Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘Odd, really. On a battlefield he’d have skewered me on his sabre with great relish. But he couldn’t stomach handing me over to Fouquert, especially when he heard him boasting to Bellamy of some of his previous exploits. He’d be alive now if he’d been prepared to go further than that.’

  ‘Then you don’t think he was fooled by the acting the black man put on.’

  Markham touched his neck. ‘Obviously not. He might have rumbled Bellamy, but he didn’t know Fouquert at all. If he had, I doubt he would have lifted a finger to save us.’

  ‘Best to think he would have been Christian enough even then,’ Rannoch responded. ‘May the good Lord bless him and keep him, even if he did go to war on a horse.’

  ‘I have a mind to get everyone back here, Rannoch. At least they can be fed before we set out for Corte. Men with a meal inside them will move at twice the pace, and with these saws and things we can rig up a proper stretcher for the Major.’

  ‘That will slow us down, sir. He might consent to stay here, with a guard, till we can fetch someone back to tend to him.’

  ‘I need him with us, Rannoch.’

  ‘With respect, sir, if you need him that badly, he has to be alive.’

  ‘You suggest it,’ Markham replied, pulling a face.

  The men emerged from the maccia like long-term prisoners coming into daylight, those not carrying the comatose Major Lanester blinking and brushing themselves as if they wanted to remove the last traces of their confinement. Markham let them drink some water, ordered Pavin into the kitchen, then sent Ettrick, Quinlan, Dornan and Bellamy back into the woods to search for bodies. They found the four men who’d kept this place within minutes. Their hands had been tied behind their back, so that they could be strangled before being tossed into a clump of bushes not forty yards from their home. They must have died within earshot of him and his men as they stumbled up the hill towards the monastery.

  ‘Bury them,’ Markham said, when he was shown the bodies, ‘and Captain Duchesne as well. There’s some soft ground at the back of the paddocks. There’s no time to go deep, just make sure they have covering enough to keep off any animals. We’ll be moving out as soon as we’re fed.’

  Lanester had passed out on the journey through the maccia, so that by the time they got him into one of the cots the notion that Rannoch had suggested seemed to make more sense than moving him again. What colour the major had was now gone. His face was pallid, seemingly devoid of blood. Since this was a decision on which his servant should be consulted, Markham went to find Pavin in the kitchen. Of course, Pavin asked the obvious question, but with none of his usual ill-humour.

  ‘And what occurs if they Crapauds comes back this way?’

  Markham shrugged, because he really couldn’t answer that. He had no idea where the French had gone. Bellamy had mentioned some kind of mission that would prevent their return to Bastia. If he had the right of it, they could be anywhere.

  ‘He’d be better not being jigged around, and that’s no error,’ Pavin added. ‘To my way of thinking, that would do for him.’

  His satchel of spices and condiments was by his hand, and, having tasted the contents of the pot, he added something unknown to the largest of his copper pans. Then he began to stir. Markham knew he was ruminating, weighing up the pros and cons, and had to fight to contain his impatience. For a moment, the noise he was making, as he poked at it vigorously, seemed unnatural, until Markham realised that Pavin wasn’t the source. The sound of running feet in heavy boots was different.

  ‘Soldiers!’ shouted Rannoch.

  Markham guessed that before he spoke, just as he knew he’d been truly humbugged for a second time. Fouquert had been too shrewd to chase him through the maccia, and he’d been too stupid to see the trap that he set instead. The French had even left their horses and come back on foot. No wonder they’d left the food, the one thing guaranteed to keep hungry men still long enough for him to come back and recapture them. The sound of the boots, clearly moving at speed, increased until they seemed to invade the whole building. As silence fell, he dragged himself out of the kitchen and, watched by his men, who stood in an attitude of fearful anticipation, went towards the door. His hand rested on the handle for several agonising seconds before he could be brought to turn it and pull.

