What Markham did next was risky, but he felt it was necessary. He began to crawl along the ground, on his elbows and knees, determined to get close to the nearest guard so that he could overhear what orders were being dished out. The road was some twenty feet across, if you included the spaces where the hedgerows had been cut back. The guard was no more than a few feet from those, certainly close enough to hear any sound that Markham might make, and with the officers approaching, staring straight ahead as if looking him right in the eye.
But he’d stopped crawling until the scrunch of the boots on the hard-packed roadway covered the noise he made, the final few yards covered quickly, rather than at the previous snail’s pace, his progress aided by the spill from the sentry’s torch. Markham ended up behind a thick bush, with no actual view of the road, but certain he was within earshot. The sound of boots ceased, to be followed by the sound of a brusque voice, demanding to know the soldier’s name.
Whatever it was, it was mumbled and incomprehensible. But the officer, when he spoke, did so clearly.
‘It is best to vary any routine, soldier. Do not stand still all the time, but neither should you pace a route at specific intervals. Our quarry will, I think, try to use the road before the moon comes up. He must if he wishes to get clear. Otherwise he will spend a very uncomfortable night in the forest, with little chance of sleep, and we shall find him in the morning.’
‘Sir,’ said the soldier, this time speaking crisply.
‘You will be relieved in two hours.’
The trio moved off. But as the boots passed by his nose, Markham wasn’t thinking of what the man had said, he was thinking about the familiarity of the voice which had said it. He couldn’t move until the sentry in front of him did so, and was left with plenty of time to speculate. Where had he heard that before? It could be any number of places.
His first real mistress had been French and noble, and she had introduced him to a wide circle of her Parisian acquaintances. There had been French officers in the Russian service, and he had seen duty with them when fighting the Turks. Then there were the émigrés who had fled to London at the start of the Revolution.
They were the most numerous. Rich and poor they’d flocked to the entertainment centres of the town, the same places he, seeking opportunity, had frequented. Quite a few were like him, spending more than they could really afford in an attempt to create an attractive illusion, one that might produce some gainful employment. They liked the area around Covent Garden too, for its cheap housing and ready, all-pervasive low life.
The last lodgings he’d had before fleeing the bailiffs had been in Long Acre. And with his many friends in the theatre, he was a constant visitor to Drury Lane, a friend to the Linley family who owned the place, as well as a goodly number of the actors and actresses who performed there. People like Sheridan and Fox were fellow enthusiasts. They were also sympathetic politicians, who could elicit a favour for some particularly hard-up French aristocrat. It was one of their number he’d killed in Finsbury Park, the poor fellow taking great exception to finding George Markham in bed with his wife.
There had been an accent in that voice. Not much of one, but nevertheless something quite distinctive. Then there was the crisp delivery, which was singular. Faces and situations floated through his mind in an endless stream, but try as he did, he could not put a face that voice. The thoughts evaporated as the sentry moved, which allowed him to crawl backwards a few feet, then get onto his hands and knees and turn round. Once clear he had a chance to hit out at the numerous creatures which had been eating him while he lay on the ground.
‘Did you find out anything?’ whispered Germain.
‘I did,’ Markham replied.
He was trying to think of another way of saying what he had already stated; they were trapped. De Puy had said that this was a busy road between the coast and Grasse. Yet not a single cart had passed down it while they’d been close. That meant it had been closed. He looked up through the canopy of trees, to the patch of clear sky twinkling with the first hint of stars.
‘They will keep those torches lit until the moon is high enough to illuminate the road.’
Germain opened his mouth to say something else, but Markham held up his hand, running over yet again in his head the words the officer had used. Never mind the accent and the familiarity, what was it he had said? He’d mentioned the quarry, but then referred to it in the singular.
‘He must if he wishes to get clear.’ Was that just a slip of the tongue?
The shout that split the night air was followed by the crack of a musket, then another, general yelling following on the heels of that. Markham shot forward again, throwing caution to the winds, so that he could see what was happening. He had to pull back quickly as those sentries who’d been down the road rushed past, their torches waving as they made for a group gathered about a hundred yards up the hill. The torches were waving madly until the officers arrived and some sense of order was restored. Markham could hear one of them yelling like a parade ground sergeant, demanding both quiet and information at the same time.
His voice barely dropped as, having got what he was after, he reported to his superior that the man they were seeking had crossed at the run, and entered the forest on the opposite side. The sentry nearest, who fired off the first shot, was sure that he had winged him, since he heard a cry of pain. The familiar voice raised itself, issuing a string of instructions; that a file of ten men should stay on the spot to seal the road, while the rest should be prepared to march.
‘Where is he going to march to?’ asked Markham when he’d rejoined the others.
‘There is a good wide track along the top of the peaks from the village of Mouans Sartoux, part of an ancient trading route. If he wants to go west he will follow that. It has the advantage of a good view of the terrain below. That, as you can see on the map, is even steeper and narrower than the route we are on. Anyone moving through it will struggle, and he is bound to disturb the wildlife and give away his position.’
‘Who is it they are pursuing?’ asked Germain.
‘I don’t care, as long as it’s not us,’ stated Markham.
