Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  Chapter twenty-five

  ‘Tell the general to remain at the convent,’ said Markham, as Calheri’s women formed up. ‘We will be there some time after dark.’

  ‘I cannot tell him anything,’ she responded. ‘As soon as I give him news of what happened here, he will probably return to Corte.’

  ‘He can’t do that!’

  ‘Why not?’

  It was on the tip of his tongue to say. After all, they had fought the French together. But Nelson’s intended attack on Bastia, now no more than five days away, was a subject he wanted to avoid. The injunction from Lanester to trust no one was wise advice he intended to follow. Unlike the major’s assertion that he could carry out the task of telling Paoli what was required himself, an idea that became less appealing the more he considered it.

  ‘The whole future of Corsica depends on it. Major Lanester needs to speak with him, urgently, just inform him of that. You must send a cart and some escorts to pick him up. Don’t, for God’s sake, let Paoli go himself. And if those men from Corte have left, it would be wise to get them back again.’

  Her eyes flashed, preceding the anger in her voice. ‘Does it not embarrass you, as such a junior officer, to issue so many orders?’

  ‘Requests, Commandatore, they are requests,’ he replied, trying to be emollient.

  ‘Then that is what I will pass on, Lieutenant.’

  She span on her heel and marched to the head of her troop, who immediately took up step to follow her. Markham kicked a clod of earth out of the ground in frustration, which was a bit over-dramatic considering the way his hopes had been realised. The trap was no more, the enemy had withdrawn towards Morosaglia, and neither he nor Calheri had suffered a single casualty. The only thing he was doing now was using up time that could not anyway be put to good purpose.

  ‘I did not understand a word of that,’ said Rannoch, ‘but would I be right in thinking you have not got your own way?’

  The Highlander was looking up the track, at the backs of the Commandatore and her marching troopers. Had there been any alternative but to send them? The Morosaglia route had to be held till they knew Paoli was safe, and in a situation in which infantry must face cavalry, this was the best place to do it. And given a choice between his men and the females, there hadn’t been much in the way of an option. But there was also the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that, in the time available, they would be able to fetch Lanester, and provided he was well enough the major would be able to undertake the task with which Hood and d’Aubent had entrusted him.

  ‘Thank God there are no women in the marines, Rannoch.’

  ‘Does it not occur to you, sir, that the whole skirmish was a waste? If their man had been coming he would surely be with us by now.’

  His officer nodded. ‘It does occur to me, Sergeant. But there’s an old saying that goes like this: “It seemed like a decent idea at the time!” Right now, the best thing we can do is take up our positions.’

  ‘Yelland,’ Rannoch called, ‘up to that first bend and keep your eyes peeled. The rest of you, into the woods and find enough wood to bar this bridge to those bastard cavalry.’

  They worked on through the rest of the afternoon to build a barricade. Rannoch had the men lay kindling all along the base, which could be lit to make it a fiery obstacle to men on foot. Four feet high, it was not beyond the power of a dragoon horse to jump. But any rider who attempted it would be forced to do so singly, which would leave him at the mercy of the defenders. To Markham it was precautionary. He didn’t think Fouquert would return. But if he did, he would have to risk losing most of his strength. The Lobsters had all the powder and shot that had previously been available to the dragoons, no need to shoot until they were threatened, and good individual skills, especially firing from solid cover at short range. Unless there was something Fouquert wanted that he knew nothing about, it couldn’t be worth the price he’d have to pay.

  Markham, working alongside Rannoch to raise the barrier, suddenly laughed, which caused the Highlander to give him a look.

  ‘I was just thinking how nice it would be, being present when that corporal does a roll call of his men and finds how many are missing.’

  Rannoch shook his head slowly, his face grave. ‘That Fouquert is not a man I would like to be giving bad news to. The corporal you speak of, if he has any regard for his skin, will want to come back to be sure.’

