Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘No point in blackstrap with decent grub,’ Lanester replied, somewhat more guardedly. ‘Besides, most of them are a present for that friend I told you of.’

  ‘He must be a person you value very highly.’

  ‘He is,’ Lanester replied noncommittally.

  Markham made a point of looking straight ahead then. Had Lanester really got away without mentioning Paoli? If he had, then Fouquert knew nothing of their mission, or of the problems with the Corsican command. Lanester certainly wouldn’t have volunteered it, of course. Quite the opposite. It could only be due to Duchesne, interfering and stopping Fouquert from pushing too hard. And even now the cavalryman showed not the slightest trace of any desire to enquire further.

  ‘Then what a pity, Major, that we are at war, for it is a love I share. I was born in Burgundy, home to the finest food and wine in all of France. In other circumstances I’m sure we could spend many a happy hour conversing over what is produced there.’

  ‘Hélas ce n’est pas possible,’ said Bellamy. ‘La guerre, malhereusement.’

  Chapter eighteen

  Duchesne’s head snapped round to look at the Negro ‘You speak French?’

  The formality with which Bellamy replied was well designed to show off his familiarity with the language. And where Lanester had an American accent, and Mar kham’s was larded with the slang of common usage, Bellamy was so perfect in his grammar and his fluency that he could have been declaiming a poem by Ronsard.

  ‘I have the good fortune,’ he concluded, ‘to have been taught French at an early age, when the facility of learning is at its most receptive.’

  Duchesne was looking at his rough, grey flannel shirt, breeches and boots, clearly the attire of a ranker, wondering why such a creature should sound so like a very well bred officer.

  ‘Are you from a French sugar island?’

  ‘No, Captain, a British one.’

  ‘We educate our slaves well,’ said Lanester sarcastically.

  ‘I am, sir, no one’s slave.’ Bellamy responded, without much in the way of respect.

  Lanester pushed himself up the wall; his bulk, which hunched up had made him look small, now produced the opposite effect.

  ‘I’d like to hear you say that in Virginia, boy. And that there look in your eye would be worth a hundred lashes all on its own.’

  ‘Happy to oblige, sir,’ said Sharland, with a small, slightly mocking bow. ‘An’ I’ll sew them soup plates the sod terms lips to one another, if you so desire. That’ll put a cap on his cheek.’

  A ripple of laughter made its way through the rows of seated men, some of whom raised their tied wrists to encourage Sharland. Bellamy was almost shaking in his desire to reply.

  ‘History tells us that the dregs of England’s gaols were used to populate the Virginia Colony.’

  ‘Damn you,’ snapped Lanester, in a voice that left the dragoon officer, without any understanding of English, bemused. But it attracted the attention of Fouquert, who had been talking earnestly to some of Duchesne’s men. Lanester was on his feet now, his fat face bright red with anger. ‘If I had my crop, you’d feel it on your hide this second.’

  ‘Odd,’ Bellamy continued, his voice controlled, and full of hauteur, ‘that the bloodline of indentured thieves and vagabonds, who consorted carnally with their black chattels, feel the right to lord it over men of pure inheritance.’

  ‘I’ll lord it over your flaying, you black devil!’ shouted Lanester, stung to the quick. ‘Your blood will flow like a river. You’ll scream for mercy before I get through with you.’

  Pavin had his face pressed close to that of Bellamy, his voice a harsh screech, as he pounded weakly on the Negro’s chest with his bound hands.

  ‘How dare you talk on the major so, you fuckin’ arse-lickin’ ape!’

  ‘What is this about?’ demanded Fouquert, of a Duchesne who could only shrug. He addressed the same question, in good English, to Bellamy.

  ‘I was trying to remind my white brothers that we are all equal in God’s eyes, though I find his tolerance of such endemic ignorance personally displeasing. Clearly, he has not read The Declaration of the Rights of Man.’

  ‘And you have?’ asked Fouquert.

  ‘Most certainly. If you wish I shall recite it for you, in either French, English or Latin.’

  Fouquert was standing right in front of Markham by the time he decided to intervene. ‘Bellamy! Shut your mouth.’

