Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  The sight of blue Corsican caps, flopped to one side, behind the cloud of smoke, nearly stopped Markham in his tracks. And he wasn’t alone, since several other muskets opened up. Two of Calheri’s troopers went down, as well as Ebden from the Seahorse, Sharland, who’d paused to help him, getting a furious shove in the back from Rannoch for his pains. Bellamy, either through fear or the elation of battle, raised the Moor’s head flag higher and screamed. Certainly the Highlander knew that to stop between the cavalry and the barn would lead to a massacre. Perhaps the Negro understood that too.

  Markham was shouting individual names, telling half his men to poke their bayonets through the farm windows, while the rest were ordered to get the walls at their backs and reload. Calheri’s troopers were milling about around Paoli’s horse, which was spinning in a circle, presenting the rider as a target almost impossible to miss. It was fortunate that no shots were aimed in his direction – indeed, none of the Corsican women were coming under any fire.

  Magdalena did the right thing. She hauled her uncle, without any ceremony, off his horse and pushed him towards the small barn, her troopers following her, one dragging on the bridle to bring the animal in. Some had reloaded, and fired off what they could just to keep the cavalry confused. Then it was butts on the barn door, smashing it down so they could get into some cover.

  ‘A trap!’ Rannoch spat.

  Markham was so breathless with running he could barely speak, his words coming out in gasps. ‘No wonder … damned dragoons … why charge?’

  ‘No grenades,’ Rannoch responded, jerking his head towards the open shutters.

  The Lobsters were all lined up on the farmhouse wall, backs flat to the mud and lime as they reloaded their muskets.

  ‘Rannoch, take half the men,’ Markham barked. ‘Fire without aiming through the windows.’

  The Highlander reeled off names and orders, his voice crossing that of Markham, who was calling on others to crouch low. Within half a minute, at Rannoch’s command, his men span off the wall, and poked then discharged their weapons into the building. As the muskets came out to reply they ran into a volley from Markham’s party, who were kneeling under the line of the sill. Each man used the protruding barrel as a point of aim, knowing that there was a man right behind it, a high-pitched scream from the interior demonstrating the effect of their efforts. Able to load faster than the enemy, Rannoch’s men delivered a second volley, this time stepping several paces away from the wall to increase their angle of fire.

  ‘The door must be round the back, Halsey,’ Markham shouted. ‘Take two men round there and worry them.’

  ‘Here they come,’ shouted Tully, pointing his bayonet back to the road they had just vacated.

  Half the cavalry were mounted again, sabres raised, coming on at a trot. They wouldn’t need to charge, the object being to pin their enemies against the outside walls of the farmhouse and finish them off. Having just employed the recent tactics, Markham had to keep his men’s backs to the wall, or risk exposing them to fire from the now wiser Corsicans in the building.

  Magdalena Calheri rescued them for the second time in a quarter of an hour. Her troopers had reloaded in the relative security of the barn. Now they rushed out to take the cavalry flank on, kneeling to increase their accuracy, and firing off as one a salvo of musket balls that tore into the sides of the enemy horsemen. It didn’t halt them completely, but it did provide enough time for the Lobsters to reload and deliver a second fusillade that broke up their continuity.

  Horsemen hate to be alone in the midst of infantry, since no one man can cover every flank of his horse. Without mutual support they were vulnerable, so the cavalry began to pull back. Then Markham noticed the muzzles disappearing from the farmhouse windows. The best of his men were already reloading, some a bit slower than others, so the command he gave was confused. Not all the people he wanted to remain stayed still, instead they followed him as he ran round to join Halsey, who was crouched against the wall by the farmhouse door, the wall beside him being peppered occasionally with inaccurate fire. Just as he shouted a warning the door opened and a muzzle poked out. Dymock, on the opposite side to Halsey, protected by a stack of logs, grabbed the barrel and pulled, and as the man attached to it emerged, Halsey spun his musket and clubbed him hard on the side of his head.

