in the tiny wardroom. Markham, not required like the midshipmen to stand a watch, offered to shift himself to a screened off cot on the main deck. The cleric then, without protest, abrogated to himself the right to the windward side of the deck without bothering to ask for permission. The young commander put this down to ignorance, a conclusion with which Markham could not agree.
Dinner, taken late to accommodate the guests, was a cramped affair, even with only five people around the table. Aramon’s servants and the Negro maid had been banished to the gunner’s quarters to take their meals, which had led to a long moan on ‘things not being right,’ from the man so burdened. It was, according to the warrant holder, bad enough with foreign types to contend with. But the addition of a female, and a black at that, who was ‘like to excite the hands’ was ‘coming it too high’.
Germain, not wishing to commence his commission on a sour note, had tried being emollient first. Jocularity was second and an appeal to camaraderie third. When that failed he finally lost his temper and sent the still grumbling gunner off with a flea in his ear.
It was in that harassed manner that he sat down to dinner. The night air was hot, enough to make anyone perspire, the scents Ghislane Moulins had applied filling the cabin air enough to disturb the men present. But Markham and Germain had the added burden of discovering that the young lady was, without her veil, a very pretty creature indeed.
Her skin was pale olive and flawless, with just a hint of that excess of flesh that goes with female youth, the eyes large dark brown orbs. She spoke little, revealing strong white teeth under full lips, and only really employed more than two consecutive words when Aramon addressed a question directly to her, the voice made to sound more thin and nervous by her guardian’s brusque, slightly hectoring tone.
Markham knew that any hint of gallantry on his part would be squashed, so, in that department, he left the field clear for Germain. That proved unwise. The young man proved totally incapable of even the rudiments of dalliance. When not boasting, any questions he posed to her were either rhetorical and short, or so long-winded as to be abstract in the extreme. He then launched into a long and tedious explanation of what training he had in mind for the ship’s crew, apologising in advance for the discomfort and the noise this would create. Designed to make the young lady feel relaxed, everything he attempted clearly had the opposite effect.
De Puy evoked greater curiosity. Markham knew about women. He liked and admired them, while well aware that his interest had often led him into trouble. He would have had a lot more if he hadn’t possessed the very necessary ability to assess how other men responded to their presence. The Frenchman rarely took his eyes off the young lady. And his expression, though admiring, also carried with it that extra tinge of gloom that Markham had witnessed whenever he returned for dinner with Aramon. His position, sitting to one side of her, made it more obvious to the observer than the subject. But her guardian must be aware of it too, even if the cleric showed no sign of having noticed.
Germain, finally aware that his pleasantries were falling on stony ground, instead began to interrogate the Monsignor. He had all the enthusiasm of his youth, and a hide thick enough to deflect Aramon’s evident annoyance at being subjected to constant questions. It was interesting to watch the youngster’s mind at work. He probed with what he considered to be deep artifice for some clue at to what it was the man was after. But he was up against a much more sophisticated opponent, who never let slip any detail that was not a deliberate leak designed to excite or tease.
But it was during that duel of wits that the young Ghislane showed the first hint of vitality. As Germain probed and Aramon fielded, her eyes darted between them, her lips occasionally pursing, he assumed at either the temerity of a question or the sharp response it received. Altogether such animation showed her in a more flattering light. It was some time before she noticed how closely the man opposite was watching her. She responded with a sniff of disapproval, and a glare, to the slight smile of interest on Markham’s face.
Aramon heard the sniff and followed the direction of the look. But George Markham was too experienced to be caught out. He was already gone, engaging de Puy in a discussion of how General Stuart had humbugged his fellow countrymen; of how d’Issillen must have felt at surrendering to so few, fever-ridden troops. Engaging him fully was hard work, since his attention kept wandering towards the young lady. But Markham stuck at it until the port had done the rounds and the dinner could reasonably end. His final task, before retiring for the night, was to check on the well being of his men, and to forewarn Rannoch of a busy day on the morrow.
