Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  The Corsican generals, formally attired in full dress, stood waiting, looking perplexed, men dark skinned and moustached like their escorts, though no other feature registered. They’d been in the middle of their dinner. Now they were requested to take to their boats and alert their own forces, just in case Lacombe tried to push all the way through to Bastia.

  By the time Markham got back to his own tent, Rannoch had the men fully dressed and ready, lined up for action, a sea of calm in an otherwise frenzied landscape. All around were rushing men, shouted commands, the odd blowing bugle, the whole scene made nightmarish by the combination of moonlight and waving torches. He grabbed his pistols and, with his men at his heels, headed back towards the gun emplacements. They were now back in action, the shells arcing towards the Fornali fort once more. The parapet, when he rejoined Serocold, was fully manned, the marines sensible enough to wrap bandanas around their ears so that the cannon firing over their heads wouldn’t deafen them.

  ‘I’d like to take my men forward, sir.’

  ‘How many are you?’

  ‘Eighteen in total.’

  ‘What?’ Serocold barked, his eyes lighting up in shock. ‘The whole French force could be out there, man!’

  ‘I think not, sir. In fact I would cease firing, since we are, very likely, now only damaging property which we will need to occupy.’

  ‘You seem damn sure of yourself, Markham.’

  Again he had to bite his tongue, unwilling to mention what was now an image plagued by uneasiness. ‘I think I am right, sir.’

  ‘Send up another blue light,’ Serocold shouted. The rocket went aloft, to reveal a beach devoid of human life. ‘Very well, Markham, you may proceed. But I will maintain fire on the walls till I am sure that it is wasted.’

  It was eerie out on the strand of beach, close enough to the fort to attract gunfire, with the regular crash of the naval shells thudding into the ancient masonry. They found the bodies of Serocold’s piquet. His men had died silently from knives that sliced their throats, or necks broken by powerful arms. The guns stopped suddenly, and an eerie quiet descended. Soon Markham and his party were joined by the remainder of Serocold’s marines and, gingerly, they made their way towards the heavy studded gates. The French hadn’t gone quite so far as to leave the door ajar, but it was almost like that, and taking possession of the Fornali fortress was easy.

  Hanger, sent ahead by Dundas, arrived soon after with several officers, including Lanester, trailing in his wake. He was his usual abrasive self, quite prepared to blame Serocold and Markham for what he saw as a naval fiasco. But there was no time for long recrimination, nor for any explanations. The French were in full retreat, of that there was now no doubt, and every man who could be spared must partake in the pursuit. Each officer was asked to provide an appreciation of their readiness to move. It was clear, when they’d finished, that Major Lanester, with easy access to the road across open fields and an enemy who’d already vacated his defences, would be in prime position.

  ‘What orders do you have, Markham?’ Hanger demanded, spinning round to glare at him.

  ‘None yet, Colonel,’ he replied. He could easily have added that his duty was plain; to make his way to the beach headquarters set up by his naval masters and await instructions. But he would not oblige Hanger with anything that smacked of moving backwards.

  ‘Good.’ Hanger was looking over his shoulder, as if he could still see the fleeing enemy. ‘Take your men forward and maintain contact with the French rearguards.’

  ‘Sir.’ Markham responded, aware of the glances being exchanged by the other officers present.

  ‘Close contact, d’you hear?’

  ‘With fewer than two dozen men, sir?’ asked Lanester, the only one bold enough to speak out.

  Hanger span back to face the American, scar white and eyes blazing. ‘If you’re so worried about Lieutenant Markham’s ability to do as he is bid, sir, I suggest you would be better placed at the head of your regiment. Better, that is, than here, questioning me.’

  Delivered to Lanester, it was clearly a rebuke to every officer present, all of whom took the hint and moved away to take charge of their units. The American’s advice, nearly a whisper, was imparted as he slowly brushed past the marine officer.

  ‘Don’t get too close to them, young fella, or too far ahead of us. Long musket range should keep them on the move.’

