Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  Halsey had charge of the men remaining in the woods. Gibbons and Leech were now crouched on the north side of the bridge, using the upright barriers and odd bits of foliage to disguise their presence. The orders he’d given them were simple. At the first sight of a horseman approaching from the south, they were to fire off repeatedly to drive them back, taking any target closer that presented itself, but to remember that rate of fire was of more importance than accuracy.

  Then they were to run, Corsicans and Lobsters, taking the track they’d come on, without trying to fight, and hope that the sheer pace of their withdrawal would give them a breathing space. Under no circumstances were they to wait for him and the party he had brought across the bridge. Rannoch was annoyed that he’d chosen Bellamy to come with them. But a Negro, even one with a white tie round his brow, was a positive asset in deep foliage, Halsey was left with the unenviable task of trying to exert authority over those who remained behind. He knew he could manage the Lobsters. It was the women who worried him.

  Once on the south side of the Golo, the quartet stayed close to the riverbank until they were at least a hundred yards from the bridge, dropping down into a sudden valley that, opening into a clearing, took them close to the river again at a point where it formed a deep, slower-moving pool. Sheer on the opposite bank, it shelved like a shallow beach here, and was bathed in sunlight. A place for a swim on a hot day, Markham thought, with a beautiful woman, the tumbling sound of water further upriver a pleasant background. He realised, suddenly, that he was staring at Calheri, and tried to concentrate on the task ahead.

  The trail through the pine needles was clear. In such strong light they could even see the wet line of water spilt from the sutler’s buckets. It was so easy to follow, up a gentle, leaf-strewn slope. But not one of them was deceived by the tranquillity. Their muskets and pistols were aimed forward, and they were moving with the minimum amount of noise.

  The forest closed round them again before long, more darkly brooding and still because of the preceding light. The undergrowth was so deep that the track of the men fetching water for their horses was soon lost, leaving them sniffing the air like dogs as they tried to pick up the scent of drying equine sweat. Calheri insisted on being in the forefront, and Markham had to admit to her skill in this environment, as she found a route that, though less dense than it appeared at first, was sufficient to hide them from anyone more than ten feet away. Bellamy and Rannoch, carrying muskets, found the going harder than the officers, who could tuck their weapons in their waistbands and leave both hands free.

  If any distance opened up between them, the forest swallowed the body. The Commandatore was definitely aided by the dark brown of her uniform. Not that the other three were too disadvantaged. Bellamy and Yelland had on grey flannel, now as stained as their breeches, while Markham’s coat, being dark blue with green facings, blended quite well into the surroundings. A verdant mass like this produced odours of its own: thyme and myrtle were strong, as was the sharp, throat-catching scent of pine. But the stink of a hard-ridden horse, added to the reek of fresh dung, was powerful enough to rise above even that. Calheri half turned, her nose twitching as she pointed silently half right. Markham came forward to join her as she whispered to him.

  ‘The ground must dip again, into a hollow, I think. They will have their mounts in a clearing that gives easy access to the road.’

  Markham nodded, then fell in behind her again as, on hands and knees, she led the way, his face too close for comfort to the tight breeches she wore, producing unwelcome thoughts. Stopping suddenly, she motioned him alongside, a command he passed back to the others. The ground in front of them dropped sharply, a barren face, as if a section of earth had been recently dislodged. Three temporary horse-lines were strung between trees, each dragoon mount tied head up so that they wouldn’t try to graze on the pine needles. Though their girths were eased and stirrups raised, they were still saddled, ready for a swift departure.

  The cavalry mounts, by far the bigger of the two types of horses, occupied two of the lines. Two dragoons, carbines slung across head and shoulder, were making their way along the line, holding leather water buckets to the animal’s mouths, rationing the intake of each so that their performance wouldn’t suffer from over-indulgence. The other, smaller mounts, sturdy island ponies, were unattended, on longer halters that allowed them more freedom of movement, their shuffling noisy enough to still any sound of birdsong, so that the approach of Markham’s party had gone unnoticed.