In the dark, he could not see any faces. But he did wonder how many showed relief that they had not, as they might have imagined, been betrayed by one of their own number.
‘What do we do now? asked Aramon.
‘We shall not be comfortable, Monsignor, but I suggest we try and get some sleep.’
It was de Puy’s turn to pose a question. ‘What plan do we have for the morning, Lieutenant Markham. There are still soldiers on the road.’
‘A file of ten men we can take care of, Monsieur le Comte, that is if we have to.’
He wished he could see Germain’s face. Was his captain happy or angry that all these questions were being put to him? That was answered by the way Germain suddenly asserted himself.
‘Using the road, Monsieur le Comte, how quickly could we get to Notre Dame de Vacluse.’
‘Six hours at the most.’
‘Then we must do that,’ the captain said emphatically. ‘Using these tracks through the forest was a grave mistake, especially with the ladies in tow.’
‘And if we are seen on the road?’ asked Markham.
‘We got through the column on the coast road by pretending you were prisoners, we can do the same again.’
‘Do we pray for rain so that the men can wear the greatcoats?’
‘Why bother,’ Germain replied, his voice carrying a degree of authority that had been missing since the failed boarding operation. ‘There are ten French uniforms out there, just waiting for us to take them as soon as the sun comes up.’
‘Another legitimate ruse de guerre, Captain?’
‘Yes.’
‘Only this time, if we are caught, we will be shot.’
‘You really must try to be more positive, Markham. Such pessimism does not become a King’s officer.’
The temptation to reply sharply to tha
t was difficult to control, especially to a man who had trouble keeping a grip on his temper. But relations between himself and Germain were bad enough without him making things worse. And given the other potential disputes that might arise, should they succeed, the need for some form of cohesion in the British contingent was paramount. But he had to, for his own sake, say something.
‘The acquisition of these uniforms. Do you wish to take personal charge of that, sir?’
‘I doubt that will be necessary.’
‘We have to do something about them, in any case,’ said Markham. ‘As long as they are in position we cannot move. We have no idea what their orders are, so they might be still in position tomorrow night.’
‘I’m surprised Captain Germain does not want us to form up like infantry and do battle with them.’
‘Keep your voice down. He needs no encouragement when it comes to woolly-headed notions of how to fight.’
‘It is an even match,’ Rannoch responded, in his measured way. His face was nothing more than a ghostly shape in the small amount of moonlight. ‘Mind you, if the rest of the soldiers are still on this mountain, we should not be using musket fire.’
‘No,’ Markham replied.
‘It is scarce possible that all of our men will be able to sneak up on the Frenchmen without one giving himself away.’
‘Then we must draw them down on us, and deal with them as a group.’
‘We cannot be taking prisoners, can we?’
The voice was enough. Markham didn’t have to see Rannoch’s face. In battle he was a killer of the most ferocious kind. But the prospect of visiting death on his fellow humans was not something that excited him. It was very much the opposite. Useless slaughter was to be avoided on the very good grounds that if you wanted compassion from your enemy, the best way to get it was to be benevolent yourself.
‘I will act as a decoy, a single man like the fellow they were pursuing. Let them chase me into the forest at a point of our choosing, and we can take them there.’
‘I would fire off a musket as soon as I spotted you.’
‘Let’s hope none of them are as a good a shot as you then.’
‘Even if it didn’t kill you, I would have alerted my comrades.’
‘I don’t see how we can avoid that.’
‘As long as we can avoid a fusillade. A single shot could be mistaken for a hunter or an accidental discharge.’
‘Sleep,’ said Markham. ‘Two men to stand sentry, two on, four off. Tell them to use their ears more than their eyes. All except Bellamy, I want him watching those Frenchmen.’
‘Then I wish you the joy of finding him. He disappears as soon as the sun goes down.’
‘That’s why I want him.’
The whispered calls produced no response, forcing Markham to crawl around repeating his name. When the hand touched his shoulder, he was startled, even though he was anticipating it. The voice, mixed with a chuckle, was smooth, deep and right by his ear.
‘All colours will agree in the dark, sir, according to Francis Bacon.’
‘Damn you, Bellamy.’
‘The gods have seen fit to do that already, else I would not be here.’
‘You should not have taken quite so readily to the bottle.’
‘A weakness of mine, I grant you. That and the fair sex though what I am tempted by is not normally termed fair. Not that is, like the lady you desire.’
To Markham, the man was an enigma. But then he was that to himself as well. Born a slave, he had benefited from a benign employer, who’d educated him. That had acted as both a curse and blessing. It elevated Bellamy above the herd, while condemning him to double the quantity of abuse meted out to men of his colour. The death of his mentor had left him penniless and in Chatham. Drink from a recruiting sergeant had ensured that he woke up one morning as a marine.
Yet still he retained that infuriating self-assurance. Even here, in the dark, encroaching forest, he managed to make his superior feel second rate. Markham knew his Shakespeare, and could hold his own with that. But Bellamy was likely to quote Latin poets in their own vernacular, never mind English men of letters.
‘Keep your mind on staying alive. And use what god gave you to stay hidden. If any of those sentinels look like coming anywhere near us I want to know.’