  Both then jumped back to avoid the shots that came through the door, followed by a salvo through the windows by his men on the other side. Sense would have made the blue-capped defenders surrender. Instead they panicked and just ran out, presenting easy targets to Markham and his men. Seven fell and were then subjected, by men who had no time for finer feeling, to a frenzy of stabbing bayonets. One Corsican, with a luck that no man could hope for, got away unscathed by ball or blade, running in a zig-zag line, yelling his head off in fright, preventing his own side from exacting revenge by cutting across their line of sight.

  Once inside, Markham found two more casualties. From their blue caps he presumed them to be Buonapartists. One had taken a bayonet through his eye, and was dead, while the other was hunched over a smashed shoulder, carrying a wound that was certain to cost him his arm. He had to shout to avoid his own men firing into the gloom, and then ordered them to get inside themselves, fully expecting at any moment another cavalry charge. But whatever mistakes the commander of those troops had made up till now, he wasn’t stupid enough to follow them up with one so crass. A horseman attacking a man safe behind a wall was asking to die.

  ‘They’re dismounting,’ said Rannoch.

  ‘Try and keep them still, while I go and check on the general. Halsey, four men by the back wall. Knock out some holes in case they try and retake this from the rear.’

  ‘Do you think there’s many of them, sir?’ Gibbons asked. Having detached his bayonet he was jabbing at the wall.

  ‘I think I’m about to find out,’ said Markham, hauling the door open, then stepping back to kick it shut: a loud series of thuds followed, as several balls smashed into the stout oak. He smiled. ‘Perhaps that’s not the best route.’

  Gibbons grinned, but it was Ettrick, also stabbing at the wall, who said the words. ‘You should try the window, your honour. I hear you’re a dab hand at the casement lark.’

  Laughing made Markham realise just how thirsty he was, and since Ettrick had made the crack it was his water he took, pleased by the pained look on the man’s face, a mixture of concern and anger. He threw his head back to swallow hard, then spat a stream of vinegary red wine halfway across the room.

  ‘Present, your honour,’ said Ettrick, all innocence. ‘From the lady with the ’tache. Wouldn’t do to turn down a gift from a friend, would it now.’

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch, Marine Ettrick is on a charge.’

  ‘Sir!’ Rannoch replied, without any emphasis at all.

  ‘Now stand aside and let me out the bloody window.’

  The distance to the barn was no more than thirty feet. But it was a deadly area to cross, the only bit of cover the low wall around the well, and given that fire would come from both sides and every gun the enemy had that could be trained on it. Since his men had finished their fire holes, he didn’t need to say any more. They knew what to do, so he jumped through the window, following a fusillade aimed at the dismounted cavalry, and ran for the barn door, trusting his own men to fire at the Buonapartists as soon as they showed themselves. Judging by the number of balls that whistled past him, they must have been well concealed.

  Inside the barn, Magdalena had done the same as his men had to the farmhouse, knocking out holes in the soft walls to make firing points. There was an old cart by the door, and a loft full of hay bales. And animals, two pigs and a cow, evidence that the men who’d held this place had never expected to lose it.

  ‘If we push that cart out and tip it over, it will provide extra cover,’ said Magdalena.

  ‘Get those bales of hay down too,’ Markham added. ‘There must be enough there to make a line between here and the farmhouse, then we ca
n get to the water, and each other, in safety. Firing from that height will help to pin down the enemy too.’

  As he was speaking, he was looking around for Paoli. He saw him finally, amongst women working furiously to turn the barn into a redoubt, his head forward and his face filled with sadness. He tried to smile as Markham approached, but it failed to lift the mood of gloom that seemed to assail him.

  ‘We’re safe here for now, sir.’

  ‘They knew we were coming, Lieutenant. This was a snare.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Markham replied. He’d realised somewhere along the line that was the truth, but had been too busy to examine it. As a proposition it didn’t bear too much of that. Now it was obvious why the cavalry hadn’t attacked. Their task had been to drive them to where they were going anyway, and remove any possibility that circumstances might allow them a change of mind. They attacked only when Markham stopped, when it looked as though that aim was in jeopardy.

  Paoli pulled Hood’s despatch from his coat pocket and waved it. ‘How could that be? Does your admiral want me killed too?’

