It was an odd assembly; a British naval officer, a high churchman, de Puy’s Bourbon uniform, a young lady in a good quality cloak and the two Negroes. Aramon’s servants were carrying his squat oilskin packages on their backs. Even though they seemed to manage their loads with surprising ease, they looked the most incongruous, and he nearly called for the possessions to be abandoned. Then he realised that it didn’t matter. They were committed; too close to the enemy to effect any changes, so he ran to the front where his knowledge of French would be necessary.
‘Make way, make way,’ Markham called, adopting a guttural accent, which owed more to sounds he’d heard in the Dublin fish market than anything he’d picked up in France.
The soldiers, listless from marching, looked up with scant interest at the approaching party. They saw only the dark greatcoats and tricorne hats of the men at the front marching towards them, muskets sloped, as if on parade. What they didn’t do was provide an opening. Markham cursed under his breath, now sure that he’d been too impetuous. If they halted by the roadside they might never get in amongst the column. They would thus become an object of curiosity to every passing eye. And it could only be a matter of time till an officer appeared, and stopped to demand of them their business.
‘Move aside, damn you,’ he yelled in desperation, as he came abreast of the column, poking forward with Bellamy’s musket.
The reply, even delivered in a foreign tongue, left no one in no doubt where to stick both his anger and the weapon. But he was not going to be deflected, and suddenly inspiration struck. He used, with a dramatic flourish, the one name he suspected, in this part of the world, might just have an effect.
‘Then you will have to deal with Citizen Commissioner Fouquert.’
The reaction was immediate, but wrong. There were men in this column that might struggle to recall the name of the king the regicides had beheaded two years previously. But the most blood-thirsty tyrants of the revolution should be famous, their names whispered with a mixture of fear and admiration. Robespierre and St Just, even if they were dead, consumed by the guillotine which had brought death to so many of their victims. Fouche, who’d cleaned out Nantes to help quell the revolt in the Vendee and then went on to help Fouquier-Tinville in the butchery of Lyon. The pair claimed to have taken more lives in one day than any other commissioners.
These were the Representatives on Mission from the Committee of Public Safety, whose power exceeded that of the generals who led the armies. Indeed those very senior officers were frequently their victims, forced either to flee to save their necks, or dragged to the guillotine to be executed in front of the troops they’d led.
Here, in the very far south, Fouquert had been that representative. He’d engendered the same level of fear as his fellow murderers, first for his actions in Marseilles, then for what he’d done in Toulon once the British had abandoned it. Innocent people, trying to flee, had been pushed into the harbour to drown. At the same time Fouquert had set up the guillotine in the main square, and there presided over a drunken orgy of formal, quasi-judicial killings.
To Markham the man was scum, typical of the type thrown up by the turmoil of the Revolution. Initially, he had applauded the way the French had thrown of the yoke of absolute monarchy, and despaired when they’d fallen victim to an even more despotic regime. The fact that the whole of Europe was ranged against them was due to men like Fouquert, who’d risen only by their blind attachment to dubious dogma, added to an ability to inspire fear. He was a killer. And Markham knew from personal experience he was not just that. No political convictions shaped his actions; he was a man who took great personal pleasure in the act. He would decimate this regiment without a qualm. So why were these French soldiers laughing?
At least that flash of humour created a small break in the column, which allowed him, Rannoch and Tully to muscle in, then hold the position until the whole party was on the road, with that same trio now bringing up the rear.
‘What you got, there, friend?’ a still-amused voice called from behind them.
‘Émigrés, brother, and a couple of foreigners they’re in league with. They’re all traitors. Take a look at the heads on the swine. Next time you see them, Fouquert will have them raised on a pike.’
Was it a sudden flash of fear that made Ghislane Moulins stumble, so that Bellamy, and her maid, on either side, had to grab her to keep her upright? It looked like it. And the way that de Puy and Aramon squared their backs added even more verisimilitude to the scene. Tense himself, he was at least in communication with the men behind him. They were not, and would be racked with all the fears that their imaginations could provide.