  Staying close to Lanester proved easy. Fully expecting to come up against a desperate rearguard action, Dundas decided to advance with caution, so that Markham’s Lobsters soon found themselves acting as point to the American major’s troops. It was Lanester’s opinion that the wily old Scotsman was quite content to let the Corsicans entrap the French around Barbaggio, and keep them from the Colla di Teghima, through which ran the main road to Bastia.

  Sound enough in theory. But Dundas must have realised as dawn broke, with his troops clearing San Fiorenzo and little sign of battle anywhere, that the Corsicans were not as far forward as had been hoped. Faced with the prospect that the enemy might slip away, leisurely probing was abandoned in favour of moving at the double, an order which was immediately greeted by the sound of field-cannon fire from the hills ahead. Throughout that day Sir David Dundas got his rearguard action, but it was from an army in motion, quite content to give ground every time the British troops mounted an assault.

  Markham and his men tended to be forgotten when action was joined, Lanester too busy ordering his own troops into formation to bother with these supernumerary Lobsters, so that they were spectators to the mounting frustration of the pursuing soldiers. The French took advantage of every good defensive position, and deployed only long enough to force the British into battle order, exchanged one or two salvos for the sake of their honour, before decamping to the next strong point.

  Dundas was forced to stay on the road, hemmed in by the encroaching thick forests, and Lanester showed a fine sense of independence at the continual orders to press home his attacks, refusing to sacrifice men to what he suspected was a hopeless cause. He even stood up to Hanger, sent forward to inject some bite into the pursuit, a piece of insubordination that not only endeared him to Markham, but was resolved by another unit being pushed through to take up the front position.

  ‘Damned right, too,’ Lanester growled as he waved them through, his final wave of the hat a parting jibe to the fiery English colonel. ‘He’s in a stew now, Markham. But wait till the Frenchies have finished baiting him. God knows, he may oblige us with a seizure.’

  As the pursuit lengthened, the temperature dropped, the wooded coastal plain giving way to ever rising hills, open country covered in low clumps of bush, where the wind added to the chill, until by nightfall those ahead of them were actually fighting in snow. With supply lines stretched to the limit, the Army command called a halt, the decision taken that Lacombe should be left to the Corsicans who must by now, with a whole day to deploy, be standing in their way.

  Soon the slopes were dotted with campfires, each with its quota of soldiers huddling round the flames trying to keep warm. A kettle hung over each blaze, as the men tried to make something palatable out of their rations. This was not a problem that bothered Lanester. Pavin, his irascible cook and servant, proved his worth, providing chickens boiled whole in a sauce made of local wine, flavoured with herbs picked from the roadside.

  Couriers passed to and fro, carrying news of the battle, which served to depress them regardless of the feast. Despite their allies holding good positions, it seemed that General Lacombe had succeeded in keeping his escape route open, with the Corsicans apparently unable to close the road.

  ‘This is bad,’ said Lanester, as he leant close to the fire to read the latest report. He sent off his belching, over-fed officers to make sure his men were ready, if required, to renew the pursuit. Pavin was clattering about, clearing up plates, when Markham returned after checking on his Lobsters. Both men stood for a moment, looking at the brooding snowcapped mountains, ghostly
blue in the moonlight, as the sound of battle diminished.

  ‘If Lacombe has managed to extract his entire force,’ said Markham, ‘you’ve got to admire him.’

  ‘I can’t believe they even disengaged.’

  ‘I’m not sure they didn’t have some help.’

  Lanester slowly turned to look at him. ‘What kind of help?’

  Markham was now wishing he hadn’t spoken. But having done so, and with the American staring inquisitively at him, he could hardly leave it there. As he explained, he was himself aware of the number of caveats he introduced: poor light, the brevity of the sighting, his own actual doubts about what he had seen.

  ‘Should make an interesting report,’ Lanester responded, his voice full of mockery.

  Markham hadn’t thought of that. But it was necessary, indeed required, that he write one. ‘What do you think I should say?’

  ‘Very little, if you’re not sure.’

