Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘Just as well,’ hissed Ettrick, ‘given his love of a-stringin’ folk up on a rope.’

  ‘I can’t, of course, order this.’

  ‘No need for that,’ Quinlan chirped, suddenly all smiles again. ‘Bullock servants being inside will make it easy.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Never known one yet that wasn’t keen to sell his master’s claret. All we need, to get everything you want, is the means to buy a few bottles.’

  It was slightly embarrassing, even in front of this pair, when he produced a purse that sagged enough to show how little it contained. Markham fetched out a few coins and handed them over, doling them out like a careful parent.

  ‘That’ll do, your honour,’ Quinlan said. ‘They won’t be tying to vend it for top coin. We’s’ll be buying at wholesale, you might say.’

  ‘Two hours,’ Markham said.

  ‘Just as long as you square it with the Viking, if’n we come back staggering. Rannoch will have our back skin.’

  ‘You leave Sergeant Rannoch to me.’ Markham watched them as they walked out into the open square, sure that they were talking, but unable to hear their whispered exchange.

  ‘He ain’t plannin’ to knife the bastard, is he?’ asked Ettrick. ‘’Cause I want no party of that, if he is.’

  ‘He is in a manner of speaking, friend,’ Quinlan replied with a giggle. ‘But the blade he has it in mind to shove home for the mortal wound is more akin to a blood sausage than a knife.’

  ‘’Course!’ Ettrick exclaimed. ‘Old Hang ’em High went an’ got wedded.’

  ‘Can’t be more’n a two-month. Not that such will put a block on Lieutenant George Tenby Markham. Our boy’s a proper Irish goat an’ no error. He’s no sooner marked ’em than he’s half inside their petticoats.’

  Ettrick laughed loud enough at this pun for his officer to hear him, which left Lieutenant Markham wondering how they could be so utterly relaxed when he was in such a state.

  ‘You take my word for it, mate,’ Quinlan continued. ‘That scarfaced sod Hanger will have a pair of horns to add to his head afore we see daylight again.’

  Chapter eleven

  To most people, the idea of climbing through a woman’s bedroom window in the middle of the night would appear farcical, the stuff of a cheap novella rather than real life. But looking at the sketches Quinlan and Ettrick had executed for him, badly drawn, and stained with some of the drink they’d consumed, there seemed little alternative. The whole of the ground floor, apart from the public rooms, was occupied by either servants or Hanger’s military valet and footmen. There were neither attics nor basements to accommodate them, and every room they used opened, in the Roman manner, onto the main hall and staircase.

  The other difficulty was opportunity. Hanger was away on a specious reconnaissance for the army, but the place he was visiting, Cardo, lay a mere nine miles from San Fiorenzo, so close that he’d left the majority of his attendants behind. That told Markham two things: he was travelling light, and he intended to return swiftly to the comforts of his new wife and the commandeered villa. He could, of course, ask at headquarters, since the movements of someone like Hanger would be noted. But that risked drawing attention to himself, especially since their mutual antipathy was a poorly kept secret.

  Markham believed in spontaneity, in matters relating to sex as well as war. Surprise was the basic key to success; an opportunity observed was best exploited quickly, lest it evaporate. It had generally served him well in both situations, and the times at which it had led him into trouble tended to be buried under the slightly vain awareness of the more frequent pleasures. If what he was contemplating bordered on madness, that merely reflected his emotions. Shut off in his small cubicle, with his men preparing to bed down for the night, he shaved carefully, humming to himself a soft rendition of ‘Garry Owen’, his favourite marching song. His thoughts were a flowing mélage of conquests past, the faces of women he had wooed and seduced mixed with the prospects for the forthcoming adventure.