‘That black pair’ll look a treat. Happen we should polish them up a bit.’
Markham had to jab Bellamy with his own musket then, to stop him from spinning round. Rannoch, in an act that could only be pure guesswork, since he spoke no French, laughed out loud.
‘You could pass us the womenfolk, citizen, both colours. Seeing as they’re going to meet their maker, anyhow, they might as well expire from pleasures.’
‘I heard they’d stopped all that game with the chopper,’ came another voice, the call mixed in with raucous laughter. ‘Ceptin’ for the Jacobins, of course. They got theirs on Thermidor.’
‘Not Fouquert, though. Mind, he’s shitting himself after what they done to those bastards in Paris. He’s a’feart, with good cause, that he might go the same route himself.’
‘Would you to tell him that to his face?’ asked Markham, with a feeling of uncertainty.
‘I would have done if the bastard had hung around to look me in the eye.’
‘Had?’ asked Markham
A third voice called out, louder, carrying more authority. ‘Where have you been, you arse in a greatcoat. Fouquert has been had up, like all the others.’
That produced more laughter, and a question from Markham.
‘He was in Frejus, under arrest, when we passed through there. Now you might not know where the sun rises and falls mate, but I do, and that is behind us. As far behind us as you are behind the times.’
‘Thick ain’t in it mate, they ain’t even got the sense to get out of them coats.’
The sun was high now, beating down on their shoulders, raising steam that had that strange, stale smell which emanated from damp cloth. They’d have to take them off soon, since to wear them now, in bright sunlight, was madness. And Markham’s mind was whirring for another reason. He had used Fouquert’s name to frighten the marching soldiers, and that had backfired, though the news that he was at risk of losing his own head was welcome. But he had to get away from these men, as originally planned, because another wrong answer could be fatal. There was a gate on the left, a broken affair that led to a muddy yard.
‘We’d best get back to Frejus and find out what is goin’ on. Up ahead there, get off the road.’
Naturally, without any knowledge of French, nothing happened. Markham began to swear, and made such a poor fist of pushing to the front of his party that he provoked even more amusement. But he got there just as Halsey, on point, came abreast of the hanging gate. The old man was marching, head down and slowly, having opened up enough of a gap between him and the French in front to avoid conversation. It needed a shove to move him sideways.
‘Into the yard, Halsey, and don’t turn round.’
The whole party swung to the left, ignoring the catcalls of the passing soldiers who’d talked to Markham. As soon as they passed, he shut the gate, to avoid the prying eyes of those who followed. Looking around, he saw the devastation that had been visited on what was once a reasonable manor house. It wasn’t fresh, the damage to this once thriving property. But it was obvious; the heraldic device that had once decorated the lintel above the gaping main door was chipped away. Smoke stains blacked the stonework above the windows, which were without glass, consumed in the flames that had gutted the interior.
The farmyard itself was littered with the detritus of a passing
army, proof that when the columns did halt, this was a space they occupied. Even destroyed the building provided shelter, and perhaps enough remaining wood to make a fire.
‘Into the house,’ he ordered.
The smell that hit them was overpowering. This place had been used as a latrine as well as a protective roof, and it was necessary to wade through the pile of human waste that stood as testimony to an army too lazy to dig or even walk very far. With the roof gone, as well as all the intervening floors, the heavy downpour had come straight through to the ground, to mingle and spread the ordure.
That eased as they went further in, moving silently in single file through spaces that had once been doorways, Markham searching for an exit to the rear. There had to be one, and if they could get out through it and move without being seen they had every chance of getting well away from danger. He found it, another gaping hole that led onto what had once been a formal garden and was now just a mass of weeds. At least here, in the rear portions of the property, the floors were clear of human filth, if you excluded discarded clothing and the remains of their meals.
