Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  ‘It’s a quote from Shakespeare.’

  ‘Then it is as Dutch to me,’ growled Rannoch, as he set off up the road. ‘Thank God I have not got his cleverness, for it is of no use to him at all in a fight.’

  Passing what remained of the used torches, they found the camp that had been set up the day before, the embers of the fire used to cook still burning. The deep ruts of the coach that had stood on the road were still evident, the bones and bottles around where it had stood an indication that this had probably accommodated the officers. Markham looked up the road, wondering where it had been blocked to stop any traffic coming from the interior. If it were in Grasse itself, they would be all right, since they would turn off the road well before that at the village of Mouans Sartoux. But if they’d barred it before that point they might well walk straight into a fight.

  Looking back he saw his own party emerging from the woods. What he observed made him frown, even if his Lobsters, in bloodstained coats, looked better than the others. Ghislane Moulins’ dress was in the same state as that of her maid Renate, torn and streaked with filth. Aramon and his servants were little better, the mud that had dried on their dark clothing showing up as pale streaks.

  Why did they not change? What was the point in bringing those three square cases if they were not going to use the contents. In all they looked forlorn. Which, much as he hated to admit it, might just be what was required if Germain’s plan was to be put into operation. Then it struck him, as he recalled the ease with which Aramon’s servants had handled those boxes. It was so obvious he’d been a fool not to see it. They were empty, designed to carry something out, not to take clothes in.

  ‘I will leave you to organise your men, Markham,’ Germain called, holding out a coat that, unlike the others was free from blood or any sign of a gash. ‘Might I suggest you wear this.’

  ‘Certainly, sir. But if we encounter a superior enemy, I will be obliged to rip it off.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He turned abruptly to Rannoch. ‘Tell the rest of the men to have their red coats to hand. We’ll put Yelland on point, and ensure he rounds each bend well head of us. If there are any more piquets barring the road, I’ll dump this coat. The men can escort me to them, as though I’m the fellow they’re looking for.’

  ‘Another surprise?’

  ‘Captain Germain’s idea.’

  ‘You do not consider we have been lucky thus far?’

  ‘Yes, we have.’

  ‘But that does not persuade you to insist we turn back?’

  Markham looked Rannoch straight in the eye. ‘God knows I’ve tried. But if you wish to approach Captain Germain and repeat what I have said, I will not stand in your way.’

  The Scotsman was silent for a bit, looking up the road, then at the green-capped mountains that straddled their route. Markham wondered if Rannoch believed him, and was pleased to find out that he did.

  ‘It would do no good. I have never been one for the notion of desertion. And if I was, the middle of enemy territory would be no place to do it.’

  ‘I think it’s the only option he would give you. That or, when you got back, a flogging round the fleet.’

  ‘I suppose you are right, him being in dire need of a bit of glory.’

  Markham suspected there was a barb aimed at him in that remark. But he didn’t respond, because if there was, and he checked Rannoch, he’d only get what was innuendo in plain unadulterated English. That attitude, of careful insubordination, was one of the reasons he appreciated the Highlander. It meant there was someone alongside him who would not indulge in blind obedience; who forced him to think, to look at his actions objectively. In over ten years of fighting George Markham had learned that doubt was a good thing. He’d seen many too many officers, and the men they led, perish for their certainties.

  ‘Let’s get them formed up, Sergeant. The quicker we get to this damned church, and load up what Aramon’s after, the quicker we can think about getting back to the ship.’

  ‘Amen to that!’ Rannoch replied, with feeling.

  They marched as they had when they came ashore, so that anyone coming across them by accident, or observing them from a higher part of the road, would see them as prisoners escorted by a file of troops. And Markham set a cracking pace, hoping that the less fit could keep up, constantly consulting de Puy’s map, searching for the point at which they could leave the road. Up ahead the two highest peaks never seemed to get any nearer, the only indication of progress the greater definition of the high valley though which the road inland must run. It was a country of brooding dark greens all the way up the summits, oppressive in itself, made more so by the increasing heat.