  His cloak would be an encumbrance, so that must be left behind. He’d have worn civilian garments if he had them, rather than his scarlet uniform coat, and even contemplated going without sword or hat. But that notion was discarded when he realised just how singular he would look. Out of doors in a war zone, on a dark night, being unarmed and bareheaded would draw attention to him rather than deflect it. The streets he was going to traverse would be quiet, but they wouldn’t be completely devoid of life, even if the generals had imposed a curfew. Few Corsicans would be out late, but the Army would have patrols, and not just to suppress an imagined enemy. There might be no brothels in San Fiorenzo, and strict injunctions against molesting the womenfolk, but that had never stopped the British Army, wherever it billeted. Men would risk a thousand lashes for an illicit drink or an hour with a woman. It was only as he raised his hand to gently pull back the curtain that Markham realised that in reflecting on them, he was to a great measure, describing himself.

  The wry grin produced by that thought had to be wiped away quickly. He was subjected to curious glances from around the room, some blatant, others covert. Rannoch was cleaning his musket, an almost obsessive nightly ritual with the Scotsman. Bellamy was alone in a corner, reading a book. To the assembled Lobsters that would appear very strange, much more so than if he’d been executing some wild tribal dance. He’d removed the top of the bandage from his crown, leaving just a strip tied round his head, which looked more like decoration that anything medical. Ettrick and Quinlan were still drinking, consuming with a few of the other Hebes claret that both he and Hanger had paid for, watched enviously by the Seahorses. Some of that emotion was transferred to him. Holding a King’s commission, he was not required to explain himself, and if he chose to go out in darkness that was his affair. The curfew didn’t apply to officers.

  The street seemed deserted, the night air chilly, even crisp, under a clear sky that had taken any warmth off the earth before the sun went down. A slight scuffing sound made him turn to look, but the area it came from was just a dark hole, the kind of spot that could hide a dozen cats or scavenging dogs. No other sound followed, so he turned and headed in the direction of the Place des Chaumettes, still softly whistling ‘Garry Owen’, the rhythm of the air dictating the speedy pace of his feet.

  The cobbled roadway, when he joined a wider thoroughfare, produced something very close to a marching crack from the heels of his boots. He maintained it, first because it suited his mood, and also because he reasoned that he would attract less attention by appearing to be confident of his business, and was thankful for the moon- and starlight which rendered his progress so swift and painless.

  The Place de Chaumettes lay no more than ten minutes from his own quarters, and soon he was by one of the side walls, close to a clump of stunted pine trees that Ettrick had alerted him to. Mentally conjuring up images from the drawings he’d been given, he reckoned this to be the best point to scale the wall that enclosed the surrounding garden. The facing was old, rendered lime with enough cracks and exposed bricks to provide ample hand and footholds.

  Markham took off his hat and sword, then hesitated. Another soft sound, like a shoe clipping a stone, catching his ear, was one reason. But the main one was the nagging thought he’d had all along; that a note should have been sent to Lizzie Gordon hinting at his intentions. He’d havered over this ever since he’d first had the idea, giving her something in writing that would at least allow her a degree of choice. Markham had discarded it, not sure if he had done so because he knew she’d be bound to refuse. But that at least would have avoided the worst scenario he could imagine: that not only would she not welcome him into her private chamber, but that she would scream the place down, summoning her attendants who would then chase him off the premises.

  Was that what he wanted? To so frighten her that she would be bound to inform her husband of his attentions? Publicly faced with such information, Hanger would have to challenge him, an option to a seni
or officer in pursuit of justice from a junior which was denied, for obvious reasons, in reverse. He had that scarred face in his mind’s eye now, not Lizzie’s, as he contemplated the satisfaction he’d receive from finally, in a quasi-legal setting, being given the opportunity to revenge himself for the events of thirteen years before.

  Thinking like that almost made him give up the whole idea. He had a natural aversion to any situation which forced others to pay a price for his actions. The new Mrs Hanger, even if she did tell her spouse, would never convince him that she had not, in some way, encouraged his efforts at seduction. She might have called him a rake to his face, but it was a well known fact that women were, for better or worse, attracted to men with such a reputation.

  ‘In the name of Christ, Georgie, me boy,’ he whispered to himself, ‘will you be after making yer bloody mind up?’

