Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘You don’t sound too sorry, sir.’

  ‘Can’t say I am, Markham,’ Nelson replied, giving his guest an arch look, ‘though his wife would certainly grace our table.’

  ‘His wife!’

  The door opened after a perfunctory knock, and Allen, Nelson’s servant, appeared. ‘Colonel’s boat has put off, sir.’

  ‘Right. Best rout out the old General.’

  Hanger stopped dead when he saw Markham, while his wife blushed to the roots of her hair. Pure mischief on Nelson’s part, of course, evident from his expression – fish-faced was the best way to describe it. By the time the colonel was introduced to Paoli and Magdalena he’d recovered some of his sangfroid.

  ‘You know the lieutenant, of course, don’t you? Markham, do the honours with the wine, will you.’

  He felt like a bird watched by a cat, as he took a glass of wine to Lizzie Gordon. Two cats, since Magdalena Calheri was quick to pick up the undertones. Nelson was enjoying himself, only Pasquale Paoli seeming to be in any way relaxed. Hanger could ease a bit as they discussed the forthcoming landing, but Lizzie was left out of that, to be entertained by Markham and Nelson’s officers. They tried to engage Magdalena’s attention too, and got short shrift. By the time they sat down to eat, it was like a Hanoverian family royal dinner, icy in the level of mutual loathing.

  ‘I must land when you land, Colonel. To make my presence felt too early would undermine the Army commanders.’

  ‘Feeble,’ thought Markham, giving Magdalena a smile, pleased to see, when that lady responded, a slight upsurge in attention from Lizzie Gordon.

  ‘I would also like Lieutenant Markharn as my escort.’

  ‘I think he would be better placed serving with his fellow marines,’ growled Hanger. Then he barked at the subject of the request, ‘Don’t you think, Markham?’

  Paoli cut Markham off just as he was about to reply, giving him cause to curse his openness on the fishing boat. But then, everybody was open with this old man.

  ‘It would grieve me to insist.’

  ‘Have him, sir.’

  ‘And his men, of course.’

  Hanger nodded sharply, then he stared at the tablecloth, as though he wanted to say something other than what emerged.

  ‘You’ll have to forgive me, Nelson. I must have found the trip over upsetting. I can’t do justice to your food and I must, in any case, return to my work.’ He stood up, throwing his napkin down with some force. ‘I’ll leave you to see the general here ashore, shall I?’

  ‘If you wish.’

  ‘Right. Come along, my dear.’

  Lizzie Gordon rose slowly, in a way that clearly infuriated her spouse. ‘Thank you, Captain Nelson.’

  ‘Pleasure, ma’am.’ A round of curtsies and bows followed, then they were gone, leaving a deep silence, until Nelson filled it. ‘Exemplary manners, Colonel Hanger, don’t you reckon?’

  Markham could not understand Paoli. Why march into the camp at Cardo flying his flag, so that those who were betraying his cause would know of his arrival? All the senior officers assembled to greet him as he made his way down the cheering ranks of the army. If any of them were nervous, it didn’t show. Not one of his generals did anything else but meet Paoli’s eye squarely; Markham was greeted stiffly but with punctilious correctness. Nor did they demur when he suggested an attack against the redoubts to back up the British landing. Arena, tall and sallow, tipped his pock-marked head in agreement. Grimaldi agreed enthusiastically, and Buttafuco gave one of his habitual glares.

  ‘I have one more request to make, gentlemen?’

  ‘Name it,’ said Arena.

  Paoli pointed to Markham. ‘This officer has done Corsica such signal service, that I would wish him to escort our standard forward tomorrow at dawn.’

  ‘A foreigner?’ demanded Buttafuco.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What service has he done to deserve this?’ asked Grimaldi.

  ‘He unearthed several plots against us, hatched by a villain called Fouquert, and another officer you entertained at this very table, Major Lanester.’

  ‘What!’ said Grimaldi.

  ‘Impossible!’ said Buttafuco.

  Arena stood in stupefied disbelief.

  ‘All the plots have failed, the tendrils are known. Let us then lay them to rest.’ Paoli raised his wine glass. ‘To the morrow.’

  Markham went searching for Magdalena, and found her in the company of two officers, both short, dark-skinned men with black hair. His cheerful greeting to her was met with deep frowns and hard, exchanged glances.

  ‘Lieutenant Markham. My brothers, Alfredo and Guilio.’

  He bowed, a gesture which was not returned. In fact they began to talk to their sister in such a way that their bodies cut him out. But they conversed with her in French, telling her in no uncertain terms what they would do to any one who trifled with her affections. Markham took the hint, and left.

  The following morning saw them up before dawn, the redcoats given pride of place, not on the right of the line, but in the centre. Bellamy again held the flag, surrounded by the rest of the men, listening to the cheers as Pasquale Paoli rode along the line. Out in the bay the bombardment had started, great clouds of smoke rising to obscure the topsails and battle flags of Nelson’s squadron. Markham could imagine the boats already in the water, surrounded as he had been at Fornali with shot and shell. What they were about to do carried as many risks, but with earth under his feet rather than water, he was a happier man.

