Converting a merchant ship to fight proved to have one major drawback. It was not equipped to defend itself either to the front or the rear, an obvious vulnerability that Germain should have exploited from the very first. His anger at that opening broadside had obviously blinded him. But the enemy had, inadvertently, forced him into taking a second chance. There were no stern chaser cannon and the square construction of the hull made it impossible for the deck guns to bear.
Faced with only inaccurate musket fire over the taffrail, Syilphide could edge right in so that the cannon did maximum damage. Markham, no longer exposed to a full broadside with grapeshot, had gathered his marines amidships and had them firing volleys to clear the defenders from the taffrail. All they needed now was a point of entry, which had to be through the cabin area, the casements of which were covered by sections of heavy oak, elaborately carved with smiling cupids and dancing nymphs. It also told them the ship’s name was Massime and that its home port was Marseilles.
Germain was firing at near point-blank range. Even so the deadlights cracked but didn’t shatter. It took three full salvoes to effect the first breech. Then every gun had to be aimed into that spot to finally open up an avenue which Markham and his Lobsters could exploit.
That was still something easier to contemplate than to achieve. There were bound to be defenders waiting on the lower deck to stop them. They would move into position as soon as Germain stopped plying his guns. Markham yelled to him for another salvo as he moved his men into position, crammed in two groups between a pair of six-pounder cannon. The request produced no more than a blank stare of incomprehension. But the gun captains nearby had carried out the reloading procedure without orders, so that they were ready to oblige.
No one waited for orders from the quarterdeck. They took the command straight from the marine officer, and though grape would have been better, they put half-a-dozen balls into the cabin, that followed by a heart-warming sound of splintering wood, shattering glass and several human screams.
Markham was first through the narrow gap, losing his hat right away, with his coat snagged on the sharp-edged timbers. Coming out of searing sunlight into near darkness, he felt utterly helpless, so he fired off his pistol as a precaution before he finally manoeuvred his body into the shattered cabin. This was another feature different on a merchant vessel. In a warship there would have been no impediments to stop either defender or attacker, nothing but a clean sweep fore and aft.
That, once the deadlights had been breached, would have exposed those on the lower deck to a murderous fire, as the cannonballs ripped from one end of the ship to the other. But here, as well as broken window frames and a carpet of glass, there was furniture, though it had been pulped by the gunfire. Also, on the far side, stood the remains of the bulkhead that had separated the captain’s day cabin from his sleeping quarters and those of his servants.
There were bodies too, the crumpled forms of men who had been sent into the cabin when they should have stayed outside. Perhaps they had been caught by that last, extra salvo that Markham had called for. It made no difference, he was just grateful, since it gave him a chance to form up his men in some kind of order before they became engaged. Rannoch was hauling the last of them through the gap, cursing at them roundly in a mixture of English and his Highland Gaelic, ordering those already through to fix bayonets and form a proper line.
Markham knew his job. There would be no rushing forward. Instead they must advance steadily, and hold off any challenge, so that Germain and his sailors could follow them through and provide sufficient numbers for an assault on the upper deck. On Syilphide they’d aim the guns high, to fire up through the stern-deck planking and keep it clear.
Musketry, with precious little time to reload, might consist of one salvo, which would need to be timed to perfection to achieve the maximum result. The Syilphides were still outnumbered. The only hope they had of success was sheer brio: to inflict such casualties on their enemy with the bayonet, cutlass and pike that the remainder would give way for fear of their lives.
A lack of discipline in the defence helped considerably. A commander in proper control of his men would have avoided close action, and instead set up a line of muskets to keep a clear space between the attackers and his crew, decimating the British assault every time they tried to advance. Clearly they lacked a file of marines to employ the method Markham would have used if the positions had been reversed.
Close-quarter fighting in a confined space favoured Markham’s men, as was proved as soon as the defenders tried to engage. They couldn’t bring their superior numbers to bear. The line of marines, with Markham at one end and Rannoch at the other, formed a solid wall of advancing bayonets. And the enemy, even if they had much longer pikes and boat hooks, were up against men well trained in mutual support, as well as the art of parry and thrust with Brown Bess and bayonet.