On deck he paused, to let the heat and fug of the small cabin clear from his head. The night was clear, the sky a mass of stars, with the ship sailing easy on a gentle but steady breeze. It was simple to imagine that this was not a posting but a cruise, a privilege to be enjoyed by a wealthy man who had hired a yacht for his own amusement. There was even the remembered smell of a woman to go with the tang of the sea. Perfect to imagine, as long as you removed Aramon, Germain and de Puy from the reverie.
The Monsignor’s servants had also come up from below to escape the ’tween-deck heat. They sat on the forepeak in shirtsleeves, talking, shadow-boxing and occasionally laughing. Their shape, a uniform height and fitness, struck Markham as odd.
Servants normally came in varying sizes, short, tall, fat and thin. It was rare that they had any physical grace whatsoever, once you took them away from the place in which they were most comfortable, the house of their master. These men were different. But then Markham reasoned that they must serve a dual function to a wealthy travelling cleric, acting perhaps as bodyguards.
Reluctantly he went below, sensing immediately the warmth and odour of packed humanity, mixed with the smell of bilge. Ducking low at the bottom of the companionway, and entering on to the mess deck, Markham had the distinct impression that he was interrupting something. All serving men, of whatever kind, were adept at avoiding too much attention from officers. But normality in an encampment, or here in the cramped area that provided both living a sleeping accommodation to seamen and marines, entailed a certain amount of bustle.
In the small quantity of light provided by the ship’s lanterns, everyone appeared to be standing so still that Markham felt as if he was witnessing a tableau, as though they’d stopped dead as soon as someone had seen his legs descending the ladder.
‘Sergeant Rannoch?’ Markham called, peering into the gloom.
‘Here.’
Rannoch stepped forward, ducking below the crossbeams because of his height. He was, like nearly everyone else, stripped to the waist, his muscled torso gleaming with sweat, the pallid white of his body in sharp contrast to the bright red of his face and neck. Markham looked past him, observing that his men were bunched on one side of the deck, while the more numerous tars filled the other. More telling than that was the clear gap in between.
‘I came below to warn you that we are set for a busy day tomorrow. Mr Germain is keen to work up the crew, and I fear our exploits at Calvi so impressed him that he will certainly demand that we repeat our boarding exploits.’
‘It will be warm work, right enough.’
Markham was close to Rannoch now, and able to whisper so that only he could hear. ‘Is everything as it should be?’
Rannoch, when he replied, didn’t look him in the eye. The Highlander hated officers as a breed, and never failed to exchange an insolent stare with one in order that they should be aware if it. Having observed this, Markham took as a mark of respect that the man normally treated him with some deference.
He had, though, opined on more than one occasion, in a voice larded with irony, that this superior was such a poor specimen that he hardly rated the title. And Rannoch held on to certain habits so that mutual esteem was never sacrificed. For Markham to get an acknowledgement of his rank without there being present another officer, was like drawing teeth from a bad-tempered elephant.
But the Highlander brought the same passion to the care of those he led, and that, to Markham, forgave a great deal. They’d clashed on first meeting. But shared danger, and the knowledge that his superior was intent on keeping his men alive rather than getting them killed in pursuit of personal glory, had softened that to something that was more akin to friendship.
‘Apart for the heat, which is no good to man nor beast in the article of slumber.’
There had been some kind of dispute going on, of that Markham was certain. The whole mess deck reeked of it, a feeling of trouble so all pervasive as to be almost tangible. And no great wit was required to see where the lines were drawn.
‘Heat is not much good for short tempers, either.’
That did make Rannoch look him in the eye. But there was no deference or regard there, just a blank stare that was designed to tell him that what was happening was none of his business. Markham knew he should withdraw, turn a blind eye, to leave whatever was going on to the men concerned. But he couldn’t help himself, seeing that his Lobsters were outnumbered by at least three to one, and that was without the presence of the watch on duty.
‘Captain Germain strikes me as a bit of a flogger. He is also keen to see how we all perform. So he’ll want to see all his men, Lobsters and tars, fit and well, ready for duty, as soon as he’s downed his breakfast.’
‘That is his right,’ said Rannoch formally.
