Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  The ‘No’ she replied with was muted.

  ‘Then I’ll have to go myself.’

  ‘Impossible. General Paoli demands you go to Corte. You have information that is directly related to his wellbeing.’

  Markham stopped, and glared at her. ‘He could have waited for me, if he was so bloody concerned.’

  That shocked her. ‘And exposed himself to even more risk?’

  ‘Sure, I believe even generals are obliged to occasionally,’ he responded sarcastically. ‘It’s a feature of war.’

  That really made her boil, so much that he wondered where she’d put that pointed knife she wielded so effectively. He’d known all along he’d have to oblige, and it was nothing to do with what Bellamy had overheard. Now, looking at her changed face, it seemed a good time to accept the inevitable.

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch,’ he shouted, as she opened her mouth to curse him.

  ‘Sir!’

  The Highlander came abreast of him, musket in hand. Markham told him about Lanester, then waved a nonchalant hand towards Calheri, still on the verge of spitting at him.

  ‘Seems the big chief wants to see me. Our Commandatore here wants Bellamy and me to go on horseback, while you follow on foot.’

  ‘Then I hope you do not meet anyone who wants to harm you, with only a woman and that darkie in tow. I asked him why he didn’t use his bayonet in the clearing, nor fire when ordered. Do you know what he said?’ Markham shook his head. ‘It seems he has found that he does not like the killing, which he discovered when he bayonetted one of those dragoons.’

  ‘He fired quick enough when that fool came after us.’

  ‘That was panic,’ Rannoch sneered. ‘And everyone knows it. And now you are proposing to put him on a horse.’

  ‘Not me, Sergeant. That idea belongs to the Commandatore.’

  Markham’s spirits, already low, sank when they reached the convent. Lanester still hadn’t arrived, and it was very doubtful if the carter would travel by night. The more time the major spent away from the security of his escort, the greater the risk. Where was Fouquert now? He didn’t know, and neither did anyone else.

  ‘I want someone sent immediately,’ he insisted.

  The nod he received in reply lacked conviction, which was reflected in his last orders to Rannoch. ‘Crack of dawn, Sergeant. If there’s no sign of the major and Pavin, get back to that monastery yourself and fetch him on.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘And take care, man. You never know who might be lurking in that bloody maccia.’

  Chapter twenty-six

  Dawn found them approaching Paoli’s capital. Markham was exhausted and felt filthy, so that when he actually saw the main church spire, as well as the taller buildings of Corte, it was with some relief. The city was distant, of course, but nevertheless a beacon. There was some comfort in the fact that he was approaching a place where he could rid himself of the burden he carried, knowledge that he could not act on, but Paoli could, mixed with his anxieties about pulling it off without the help of Lanester. The story was reeling around in his mind now, like a recurring nightmare.

  But there were things to distract him even from that. It rankled that the beautiful Commandatore Calheri seemed to take more interest in Bellamy than him, despite his best efforts to make up for his previous rudeness. She had called the Negro forward to ride alongside them, as an equal. Unwisely, in Markham’s eyes, the black marine private played up to her shamelessly. If he was aware of the discomfort he was visiting upon his superior, he gave no sign of it. For the first time Markham could see a hint of the arrogance that so offended the men he served with. Bellamy was like a cartoon rake, with his overblown sallies and arch wit, all delivered in blissfully fluent French.

  Eavesdropping, Markham learnt more about the man than he ever had from direct conversation: about his birth in the Sugar Island of St Kitts, and his luck in being the offspring of slaves purchased by Archimedes Bellamy’s father, he being described as a whip-wielding tyrant, in contrast to his saintly, good-natured son. Having selected Eboluh as a promising case, Archimedes had provided tutors to teach him, and several other boys, everything that would be vouchsafed educationally to a well-bred Englishman.

  Markham was watching her face as Bellamy boasted, arms moving expansively to underline each point, relating how astounded his teachers had been at his application and intelligence, marvelling at the way he left his compatriots behind as he absorbed their lessons.

