Paoli’s voice had risen slightly as he spoke. Yet it was still under control, as if he had said these words a thousand times to many people, the beginning of a plea to put aside their quarrels.
‘And the French?’
‘Royal France began better. But our demand for independence meant that Bourbon gold was just as liberally spread as their predecessors’. They were, to their credit, less fond of the knife than Genoa, having some sense of legality. But they were no more able to allow us freedom, which is what the majority of the people want. The Revolution was supposed to change all that. But power has turned the heads of those lunatics in Paris.’
‘Who want you arrested.’
‘They insisted that we invade Sardinia, an idea that appealed to certain local firebrands, but not to me. I had one Buonaparte in Paris insisting that I act, and another here in Corsica, who thought of himself as the new Alexander, demanding to be allowed to lead the attack.’
‘He wasn’t called Napoleon, was he?’
That did cause surprise. ‘Yes.’
Markham explained the circumstances of their meeting in Toulon, as well as the success the Corsican had enjoyed. ‘He struck me as a trifle obsessed.’
‘He’s a madman,’ Paoli hissed, showing deep emotion for the first time. ‘But times are troubled, and people like him will prosper, if they can keep their heads. The other one in Paris, who is more sane, is Lucien. If their father was alive, he would be ashamed to look me in the eye.’
Markham heard the catch in his throat, an indication of deep feeling from so controlled an individual. ‘He was at my side in the French wars, a trusted companion. And now his sons fight me, on the side of tyrants who cut off heads for pleasure.’
‘Does it occur to you that Fouquert might lose his head if he doesn’t arrest you?’
‘An interesting notion. It would certainly make him tenacious.’
‘He intends to have your head, I’m sure.’
‘That, young man, is a thing Paris has desired for some time.’
‘Why?’
‘They believe I betrayed them. I came back to Corsica through Paris. I stood before the National Assembly and pledged myself and this island to their principles, the same notions for which I had fought all my life. That men should be free to think and act; that governance was not the prerogative of kings. Now, in order to preserve their own power, they are worse tyrants than any Louis. They do not understand that it is they who have betrayed the purity of their revolution. So they look elsewhere for cause, and their gaze alights on me. From pedestal to proscription in less than a year.’
‘“And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again”,’ said Markham.
Paoli smiled. ‘No. Shakespeare coined those words for Julius Caesar. They do not apply to me, though I admit to a hope that they will to Robespierre, who is close to the devil incarnate.’
‘Will you join your army, as Admiral Hood requests?’
‘Do you know the contents of this?’
‘Major Lanester told me of that part. He may well have kept concealed anything else.’
Paoli didn’t respond to the invitation to be open. Instead he lifted the letter, and waved it without much fervour. ‘This is a demand, young man, not a request. It is also, very possibly, a blatant piece of bluff.’
‘Hood doesn’t strike me as the bluffing type.’
‘The good ones never do.’
The pause that Markham allowed was part of the pleasure. But it was difficult to be offhand, and he was unsure if he struck the note of insouciance he intended.
‘Then General Buttafuco will be free to act against you.’
‘Buttafuco?’
‘Yes!’ Much as he tried to speak slowly, the words tumbled out: men he thought were assassins disappearing like chimeras; himself and Rannoch skulking through the camp; the password, Nebbio. ‘I saw Buttafuco with my own eyes, in negotiation with a French general, whom I took to be Lacombe. The British are preparing to land at Bastia, which is only viable if your army occupies the French at Cardo.’
‘You saw Buttafuco in secret negotiation,’ Paoli said, raising his finger to indicate the need for precision.
‘Yes.’
‘And so you conclude it was he who failed to close the Teghima Pass?’
‘He is a very senior commander,’ Markham replied, unsure where this was leading. ‘You could find out in an hour if his troops had the lead role in that affair.’
‘And, no doubt, you will also deduce it was his men who murdered the marines at Fornali.’ Paoli smiled slightly, then changed the subject slightly. ‘You say you felt threatened at Cardo.’