‘Then let us not disappoint him. It would be a shame to start the opening day of his first independent cruise with some poor creature rigged to the grating.’
Markham had taken one step up the companionway as he said this, which allowed him to look over Rannoch’s shoulder. His eyes flicked to the item each man was carrying, a chain here, a mess kid there, and one or two with half-knotted ropes; innocent enough if you didn’t anticipate trouble. His own men were very close to their muskets, and he had to hope they would get the message as he deliberately addressed the sailors.
‘But he’ll flog every man jack of you if he has to, even if the man who heads your division pleads your case. He has guests aboard and will not stand to be embarrassed.’
That pleading part only made sense if you accepted his presence. He was telling the sailors that he had seen and understood what was happening; that any mark on one of his own men would lead to an enquiry, one in which he would be bound take the side of those he led. It wasn’t the commander who would see them flogged, but him. Some shoulders slumped, a release of tension that spread rapidly, and to avoid his stare men began to shuffle around. He was tempted to take Rannoch up with him, to read him the riot act and cap a stopper on any trouble. But that might undermine the man. He had no way of knowing for certain whether his sergeant had been just about to start a fight, or just about to stop one.
‘Sleep,’ he said loudly, ‘and that is an order.’
Rannoch nodded, and then turned away. ‘You heard what the good lieutenant said. Get your heads down.’
Later, lying in his cot, Markham ruminated over that, as well as the events of the day. And much as he tried to avoid it, on his past, which intruded constantly. The image of Ghislane Moulins was at the forefront of his consciousness, though it inevitably faded into a more distant vision, to that of the first girl he’d ever paid court to.
He always had to shut his eyes tight then, to blur out the way his imagination led him to her death, the flames that had consumed Flora Imrie and her family inevitably mixed with the sound on fury of the battle he’d left in an attempt to save them.
Had Germain asked for him personally because, even to someone bearing his name, George Markham had a worse reputation? The more he nagged at that thought the more annoyed he became. He’d been branded a coward at the Battle of Guilford. Lord George Germain had been called the same at the Battle of Minden, and for much the same reason; leaving the field.
Yet there was difference. George Markham had been a fifteen-year-old ensign, Germain the commander of the King’s cavalry. He had faced a court martial, which had acquitted him; Germain had escaped even that, and carried on a political career, merely taking the title Lord Sackville, as if nothing untoward had happened.
There was no escaping the past though, and his own reaction to his new commander’s surname proved it. The Markham name had stood proud before he’d besmirched it, with a father who’d risen from humble soldier to full general. He’d been elevated initially for his outstanding bravery at the siege of Cartagena, and from that famous siege had accumulated enough money to purchase his way up the promotion ladder.
Yet the old man had kept a firm grip on the common touch, and had never allowed neighbourly disapproval, a potent force in the Wexford military district he commanded, to stop him acknowledging his bastard son. Nor had he paid the slightest heed to the wagging tongues of the local Catholics, making a point of visiting the boy’s mother on a regular basis, and acting, within the walls of her house, as if they were a normal family.
He’d been appointed Governor of New York during the American war, and it was his influence that had gained illegitimate George his commission. It was only later the youngster discovered that the Colonel of the 65th foot had owed General Markham a good deal of money. Still he was in the army, with a promising future that all went to pieces in the forests of Carolina. His father had arranged his court martial as well, which was why no one took the acquittal seriously.
So, would future Markhams carry the stigma of his name in the same way as Germain? Would there be young Markhams to worry about? That thought led to a review of the possibilities, each woman he’d made love to, and those with whom he’d failed, appearing in a whirring catalogue of faces and bodies, dressed and naked, which brought him right back to Ghislane Moulins.
‘You keep your pego in your breeches, Georgie,’ he said quietly to himself, one hand running across the prominent bones on his face, fingers rubbing at the numerous scars.
His thoughts were at odds with his whispered admonition. She was a pretty creature. And he, if not quite classically handsome himself, knew that he had good-enough looks and the wit to interest most women. ‘Sure, she’s only a bairn,’ was the last thought he had, as he drifted into sleep.
