Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘Use it, damn you,’ he screamed, pushing the Negro right to the front of his fellow Lobsters, happy to observe that even if he didn’t like killing, he hated the idea of dying even more. Bellamy had strength, and the cleaver was for him a perfect weapon, fortuitously found. Flagstaff firmly placed to give him leverage, the way he swung it had Lanester taking a jump backwards. A shove from behind sent Bellamy after him, and a lucky cut from his cleaver took Pavin under his lantern jaw.

  Markham had no time to see what developed after that, busy as he was trying to pull his men back to create a space for Calheri’s troopers to take over. Suddenly he realised he was beside Magdalena. She’d lost her cap, her eyes were alight, and she was searching for a victim to stab with her knife. She looked magnificent, with the light of battle so strong on her features. Her chest was heaving too, and her legs were parted to give her balance. He wondered where it came from, that blood lust. But that word, in his mind, also had Markham querying how he could think of sex at a time like this.

  Fortunately Rannoch had kept his head, and his eyes on the progress of the horsemen. He too was pulling men back to form a line, shouting at them to get their muskets loaded. Markham, watching him, didn’t see the man trying to club him with his gun. It was only when General Paoli fired both barrels past his ear that he turned to see the danger.

  ‘We must run, Markham.’

  ‘To where?’ the marine demanded, as aware as the general of their situation.

  ‘The church,’ Paoli gasped. ‘We can defend that.’

  ‘One prison for another.’

  ‘Better than dying like a dog in the street.’

  The old man was right. They lacked the strength to stand, or even to retire at a pace that suited them. It was a case of one volley then run, and hope that they could slow the cavalry down enough to get clear. He knew Rannoch would do his part without orders. The difficulty was to get everyone else moving. He grabbed Magdalena, and spinning her, threw her towards her uncle. He would have to explain. Then it was that flag again, once more in the midst of a heaving block of fighting bodies.

  His throat was so dry, and the sounds around him so loud, he had no idea if a shout actually emerged. But the retreating flag, as he collared Bellamy and hauled him out of the mêlée, had some effect, since gaps opened in the jostling combatants. In fighting, whatever the weapon, it is always desirable to go forwards rather than back. Even Calheri’s troopers were trained to that degree. So getting them to run wasn’t easy, and he took a cut on his arm from trying to save one of the thin girls and get her on her way. She paid a higher price than him, as two men speared her with bayonets, her body pushed sideways to protect Markham.

  The volley of musketry, loud in everyone’s ears, produced a split-second pause which he used to good effect. Then he was running, swinging the flat of his blade to keep anyone in front of him from turning round. The sudden disengagement left Lanester’s men looking for orders. Once they were given they pursued quickly enough, but that hiatus had given the fleeing soldiers a breather. They soon caught up with Paoli, hobbling as he tried to get legs that rarely ran to function. Rannoch threw his musket to Markham, and with one sweep, lifted the old man bodily and sped ahead with the general on his shoulder.

  The enemy knew where they were going, and Markham was sure he wasn’t the only one who could hear stamping horses. What he couldn’t observe, unable to turn round, was that his back was being protected by his own enemies, who so filled the street that the cavalry couldn’t get through. The square in front of the church, opening up, gave them more room. But by that time the first of the runners had reached the church doors, which yielded to a mighty kick from Rannoch, still with Paoli on his shoulder.

  The commands were garbled, the responses mixed, but enough order was in place to form a line of defenders at the door as a shield to protect those rushing into the sanctuary. The horses’ hooves were on stone now, sending up sparks as they sought to climb the steps that would bring them into the well of the church. But the space had narrowed again, now more than ever, and they found themselves hemmed in by walls and columns, fighting off men and women who seemed to want to tear them apart.

  How they got the doors shut, Markham never knew. He was just aware of pushing, with his own men all around him, some with hands on the oak doors, others with their shoulders supporting their struggling mates. In the middle, Bellamy still swung his cleaver, ensuring that in the gap between the door edges, no hand could interfere.

