Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  Markham went to examine Lanester as soon as he could see, the dark stain of blood on the shirt-front plain even in the gloom. Pavin pointed to the gap in the linen, and told Markham of the hole in his chest that lay beneath it, just above his right nipple. He described the wound as a dark, puckered hollow in the soft flesh opposite the heart.

  ‘It’s best left to a sawbones, your honour. Without we knows the track of the ball, we can’t say ’ow serious it is. But it’s no small matter, even if it has missed ’is vitals.’

  There was a tenderness in Pavin’s voice that Markham had never heard before, an indication that for all his endemic rudeness he cared deeply for the Major. Asked to give up his shirt for bandages, Markham did so willingly. But he himself was as worried as Lanester’s servant. That wound sounded deep, painful and likely to become quickly infected if not properly treated.

  ‘What a fine predicament,’ he said to Rannoch, as behind him Pavin tore his shirt to shreds. The Highlander, because of his fair stubble, at least looked something like his normal self. ‘No food, no weapons of any kind to kill some or defend ourselves, and an enemy that will be in here after us as soon as they’ve finished their breakfast.’

  ‘I doubt they’ll come after us, sir,’ said Bellamy.

  Markham had to peer hard to see the Negro, who was well hidden by his makeshift bed, which he seemed to have occupied on his own. He still had the tricolor sash he’d been wearing the previous night, and was thus the only one with some kind of covering to ward off the cold.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Fouquert’s solution was to kill you all.’

  ‘He still might,’ growled Rannoch.

  Markham put his hand on his sergeant, to calm and quieten him so that Bellamy could speak. In the background, Lanester groaned as Pavin sat him up to apply the rough bandages.

  ‘Do you need any help, Pavin?’

  All the previous irascibility had returned, and was in his negative reply. Markham turned his attention back to Bellamy.

  ‘Tell me what happened.’

  ‘Fouquert and Duchesne were at odds about the risks involved in holding us captive. The captain said that it would do nothing to jeopardise their mission. Two troopers could look after as many men, as long as they were armed, and the prisoners were tied.’

  ‘He was right,’ said Markham.

  ‘Not according to Fouquert, who asked where this confinement would take place. When the captain said the chapel he called him a fool.’

  ‘He’s a saint to me.’

  ‘They won’t be staying there, it seems, nor coming back when they go, so Fouquert suggested they do to you lot what they’d done to the monks.’

  ‘And what was that?’ asked Markham, who had a horrible fear that he knew.

  ‘Strangled them to a man.’

  ‘And Duchesne?’

  ‘Would have nothing to do with it. So Fouquert told him to stick to his soldiering and leave the hard decisions to him.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they told you what their mission was?’ asked Markham.

  ‘Fouquert did, mixed with what he was going to do with you. Mind you, that was when he was very drunk.’

  ‘He was not alone in that,’ said Rannoch sourly.

  Bellamy tapped his head with his knuckles. ‘This might not stop the butt of a musket, Scotsman, but it is enough to drink most men under.’

  ‘What did he say?’ Markham demanded impatiently.

  ‘You must understand his thoughts were less than lucid by then, so it only emerged in dribs and drabs. He spent most of the time boasting about his position with the Committee of Public Safety, and how it would be enhanced after this. Then there were his past exploits, a lot of which were too grisly for Duchesne.’

  Markham had to bite back his annoyance. Clearly Bellamy had no intention of being hurried. He wanted to string out his tale, to demonstrate how clever he’d been. Rannoch knew it too, which accounted for the low growling sound that had replaced his breathing.

  ‘Would that be why he retired early?’ Markham asked, with as much control as he could muster.

  ‘Most certainly. Once Fouquert noticed he was squeamish, he laid on the gore with a trowel.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘There was something about their allies in Corte, Corsicans by the sound of it.’

  ‘Did they say that?’

  ‘Not precisely,’ Bellamy replied, emphasising the final sibilants with infuriating condescension. ‘Duchesne nearly let slip something more revealing, but Fouquert shut him up. Yet once the captain was gone, and he really got into the bottle, he talked about men loyal to Paris, prepared to risk their lives to aid them. The only thing I can say with certainty is that they were not French.’

