Authors: David Donachie
‘How can you sleep at a time like this?’
‘I can easily, Mr Germain,’ hissed Markham angrily, ‘because I have had years of practice. That is something you learn young in the army. I have also learned that soldiers, even Lobsters, are often obliged to go without for long periods. Therefore, I tend to take, gratefully, whatever opportunities are gifted to me.’
‘I shan’t sleep,’ Germain replied, dolefully. But then he saw the look bordering on hate that the marine officer was giving him, so he stood up, nodded and exited through the curtain.
Hard as he tried, Markham couldn’t sleep. But it wasn’t the notion of untold wealth that kept him awake, it was the idea that Germain was intent on leading the thing personally. Had he formed that notion before Aramon opened up to him about the treasure or afterwards? Was his desire to be there prompted by the need to impress his superiors, a distrust of his inferiors and accomplices, or even worse, personal greed?
Then there were the risks inherent in landing on a very hostile shore. He’d looked at maps of the southern coast since coming aboard, noting that the terrain became mountainous very quickly, rising towards the not too distant Alps. That forced all traffic onto the narrow flat strip of coastline. There was a road from Toulon to what had been the Piedmontese border, connecting France to
city-states
like Genoa. With a war in progress that would be a main supply route for the forward elements of the French army. He, and
his men, were being asked to move through country that might well be swarming with enemy troops.
Could he refuse? There were certainly good grounds. But Markham knew that the navy was not very different from the army when it came to dealing with officers who declined a command. A man once damned a coward for his desertion could expect little understanding from his superiors. Never mind promotion, he’d be lucky to remain a marine. Hood had gifted him that after Toulon, and the admiral could just as easily remove it. Worse, Germain would go ahead without him. And he would take, as was his right, the ship’s marine detachment. That was scarcely something the men would thank him for.
There was deep and distant rumble, which given the way he was thinking, sounded like a far off battle, a huge cannonade by a large army. But it was only thunder, a sound that grew louder as the storm approached, until, over an hour later, it was right over the ship. The noise of that, and the clatter of torrential rain beating on the planking above his head, made any notion of further slumber impossible, so he rose from his cot and slipped into his breeches.
It was a delicious feeling, on the deserted forepeak, to stand under the teeming downpour, letting the lukewarm rain wash off the exertions of the last twenty-four hours. Fanciful as it was, it even seemed to cleanse his memory of some of the less pleasant things that had happened in his life, and inducing, once he had returned to his cot, a deep and refreshing slumber.
Markham was on deck with the morning watch, side-stepping their swabbing and flogging of the planking to keep his eye on the shore. It looked peaceful enough in the clear dawn light, a string of sleepy fishing villages nestling in a thin line of trees. Each was named after some saint, with the largest at both ends of the long sweeping bay. Behind, the hills stood blue-grey, with the odd granite bluff protruding from the thick vegetation. There would be tracks in that, steep, climbing affairs that would lead into the communities of the interior.
Far away to the east lay a line of thick black clouds, a curtain hanging from them that promised another heavy downpour. Sweeping with his glass again, Markham was alarmed by the clarity of vision that it afforded, one that would also apply to anyone on the shore. Certainly the overnight rain had cleared whatever mist may have obscured that view. But with a line of
mountains behind, observation of shipping was easy in anything but the most inclement weather. A lookout would be able to see anything on the water many miles from shore. Even hiding behind the Isles de Lerins, there was no way a party could boat to the long open strand of beach without being seen, no way that
Syilphide
could come and go to this location without being under constant observation.
He disliked the idea of going ashore at night. There might be a moon, which in this seascape would obviate any advantage. And on a strange shore, with a limited view of what lay in front of them, his men, who could not be asked to move quietly, would be at an even greater disadvantage than they would be in daylight. But if that storm on the horizon swept over them, it would obscure the view of any observers, and send those on shore scurrying for shelter.
‘Mr Booker.’
‘Sir.’
‘You had the watch last night.’ Markham paused, wonder if the boy had seen him, half-naked on the forepeak, rain pouring through his hair. The innocent look in the eyes reassured him.