  Calheri pointed to their right, indicating the route by which the riders had made their way on foot to the road, ground well disturbed by marching feet.

  ‘Forty-five horses and ponies,’ Markham whispered, without adding, because it wasn’t necessary, that there were at least fifteen Corsicans keeping watch on that road, as well as the Frenchmen. ‘It would be nice to know how close they are.’

  ‘There is no time. Let us shoot those two French pigs and stampede the animals.’

  The ‘No!’ was loud enough to make all three of the others cringe, and they pulled themselves slightly back to the safety of the bushes. Markham kept his eyes forward, so that they could all hear his whisper.

  ‘Those men have to be dealt with in silence, and it makes no difference if they are killed or just clubbed. Any noise, too soon, and we’ll have the whole force to deal with.’

  ‘Paoli!’ hissed Calheri.

  She didn’t like to be checked, that was obvious from her glare and the way her eyes narrowed. Nor did she much like what he said next, made all the more telling by the low growling tone of his voice.

  ‘I think if I hear that name once more I’ll yell blue murder. I haven’t even met this paragon and already I’m sick of him.’ She looked set to respond in kind, but he cut her off. ‘But I will save him, if indeed he needs it. Die even, but not uselessly. You’ve proved you’re good with that knife. Do so again. Take Bellamy round to the other side, while Rannoch and I come down off this ridge by the path that leads to the road.’

  ‘Why there?’ she asked, suspiciously, since what he proposed put her much closer than him to the dragoons.

  ‘If that path is too narrow and dark, we’ll never get the animals down it at anything like enough speed. If you’d ever tried to get a horse into a dark stall you’d know that. Some of them might have to be led in there, so that when they go, the rest will follow.’

  She nodded as he added, ‘And I don’t know how far away the road is, do you? Let us come from that direction, and get our guns on them. You can then take them from behind.’

  Markham grabbed Bellamy as she slithered away, pulling him close, aware for the first time that the odour of his body was different. ‘No guns till I say so. Club her if she tries to use her pistol.’

  ‘If she orders me?’

  ‘You are a marine, Bellamy,’ Markham interrupted. ‘You obey me, not her. And if you doubt the wisdom of doing so, then just think of staying alive.’

  ‘If he does not go he will lose her,’ growled Rannoch.

  Markham pushed Bellamy away, indicated to his sergeant to follow, then, on his belly, crawled off in the opposite direction, keeping the edge of the ridge on his left. Soon he was heading downhill, at an angle so steep that he needed both hands to hold himself. He felt Rannoch, encumbered by his musket, slide into him, which pushed him faster than he wanted to go, and forced him to grab hold of a sapling to stop both men tumbling to the bottom of the slope in a noisy heap.

  ‘We would be best to go down on our arse,’ muttered Rannoch, his measured way of speaking causing Markham to wonder if the Highlander had ever gabbled a sentence. ‘That is, if we want to arrive with some dignity.’

  Back on flat ground, life was easier, if no less scary. They were close now to the road; Markham could sense it, even if he couldn’t see it. The path that led to it was, as he had suspected, an overgrown track, so dark that no horse would go into it unless driven. So little light penetrated the thick arc of cover that he s
lipped across it without the slightest danger of being seen by the horse minders. Rannoch followed and they stayed upright as they made their way round the perimeter of the clearing, to a point just far enough away from the horse-lines to avoid spooking the animals.

  The two dragoons had finished their watering, and were now looking to their own needs, opening saddlebags to produce bread, a flask, pipes and tobacco, the sound so like rustling hay that every horse’s eye was on them. Their carbines were still slung across their shoulders, which would make it impossible for them to get them off, over their heads, and presented in under five seconds, then a threat only if they were loaded. So preoccupied were they, so secure, that the pair didn’t notice the two intruders until they were within ten feet. An accidental scuff of Markham’s boot made one turn round, his gasp doing the same to the other. What they saw caused confusion: one giant blond in just his shirt, another man, who would have looked tall next to anyone normal, wearing one of their dragoon coats. What they didn’t misread was the two weapons aimed right at their chests.

