Lanester, tweaking his fresh linen, ignored him and addressed Markham, who was polishing his own boots, holding them up so that they reflected the light of a dozen candles. ‘You should be grateful, Lieutenant, that it’s only one dinner. If I’d accepted all that was offered, including an invite to hunt, we’d be here for ten days.’
‘What do we say to them, if they probe further? They’re not going to believe that our mission is purely social, regardless of how much you smile.’
‘Acknowledge the truth, up to a point. No sense in denying what they’ll already have guessed. Just say we’re going to see Paoli to ask him to redouble his efforts to help us. Hint that we’re not concerned about Bastia, but Calvi. That will make sense, since the defences around Calvi are naturally stronger.’
‘So we need more troops?’
‘That’s a good idea. If you’re stuck, mention that there are several regiments sitting to the south of Calvi, outside Ajaccio, which don’t seem to be doing much.’
‘And my being here?’
‘Coincidence, man!’ Lanester barked.
‘There,’ barked Pavin, as Markham opened his mouth to respond, ‘best I can manage.’
Markham sat for a moment, unconvinced. But a growl from Pavin forced him to take his coat, and examine the expert repair. The thick gold threads entwined across each shoulder, made from the same material as Lanester’s epaulettes, were once more a perfect match, as good as new. He opened his mouth to offer thanks, but Lanester’s servant didn’t wait for him to speak.
‘What’s that Sawney Jock sergeant of yours like?’
‘You,’ Markham replied, acidly, ‘when it comes to respect for officers.’
That brought forth a snorting laugh from Lanester, and an even deeper glare from Pavin. ‘That wagon I’ve set them to guard with their lives has all the major’s rations on it, along with his gifts for General Paoli, which is only fittin’. Others might wonder what it’s doing loaded with the packs of lazy soddin’ escorts.’
‘They won’t steal it, if that’s what you think.’
‘They won’t, eh! Then they’s the first Lobsters that I’ve met that ain’t got sticky claws. If’n so much as a sip of claret goes missing …’
‘Do be quiet, Pavin,’ said Lanester, without much in the way of emphasis, as he struggled to do up his waistcoat.
Markham had watched the cases of fine wine loaded, some for consumption on the journey, others for General Paoli. He knew as well as anyone the temptations brought on by the presence of drink, and had issued strict orders to Rannoch regarding pilfering. With his usual shrewd appreciation of where trouble might lie, Rannoch had put Ettrick and Quinlan in charge of guarding it, and the pair now stood between the rankers’ tents, at permanent attention, poachers forced to turn gamekeepers.
‘Are you ready, Lieutenant?’ Lanester asked, consulting his watch.
‘I am,’ he replied gloomily, slipping on his coat. Pavin, in a propriatorial way, immediately began to brush the shoulders.
‘You stay on the bloody duckboards, both of you,’ he grumbled as he fussed around. ‘I ain’t polished them boots to perfection just so you can turn up muddy to your knees.’
Both Markham and Lanester, responding affirmatively and simultaneously, sounding like children speaking to a mother. They were then hustled out through the flap with an injunction to step out, lest they be late. The Corsican officers, a round dozen of them, not only the generals but their escorting ensigns as well, were standing waiting for them. They filled the door of the convent dining room, the largest in the cluster of buildings that comprised headquarters.
The walls were, apart from various religious artifacts, bare and white, the roof the beamed interior of the thatch which covered it. But the table, normally the communal eating place of the nuns, was well laid, with enough silver to make a decent show. And the officers had dressed for the occasion, replacing their plain brown, workaday uniforms. Now they wore dark blue coats, faced and cuffed in orange. Markham, as he was ushered to his place, couldn’t help looking hard at the faces of the men who’d invited them, wondering which one was responsible for trying to kill him.