‘I think we should stop for a moment.’ said Germain, solicitously. ‘The lady must be fatigued.’
‘I’d like to get these greatcoats off,’ said Rannoch, ‘and to do something about fresh flints and dry powder.’
Stopping so close to a marching army was not a notion that appealed to Markham much. But he had no real idea if there were more ahead of him than behind, and after his most recent experiences he felt he had ridden his luck more than enough for one day. It was a question of balancing risks and advantages, yet his assent had more to do with Rannoch’s request than Germain’s. Without weapons that could fire they were toothless. Besides any threats they might face, with time precious, they needed to establish exactly which way they were going.
‘Red coats off as well, Sergeant,’ Markham replied. ‘Roll them inside your greatcoats. Put a man to the front of the house to keep an eye on those Frenchmen.’ Then he called over to de Puy. ‘Monsieur le Comte, a look at your map, if you please.’
Germain joined them, while Aramon fussed over his chests, berated his servants, and said a few kind words to his charge. Not that de Puy’s map would tell them much, since in its detail it didn’t include the coastal strip. And here, at the rear of the manor house, the trees hid the hills from view.
‘This place will not remain secure,’ said de Puy, pulling the parchment from his coat pocket.
It was reassuring to see de Puy behaving like the soldier he was, instead of some doleful lackey to Aramon. He knew as well as Markham that as soon as the marching column halted, men would use the front part of the building in a like manner to their predecessors. But some would wander further, in the hope that the men who’d already stripped the place of all its valuables had missed something.
‘We have a piquet out front,’ Markham replied. ‘And anyone coming in will do so at a walk. But I do agree one of our first tasks is to find a safe exit.’
He called to Rannoch, now busy supervising the return to usefulness of the marine muskets. One he’d finished, the Highlander split his men into two and sent them down either side of the ruined garden, stepping round the smashed statuary that littered the pathways.
‘We know we’re in the arc of the Golfe Juan,’ said Markham, pointing at the now open map. ‘What we don’t want is to be scrabbling about looking for a route. We need a decent view of the landmarks to fix our position. We also need a reconnaissance to make sure we don’t walk into more enemy forces.’
‘It is true that it is a habit I have no wish to acquire.’
‘Once enough for you?’
‘Most certainly. Might I suggest, Lieutenant, that I too discard my uniform coat, and go out to where I can get a clear view of the highlands to the north.’ He looked over Markham’s shoulder, his eyes narrowing as Aramon approached.
‘I’m sure, given the outline, I can tell you were we are.’
‘Make sure you take a weapon with you, a pistol or a musket.’
‘A sword would suit me better if I need to kill anyone.’
‘It would do little to alert us, however, monsieur. I will need to get out of here very quickly if there’s trouble.’
‘What is proposed?’ Aramon demanded.
‘Someone else must go!’
The cleric insisted on this before the explanation was finished, reinforcing a suspicion that had first occurred to Markham in Germain’s cabin. Aramon had tried to hold out on the captain, doling out information bit by bit. But he was a victim himself. Only de Puy knew exactly where to look for whatever it was he’d escorted from Avignon.
The thought didn’t please Markham, since it hinted at some kind of bargain. Which begged the obvious question as to why any arrangement was necessary. It was too much to consider, too many questions to resolve, and he had a decision to make.
‘We are not overburdened with map readers,’ he said.
‘I cannot see why we just do not head straight inland. That is where we must go to find the church of Notre Dame, is it not?’
Markham was angry, and his voice was loaded with sarcasm. ‘Of course, let’s blunder right up the hillside. If we get lost we can stop a local peasant and ask for directions. He will say nothing about the presence of a high church dignitary, not to his wife or his own priest. Nor will he think it curious that eighteen souls, a dozen of them armed and British, are seeking Notre Dame de Vacluse.’
‘If he is a son of the church, I can command his silence.’