  ‘French, Latin of course, though I confess I struggle to this day with Greek. And it does amaze me that having such a facility for mathematics, I seem incapable of holding on to any kind of money, coin or bill. Still, pleasure above all would line my coat of arms, should I ever be granted one.’

  Bellamy, laughing, had leant across to say this, pushing his horse close to Calheri like a man bent on increasing the degree of intimacy. For the tenth time Markham saw her features change, especially the involuntary sharpening of the nose. On one level this made him think that she’d be an easy woman to attempt to seduce, since you would never be in any doubt where you stood. The other half of his mind was consumed with the temptation to tell Bellamy not only to shut up, but to move away as well.

  ‘We must make more haste,’ she said, spurring her mount.

  ‘I remember you said how impatient the old man was,’ said Markham.

  ‘You would be too, Lieutenant, if you had his concerns.’

  He couldn’t resist the jibe, even though it was clearly the wrong thing to say. ‘Concerns, is it? He has those all right, and that after you telling me how safe Paoli was. Revered, was the word you used, I think. Yet he can’t ride out ten miles from his own capital for fear that one of his own countrymen might knife him.’

  ‘Be content in the knowledge that you do not understand Corsica,’ she replied sharply.

  ‘You must forgive me, Commandatore Calheri,’ he said, with deliberate irony. ‘I’ve been here for two weeks, and it gives me no pleasure to say to you that I probably understand Corsica only too well.’

  Both men having blotted their copybooks, they were relegated to a position well to her rear. It was some time before they realised how much attention they were paying to her trim buttocks, rising and falling rhythmically in time with the canter of her mount, made shapely by the tight corduroy of her riding breeches.

  ‘A better view, sir,’ said Bellamy, ‘than the arse on the back of your average Lobster.’

  Markham was annoyed at the over-familiarity. Though not excessive in his regard for rank, he knew that without it only mayhem could ensue. Bellamy seemed incapable of remembering that he was employed to fight, not amuse. Right at this moment he wasn’t doing either.

  ‘You’re not much given to acknowledging hierarchy, Private Bellamy, are you?’

  Meant to check the Negro slightly, and to remind him to whom he was speaking, it failed abysmally.

  ‘Those at the bottom of a pile have no time for such malarkey, which is the preserve of those sad creatures who aspire to something they will never have. How fatal it is to be of the middling sort, forever casting an eye to the rear in panic, while bowing a knee to the front in hope. That is not a dilemma afforded to a black man, however handsome or intelligent.’

  Bellamy grinned then, showing those large white teeth, and his eyebrows arched to increase the size of an already large face. He waited just long enough for Markham to purse his lips at the vanity before adding, ‘Nor, I daresay, to officers whose reputation amongst their peers it not of the highest.’

  ‘I have just been slapped down?’ Markham asked, amused in spite of himself.

  ‘It is hardly my place to do such a thing,’ Bellamy responded, not attempting to disguise the irony. ‘I merely seek to point out that my station, while it has limitations, also has freedoms.’

  ‘Education has surely done a great deal to remove some of the limitations.’

  ‘And imposed others, sir, like jealousy and mistrust. Hate I can comprehend
. But if a white man is kind to me, what is his motive? I can never be sure. Is his charity not prompted by a need to compensate for the colour of my skin? Do people hang on my words because of their quality, or because they cannot believe wisdom emanates from such a source?’

  He flicked a hand at Calheri’s posterior. ‘If the lady ahead of us, with the so-attractive derrière, succumbed to my charms, and proved amenable to a touch of dalliance, would it be because of my wit and my erudition, or mere curiosity about the supposed physical endowments of my race? I am like a very rich man who never knows whether people like him for himself, or for his money.’

  ‘Which, in my experience, makes rich men mean.’

  ‘It only makes me boastful.’ Bellamy saw Markham smile, and nodded once more towards those bouncing buttocks. ‘I find it is healthy, as do all philosophers, to know one’s own faults.’

