Honour Be Damned (26 page)

So,
as
this
opportunity
presented
itself,
I
had
to
take
it.
France
will
serve
as
a
place
to
live,
and
if
not
that
then
Italy.
The
treasure
Monsignor
Aramon
sought
was
not
so
fabulous,
but
it
will
allow
Renate
and
I
to
live
in
decent
estate,
without
providing
the
means
to
cut
a
true
dash.
I
have
left
his
relics
in
the
care
of
the
inn
so
that
they
can
be
passed
on
to
him.

As
to
the
lady
and
gentleman
who
arranged
for
us
to
steal
it,
I
imagine
they
were
sad.
But
they
only
have
themselves
to
blame.
Renate
was
easy
to
engage
in
conspiracy,
but
Mademoiselle
Moulins’
pursuit
of
me
was
masterly
in
its
tact
and
subtlety.
Who
could
not
warm
to
a
tale
of
love
denied
by
circumstance,
and
be
excited
by
the
means
to
free
two
troubled
hearts?

Yet
our
star-crossed
lovers,
even
in
felony,
treated
us
as
servants,
never
once
offering
a
portion
free
from
entail
to
the
two
people
they
needed
most.
What
were
we
to
do,
acquire
the
means
to
make
them
rich,
then
serve
them
faithfully
there
after?
What
vanity!

Truly
it
is
a
strange
world
where
people
only
see
skin
colour
and
not
quality.
You,
it
has
to
be
said,
were
not
like
that.
And
for
the
rest,
after
we
buried
our
initial
animosities
we
managed
to
arrange
a
modus vivendi
in
which
I
sought
not
to
annoy
them
more
than
necessary.
It
is
my
wish
that
they
live
and
prosper.

That
applies
of
course
to
you
as
well.
And
should
chance
put
you
in
my
way,
nothing
would
give
me
greater
pleasure
than
to
treat
you
as
an
honoured
guest.

I
am,
your
most
humble
ex-servant,

Eboluh
Bellamy.

‘Jesus, Rannoch,’ said Markham with feeling, ‘I’m going to miss him.’

M
arkham stood rigidly to attention before Admiral Sir William Hotham, aware not only of the amount of light streaming into the
Victory
’s cabin, but of the straight white line of the ship’s wake. It had taken a month to get from the French side of the Italian border to this place, and in that time Lord Hood had gone home, leaving the man at the desk in charge of the Mediterranean Fleet. He’d heard about Hotham; that he was timid, slow to action, and had let the French slip in and out of Toulon on too many occasions without offering battle.

He didn’t look timid now, as he finished reading Markham’s report on the events that had taken him from Corsica to France and back again. In fact he looked downright fierce, the eyes unfriendly even when he smiled. Writing it, Markham had been sure that any reader would be impressed. But now that he’d handed it over he was less sanguine. Every fault he perceived seemed to leap up at him from the overfamiliar text. Finally Hotham passed it over his head to his secretary.

‘I have here a note from Lord Hood regarding promotion.’

‘If I were to be granted that, sir, there is one favour I would very much like to add.’

‘So you pleased our allies, Markham,’ Hotham said, completely ignoring the inference.

‘Yes, sir. They were grateful for the plans, even though they were out of date. A copy was made for our Ambassador, and have I believe been forwarded to Horse Guards.’

‘A fine lot of good that will do. Those boneheads think they still use bows and arrows.’ Hotham reached out for the other packet. ‘And what is this, pray?’

‘It is a despatch written by my commanding officer.’

‘Young Germain?

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Know his papa quite well. We hunt together.’

‘Is there any news of him?’

‘Back in England, trotting around Bath trying to get back the use of his arm. Exchanged at Calais of all places.’

‘He wrote that in great pain sir, right after he had been operated on to remove the ball. I fear it will not make easy reading.’

‘A game lad, I recall. Always close to the stag.’

Hotham tore Germain’s seal and began to read. He hadn’t got far before the first ‘My God’ emerged. That was followed by a couple of ‘damn me’s’.

At first Markham thought them expressions of happy
amazement,
which made him wonder just how praiseworthy Germain had been. But when the admiral looked up at his visitor over the vellum, he wasn’t so sure. And he was confirmed in that impression when Hotham finally said.