Though still hot in the morning, there was at sea a breeze to keep them from frying, though it was not one, as Germain explained, to favour a swift passage to the French coast. Aramon, who had come on deck early, while it was still being swabbed, looked pointedly at the sun over the larboard rail, as if to say he new they were sailing south, not north. With a new crew on an unfamiliar ship, and plenty to keep them occupied, Germain had a good excuse to avoid further explanation by demanding that his guests stay clear of the deck. He was, he explained, a modern young officer, who believed in training his men for every eventuality.
So, as Aramon and his party sweltered below decks, there were mock alarms, with the drums beating to quarters twice in every watch. The guns were loosed, hauled out and fired in dumb show, the expense of powder to actually shoot at targets beyond the captain’s means.
‘One prize will see to that, Markham,’ he cried, as his men piled into the cutter for the fourth time. ‘A decent merchantman will provide either the means or the money. And if I can’t lay alongside an enemy ship, I know the value of your Lobsters when it comes to boarding from a boat.’
Markham’s men, without the presence of their officer, practised that too. An opposed boarding followed the swift entry to the cutter, with half the crew using padded capstan bars and marlin to fend off the mock attackers. Their officer watched them carefully, keeping in mind the events of last night, as well as Germain’s supposition; that asked to cull the crew of one fighting ship to man the new captures, few captains would strip out their best men.
He was half convinced that some of those who fought most heartily in a rehearsal would prove the most shy in a real action. They were also the type to cause most of the ’tween decks trouble. Germain, he noticed, watched with as much care, constantly turning to the junior midshipman, Booker, requiring him to make a note in the ledger he carried.
There was animosity between the Lobsters and tars on any ship, and any given chance to clip each other round the ear without fear of punishment was never one to be passed up. But what Markham saw here was an excessive dimension to the dislike, an extra effort in each blow that stood as a determined attempt to make a point. After a few rehearsals it wasn’t hard to see that Bellamy was the main target of the sailors, while his own men made great efforts to get between the Negro and those who were clearly after him.
His own ineptitude was more to blame for the blows he did receive, rather than any failure by the rest of the Lobsters. Being late in boarding, he left himself isolated. When required to re-enter the cutter for another attempt, he was always last to the rail. This, on one occasion, when the tars thought no one was looking, earned Bellamy a vicious jab from a pike that send him flying over the side. Only Rannoch’s strength and speed saved him from landing headfirst. The laugh that followed, rippling across the deck, must have wounded the Negro more than anything. He was a proud individual, too much so for his own well being, and humiliation was the one thing he couldn’t stand.
But he was far from being a good fighter, lacking that instinct that can turn even the most passive soul into an animal. Markham knew that self-preservation was where it started. But in a professional fighter it went on from that, to become a feeling of pride in ability for its own sake, a cold-blooded determination that in a scrap, it was the other man who would die, not you.
He couldn’t interfere, but Markham was angry. He’d managed to isolate the four main culprits who made it their business to go after Bellamy, often passing up on an easier target in the process. His request that he partake of the next boarding was readily agreed to, and wrapping canvas around his sword, he dropped down into the cutter, his eyes meeting those of Rannoch as the sailors rowing the boat pulled away from the side. The Highlander gave him a slow smile, then addressed the Lobsters.
‘We will be required to perform to perfection with Mr Markham aboard, lads. It would be a hellish thing to do, to let him down. So go aboard with right good intent, and let us drive those sodomitical tars from their own deck.’
Rannoch’s eyes flicked along those sailors rowing the cutter, as if challenging them to disagree, before alighting on those of his officer. Then he winked.
‘Look sharp this time, Bellamy,’ Rannoch said.
Markham gave the order to close with the Syilphide then took a tight grip on his sword. The blade he would use flat, but the guard was just the thing to aid a punch. As the boat struck, he was the first up the side. The tars were shy of trying too hard to stop an officer, which allowed him get on to the deck with ease. He knew what he was about as he plunged into the sailors, shoving aside several as he made for those awaiting the arrival of Bellamy. The Negro was barely out of the boat, aware that four pairs of eyes were on him, and anticipating the blows that would be coming his way.