  ‘Magdalena!’ Paoli cried, from the spot where Rannoch had dumped him. ‘Check for other exits and if you find them, bar them.’

  When silence came, it was swiftly, with nothing more than the odd echoing boot, as various people rushed around securing any possible point of entry. Markham was, like most others, leaning on something trying to catch his breath. They’d made the church, only to become besieged once more. But there was some gain in this, only at this stage Markham had no idea how much.

  Nearly everyone had a wound of some kind, but to his amazement Markham found he had all his men in the church. Not so Magdalena who, through her decision to attack the strongest point, had suffered half a dozen losses. If they hadn’t been dead when they fell, they would be now. Altar cloths were used for bandages, with various pairs in dark corners assisting each other.

  Magdalena, having got her uncle to try and sleep, lying on a pile of hassocks, helped Markham off with his coat. The cut was shallow enough, but the bruise that surrounded it was huge and black. Looking round, seeing they were not observed, Magdalena leant forward and kissed it.

  ‘Without medicines, it is all I can give you.’

  ‘There is more,’ he replied, ‘and you know it.’

  ‘In a church?’

  ‘I’ll tell you this for certain. If God is all forgiving, he’ll not make a last night of pleasure before you die a sin.’

  She looked at her uncle, asleep beside the flag that Bellamy had finally relinquished. ‘I want to put the Moor on the highest point of the church spire. Will you help me?’

  They’d be alone up there so, exhausted as he was, he nodded readily.

  ‘What about guards?’ she asked.

  ‘Why bother? They know we’re not going anywhere.’

  There was a ladder, which stretched above the bell chamber. Markham shinned up, and found a slotted air vent right at the very apex of the spire. Getting the flagstaff through wasn’t easy, but he managed, using his swordbelt to secure the pole.

  Back on the platform under the great metal bells, in total privacy, they lay down. There was none of the frenzy of the previous nights’ half-clothed rutting. Now they were naked, each bruise and abrasion a point to kiss. She tried to stop him as his lips slid down over her belly, a slight air of fear in her grasp.

  He took her hand and held it away, knowing that whatever rituals of dutiful sex she’d enjoyed with her dead husband, they had not included much in the way of variety. He had one night to show her what she had missed, and every intention of doing so.

  ‘Thank you, Markham,’ she said, warm and locked into his body, her head in the crook of his shoulder, her hand gently stroking his groin, and beginning to revive his erection. He wanted to say that her cries of pleasure had probably out-rung the bells above their heads, but stopped himself, knowing how ashamed that would make her feel.

  The crack of the flag woke them up, as the morning breeze coming in off the sea made it fill out. The chill of the air was hardly kept at bay by their short jackets, and both Magdalena and Markham were shivering. It was the sound of footsteps ascending the staircase that warmed them up, a loud heavy tread that had them scrabbling for the rest of their clothes. Rannoch’s head appeared, pale blond hair, the innocent blue eyes of a man who knew he’d made enough noise, and allowed enough time, for a semblance of decency to be contrived.

  ‘A party in the square, sir. And would you believe it, Fouquert is there, along with that traitorous Major.’

  ‘Have they sent i
n a message?’

  ‘With the priest, who is saying Mass for General Paoli and those who wish to cleanse their souls.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Surrender. The general wants to talk to you before replying.’

  Markham climbed the ladder and looked through the slats. He could see the men in the centre of the square, their troops lolling around at the perimeter, the cavalry covering the approach from Corte.

  ‘I can’t surrender. Not to Fouquert.’

  ‘Odd, do you not think, since the bastard, saving your presence, Commandatore, must know that.’

  ‘I think this should be a decision for the whole town.’

  Markham ordered two of his men to stand by on the bell ropes, and as the great doors opened, he placed Paoli in the centre of the entrance, and nodded to them to pull. The bells pealed out, not in any sequence so beloved of clerics, but in a cacophony of discordant sound, which somehow, given the circumstances, seemed very appropriate. Above, on the spire, the flag of Independent Corsica fluttered, and Magdalena had her women yell from every doorway that the Liberator was here in person.