  The Negro replied with eyes opened wide, lower lip dropped, the very image of a man bemused and hurt. ‘But sir?’

  ‘Just remember that one day you might be back in a British camp. And so will Major Lanester. He’s not likely to miss you in a crowd.’

  ‘He won’t get a chance to skin the bastard alive if’n I’m there,’ growled Sharland.

  ‘Come here,’ demanded Fouquert, his finger crooked at Bellamy.

  ‘Stay still,’ Markham commanded.

  The kick Fouquert delivered was vicious and painful, just below Markham’s knee. ‘Shut up, you scum.’

  ‘Monsieur!’ cried a shocked Duchesne.

  ‘Never mind that horsehair-stuffed dummy,’ Fouquert continued. ‘I will get my hands on you, never fear. And I intend to enjoy myself. You will know the meaning of the word pain. Women find you handsome, I’m told. But they will recoil from you when I am finished with your face. I’ll leave you deaf, dumb, blind and a castrato. You will pay for what you did to me a hundred times over.’

  Fouquert was upright again, barking at Bellamy. ‘You! come here! Now!’

  As soon as Bellamy stood up, hands knocked his legs, so that he fell heavily amongst his fellows, all of whom, either openly or secretly, took the opportunity to fetch him a blow. It was ignominious rather than painful. Markham ploughed into the mass of bodies to rescue him, dragging him to the front, and throwing him into the clear.

  ‘Why, our lieutenant is a saint as well,’ said Fouquert, with a wicked grin, as he pushed Bellamy towards one of the monks’ cells. ‘Perhaps he will bear pain with the fortitude of one.’

  Then he turned to Duchesne, his voice becoming harsh. ‘I have had a word with some of your men, Captain, several of whom have more brains than you. At least they know about their duty to the Revolution. The officers will be tied up, as I requested. If you choose to dispute this command there are those quite willing to take your place, and complete our mission.’

  Duchesne looked at his men, some of whom returned his stare without flinching. ‘There is no one there above the rank of corporal. You’d be a fool to trust to such men the task we need to perform, never mind getting you safe back to Bastia.’

  ‘They’re soldiers, and therefore all I need, since they can follow my orders. You may think you know who I am, but you underestimate me. I have the power to make any man in this room an officer, which General Lacombe will be obliged to confirm, or face his own removal. The same applies to you, Duchesne, if you do not obey me. Believe me, I will endow my choice with the legitimate authority not only to replace you, but to eliminate you if he feels your presence endangers our operation.’

  The pause was indication enough that the dragoon officer would have to back down, especially since three or four of his troopers had edged forward, an eager look in their eyes. Typically, Fouquert had sought out his malcontents before he’d made the threat. But the captain had his dignity to consider. He would not give way completely. He flicked a hand towards Markham.

  ‘And what of this gentleman?’

  The grin with which Fouquert responded made Markham think of the wolves he’d encountered in Russia. ‘That is a man I owe much to. But what is a day or two after several months? I can wait for my revenge, captain. It is, after all, a dish better taken cold. Now tie both officers up – in Lieutenant Markham’s case, lash both his hands and his feet. And search the major carefully before you do it.’

  Duchesne opened his mouth to protest, but closed it again. Fouquert, now clearly in control, nodded to the two troopers
closest to the prisoners. They looked at their captain, who gave a curt nod. Within a couple of minutes both British officers were trussed up, Markham like a Christmas goose.

  ‘Is there anywhere in this globe that you don’t have enemies, Markham?’ moaned Lanester, as he sought to ease the tight bindings on his wrist. ‘Talk about jumping out of the skillet into the fire. I should have left you to Hanger.’

  ‘I wish you had,’ Markham replied, his eyes fixed on the back of the bottle-green, civilian coat. His experience tended to make him believe that when people delivered threats, they rarely carried out that which they promised. But that was not a view he could hold about Fouquert. He’d meant every word he’d said, which sent a frisson of fear shooting through Markham’s whole being.