  The sound of a single horseman, cantering, was audible before Yelland signalled. Markham waved for him to withdraw into the woods, and hustled his own party to do likewise, and there they stood as the rider went by, glancing neither right nor left. Markham, in the brief time he had, noted that the man was well mounted and equipped, in sharp contrast to his foot-slogging brethren.

  As soon as he was out of sight they regained the road. Markham allowed no time for discussion, even ignoring Germain. That rider might be on a duty that would take him all the way to the coast. But that was doubtful. More likely he had either orders for the men they’d killed, or required a report. He might find their bodies, and he might not. But the chances were he’d be back up the route in less than an hour, to tell his commanding officer what he’d seen.

  On each side, the forest began to thin, until it was gone completely, cut back to allow for cultivated, steep fields. There was the odd clump of woodland, but basically they were moving out of cover, and approaching the point where the hills peaked on a heavily wooded ridge before dropping in to the next valley. They crossed a tiny wooden bridge over a stream, and, despite the risk from that solitary horseman, he called a brief halt so that everyone could take a cooling drink.

  ‘If we stay on the road we are exposed,’ he explained to Germain. ‘If we want to remain completely hidden we’ll have to retrace our steps and take a longer route through the forest.’

  ‘We don’t have the luxury of time, Markham.’

  ‘We don’t have the strength to take on a superior force, sir, and might I remind you we are deep in enemy territory. Logic demands that we avoid contact for that reason alone. We have no idea how long it will be before that cavalryman we observed returns.’

  Germain raised his voice, his tone deliberately commanding, aware that Aramon and de Puy were approaching, their chins still wet from the water they’d consumed.

  ‘Nor can we be sure he will. We must get to our destination today if we are to have any chance of success.’

  Markham knew success meant different things to all present. For him, despite any temptation in the financial line, it had become paramount to get his men safely back to the ship. Aramon and de Puy, he surmised, would consider the recovery of the Avignon treasure as success. But Germain would only be happy when it was safe in his cabin, under lock and key, while he wrote the despatch that told how he’d achieved it.

  ‘Yelland’s coming,’ said Halsey, softly.

  The youngster jogged up, trailing his musket, as usual whistling tunelessly. He reported to Markham, which produced a frown on Germain’s face.

  ‘I went on a few hundred yards before I spotted you’d stopped, sir.’

  ‘And?’ asked Markham wearily. Yelland was never very exact in his reports. Distance, in this case, since it could be vital, needed to be accurate. But he would not rebuke him in front of the others.

  ‘There are some buildings up ahead, with a square church spire in the middle.’

  ‘That is Mouans Sartoux’ said de Puy.

  ‘There’s a roadblock at the edge, and a whole heap of wagons and folks behind it.’

  ‘How large is the piquet?’

  ‘Two soldiers, that I could see.’

  Germain obviously expected Markham to react immediately, to produce the right solut
ion without thinking. His marine officer refused to oblige him. Instead he remained still, looking at the ground, thinking.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘We have a problem, sir.’

  ‘We have several, Markham, not least the fact, which I have already had occasion to point out to you, that we have scant time for rumination.’

  ‘We can assume that there are more than two men on that roadblock ahead of us. What we don’t know is how many. Nor do we know where they are billeted.’

  ‘If we take the two?’

  ‘The others will surely appear when we do,’ said de Puy. ‘A file of soldiers marching on them is bound to bring them out.’

  ‘Yes. And it was my intention to leave you here and go on as the sole prisoner, in a repeat of the charade I played at dawn.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘Quite possibly we can overwhelm them, Monsignor. But what then?’

  ‘Then I fail to see what the problem is.’

  It was de Puy who spoke. ‘I think the good lieutenant is wondering what will happen, regardless of the risk from that horseman, when all those people held up in Mouans Sartoux spill down the road towards the coast.’

