Honour Be Damned

by Donachie, David

  What surprised Markham was the way Bonaparte reacted. He should have tried to look unconcerned, as should his aides. But for him to actually laugh was play-acting of a different order. And Junot and Marmont produced genuine smiles.

  ‘So he did tell you my plans?’

  ‘Every last detail,’ Markham lied.

  ‘What a pity they are now of no use to anyone?’

  ‘I admire a man who can bluff, General Bonaparte.’

  The little Corsican reached inside his black coat, and pulled out a heavy packet of letters. ‘You speak good French. How do you read it?’

  ‘Passably well.’

  Bonaparte shuffled through the pack, finally choosing one and offering it, his voice casual and conversational.

  ‘This is the order from Paris, signed by Lazare Carnot, calling off the proposed attack on Italy. This one, also from him, is an instruction for me to proceed to join the Army of the West under General Hoche. He is controlling operations in the Vendee around Nantes.’

  ‘Then you are headed the wrong way, General,’ said Markham, taking the letters. He was genuinely stumped by the easy manner of their delivery and the allusion to the route was clutching at straws.

  ‘I shall go via Marseilles to visit my family, then proceed to Paris. There I will take hold of Carnot’s nose and twist it for daring to suggest that I serve under a peasant like Hoche.’

  Both his aides laughed in a rather sycophantic way, at what was clearly a joke they’d heard before.

  ‘I am not without powerful friends in Paris, Markham.’

  The object of that remark didn’t care what he had in Paris. He was reading the first letter, which was a copy of an order sent to the Commanding General in the South, Sherér. And it said exactly what Bonaparte had claimed. That the invasion was to be abandoned, and the army to march back to Marseilles to be available for other duties.

  ‘We shall invade Italy one day,’ said Bonaparte, his tone bombastic. ‘And that is an assault I will lead personally. Then we will not have any of the palpitations that have afflicted that old fool Sherér.’

  He couldn’t have contrived this, and no amount of wishful thinking on Markham’s part could make it so. These letters were official, of that he was certain, just as their meeting on this road was coincidence. Not even the most fertile brain could conjure this one up.

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch?’

  ‘Sir,’ he replied punctiliously, in a voice designed to impress these Frenchie officers.

  ‘Is there any luggage on the coach.’

  ‘Plenty, sir. I would say all the kit these three officers need for a long journey.’

  ‘A copy of the plans Fouquert stole are in my writing chest. You can take them if you want. Examine them and you will learn something about higher command, strategy and the movement of large bodies of troops. They are subtle but very, very clever.’

  The voice changed to become hard again. ‘Carnot is a fool. We could have had Turin like that!’ He clicked his fingers loudly. ‘Instead of that he wants me to go and do battle with a load of ignorant peasants in a stinking Loire bog.’

  ‘What nonsense,’ said Junot and Marmont in unison.

  ‘And what of you, Lieutenant Markham. I doubt you can just walk through the Gorge de Vesbule. But if you stick to the high ground you should be safe. There are no longer any troops on the heights at all.’

  ‘Then the Piedmontese will walk through and attack.’

  Bonaparte spoke slowly for once, as if Markham was too dim to perceive the obvious. ‘Not with the Army of Savoy to the North. They risk being outflanked. And they are not very good soldiers, you know.’

  ‘And if I invite you and your aides to accompany me?’

  ‘That would be foolish. Right now, no one will stand in your way. Take us and the country will be up in arms. You cannot just make us disappear. But maybe I can do you that favour. Yes, under certain conditions I can see myself letting you go on your road, without hindrance.’

  ‘And what would those conditions be?’

  The flippant tone vanished. ‘Give me Fouquert.’

  ‘Clever, General, You will take from me the only insurance I have, the man who knows your plans.’

  Bonaparte smiled, a thin humourless affair that was not funny. ‘But you said he had told them to you. Why do you need him?’

  A clever man had trapped him. And he held in his hand letters that told him Fouquert had become superfluous. ‘You said you had a copy in your writing case?’