  ‘I wouldn’t let him,’ Markham replied, lifting one end of a twisted pine log. ‘He’s lost six dragoons without knowing what has happened to them. For all Fouquert knows, he faces walking into a trap himself, just like the one he set for Paoli. I would swear he values his hide pretty highly. It’s not something he will risk, even for such a prize. My bet is he will retire, and if he thinks his purpose has been discovered, all the way to Bastia.’

  ‘I hope that you are right.’ Rannoch wasn’t sure that they should stay here at all. The circumstances hadn’t changed; they were still outnumbered, albeit in a better state to mount a defence. And being the kind of man he was, he’d let his officer know of his worries.

  ‘Call Yelland back in, Sergeant,’ said Markham, as soon as the work was complete.

  ‘It is going to get cold now we’ve stopped toiling, I think,’ Rannoch suggested, ‘and I am not sure I am going to be right fond of this forest in the dark.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Markham replied, grinning. ‘We’ve chased the demons away.’

  Many sounds disturbed the forest as the sun began to dip in the sky, but they were those of nature. This bridge, at this time of year, according to Calheri, was the only crossing of the Golo for miles. Markham trusted that only so far, especially since Fouquert had Corsicans with him. He put a piquet out on each flank, with orders to keep one musket loaded and cocked, with a finger on the trigger, his words regarding Fornali guaranteeing that his order would be obeyed.

  ‘We’ll be pulling out about an hour after dark, so anyone not busy, get some rest.’

  With so few men, providing that was difficult. The previous night had been uncomfortable, the day a long one of hard marching, and now they were standing watches, grumbling mightily. And Rannoch was right, they were going to get cold, with what heat the sun could produce cut off early by the surrounding trees, and his men still in no more than shirts. Hunger, too, would do nothing to make a night march easier. Rannoch was pushing at an open door when he asked that the situation be remedied and, having been given leave, sent one party off for water, and two more to hunt and kill some food.

  The embankment above the clearing that had contained the enemy horses was a rabbit warren, where the skills of the countrymen like Yelland and Leech came to the fore. Ettrick and Quinlan, clodhoppers who were told to get out of the way, responded sniffily that their mates wouldn’t be quite so handy in a town. Bellamy, along with Dornan, was useless at hunting, so these four were left to man the barricade, as their mates first gathered, then began to spit-roast, what they had caught.

  ‘Stand to,’ called Quinlan, without raising his voice any more than necessary.

  Rannoch was asleep, having had less rest than anyone the night before. But he was on his feet a fraction after his officer, musket up and over the top of the logs. Halsey had a pole under the makeshift spit, ready to break it up, while Dymock picked up one of the leather buckets that had been left by the dragoons, preparatory to dousing the fire. The rest were at the musket stack in quick time, and at their stations a few seconds after their sergeant.

  Quinlan spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Corsican bastard, with a blue cap, I reckon. Just the one, your honour.’

  ‘There will be more,’ said Markham.

  ‘I might be able to shoot him,’ said Rannoch, patting the unfamiliar weapon.

  ‘How long till that food is ready?’ called Markham.

  ‘Some of it is there now,’ Halsey replied.

  ‘Right then,’ Markham barked. ‘Grab what you can, and eat, then man this barricade. Se
rgeant Rannoch, be my guest.’

  ‘Sharland, Ebden,’ Rannoch called. ‘Two more muskets here, one either side.’

  He didn’t lay his own weapon back on the top of the logs, but instead found a gap he could aim through, keeping as much of the muzzle hidden as he could. Markham looked at the track, gloomy now and getting darker by the minute. He guessed Rannoch would try for the horse first, then the rider, wounding him so that if he wasn’t alone another target might be presented when his companions tried to rescue him. In the event, Rannoch was denied that. He fired just as the blue-capped horseman hauled on his reins, the shot going wide of the mark, removing a branch not far from the animal’s flank. By the time he’d got upright, grabbed Ebden’s musket which was on his right, and fired, his target was on his way, astride a horse even more eager to find cover than its rider, and the sole result of his second discharge was another felled branch.

  ‘Useless,’ Rannoch spat, holding out Ebden’s musket. ‘How can anybody, man or women, expect to score a hit with these?’