  ‘So much for the brave people of Corsica,’ said Markham sarcastically, when no one appeared.

  ‘Wait,’ said Paoli.

  He was right, Markham wrong, the first sign that this was so the sudden activity around the fringes, as the men besieging them stood up, looking warily down each street. Then they began to back away, muskets held up to threaten an invisible foe. Paoli, sure now he was safe, stepped further out onto the platform which surrounded the church, raising his arms in greeting to a square rapidly filling up with silent people.

  Fouquert and Lanester had swung round, the Commissioner gesturing wildly for the French soldiers to come and protect him. One brought him a horse, which seemed from this distance to confer a feeling of security, even if he didn’t mount it. Lanester was talking to him, earnestly, bending forward to speak into Fouquert’s ear. That he was having little joy was obvious by the angry look on the Commissioner’s face, and the way he swept his arm to indicate the crowd of Alerians come to support their flag and their leader.

  Markham was out beside Paoli now, secure that the positions had been reversed. The locals weren’t armed, but they were so numerous, and had such a look of determination on their faces, that the besiegers had become the besieged. Fouquert made to mount, and Lanester grabbed his bridle, in an angry gesture. The flash of steel was too quick for any but the most practised eye, but the look of horror on Lanester’s face was proof enough, compounded by the way he fell to his knees.

  ‘This man has only one reward for failure,’ said Paoli softly.

  ‘What do we do now?’ asked Markham, indicating the trapped enemy. Fouquert was now mounted, and so were the rest of the cavalry, milling around as if trying to decide which way to go.

  ‘The people are unarmed. If they try to do anything dozens of them will die. Let them go.’

  ‘No, uncle!’ cried Magdalena, who’d come to join them.

  ‘One shot from us will precipitate a massacre. Every Frenchman and Buonapartist would need to die before it ended. Regardless of how much we help, it would not be us who paid that price, but the people of Aleria.’

  ‘Tell them to surrender.’

  ‘Look into that man’s eyes, Magdalena,’ Paoli said, pointing at Fouquert, ‘and tell me he will surrender without blood.’

  Rannoch’s voice came from behind. ‘I have a musket on him.’

  It was as if Fouquert heard, since every carbine the cavalry had suddenly came out to be aimed at the church steps. Paoli waved, then called for the crowds to part. Fouquert smiled, took one last look at Lanester, crouched over holding his belly. Then he looked at Markham, and the smile disappeared, to be replaced with a look of malevolent hate, before hauling on his reins to turn his horse away.

  ‘Lieutenant,’ Paoli said as the crowd surged forward, ‘it would be a Christian thing to do, if we could seek to save Major Lanester.’

  The local doctor took one look at Lanester’s slit belly and shook his head. Paoli had been with him all the time, ignoring the crowds in the square, holding the major’s hand and talking to him. Suddenly, whatever the dying man said made the general sit up, and he gestured to Markham.

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Major Lanester. Would you repeat to Lieutenant Markham what you have just told me?’

  There was no faking wounds now. The face had lost all of its shape, seeming flabby. Lanester was bleeding to death, and he knew it.

  ‘The landing at Bastia happened today,’ he gasped. ‘Nelson will already have tried to get ashore. He’s probably dead by now. You’re too late.’

  Markham grinned, which took some effort. ‘I don’t know whether to admire you, Lanester, or damn you for the endemic liar that you are.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth, Markham.’

  ‘Why start now?’ It took a great effort for Lanester to curse, but he managed it. ‘If I’m given the choice of two potential lies about the date of Nelson’s landing, I’ll take the first one.’

  ‘Your funeral.’

  ‘No, Major, yours.’ He saw the flash of fear in the man’s eyes, and wondered if Paoli or the doctor had told him how close he was to death. ‘I’m not much for faith, but it’s a bad idea to meet your maker with a lie on your lips.’

  ‘I told that stupid swine Fouquert. We didn’t have to kill anyone, or even take Paoli. All we had to do was keep you bottled up for a day or two.’

  ‘Why was he so insistent?’ asked Paoli.

