The general continued to listen without interruption to a filleted story of what had happened at Fornali, agreeing the escape of the French had been a misfortune. He showed slightly more concern when Markham went on to speak of the situation at Cardo, agreeing in a sage but noncommittal way about the lack of Corsican strength, allied to the danger posed by the positions they had adopted. He did not enquire who had made this decision. In fact, no names were mentioned by either man, not Arena, Buttafuco or Grimaldi.
Yet Paoli was no fool, and even if he claimed to have relinquished power, the evidence of Markham’s own eyes showed that he had it in abundance. He must have sources of information that reported back to him, independently of the titular commanders. What had happened at the Teghima Pass had been a disgrace. Yet, with an informant in front of him who could shed light on the failure of the whole operation round San Fiorenzo, he posed not a single question.
That left Markham high and dry, since he’d banked on curiosity to lead him onto more murky areas. He had no intention of producing Hood’s letter, telling the truth about Fornali, nor of mentioning what he’d seen at Cardo, as long as others were in the room. But he would have been quite willing, with a little probing, to disturb the air of complacency which seemed to prevail in this gathering.
Paoli, speaking for the first time since they’d sat down, suddenly changed the subject. He mentioned the proximity of the French patrol, which at least stirred the audience from their torpor. That was followed by a series of questions on how they had come to be captured. It was clear, when Markham answered, that those present were less than impressed. Paoli came to his defence, acknowledging that the trap Duchesne had sprung showed cunning. He mentioned the original inhabitants, the monks, offering a plea for their souls, and frowned when Markham, responding to another enquiry, reported how they’d been found in the maccia.
‘I can only assume that was the work of Fouquert.’
‘This, I am told, is the man who has come from Paris to arrest me,’ exclaimed Paoli, to a murmur of anger.
‘He is also the man who claims to have men faithful to him inside Corte.’ That caused uproar, as each person present assured the men next to them of their complete faith in their loyalty.
‘Bellamy,’ said Markham, stepping back.
The Negro started speaking, in his clear faultless French, which shut everyone up. They listened intently, tensed up for denial, as if each one expected to be named. Tempted to stray off the point, Bellamy was rudely returned to it by his officer, and cut off abruptly when it came to describing the escape.
‘This man you talk of, this Fouquert, is a priest-killer.’
‘I believe he is. I cannot think Captain Duchesne had a hand in it,’ Markham continued. ‘He paid with his life for saving me. A man of that type does not kill innocent priests.’
‘It is a great sadness, but hardly uncommon, Lieutenant, even for French officers who are themselves sons of the church. You must understand that nearly every man of the cloth in Corsica supports the desire for independence. This is not like mainland Europe, where bishops live in towering palaces and the monasteries hold great tracts of land. The priests of Corsica come from the same stock as their parishioners, and share a life that is equally hard. Rome to them is a distant place, less of an authority than their loyalty to their own kin. Without their help, I could not have pacified and united the island. They were with us when we fought Genoa, and it was with their help that we rallied enough to hold the French at bay for a decade. The consequence of that allegiance has been to expose them to the kind of reprisals you witnessed.’
He nearly replied that there was no sign of a struggle, or any spilling of blood, and that was part of the reason they’d walked into the French trap: the place was so very peaceful. But he stopped himself, knowing it would imply an insult he did not intend.
‘You were lucky that you and your men got away from this Fouquert.’
Paoli could know nothing of the extent of Fouquert’s intentions regarding his visitor, so didn’t know just how lucky Markham felt. Nor did he want to tell him, since thoughts of that tended to induce a degree of terror. He went on to describe the escape, pointing out Bellamy and detailing his contribution.
‘Luckily Major Lanester was the only casualty we suffered.’
‘Yes, Magdalena,’ said Paoli, with feeling. ‘We must make sure Lanester will be safe.’
‘Cavalry from the garrison are already on their way.’
The use of her first name was welcome. She had been stiff and formal since their last stop, and it served to make her more human. It also revealed an intimacy with the old man that went beyond the bounds of military attachment.
‘Good. I would hate anything to happen to Lanester. He has suffered enough in his time for the choices he has made.’
‘No more than you, Uncle.’
Paoli smiled, a slow warming affair that made his eyes glow. He was looking at Markham, rather than the woman now revealed to be his niece.
‘But I have gained what I desire, Magdalena, whereas poor Lanester, for choosing a king over a congress, lost everything he’d striven for.’
‘Which was?’
‘A sizable fortune.’
‘Money cannot be compared to the independence of a nation.’
Markham, looking around the blank, impassive faces, was beginning to get annoyed at the air of unreality which permeated this gathering. There were traitors, who must be of high rank, in the Corsican army, assassins on the loose, enemies of Paoli riding around the country within ten miles of Corte, not to mention French dragoons who had crossed half the island without so much as a skirmish. He had the feeling that not just Paoli, but everyone in the room, knew things they were keeping to themselves.
All had reacted with theatrical horror to the threat to arrest Paoli, yet it had seemed so stagey and unconvincing that it would have shamed a Greek chorus. It was an act of dissimulation, not fear, which made him wonder just how many of the worthies with enough influence to make the inner sanctum were loyal to their leader and their country. Even Duchesne had let something slip in that regard before Fouquert had shut him up. It was something he was inclined to believe. If there were traitors in other parts of the island, why would there not be the same in the capital city?