  The image of himself, standing so indecisively, sheathed sword in one hand, hat in the other, made him laugh, and that in turn restored his confidence. He crept forward, to hide both articles in the thick, well pruned pine, his nose rubbing against the pungent greenery as he jammed both into the branches, to a point where they could not be seen by any passer-by. Exiting backwards, in the narrow gap between trees and wall, he looked up at the sudden sound of running feet, and the sight of two dark and silent shapes racing towards him produced the dive that took him back into the bush, as much to protect his body as to retrieve his sword.

  He shouted, but the pair heading towards him remained silent. All he saw in the moonlight was the flash of a silver blade.

  It was the trimmed pine that saved him, being thick enough to stop the hands jabbing forward from reaching their target. But confined as he was by both it and the wall worked against him as well. He couldn’t unsheathe his sword, since the hilt had become jammed round a branch. He would die if he stayed still. Even if he could get his weapon clear, the time it would take him to wield it would be more than enough for one of his assailants to plunge a knife into him.

  Instead he ran his hands up the wall, feeling frantically for a hold that could lever him upwards, yelling like a man possessed to alert Hanger’s servants or any passing patrol to his plight, praying that even the most subdued response would scare off the robbers. When his foot slipped George Markham guessed he wasn’t going to make it. Not willing to be stabbed in the back, hanging on to a wall by his fingertips, he dropped back to the ground and dragged himself round so that his back was to the cold, crumbling masonry. The robbers had taken one side of the bush each, and were pushing in behind it to get at him. Rather than wait for both, he rushed one. As he jabbed forward with his left hand he hit something metal and sharp, though he could feel no pain.

  The weight of his body took the footpad out into clear space, and he fell backwards in a flurry of pine needles, stabbing again, though fruitlessly. The point of his blade, slowed by Markham’s hold, was deflected by the knotted aiguillette on Markham’s shoulder. Vaguely, he was aware of sounds from the other side of the wall, the shouts of alarmed servants coming to investigate the commotion. He was also alive to the fact that the man he’d attacked had ceased to try and kill him personally. Instead he was intent on holding him so that his companion could do the job with ease. His hands pushed against the rough cloth of the coat, in a vain attempt to get clear, the smell of the man, a mixture of stale sweat and garlic, in his nostrils.

  The other shout, being on the outside of the wall, was loud enough to freeze every motion. In the moonlight, what they saw was like a ghostly apparition, a dark, nearly black face with a thin white strip around the brow. Markham reacted first, getting one hand free enough to land a blow on his attacker’s cheek. It lacked the force to knock him out. But with whoever had come to his rescue moving forward to engage the man intent on knifing him, it provided just enough time to get partially clear, as well as enough space to allow him to grab hold of the arm that still held a knife.

  The words that passed his ear were neither French, English nor even Italian. But the boot that took him in the side was international in its language and effect. Not only did it remove every ounce of air from his lungs; it sent him rocketing sideways as the man beneath him simultaneously heaved. He rolled hard against the wall, his feet scrabbling uselessly to give him the purchase that would allow him to dodge the follow-up blow.

  But the man who’d kicked him had moved away, which allowed Markham to haul himself upright and attempt to marshal his senses. Sounds began to filter into his brain, as he tried hard to focus. His attackers were yelling incomprehensibly to each other, one engaged in what looked like a duel between a bayonet and a knife, while the other was gesticulating wildly. The Villa Ancona had lights in every window, as well as servants in the garden, calling over the wall behind him to demand an explanation. Third, and most important, was the heavy tread of military boots as a British army patrol came towards them. It was that which made the villains run rather than stay. They were gone quickly, mere ghostly shadows again, by the time the soldiers entered the square.

  What had been a small empty piazza now became crowded, as first the patrol, then Hanger’s servants appeared. Soon every house had disgorged its occupants, everyone carrying lanterns, curious to find out the reason for the commotion. Winded, with a thudding pain in his ribs, George Markham pulled himself upright. His head, once he was erect, came up last. The black eyes of Marine Eboluh Bellamy searched his face, the large whites matching the thin strip of bandage that remained round his head.

