Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  Markham called after Calheri. ‘This visit of General Paoli’s, was it long planned?’

  She turned abruptly. For some reason her anger had evaporated and she now sounded sad. ‘One of his cousins, who fought the War of Independence with him, is dying. He has gone in the hope of holding his hand, and easing him into the arms of God.’

  ‘When did he receive this news?’

  ‘The night before last.’

  ‘So his decision to go was an impulse?’ Calheri nodded. ‘Will the escort he has now wait with him?’

  ‘Till he moves on. Why do you ask?’

  ‘The French left here in some haste. Did they do that because they knew you were coming, or because they heard that the man they had come to arrest was no longer in his capital city?’

  ‘Have no fear for the general, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Where is the Convent San Quilico Rocci?’ he said, reaching for the leather map case again. She came back as he opened it, stabbing her finger. ‘And where, precisely, are we?’

  That produced another stab. Markham used his finger, tracing out the long narrow triangle, the Convent at one point, the monastery they were now sitting at in another, with the town of Morosaglia some twenty miles away.

  ‘I think the French have gone after him. They’ll probably wait till he leaves your convent …’

  ‘They’ll never find him, Lieutenant.’ She interrupted, waving her hand languidly towards the French-built highway. ‘Pasquale Paoli is not a Frenchman. He does not need to travel by that sort of road.’

  ‘If you’re trying to tell me he’s on mule tracks, I have to inform you that’s how the French came to this place. And since you didn’t meet them on the highway, that is how they would have avoided you.’

  ‘Frenchmen cannot hide in Corsica. They stick out like the plague.’

  ‘What if they murder anyone who sees them? An innocent family was slaughtered on that very road, I believe merely because they saw something.’ She looked at him keenly wanting him to explain, but Markham was in too much of a hurry. ‘They have been brought this close to Corte by Corsican guides.’

  ‘I still think he’s in no danger. People flock to touch him wherever he goes. You are English, you don’t understand.’

  ‘Irish!’ he snapped. She looked confused, a clear indication that she didn’t know the difference. ‘You say he’s an impatient old man. I daresay he feels as safe in his own country as you claim. Will he wait for you to return, if he has the chance to press on?’

  Her doubt had been growing, first in her eyes, then in the clenching of the jaw, as Markham continued. ‘You are, after all, his escort?’

  ‘So!’

  ‘It’s a clever idea to detach that escort on a futile chase, while the men they are supposed to be after leave the road and head cross-country to a point where they can intercept their quarry.’

  ‘You have too much imagination.’

  ‘It’s a feature of my race, I grant you. But can you afford to take the chance that I’m wrong?’

  Calheri thought for a moment, her tongue running round inside her lower lip. ‘Are you fit enough to march?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Then we will leave in ten minutes. Half my troop will stay here with your men.’

  That was no good. There was a lot he was unsure about, but not that. Markham wanted his men with him.

  ‘Commandatore, I …’ He hesitated, not quite sure how to phrase what he had to say. ‘My men have not enjoyed the comfort of female companionship for some time.’

  ‘Nor will they enjoy it now, Lieutenant. And you may tell them so.’

  Markham spread his hands in a gesture of impotence. ‘Officers can issue orders. They are not, unfortunately, always obeyed.’

  The smile lacked humour, if anything displaying instead a streak of cruelty. ‘They will not require orders, monsieur. Just tell them that the first man to misbehave will find he has three balls in his point of alliance.’

  The French expression stumped him for a moment, until he realised she meant the groin. Then the directness and vulgarity of what she had said produced a smile,

  ‘I think it would be better if they came with us. That way you can take along your full strength. And my men are good in a fight. Who knows, you might need every pair of hands you can get.’

  ‘The only people we need, Lieutenant, are you and your handsome Moor.’ That threw him too, until, with a slight stab of pique, he realised she meant Private Bellamy. ‘But if you insist on bringing all your men along, I will not stop you.’

  ‘It all depends on Major Lanester how many I leave.’