The first impediment to this steady forward progress was the shattered bulkhead that stood between the cabins and the main-deck. Some of the panelling remained intact, while other sections had been blown apart. The French stood on one side, and his marines on the other. Markham accepted a halt, content to hold the cabin till the Syilphides could build up their strength. They, with Germain and young Fletcher at their head, were crowding in behind him, over thirty determined sailors, with their blood up, aching to be at the enemy, frustrated by the marines standing foursquare in their path.
Some form of order was a priority; otherwise his own men would be jostled forward. But to assert control in a crowded cabin, with everyone shouting at once, was impossible. The two naval officers were trying in vain to hold their men back, each one they stopped matched by another who slipped through, every shout they delivered answered by an angry curse. Even that collective bellowing was drowned by a salvo from Syilphide, not only the crash of the guns, but the wrenching of timbers being torn apart by metal right above their heads. Only by furious pushing and shoving could Markham split his men, trying to get them to form some sort of funnel through which the sailors pressing at their backs could advance.
He shouted his order without any sure knowledge that they would hear. Led by Rannoch, they fired across each other, an untidy salvo that was no more than follow my leader. The first batch of some fifteen boarders rushed through the belching smoke to reach the gaps in the bulkhead. Markham took a chance on them holding at least, and gave his men time to reload, something that few of them managed in the allotted twenty seconds. Bellamy and Dornan, the two least useful pair, were still ramming home their cartridges when the enemy put in an extra effort that pressed the Syilphides back. The rest of the Lobsters reacted well, jamming their muskets through the throng, either between bodies or over shoulders, and just letting fly to ease the pressure.
It worked, even if they could not be sure they hadn’t hit their own. The French suddenly fell back enough to let the attack get past the bulkhead on to the open deck behind. Germain and the other half of his boarding party followed, yelling like banshees. When the marines got through, Markham could see only a frenzy of wild activity, in which it was near impossible to tell friend from foe.
Germain and Fletcher were visible because of the blue coats and the officer’s swords. They were trying to employ them in regulation fashion, as if they were still practising on their own deck. But for the rest there was no line as such, just a melee of swinging clubs, jabbing sabres, of punching, gouging and biting, as the two evenly matched groups fought to gain a degree of supremacy.
Markham concentrated his men on the larboard side of the ship, and forming them into a phalanx pushed forward, his left marker brushing the bulkhead. They had to use their butts to clear a path through the battling Syilphides. Only then could they employ their bayonets on the French. The collective discipline was rewarded by an immediate withdrawal. That swept clear a space from which he could push back towards the centre of the deck, taking the bulk of the enemy in flank until he was shoulder to shoulder with the captain, the result a clear gain of some ten feet.
‘We have them, Markham,’ Germain shouted, eyes blazing.
As he said that Fletcher went down, the point of the pike that had caught him with such force protruding from the top half of his back. Germain stepped forward, sword extended, his front knee bending to increase his range, the tip taking Fletcher’s killer in the throat. Markham, temporarily not engaged, stooped down and pulled the young midshipman clear. Looking down into his startled eyes, and at the blood pumping out through his gaping mouth, it was obvious he was dying.
The attack was going well. After his rush, the Syilphides were still making steady if unspectacular progress, pressing the enemy back to the companionways that ran up on to the deck. Any hope of repeating his previous manoeuvre was rendered impossible by the way his men had become entangled with the fight, clubbing and stabbing where they were allowed the space to do so.
The planking beneath their feet was running with blood, and one of the greatest dangers faced by the advancing men was to trip over a recumbent body, friend or foe, an act which opened them up to a blow from the enemy. Markham, using his height, was slashing forward with his sword. Vaguely he became aware that Rannoch, as cool and professional as ever, was dragging from the fight two men at a time so that they could reload their muskets.
Nothing is more exhausting than the continual exertions of battle. And in the heat of a Mediterranean summer, here between crowded decks, that was magnified tenfold. Markham was sweating buckets, his tongue feeling like a piece of leather in his parched mouth. And he knew that he was tiring, his right arm aching from swinging and stabbing with his blade. His marines would be the same, and it was only a matter of time before the Syilphides, with half-a-dozen men already down, began to relax an onward drive so ferocious that would be impossible to sustain.
Perhaps the French had calculated for that, since the pair of companionways that straddled the mainmast, which they were struggling to reach, now so tantalisingly close, were suddenly full of reinforcements. Here was a body of fresh defenders, led by men in light blue uniform coats, rushing to the relief of their wilting comrades, in sufficient quantity to outnumber the attackers.