‘Yes,’ Markham replied uneasily.
‘Yet you go wandering through the camp, with only your sergeant as company, and just happen upon a secret meeting which is taking place beyond the perimeter of the bivouac. The guards posted to stop that happening are conveniently removed, a fact you only discover by chance. I think some people might say that either you are making this up, or that there is something more you have missed.’
‘I did not make it up.’
‘I believe you, Lieutenant. What I’m curious about is the identity of the man who led you to witness something you would never have been allowed to stumble upon unaided.’
Markham, feeling foolish, sensed that his mouth was open, but that he had no words to say. But Paoli hadn’t finished speaking.
‘And you say you did not hear any spoken exchanges, so you only have a visual impression of what was taking place.’
‘You think I’m mistaken.’
‘I don’t know. But I wonder who wanted to send, through you, a message to me.’ Paoli continued without waiting for him to reply, holding up the letter in his hand. ‘You say Admiral Hood is unlikely to bluff. What is he like when it comes to apologies?’
Markham visibly shivered, even though he tried not to. ‘I don’t think it’s something he enjoys, General.’
Paoli noticed his discomfort. ‘I have kept you out here too long, and after such adventures. You must get some rest. My house is at your disposal.’
‘And?’ asked Markham, pointing at Hood’s letter.
‘A decision on that will wait a few hours.’
‘Sir, Nelson lands in five days from now!’
‘And I, young man, have ridden the length of Corsica twice in the same period. I understand your impatience, but you must also take into consideration my concerns.’
‘I must know, sir. If need be I am obliged to risk a fast horse back to San Fiorenzo to tell Admiral Hood.’
‘Something which I would happily provide.’
Those words chilled, indicating that he’d probably failed. ‘In a few hours, sir, perhaps Major Lanester will be here to help you decide.’
‘Let us hope so.’ He opened the door, ushering Markham in, an avuncular hand on his shoulder. ‘I am glad that you were protected from that knife you so feared. Too many men have died by the blade in Corsica.’
Chapter twenty-eight
Bellamy was waiting for him, as instructed, holding open one of the white Corsican flags. He turned and grinned when Markham appeared, and pointed to the head of the Moor which was the main device. In profile, the black face, with one white eye, stood out sharply. Looking at it now made certain things obvious: the reaction of the citizens of San Fiorenzo in the Place de Chaumettes, when Bellamy’d saved him from assassination. Likewise the way Magdalena Calheri had taken a strip off her own shirt to bestow on him. The Corsican moor had a bandage round his head, and though blacker even than Bellamy, had a profile which was not dissimilar.
‘Independent Corsica, Lieutenant,’ said Calheri, emerging from the shadows. ‘No cross of St George or Bourbon lilies, just the head of the Moor.’
Markham pointed towards the thin white line at the neck. ‘Is that jewellery he’s wearing, or the sign of decapitation?’
That jibe earned him another dose of Corsican folklore.
‘It could b
e either. Ugo della Colonna defeated the Saracen King Nugalon at the Battle of Mariana. That was the first time we threw off a foreign yoke. My uncle chose it to symbolise the idea that, having been successful before, we could be so again.’
‘You’d best be careful, Bellamy,’ Markham replied. ‘They might take their lucky talisman too far, and don’t rely on a Corsican to be open about which alternative they’ll choose.’
‘You don’t like us much, do you, Markham?’
She’d rarely used his name, sticking to black looks and his rank. Nor was the accusation delivered in a harsh way; if anything her voice contained a note of sorrow.
‘I’m tired, hungry and cold, Commandatore.’
‘I am waiting to escort you to my uncle’s house.’
‘Then please lead on.’
‘What did you talk about?’
‘You must ask him that,’ Markham said.
That removed any trace of sympathy from her features. He then looked at Bellamy, sure that he’d related his part of the private conversations already. Markham was fed up with both of them: her coquetry, friendly one minute, angry the next; his playing to her moods, not to mention the endemic insubordination. Yet his sense of gallantry was too ingrained to leave matters there.