  As they turned to face the muzzles, hands raised, Commandatore Calheri walked out of the trees behind them, stiletto in her hand. Yet she herself was taken by surprise. A figure in Corsican uniform appeared at her left before she’d covered half the distance to the dragoons she intended to knife. Having been hidden in the trees, the third man’s view of both the marines and the dragoons had been obscured: he must have seen their upraised hands as he rushed forward, judging by the surprised flick of his eyes. Calheri, turning in shock, rocked back on her heels. Her attacker took advantage of her lack of balance and knocked her over. She fell, arms spread out, and as she sprawled on the ground he whipped out his own knife.

  Then Bellamy stepped forward, and froze. For reasons only the Negro knew, his musket was pointing towards the ground, and his face was shocked and pleading rather than angry and full of resolve. He stopped when he should have come on, which earned a curse from Rannoch, one that was redoubled when he swung his musket, pulled his trigger, and was rewarded with nothing but the crack of flint striking flint, as the musket misfired.

  Both dragoons went for their carbines as soon as they heard that sound, only to hesitate when Markham moved forward, pistol extended. Calheri’s assailant was still standing astride her, knife out, but his gaze fixed on a Bellamy who appeared to be no threat. The Commandatore lunged up with her stiletto, plunging into the man’s lower belly so hard that it sliced right up to his leather belt. He should have screamed then, yet he didn’t. His eyes stayed on Bellamy as the black marine stumbled forward, slowly raised his weapon, and pushed the man to the ground. There he lay, twitching and groaning, one hand raised, pointing towards the Negro’s head.

  Calheri jumped up and ran, her knife taking the first dragoon in the small of the back, ramming hard upwards towards his heart. Her other hand was a little late, and he got off half a cry before she smothered it. His companion stood, transfixed by terror, looking as the light of life died in the eyes of the man beside him. Rannoch moved forward and clubbed him with his useless musket, a blow the victim, mercifully, didn’t see coming.

  ‘Ponies first,’ snapped Markham. ‘Just untie their lines from the trees and leave them on their halters. Commandatore, relieve those two men of their carbines, and Bellamy, once you’ve untied the ponies, make sure your musket will fire.’

  While they complied he was looking at the animals closely, with that practised eye that every Irishman prided himself on. In all equine groupings, there was a hierarchy. Man might think he’d tamed horses, but they were still full of wild instincts. One of these ponies would be respected by the others, not so much a leader in the true sense, but a mount that inspired confidence. Where he went, they would follow. There was no time for deep analysis. First they had to be kept under control, and second, the sound of sixty hooves was bound to carry. He thought he detected one less frisky than the others, a roan-coloured stallion that had an air about him as he pawed the ground without fear.

  ‘Right,’ he said, moving forward and taking the reins. The animal tried to move sideways as he tightened the girth, but soothing words stilled it, and kept the beast there while he lengthened the stirrups. ‘Cut the cavalry horses loose on my command, and then blaze way with everything we’ve got.’

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Calheri demanded, standing in the middle of the clearing, a carbine in each hand, the very image of the kind of bandit queen so beloved by dramatists. ‘How do you know which way the horses will run?’

  Markham leapt into the saddle with ease, grabbed the reins and rode to the very entrance of the tunnel-like path. The roan jibbed of course, but he held it steady and, spinning round, said in a joke that was wasted on her, ‘Sure, they’re like my men, Commandatore. They’ll bloody well follow me anywhere.’

  It wasn’t just the horses that came to life when the guns went off. The whole forest did. Birds that had sat in silence while their territory was occupied shot out of the trees and into the sky, squealing and squawking. More distant animals, pig deer and boars probably, broke cover and ran. But nothing compared with the horses, who, even trained for war, panicked immediately. Markham had yelled and dug hard with his heels at the very point of discharge. Threatened from the rear, and with one obvious avenue of escape available, the pony he was riding shot into the gloom, followed by the others, who while they ran were rearing and bucking to break their tethers. Rannoch and Bellamy were holding one end of each line, so that they ran out through the loops, and set the beasts free.