  ‘Eat, Sergeant,’ said Markham.

  ‘Do we stay?’ the Highlander asked softly.

  ‘We don’t know how many there are,’ Markham replied, as Leech lifted one of the leather buckets up, using his mess tin so that his officer could take a drink.

  ‘If he was local, he might know just as much about these woods as your lady officer.’

  Markham was staring at the side of the bucket, water dripping from his chin, in his mind the place they’d got to that morning, where the men looking after the horses had drawn their water. Calheri was right about this being the only crossing at this time of year. But that, surely, only applied if you didn’t like getting wet. The pond he remembered was swimmable, and anyone who could lower themselves down the cliff on the far side had a fair chance of getting safely to the opposite bank.

  ‘Get all the wood we have on the fire well spread out, and gather more, green stuff that will smoke. I want a blaze that will last.’ Markham grabbed the remains of a rabbit from the hand of Gibbons and threw it into the embers. ‘And let’s get the smell of cooking filling this forest.’

  The men moved to obey too quickly, and he had to order them to act normally. He was looking anxiously over his shoulder to the Morosaglia side of the bridge, knowing that they’d have someone up a tree by now, high enough to see over the barricade, able to tell those on the ground what was happening. If he went too soon, before they deployed to find an alternative crossing, they would simply charge the barricade. If he delayed too long, they might get across the river and take him in the flank. He had to judge the light as well. Retreating at leisure through a dark forest was one thing. Running in fear of a horse, a creature with better natural night vision, was quite another.

  He waited for ten agonising minutes before he spoke again, slowly explaining the situation as he saw it. His Hebes had become accustomed to this, the Seahorses less so. Both Bellamy and Sharland were prone to ask questions, the calls for them to shut up loud enough to override the way they growled at each other.

  ‘If I’ve got it right, we will separate them from their mounts long enough to give us a head start. And they won’t pursue us on foot, which increases the margin. Everyone stay in the woods till the first bend, then we can use the road.’

  The light was going. Now the track between the trees at the first bend was barely visible. The green wood was placed on the fire, which was hot enough to produce quickly billowing smoke. As soon as it began to blow about them, Markham gave the order to each man personally, so that they slipped out of sight singly to form just inside the line of trees. They moved fairly quickly, covering the hundred yards to the first bend without exposing themselves. Then they were back on the track, Markham at their head, not actually running, but keeping up a good trot, on a path that twisted and turned, rose and fell as it followed the contours of the country. It was hard to hear when you were moving fast, because of the sound of your own breath, but every ear still strained to pick up a hint of a pursuing horse.

  ‘Take them on, Corporal Halsey,’ shouted Markham, as they rounded a tight bend that marked the end of one of the few long straights, jumping to one side to let them pass. The sky above his head was going from blue to indigo, and this would present his last chance to shoot at anything with any hope of seeing it. ‘The last four, halt.’

  Rannoch was bringing up the rear, and the other three were Bellamy, Leech and Dornan. Not the best shots by any means, but then accuracy was not what he sought.

  ‘You’ve heard something?’

  Markham shook his head, and grinned. ‘I’m going to wait here just two minutes, Sergeant. I’ll take a wager on it.’

  In the event he was wrong: it was five minutes or more before they heard the sound of hooves. Not galloping, but moving fast, aware that even if time was running out for a pursuit, on the open trail they were sitting ducks. Markham waited until the first outline of the enemy was visible before calling his men out to fire a salvo. He used his pistol, and had the odd feeling as they let fly, and the glade was lit by the streaking flames of the discharge, that not all the weapons had fired.

  He would have liked to listen to the confusion, in his mind’s eye imagining rearing horses, men trying to wheel and flee, a degree of chaos. But they had to run, the job of slowing their pursuers done.

  But it wasn’t. The narrow track suddenly seemed full of sound, the thud of hooves loud even on the yielding earth. They all stopped and turned, Rannoch swift to whip out his bayonet and fix it, discarding any attempt to reload on the move. Leech was halfway to the same state, but Dornan dropped his and Bellamy just stood with his mouth open. All Markham had was a pistol to throw.

