Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  The figure in the tattered, bottle-green coat, edging across in the direction of the tethered horse bemused him. But that evaporated quickly enough when the man, alerted by a jerky glance from Renate, spun round. Markham found himself staring down the twin barrels of a pistol. The way both jaws dropped, as Ghislane later told him, was like a scene from a Moliere farce. But it wasn’t funny, it was deadly serious.

  ‘Please do not attempt to raise that pistol, Markham.’

  ‘You know each other?’ demanded Aramon.

  ‘It is my misfortune,’ Markham replied.

  ‘Doubly so, Markham, since I can shoot you with one barrel and still have a ball left to threaten these people.’

  ‘But can you shoot me as well?’ De Puy’s voice was hard to place, coming out of the surrounding trees. ‘I think, since I have a musket trained on your left eye, that will be difficult.’

  The distraction allowed Markham to raise his pistol, and he began to move forward. But he was slow compared to Aramon. The Monsignor leapt forward and swung a fist. If Markham had thought him all flab and piety he was disabused of that notion now. The bunched knuckles took the fellow right on the side of the head with a blow that would have felled an ox.

  Ghislane put her hands to her mouth in fright. De Puy stepped out from the trees, pistol in hand. Markham moved forward and looked down into the cruel, thin face.

  ‘Something tells me this is the man these soldiers where searching for.’

  ‘Who is he?’ demanded Aramon, his fist still bunched, as though he intended to fetch the comatose figure another blow.

  ‘You are fond of the expression, Monsignor, the spawn of the devil. This is the real thing, not part of your imaginings.’

  The man on the ground stirred, feebly trying to raise himself onto his knees. Markham had to resist the temptation to kick the arms away.

  ‘Allow me to introduce to you the Representative on Mission for Provence, from the Committee of Public Safety. This piece of slime is Monsieur Pierre Michel Fouquert.’

  Chapter thirteen

  ‘The best thing we can do is just turn him over to the French. They will no doubt mete out to him the same bloody punishment he’s seen fit to visit on other people. And I for one, can think of no single person who deserves it more.’

  ‘That will not stop them chasing us,’ said Aramon.

  ‘Nothing will stop that now, Monsignor. They know we are here and they are aware we are British. In fact the best thing we could do, to save our skins, is to think about how quickly, and by what route, we can get out of here.’

  ‘But we are much closer to Notre Dame de Vacluse than we are to the coast.’

  ‘The sea represents safety,’ Markham replied automatically, not wishing to elaborate on the difficulties of now getting there. ‘Somehow I doubt that could be said of your treasure.’

  ‘That is only true if you continue to escort us.’

  A perfect solution, thought Markham, giving Aramon the briefest of smiles. Having got you this far, we can draw away your enemy and leave you free to recover what you seek.

  But he didn’t articulate those thoughts. Instead he looked over at Germain, propped against a tree, his face ashen, and his arm in a sling. The ball that had hit him was still lodged in his back, it being too deep to remove without proper surgeon’s probes. Nor did they have any means of cleaning the wound. There was the danger of gangrene from the cloth of his coat and shirt that had been carried into the deep hole the musket ball had created.

  ‘Would they have any medical skills around this Notre Dame de Vacluse?’

  It was de Puy who answered. ‘There are monks there, and they are of a medicant order.’

  Fouquert was by the next tree, with one of the servants holding a pistol at his head. He had to make a decision and it had to be done quickly. The captain could be moved, especially with the aid of a horse. But to where? Marines indicated a ship, so the French would be expecting them to make a dash for the shore. The best way to fool them was to go inland.

  ‘Bellamy, tell Sergeant Rannoch to fall back as quietly as possible to here. Monsieur Le Comte, if you could help me get Captain Germain on to a horse I would be grateful.’

  ‘What is your plan?’ demanded Aramon, loudly.

  Aware of Fouquert’s proximity and what he intended to do, he moved over to the cleric and spoke quietly. ‘We go on, Monsignor.’