  ‘That’s right, monsieur. What will they say, the officers of that army, when they hear that one body of their own troops attacked another. And can we do it without any of them finding out that we are not French at all?’

  ‘You think they will send men to investigate?’ asked Germain.

  ‘I would. Informed that the enemy had a force operating at my rear, I’d detach a couple of regiments to find and neutralise them. At the very least, I’d alert every officer in the area to their presence. That will make it impossible to get back aboard Syilphide.’

  ‘So?’

  Markham was studying the map again, his finger tracing the route to Notre Dame de Vacluse. ‘How much open country is there around the village, Yelland.’

  ‘Plenty your honour. Forest thins out about a mile from the edge. And the its all fields of corn an’ that sort of thing.’

  ‘Then that’s our route. We have to make our way across those fields and onto the ridge well to the west of Mouans Sartoux.’

  ‘They will see us.’

  ‘Yes,’ Markham replied. ‘But they won’t know who were are. And I am hoping that being ordered to keep the road closed, they will stay with their duty and take no steps to investigate.’

  Chapter twelve

  It was impossible not to look over their shoulder as they traversed the slope. The cultivation had a feudal appearance, individual strips planted with whatever crop the owner or tenant thought most profitable. Occasionally tall stalks of maize hid them. But when they emerged into plain view again, head and shoulders above the rows of grape-filled vines, or trudging though a strip of purple lavender, every eye was drawn to look at the roadblock outside the village. They knew that they too were under examination. There were a dozen soldiers at the roadblock now, and some had been seen pointing. But none had come in pursuit. Markham had been right. They were not going to disobey their orders. It was therefore just bad luck that the man who’d issued them arrived before the party made it back into the woods.

  Not that they knew he was there to start with. It was the firing of a musket that alerted them. That and the sight of the horseman galloping up the road. They looked to the roadblock for a reaction, only to observe that there were many more troopers on duty now than had been there previously. There was also a certain amount of commotion. Markham, with the aid of his field telescope could just make the figure out in the throng, a small officer gesticulating wildly.

  The reaction was immediate. Half of the French soldiers, some fifty men, even before the mounted man reported, set off in pursuit. A smaller party was sent down the route from which they’d come. No doubt a messenger was already on his way, calling for reinforcements from the main body further up the Grasse road.

  ‘Captain Germain, I suggest that once we are out of sight again, Monsignor Aramon takes the ladies and his servants away in a line that keeps them hidden.’

  ‘And you?’ demanded Aramon, giving Germain no chance to reply.

  ‘We will try to draw the enemy after us. As soon as get we back in to wooded country we will try to lose them and meet you at Vacluse.’

  ‘No. We must stay together.’

  ‘I don’t think we are going to have much choice,’ said Rannoch.

  He was pointing up towards the top of the hill, to the bushes where the open field finished. A unit of cavalry, a dozen in number, had emerged from the woods some five hundred yards ahead of them, the very forest in which Markham had planned to find sanctuary. He looked first at the next patch of maize. He could reach that and take some form of cover in it. But height would give a horse soldier a great advantage in that. Then he examined the rows of thick, heavily laden vines, set to follow the contours of the slope in a way that maximised the sunlight, with a crop on them nearly ready to be picked. The cavalry could not come right at them through those without losing momentum. But given time they could deploy between them, which would give them a clear field in which to charge. It would also present his Lobsters, well trained in musketry, a lane down which to fire at an individual horseman.

  Yet they must be confused, unaware that the troops in front of them were not friendly. That wouldn’t last long. Even a dimwit, to Markham the natural state of most cavalry officers, would see that they were being pursued, and would react accordingly, at the very least moving to apprehend them. Yet the worst option of all was that they should stay still, and bar access to the safety of the forest.

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch.’

  ‘Sir,’ he replied punctiliously, standing as he was next to Captain Germain.