‘I’m sure if General Paoli will tell anyone what we discussed, it will be you. His trust, as far as you’re concerned, is almost as great as his justifiable pride.’
Did he detect a responsive tinge of rouge in her cheeks, or was it just a gust of wind, swinging the lantern light to deceive him?
‘The house is in the square, if you will follow.’
The luxury of heat, to aching, tired and cold limbs, could not be exaggerated. Paoli had ordered a hip bath placed in his chamber, which was on the first floor of the general’s residence – a tall building that looked tiny, until it was entered, and its true spacious dimensions were revealed. With a servant to pour the blissful hot water over him, Markham was as near to heaven as he could be.
Given the travails of the past few days, he fell asleep, that kind of deep slumber that was total, and very necessary to a soldier, who never knew when he would be called upon to fight. Woken by the water cooling, he felt distinctly refreshed, and any new chills were relieved by a rough towelling before a roaring fire. There was a razor, soap with which to lather, and a proper mirror. Clean linen had been laid out, and while he slept his breeches had been cleaned and his boots polished. ‘Garry Owen’ was in his mind again as he combed his hair, and tied it back with a black silk queue.
‘Enter,’ he said, in response to a soft knock.
The door opened to reveal a very different Magdalena Calheri. No longer in uniform, with the blue-black silky hair brushed out, her appearance was transformed. He spent so much time staring at her face that it was an age before he could take in the clothes she wore; blue lace over orange silk, cut low to reveal a smooth olive neck and bosom. Over one arm she had a scarlet coat, which looked distinctly military.
‘I was hoping it would be a message from your uncle,’ he said, before he realised how dismissive that sounded. What he added had a lame quality. ‘With news, perhaps, of Major Lanester.’
‘We have no information regarding the major as yet. My uncle, however, is on his way to eat with us.’ Then she held up the coat. ‘He wondered if you’d consent to wear this, Lieutenant. It was presented to him while he was in London by King George’s First Regiment of Foot Guards. They gave him an honorary commission.’
Markham took it off her by the collar, and let it fall open. It was outdated, of course, a uniform more tailored to the American War than the present day. But it induced an odd sensation. As a youngster in New York, surrounded by glittering officers, he’d wanted a coat like this more than anything. The Irish in him longed for a cavalry regiment, but the romantic saw the Foot Guards as the very pinnacle of British military prowess. Their officers were richer, grander, wittier and braver than anyone. Just the place for an impressionable boy.
It had been one of the experiences that taught the foundling out of Ireland exactly where he stood in the wider world. The First Regiment of Foot Guards would eat at his father’s table; they would drink his wine and laugh at his jokes, even accept hints from the rough old General that led to pecuniary advantage. But nothing would induce them to grant a commission to Sir John Markham’s bastard son.
‘I’d be delighted,’ he replied. There was no choice, regardless of bad memories. General Paoli had made a kind gesture, one he must accept.
‘Then put it on, Markham,’ she said, ‘I have never seen you in anything other than your shirt, or that horrible French thing.’
The swish of the silk lining slipping over his body was matched by the sound of her breathing, audible even above the crackling fire. He looked at her breasts, rising and falling in the tight bodice, pleased to see that the rate of movement hinted a degree of excitement.
‘It suits you, the scarlet. Please hurry, the food will be ready in a matter of minutes.’
The way she was dressed, the meal would no doubt be formal, and he felt guilty. There was no time for this. On leaving San Fiorenzo he had thought the span he and Lanester were allowed for their task to be tight, and the major’s attitudes had eaten into that long before the misfortune of meeting Fouquert. Now it was getting very close to a crisis: Lanester still missing, Paoli dithering and Nelson already under sail, his warships and transports crammed with troops and equipment.
There was a desperate desire to move matters on, to insist on a conclusion. But that, he knew, was an emotion he’d had in the past, especially before a battle. To say he’d learned to control it would be an exaggeration. But at least he’d come to recognise the fact, so that he could try to convince himself that certain things were beyond his control. This was one of those occasions, and all he could do was make the next hour pleasant for all concerned. So he held out his arm, smiling.