  The tight knots began to interfere with the supply of his blood. Lanester was in a similar state, though in his case an appeal for some relief, made directly to Fouquert, produced an easing of his bonds. Markham’s request was ignored, and he watched as the soldiers moved the pews and set up two tables at the far end of the room at which to eat. There had to be a kitchen beyond those cells, since the odour of cooking food filled the chapel.

  Fouquert and Duchesne, sitting at the smaller of the two tables, had already started on Lanester’s wine, a privilege they clearly intended should extend no further, since the troopers were drinking their own rations. They were sitting opposite each other talking, though in a stiff and formal manner. Bellamy, standing to one side, was invited by Fouquert to join them, which he did with some alacrity, causing Duchesne to stand up abruptly. He was ordered to sit down again, and did so.

  They weren’t still for long. The door burst open, and one of the outside guards, set to mind the horses, came rushing in. The sound of a solitary pair of hooves made it unnecessary to strain forward for the words he whispered to Duchesne. Both the captain and Fouquert stood up, indicated to Bellamy to remain still, and then went outside, closing the door behind then. Whoever the visitor was, he didn’t remain long and the sound of his departure coincided with the return of the two Frenchmen. Bellamy, in their absence, had helped himself to several cups of wine, each one gulped down.

  Not that this seemed to offend Fouquert. Markham watched the way he and Bellamy talked, almost cutting the cavalry officer out of the conversation. The Negro was obviously affected by the wine, more animated in his gestures than his officer had ever seen him. His hands, once they came into play, became almost comical in the extent of their expression. And he never refused a refill. Quite the opposite; he consumed whatever wine was given to him greedily, like a man who needed to drink it, rather than one who took it for pleasure. Markham thought back to the night Bellamy’d saved him outside Hanger’s villa. He’d wondered since what it was he was looking for that night. Now, watching him gulp down the rare and expensive clarets, plus the way his whole demeanour seemed to have altered, he thought he knew.

  Fouquert kept pace with Bellamy, and Markham also watched him down his drink with some interest. On two occasions before he’d seen him succumb to excess at what turned out to be a critical time. He might do so tonight, and allow them a chance to effect something. But then, against that, Markham knew that drunks lose control, and that if Fouquert got too far into the bottle, he might put aside his cold-dish strategy for one of more immediate purpose.

  Rannoch, when the victuals came, had to feed him, Pavin struggling to do the same for a much more comfortable Lanester. As he spooned the meal into Markham’s mouth, they talked quietly, seeking some way to effect an escape. But nothing could alter the fact that they were in a building with only one, guarded door. As for trying to overpower the French, they’d been stripped of everything, coats, hats, packs and all their weapons, which were stacked in the cell.

  ‘That altar stone is marble, and has a broken edge,’ said the Highlander.

  ‘They’ll hear you rubbing against it,’ Markham whispered, indicating from that alone just how much sound carried in the spare stone chapel. Suddenly he pushed forward, almost into a ball, as he sought to put emphasis into the words he wanted to say.

  ‘I don’t think that I am going to survive this, Rannoch.’

  ‘It will not help to give way to despair.’

  Markham responded with a hollow, humourless chuckle. ‘I’m not giving way, and if that bastard lowers his guard once, and lets me near his windpipe, I’ll take him to hell with me. But you must see to the men.’

  There was a pause, while Markham wondered if Fouquert would extend his revenge to them. If he did, there was nothing that could be done to stop it, and even less point in speculating about it. As far as his Hebes were concerned, he’d be best to stick to the optimistic.

  ‘Ask Duchesne to give you my purse. God knows it contains little, but it might buy you all some food, and help keep you alive till there’s an exchange.’

  Markham opened his mouth to continue, to say the ritual things about contacting relatives. But who was there, really? His father, who in any case had grown distant after his court martial, was dead. His mother was so addicted to poteen that she was barely conscious most of the day. Hannah, his half-sister, would rejoice to hear he was dead, and that the stain on the family name caused by his birth had been expunged. Perhaps Freddy, his gentle half-brother, would care. Certainly he would weep. But Markham had seen him do that too many times to be sure that it contained any depth. Oddly, the face of Lizzie Gordon came to mind, with those twin furrows on her brow that denoted anger.

  ‘If you get a chance to pass a message to Colonel Hanger’s wife, tell her that I am sorry for the trouble I caused her.’