‘I did, sir.’
‘Which direction did that thunderstorm come from?’
‘There were two, sir, both from the east, which sir, you will notice, is the direction of the wind.’
‘And that on the horizon?’
‘Looks like another. It will be on us in couple of hours.’
‘Would you oblige me, Mr Booker, by sending someone to fetch my sergeant.’ As the boy acknowledged and agreed, Markham turned towards the quarterdeck. ‘Mr Germain, a word if you please?’
His conversation with Rannoch had to be brief and succinct. Rations for a week, with ample powder and shot, plus one man to carry flares, while another was given the task of transporting the tube that would fire them. He could see, in the highlander’s eyes, the desire to ask questions. But Markham didn’t have time to answer them if he was going to have any chance of achieving what he wanted.
He had to insist that Aramon be roused out to listen, and once they were gathered in Germain’s cramped cabin, with de Puy once more obliged to sit on a cannon, Markham made no attempt to be
polite to the cleric. He told him quite plainly that if they were to go ashore, it had to be under the cover of a storm.
‘I insist, sir, that you cease to be obtuse, and tell us quite plainly what it is you are after, where it is located, and some notion of what route by which we can get there. And since we need to get back it would also be of some use to know what these valuables consist of.’
‘And if I don’t?’ asked Aramon, producing an infuriating smile.
‘Then I, for one,’ Markham snapped, ‘will refuse to go ashore.’
‘What!’ exclaimed Germain.
‘Your presence is not a prerequisite of success, Lieutenant.’
‘And neither will my men.’
‘They will have to if I order them,’ growled Germain.
Markham glared at him, as much for his stupidity as anything else. There was only one way to get anything out of Aramon, and that was by out-bluffing him. Germain was right, but the Monsignor didn’t know that. He tried, in his stare, to get the captain to either shut up or agree, as he continued on the same tack.
‘Rest assured they would obey me. I am their officer, and I expect, at any subsequent court-martial, that both their actions, and mine, will be fully vindicated.’
Germain was frowning, like a man trying, and failing to deal with two irreconcilable facts. Had he spoken then, nothing would have been achieved, but he didn’t. Aramon’s smile, which had never wavered, now deepened.
‘I asked about you, when I entertained some of the officers who served around Calvi. From what they told me, a court of any kind is something you would be keen to avoid. Certain past difficulties might surface.’
The captain went pale. If Markham had reason to fear a court, he had even more, a fact that the Monsignor would have realised if he’d had any knowledge of recent British history. Markham pressed home the advantage.
‘You misunderstand, sir. Mr Germain would have to ask for the court, and he would have to be quite specific about what orders I’d declined to carry out. At present, we are being asked to partake of a wild goose chase, which is of far more importance to you than it is to the success of the British forces in the region.’
Aramon made a steeple of his fingers then pressed his lips to the points, as if in deep contemplation. To Markham this was sheer
nonsense, prevarication for no other reason than the need to retain control. Surely he didn’t expect to lead them personally once they were on dry land. Then his eyes drifted to the silent de Puy, who refused to meet his eye, and he understood. He wanted the marines, and he’d probably tolerate Germain, feeling that he was easy to dominate. But he, Markham, was surplus to requirements, not least because he was prone to ask too many awkward questions. Besides, de Puy was on hand for military advice.
‘My men are on attachment to this ship, obliged to obey any legitimate command. I will make it my business to point out that this escapade is anything but that.’
‘You have a point there, Markham,’ said Germain, finally assisting, even if, judging by his expression, he had no idea why.
‘Our destination is the church of Notre Dame de Vacluse,’ said Aramon suddenly, making a gesture towards de Puy that
immediately
brought forth a map from inside his immaculate white coat. The parchment, once spread, was very detailed and on a very small scale, showing numerous tracks, as well as a well-defined road that twisted up through the hills, each gradient penned in. ‘It is situated in the hills behind the bay, some way to the west of the town of Grasse.’
‘Distance?’
‘Ten miles as the crow flies.’
‘Twice that, probably,’ said de Puy, ‘We cannot get there in a straight line.’