Markham stopped at fifty. He had anyway, no need to count them. Anyone with an ounce of sense could see the game was up as soon as they appeared; that up against fresh arms and overwhelming superiority, the boarding party would have to give ground. And he also suspected, seeing those uniforms, that this was no privateer, but a ship converted by the French Navy, quite possibly for the very task of surprising British warships. Any lack of a disciplined response changed with proper officers in control, and that alone swiftly altered the nature of the conflict.
The Syilphides didn’t surrender ground immediately. They seemed, at Germain’s behest, to redouble their efforts in the face of this magnified threat, enforcing a temporary stalemate. That, at least, gave him time to disengage and think. If they fell back piecemeal, they would lose men and cohesion. That could, if properly pressed home, take the French back through the shattered cabin, and right on to the deck of Syilphide. If they managed to maintain their momentum, and get aboard in enough numbers, they would achieve their ultimate aim and take the ship. That had to be avoided, even if in the process he would be forced to sacrifice some of the men fighting alongside him.
The only people who could hold a disciplined line were his marines, and for that they needed space to bring their superior skills to bear. There was no time to consult Germain, still in the thick of things, still calling for greater efforts. Markham yelled for his Lobsters to disengage, grabbing at several to haul them clear, since they could barely hear him.
Rannoch, even taller than his officer, must have drawn the same conclusion. Markham had the distinct impression that he’d started jerking men back before the order was actually given. They didn’t all get clear. Yelland, Dymock and Tully were still in there, trapped in the heaving mass of bodies, unaware of their mates lining up all the way back by the shattered bulkheads, raising their weapons to fire a volley.
‘Steady,’ Markham shouted.
His voice was rasping due to his previous exertions, leaving him wondering how many of his men actually understood the command. He had to physically raise the nearest bayonets, fearing that the retreating Syilphides would impale themselves. Luckily those out of his reach copied their mates, and aimed their points at the overhead deck beams. There was neither time nor sufficient silence for complicated commands. He had to trust that they’d be ready to drop and fire on the fall of his up-raised sword. They would need to obey, even if some of their own men, including the captain, were still out front. Rannoch, on the other end of the line, was talking to those closest to him, quite possibly saying the very same. Even in dumb show the movement of his lips seemed slow and even, an oasis of calm in a hot, noise-filled and bloody arena.
The Syilphides begin to give ground, hardly surprising given the numbers they faced. Germain was doing his best to rally them, but it was in vain. Worse than that, it was the wrong tactic in the situation. Markham, lubricating his throat with what little saliva he could muster, waited until the movement spread, till the back markers were taking consecutive paces to the rear, pushing to try and hold their mates in front. The noise abated just a fraction, as contact was broken, so he filled his lungs and yelled.
‘Syilphides to me!’
The deck remained full of shouting cursing men, with the clang of striking metal and wood still very audible. He could not expect them all to hear, even less to react. Germain did, stepping back and turning his head, the pointed sword keeping him safe, the surprise in his eyes total. Markham leant forward to yell in his ear.
‘We must retreat, sir, or risk the ship.’
Even if it was only a few seconds, the captain seemed to take an age to comprehend what was at risk. Fortunately the men falling back swept him along till any choice in the matter was removed. Germain, at least, could step back smartly. But for those at the very front it was no easy matter to completely disengage in a fight, especially with no clear route to your rear. But the men nearest the line of marines reacted swiftly, which increased the pressure on those in front. Speed of retreat aided quite a few, Germain included, though Markham saw several go down under a rain of blows that now came from all angles.
‘What are you about man?’ Germain screamed, sweat streaking the filth that had covered his face. ‘We had them beat!’
‘You have been humbugged again, sir. Your opponent practically invited you to board so that he could trap you.’
It was an unpleasant thing to say, and definitely not what Germain wanted to hear. But it had to be done, in an attempt to make the captain see sense. And he knew there was no perfect time for the action he proposed to take. It was just a case of personal judgement, allied to a determination that the ship would not be taken.
‘Get back aboard Syilphide sir, and do what you have to do to get us clear.’
Men were slipping through and under the Lobsters’ bayonets, including Tully and Yelland. Only the later still had his musket. But Dymock was caught in the back, falling forward at the feet of his mates, who had to leave him be as they concentrated on what needed to be done.