General Arena, the commander, who had rather a stiff manner to go with his height and sallow, marked complexion, set himself to be as agreeable as he could to his two guests, recounting anecdotes about the earlier battles with the French, when he had been but a junior line officer. Grimaldi, who’d told Markham similar tales at Hood’s dinner, was as pleasant as ever, never leaving a British glass anything other than brim-full. The behaviour of the rest of the officers ranged from formally polite to openly friendly. Of the general officers, only Buttafuco seemed rather morose, drinking little, somewhat distracted, when he did look at them eyeing the pair of guests with little warmth. But the wine flowed, and food was consumed, so that whatever reservations Markham might have had soon evaporated. At least here, in public, he was safe, and felt he might as well enjoy himself, and swap soldierly tales with some relish.
The Corsican officers were intrigued by his service in Russia, to them a land as foreign as the moon. The Czarina Catherine had at one time offered to take over the protection of the island, an act which had only served to make the French even more zealous in their conquest. He tried to describe the country and its people, the problems of fighting with an army in the tens of thousands, often through country so open that there was nothing but a few trees between you and the horizon. The Corsicans responded with tales of battles in the dense woods and valleys, known locally as the marchetta, where men, while they might only be engaged in the hundreds, struggled with a ferocity often bred of differing kinds of desperation.
‘Our aim,’ said Arena, ‘was always to avoid set-piece battles, on any other terrain than that which we deliberately chose.’
‘Very necessary,’ responded Lanester, ‘when your enemy always musters superior numbers.’
‘The classic dilemma for a small nation, gentlemen,’ said Grimaldi. ‘The ability to win every skirmish, but how to win so major a battle that a more numerous foe will give up?’
‘And give way to another conqueror,’ added Buttafuco.
‘Genoa gave up,’ said Lanester, to cover what was clearly a certain amount of embarrassment. ‘And, with British assistance, so will France.’
‘Everyone has heard of Nonza,’ said Markham, to back Lanester up. ‘Let that stand as an example.’
That reference to the Nonza fort produced grins all round, as well as a noisy toast. It was indeed an inspiring tale, from the age before the Revolution. Nonza had been held by a certain Giacomo Casella, whose garrison deserted him after General Grandmaison inflicted a particularly serious defeat on the Corsican forces to the south. Casella, when the enemy approached, had fired off every piece of artillery himself, plus all the muskets, shouting commands from the battlements that convinced the French the fort was still manned. They offered honourable terms to avoid bloodshed, which Casella, having consulted with his ‘fellows’, accepted. He then marched out, fully armed, between twin files of astonished French grenadiers, to reveal that he’d been the only man in the place. The story had spread round Europe like wildfire, and was one that could always be used to silence anyone from the French military if he became too bumptious.
That set the senior officers off on the full gamut of Corsican legends. As he listened, Markham was impressed by what these men, as well as their predecessors, had achieved. Boswell had published his book about the independence struggle and the man who led it many years previously, one of those tomes he’d promised he would read, but never got round to. But many of his acquaintances had, and they spoke of the place often enough to provide him with a vague understanding of how titanic a struggle it had been.
Even the women of Corsica, it seemed, had taken up arms against the invaders, fighting and dying alongside their men, refusing to countenance withdrawal, even when ordered to do so. Once launched into that kind of nonsense, and full of drink, their manners deserted
them. It was no longer a conversation, but a lecture. They went on and on till he became bored, often repeating themselves in their desire to impress, each time increasing the detail until it seemed every individual musket shot, in every skirmish, needed to be recounted. The Corsicans were brave, even, it seemed, the womenfolk, while the enemy, French and Genoese, were low dogs who never fought in a fair way. It was like all national tales, more one-sided the more it was told, the myths by which any people sustained themselves, underlying the conviction of their own superiority.
Chapter fourteen
‘We fought the French to a standstill in four campaigns,’ said Arena for the third time. He was now very drunk, his face no longer sallow, but red from heat and alcohol.
Lanester, fearing that he would recount every battle again, raised his glass. ‘To the bravery of the Corsican soldier.’
‘And the British soldier,’ Arena responded, once he’d drained his own glass and had it refilled.
‘Let us not forget the marines,’ said Buttafuco, who’d continued to drink sparingly.
