A Shred of Honour Read Online Free PDF Page A

encounters. He’d been told he was handsome, and wondered at the eyesight of those who’d said so. Of the many women who’d ventured such an opinion only his mother could be forgiven, allowed a parental mote in her eye: the face was too long, the cheekbones too pronounced and the jaw a bit too square for that to be true. His nose was no longer straight, though the way it had been broken tended to enhance the shape, not spoil it. Then there were the scars, some from childhood, others from adult encounters, the only really obvious one just visible above his left eye. Fingering that always produced a smile, given that it had come from a pretend fight, not a real one. He was lucky in his teeth, white, strong and all present, making it easy for him to smile. An interesting visage perhaps, but certainly not handsome. As if to emphasise that, he screwed up his features to produce a passable imitation of a gargoyle’s face.
    By the time he’d tried on Frobisher’s coat, Markham knew they were within sight of Hood’s fleet. A good fit, it was beyond his financial reach, so he replaced it and returned to his cabin to fetch his own. Flicking through the muster and pay books, he looked at the names of the men he commanded. There were faces to go with those, but precious little in the way of knowledge that would help him command them.
    Suddenly sick of the confined space, he jammed on his hat and made his way on deck, joining the others in looking to the east. The great ships, over twenty in number, and including the hundred-gunners Victory and Britannia , were beating to and fro off Cape Sicie, which guarded the approaches to the French naval base of Toulon. Even to a landsman’s eye, they presented a stirring sight. What a pity that the image of the King’s Navy, as portrayed by the gleaming white sails aloft on these magnificent leviathans, was so very different from the reality.

    Descending the companionway that led down from the maindeck, Markham wrinkled his nose. The stench below was something he’d never get used to. Several hundred men, most with a mortal fear of fresh air, slung their hammocks here, fourteen inches to a man. If they washed at all, it was in salt water, and they ate where they slept. Right forward in the forepeak was the manger, full of the stink of cooped-up animals. Most of the crew had gone on up to the foredeck, braving sunshine and breeze to catch a sight of the fleet. That’s where he’d first looked for his men, only realising that they must still be below when he failed to spot them amongst the crowd of sailors.
    Somehow he had to get on terms with these people. They would certainly see action again, given that they were in the Mediterranean, and that the French had a large fleet at Toulon, one that the Admiral was determined to bring to battle. Frobisher, in all the weeks they’d been at sea, had trained no one, instead spending his days boasting to all who would listen of his intention to smite the enemy as soon as they appeared. He hated the French with such a passion that it came as no surprise to Markham to learn that the marine captain had never met one.
    His own experience told him that training was the key to success. If the two groups could be brought to act together, given time they would blend into one. And there was plenty to learn, even for the marines. They’d had no more idea of what to do in the recent engagement than he had. They might claim to be real Lobsters, but they were just as false as his soldiers. Lost in thought, and unable to see clearly by the tallow-lit glim, he walked straight into Yelland, the youngest of his troopers, an innocent blond-haired youth much put upon by his elders who, to his mind, had been included in the detachment by some error.
    The boy was looking the other way, craning slightly tosee something ahead. Then his officer appeared. Habit brought the lad to attention. The low deckbeams did the rest. Hatless, he fetched himself a mighty clout right