While perfectly prepared to keep his word to Lanester about Hood’s letter, he had an overweening desire to let these smug Corsicans know just how badly they’d failed at San Fiorenzo, and just what he’d witnessed at Cardo. He wanted to see their reaction to an accusation of treachery and base murder. Never blessed with much in the way of patience, it took a titanic inner struggle for Markham to keep his mouth shut.
‘You are still in danger, General,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your niece must have told you so.’
‘From one troop of French dragoons?’
Markham looked from one to the other. Judging by the stiff face of Magdalena Calheri, he was sure that she’d indeed passed on everything he’d said about Corsicans being involved in the attempt to capture him. But it was equally obvious that Paoli either didn’t take it seriously, or was disinclined to discuss the matter in public. The anger that had risen in Markham began to subside, along with the realisation that Paoli knew very well that there was betrayal around. If he wasn’t probing, it was because he didn’t want open answers. Instead of being obtuse, he was remarkably astute.
Lanester’s gift of wine, his way of passing the message from Hood, didn’t now seem the piece of tomfoolery he’d initially imagined. The major had foreseen this, known that he would not easily be able to see Paoli alone. That in turn led him to wonder just how much both senior British officers, and the major, knew about the nature of Paoli’s court. Perhaps there was something in that despatch that Lanester hadn’t told him about. After all, Markham was too junior to be included in the councils of the mighty. The question was, lacking any secretive bottles of Haut Brion, what was he to do about it?
‘I wonder, General Paoli,’ Ma
rkham said boldly, ‘if it would be possible to speak to you alone.’
‘Why?’
It had been there, the very slight flash of approval in the older man’s eyes. ‘I have something I want to say that is for your ears only.’
But Paoli was also a consummate actor. The white bushy eyebrows rose slowly, as though he was deeply shocked at the suggestion. The accompanying angry buzz from the others present only underlined what he was implying by his reaction; that the honour of the leading citizens of the island was being impugned.
‘I am amongst friends here, Lieutenant,’ Paoli said, with an expansive gesture of the arms aimed at faces just as angry with him as Markham, men who considered he was indulging in sophistry rather than doing what he should, which was to flatly refuse. Paoli had the sense to keep his voice normal, aware that false anger would probably make them more suspicious. ‘Equals, as well. Some of them are elected members of the National Assembly, whereas I am not. How can I exclude men chosen to govern Corsica from any deliberations I, as a private citizen, may have?’
‘I must insist. And I also assure you that you’ll not regret it.’
‘Does this include your companion?’ Paoli asked, to stifle the protests of his own kind.
‘Yes. Private Bellamy knows nothing of what I want to impart.’
A hand waved slightly towards his niece. ‘It is so great a secret that even my own flesh and blood must be excluded?’
Markham looked around the room, at the scowling worthies, before settling on Magdalena Calheri. As far as he was concerned, given her hero-worship of the man, she could have stayed. But to relent on one would only invite more objections to the exclusion of others.
‘Having heard what I have to say, General, you then have every right to share it with whomsoever you choose.’
‘I trust my niece Magdalena as much as everyone else present.’
‘No doubt, having known her for years, you do.’ Her eyes flashed as she picked up the drift of his words, a clear indication that she anticipated what was coming next. ‘I, on the other hand, only met her yesterday morning. As to the gentlemen assembled in this room, I know nothing of them at all.’
That was like a collective slap on the face, and Markham wondered what would have happened if the towering presence of Paoli hadn’t been there to dominate proceedings. The general thought for a moment before looking at his niece in a slightly pleading way, a plain request for her to oblige. If she went with some grace, then the men present would possibly feel less slighted. She was angry, controlling most of it well. Yet she could do nothing about the way her face changed, a physical reaction of which she was probably unaware. She felt, like these powerful citizens, that to be excluded at the whim of a mere messenger was intolerable. Her nod of agreement was sharp and unfriendly, but it was decisive. One or two of them protested, only to be silenced by Paoli, who asked them, with great politeness, to vacate the chamber.
Magdalena Calheri was the last to exit, and refused to be easily beaten. Her parting shot was delivered on a slightly husky note, which proved that although she dressed and behaved like a cavalry officer, she was also a woman, one experienced enough to have noticed the slight frisson between the marine officer and his Negro private.
‘Come, Eboluh Bellamy,’ she said, ‘you are my lucky talisman. It is time you were shown some proper Corsican hospitality. You need to bathe, don clean clothes, eat some food, and tell me more about your past.’
‘Wait outside, Bellamy,’ Markham ordered, not sure what prompted it: a need for discipline, or sexual jealousy.
The voices of the men faded as she shut the door behind her, and it was some time before Markham could be brought back to thinking about the subject that had brought on this display.
‘What I am about to say to you, General, will not make pleasant listening.’
Paoli put his fingers to his lips again, then, handing Markham a cloak, indicated that he should follow him. They went through a door which led to a balcony overlooking a steep drop. The sun was on the other side of the Palais, and the chill air made Markham shiver. Once outside, with the door shut behind him, Paoli nodded for him to continue.