There were still half-a-dozen British sailors in there when Markham yelled the order to fire, the salvo filling the intervening space with a huge cloud of smoke. Bellamy’s rammer was still in his musket, and it impaled two Frenchman standing so close to each other they were like one torso. The enemy recoiled, taken totally by surprise, so most of the attackers got clear. But Markham could just see one of the men who’d baited Bellamy writhing on the deck, clutching at his gut.
Markham’s throat now felt as though it was lined with sand, but he managed enough of a shout to relay his orders. ‘Bellamy, Dornan, drag that damned tar out of there. Then try to aid Dymock.’
Dornan, as bovine as ever, was too slow to react. But Tully, since he had no musket, was there with the Negro as he moved forward on the command. Markham knew that Bellamy had only acted out of pure instinct. Had the Negro paused, to give a second’s thought to what he was being told to do, he would have stayed rock still. But he moved, dropping on one knee to clutch at the armpit of the screaming sailor. Tully had the other, and under the frisson of pointing bayonets and reloaded muskets, they hauled him clear, handing him over to two waiting sailors. Then they looked to help Dymock, now writhing between his comrades’ legs.
‘Keep going,’ Markham shouted, when he saw they had him.
The second salvo went off above the two Samaritans’ heads, the flaming wads from the cartridges landing on their coats and singing them. The French were halted, though. Even better, the men to the fore who were still standing were trying to hide, trying to find succour in the body mass of their mates who stood behind them.
All they could see was the line of red coats before them, half-a-dozen men reloading with parade ground precision. The officers who’d come down the companionway were trapped at the rear, their superior numbers now an impediment instead of an asset. There was no one amongst the original defenders with either the wit or the stature to state the obvious. That if they charged immediately after a salvo, they might have risked a bayonet, but they would easily overwhelm this meagre line of defence. Finally, one of the officers managed to make himself heard, cursing at his men to advance.
‘Behind the bulkhead,’ he rasped.
Lobsters, instead of firing, stepped back. That did cause the enemy to try a rush, a foolish move against loaded muskets. The next volley sent those still on their feet scurrying back, slipping and tripping on the blood and the bodies that littered the deck. By the time they reformed, the guns were loaded again. There was little shouting now from the rank and file, more a discontented murmuring above which their officers were calling for action.
‘Corporal Halsey, see how matters are progressing on the ship. We must have it clear and able to haul off, but not so far that they can leave us behind.’
The old man slipped back to the casement windows, through the now empty cabin, to peer through the shattered deadlights. The scream that followed was totally out of character.
‘They’ve cut loose your honour, and are polling off.’
‘Get yourself aboard, Halsey. The rest of you fall back at the double, two at a time.’
He could do no more. To rush for safety would jeopardise them all, since there was no room to get everyone out at once.
‘Sergeant Rannoch, get over by those deadlights and supervise the retreat.’
‘One more volley, sir.’
The ‘sir’ was rare, and engendered in Markham, exhausted as he was, a good feeling. But he also knew the word volley was gilding in, with so few men left.
‘As you wish, then go.’
The muskets crashed out, and before the sound had faded Rannoch was tallying off the men to go, smallest first, all the while reloading his own weapon.
‘Ettrick and Quinlan move! Yelland and Gibbons follow. Dornan, you slow arse, with me.’
Markham felt the musket pressed into his hand as Rannoch departed, and he threw his sword to the sergeant just as he reached the point of exit. The retreat had not gone unnoticed by the enemy, some of whom had already started forward.
‘Come now, man,’ shouted Rannoch, who was halfway through the deadlights. ‘I am having to jump.’
Which he did, his body disappearing to reveal a patch of bright sunlight, and some of Syilphide’s departing rigging. Time assumed another dimension. Before him the French were breaking into a run, behind there was nothing but the jagged hole made by Germain’s cannon. Was there time?
He was barely aware of pulling the trigger, and had no idea where the ball went. Then he was running, what only seemed a few steps, but which felt like a lifetime. Behind him his pursuers were yelling, a mixture of triumph and calls for revenge, the sound of their slithering feet strange on the blood-soaked deck.
He threw the musket through the hole, just as he would a spear, hard enough for it to land on Syilphide’s deck and jammed himself through, scrabbling in near panic to get his legs to follow his trunk. One foot got purchase and he was able to lever himself out, throwing his body to one side so that the thick oak would protect his vital parts.