  A single horseman, determined to get to them while their weapons were unloaded, came round the twist in the track, his head low over the pony’s shoulder, blue cap just visible and a sabre extended enough to pick up what light was left in the sky. The sound of a musket going off by his ear, plus the orange flash, firing into the air, startled Markham. It also made the charging Corsican sit up and slightly check his mount. That was a split-second which was fatal to him, for Rannoch charged forward, bayonet extended, swept aside his sword, and rammed the blade home into his chest.

  Markham had followed his sergeant. He grabbed the animal’s bridle, pulling down to stop the beast rearing as he allowed it to drag him in a circle. Then he let go, stepped out of its path and gave it a mighty slap on the flank as it went by, speeding back the way it had come, to show the rest of the Corsicans the inadvisability of mounted pursuit. In the meantime Rannoch had got hold of Bellamy by his shirt, and practically lifted him off the ground.

  ‘Why did you not fire before, you black sod?’

  Markham punched him on one huge shoulder, his order to get moving obeyed, though the look in Rannoch’s eyes was murderous. A dozen more twists brought them to an anxious Halsey, visible now only by the white of his shirt, who had halted at the sound of gunfire. Markham was just about to berate him, but he was sure he could hear hooves approaching again, this time from the other direction.

  ‘On your knees the men at the front, the rest stay standing.’ Chest heaving, he stood, trembling hands trying to reload Calheri’s pistol, as the sound grew louder, cantering horses that he’d never expected to hear from that source. His voice, when he gave the order to present, was no more than a gasp.

  ‘Stand by,’ he yelled, as he saw the first glow of the torches. That strengthened until they rounded the bend, the flames lighting the embroidered cap on Calheri’s head, which brought forth a hurried shout to ‘Shoulder arms’.

  She was astride one horse, holding aloft a torch in the same hand with which she was leading another pair, and came to an abrupt halt when her torch revealed what faced her. Then, sure that the muskets were raised, she started to move forward, a smile on her face.

  ‘General Paoli is safe,’ she called. ‘He retired to Corte with my troopers as soon as we reached him.’

  Her face f
ell at the snarled response. And she was more offended that Markham wouldn’t even tell her what had happened. He merely grabbed her reins, turned her round and set off at his own pace, dragging her mounts with him, his Lobsters bringing up the rear. If she could have heard the words he was muttering under his breath, most of them relating to her hero Pasquale Paoli, the riding crop stuck into her boot might have come into use.

  They had to slow to a walk eventually, unable to keep up the pace, hoping that the pursuers, from fear of being drawn too deep into country in which they were exposed, would call a halt. Markham never knew if it was that, or the distant, tolling bells of the Convent of San Quilici Rocci, calling Vespers, which gave them a sense of safety.

  Calheri, once they’d slowed, took her chance to speak. ‘The General wishes to see you as soon as possible, Lieutenant, as well as the man who provided the information on which we acted.’

  ‘Bellamy!’

  ‘Yes. He requires you to leave your men at the convent to come on by foot, while we make as much speed as we can on horseback.’

  Markham, feeling more secure, had mellowed somewhat. But the words, which sounded very much like an order, still managed to rankle. ‘Requires? I requested that he stay at the convent and wait for me. I don’t recall being obliged.’

  ‘You cannot refuse such a man.’

  ‘Where is Major Lanester?’

  ‘He wasn’t at the convent when I left.’

  That was worrying. The carter had had ample time to get to the monastery and back. Had something happened to the major? The oilskin tube he’d extracted from that bottle was in his breeches, forgotten in all the actions of the last twenty-four hours: he was acutely conscious of it now.

  ‘You told me his condition when we left was poor. Unless he has had attention since then, he may well be unfit to travel.’

  That angered him, although she was only mirroring his own thoughts. ‘I don’t suppose anyone bothered to send a fast horse to find out.’