Markham’s sword took the back marker right across the crown of his head, felling him immediately. Then he was amongst them, cursing and swearing as he slashed right and left to break up their formation. One got the guard right under the nose, he was poleaxed in a spraying cloud of blood; the third, dropping low to jab at his belly, got Markham’s boot right on the chin. The last man swung his pike, and did make contact, though the officer fell more in expectation of the blow than any strength it had. As he hit the deck, Markham swung a leg that took the pikeman’s feet from under him. He was upright in a flash, the canvas tipped point of his blade pressed on the sailor’s neck.
‘Single out one of my men again, and the next time you see this, you bastard, it will be naked steel.’
‘My god, Markham, you’re a scrapper,’ called Germain. ‘Play-acting is clearly not your forte after all. You must have a care, sir. I cannot afford to have men on the sick list.’
He held the blade where it was, as he replied, his chest heaving from his exertions. ‘I have had the good fortune to mix with theatre people, sir. And they are all of the opinion that only total belief in the part will sustain a performance.’
The voice dropped as he said his parting words to the recumbent sailor. ‘And I’ll act on you so well, you’ll be lucky to have limbs enough to warrant a berth in Greenwich Hospital.’
Markham spun away, and as he did so he saw Bellamy, well to the rear of his fellow Lobsters, dancing around disengaged, jabbing with his musket at the fresh air, pretending to look for a target while actually avoiding contact, which made him wonder if his intervention had been worthwhile.
‘Belay!’ shouted Germain. ‘That was the best yet, all of you. But it is time for a rest. Mr Booker, you may tell the bosun to pipe the hands to dinner.’
The officer’s dinner not yet being ready, de Puy was allowed on deck for fencing practice, and since that freed the poop, Germain invited the rest of Aramon’s party to take the air. Given that the Monsignor was unhappy about their course, there was little actual conversation. He stood his servants around him, taking a keen interest in the techniques being displayed.
They ceased when dinner was called. Germain excused himself with the need to consult with the master, so taking his meal in Conmorran’s tiny deck cabin. The following day it was his midshipmen. Clearly he had no intention of engaging in more communal dinners where he would be bound to face questions about his intentions.
And he kept everyone alert. He did this by creating alarms, pretending either the threat of an attack or a sudden change of course and sail. His aim seemed to be to exhaust everyone aboard, sailors and passengers, since, with half of these taking place during the hours of darkness, no one could sleep through the noise and commotion of the ship clearing for action.
But it had to be said he did not spare himself. Finally, after four days, a red-eyed Master and Commander pronounced himself satisfied, tinkered with the watches to balance his crew, then called Aramon on deck. There the cleric was required to witness his turn to the north, the prow set for the coast of France, his yards almost fore and aft to take advantage of the quartering west wind.
‘She’s a handsome sailer. Don’t you reckon, Markham?’
‘Very good on a bowline,’ Markham replied, using an expression he’d heard aboard another vessel.
‘Well spotted, sir,’ Germain cried. ‘It’s not often a Lobster appreciates how close a ship can carry the wind. My Syilphide will still hold it eleven points free. What do you say to that, sir!’
Markham had very little idea of what the youngster was talking about. But he knew how naval officers felt about their ships. They spoke of them as a man might talk of a chaste and beautiful wife, even if the creature in question was a toothless, whey-faced wanton. Germain was no different. He would be blind to any fault in his new command. At least he seemed to be satisfied with the single word Markham employed.
‘Amazing!’
‘We will be well to the north of Cap Corse before the first dog watch. Then we must keep our eyes peeled, for it is there, between Marseilles and the Italian states that we might pick up a prize.’
‘I think a day’s rest might be in order, sir.’
‘I daresay you have the right of it, Markham. I am puffed myself from our exertions. We shall have a capital dinner tonight, and an uninterrupted night’s sleep.’
The voice, sounding disembodied, floated down from aloft. ‘Sail, capt’n, fine on the larboard bow.’