  Markham was almost resigned as he posed the next question. ‘And what else did he say?’

  Bellamy waved one hand, his face taking on a look of some superiority. It was in his voice too, the tone of a man discussing the actions of lesser mortals.

  ‘A great deal, some of it nonsense about how the whole of Corsica would be subdued when his mission was complete.’

  ‘Which is?’

  The coup de grâce was delivered with an almost foppish air, the sole evidence of Bellamy’s amusement in the enlargement of his eyes. ‘Fouquert has instructions from Paris to enter Corte, which he seems to regard as already arranged. Once in the town he is to arrest General Pasquale Paoli, and take him to France to stand trial for betraying the Revolution.’

  ‘What!’

  Bellamy’s voice went down two octaves, and it slowed right down, so that he sounded like a man addressing a moron.

  ‘They intend to enter Corte, assisted by another faction. I think they called them Buonapartists.’

  The voice changed again, to that foppish tone, as if he was discussing nothing of any importance. But Rannoch grabbed him by the shirt-front, and dragged him close, hissing in his ear what he would do to him, which, even if Bellamy did try to maintain his dignity, brought the last sentence out in a rush.

  ‘He also alluded to the notion, a sudden inspiration I hazard, that they might dress a few of the dragoons in our uniform coats, as an added confusion to their opponents.’

  Chapter twenty

  ‘We’re a day’s march from Corte, Major. It makes sense to see if we can find someone more local.’

  Lanester’s hand moved across the bloodstained shirt, to the edge of the bandages which now swathed his chest, careful to avoid the area close to his wound. His face looked healthy enough, still red and fat, if you discounted the sheen of sweat that covered it.

  ‘You’re not carrying a ball in your chest, Markham. I am.’

  ‘There’s bound to be someone in the nearest village, even if it’s only a mendicant monk, who can provide some help.’

  Lanester wasn’t a good patient, and if he’d been irascible before, because of a loss of comfort, he was even worse now.

  ‘A papist shaman and charlatan, fit only to cure a goat. And I doubt we’ll find better in Corte. I’d rather go all the way back to Bastia, any day, and place my trust to a good old British Army surgeon.’

  Markham was tempted to ask why. In his experience, army medical men were generally there because of their incompetence, not their ability. No one questioned them when a patient died, nor inquired why so much of the rum issued to dull the pain ended up down their throats. Any of them who could have drawn a decent stipend in civilian life would do so rather than submit themselves to the rigours of campaigning.

  ‘We are on foot, sir,’ said Markham, holding up the cutlery knife that Bellamy had used to cut his bonds. ‘And probably without even the ability to rig a stretcher. Which means we’ll have to carry you for some time. That wound has part of your shirt in it, and that’s a sure formula for infection. We need to get you to someone who can deal with it as quickly as possible. Who is less important than when.’

  ‘He’s right, your honour,’ said Pavin leaning forward to come into the Majo
r’s view. ‘We ain’t even got a drop of ardent spirit to be sloshing on the hole.’

  ‘G’damn you, man!’ Lanester growled. ‘Obey my orders.’

  This was followed by a bout of painful coughing. Pavin looked up, his eyes meeting Markham’s. They didn’t need words, just a nod. Lanester, in pain from the constant movement, would be unlikely to have a clue where they were headed. Pavin moved away when Markham indicated that he wanted to continue in private, though the servant, as nosy as all his tribe, stopped well within earshot.

  ‘As you wish, Major,’ Markham lied. ‘But you must rest here a little longer, while I try and find out what alternative there is to a forced march through this labyrinth.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By heading back to the monastery. Bellamy seems to think the French won’t come in here after us.’

  ‘And you believe him?’

  ‘The man just saved your life.’

  ‘Wrong, Markham,’ Lanester responded wearily. ‘He saved yours. I don’t recall mine being at risk until we ran from that damned building.’

  ‘Then you only have yourself to blame, sir,’ Markham replied acidly, though he dropped his voice so low not even Pavin could hear it. ‘Or me. Bellamy wanted to leave you and my men behind.’