  ‘To hell with philosophy,’ Markham replied, his gaze following in the same direction.

  They had to drop down into a deep valley before they could make the final leg of the journey up the steep incline to Corte. The road wound over several rushing spring torrents, which Markham recalled from his maps were either the River Restonica or the higher reaches of the Golo. The town itself stood on a thousand-foot outcrop of jagged rock, a walled citadel, fronting on an escarpment shaped like a noble Roman nose.

  The main citadel looked, from where he first sighted it, like a boat without sails, but bearing buildings as cargo. Turrets marked the corners of this, one looking down to the round tower of the original castle, pushed well forward over the cliffs to command a view of the approaches. The city, dominated by a tall Romanesque spire, had spread outside the walls of the old town, spilling down the hillside. It was a place of which Commandatore Calheri was inordinately proud. When she talked of Corte and its history, she reminded Markham of General Grimaldi and his tales of Corsican heroism.

  Founded by the indigenes, it was unlike all the other cities of Corsica, which were of Roman or Genoese origin. Hardly surprising, then, that it was the seat of the first independent government and the home of Corsica’s first university. It looked like an impregnable fortress, yet the list of people who had captured the place was long: some foreigners, others island heroes who’d retaken the place. Looking at the terrain, broken, irregular hills between steep valleys, all covered in dense forest, Markham wondered how any of them had managed it.

  But then he looked at the citadel itself, a brooding presence even in its light, sunset-coloured stone. It spoke to him of treachery, of secret arrangements that opened gates that should have remained closed. From leaving Cardo, through all the forests and fights, and even in his dealing with Fouquert, the name of Corte had sounded like a haven. Now that he could see it, it didn’t feel that way at all.

  Few people came to watch them ride through the narrow streets, made dark by the deep shadows, which cast most of the lanes they rode through into gloom. This, along with shuttered windows, added to the chill caused by the lack of sunlight. Up and up they rose, through steep, winding streets, criss-crossed by even steeper alleys. Then, quite suddenly, they rode into a decent-sized square, bright with sunlight and lined with buildings made imposing by the meagre surroundings. All were of light-coloured sandstone, with generous windows and imposing entries. The other feature they shared was a number of bullet holes etched into their soft stone walls, the edges worn by time.

  ‘The Palais National,’ said Calheri as she dismounted, proudly pointing to the biggest building, which filled one end of the square.

  ‘Home of the general?’ asked Markham.

  ‘Home of the government of Corsica,’ she said, her chest swelling out with enough pride to drag his eyes away from her face. She must have noticed the direction of his gaze, since her tone changed abruptly. ‘Please dismount.’

  He did so, stiffly, not having spent much time in a saddle for six months. He felt it showed when he walked, and that if anyone asked him to stop a pig, it would escape easily through his bandy pins. Bellamy, who could not have been on a horse himself since joining the marines, moved with an ease that added another sliver of resentment to Markham’s appreciation of the Negro.

  They made their way up the steps, into a deep, colonnaded portico, the first hint that people occupied the building the buzz of conversation, echoing off stone walls, passing out through the open double doors. Once through those, they found themselves in a crowd: all men, knots of people talking in an animated fashion while glancing anxiously at the other door, guarded by two smart sentinels, which stood at the far side of the main salon. Markham was surprised, having expected the place would be deserted at this early hour.

  Calheri marched forward, her boots thudding on the stone floor, creating a path for herself by sheer force of character.

  Someone had noticed Markham’s French cavalry coat, kept on despite its provenance to ward off the chill when they were out of the rays of the sun. And Bellamy, of course, drew automatic attention. With his shining black face, one eyebrow raised, he examined the locals with a disdain that would have done credit to a Prince of Wales. People began to edge towards them, some growling, others pointing, until Markham took the coat off, and threw it at the nearest pair of feet.

  ‘Abuse it if you wish, gentlemen,’ he said in English. ‘It is, after all, the garb of our common enemy.’