The man who came through behind him, waving a deadly cleaver died before he could swing it, his body slumping to close that gap. Markham was vaguely aware of Rannoch, standing feet apart on the deck not ten feet away. He was also aware that ten feet was too far for him to jump without taking a decent run. Above him the enemy had reclaimed the taffrail, and it was only a matter of time before pikes would be jabbing down to impale him, despite the gunfire being aimed at them by his Lobsters. Behind him, hands were hauling the dead man out of the way.
‘Mister Markham can swim,’ yelled Rannoch. ‘Throw a line into the water.’
Putting his hands together above his head, Markham executed a perfect dive into the cooling sea, deliberately going deep to avoid the hail of missiles that were sure to follow. Coming up, he could see the musket balls that entered the water, there to die in silver streaks as the sea took away their velocity. Surfacing so close to the French ship was a chance he had to take, though he struck out at his fastest swim to fool anyone just taking aim.
The ropes thrown from the deck straddled him, and Markham, in his panic, grabbed and missed the first one. But he got the second, twisting it round his wrist. The men on Syilphide began to haul just as the next round of musket fire came from the stern of the converted merchantman. Most missed, but one caught him in the leg that had come out of the water, searing across his breeches, and he was sure, drawing blood.
Germain was firing his cannon now, smashing the deadlights again, as well as the taffrail, driving the enemy from the positions they’d occupied. And he was setting as much sail as he could, heading into the wind, which took him clear slowly. But could he be certain, with the damage he’d suffered, that he could sail closer to the wind that his opponent? Could they get clear, or would his first task on getting on board be to prepare for another battle?
Markham observed all this from the sea, hauled in like a caught fish to the side. Some of the Syilphides had dropped a line from the yards, and he took hold of that so that when they hauled him aboard, he was not scrapped bloodily up the rough planking, nor dragged across the barnacle-encrusted copper that showed as the ship heeled over. Finally he was on deck, able to look down and see the slash across his calf, just above his left boot, and the blood streaming from the wound to run into the pool of seawater gathering around his feet.
He could also see the tally of dead and wounded, which did not include those they’d left aboard the enemy ship. Germain took refuge in his toil, the need to get the ship back to some semblance of its former self. He did not even look in Markham’s direction, though there was no doubt he had a sight of him firmly in the corner of his eye, as the marine officer removed his soaking coat.
‘Might I suggest you go below, Lieutenant Markham,’ said the Comte de Puy. ‘Mademoiselle Moulins and her maid have set up a sick bay, and will attend to your wounds.’
He was just about to reply that there might still be work to do, but the Frenchman’s doleful expression changed the words on his lips. ‘Where is Monsignor Aramon?’
De Puy gestured to the hunched figure, bent over an inert body of a sailor by the shattered bulwark. ‘The man, it seems, is a Catholic.’
‘Then God rest his soul,’ Markham replied softly.
But he stopped himself from making the sign of the cross, something no commissioned officer in the British forces would do. Instead he hobbled across the deck.
‘Sergeant, how many of the men are fit for duty?’
‘Dymock is bad, with a cutlass wound in his back that you could put your hand in. The young French lady and her black maid have bandaged him up. For the rest, there is many a cut and bruise, though nothing that will see them unfit for another bout.’
‘We got off light just now.’
Rannoch glared at Germain’s back. ‘If that man had been given his way, we would not have got off at all. You had best go below, and get that wound of your own seen to.’ Markham jerked his head to indicate the enemy, a factor that the Highlander acknowledged with a nod.
‘There will be time.’
‘You’re right. Can you get someone to fetch me a drink.’
‘Water?’ asked Rannoch, smiling.
‘That first, sergeant. Then I’d like a flagon of that stuff Germain purloined when he took over the ship.’
‘Enemy coming about,’ came the shout from the masthead.
Markham raised himself just enough to see the truth of that. But he could see that the manoeuvre was slow, that the merchant ship seemed a poor sailer. But given his endemic nautical ignorance he needed to have the fact confirmed by the bosun, close by him supervising repairs.
‘Catch us, your honour? That barky! Never in life, ’cepting he sprouts wings.’
‘We have suffered some damage.’
The sailor grinned. ‘Why, we could outrun him wi’ no more’n your stock on a yard.’