  ‘You’ll have to get me up on a horse,’ Lanester said, trying hard to smile, ‘even if I’m hanging over the saddle. All you have to do, Lieutenant, is find me one.’

  Markham couldn’t see the wound, swathed as it was in Pavin’s clean bandages, made out of a surplus sheet he’d found. But he could see his superior’s face, which despite the ample flesh, looked blotchy. The eyes were wet too, and bloodshot, the whole an indication of serious ill-health. And he was caught on the horns of a triple dilemma. He needed Lanester to convince Paoli to head for Bastia, but given the immediate danger the old Corsican was in, saving him from an ambush was paramount. So was keeping the Major well enough to talk, given that time was running out for Nelson.

  ‘Even if I had one to hand, you don’t have the strength. You’d fall off before we got a mile down the highway. And we can’t double-march stretchering you. It will slow us all down.’

  ‘Perhaps we can find a cart,’ he replied, his voice weak.

  Markham took refuge in a hastily contrived excuse. ‘If the officer in command of the Corsicans can’t put her hands on one, what chance do I have? Besides, I fear we might not be on a proper road for long.’

  The need to know why was in Lanester’s eyes long before he gathered the breath to pose the question. Certainly long enough to allow Markham to feel that he was reluctant to give an honest answer. That would, of necessity, once more involve Bellamy. On balance, he thought it better not to mention the Negro again if it could be avoided.

  ‘The Commandatore fears that there are quite a few French sympathisers lurking around in these parts.’

  ‘I can’t fault that assumption,’ Lanester gasped. ‘The bastards are everywhere.’

  ‘What we have uncovered, unfortunately, means you’re right.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘That sod Fouquert got drunk last night.’

  ‘With your damned nigger.’

  Even ill, that was said venomously. But now that he’d alluded to Bellamy, there was little point in covering up his part in things.

  ‘He hinted to Bellamy …’ Markham paused, to let both pain and distaste at the name subside, ‘that their aim was to arrest Pasquale Paoli so he could be shipped back to stand trial in France.’

  There was some strength in Lanester’s grip as he clutched at Markham’s sleeve. ‘If there are traitors in Corte, or even in the surrounding countryside, then they are in touch with the men who captured us last night. This morning Rannoch and I heard the arrival of a solitary rider. Within fifteen minutes, the place was deserted.’

  ‘Apart from Duchesne.’

  ‘I think it was a messenger, who came to tell Fouquert that Paoli had left Corte and was on the way to Morosaglia.’

  Lanester sat bolt upright, his hands grasping the facings of Markham’s dragoon coat, so close that the marine could see the open pores on his cheeks, the sheen of sweat, and the black stubble on his skin. He stared into Markham’s eyes for a few seconds, breath wheezing, before the effort proved too much and he fell back on to the cot.

  ‘That’s why they left in such a hurry,’ Markham added, picking up a cloth and mopping the patient’s brow.

  ‘Morosaglia?’ he gasped.

  ‘Yes. It’s not on this road, but it is halfway to Bastia.’

  Lanester just repeated the name of the town, this time in a whisper, before M
arkham added, ‘His birthplace, I believe.’

  ‘I’d forgotten.’

  Markham explained briefly what Calheri had told him, trying to keep his voice calm, since his words were clearly having a detrimental effect on the major’s condition. So much fluid was leaking out of his eyes he looked very like a man consumed with grief.

  ‘Can you get to him, Markham?’

  ‘We intend to try. The question is, if we can find him, what do I do, and more important what do I say?’

  ‘You’ve lost me, boy.’

  ‘Given where he’s headed, which is on the way to where we want him to go, do I escort him on to Morosaglia, or try to persuade him to come back to Corte to talk to you?’

  Lanester’s head started to roll, as if he was approaching delirium. ‘I must see him, Markham. We have to persuade him to go to Cardo. Nelson needs him!’

  ‘Calm down, sir.’

  For the first time since they’d set out from San Fiorenzo, the major looked set to agree with him. He laid back his head, jerking slowly as Markham swiftly outlined the alternative. First to make sure that Paoli was safe, second to ensure that he, Lanester, got some attention, then contrive a way to bring them to each other in the limited time they had available.