  That stopped the forward movement, and Bellamy showed great presence of mind in translating Markham’s statement into French. Looks were exchanged as he spoke, nods added when he identified his officer as a British ally. One man, standing near the coat, leant over and spat on it. This was an act soon followed by everyone present, as though it was necessary for each of them to prove their adherence to the Corsican cause, which left Markham wondering just how many of them were being truthful.

  He hadn’t noticed the guarded door open the first time, as Commandatore Calheri made her approach. But he did see it open for the second time, above the heads of those assembled, not least because all those who’d already partaken of their ritual abuse span round to look. He sensed the crowd parting in front of him before he saw any physical evidence. But finally they did, creating a clear space, and George Markham had his first sight of the paragon himself, General Pasquale Paoli.

  He’d expected an upright frame, but age had spoiled the perfection of that. The hair was snowy-white without benefit of powder, the face lined with wrinkled skin the colour of parchment. Somehow he was disappointed, even though he’d known long before he arrived that the general was an old man. A portion of that feeling evaporated as he came closer, so that Markham could see the steady, bright blue eyes; observe that a lot of the wrinkles had been caused by mirth rather than frowns, and that the man had natural grace in abundance. The bow with which he greeted the general was therefore given as much through respect for what he saw, as for the legends that he’d heard.

  ‘Lieutenant George Markham, General Paoli,’ said Calheri. What she added to that was obviously for the benefit of the crowd. ‘Who has come from San Fiorenzo, via Cardo.’

  There was a shuffling in the crowd as Paoli came closer, but no one spoke as Markham opened his mouth to present his own greeting. The finger, which came speedily up to the lips, surprised him, as did the look on the older man’s face, but he obeyed the injunction to remain silent.

  ‘You will walk with me for a while, Lieutenant.’ Paoli paused while Markham nodded. ‘And accommodate me by saying nothing while we do.’

  The voice was commanding without the least trace of harshness. There was no option but to obey, and no anger in being obliged to do so. Despite his earlier cursing, such an order from such a source seemed the height of reason. Paoli had his hand held out, indicating that he should come closer, and as Markham joined him he began to walk, pacing round the outer rim of the salon with his hands behind his back. It spoke volumes for the majestic nature of his presence that not a soul even dared to cough while this was taking place.

  Every so often the
general would stop and look at him, examining his face for a few moments before stepping out again. These halts and inspections were unnerving. Markham felt those bright blue eyes, steady and unblinking, could see into his very soul. Yet if Pasquale Paoli could so do, nothing of what he saw showed on his face. Calheri was watching, her eyes more intent than the others, as if this was some kind of cabalistic ritual which would reveal hidden secrets without the need for speech.

  They paced around in silence for some fifteen long minutes, the only sound the echo of their boots on the stone floor. The room was cool yet the atmosphere seemed oppressive. Opposite the door through which he had arrived, the General finally stopped, turned to face him, clasped both the British officer’s hands in his own, and said: ‘Welcome to Corte.’

  That was a signal for conversation to recommence, and the buzz of it filled the high-ceilinged room.

  ‘Please, Lieutenant, come into my private quarters, and bring your Numidian companion with you.’

  Chapter twenty-seven

  To Markham it was like sitting before the Star Chamber, worse by far than a court martial. Not that Pasquale Paoli sought elevation. He sat at the same level as his visitors, listening carefully. But the room, high-ceilinged and panelled, had just the right degree of oppression, the white flags drooping at the rear providing the only relief. On both sides of the general those important enough to qualify for attendance, numbering about twenty souls, stood silently, like courtiers. And all this for a man supposedly retired from active political life!

  First of all, he reiterated his concerns for Major Lanester. Then, for public consumption, Markham trotted out the story relating to the mission he and Lanester had been sent to perform, the need for more troops. If this old man, with steady bright blue eyes that never left his face, considered it eyewash, he kept that knowledge hidden from his own countrymen. Yet Markham suspected they knew it was a cover for something else as well. Why send a file of marines, and two officers, to deliver a request that could have come by single mounted messenger?