The whole of the lower deck had been turned into a sickbay, with recumbent bodies everywhere. The most serious wounds were laying flat on the planking, some still, others softly moaning. Those less badly hurt were sitting against the side, patiently waiting for attention. Mademoiselle Moulins and her maid moved amongst them, the Negro girl dispensing much needed water while her mistress distributed bandages, requesting those who could manage to attend to those who could not.
Markham found a chest to sit on, and, removing his boot and stocking, he rolled up his breeches to reveal a deep gash. The ball had gouged out a goodly section of flesh, which was stinging from the seawater that ran into it. But it was a surface wound, and not one for which he needed much in the way of treatment. Still probing at his calf to try and ease the pain, he was suddenly aware of the bloodstained apron in front of him.
‘If you oblige me with a clean bandage, Mademoiselle Moulins, I can tend to the article myself.’
She dropped down on her knees, the musky smell of her perspiration filling his nostrils, that mixed with whatever scented preparation she used to set her hair. Her fingers, as they brushed gently across the back of his leg were cool and gentle, the combined effect of all three making George Markham decidedly uncomfortable. Gratefully, he took the ladle the Negro girl offered him, and drank deeply.
‘I have some salve that will ease the pain, Lieutenant,’ she said.
A quick word to her maid sent the girl scurrying off. Markham saw Bellamy in the gloom, laying a solicitous hand on Renate as she slipped past him. Was he one of the walking wounded? That was a fleeting thought. His attention was taken with the girl close by.
‘The mere fact of your presence does that,’ Markham replied gently.
She looked up at his, a slight smile playing on the corners of her lips. ‘But I am only with you for a second. You will need something that lasts longer than that.’
‘Sure, that is a pity. But I thank the gods that I am blessed with a good memory.’
‘Good enough to know what kind of behaviour my present situation demands?’
‘Had I ever been told, I’m sure I would remember. We have all been left to make assumptions.’
She turned away to bathe the face of one of the sailors lying on the deck. ‘And which were yours.’
‘I try not to make them,’ he lied. ‘But were I prone to, seeing you like this could not render them anything but flattering. The word angelic springs to mind.’
‘That is too great a credit. Having been raised by nuns, tending to wounds was part of my schooling. So how you now see me at this moment has no special significance.’
Markham suddenly felt she was toying with him. Not that the notion offended him. All his experience pointed to that as a good sign. Women didn’t bait men in whom they had no interest. The thought that she might set his imagination racing. It was fortunate that the Negro girl returned, carrying a stone jar with some pungent green liniment inside. Ghislane Moulins turned back, wafting that same mixture of odours up into his nose. She dipped her fingers in, then rubbed the unction back and forth across Markham’s wound. The stinging, as it penetrated his flesh, made him suck in his breath.
‘A little pain is a good sign, Lieutenant.’
‘Sure,’ Markham replied, shifting uneasily, ‘that depends on where the pain is.’
As soon as he returned to the deck, still a hive of activity, he looked aft, only to observe that the bosun’s confidence had not been misplaced. Syilphide was labouring, but still the Massime was falling behind at an almost visible rate, ploughing along, yards braced round, seeming to make little headway. Germain was no longer on the quarterdeck, and the ship was under the control of Conmorran, the master, with Midshipman Booker as officer of the watch.
‘Why does he bother to pursue when he can’t catch us.’
The master was an old grey-haired fellow, with grizzled ruddy features. Having spent his entire life at sea, he had little time for what he would no doubt term daft questions. His tone of voice, when he replied certainly created that impression.
‘Happen he has nowt better to do, it being such a fine sunny afternoon.’
‘He’ll stay on the chase till nightfall, sir,’ said Booker, excitedly eager to share his superior knowledge, ‘hoping that he might carry something away. He cannot know the extent of the damage we have suffered.’
‘Thank you, Mister Booker,’ said Markham, giving the irascible master a glare as he turned away, a look that was meant to register and did. The voice behind his back, just loud enough for him to hear, made him wish he hadn’t bothered.
‘You don’t want to be so free lad with your explainings, certainly not to the likes of a Lobster officer. Jumped up nobodies the lot of ’em I say. And that one would be better minded explaining hisself than posing questions, especially about certain events which took place when he was no more ’n your age.’
Markham forced himself to stand still by the rail, watching the rapidly diminishing French ship. But underneath he was seething, wondering why he had bothered to do anything to save the ship. He should have just let the French come on board and skewer the lot of them.