  ‘We must make a decision now, sir. If the French do catch him, we can almost guarantee the Corsican army will not move. Every man Nelson takes ashore could be captured or killed.’

  Blood had come back to Lanester’s face, turning it red again. But it was not the glow of health, rather the effect of too much pain, that and the tears running down his face showing the effort he was expending. Markham sought to calm him again, his voice soothing and confident.

  ‘We’re not even sure the French are after him. That messenger might have just been warning Fouquert about the approach of Commandatore Calheri.’

  ‘Don’t turn back to Corte,’ Lanester hissed. ‘Get him to Cardo.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘You don’t need me any more, Markham. It was you who saw what happened with Buttafuco and Lacombe. Tell him that.’

  ‘If there is time I’ll take him to San Fiorenzo.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘He’d be safer there than anywhere.’

  Lanester’s bloodshot eyes were afire. He shook his head to and fro several times, his mouth moving like a man seeking words.

  ‘Like you were, Markham?’ he asked finally. Then for the third time he said, ‘Cardo. With his troops. Send ahead for an escort.’

  ‘I can try. But without you to sway him, what assurance do I have that he will be willing to do my bidding?’

  ‘Hood’s despatch. With the evidence of your own eyes to back that up, the letter will persuade him. It’s in one of the bottles of Bordeaux. The Haut Brion ’eighty, in a sealed oilskin pouch.’ Lanester groaned then. ‘God, I hope Fouquert didn’t find it.’

  It was now Markham’s turn to pose a mute question, his eyebrows raised in some surprise. Lanester, as he lay back, actually managed a weak smile. ‘It was a way of passing him the message in secret, by recommending that as a wine to be opened. Not that he would have enjoyed the contents, since before I waxed in the cork again, I refilled it with the local piss.’

  Markham had to dash around, between his own men strapping on their packs, searching the whole chapel, and actually found the bottle in the last place he looked. It was on Fouquert’s table, the one that had been spilled. It was an amusing thought that Fouquert had tasted it, then spat it out, knocking the thing over in disgust, too drunk to see what it contained. The thin oilskin roll was just visible above the level of the remaining wine, and Markham had to tip the bottle up to retrieve it. His first act was to examine the wax seal that had kept the letter from being soaked by the wine. It had an elaborate layout of Lanester’s initials. Drying it off on his coat, he took it back to the major, who was lying back, seemingly exhausted.

  ‘You’d better tell me what it says.’

  Lanester blinked and sighed, as if he was having trouble remembering. Outside, Markham could hear the commands that would have the Commandatore’s troop forming up.

  ‘Hood has told Paoli what he suspects happened at Fornali and Tregima. Then he’s threatened that if he doesn’t take over the army himself, not only will the assault on Bastia be called off, he will seek another island as an anchorage.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘Of course not! Nelson will attack Bastia as planned. Hood’s bluffing, threatening to leave the Corsicans to fight the French on their own as a way of levering the old goat out of hiding.’

  ‘A battle Paoli has already lost once.’

  ‘Get him alone when he’s read it,’ Lanester gasped, raising himself again. ‘Don’t tell him what you saw at Cardo if anyone else is close enough to overhear.’

  ‘Shouldn’t I trust those who have his ear?’

  ‘No!’ Lanester said, before allowing his head to fall back. ‘And neither should Paoli!’

  Markham was vaguely aware of Pavin in the background, his face anxious as he looked at his master.

  ‘I take it the decision has been made. That the major and I ain’t goin’ along with you on this jolly.’

  Moving away from Lanester, Markham slipped the oilskin roll into his breeches, praying that the seal wouldn’t break when he started marching.

  ‘There may well be a cart on the way. If not, as soon as we find one, we’ll send it back for you. Stay on the road until you get to the Convent of San Quilico Rocci and wait there. Who knows, Pavin, I might be able to bring one back myself. This whole thing could be a wild goose chase.’