  ‘You don’t understand how badly they want you in France, General.’

  ‘I think I do, Lanester.’

  ‘And then there was you, Markham. He wanted to kill you so much he could hardly sleep. And having spared you twice, once at Cardo and once at that damned monastery, he hardly spent a minute without that knife in his hand, and your skin in his mind.’

  ‘Buttafuco?’

  ‘The French asked for terms. Fouquert set it up. He arranged the meeting.’

  ‘Who arranged that I should see it?’

  Lanester shook his head, though whether in pain or refusal, Markham couldn’t tell. Instead he looked at Paoli.

  ‘We must get to Cardo.’

  The old general nodded. But he refused to move until Lanester expired. Markham saw a tear leave his eye as the man who’d betrayed him slipped away.

  Chapter thirty-four

  The fishing boat stank, not just of its function, but also because it was crowded with non-sailors, most of whom were violently sick on what was nothing more than a gentle swell. The attempt to look brave, by flying the black and white flag again, instead made them look slightly ridiculous on such a vessel, a fact of which only Markham seemed aware. Even he felt queasy, though whether that was to do with the jerking motion of the small vessel or the all-pervading odours, he couldn’t tell. All he did know was that he reeked personally of them all, and that had him offering a silent prayer that, when he went aboard one of His Majesty’s ships, that would not provide another stick to beat him with.

  So when they spotted Hebe, some ten miles south of Bastia, his heart sank. Any hope that he might slip by and get through to another ship, was dashed when she put up her helm to come and investigate. A fishing boat would have been ignored normally, but one flying the Moor’s-head device deserved an interrogation. Naturally, when they were hove to with the frigate alongside, it was he who had to go first up the side.

  ‘Clap that cowardly bastard in irons,’ yelled de Lisle from behind a row of officers – a place, Markham thought of some safety.

  ‘Best hose him down first,’ said Bowen, the premier, who hated Markham almost as much as the captain did. ‘Sod stinks.’

  ‘That’s his normal smell, sir,’ added Fellows, another lieutenant, ‘only you’re too much of a gent to pick it up.’

  ‘Are you quite finished?’ said Markham.

  ‘Damn you, sir, it is you that is finished!’

  Mar
kham smiled. ‘You will forgive me smiling, gentlemen, but the thought of you all on half pay amuses me.’

  That got their attention, being, as it was, a constant source of worry. ‘We have coming aboard General Pasquale Paoli, whom I’m sure you will wish to greet in the appropriate manner.’

  ‘What nonsense is this?’

  ‘If you choose to insult the Corsican flag, and anger Admiral Hood in the process, I cannot stop you.’

  Paoli, probably through impatience, started to come aboard, climbing from the fishing vessel onto the frigate’s deck. If anything, given that he was dressed in better-quality clothes, he looked even more disreputable than Markham. He certainly smelt the same. But he did have such natural dignity that he was able to force de Lisle to drop his stare. Then the purser stepped forward to whisper in the captain’s ear, which made his tiny black eyes bulge.

  ‘I wonder if you could indulge me, Captain, with a change of clothing and the means to wash? I must join my army, and it would not do to arrive smelling like a long dead tunny.’

  De Lisle’s mouth moved, but nothing emerged.

  ‘Sir, is Captain Nelson off Bastia?’

  The chance to bark at Markham restored his voice. ‘He is. And so should you be if you were not a coward.’

  ‘Please do not call this man a coward, I beg you. I have rarely come across such courage and sagacity in one breast.’

  Jaws dropped then, but Midshipman Bernard was smiling broadly.

  ‘I won’t say you had me in a stew, Markham,’ said Nelson. ‘But I was concerned, especially with de Lisle and Colonel Hanger after your blood.’

  ‘I’m surprised he’s not aboard Agamemnon, sir.’

  That merited a raised eyebrow, as Nelson looked up and down an officer now returned to his proper red-coated estate. ‘He won’t come aboard unless specifically requested. Prefers to sling his hammock in one of the transports, anything rather than sup with the likes of me.’