  ‘Then I’ll see him hang.’

  ‘You won’t, because I’ll never repeat those words to you or anyone else.’

  There was a wheezing sound in the Major’s chest as he struggled to put force into his next words. ‘You’d take the part of a nigger against your own kind?’

  Markham stood up, wondering whether his reply was the truth or just a convenient response. ‘Nine times out of ten, yes.’

  ‘I was told you were poor quality stock, Markham. After what I saw you do at Fornali I didn’t believe it. Now I’m not so sure.’

  Any number of people could have said that without causing distress. But coming from Lanester, a man he’d initially taken to, it was wounding, regardless of what had happened on the journey. And his response was an involuntary thing, which with more careful consideration he would never have voiced.

  ‘Am I poor enough stock to sacrifice to a Corsican assassin in the lines at Cardo?’

  Lanester tried to push himself onto one elbow, but failed. ‘What are you talking about, man?’

  ‘A convenient way to shorten your journey, Major, by leaving the Corsicans in no doubt that I had information to give Pasquale Paoli. Almost an invitation to the traitor to reveal himself by sticking a knife in my back.’

  Lanester gasped, as much from the effort of breathing as from surprise. His face, red and still sweating, took on an expression beyond physical pain.

  ‘Everything I had to tell Paoli, including what you told me in private, was listed at my insistence, and in case I failed in a letter from Admiral Hood. I hope and pray you believe that to get it, they would have had to kill us both.’

  That produced a sudden bout of coughing, and Lanester turned his head away as Pavin rushed to his side to comfort him. Markham stood for a moment looking at him, wondering where the truth lay, especially since this was the first time he’d heard mention of Hood’s letter. The notion of getting the admiral to write something of that nature made sense, removing any temptation to make Lanester a scapegoat for subsequent failures. Part of him felt he should apologise. It was base to accuse a man in Lanester’s condition of anything. But, in reality, anything said now that the accusation had been aired would be pointless.

  He moved over to Halsey and gave him his orders, basically to stay still and quiet. Then he signalled to Rannoch, who followed him as they retraced their steps towards the monastery. Following the path they had created wasn’t difficult, but neither was it straight. They traversed right and left across the forest, until they heard the distinctive sound of several blades chopping at thin wood.

  ‘So much for the black man,’ hissed Rannoch.

  ‘If they’re carving out a path, we have time to get further into the forest,’ Markham replied.

  But he was also wondering, if there was a limit to how deep they dare go with no food or water. Perhaps it would be better to try and hide any trace of their route, then just stay still and hope the French lost their spoor. He put his hand on Rannoch’s shoulder to indicate retirement. The Scotsman stiffened, hearing a fraction before his officer the sound of a single galloping horse. A shouted exchange followed, indistinct but audible, indicating that the road was closer than Markham had reckoned. By his present calculation, in the dark, they’d covered less than half the distance he’d previously estimated.

  ‘They could have spat on us if they had wished,’ said Rannoch softly, having arrived at a similar conclusion.

  This was imparted in his usual measured way, his ear cocked to make sense of the outcry that followed several loud shouts of alarm. The noise of men hacking at wood ceased. That which followed, hinting almost at panic, went on for some ten minutes, then died down suddenly, to be replaced by the clamour of impatient, stamping animals. Then a clear order floated through the air, followed by the sound of departing horsemen.

  ‘South?’ Markham asked Rannoch, and received a nod in reply. He then moved forward, till he saw the faint outline of the building through the thinning trees. He moved well to his left before crawling further, listening for any sound that would indicate the presence of a remaining horse; a stamping foot or a snort. There was nothing, and when he reached undergrowth thin enough to give him a view of the paddocks, he could see that they, as well as the clearing in front of them, were deserted.

  ‘We should look on the road, sir. I do not think it would be wise just to expose ourselves by walking in through the door.’

  ‘Good idea.’