  ‘What have you told him?’

  ‘A lot, but I’m not sure I’ve covered everything.’

  ‘Then you best be on your way, an’ leave that chore to old Pavin.’

  Rannoch was in the doorway, pack on his back, beckoning him to come. There was no time for the discussion his responsibility demanded. Pavin knew the odds better than his master. Taking the major might kill him, but leaving him there could do the same. If Fouquert came back to the monastery he’d murder them both. A man who hanged one of his own country’s officers wouldn’t shudder to string up these two. Pavin had seen Rannoch too, and he actually grabbed Markham’s arm to propel him out, the look in his eyes clear proof that what the officer had in his mind was known, therefore saying it was unnecessary.

  ‘No speed, Pavin, when the cart arrives. Comfort first for the major, and if you can find anyone at that convent who can heal him, let them have a go at getting the ball out, regardless of what he wants.’

  Pavin actually smiled, which doubled the depth of his wrinkles. ‘I’ll bet he orders otherwise.’

  ‘You have my permission, Pavin, to ignore him.’

  The servant grinned even more, exposing long yellowing teeth. ‘That, I have to tell you, is a pleasure I have enjoyed for many a year.’

  Chapter twenty-two

  At double marching order, with Calheri’s troops out ahead to make sure their route was secure, they made good progress to begin with. The dragoons, as well as taking their coats and capes, had stolen the British marching rations. The Corsicans had none, so they had to stop occasionally, usually at a small church or monastery very like the one at which they’d left Lanester. Drink was the most important requirement, since even in March the Mediterranean sun had the power to turn the road dry and dusty. What food the priests and monks gave them was filling without being abundant, and offered freely despite the obvious hardship this would visit upon their future wellbeing.

  Moving so fast, they caught up with Calheri’s messengers, dawdling along with no sense of haste. They received a tongue-lashing for that, as well as for their failure to find the required cart to send back. Not that they could be entirely blamed for the latter. When the French built the road, their construction had naturally been dictated by the topography. So no villages abutted the highway. They were visible, certainly, but they sat, for security, on rocky outcrops too far away to be of any use.
The odd conveyance they came across tended to be rickety and man-drawn. What Markham wanted was a horse, not for Lanester, but so that he could send a messenger on ahead to request Paoli to stay still. But the best the monks or priests could offer was an ass, which carrying a rider made slower progress than a running trooper.

  Calheri measured her distances in leagues, and after a quick calculation Markham worked out that the convent rendezvous was some six miles distant. Some of his men were good runners, especially Yelland, with his long legs and slim frame. But they were not trained in that regard, so to send them off too early would be useless. Besides, it would really have to be one of Calheri’s females, with a written message from her, since a man of Paoli’s stature was hardly likely to pay much heed to a British marine dressed only in his spare shirt.

  The Corsican women were fit enough, but no more trained at running than his men, which left Markham thinking that if they’d had to fight the Battle of Marathon with this lot the Greeks would have lost. As if to underline the problem, the strain of double marching began to tell on the marines before the local females. The former, having spent most of the last three months aboard ship, had been gifted little chance to retain the excellent physical condition they’d achieved after four months ashore in Toulon. So it was with blessed relief that they saw first a tower, then the roof tiles on the buildings of the town of Sovaria, a place substantial enough to cause the French engineers to bend their road to run through it.

  Coming into the town, Markham was struck by the notion that Sovaria was no bigger, and no better endowed, than places of a similar purpose he’d seen in his native Ireland. If the town had a purpose that exceeded the need to change animals, he couldn’t see it. The tower they’d spotted first was a fortress like the one at Fornali, which spoke to him not of garrisons, but of armies of occupation. True, the buildings were taller and the roofs tiled and more steeply canted. But each dwelling had a dilapidated air that had not been present in the richer atmosphere of San Fiorenzo. If there was any wealth in Corsica it did not reside here in the interior, where the locals clearly lived a hard subsistence existence, just as afraid of their neighbours as they were of invading armies.