  The air outside was still colder than that in the chapel, and the light from the low, early March sun, which barely topped the mountains, temporarily blinded him. He could see the figures lined up, indistinct shapes until his eyes adjusted. That and walking forward brought them into view. Looking along the line to find Fouquert, he was wondering if the cutlery knife he had put back in his pocket would do what he required, while cursing himself for not picking up something sharper from the kitchen. Even for dragoons on foot, the troopers seemed small, which he put down to a trick of the light. And the uniforms, in silhouette, showed none of their colour. But enough of the weapons were raised to catch the sunlight, and the command, in French, to raise his hands was one he had to obey.

  But the voice was wrong and it certainly wasn’t Fouquert’s. First, it was of a higher pitch. And secondly, why address him in French, when Fouquert spoke good English? The idea that it was a different French patrol, though unwelcome, gave him some hope of personal survival, until he discarded that as wishful thinking. He took four quick paces forward, until the command to stand still could be spoken, which brought him into the shadow created by the mountains. Again that light voice spoke in French.

  ‘You were expecting someone else, soldier.’

  She was uniformed and armed, wearing the dun-coloured jacket of the Corsican army, even to the point of having a coxcomb round hat on her head. So were all the other women. If there was a concession to their sex, it was the very elaborate embroidery that decorated their caps. Much as he was taken by the novelty of what was before him, he was too smitten with the leader to spare much attention to her inferiors. She was remarkable, and in every respect except her striking face and fulsome figure, she looked the very image of an infantry officer.

  But the face – dark smooth skin, full sensual lips, and black eyes – was enchanting. He guessed the hair would be black too, that tone so deep it was almost blue, the kind of topping they said in Ireland had the Spanish Armada in it. The gun she held, a long, old-fashioned pistol, looked too heavy for her slight frame. But it was steady enough. Even through the dull cloth of the uniform he could detect the swell of her breasts, and in the split-second it took to discern all this, he felt his blood race a little as he began to smile.

  ‘Allow me to introduce myself, madame. I am Lieutenant George Markham of His Britannic Majesty’s Marines.’

  ‘In that coat!’

  That stopped him in mid bow. He had forgotten about the coat he was still wearing, which even lacking a shirt identified him as a French dragoon. Absurdly, he was stuck, looking up while remaining bent over, the smile still on his face making him feel even more stupid.

  ‘Stolen to ward off the cold, madame.’

  ‘Not madame. Commandatore!’

  Her retort at least allowed him to adopt a more dignified pose, standing fully upright. ‘Might I ask your name?’

  ‘Calheri.’

  ‘Then you may considerably outrank me. And if the French had not stolen my hat, I would perforce raise it in salute.’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘Do you speak English?’

  ‘A leetle,’ she replied.

  ‘Then if you will forgive me, I will continue in French.’

  Having now an in-built distrust of anything Corsican, he found himself being exceedingly circumspect. Particularly, Nelson and the impending attack on Bastia could not be mentioned. Markham confined himself to the line of the proposed visit, that their desire to see Paoli was purely social. He told her how they’d come to be captured, followed by a gesture towards the multiple grave. Expecting her to be shocked by the murder of the monks, he was surprised when she merely crossed herself and mu
rmured an incantation for their souls, before bidding him continue. This was followed by the details of their escape, leaving out that which didn’t matter regarding Duchesne and Fouquert, all the while searching her face both to see how she was reacting and, he was forced to admit to himself, to admire her beauty.

  ‘You are, of course, free to step inside, and talk to my men. And you may wish to examine the grave. The man in charge of our mission, Major Lanester, is in one of the cells, carrying a wound. He’s an old friend of General Paoli and knew him in London. If he can talk, I think he will be able to convince you more readily than I.’

  She slipped past him with ease, so that the long pistol was off its aim for no more than a second. ‘Call your men out.’