  ‘I have to say something.’

  Lanester was silent for some time, his head cocked, as though he were listening to the sound of his own men, grumbling as they settled down for a night made uncomfortable by the need to stay fully ready to move at an instant’s notice.

  ‘You must tell the truth, boy.’

  ‘Which I would, if only I was sure of it.’

  ‘Then the less said the better, I think, young fella, or you’ll have every officer in Corsica, naval and Army, high and low, accusing the locals of treachery, for a notion you don’t rightly hold to yourself.’

  ‘Hood needs to be told.’

  ‘And Dundas,’ added Lanester swiftly, a sharp reminder of where his allegiances lay. ‘After that, it will be up to them who they inform.’

  ‘How in God’s name am I to pass on such information in private?’

  Lanester was silent again, a low growling in his throat the only evidence of his ruminations. ‘Add a personal note for Hood, sealed and separate, to your report.’

  ‘And the General?’

  ‘Leave Dundas to me!’

  The following morning found them in the same place, looking up at hills that were now silent. Gloom and despondency set in as everyone realised that if the French did elude them, the British forces would have to besiege Bastia, instead of just walking into the town as they’d anticipated. Hood would have his anchorage in the Bay of San Fiorenzo. But it would be untenable unless the French were expelled from the whole island.

  Chapter eight

  ‘Lieutenant Markham, sir,’ said Captain Serocold, standing aside to allow the marine lieutenant to enter the great cabin of the Victory. ‘As General Dundas requested.’

  Hood looked at him with the steady, slightly bored gaze of a man accustomed to power. A long face, expressionless, under an old-fashioned wig, with a thick, slightly pendulous nose and bright blue eyes. To his left sat Sir David Dundas, resplendent in his much-braided general’s coat, though the distracted look on his pink, smooth face failed to match the impression created by his attire. Two dozen other officers, Army and Navy, were present, including d’Aubent, Hanger, Lanester and Nelson. But Hood was the dominant figure, like the actor in a drama who casts all the others on stage into insignificance.

  ‘We shall be with you in a moment, Lieutenant,’ said Hood, before turning back to face the assembly. ‘You were saying, General d’Aubent?’

  ‘I only wish to repeat, sir, that the personal intervention of General Paoli seems essential. He cannot elect to hide himself away in his mountain fortress and ignore the whole campaign.’

  ‘He won’t budge from Corte,’ Hood replied. ‘Sir Gilbert Elliot tried to get him to be more active and failed. If a politico like him can’t persuade the old goat to move, who can?’

  A collective sigh seemed to sweep round the table as Hood lifted some papers, then turned to eye Markham. The object of the admiral’s attention was trying to gauge the mood in the cabin, his train of thought broken by a sudden question from General Dundas.

  ‘You were the officer who alerted the landing force to the French retirement?’

  ‘I was, sir.’

  ‘Not our finest hour,’ Admiral Hood said, looking down at the sheaf of reports in his hand. ‘I wonder what they will say in London when they hear of this? A French force slipping away unimpeded from beneath our very nose.’

  Sir David Dundas shifted uncomfortably in his chair, the pink cheeks tightening as he looked anywhere but at the speaker. Instead he fired off another question at Markham.

  ‘Admiral Hood has been kind enough to show me your report. You hinted that the men who silenced our forward piquet might not be French regulars.’

  Markham knew that, unless Dundas had been shown the private addendum he’d included, that couldn’t be true. He noticed Hood stiffen perceptibly, before he shot a sideways glance at Lanester, only to observe that the American was looking at the deck-beams above his head with an air of deep embarrassment. There was no time to gauge the reaction of anyone else, to see if what had been imparted privately was now common knowledge. This forced Markham into an overly circumspect answer, designed to re-emphasise his doubts.

  ‘My view of what occurred was brief, sir, while the whole affair was limited to the length of one flare.’

  ‘Which is what you read in his report,’ said Hood pointedly to Dundas.