‘And what do you expect to find there?’
‘Expect?’ said Aramon, with a quick look at de Puy, clearly
nonplussed
. ‘We know what we will find.’
‘Then would you mind sharing it with us?’
‘Captain Germain already knows.’
‘Loot from Avignon, Markham,’ Germain blurted out, in a silly attempt to cover the indiscretions of the previous night.
‘Hardly loot, captain,’ snapped Aramon, holding up a hand to still a shocked de Puy, the cleric himself roused for once out of his studied languor.
‘Forgive me, Monsignor,’ blurted Germain, ‘a slip of the tongue.’
‘It would be best to know in detail,’ said Markham. ‘Whether it is loot or not, the description is too vague.’
Aramon refused to be drawn. ‘I have told you it is valuable, extremely so, and was transported to Notre Dame de Vacluse by
men carrying packs. Thus, it can be brought out by the same method. I do not see that an inventory would help.’
Markham turned abruptly to the other Frenchman. ‘Captain de Puy. You recently served in King Louis’ army. I daresay there were plans then to take over the land now occupied by troops of the revolution.’ De Puy nodded, as Markham continued. ‘So how close will we be to the supply route for the men fighting the Piedmontese?’
‘We will have to cross it. It is but a thin strip of road, unless we come across a depot or an encampment.’
Markham had studied maps of the area, and the road was typical of coastal routes in mountainous terrain. Flat, easy stretches in the bays and marshlands, precipitous climbs and descents where it wound round the numerous rocky headlands. Any army dragging itself and supplies round those would use the bays, where they must land, as places of rest.
‘There is no doubt that it will be well used, but once we ascend into the interior, I would anticipate little danger.’
‘And can I ask you, do you approve of this operation?’
‘Wholeheartedly,’ de Puy replied. It hardly sounded like a complete endorsement, but that could be attributed to his being such a gloomy soul.
Again Markham heard that distant rumble of thunder. It was time to decide. The destination was some two leagues inland, nearly twelve miles, all uphill. They would have to rendezvous with
Syilphide
and bring off whatever it was they found, which might prove to be a more difficult task than getting ashore. He looked at Germain, to make sure that the captain was still determined to proceed, and was left in no doubt by the stubborn cast of the man’s jaw of his intentions. There was no way he could entrust his Lobsters to such a commander.
‘Then, sir, if we are going, I would like to go now.’
‘Without a reconnaissance?’
‘What good would that do, sir. It would only tell the enemy why
Syilphide
is here.’
‘If I’m not mistaken,’ Germain said, cocking an ear to the dull, far away thud, ‘we are in for some pretty foul weather.’
‘I hope so sir. That is when I want to get on to that beach. I have no notion to cross in sunlight, even less to take someone like the Monsignor ashore in darkness. Might I suggest you issue both he and Captain de Puy with oilskins.’
Germain thought for a moment, before he grinned, clearly comprehending his marine officer’s idea. ‘That’s damned sharp, Markham, damned sharp. The rain will blind those on shore.’
‘Will the sea not be rough?’ asked de Puy.
‘No, Monsieur, it will not. There might be a bit of a squall before the storm arrives. But if we have anything like the torrent we had last night, it will be beaten as flat as melted cheese.’
‘There was a great deal of lightning, too, Captain.’
Markham cut in. ‘I daresay you have time for a quick prayer, Monsignor Aramon, one that will keep us safe, even if it does not keep us dry.’
The sour look that earned him almost made the whole stupid enterprise worthwhile.
‘How long do you need to get your men ready, Markham?’ asked Germain.
‘They are ready now, sir. I took the liberty of asking them to prepare before you convened this gathering. All we are waiting for is the people they have to escort.’
Aramon nodded. ‘Then I will gather my possessions. Monsieur de Puy, perhaps you would oblige me by rousing out my servants. Tell them to wrap my possessions in oilskin, using the cases we brought aboard. They will know what you mean.’
‘Surely you don’t intend to take your valets?’ Germain said, his face clearly intending the remark as a joke.
‘Of course. Mademoiselle Moulins and her maid will also accompany us.’