  ‘Rannoch?’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘What happened to change everyone’s attitude to Bellamy?’

  ‘I do not rightly know,’ Rannoch replied guardedly.

  Markham knew he could press, knew it wasn’t personal. ‘Tell me. Now!’

  There was hesitation, but not much. ‘That night we made camp outside Aleria.’

  ‘Yes,’ Markham replied. He had a vision of Magdalena, her back against a tree, her legs wrapped round his waist.

  ‘Well none of us parley the language, so getting to know the ladies was hampered.’

  ‘And he helped.’

  ‘He lacks charm in the English, sir. But he must have it in the French.’

  ‘Lieutenant,’ said Paoli, hauling his mount’s head round to face the enemy. ‘Please lead us forward.’

  ‘Mr Bellamy,’ called Markham. The Negro responded to the courtesy with a huge grin. ‘At your pleasure.’

  The drums beat as the Corsican army fidgeted behind them. Immediately there was movement on the walls of the redoubts. Bugles blew, and flags began to shoot up and down the staffs. Bellamy, in the middle of the Lobsters, waved the device of the Moor back and forth. Paoli, from atop his horse, signalled a general advance, which brought forth a great cheer as the troops surged forward at a slow walk.

  The French might be surprised to be attacked, but they were not going to give up easily. What cannon they had spoke as soon as the Corsican line moved, spewing forth round shot that scythed into the massed ranks of infantry. With only six hundred yards to cover the enemy had no time for another such salvo, and turned to case shot, the shells bursting above and behind the Corsican flag. Markham saw the staff cant over, and Bellamy staggered as he rushed forward to aid him. The Negro wasn’t wounded, just thrown off his stride by a ball hitting the standard. Bellamy marched on, and it was only then that Markham realised he had his eyes closed tight, and was mouthing a desperate prayer.

  Soon the Lobsters found themselves enveloped in the smoke from the guns. The line behind them was now ragged and torn, but if he had ever doubted the quality of the Corsican peasant soldiery, it was laid to rest now. They marched on, taking anything the enemy could throw at them with admirable steadfastness, closing the gap on the redoubts to the point where they could begin to break into a run. The redcoats signalled that, clearly visible even in the murk. And the standard of their race, the Moor’s head, which tipped forward as Bellamy kept pace, raising a huge and terrifying cheer
that must have chilled the blood of the defenders.

  There was a trench line in front of the redoubts, full of Frenchmen, all with their muskets aimed along the wooden parapet. But they must have known that the force coming at them was irresistible, since the volley that could have decimated their attackers was ill-disciplined, and immediately followed by an attempt to withdraw. Suddenly the Lobsters were amongst them, Markham slashing right and left at the enemy, Rannoch yelling his heathen Highland cry as he jabbed forward with his bayonet.

  But that was as nothing to the savagery of the Corsicans. This was war as they understood it, close-quarter stuff where a knife was the equal of any other weapon. The French infantry tried to fight them with bayonets, but against their quicksilver reactions seemed to lose every time. And there was no quarter once they were through the enemy’s guard, the depth of hate these people felt for their oppressors in every knife that cut, sliced and skewered.

  Markham was on the glacis now, hard-packed earth set at an angle to deflect shot, scrabbling like his men to make some way up the slope. Again the Corsicans proved themselves, as they raced barefoot up the ground like mountain goats, even managing to keep their footing when engaging the defenders. The Lobsters might have been left at the bottom if it had not been for the flag. But the men of the island wanted that with them, and the redcoats found themselves pushed and dragged until they were on the ramparts.

  Men were fighting in and around the wooden embrasures, some tumbling back down the slope as a Frenchman, more secure behind his palisade, took advantage of his bayonet’s length. This was familiar territory to Markham and, shouting at the top of his voice, he managed to get enough of his Lobsters together to form a cohesive group around the flag. Discipline, rather than Corsican brio, was needed now, and as he called out the orders he was proud to see how his men ignored whatever was going on around them to obey.

  ‘Present!’ The muskets levelled, all aimed at a trio of embrasures manned by knots of Frenchmen getting in each other’s way. ‘Fire!’

  The Lobsters were charging as soon as the balls flew, bayonets extended to take in the smoke an enemy that had survived their fusillade. Markham led them, jumping onto the palisade and waving for his men to follow. This they did willingly, fanning out on the other side to clear defenders right and left from the walkway. It was nip and tuck to begin with, the weight of the enemy greater than the force they could bring to bear. But fighting the Lobsters left them open to the knives and bayonets of the Corsicans, and behind the first line that the marines were fighting Frenchmen were dying.

  Markham was between Leech and Dornan, who, if he was indifferent with a musket, revelled in the close-quarters use of the bayonet. The stoop was narrow, and open at the rear, so half the men Dornan engaged ended up as casualties because they fell under furious assault. Markham couldn’t slash, just jab, and against a weapon six feet in length was at a disadvantage until, as one defender lunged at him and missed, he grabbed his musket, dragged him forward, clubbed him with his hilt, and removed the man’s weapon. That was just before the soldier died under the blades of the Corsicans who were now pouring through the gap he and his men had created.