  ‘Look at that black bastard,’ hissed Rannoch, the spoon with which he was feeding his officer pointed at the Negro’s back.

  Bellamy was on his feet, having finished his food, drinking with gusto, he held two of Lanester’s bottles in his hands as he traipsed round the room dispensing drink and good cheer. He’d borrowed Fouquert’s long tricolor sash, and wound it round himself like a Roman toga. Elaborate gestures, clearly of a salacious nature, matched his sallies. Whatever he was saying, the words lost in the general merriment, was producing great mirth, even from the normally humourless Fouquert. In contrast, Lanester was complaining bitterly under his breath, while Rannoch was near to grinding his teeth.

  ‘I did not have time for him, but I swear I never thought to see him in betrayal.’

  ‘Can you blame him, Rannoch?’ Markham replied softly. ‘Even you saw fit to club him with a musket.’

  Rannoch didn’t make any attempt to deny it, and his voice, always so even and slow, became quite animated. ‘I will do a sight more than that should I get him near the branch of a tree. The bastard will dance more than he does now, but without the benefit of a floor.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Lanester, who was straining forward to hear what Rannoch was saying. ‘There’s no trusting the tribe of Joab, not ever.’

  ‘I’ve heard good men say that about the tribe of Catholics,’ Markham replied, not sure why he was still taking Bellamy’s part.

  ‘Hang ’em too, I say,’ Lanester responded bitterly, challenging the lieutenant to admit to his own religious background. Even in extremis, Markham declined to be drawn. Lanester carried on, his voice full of the unreasoned hate which seemed to go with adherence to the Thirty-Nine Articles. ‘We’ve got a room full of the swine, right here, the popish bastards. And I bet you that turd over there, the thin one that loves you so much, had it in mind to be a priest at one time in his life.’

  Markham looked at Fouquert. There was an ascetic quality to the dark-skinned, fine-boned face, disapproval of sin in the thin, bloodless lips. Certainly there was fanaticism in the black, piercing eyes. Some men of the cloth shared those Jesuitical attributes. But he’d known gentle priests too, men who had given up all chance of creature comfort to tend to rural flocks of poor Irish croppies.

  ‘Where are the monks?’ he asked suddenly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘This place wasn�
��t empty. It couldn’t have been, not with all that livestock. So where are they, the men who lived here?’

  ‘Who cares,’ replied Lanester, his face screwed up with his own personal discomfort. ‘Let the Rome worshippers fry in hell for my money. I’ve had too many of the swine under my own command to care much for the breed.’

  Rannoch had been silent while the Major was cursing Catholics. Though they’d never discussed it, Markham wondered if that, and not the strict Scottish Calvinism, was his true religion. The Highlander spoke now, and all his hatred of officers spilled into a condemnation of Lanester’s attitude.

  ‘I daresay you have seen a few killed by your own hand, that has marched them to a death they neither sought nor deserved.’

  ‘You cannot speak to me like that, Sergeant,’ said Lanester, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘I have spoken to better than you in the same vein, Major, and I have the scars on my back as a testimony to how they respond to the plain truth.’

  ‘You also have that M branded on your thumb, though you try damn well to hide it.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rannoch replied, looking down at the raised letter. ‘And I am surely ashamed of it. But not for reasons the likes of you would understand. The pity of it is, that if I had only swung my musket round, I could have killed the stupid swine that earned it for me. Instead, a poor innocent colonial died, for nothing more than causing fright to a commissioned fool.’

  ‘Where?’ Markham asked.

  Rannoch, who normally frowned at any enquiry into his past, smiled at him, his whole square face lighting up as he did so. And his blue eyes twinkled, as he jerked his branded thumb at Lanester.

  ‘It might be that I would tell you, sure as you are that perdition is close. But I’ll not satisfy this one, who is no better, in the way that he betrayed his own, than that jigging black over yonder.’

  Lanester was speechless, faced with an accusation he hadn’t heard for fifteen years, probably because he steered clear of anyone inclined to make it. And Rannoch, despite his lower rank, had a natural dignity the pot-bellied major lacked.