  Within a minute, that dark, narrow path was full of striving horses. He was on the road in no more than ten seconds, hauling on the halter to get his pony round and heading north, a stampede behind him that, given the larger cavalry horses, threatened to overwhelm him. Suddenly the road was full of men and animals, some dragoons, others Corsicans in blue caps. Those behind didn’t help, firing off their weapons to add to the general mayhem. The few humans between him and the bridge threw aside their guns and held their hands up in vain, their efforts only succeeding in channelling the frightened horses, rather than stopping them.

  Ahead of him, Markham saw Leech and Halsey run from the bridge to the safety of the trees, as they’d been instructed. His problem was to do likewise, no easy task considering he was sitting on a pony wild with terror. All horses run naturally, and all want to be in front. He had two cavalry mounts alongside him by the time he was in stone-throwing distance of the bridge. Callously, he headed his pony over, so that the one on his left was heading straight for the pine logs that formed the uprights that lined the side. That forced it to rear and stop, and to shy away towards the trees to avoid plunging into the river.

  Markham held his mount on that line, so that nothing came between him and the side rail. He had to raise his left foot out of the stirrup to avoid his leg being crushed, which made his next task more difficult. Control was hard enough without purchase on one side, but he threw his body weight that way, and hauled hard on the reins as they reached the northern bank. It only slowed his pony a fraction, and he had no time to judge the wisdom of his departure. He only knew how fast he was going when, having leapt clear, he hit the ground, off balance, tumbling in a heap into bushes and saplings, his momentum carrying him clear of the flailing hooves of the rest of the stampede. Hands grabbed him and dragged him further into the undergrowth.

  Clods of earth flew high and wide as the rest of the horses streamed by, watched from a recumbent position by the main body Markham had left behind. The question of what happened next was crucial, the whole point of his action being an attempt to get Fouquert and his support away from this part of the Morosaglia road. In his absence, his men had been busy with more camouflage, everyone with a weapon now concealed within yards of the road, so comprehensively that it would be hard for a person standing on top of them to see anything.

  ‘Here they come,’ he said. ‘Pass it on.’

  If they stopped to wonder what had happened to the men who’d been left to
hold this side of the bridge, it would cost the enemy dear, exposed as they were on the open road to fire from point-blank range. That would mean a fight, but the muskets would even matters up, and might, with decent shooting, put the odds in his favour. But Markham was relying on the cavalryman’s need for his horse, plus the thought, which would filter through to the most ignorant brain, that without them, this far from base, they were at the mercy of any sizable Corsican force they encountered.

  The pounding of feet didn’t register till they were very close, since the thudding noise from the horses was still audible. As the red-faced dragoons ran by, waving their various weapons, shouting and cursing to horses deaf to their pleas, each one was at the mercy of a musket barrel. The same applied to the Corsicans, who like the Frenchmen had eyes only for the pursuit of their mounts. Fouquert was in the middle of them, his face set, jaw clenched so tight it seemed his teeth would crumble under the strain.

  The last man to appear was a corporal, his arms full of weapons that his men had dropped in their eagerness to pursue. He looked right at his hidden enemy, unable to see them through the skilful camouflage, calling out names, presumably those of the men they’d killed. The eloquent shrug that followed testified to his belief that they too had deserted their posts, and were in pursuit of their horses.

  ‘They will catch them, Citizen Fouquert,’ the corporal shouted, to a man probably too far away by now to hear him. His voice had a pleading tone, well suited to addressing a man who’d hanged his officer that very morning. ‘Horses don’t run for ever. They’ll stop as soon as they find some decent grazing. We could be back here within the hour.’

  These words were followed by a deep sigh, another shrug, before the corporal, mumbling to himself, trudged away in the wake of his troop.