  They stayed in the trees, going slightly deeper into the forest, using what sunlight filtered through to hold their direction. The highway itself, when they came to it, was clear in both directions, and silent, allowing them to emerge cautiously before turning back towards the opening that led to the monastery. The evidence of the French departure, at the join between the clearing and the road, was clear from fifty yards away, the churned-up earth an indication of a troop of cavalry quitting the scene in some haste.

  ‘That saves the hide of your darkie,’ said Rannoch, with a shrug. ‘They had little time to fasten their girths, never mind to carry on looking for us.’

  ‘You still cannot bring yourself to like him, can you?’

  ‘I would not have it said that it was for the sake of his black skin.’

  ‘You expect me to believe that!’

  Rannoch, by his lights, practically barked back at him. ‘I am not accustomed to being doubted by any man.’

  ‘Then why, for God’s sake?’

  ‘It is one thing to be clever, and no doubt good in its way. But it is coat of another cloth never to let anyone within ten feet of you forget it. And he does the same to you as he does to others. Look at the way he dragged out his tale.’

  ‘We’d best look inside.’ Markham replied, uncomfortable with the way his sergeant was looking at him, challenging him to agree. ‘But slowly.’

  Markham raised the cutlery knife, sharp enough to cut through cooked meat and thin rope, but hardly deadly. At least the sight of it brought a smile back to Rannoch’s lips.

  ‘What can we have to fear? With such magnificent weapons we can take on the whole French army.’

  The sound, as they approached the door, made them pause: a creaking, either like a door or what it turned out to be, a stretched rope. Duchesne was swinging slowly, his face deep purple with the strangulation which had killed him, tongue out and bitten, eyes half out of their sockets with the terror of death. He seemed, with the noose around his neck, to have no chin at all, and more expression in his suffused features than he’d had in life.

  ‘Oh! Jesus Christ,’ whispered Markham, as Rannoch swiftly crossed himself. ‘If you are judged, Captain, let it be by your last act of humanity.’

  ‘Shall I cut him down?�
�

  Markham nodded, then looked at the blunt knife. ‘It would be easier to untie the rope. We’ll lay him in one of the cells.’

  Markham helped Rannoch, the two men silent over the body of an enemy who’d paid the price for saving them. But once he was laid out and covered, they returned to their task. The chapel was a deserted mess, though not through any deliberate act. But there was no hiding the fact that it had been occupied by soldiers who’d left in a hurry. All the detritus of their occupation and their departure lay precisely where it had fallen. The cells occupied by Fouquert and Duchesne were no better, full of discarded items which had belonged to their captives, papers lying amongst the smashed wood of the boxes which had once contained wine.

  There were bottles too in Fouquert’s cell, some full, others empty, one tipped on its side as though it had been knocked over, the stain on the flagstones showing where most of the contents had ended up, with only that in the bottle which was held back by the narrowing neck. Whatever else they had left, they’d taken the weapons and red uniform coats with them, though he found Lanester’s map case under one of the cots. Likewise, they’d left the rankers’ infantry packs, too heavy to carry. Markham followed Rannoch through to the kitchen, a windowless room with a chimney at the back of the building, the first thing to catch their eye the carcasses hanging from ceiling hooks, that followed by the wall full of knives, saws and an ancient rusted chopper.

  ‘Careless,’ said Rannoch.

  ‘They were in a hurry.’

  ‘To leave food behind, they must have been in terror.’

  ‘Not as much as Duchesne,’ Markham added.

  Rannoch looked at him, strangely. ‘We all of us saw that door open and shut. I was sure we were undone.’

  ‘Duchesne was an old-fashioned soldier, Rannoch, and a cavalryman at that.’

  Rannoch snorted then, though out of respect he forbore to say what he was thinking: that cavalry were stuck-up pigs who could never be relied upon to arrive when they were supposed to. It was the view of every foot-slogging infantryman, who often saw fodder for horses taking precedence over their own requirements for food. In victory, cavalry got to the spoils first. In defeat they made safety long before their compatriots on foot. If starvation threatened, they were astride their last meal. And when it came to boasting they were, to a soldier’s mind, only surpassed by sailors. The troopers of the mounted regiments were bad enough, but nothing as compared to their officers.