  Soldiers, be they Lobsters or Bullocks, look the same everywhere, even in tattered garments. But they were, to anyone with an ounce of military knowledge, not cavalry. Several men, like Quinlan and Ettrick, being small and wiry, could have passed muster. But no one but a Prussian martinet without brains would put a man of Rannoch’s height and build on a horse. Bellamy, like half the men present, was also far too tall. His colour made him the subject of much attention from the Corsican women, who murmured and pointed. Markham was only grateful that at least he’d found the good sense to rid himself of his tricolor sash, even if he’d done so for the wrong reasons.

  ‘We were informed there was a detachment of French cavalry here,’ she said, for the first time allowing her face to show a trace of doubt.

  Markham was half tempted to ask, if that was so, why they’d walked in with such disregard for the consequences, nor even noticed as they did so that the earth they were walking over was well churned up by hooves. But this was a time for courtesy, not a discussion of either observation or sensible infantry tactics.

  ‘A squadron of dragoons. Around thirty men. They were here last night, holding us captive. We escaped into the maccia, which will go some way to explain the state of our dress. The French left less than an hour ago, in great haste.’

  The tongue in which she barked the commands was incomprehensible. Several of her female troopers darted forward and made their way to the open door, the gait and gender openly admired by his men.

  ‘Eyes front, the lot of you,’ he barked, feeling like a hypocrite.

  There was not much of a search to make. Only Pavin, who’d deserted his pot to take station beside the wounded Major Lanester, was still inside. To inspect the chapel, the kitchen and cells took no time at all, and it was only minutes before the searchers reported back, answering the questions she fired at them in rapid order.

  While this was happening Markham had time to think, and to remember what he’d heard. Did the hurried departure of the French now have another reason? Was that panic induced by the knowledge that their presence here had been discovered? They must have been unaware of what force would be sent to root them out. Fouquert might well have remained if they had known.

  But that didn’t alter the one salient fact. Someone was able to tell them of the danger they faced, and in enough time to let them get clear. Which added some verisimilitude to what Bellamy had told him about his drunken conversations with Fouquert. And they’d gone south, in the direction of Corte, not north to Bastia, which surely should have brought them into contact with these female soldiers.

  Remembering suddenly how they’d doubled back to capture him and his men, he was wondering how far they’d moved down the road. If whoever was aiding them knew the maccia so well, they could have turned off the highway and headed for Corte by the mule tracks.

  These thoughts were interrupted by Calheri barking another set of orders, which sent two groups of four women towards the road, where they split up and went off in different directions.

  ‘Would it help if I were to tell you where the French are headed?’

  ‘Back to Bastia, since we didn’t meet them on the road?’

  ‘Perhaps not,’ Markham replied, before shouting for Bellamy to come forward. ‘Please explain to the Commandatore what you gleaned from Fouquert and Duchesne last night. And this time keep it brief.’

  Bellamy obliged, speaking fluently and convincingly, Commandatore Calheri moving closer to him to listen intently to what he was saying. The use of Paoli’s name, in this context, shocked her, as did the notion that the French would dare to try and arrest him. Markham, meanwhile, since Bellamy was talking, was able to study her in more detail, which only served to increase the depth of his admiration.

  ‘My sergeant and I heard them leave, madame,’ Markham said, as soon as Bellamy finished, ‘And if you look at what is left of their tracks in the mud by the pavé, I think you will see enough evidence to indicate which way they went.’

  Calheri went to look, bending down and picking up a section of compacted earth that still clearly held the shape of a hoof, following that with a long stare down the road. It was still in her hand when she returned.

  ‘Please take your men inside, Lieutenant,’ she said, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘I require a moment to think.’

  He was tempted to tell her she had no time for such a luxury, but held back. He’d intended to feed his men anyway, so that time used up mattered little. More important was that he convince her of both their true status, and their mission, so that they would be free to carry on to Corte.

  ‘We have food prepared, madame. If you and your troop would be prepared to join us, we can make it stretch.’

  ‘We will see,’ she replied.