  ‘No, sir. He wants you in Cardo, leading your troops.’

  The hands went up in a gesture of despair. ‘Then who has betrayed us both?’

  ‘There is work to do, sir, to improve the defence. I must concentrate on that, rather than allow myself time for speculation.’

  Chapter thirty-two

  ‘Can he talk?’ said Markham, leaning over to examine the wounded Corsican, who was lying amongst whole and broken jars of olive oil.

  Bellamy nodded, but the look in his eye was confirmation that treatment for this man was essential. Markham could see that for himself: the skin was waxy, covered in a thin film of sweat, the lines between nose and cheek deeper than they should be, the eyes, when they were open, full of pain. He leant forward and began to talk in the wounded man’s ear, softly, asking questions which were answered by nods and shakes, so that those watching, who included a good half of his Lobsters, muskets loaded and pointing in both directions, were left with only half a tale.

  The man admitted he was a Buonapartist, or at least nodded when that easily discernible word was posed. The name Ajaccio formed by Markham’s lips was also comprehensible. The shakes of the head corresponded to inquiries regarding numbers and names of his commanders. Then Markham leant closer, his voice even softer, which had his men straining forward for a half note to which they could attach some certainty.

  ‘Fouquert,’ said Yelland, hissing the name to the men nearest him. ‘He’s asked him about Fouquert.’

  ‘Bastard nodded, too,’ croaked Gibbons.

  ‘He’s got to be here,’ moaned Dymock, in a hushed tone. ‘Bad penny ain’t in it.’

  ‘No ship,’ whispered Halsey, who so forgot his own standards as to join in, taking his eyes away from the window he was posted on. ‘The frog word is bâteau, and he shook his head.’

  ‘Why ain’t the Viking here,’ moaned Leech. ‘He can read old Shaft-em’s mind.’

  ‘He’s out there digging trenches, you useless bollock,’ snapped Halsey, who felt he’d missed some vital clue because the marine was speaking at the same time as Markham. Then self-discipline resurfaced and he barked at them all, ‘Attend to your bloody duty. Like old women, you are.’

  ‘Kettle calling,’ responded Yelland, so that Halsey couldn’t hear. To the men he was Daddy Halsey when obliging, Old Fanny Halsey, a Seven Dials trollop, when cross.

  ‘We will need to get a white flag out,’ said Markham, standing up and stretching to ease muscles that prolonged bending had strained. ‘This man needs a sawbones, or he’s going to die.’

  ‘Good fucking riddance, I say,’ called Sharland, who’d been allotted the lonely task of keeping watch on the far side of the farmhouse, and so had heard nothing.

  Bellamy responded with a confidence which, especially where Sharland was concerned, had hitherto been lacking. To Markham it was further evidence of his changed stature, which had yet to be explained.

  ‘There speaks a shining example of the benefits of universal education.’

  ‘You cheeky black …’

  ‘Sharland!’ snapped Markham. ‘Get ready to go out, under a truce flag. You will ask for an opportunity to return the wounded prisoner. You will also request that the French, or whoever is running this affair, take in our casualties, since we do not have the means to care for them.’

  ‘What, like Ebbie?’

  ‘Ebden, and the two women who took wounds.’

  ‘They’re dead.’

  ‘We don’t know for certain. Corporal Halsey, go and ask the general to join us.’

  The straw bales and the overturned cart provided some cover, which Rannoch was busy adding to by digging shallow trenches. But it was still an uncomfortable journey for a man his age, who found being bent double a strain. Once he was in the farmhouse Markham had a quiet word, then led him to the wounded prisoner. Much to the annoyance of those within earshot, Paoli began to talk softly to the Corsican in his own, incomprehensible tongue.

  Markham understood, when he heard the name, that the general had introduced himself. More interesting was the reaction. The invalid’s eyes opened in wonder, finding himself talking to a paragon of whom he could only have heard. Pasquale Paoli spoke gently but insistently, to Markham’s mind like a priest giving last rights. There was a hypnotic quality to the voice, low and seductive. The man he was addressing was an enemy, but whatever Paoli said produced first tears, then a flood of stuttering information.

