Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  The tower was empty, long abandoned and used to house sheep, not soldiers. There was a local clan chief, of course, who’d come into the small square between the church and fortress on being advised of their approach. He was swarthy, squat and elderly, with fine white moustaches, dressed in the local costume of smock, embroidered waistcoat and baggy breeches, tucked in at the knee to highly polished fine leather boots. From Calheri’s elaborate greeting, carried out in a language which was neither French nor Italian, it was clear that obeisance had to be made to this individual to obtain anything. And that extended to basic hospitality, a gift not given without much head shaking.

  The rest of the inhabitants lined the square, and if the inhabitants of San Fiorenzo had been lukewarm about the presence of strangers, the common folk on this part of the island were doubly so, barely able to find a smile, even for their own female soldiery. Markham, still in the dragoon coat he’d asked Bellamy to procure the previous night, was hissed at. Bellamy himself was on the receiving end of many a pointing finger, mostly from bent old crones who looked remarkably like witches.

  Extracting a horse plus a mule cart from the headman took so long that Markham wondered if the time expended was worth it. Even the popularity and prestige of Pasquale Paoli had to be weighed in some traditional balance. Finally, after much haggling, a mount was produced, one with ribs that a blind man could count. The mule was little better, a scrawny creature with skin rubbed bare where the straps of the rig made contact. The drover was a toothless individual, and the cart itself had wheels that seemed incapable of moving in a circle. Calheri scribbled two hasty notes, one a receipt to the clan chief, the other handed to the mounted female, who was then sent on her way. Markham waited patiently until this ritual was completed before stepping forward, Lanester’s map in his hand.

  ‘Can you ask him, Commandatore, to indicate on here any mule tracks or paths that would bring us to Paoli’s route?’

  She was angry again, he could see, the nose losing half its width and all of its blood. Clearly Calheri felt that any alternatives to a straight onward march to the Convent of San Quilico Rocci was her prerogative, one that he should not usurp.

  ‘It would be better for you, Lieutenant, to stop regarding me as a woman, and acknowledge me as a soldier.’

  ‘But I do,’ Markham lied. The very idea of women as soldiers appalled him as much as it amused him. General Arena had gone on at some length about this, boring Lanester and him rigid at Cardo. In telling his tale, Arena took it for granted that his description of the Corsican women who’d supposedly fought alongside their men would impress his guests. He also assumed that they would believe what he told them of the battle exploits of the ladies.

  Markham had no idea what Lanester had felt, but to his way of thinking the only reason to put women in uniform was to fool an enemy into thinking that you had more troops available than your true strength. The idea that they should go into battle was risible. As a man who liked and admired the opposite sex, he had no desire to tie them to domesticity. There were to his mind a great many areas in which women could become as accomplished as men, even surpass them. In truth, no army marched anywhere without its train of camp followers, wives long-term and temporary, plus a majority no better than tuppenny whores.

  But most such women tended to be brutes, the dregs of society. Calheri wasn’t like that, of course. And neither, from what he could see, were her ‘soldiers’. They didn’t vary much in height, being small and compact, a description which could be applied to their menfolk as well. But in terms of shape there was as wide a variation as you would find in any group. Some were broad of beam, well endowed, quite a few with more facial hair than young Yelland. Two women were so thin they looked as if a serious blow would break them in half, the remainder being of every shape between those twin extremes.

  Their skin was not the pale, carefully protected olive of their officer, more the darker hue of creatures who’d toiled for the greater part of their lives in the sun. Collectively, they would make incomprehensible jokes aimed at his men; individually, any form of proximity was to be avoided, an occasion for the head to drop and scurrying feet to carry the unwary back to the safety of her group. His men indulged in much subterfuge to counter this, all to no avail, if you excluded the odd high-pitched giggle. Starved of female company, they would have reacted to a toothless septuagenarian. Close to younger women, especially a group dressed in breeches and uniform jackets, an enticing variation of male clothing, they could barely control themselves.

  But regardless of dress and behaviour, war – actual fighting, with its constant hardships, not to mention the pain and suffering of battlefield wounds – wasn’t for women. And since he couldn’t see them as warriors, he could not countenance the notion that their ‘officer’ should be deferred to in a matter of tactics. It was a subject of which she was clearly ignorant, given the way she’d marched right into the clearing in front of the monastery without any kind of preliminary reconnaissance.

  Yet it was also true that he must dissimulate, treat her in a way that showed respect for her rank, and put his own agenda in abeyance. If their primary objective was the same, namely to keep Paoli out of harm’s way, it was still her country and the general was her national patriarch. Besides, the women she commanded had weapons and his men did not, a situation which could only be altered if the combined force was faced with imminent action. Accustomed to flattering women, he was sure he could charm Calheri, so that she followed his tactical instincts and not her own.

  ‘I am anticipating you, I know,’ he continued. The tone of his voice sounded so false to him, he could scarcely believe it would fool anyone. ‘This I do only out of impatience. You will, no doubt, have decided on the same precaution, to cover the possibility that General Paoli may have left San Quilico and headed off towards Morosaglia.’