  Noise was the key, even if it seemed impossible that any human ear could tell if it was diminishing. The defence was crumbling because the cries from the Frenchmen were futile pleas for mercy, rather than shouts to raise their valour. They couldn’t break off the action, there was no room, so they had a stark choice: to jump and maim themselves, or die where they stood. Most jumped, and suddenly the stoop was clear of blue coats, and full of cheering men in red Corsican caps.

  Behind the redoubts the walls of Bastia stood, high, white and formidable, another obstacle that would have to be conquered. But the space between was full of retreating Frenchmen, who could hear the bombardment from Nelson’s ships, and some of the crack of musketry from the southern shore. Men who must know that the town they had tried to hold was now in the grip of a siege that could only end in surrender.

  The Lobsters didn’t need to fight their way to the beach. Even those who had opposed the landing had withdrawn, and the Navy was once again busy shipping cannon ashore. Nelson, surrounded by other officers, stood on a gun carriage, telescope to his eye, chest out and rightly proud as he surveyed the extent of his success. When he saw Markham and his men plodding towards him, he lost all sense of his dignity as a post captain in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, and waved like a child would to a long-lost friend. The likes of Serecold laughed, but de Lisle and Hanger frowned, and glared at the object of this greeting.

  ‘We have done some sterling work today, Markham.’

  ‘General Paoli sent me to inform you, sir, that the redoubts at Cardo have been driven in, and that the French have retired into the city.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  ‘I take it your men are available for duty, Lieutenant?’ Hanger demanded, his scarred, ugly face as close to happiness as was possible. ‘I can assure you there is still warm work to be done.’

  ‘What,’ cried Nelson, before Markham could reply. ‘You would not remove my own guard detail from me, Colonel, would you?’

  ‘Guard detail!’ Hanger barked.

  ‘These are my marines,’ said de Lisle.

  ‘Not any more, Captain. They are transferred.’ Nelson’s eyes were twinkling. ‘I think my dignity as a commodore allows me a file of marines to guard my quarters, sir. Just as it allows me to convene, provided I have enough captains present, a court martial.’

  Both men knew immediately what Nelson meant, and it showed on their faces. With the odd exception like de Lisle, the commanders in his squadron were hand chosen by him. He would select who sat on the court, and those picked would be unlikely to bring in a verdict that would displease their patron.

  ‘Lieutenant Markham.’

  ‘Sir!’ he replied, pulling himself to stiff attention.

  ‘Be so kind as to return to General Paoli, with my compliments, and ask him if he would care to inspect our positions.’

  He found the Liberator in the convent building at Cardo, in the very room in which he’d dined a week ago, surrounded by his jubilant officers. Markham had a quick look around the faces, particularly those of high enough rank to be close to Paoli. The Liberator, with a mark of respect that was as genuine as it was deep, stood and came to greet him.

  ‘You seem to be light on the odd general, sir,’ Markham said quietly.

  Paoli replied in the same way, so that his officers would not hear. ‘Generals Arena and Grimaldi departed last night, we believe for the safety of France.’

  ‘You should have hanged them.’

  ‘Ah! Markham, you do not understand. They have family. If I kill them then their relatives must kill me. It is the vendetta.’

  ‘Which I thought you’d wiped out.’

  ‘No. The vendetta will never leave Corsica. It is in our blood.’

  He led Markham to the door and indicated the redoubts, now with the flag of Corsica flying on the palisades. The wind was strong from the north, and the Moor’s-head device was visible to the naked eye.

  ‘But as you see, our honour is redeemed, Lieutenant Markham, and for that I have to thank you and your Lobsters.’

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  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  THE JOHN PEARCE SERIES

  BY THE MAST DIVIDED

  A SHOT ROLLING SHIP

  AN AWKWARD COMMISSION

  A FLAG OF TRUCE

  THE ADMIRALS’ GAME

  AN ILL WIND

  BLOWN OFF COURSE
<
br />   ENEMIES AT EVERY TURN

  A SEA OF TROUBLES

  WRITTEN AS JACK LUDLOW

  THE REPUBLIC SERIES

  THE PILLARS OF ROME

  THE SWORD OF REVENGE

  THE GODS OF WAR

  THE CONQUEST SERIES

  MERCENARIES

  WARRIORS

  CONQUEST

  THE ROADS TO WAR SERIES

  THE BURNING SKY

  A BROKEN LAND

  A BITTER FIELD

  THE CRUSADES SERIES

  SON OF BLOOD

  SOLDIER OF CRUSADE

  PRINCE OF LEGEND

  About the Author

  DAVID DONACHIE was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.

  By David Donachie

  A Shred of Honour

  Copyright

  Allison & Busby Limited

  12 Fitzroy Mews

  London W1T 6DW

  www.allisonandbusby.com

  First published in Great Britain in 1997 under the name Tom Connery.

  This ebook edition published by Allison & Busby in 2013.

  Copyright © 1997 by DAVID DONACHIE

  The moral right of the author is hereby asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All characters and events in this publication other than those clearly in the public domain are fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent buyer.