  Finally the old man wiped his perspiring brow, and leant forward to kiss him on the forehead, that followed by a nod to Markham. Another whispered conversation followed, still maddening for those who couldn’t understand. But they could see that Paoli had elicited more information than Markham, and that none of it had done anything to cheer either man up.

  ‘Improvisation,’ said Markham, thinking about that oilskin pouch, sealed with wax of course, but in such a way that it had no device to identify it, all seemingly to no avail because Paoli had decided to leave for Morosaglia. No wonder Lanester had looked like a man at death’s door. ‘From that first day at Fornali, it all seems to have a gimcrack quality.’

  ‘There’s no absolute way to find out if that supposition is correct, Lieutenant.’

  Markham nodded, though in truth he had no interest in Paoli’s pedantic way of looking at things. He called to Sharland, ordering him to get ready, then added with a commanding hand that Bellamy should come close. That led to more whispering, the only sound that made an iota of sense the Negro objecting to whatever task Markham was giving him. But it was clearly an order, and as Sharland readied his truce flag, Bellamy got himself prepared to follow him out of the door.

  Sharland glared and gave a sharp gesture with his thumb when he realised what was being proposed, the tone of hatred in his voice matching the sentiment in his look.

  ‘I ain’t goin’ with this ape.’

  Markham was tired, suffering from a lassitude caused by too much action, the need to think and give orders, plus the depression induced by his recent conversations. They had to get out of here, and right now he would happily have elected to leave this man behind. He was about to bark at Sharland, but the marine saw the look in his eye, and buckled immediately.

  ‘Whatever you say, sir.’

  There was a pause while a flag was waved outside one of the windows. That, in turn, had to be translated and passed on to whoever was in charge of the combined French and Corsican force besieging the farmhouse. A cavalry bugle eventually blew to signal acceptance, and Sharland could then open the front door, confirm the arrangement and walk out into clear daylight with Bellamy at his side.

  After some ten minutes two men arrived with a stretcher to take away their wounded friend, both avoiding even the slightest eye contact, treating the British Lobsters, and the Liberator, as if they were the Devil incarnate. Markham stood just inside the door, watching Bellamy. When the Negro, after what seemed like an ag
e, turned and waved, he finally spoke.

  ‘Halsey, gather up all the oil and combustibles you can find. Yelland, be so good as to go over to the barn. On the way tell Sergeant Rannoch to stop digging and come back inside. Then request Commandatore Calheri, along with her troopers, to take up positions between the barn and the farmhouse. Everybody is to get ready to move out as soon as the general and I have finished.’

  ‘Sir!’

  ‘Discreetly, Yelland,’ Markham added, as the youngster ducked to exit through the hole in the side wall. ‘I don’t want the enemy to know.’

  Rannoch had listened carefully while Markham gave him his orders, nodding slowly, though there was doubt in his pale blue eyes.

  ‘The lady will not take kindly to accepting such instructions from me.’

  ‘Then tell her they are from her uncle,’ Markham replied, making for the door.

  He took a last look over to where Pasquale Paoli sat in a corner. In the fading light, which made it hard to pick the old man out, he was looking at the floor, in an attitude that would have seemed strange to anyone who knew him well, but which had been there since he and Markham had finished their quiet conversation. Such a figure as the Liberator could never draw the description ‘broken’, but no-one could doubt the deep sadness that filled him, evidenced by his complete unawareness of anyone around him.

  ‘General,’ Markham called, and returned the smile he received as the old man stood up.

  ‘Right, you lot,’ said Rannoch, ‘let us be getting ready.’

  That it was dark in the farmhouse was natural, even if it was still a strong twilight outside. Certainly when the man Markham had asked to see stepped forward from the cover of the houses on the very edge of Aleria, he produced a gasp from the sentinels which was a compound of anger and fear. They looked at each other, then at Markham, whose face was rigidly impassive as he stepped forward and reopened the door. The walk to the agreed spot, halfway between the positions, took no more than a minute, Markham thinking on the way that the light did a great deal to favour the hue of the scarlet, gold-trimmed, coat.