  Markham bowed again, and did as he was bidden, his main task to stifle the ribald comments of his men by informing them that the lady in command spoke English. It hardly served to stop Quinlan and Ettrick, who could not resist alluding to the kind of rigid salute that she would be getting from a certain marine lieutenant before the sun rose one more time.

  ‘It’ll be her hat that’s a liftin’, not his, Commandatore or no.’

  ‘Quiet, damn you,’ he yelled, to stifle the laughter. But on another mental plane, he could not help but contemplate the pleasure such a seduction would bring. Sharland’s added comment quite spoiled that.

  ‘Don’t you go thinkin’ your Croppie is going to have her? Seems to me she was more interested in the fuckin’ darkie.’

  Chapter twenty-one

  Markham ate on the move, pacing up and down inside the chapel, wondering what Calheri was up to outside. There was movement after a few minutes. Despite her injunction to stay inside, he couldn’t contain either patience or curiosity, and strode back out into the strong sunlight. She’d taken off her cap and allowed her hair to drop free. It was, as Markham had suspected, blue-black, a perfect frame for her olive-skinned complexion, as she swung round to face him.

  ‘General Paoli left Corte this morning, for his home town of Morosaglia.’

  Markham nearly choked on a gobbet of ham, struggling to remember if the place she’d named lay closer to Bastia than Paoli’s capital. He’d seen it on the map, but in the mass of Corsican town names he’d looked at, it was hard to place.

  ‘I’ve sent off runners with instructions to tell him what happened here. I also told them to look out for a cart with which to transport your wounded Major. He can be taken to Corte to await the general’s return. We, however, cannot wait for you, Lieutenant. We shall return to the rendezvous we have arranged with the general.’

  She smiled then, which widened her cheeks, and showed her strong white teeth. The glow it brought to her whole being also made her look even more attractive. ‘He is no longer a young man, and gets impatient.’

  ‘Might I ask where the rendezvous is?’

  He could see her thinking, still not entirely convinced that he was who he claimed. He called to Pavin, and asked him to bring the Major’s map case, which had been put in his cell.

  ‘We are to meet him at the Convent di San Quilico Rocci, which is just beyond Sovaria on the road to Corte. The men who have escorted him there, who are part of the garrison, will then return, while we take him on to
Morosaglia.’

  Markham was looking at the map as she spoke, happy to see that Morosaglia, albeit surrounded by mountains, was halfway to Bastia. ‘Such a complex arrangement for escorts. He obviously fears for his safety.’

  ‘Never!’, she snapped, mistaking Markham’s worried frown for criticism. ‘It would take the whole French army to get within ten miles of him in his own home city. There he is surrounded by people who revere him.’

  He was worried, especially at the thought that Fouquert as well as Calheri knew where Paoli was headed. ‘Perhaps there are those between Corte and Morosaglia who do not.’

  For the first time he saw her temper, the opposite of that radiant smile. The way her body stiffened, the black eyes flashed and the fine, slightly upturned nose dilated and paled, becoming sharp and unattractive. She turned away, stood up and headed for the door, which immediately drew Markham’s eyes to her swaying hips. But for all his interest in this female, he was actually thinking about other things, namely everything that had happened on the way here.

  The dragoons had used mule trails, not the road: routes which were on no map that he’d ever seen, including the one in front of him. His mind went back to the family dead on the road. He recalled the words Lanester had used about the caution of Corsican peasants, then the undischarged weapons, the way their bodies had been trampled, which indicated that whoever had approached them not only looked like friends, but were numerous.

  Then there were the horsemen who’d come to the monastery with Fouquert, the previous evening. Had one of them returned, alone, this morning? Markham was sure he and Rannoch had heard a single mount. Given the response, he had to be a messenger. What if he hadn’t just come to warn of approaching danger, but to tell the French dragoons that General Pasquale Paoli was no longer in Corte? What if the men who’d killed those peasants, Bellamy’s Buonapartists, were shadowing the general, just waiting for Fouquert to show up?