Markham passed over Hood’s letter and stood, trying to contain his shivering, as Paoli tore at the wax seal. Having broken that clear, he unravelled the oilskin, took out the parchment and read it. As soon as he finished, Markham began to speak.
‘I am not privy to the contents of that letter, sir. Does it tell you of British intentions regarding Bastia?’
‘It does. It seems your assault is imminent.’
‘It is also in grave danger of failure.’
Markham wished he’d read the letter. Did he need to tell the General about Fornali, then the events which had marred the dinner aboard Victory, followed by the attempt on his life, or was that all written down? Lanester had been so vague about the contents, perhaps justifiably so because of his condition. Tired from the exertions of the previous two days, it was easy to see his task of persuading Paoli as impossible. And deep down, his real worry was that he would fail so comprehensively that any support Lanester might provide when he arrived would be wasted.
He had to speak, but knew he couldn’t start with what he’d seen at Cardo. Besides, he felt he needed to husband some information, quite sure that this old man was doing the same. Paoli knew more than he was saying, and would not quibble to make his visitor look foolish. He would hold to himself what he had while extracting everything from this garrulous informant. The act was instinctive rather than rational, but Markham wanted to shock this old fox, and show him that cunning was not solely a Corsican prerogative.
‘About Fornali,’ he said.
‘Yes, Lieutenant, please tell me about that.’
Yet again he was listened to in complete silence, something he found slightly disconcerting. Paoli didn’t even look as though he was curious, never mind pose a question. Was he prone to shock? Not even a flicker of a silver eyebrow disturbed his air of serenity, and he listened as Markham related details of the attempt on his life in such a still pose that the marine wondered if he was being believed. Details of the meal at Cardo finally produced a reaction, but that was only a thin smile related to the level of boasting to which the British officers had been subjected.
‘In short, General, and it gives me no pleasure to say this to such as you, treachery seems to be widespread.’
‘That implies a great deal, Lieutenant.’
‘Your niece, no doubt, has told you of what happened when she arrived to look for the French dragoons.’
‘You claim a messenger. But you have no evidence that whoever came to see them was Corsican, or came from Corte.’
That made Markham angry. ‘Then how were they on the route to Morosaglia, waiting to entrap you? Why did we have to risk annihilation, your niece and I, to stop them?’
Again that infuriating unflappability. ‘That you have propounded a reasonable supposition, I cannot contest. But you have no evidence.’
‘No. But taking everything together.’
‘Beginning at Fornali?’
‘Yes.’
Paoli fell silent again. Markham, having told his tale, had expected to be interrogated, anticipated that Paoli would make the same deductions he had. With his host showing no signs of obliging him, he was drawn into doing so himself.
‘Major Lanester’s last words to me were to get you to Cardo in time for our landing.’
‘He would have had a reason?’
‘Well you’ll be safe there,’ Markham sighed, making no attempt to keep the irony out of his voice. ‘At least, that is the received wisdom, because the army adores you. It is my opinion that you would be just as much at risk.’
‘Why?’
‘There can be no doubt that one of your senior commanders is in league with the French.’
The reply was infuriatingly unmoved. ‘If you wish to assume that, I cannot stop you. Tell me, does Admiral Hood think so too?’
‘You have read his letter, sir, and in all honesty he could hardly do otherwise.’ That earned nothing but a slow nod. ‘It’s not just Fornali or the attempt on my life. You must know, General, that the dragoons we fought would need help to get as far as they did without using the road. I doubt there is a Frenchman born who knows his way along the mule trails of the maccia. We found a family on the road, dead, the weapons of the menfolk not even primed. They died because what they saw they trusted. No Corsican peasant would allow a French patrol within a mile of them. But men in Corsican uniform, perhaps.’
‘How much do you know of the history of this island, Lieutenant?’
‘Not enough,’ Markham replied, with a trace of impatience. The General observed his reaction and gave him a disarming pat on the shoulder.
‘Indulge an old man, and let me tell you. I do not impugn other nations when I say that Corsicans have a higher sense of honour than most people.’ Paoli smiled, noticing Markham’s raised eyebrows. ‘It is not because they are more virtuous. It is more to do with the abiding fear of treachery. So what would pass for a humorous sally elsewhere, could be the start of a blood feud here.’
‘A vendetta.’
‘An Italian word I hate with a passion. A trick of the weak Genoese government, young man. If you cannot impose your will by either ability or force, and have no real desire for justice, why not encourage the Corsicans to kill themselves? Bribe one, then tell a rival that he has taken your gold. Engineer a murder, then when it is done, turn a blind eye – but make sure the family of the victim know the identity of the perpetrator. Arrest the men of a family, then let another steal the sheep and rape the women while they are absent. Set clan against clan, in a series of feuds that become so tangled the original reasons for the spilling of blood gets lost. That way the men who would fight you die at the hands of their own. Should someone arise and threaten to unite the nation, pay one jealous individual to stick a knife in his back. That was the way the Genoese ruled Corsica.’
Honour Redeemed Page 31