‘Then, Commandatore Calheri, the most beautiful officer I’ve ever served with, you would do me great honour by allowing me to escort you to the table.’
‘Delighted, sir,’ she replied, curtsying just enough to draw his eyes to her cleavage.
But he was all innocence by the time she rose again, and she slipped her hand chastely over his red sleeve. Both kept a respectful distance as they exited the room and made their way down the hall to the top of the wide staircase. But decorum was no proof against elemental force, and George Markham felt as if his body had been invaded by some rushing demon, which seemed able to ebb and flow from him to her and back again, through that very slight point of contact.
‘My dear, you look wonderful,’ said Paoli. His eyes flicked to Markham, causing him to smile. ‘And you, Lieutenant, look ten times the warrior I ever did in that coat.’
Eboluh Bellamy was standing at a respectful distance, as well dressed as Markham, but in civilian clothes. The plum-coloured coat and yellow waistcoat suited him admirably, since he had the necessary air of insouciance to carry it off. Catching his officer’s eye, he favoured him with an elegant bow, one that only lacked an eyeglass in his hand to turn him from marine private into salon rake.
‘I dressed Bellamy in this fashion,’ added Paoli, ‘so that you would not feel discomfort sharing a table with him.’
‘I’m most obliged to you, sir,’ Markham replied, taking a step on to the first tread, certain that there was nothing else he could reply. But the look he gave Bellamy was singular, and noted. It said behave yourself; no gabbling or showing off, and no attempt to play the wise man while casting me as the fool.
The next two hours had a surreal quality, as if outside the four walls of the house, all was harmony. At least he wasn’t subjected to a repeat of the dinner at Cardo. Paoli had an urbanity that his generals totally lacked, and a breadth of interests that seemed to span the whole cosmos. He had, in his time, met or corresponded with all the leading figures of the age. Rousseau, Voltaire, Davy Hume, Burke, both the Elder and Younger Pitts, even Markham�
��s old commander, the Czarina, Catherine of Russia.
Bellamy tried to cap him by mentioning Mozart, Haydn, Schiller, Kant, Washington and Jefferson, only to find that Paoli knew them too. He had more luck with Boswell, the man who’d brought Corsica and its leader to world notice. Bellamy’d shared his company, and no doubt his fondness for drink, on more than one occasion, but was astute enough to draw a veil over his whoring. To move on to Johnson was inevitable, and the great lexicographer was dissected sympathetically.
‘Did he not say, Uncle, that you had the greatest port of any man he’d ever met?’ exclaimed Magdalena who, having drunk glass for glass with the men, was in a very alluring mood.
‘He did indeed, my dear,’ Paoli replied, before adding modestly, ‘That is, according to Boswell. But I think it was Lanester who warned me, in quite an amusing fashion, that one must have a care with Doctor Samuel Johnson.’
‘He was acquainted with the doctor?’
‘He was,’ Paoli replied, ‘quite a man about the town after his ejection from North America. He was a seeker after pleasure, his chief love being conversation. I used to chide him for his love of the tavern, which was only surpassed by his addiction to the salon and the card table. I daresay you have Boswell in common, as an acquaintance.’
‘Odd that I never came across him,’ Bellamy said, ‘either by name or reputation.’
‘The revolution in France changed him, a subject on which we had our greatest disagreement. I freely admit that I did not foresee the Terror.’
‘And the major did?’
‘Not in precise terms. But he knew, from his own past, that revolutions eat their own children.’
‘Hardly amusing,’ said Magdalena.
‘No. But he also informed me that for every compliment Sam Johnson throws out, he has a pair of barbs to go with them.’
A female servant emerged from behind a screen and, with a shy bob to the master, came up behind Magdalena’s chair to whisper in her ear. She immediately looked at her uncle and said, ‘Gianfranco.’ Paoli nodded and waved his hand.
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