  ‘Is that occasioned by greed, Lieutenant?’

  ‘No, by necessity. And please keep your voice down. I do it because the captain needs help. It is the last thing the French will expect.’

  ‘They will be very close on our heels.’

  ‘I intend to distract them.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘By leaving, for them to find, the man for whom they were originally searching. I will tie Fouquert to a tree and bid him a heartfelt adieu, the only pity being that I will not be present to see him expire on the guillotine.’

  ‘Markham.’

  He turned to look at Fouquert, who had pulled himself upright and was leaning back against the trunk of the tree. The face was drawn and haggard, but it still had the look of deep cruelty that he remembered so well. If anything the wear on the features enhanced that. The slightly hooked nose seemed sharper, the face thinner and the black eyes more prominent. And then there was the humourless smile, there even now, that hinted at the man’s innate feeling of superiority.

  ‘I need to speak with you.’

  ‘The only word I want to say to you, Fouquert, is goodbye.’

  ‘That will change.’

  ‘I can’t see how.’

  Rannoch had come into the clearing; although obviously forewarned by Bellamy he still registered a degree of shock at seeing Fouquert. The Frenchman’s eyes wandered to him, and he smiled. Rannoch, in a gesture that was uncharacteristic for him, slowly spat.

  ‘I have something valuable,’ Fouquert whined, in a desperate tone. ‘Something that will force you to reconsider leaving me to my former comrades.’

  ‘How do you know I intend to leave you to them?’

  ‘It is, for you and your men, the sensible thing to do. And you lack the courage to take hold of the pistol this fellow is holding and kill me by your own hand.’

  ‘I was not aware that kind of killing took courage.’

  Germain was mounted, and so were Ghislane and Aramon. That was wrong, he’d intended the horse for Renate, with a deep and abiding wish that the pompous cleric should walk. Fouquert had distracted him. The rest of his lobsters were lined up just on the edge of the clearing, still facing the unseen enemy. Unseen but surely approaching. It was time to go; he had no margin to trade words with his capture.

  ‘You must listen.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then go, and pass up the best chance you have ever had for honour and glory.’

  ‘I think I know how much you care for my honour.’

  ‘Come here!’

  The jerk of the head was insolent, like an irate father demanding the presence of a naughty child. But the act didn’t anger Markham, it intrigued him. Fouquert was far from being a fool. He knew how to manipulate people, and that was not the act of a man who had no cards to play.

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch, start to move out as quietly as possible.’ When the Highlander was passing him, he whispered so that Fouquert wouldn’t hear. ‘Go north till you are out of sight of this clearing, then we will be heading due east for a while before turning north again. Ask Captain Germain to read his compass for you.’

  ‘Inland?’

  ‘Yes.’ Then he walked over and stood in front of Fouquert, indicating to Aramon’s servant that he should rejoin his master. ‘Now, what is it you have to tell me?’

  Fouquert produced that superior smile again, which made Markham snap. ‘You have five seconds before I leave this clearing. So if you have something to tell me, do it now!’

  ‘I have the plans for the invasion of Italy.’

  ‘What!’

 
‘Every detail. Which units and what strength, lines of march, which are feints and which are real.’

  ‘What’s to stop me just taking them off you?’

  ‘You can take a list of the units to be deployed. But that won’t help you much. The rest of the plans are in my head, with the paperwork giving the details burnt to a cinder. Perhaps you would like to do the same as my former comrades, and remove it.’

  There was no time to think. He had to act working on instinct. Fouquert might be bluffing. But Markham, as he ripped at the knots that bound him, knew what he was capable of when it came to treachery. He would listen, then decide. And if that meant throwing this bastard to the wolves on his tail, so be it. He pulled Fouquert’s own double-barrelled pistol from his belt.

  ‘Don’t even think of trying to run, because I’ll put both of these balls through your knees. You don’t need feet on the guillotine.’