‘This is not how I had planned to spend the night.’
‘That’s the trouble with soldiering, Bellamy. You never get left in peace.’
‘According to Renate, it is the same for servants.’
Markham was surprised by the undisguised tone of bitterness in the Negro’s voice. When talking about any subject, Bellamy rarely allowed himself anything other than a tone of amused detachment. Perhaps Ghislane Moulins’ maid had touched a deeper chord.
Together they crawled to a point from which Bellamy could observe the road, his black face invisible in greenery made dark by moonlight. Moving back into the thicket, Markham tripped over an outstretched foot, falling forward on his hands. The apology was soft and female, his response forgiving, and Aramon’s interjection, from no more than a foot away, gruff and unfriendly.
‘I think it would be best for all the males to stay on the exterior of this thicket. I have already sent your black man out, who I may say, is paying far too much attention to Renate.’
He didn’t bother to tell the cleric that he had nothing to worry about. Let him fret. ‘You don’t see this injunction as applying to you, Monsignor.’
‘I am a priest.’
‘Sure, where I come from, that’s good ground for a chastity belt and a double lock on the cabinet with the drink in.’
The slight female snigger, hastily suppressed, was worth the growl that such a remark produced from the target of the abuse. Markham reached out a speculative hand, finding an arm, which produced what he sought. The squeeze was as exciting as his first stolen kiss and he lifted Ghislane’s hand to his lips, pressing his lips to the back.
‘But I think you’re right, Monsignor. I will sleep outside.’
Markham didn’t go on to say that if he stayed in here, he’d likely get no sleep at all.
He chose the pre-dawn to show himself, that time when objects are still indistinct. It is light, but the sun has not yet risen. The figure might still have failed to draw an eye. But the way Markham staggered was enough, though it wasn’t the man closest who spotted him, but another, more alert Frenchman further up the track. That meant no shot from his musket, since with a comrade between him and the target the risk of hitting his own was too great. And as soon as the shout alerted the rest he was gone, stumbling into the thick undergrowth pursued by the thud of ten pairs of boots.
They stopped before plunging after him; a momentary pause while the risk was assessed. Common sense dictated that they split up, with a few continuing the pursuit while the rest stayed on the road. But he was one, seemingly unarmed man, quite possibly wounded, against ten fit muskets. Added to that every man would want any reward that might be going for his actual capture. If they wondered how a single human could leave such a wide trail it didn’t surface. Perhaps they were just grateful their progress was so effortless. That is, until they reached the edge of the thicket which had sheltered part of Markham’s party the night before.
The French soldier in charge shouted for silence, his head spinning right and left to pick up some trace of their quarry’s movements. The loud rustling to their right took every eye, and saw each weapon trained in that direction, so that the men who emerged behind them had a slight period of grace in which to take their designated opponent.
For Rannoch it was clinical; a bayonet on the end of his land pattern musket, plus the extent of his arm, scything into his target right under the heart at a distance of six feet from his own body. Others were less sure of their skill, and sought closer contact. Halsey, Gibbons and Ettrick scored cleanly. Quinlan missed the vital spot and had to grapple with his opponent, who fought for nearly half a minute despite what the blade had done to his
insides. Germain slashed with his cutlass, nearly decapitating his man, and such was his desire to kill that he kept on slashing long after it served any other purpose than to ruin the victim’s uniform.
Leech and Tully had to wrestle with enemies who were still in a fit state to kill their attacker, the shouts and grunts of all four echoing through the woods. Leech earned a deep gash in his cheek before he overcame his man. Yelland, the youngest Lobster in the unit, used his musket as a club, then skewered the kneeling figure through the neck.
Dornan was slow, as usual, and though he stabbed his man, he failed to follow it through with sufficient venom, and so had to use his weight and strength to subdue his opponent, dropping his musket in the process and finishing the man off by strangulation. Bellamy was nowhere to be seen, leaving one Frenchman to turn and run. Markham and de Puy, who’d sealed off the rear to ensure no one escaped, took care of him. The two officers walked up the line of bodies to check that each man was dead, stopping by Germain, who had his back to the thicket.
‘Let’s have their uniforms off,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Rannoch, get out on that road and find where they had their camp.’
Rannoch looked at Markham, who nodded that he should obey. ‘I still have reservations about the uniforms, sir.’
‘It is my decision, Markham. If it offends you, go with your sergeant.’
To be so publicly rebuked was galling. Germain, it seemed, couldn’t make up his mind. He wanted to assert his authority, but only when it was not the time to make any real decisions.
‘Fit to be a general,’ said Rannoch, softly, clear evidence that he at least understood what was going on.
As they made their way back to the road, they passed Bellamy. There was perspiration on his face, but no blood on his bayonet. The huge dark eyes, made even more prominent by the enormous whites, declined to meet those of Rannoch, but fixed on Markham’s. Then they shifted to gaze on the bodies of the French soldiers.
‘On horror’s head horrors accumulate.’
‘What did he say?’ asked Rannoch, as they emerged onto the road, now lit by the sun reflecting off the higher trees.
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