‘The marines,’ slurred Grimaldi, who was sitting right next to Markham. Then he leant over with a leer, pushing his goblet under his guest’s nose. ‘And, of course, their nocturnal adventures.’
That made Markham look at him hard. Grimaldi was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with his own wit. His dark eyes sparkled and the candlelight, coming from the side, made his prominent nose stand out even more.
‘We had Colonel Hanger at this very table less than a week ago,’ said Buttafuco.
‘A fine officer,’ said Lanester, trying to deflect the conversation away from what he suspected might be coming.
Buttafuco was not going to be put off, even if he did avoid eye contact when he continued. ‘With a beautiful wife, I understand.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Markham stiffly.
‘In Corsica, we kill men who trifle with our womenfolk. They are like traitors, these people who creep about in the night. They deserve the knife.’
Markham knew he had to remain quiet. He wanted to scream out about the men who’d died in their foxholes at Fornali, of his own near miss in San Fiorenzo. But he couldn’t, and it had nothing to do with the warning look and the emphatic shake of the head from Lanester, a clear injunction to ‘stay calm’. He dropped his eyes for a brief moment before looking up again. It took him a few seconds to realise that the Corsicans were not interested in him, not waiting for him to respond. They all had their eyes on Lanester. Had he, by his reaction, unwittingly confirmed what they must already suspect; that Markham had possession of some rejoinder damning enough to silence them, information that both men would be on the way to Corte to pass on to Pasquale Paoli?
Whatever else was going on behind those eyes, the mood had been totally destroyed. Buttafuco particularly became more and more morose. The speed with which the dinner broke up was almost obscene, the partings having none of the geniality of their welcome. Lanester and Markham left a room full of small knots of officers, all talking in hushed animation. Guards, in the same orange-faced uniform, saluted their passing as they left the main building. The chill of the night air was a welcome relief, Lanester holding his tongue until they were well out of earshot.
‘I fear, despite all my previous efforts, that I might have given the game away.’
‘You think Buttafuco set out to trap us.’
‘If he did, he succeeded.’
‘Might I suggest we post our own guards tonight.’
‘That would be wise,’ Lanester growled. ‘But tell the men the password is Nebbio. I don’t want them shooting some innocent local out of his tent for a piss.’
Markham woke a slumbering Rannoch and gave him his orders, and between them they placed the sentinels and worked out the watches. All around them, in the darkness, fires twinkled, and in the distance Markham could see the torches lining the walls of the French redoubts. With Rannoch on the first watch, and Halsey taking the second, he fell into a shallow sleep troubled both by drink consumed, vivid imaginings, and the loud snoring of Major Lanester, so that when he was roused by the Highlander, long before dawn, he felt as though he hadn’t slept at all.
‘I have been watching them for an age,’ said Rannoch, his voice as level and well paced as ever, despite describing what to his officer sounded like a nightmare. Behind them Lanester’s snores rose to a crescendo, so loud that even he couldn’t stand it. The sudden silence, as he snorted then fell quiet, made the sergeant’s voice sound louder. ‘They are dressed in the local way. Two of them, creeping round as if searching for an opening. But that is all they have done.’
In just his shirtsleeves, on a moonlit night, Markham knew he’d be like a beacon. So, having strapped on his sword, he donned his dark blue cloak and followed Rannoch, who had his grey cape on, as the Highlander slid out into the chilly, clear night air. He could see the circuit of his own piquet, each man with a white cloth tied to the tip of his bayonet, but not Rannoch’s Corsicans. It was easy to think of himself and Lanester as the targets, but the fate of the men at Fornali haunted Markham; the notion, one he could not rid himself of, that the very same could befall both him and his command. So when he finally saw the figures moving on the edge of their tents, he had his pistol up and aimed. Only Rannoch’s hand stopped him from blazing off at what was suddenly just a hint of a floppy round cap behind a tree.
‘We do not know for certain who they are.’
‘I do.’
Rannoch swept his free arm in a small arc, his voice soft and insistent. ‘We cannot go shooting at people for crawling around their own encampment.’