  The shove in the back sent the Frenchman staggering forward. Markham, running behind him, had to resist the temptation to pose questions now. That would have to wait. Paramount was the need to get clear of Junot, and to do that without running smack into the rest of his regiment. They reached the point where Rannoch had turned, leaving Quinlan and Ettrick in wait for him.

  ‘Jesus,’ said Quinlan, as the pair appeared, ‘he’s brought that ball of shite along. I though he was set to leave the bastard for the Crapauds to find.’

  ‘Never know what old Poke em’ll do next, mate,’ hissed Ettrick, without warmth.

  A slightly raised eyebrow was all the two of them would show when Markham got close. To these ex-members of the 65th Foot, a right pair of thieving London villains, their officer was a bit of a queer fish. He could fight and swear with the best of them, and was a dab hand in the caring line. A rich man would have been better, of course, or even better a proper well-connected nob. But if they couldn’t have that he, being as how he had clay feet, would do.

  Markham had recently fallen slightly from grace. They knew his reputation with the ladies, and had placed bets as soon as Ghislane Moulins had come aboard Syilphide. They’d wagered that old ‘Poke ’em’ would be inside her shift within three days. It did nothing for his standing when the money was lost.

  ‘Give me your coat Fouquert,’ Markham snapped, putting the pistol back in his belt.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Don’t argue, just do it.’ When the Frenchman obliged, he ordered Ettrick and Quinlan to take him on and join Sergeant Rannoch. ‘I won’t be far behind.’

  The two men jabbed Fouquert with the tips of their bayonets, clearly relishing the look of fear this produced.

  ‘Don’t you be trying fuck all, mate,’ growled Quinlan. ‘Like making like to run off, or your arse will join up with that slit in your face you call a mouth.’

  Markham ordered them to move, then continued straight on for fifty yards. He knew that what he was doing would probably achieve little. But Fouquert’s bottle-green coat was one of his trademarks. And the men who’d been chasing him before they came on the scene must have been told to look out for that. To snag it on a tree where they could see it might not delay them for very long. But it might just persuade Junot to divide his forces, giving him the notion that both the chases were within catching distance. Besides, even a couple of minutes in which he stopped to decide would be helpful.

  Very faintly, he could hear the French as he ran back to the point at which Rannoch had turned due east. They were moving cautiously, as befitted a unit whose men had already fallen in too great numbers to British muskets.

  As he jogged along he thought of the fluke that had brought him face to face again with Fouquert. It seemed as though they were bound by some umbilical cord, and could not be kept apart even in the midst of this war. If it was fortune that brought them together it was not the sort that Markham wanted to foster. God only knew how he’d got here, but judging by the state of his coat and his face he’d had a rough time. They’d had him on the other side of the Grasse road, and Markham had seen someone cross that. Perhaps he’d doubled back in the hours of darkness, timing the moves of the soldiers to slip though. If he had, and thrown off the pursuit in the process, then he’d done them a favour as well. Perhaps Fouquert possessed skills with which Markham would never have credited him.

  The forest was thinner here on the ridge, but still thick enough to hide a redcoat at fifty paces. That was reassuring to Markham as he caught up with the rear of the party. Dornan was sweeping with large leafy branches to obscure any evidence of the horses’ hooves. It was a sound idea given that the minutes counted, and that as long as the French had no idea of their destination, they’d be forced to cast around a great deal rather just follow a simple trail.

  Luck might bring them to a spoor, but in such a dense and large area that was unlikely. Noise was the greatest problem, that and birds like wood pigeons suddenly vacating a nearby tree. But Rannoch had set a slow pace to avoid that, and was calling listening halts to make sure the enemy wasn’t close. This gave the forest wildlife plenty of time to get out of the path, or to hide themselves from this alien intrusion. Markham, aware that his sergeant knew what he was about, was happy to leave him to it.

  These were obviously things that Rannoch had learned soldiering in North America, to be added to standard drills like the Lobsters falling back in two mutually supporting groups. Markham ached to know what service he’d seen, and most particularly how he had earned that branded M on his thumb. He was also curious to know why the Colonel of the 65th Foot had transferred to naval service someone so competent. Himself he knew about. He was an embarrassment that had come back to haunt them, forced to exercise his dormant commission because it was the only thing of any value he possessed.