‘You’re a disgrace, sir, a damned disgrace.’

‘Captain Germain assured me he was personally happy with my conduct, sir.’

‘He could hardly tell you otherwise you blackguard. If he had, I doubt this would ever have been delivered. I have never read the like. Making arrangements to transport civilians behind his back, including some trollop to entertain you in your cot, undermining his authority with the other officers and interfering daily in the running of the ship.’

‘Sir!’

‘Silence!’ Hotham yelled, the sound echoing off the deckbeams above his head. ‘Don’t think I don’t know your name, Markham. I was anchored at Sandy Hook enough times during the American war to get sick of the sound of it. As for that father of yours …’

‘My father is not here to defend himself, sir.’

That stopped Hotham for a moment, since the inference was clear. The son was, and any traducing by the admiral might cause more trouble than he could handle. The older man jabbed a finger at the vellum again.

‘And what’s this about buggering up a boarding party by calling for a retreat when the damn vessel was nearly ours.’

‘That is not true, sir.’

‘What? You’re calling George Germain a liar.’

‘I have no choice, sir. And might I be permitted to read what he has said about me so I can rebut the rest.’

‘No, you cannot.’ Hotham growled. ‘I wish his pa were here to witness it. He’d horsewhip you.’

The secretary, who had previously served Lord Hood and had
seen Markham before, leant forward and whispered in the admiral’s ear.

‘What!’ barked Hotham, before adding an angry, ‘Oh, very well.’

The vellum slid across the round table, and Markham grabbed at it eagerly. The writing was a trifle spindly, only to be expected from a recently wounded man. But the contents were pure bile. Germain had managed to accuse him of everything but the flood; Fletcher’s death during the aborted boarding; of trapping them, against his advice, on a hostile shore in deep forest; venery both sexual and fiscal in the matter of the Avignon treasure; deserting his superior officer despite specific orders not to do so. The only thing that was missing was the regimental goat!

In the background Hotham was muttering. ‘Promotion. I’ll see you damned, drummed out the service, more like.’

‘I demand a court, sir.’

That stopped him. Markham had a right to that. No officer could be denied that.

‘I should think you’ve had enough of courts, Markham. They don’t always clear your name.’

That was when he finally cracked, his voice loud enough to match that of Hotham. ‘I have always found battle a decent remedy, sir. Might I suggest the next time the French venture out, you try it.’

‘Damn you for an insolent pup.’

The secretary leant forward again, and whispered urgently, his first request being for the admiral to lower his voice. There followed an exchange in which Markham only heard the words Hood and personal appointment, that followed by ‘an insult to his flag’.

Hood was still the titular commander, and to cross swords with him was something Hotham would do at his peril. He’d already been lacerated by that scorbutic tongue, for the very thing Markham had just accused him of.

‘All right, all right,’ Hotham finally said, his impatience turning his face bright red. Then he looked at Markham again, in such a way that made plain that whatever pleading had been done in his favour, the admiral had not changed his mind one iota.

‘You may have your court as soon as Germain is fit enough to return to duty and the Mediterranean.’

‘That could be never, sir.’

‘I cannot move mountains, and I have little inclination, I confess, to try. You will hold yourself ready for whatever duty I give you.’

Then he turned to the secretary, and hissed in a bitter tone. ‘But don’t ever put anything on my desk that even hints at promotion for this scoundrel.’

It was both blue eyes on him now, cold and furious. ‘You may well find yourself guarding a prison hulk, Markham, which would be too good for you. Now get out of my sight. You are dismissed.’

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BY THE MAST DIVIDED

A SHOT ROLLING SHIP

AN AWKWARD COMMISSION

A FLAG OF TRUCE

THE ADMIRALS’ GAME

AN ILL WIND

BLOWN OFF COURSE

ENEMIES AT EVERY TURN

A SEA OF TROUBLES

THE PILLARS OF ROME

THE SWORD OF REVENGE

THE GODS OF WAR

MERCENARIES

WARRIORS

CONQUEST

THE BURNING SKY

A BROKEN LAND

A BITTER FIELD

SON OF BLOOD

SOLDIER OF CRUSADE

PRINCE OF LEGEND

D
AVID
D
ONACHIE
was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.