  The way she was looking at him gave nothing away, regarding her opinion either of him, or the notion he’d just propounded. And when she agreed to what was, on reflection, an obvious step, he had no idea if she had already thought of it, or was merely picking up the requirements of the situation from his intervention. Plainly, there was no point in proceeding up a road that carried no threat. If Paoli had stopped at the convent, he was safe. The only risk he ran was plain: that, in ignorance and impatience, he would leave his Corte escorts there and set off down his ancient trails, to where Markham believed Fouquert was waiting for him.

  ‘I have no need of this old man’s help, Lieutenant,’ she replied eventually, reaching out to take his map, which she held towards him as she traced with her finger. ‘There is a track that runs along the river Golo. Though it is far from straight, and hard marching, it will bring us onto the Morosaglia road in less time than we would take to get to San Quilico Rocci. Once there, we can head back up the track to the convent.’

  ‘Cautiously,’ Markham added.

  ‘Let us see if there is something we need to be cautious about first.’

  Water from the well had been given freely, the only commodity the inhabitants of Sovaria were prepared to part with on those terms. Compared to the heat of the middle of the year, the early afternoon sun was pleasant. But it was still warm to a marching man, and Markham could see the sweat stains on the backs of his marines as they left the town behind. After about half a mile they cut off to the left of the road, and plunged into forest made even deeper than normal by its proximity to a fast-flowing stream.

  By the time they reached the Golo, full to the brim with rushing water from the melting mountain snow, the situation was reversed. Now they were shaded from the sun by the canopy of trees. They were so dense they reached out over the riverside trail, leaving, between themselves and those on the opposite bank, only a thin strip of sunlight in the middle of the deep cutting. A fine, icy spray filled the air. Initially welcome as cooling, it soon became an irritant. Calheri’s females had capes in their packs, which they were quick to use. Markham’s men, after the depradations of their enemi
es, had nothing but their shirts, and were soon shivering.

  Markham’s dragoon coat was soaked in minutes, his hair matted and stuck to his skull by the icy spume. The track itself didn’t offer much comfort, being at times right next to the edge of the river; at others, after a steep climb, they’d cross a slippery glacis of bare wet rock, above the natural tree line, which gave them a panoramic view of towering rock formations, worn by weather and wind into fantastic shapes, wrinkled granite that testified, like the face of a venerable sage, to the years they’d withstood the elements.

  Keeping a hold on their position wasn’t easy, even with such a view, since each huge rock formation was surrounded by the same kind of dense forest they were trying to negotiate. But Markham knew that they were still somewhat to the north of the river, while Corte, invisible in the distance, must lie to the south. With water dripping from his chin, he felt as he spoke just how much the spray had frozen his bones.

  ‘Is there a crossing?’

  Calheri, who’d tucked her hair into her cap, looked younger than she had previously, her skin shiny from the same source as everyone else. The noise of the rushing water made hearing difficult, forcing Markham to repeat the question, this time much closer to her head. It never ceased to amaze him how much his senses could extract from such brief opportunities: the perfection of her ear, small, perfectly formed, with lobes that he was tempted to nibble there and then. The slight down on her face, caught by wetness and a flash of sunlight. Then the smell of her body, mingling with the freshness of the mountain water. When she replied, the feeling of her hot breath on his own ear.

  ‘There is a wooden bridge half a league distant, where the rocks rise to form a narrow gorge. We will have to move away from the river, anyway, as the road has to follow more level ground.’

  ‘A good place for an ambush,’ he replied, more to get close to her body smell again, than as a true appreciation of possible danger.

  Yet once the thought was voiced, it made sense, because the potential for escape, in a trap set next to a narrow bridge, was much reduced. It would also provide added security as a place to defend, for a troop of French dragoons who, even if they did have some local support, were deep in hostile territory. Markham got even closer to her ear, so that his lips were almost touching it.

  ‘Could the French have got to this place in the time they had available?’

  Her nod was curt, as she span her head so rapidly that, merely by not reacting, his lips brushed her cheek, forcing Calheri to recoil. Markham gave her his full smile, using a hand to brush back his now black hair, grey eyes twinkling and their owner relishing the ambiguity of his conclusion. ‘Then I suggest we go forward carefully from here.’

  Rannoch had stopped too, and was looking at the line of Corsican women with something less than admiration. His voice was so angry it carried above the tumbling rush of water.

  ‘Not one with the sense to cover their flints,’ he barked, his hand running along the line of muskets. ‘If they’ve no dry spares, those guns will be as much use as a crofter’s crook.’

  ‘I take it we have spare flints, Sergeant?’

  ‘That is one thing the Crapauds didn’t filch from our packs.’

  ‘Commandatore, would your soldiers consent to share their weapons with us?’

  ‘No, Lieutenant, they would not!’

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘With maximum respect to their sex, relieve every second trooper of her musket and bayonet.’

  Calheri must have picked up the sentiment, if not the actual order. She pulled back her cape to get out her own pistol. Markham grabbed her hand, and held it as his own men, with the exception of Bellamy, moved eagerly forward. The women lifted their muskets, but only one tried to pull the trigger – foolish, since the guns weren’t even primed. But that had one positive result. The lack of a spark from the flints showed how right Rannoch had been.