‘I can when I feel threatened,’ Markham hissed.
‘If they do not have firearms, and we can get close enough, perhaps we can catch hold of one of them.’
Markham thought for a moment before replying. ‘I’d rather scare and chase them, to see where they go.’
Rannoch must have picked up the note of excitement in his officer’s voice, since his own sounded worried. ‘They might lead us straight into a trap.’
Markham’s hand was already under his cape, the scrape of his sword leaving the scabbard covered by a renewed bout of noise from Lanester. He jerked his arm to dislodge Rannoch’s grip, then stood up and began to walk deliberately towards the spot where he’d last seen that head in the flop-sided round cap. The guttural cry of alarm was followed by the sound of scurrying feet. Markham shouted ‘Halt!’ Rannoch, with more sense, called to the guards to fall back on the tents and stand fast.
There was no wisdom in what Markham was doing, only a fierce anger, manifested in racing blood and a stream of Irish curses, as he plunged after the men he thought were trying to kill him. Rannoch was at his heels, musket raised, fixing his bayonet on the run, pleading to be allowed to catch up. What slowed Markham was the realisation that he had no idea where his quarry had gone. But he didn’t stop, he kept moving at a fast walk, his eyes ranging around the silent rows of tents, flickering low fires, the only sounds those of a camp full of sleeping men, with the odd rattle of a musket as a sentry moved his weapon in response to the password.
‘There,’ murmured Rannoch, pointing to a line of trees, tall swaying poplars at the southern end of the camp. Markham just saw a fleeting image, the same kind of silhouette he remembered so well. But the hand on his shoulder stopped him from giving immediate chase. ‘They are leading us on, sir, surely.’
‘Then let us follow them.’
‘Slowly.’
Markham nodded and agreed, though the desire to race on was strong. But Rannoch was right. To pursue at the run would rob them of any advantage. ‘Use the trees.’
They leap-frogged from trunk to trunk, weapons raised, every nerve strained to hear or see danger. It was Markham who saw it first, the very faint glim of a lantern light that filtered through the trees in a small grove of pines. He dropped to a crouch, Rannoch following suit. At his next signal, the pair crept towards the edge of the wood, picking up the first hi
nt of voices as they reached the edge of the trees. Soft and slightly damp pine needles made their progress silent, until they reached a point where they could see some of what was happening in the clearing.
‘Who are they?’ Rannoch whispered.
‘My guess is that the man facing you,’ Markham whispered, his hand pointing to the knot of blue-coated officers, one seated, the other standing, ‘is General Lacombe St Michel, the French commander.’
The hum of voices rose and fell as the slight breeze made the pines above their head sigh. Markham moved a few paces closer, so that the faces of those in the lamplight became clearer. ‘And facing him is one of the Corsican commanders, a man I had dinner with earlier, General Arsenio Buttafuco.’
There were several more officers in their dull brown uniforms. But Markham wasn’t looking at them. His eyes had suddenly fixed on the sharp Moorish face of a man in a bottle-green coat. He’d been standing a few paces to the rear of the seated French General, but had stepped forward to say something. Even at this distance, Markham imagined he could see the cruelty in the man’s eyes, the sneer that was so often on his lips it seemed habitual. But it was Rannoch who whispered the name, not him.
‘Fouquert.’ Then he added, after a pause. ‘It would be nice to know what they are saying.’
Markham, even if his voice was low, was obviously angry. ‘I think I can guess.’
‘If this is a secret gathering, why are there no guards?’
Markham jerked as though he’d been physically jabbed, and he span round, not sparing Rannoch a glance as he began to crawl away. He took a different route out of the copse, using thick undergrowth to stay hidden, only stopping when one outreaching hand touched the still, warm body. Steadying himself as Rannoch bumped into his back, Markham ran his hands up the arms to the shoulder, then on to the face. He could smell sweat and the acrid odour of urine, feel the moustache and the open mouth. His hand dropped into the wetness of what he thought was the neck, which produced a gasp as he realised his fingertips were dipped into still-running blood.
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