be the Comte de Puy. But with that purple soutaine it was almost certainly Monsignor Aramon. Suddenly he found himself hoping the flagons contained vinegar.
‘Best go on deck to greet them, Markham. I hope your sergeant has had the wit to line up the Lobsters.’
‘He will, sir.’
As they exited straight on to the absurdly small deck, Rannoch was there, walking the line, tugging at straps and belts, realigning muskets, so that his men, crowded close as they were, looked the part. Markham was pleased at the standard they’d achieved. His men looked exceedingly smart in the sunlight, which showed off their white belts to advantage against their thick red coats. The brasswork of the muskets, generously returned by General d’Issellin, gleamed, and the wooden stocks were polished to perfection.
‘An excellent showing, Markham,’ exclaimed Germain, patting him on the shoulder of his own scarlet coat.
That got a single raised eyebrow from Rannoch, who knew as well as his officer who was responsible for the quality of the turnout, as well as how difficult it had been to achieve. Coming aboard Syilphide had brought back some of the divisions that existed below the surface. His original soldiers, drafted in to make up the numbers in a country newly embarked on war, had served in frigates until now. Not exactly spacious, they were palaces compared to the sixteen-gun sloop.
The ex-members of the 65 th foot, led by Rannoch, had asked if they were to be obliged to serve in a canoe. Halsey and his true marines had scoffed and named it a right good billet. It wasn’t of course. It was cramped, smelly and having been tied to the shore for months, rat-infested. Bellamy, neither of one group or the other, and by far the most fastidious of the bunch, had likened it to the bowels of a West Indian slaver.
‘How I wish I could fire a salute, Markham,’ hissed Germain excitedly. ‘I do so long to let off the great guns in a proper salvo.’
Germain was looking eagerly at the approaching boat as he spoke, giving Markham a chance to examine him. The ship’s captain was like a dog at the leash in his suppressed agitation, an impression heightened by his fine aristocratic features. He had a thin angular face, lively green eyes, and a ready smile. Markham found he was cursing himself. Habit, and many years of slights, made him suspicious of any fellow officer. It had also made him, he realised, too sensitive. The young man beside him was, it appeared, entirely genuine in both his actions and his words. Yet George Markham could not accept this at face value, and had tobe continually looking for extraneous reasons for perfectly normal behaviour.
‘Holy Mary, mother of Christ, Georgie, you’ve become a bit of a bloody bore.’
‘Sorry?’ asked Germain.
Markham was unaware that he’d spoken. It was having identified Aramon that saved him. ‘I said to watch for that cleric, sir. He’s a bit of a bore.’
‘Well, since he’s a papist, we shall ply him with the Thirty-Nine Articles, and see how he takes a jest.’
That earned Germain another sideways look. Those were the articles of his father’s faith, and they had caused him nothing but trouble all his life. But the youngster killed any suspicion by his next remark.
‘Give him your sword, Markham. He ranks as a bishop, don’t you know, in our church.’
Markham pulled his sword from its scabbard, and as Aramon followed de Puy up the side, he raised it till the blade stood upright between his eyes, at the same time calling his men sharply to attention. As the face appeared, he felt there was some doubt if Aramon had ever been greeted in such a manner. But his countenance betrayed no surprise. He took the compliment of a military salute as nothing more than his due.
‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ cried Germain, stepping forward, his hands outstretched. ‘You stand as the first non-naval visitor to my ship, and therefore make the circumstance memorable.’
Aramon held out
‘Best go on deck to greet them, Markham. I hope your sergeant has had the wit to line up the Lobsters.’
‘He will, sir.’
As they exited straight on to the absurdly small deck, Rannoch was there, walking the line, tugging at straps and belts, realigning muskets, so that his men, crowded close as they were, looked the part. Markham was pleased at the standard they’d achieved. His men looked exceedingly smart in the sunlight, which showed off their white belts to advantage against their thick red coats. The brasswork of the muskets, generously returned by General d’Issellin, gleamed, and the wooden stocks were polished to perfection.
‘An excellent showing, Markham,’ exclaimed Germain, patting him on the shoulder of his own scarlet coat.
That got a single raised eyebrow from Rannoch, who knew as well as his officer who was responsible for the quality of the turnout, as well as how difficult it had been to achieve. Coming aboard Syilphide had brought back some of the divisions that existed below the surface. His original soldiers, drafted in to make up the numbers in a country newly embarked on war, had served in frigates until now. Not exactly spacious, they were palaces compared to the sixteen-gun sloop.
The ex-members of the 65 th foot, led by Rannoch, had asked if they were to be obliged to serve in a canoe. Halsey and his true marines had scoffed and named it a right good billet. It wasn’t of course. It was cramped, smelly and having been tied to the shore for months, rat-infested. Bellamy, neither of one group or the other, and by far the most fastidious of the bunch, had likened it to the bowels of a West Indian slaver.
‘How I wish I could fire a salute, Markham,’ hissed Germain excitedly. ‘I do so long to let off the great guns in a proper salvo.’
Germain was looking eagerly at the approaching boat as he spoke, giving Markham a chance to examine him. The ship’s captain was like a dog at the leash in his suppressed agitation, an impression heightened by his fine aristocratic features. He had a thin angular face, lively green eyes, and a ready smile. Markham found he was cursing himself. Habit, and many years of slights, made him suspicious of any fellow officer. It had also made him, he realised, too sensitive. The young man beside him was, it appeared, entirely genuine in both his actions and his words. Yet George Markham could not accept this at face value, and had tobe continually looking for extraneous reasons for perfectly normal behaviour.
‘Holy Mary, mother of Christ, Georgie, you’ve become a bit of a bloody bore.’
‘Sorry?’ asked Germain.
Markham was unaware that he’d spoken. It was having identified Aramon that saved him. ‘I said to watch for that cleric, sir. He’s a bit of a bore.’
‘Well, since he’s a papist, we shall ply him with the Thirty-Nine Articles, and see how he takes a jest.’
That earned Germain another sideways look. Those were the articles of his father’s faith, and they had caused him nothing but trouble all his life. But the youngster killed any suspicion by his next remark.
‘Give him your sword, Markham. He ranks as a bishop, don’t you know, in our church.’
Markham pulled his sword from its scabbard, and as Aramon followed de Puy up the side, he raised it till the blade stood upright between his eyes, at the same time calling his men sharply to attention. As the face appeared, he felt there was some doubt if Aramon had ever been greeted in such a manner. But his countenance betrayed no surprise. He took the compliment of a military salute as nothing more than his due.
‘Welcome aboard, sir,’ cried Germain, stepping forward, his hands outstretched. ‘You stand as the first non-naval visitor to my ship, and therefore make the circumstance memorable.’
Aramon held out
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