‘You may be prepared to trust your life to that, Monsignor Aramon, I am not. I have seen too many men swear fidelity on the Holy Cross, only to go on and betray everything they profess to believe in. The Comte is French, and without his uniform coat, his hat and his wig, not a person to be remarked on. And he knows better than any one of us in which direction we must go, need I add, unobserved.’
‘I shall say farewell to you when this is over, Lieutenant, without a qualm. Though it shames me to admit it, I cannot imagine I will even bring myself to pray for your soul.’
Markham grinned, which he was happy to see upset the Monsignor. ‘Sure that’s a relief. With the benefit of your good offices I’d be confined to hell, for certain.’
‘You do not require any assistance from me,’ Aramon snapped.
‘I could go,’ said Germain.
‘No, Captain,’ said de Puy, pulling off his hat and wig, to reveal the dark, sweat soaked hair underneath. ‘It only makes sense if I go. Only I have any hope of recognising the landmarks.’
‘Then if I may be permitted a word alone,’ said Aramon.
His voice, for the first time that Markham could remember, carried a hint of desperation. That brought forth a grin. He couldn’t help himself, confirmed in his impression that whatever de Puy had brought from Avignon, he’d kept the location to himself. That was only odd if you had no knowledge of the cleric’s personality. Presumably, de Puy was just as interested in recognition as Germain, and did not want his own efforts to safeguard the valuables of Avignon to suffer from Aramon’s overweening vanity. It would be just like the Monsignor to claim all the credit himself, reducing de Puy’s role to that of mere helper. In fact, if he’d been open, Markham suspected the French officer would not be here now.
They were alone for some time, talking quietly, with many a hand gesture. Aramon gave some evidence of impatience, while de Puy stiffened once or twice, probably because the insensitive cleric had delivered some crass insult. Finally they concluded, though it seemed neither man was happy, returning to the main group with faces set stiff. De Puy went to talk to Ghislane Moulins, while Aramon demanded writing materials from his servants.
‘What were they about, Markham,’ whispered Germain.
‘Sure, they were formulating a plan, sir, to slit our throats and make off with the treasure.’
It was a cheap jibe to play on Germain. He was gullible enough, and made even more so by necessity. The blood d
rained from his thin face, and Markham had to make amends quickly by uttering soothing words, moving away to talk to Rannoch, who had just returned from his search. Germain moved over towards Aramon, who promptly turned his back on the naval officer so that he could not see what the cleric was writing.
‘There is a walled garden, with some outbuildings,’ said Rannoch. ‘They too have been smashed and looted, with scarce a single article unbroken. But they are roofed, and, better still, have windows that open on to a track that runs up the side of the property. It is much safer than this. We can get out that way if we are threatened.’
‘Good.’
He followed that with a quick explanation of what he’d heard on the road about Fouquert, slightly non-plussed at the lack of reaction. Rannoch, if anything, hated the Frenchman more than Markham. The news that the murderous bastard had fallen victim to his own excess should have produced a huge grin instead of the enquiring look he was receiving now.
‘I take it you’ve left the men in the outbuildings?’
‘I have,’ Rannoch replied, his voice as slow as measured as his officer had ever heard it. ‘I thought it best, since, some of them are getting a touch excited.’
‘Why?’ asked Markham, trying to sound nonchalant.
‘Men left in ignorance are likely to speculate. That can lead to some very fanciful notions.’
‘For instance?’
‘There was talk aboard ship of gold and silver and of jewels the size of an eagle’s egg. I paid no heed myself.’
He was hardly surprised that what should have been a secret was open speculation. Ships were not good places to try and retain a confidence. Sailors had the ability to hear any conversation through solid planking. And with servants aboard, including the Negro maid, hiding anything of value, be it an object or an idea, became near impossible. The mere presence of such a party aboard would have set every man to questioning, the whole pieced together by patchwork gossip. It might not be the whole truth, but it would be close enough.
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