  ‘Had we shot one or two, Captain Serocold,’ growled Dundas, clearly intent on covering himself, ‘then we wouldn’t have this damned conundrum.’

  ‘Captain Serocold obeyed standing orders,’ Hood snapped, ‘and stayed with his guns.’

  Dundas spoke again, pulling himself up in his chair to do so. ‘I’ve listened to you, Lord Hood, and I have heard what you say about hot irons and the like. But surely you agree we can’t trust ’em!’

  Markham, ignored, had a chance to look around as Dundas continued, curious to know who’d been made privy to his private message. But that told him little. Those with the ability to dissemble wouldn’t reveal their thoughts; the men lacking that gift would either look stupid, bored or both.

  ‘The Corsicans misled us about Lacombe’s troop strength before we landed,’ added General d’Aubent, a pinched expression on his already stiff face, ‘then failed to take up the positions they promised.’

  ‘And how can we be sure,’ Dundas murmured, a guileless look on his pink face, ‘that someone in their camp didn’t contrive to let the French escape?’

  Hood interrupted him, which also silenced a buzz of sudden conversation, to remind the General that at the very moment they were now discussing the Corsican commanders had been dining at his table. If it was intended to embarrass him into silence, it was a lamentable failure.

  ‘That is so,’ Dundas replied, slamming his hand on Hood’s table with a force that earned him a reproving look. ‘But there’s been chicanery, sir. I will not accept that was coincidence. Even if it was, they were given a whole day to put matters right. Instead, they were made ten times worse. And now, when they should be investing Bastia, they’ve sat down in front of the redoubts at Cardo after one botched assault.’

  ‘One made without our support, General.’

  The Scotsman carried on as though Hood hadn’t spoken. ‘And what is the proposed solution to this fiasco? A hermit general named Paoli, who hasn’t fought a campaign in twenty-five years. It’s all stuff and nonsense. The locals at the very least lack zeal, sir. And I lack the strength to compensate for their manifest failings.’

  Dundas had worked himself up into a passion, which caused him to appear to deflate when he ceased to shout. Nelson spoke suddenly. Among the other officers, he looked small in stature. But he had some of the same commodity as Hood, which compensated greatly for his lack of inches and girth.

  ‘Might I remind you, sir, that these people have fought the French before, and with some success.’

  Hood was nodding in a sage fashion when Hanger cut in. ‘Then it wasn’t gained through wit or intelligence. Why tell us the French had five hundred men in Fornal
i when they had more than a thousand?’

  There was an obvious response to that, even if no one was prepared to state it: that given the well-known reluctance of the Army command to undertake offensive operations, the truth might have kept the general and his men on Hood’s ships. Nelson was equally diplomatic when he did reply.

  ‘That estimate of Lacombe’s troop strength may well have been a genuine error, Colonel. I doubt that forms a realistic presumption on which to base future operations. As you know, the naval opinion is …’

  ‘That is not the subject of this part of the discussion, Captain Nelson.’

  Hood had interrupted his junior in quite a friendly way, though Dundas and the rest of the Army contingent looked exceedingly annoyed. Nelson was obviously alluding to the conversation held before Markham had been ushered in, one that had clearly engendered a dispute between the two services. Judging by the hard set of most of the faces, he guessed it was still unresolved.

  ‘Of course, sir’.

  ‘I suppose, as well as forgiving Fornali, you have another explanation for the Colla di Teghima, Nelson?’ demanded Dundas.

  ‘It is not unknown, sir, for the military to be taken by surprise.’ Seeing both generals, as well as their attendant officers, swell up with indignation, Nelson added smoothly. ‘And we in the Navy have been caught napping often enough to blush with equal vigour.’

  ‘You didn’t hear any of them speak, Markham, did you?’ barked Hood, in what was more of a statement than a proper question, designed to bring matters back on the right track.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘And none of the forward piquet survived,’ added Serocold.

  ‘Damned thorough,’ said Dundas, with a crafty look in his eye that served to annoy Markham. It was almost as if the general was trying to trap him into speaking out, something he was determined not to do.