  ‘Lieutenant Markham,’ he said, his voice carrying a trace of shock.

  ‘Bellamy?’ Markham answered weakly.

  ‘Stand out of the way, you bastards,’ demanded a gruff North Country voice, accompanied by the sound of weapon butts hitting the ground. The crowd, which had gathered very quickly, parted to reveal a barrel-chested army sergeant, wearing a provost’s sash, big enough in his bulk to conceal the men following him. ‘What in the name of buggery is going on here?’

  Markham pushed himself off the wall and shoved Bellamy aside, the stinging pain he felt the first indication that his hand had a deep gash. The look that was needed to confirm that slowed his response. But even before he spoke, the sergeant had taken in the cut of his uniform, and the scowl on his face evaporated as he pulled himself to attention.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Sergeant.’

  ‘Braithwaite, sir. Twentieth foot. Might I be permitted to enquire what occurred here, sir?’

  ‘A couple of footpads sought to rob me.’ As he spoke, he saw the sergeant’s eyes flick towards Bellamy, whose red marine coat was just as well lit as Markham’s. ‘Had it not been for my servant here, I would most certainly have been killed.’

  Markham hoped the note of sudden inspiration, so obvious to him, wasn’t equally apparent to the sergeant, who was now openly eyeing Bellamy up and down. This time the man’s colour worked in his favour. The curfew applied to the Negro as much as it did to any other ranker. But if a gentleman chose to take a servant along with him, and a black man could be nothing other, then that was that officer’s business.

  ‘It seems you took the brunt of matters, sir,’ the sergeant responded. Clearly he’d noted the pristine state of Bellamy’s garments, as opposed to Markham’s, and was wondering how an officer could be so attacked while his servant stood by unharmed.

  ‘I was on the way to pay a visit,’ Markham added quickly, determined to keep talking, even though it caused him pain, ‘and I realised that I left something behind, so I sent my servant back to my quarters to fetch it.’

  ‘Chancy, your honour.’ As Braithwaite said this, his men pushed forward behind him, opening up the crowd so that they too could see the sorry object in the middle. Several of the locals were more taken with the Negro than Markham, pointing to him and gesticulating. Not so the Provost Sergeant, who was also looking at Bellamy, but with narrowed eyes. ‘Had we come across him out of your company, we has the right to put a ball in him, or take him up before the Provost Marsh
al.’

  ‘I thought it worth the risk,’ Markham responded, as the sergeant, and several of his men, sucked in enough air through their teeth to let him know he was wrong. Markham turned to Bellamy, looking at him hard, commanding him by gaze alone to join in the subterfuge. ‘Did you get the snuffbox?’

  Bellamy was sharp-witted enough, when he answered, not to use his normal, well modulated voice, though the patois he employed, in Markham’s opinion, went too far in the opposite direction. ‘No Massa. I a’heared you a’yelling, so ah comes a’running.’

  ‘He used his bayonet to chase them off,’ Markham added, as much to shut Bellamy up as to provide information.

  ‘Just as well, your honour. I would have had no mind to come across your body, full of holes, with a darkie private running around who was your servant. Might have gone hard against the bugger.’

  ‘The people who attacked me were Corsicans!’ snapped Markham, incensed at the automatic assumption that Bellamy would have been taken as the guilty party.

  ‘Are you sure of that, sir?’

  He was about to affirm it emphatically, when the image of his attackers came to mind. What doubts he’d carried evaporated as he realised it was the same outline as he’d seen, in that split second, on the beach at Fornali fort: that odd coxcomb flopping to one side on the hat, the short, dark, tight-fitting coats. The men who attacked him were not just islanders, but Corsican soldiers.

  ‘Yes,’ he replied, adding no more.

  ‘Do you need a surgeon, sir?’ Braithwaite inquired, indicating his cut and bleeding left hand.

  ‘I suppose I will.’

  The sergeant then barked at Bellamy. ‘Take that bandage off your damned head, man, and give it to your master.’

  ‘It’s all right, sergeant. If I hold it up against my chest it won’t bleed too much.’