  ‘Let’s get out of these damned coats. I would want the enemy to know exactly who it is they are faced with. And let’s have a bit of confusion until they are closer.’

  ‘That will only bring them down on us,’ said Germain.

  ‘Which is precisely my intention, sir.’

  ‘We would do best to avoid them.’

  ‘That is impossible. They are mounted and we are not.’

  The reaction to the sight of a dozen red coats was immediate. The horses, no doubt because of the excitement of their riders, began to prance in circles, and had to be hauled back into line. Then they began to move downhill, trampling whatever crops stood in their way, easy at a walk, less so at high speed. Markham had his eyes on the mounts, trying to assess their condition.

  Were they light horse or heavy? Had they been out on patrol for a long time, or were they sleek and fresh? He wanted the latter, since a tired horse was more biddable to its rider than a fresh, oat-fed mount. Being Irish, he’d grown up with the beasts, and had often hunted, or raced them at the local steeplechases. In Russia, he had served alongside Don Cossacks and learned a great deal more about equine lore. Ponies were better in rough country, horses less so. They might not be bright, but they were very selfish. Not many of the creatures, even trained, would plunge at high speed through vegetation. They’d either try to circumvent it, or jump it.

  ‘Monsieur de Puy. Would you take care of the rest of the party?’

  The Frenchman looked surprised, but to Markham it was just a way of saving them all from a repeat of the Monsignor’s previous insistence that de Puy must be kept safe.

  ‘I would suggest that you make you way into the next patch of maize and continue to ascend towards the woods. You should be able to make it even if we are in difficulties. I would ask you to provide fire if we are withdrawing towards you.’

  ‘And if not?’

  ‘If my men can’t hold them there is little point in useless sacrifice. So I would suggest that you show no arms that will bring retribution down on your head. The decision as to what to do next, is one that can only be taken when the circumstances are better known.’

  Ghislane Moulins was right behind him, and she met Markham’s eyes. Seeing a hint of angry frustration, he favoured her with hi
s most reassuring smile. The Frenchman saw both the smile and, after a swift glance, the look. To Markham’s way of thinking, neither did much to please him. He excelled himself with the level of gloom he displayed. Ghislane meanwhile had turned her gaze onto Bellamy, at the same time laying a hand on Renate’s wrist, to mouth bon chance.

  Markham didn’t quite know why that annoyed him, but it did. It wasn’t competition, since Bellamy was clearly smitten with Renate. Probably it was just the Negro, who had honed annoying people to a fine art.

  ‘If everything works out, Mademoiselle, we might even salvage you a horse to ride, which will at least relieve you of the need to walk.’

  That got him her full attention again. ‘I think we need you, monsieur, more than I need a horse.’

  ‘Ghislane!’ snapped Aramon, who was already chivvying his servants to get them started. ‘You are too free with your sentiments!’

  ‘Sure, a pretty woman could never be that.’

  Markham grinned so widely that Aramon came near to bursting a blood vessel, then turned to issue orders to his Lobsters. To aim for the men, where possible, not the animals, and if chance presented itself to take the bridle of any horse that was loose. The distance was closing, only four hundred yards now. But Markham was delighted to observe that the French commander was moving crab wise, not straight towards them, an indication that he intended to attack down the vine rows.

  ‘Infantry against cavalry, Lieutenant,’ said de Puy, behind his back. ‘In what is almost open country that is not wise.’

  ‘I confess to some ignorance,’ added Germain, ‘but I think the Comte correct.’

  Three hundred and fifty yards now, still well beyond musket range. And what would the Frenchmen see, a group of redcoats not yet prepared to receive their charge.

  ‘The way he is deploying is in exactly the fashion I wish,’ Markham replied, with a confidence that was part contrived. ‘And you have yet to see my men fire their muskets in a disciplined way, gentlemen. Besides, there is no choice. I must draw them away from the woods or no one will have a chance to get clear.’