  But Rannoch was the best NCO Markham had ever come across. He cared for his men and was respected, and his ability with a musket alone made him invaluable. What had he done to so enrage the man who commanded the regiment to get himself sent aboard a ship as a temporary marine? Was it just his hatred of officers, or had something happened that could not be dealt with by a court? Would he, with such a tight-lipped man as Rannoch, ever find out?

  He had to stop speculating. There were more important matters to attend to. Quinlan and Ettrick had kept Fouquert away from the main body, nudging him along just in front of the sweeping Dornan, but behind each section making up a rearguard. Coming abreast and producing his pistol again, he ordered the pair to drop away, then, once they were out of earshot, began to question his man.

  Fouquert was eager to talk. But he wanted to start at the beginning, to tell his tale of woe; of how the swine in Paris had betrayed the cause, and had undone all the work of patriots such as himself. In his entire story, he was upright and others corrupt, he shrewd, they stupid. Impatient as he was Markham let him burble on, aware that even shrewd creatures like Fouquert can often reveal too much when left to talk. A lot of what he said sounded like maudlin rubbish. There was even a catch in his voice when he mentioned the death of Robespierre, but Markham guessed it to be contrived. A man like this would weep only for his own misfortunes, not those of others, how ever far they’d fallen.

  ‘I was proscribed eventually. My loyalty to the Jacobin cause was too obvious to conceal.’

  Markham reckoned that to be rubbish too. Whoever had power now didn’t trust Fouquert, which showed a great deal of sense on their part. The man, as company, would embarrass a venomous snake.

  ‘Fortunately, there were a few trusty friends still left. I was warned in good time that the canaille were on their way to arrest me. And from my previous position, I still had access to army headquarters. While they ate their dinner, I had a chance to browbeat the guards.’

  ‘And once inside, you stole the plans for the invasion of Italy.’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘Which means, Fouquert, they will now change them. They are therefore useless.’

  ‘They might tinker with them, Markham. But it’s too late to overhaul the entire plan, not with t
he regiments already marching into their positions. To try and change things now would cause chaos. What kind of army are you talking about? Eager, certainly, but the level of training is low. And this is not some open battlefield where a single messenger can change the entire direction of an army. Here, the mountains, and the routes through them, dictate everything.’

  There was a parrot-fashion quality to what he was saying, as though he’d heard the words from other lips. That didn’t diminish the veracity of what he was explaining, since to Markham it made perfect sense. He’d had experience of this sort of fighting in the Caucasus. Everyone from Hannibal onwards had faced that same problem on this border. There were only so many routes into Italy, and once you’d committed troops to a certain avenue of attack, to call them back would only presage failure. But it was the next word Fouquert said which clinched things.

  ‘If it merely takes a change of plan, why do you think they are searching so hard to find me.’

  The place was crawling with troops. Why would they mount such an effort to find Fouquert if he didn’t have something valuable in his possession? As an escaped Jacobin, close to Robespierre, they might want him. But not to the extent of deploying, a few days before a major battle, what looked like a whole regiment to flush him out.

  ‘What do you intend to do with them?’

  Fouquert gave Markham a look then, one that almost screamed that he must be a fool. ‘I took them in order to pass them over to your allies, the Piedmontese.’

  Markham, having listened to his sentimental litany about the Revolution, allied to paeans to the purity of French peasants and their inalienable rights, responded with deep irony.

  ‘You must be very proud of your loyalty to the French cause.’

  ‘My cause is the Revolution. Whatever it needs to bring those swine in Paris down must be done. Barras, Carnot, the Abbe Sieyès, they have betrayed everything. And it’s not just the Girondists and émigrés who have flocked back to share power. There are men here in the south, who were once proud to call themselves Jacobins. Now they skulk about and suck up to the new masters, begging for a crumb. They should also face the blade.’