  ‘If the French are ahead, on that route to Morosaglia, my men will help you to deal with them. But they can’t do that without weapons.’

  ‘We do not need your help,’ she hissed.

  ‘Yes you do,’ Markham insisted, his eyes no longer dancing and amused. Instead they were hard, boring into her own, so black it was difficult to tell pupil from iris. ‘These men may be few, Commandatore. But every one of them has faced the enemy a dozen times. They are the best fighting men I’ve ever served with, and better marksmen than most of the British Army.’

  It was hard to equate what he said with the line of bedraggled, dripping-wet individuals now trying to wrest the guns of the Corsican women, none of whom would agree to surrender their weapons lightly. But in the case of his Hebes, it was the literal truth, and of the remaining Seahorses, he reckoned Sharland to be a fighter. So was the third one, whose name he couldn’t remember, judging by the way he wrested a musket from a struggling female while elbowing two others aside. Bellamy was an unknown quantity, and since he was a refined soul, what they were doing now was not a true test of his courage.

  ‘There are things you do better than us, Commandatore, but making war isn’t one of them.’

  The spittle hit him right between the eyes, mingling with the damp spray, and he felt the pistol, which she’d produced from under her cape with the one free hand, poke into his belly.

  ‘Let me go.’

  ‘Order the weapons to be handed over.’

  ‘No.’

  It couldn’t be cocked, he was sure of that, let alone loaded. She was struggling, in vain, to free the hand he’d grasped, which rocked them to and fro in a way that Markham found uncomfortably erotic. Even the way anger had altered her face was attractive, merely because of the physical nature of the challenge. That allowed him to smile again, which he knew must look very theatrical, excessively devil-may-care, Mark Anthony before the Roman mob.

  ‘Then, Commandatore, shoot me.’

  Judging by the way her eyes hardened, he had the sudden fear that she might, which put some strain on his attempts to look unconcerned. But, after several seconds, in which the whole party seemed to become frozen, she nodded sharply and handed over her pistol, then told those she commanded to do likewise.

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch, we will be pulling away from the river shortly. As soon as we do, get the priming pans dried off and fit new flints to the muskets.’

  ‘How many?’ he asked, looking at the women who’d retained theirs.

  ‘All of them,’ Markham replied. ‘Yelland, Tully, up ahead on the trail, and see what we face. There is a bridge, I’m told, a wooden affair. Once you sight that, or any kind of substantial trail which will qualify in these parts as a road, stop and wait till we join.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Calheri watched them move away impassively. Markham went to the head of the column and called to his men to follow. After a short pause, the Corsican contingent fell in behind them. It was a blessing to get away from the noise of the river as well as the spray. Within a few yards, so dense was the shielding forest, it was as though what lay beyond the trees was a benign brook. And they were at last walking on dry earth. The passing of the two marines had killed any birdsong, so it was impossible to tell if they faced any external danger. But Markham didn’t want to go any further without loaded weapons, so he ordered a halt, and told Rannoch to get the muskets into good working order.

  ‘And Sergeant, see that the ladies’ weapons are fit to fire as well.’

  ‘At a distance, sir, if you will consent,’ he replied in his slow Highland lilt. ‘I fear a bayonet in the vitals if I get too close to any of those creatures.’

  ‘I’d put my bayonet in any one of ’em, half chance afforded,’ growled Dornan, as he eased his pack off his shoulders.

  Markham had to issue a warning then, to all his men. If a slowcoach like Dornan was getting aroused, the situation could easily get out of hand. This he did while he was removing his dragoon coat, which was weighed down with water, holding it with some difficulty as
he tried to shake some of the moisture out. Bare-chested and shivering with cold, he was just about to ask if any of his men had a second spare shirt, when he looked back towards Dornan. He was kneeling, pulling garments out of his pack in a bemused fashion. But then he was often bemused, so it wasn’t that which attracted his officer. It was the merest flash of gold braid that made him move towards the man, but by the time he got there, he had high leather boots to catch his eye as well.

  ‘What in God’s name is all this?’

  Dornan looked up at him, his gaze as bovine as ever, the shake of incomprehension only adding to the impression of a man several biscuits short of the full day’s ration. Looking at Duchesne’s uniform and his high cavalry boots, Markham had not a single doubt how it had got there. And he knew what the explanation would be when he bearded Quinlan and Ettrick. It was true Duchesne had no further use for these things, but to rob the man who’d saved all their lives seemed sacrilegious to him. He turned to the two Londoners, who were beavering away, seemingly too busy with these unfamiliar weapons to notice anything that had happened.

  The crashing sound of Tully bursting upon them killed his reprimand. ‘Them dragoons, your honour, same lot that was at that monastery. Only a few of them, up ahead on this side of the bridge, hidden from view.’

  Markham, having got hold of Duchesne’s dry shirt, translated for Calheri, noting her alarm. But she’d not lost all her rationality. ‘They might be waiting in vain, Lieutenant.’

  Markham gave her another one of his smiles, well aware that over-use had stopped them being in any way disarming.