  ‘I do. Junot will fetch it for you.’

  Markham nodded and called out to his men to let Junot proceed. It must have been handy, since he didn’t even climb into the coach to get it. He just reached in and pulled it out. The case was made of fine polished oak, inlaid with the initial ‘B’. Junot held it and Bonaparte opened it, extracting a thick sheaf of parchment tied at the right edge with red ribbon.

  Markham took it, called Quinlan and Ettrick back to guard duty, then went back to the coach. Fouquert was lying flat out across one of the padded seats, alternately cursing and moaning, but definitely conscious. Aramon was on the other seat looking at him with disgust.

  ‘Please help me, Monsignor. I want him upright.’

  The wounded man cried out as they lifted him, somewhat over enthusiastically, to Markham. He would milk his pain, that was for sure.

  ‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked.

  Fouquert peered at the sheets, with Markham flicking them so that he could read them. ‘You have to tell me if these are the real plans for the Invasion of Italy. If they are, I can shoot those three officers and we can take written proof with us to the Piedmontese.’

  Would he have got away with it if Fouquert had not been wounded. It sounded very flimsy to him. But the man had stiffened perceptibly at the notion of shooting Bonaparte, so Markham added the coup de grace.

  ‘I’ll even let you kill him.’

  ‘That’s them,’ Fouquert gasped. ‘The original of those I stole. Where’s that shit Bonaparte.’

  ‘Outside, awaiting his fate.’

  ‘Give me a knife and tie his hands and feet.’

  ‘You are wounded.’

  ‘I will manage,’ Fouquert spat. ‘I shall cut off his Corsican cock first.’

  ‘Lieutenant!’ said Aramon, alarmed.

  Markham pushed Fouquert hard, so that he flew backwards, and landed painfully. Then he stood up and leapt down to the ground, to rejoin the three French officers.

  ‘Why do you want him?’

  ‘He has to answer, in France, for more than theft.’

  ‘And I doubt he’s alone.’ Markham replied, looking Bonaparte right in the eye. ‘That is not enough.’

  ‘Junot, Marmont, a moment if you please.’ The two aides moved away, and Bonaparte dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I would not have them know that danger threatens. I have friends in Paris, I told you.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘No man at a time like this is without enemies. Carnot hates me, and he is a power in the land. Let me have Fouquert as a gift to my friends and I will have many, many more.’

  ‘And I get a safe conduct in return.’

  ‘I don’t recall mentioning a safe conduct.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it is what I want. And if I don’t get one, I will take you and Fouquert to Italy, and shoot you both as soon as danger threatens on the way.’

  At the back of his mind, Markham was examining what he was doing. The notion of handing a man over to certain death was unpleasant, until you accounted for the fact that it was Fouquert. He had killed thousands and would have chopped up every one of Markham’s Lobsters for sheer pleasure. What he would do to him didn’t bear too close examination. And by the sacrifice of that scum he could save not only his men, but the Monsignor’s party as well. It made no difference what de Puy and Ghislane had done. He had to save their lives if he could. The Revolution was well practised at eating its own. One day it would probably eat Bonaparte.

  ‘Very
well. It is a bargain. Give me my writing case.’

  Markham was so tempted to say ‘get the damn thing yourself’. But this was no time for nit picking. ‘I want one more favour.’

  ‘What!’

  ‘There is a wounded naval officer at the church of Notre Dame de Vacluse. He took a bullet in his shoulder from one of your infantrymen.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He will, according to the last report I had, be too ill to move. I would like you to arrange for his safe passage to a point from which an exchange of prisoner cartel has been arranged.’

  ‘Is he a gallant officer?’

  ‘None more so,’ replied Markham, truthfully, for if Germain lacked brains he didn’t lack élan. If anything he had too much of that commodity for his own good.

  ‘Then it will be an honour.’

  The parting from Fouquert was noisy and unpleasant. But even if his conscience was pricked there was a feeling of cleanliness about getting away from him. The man contaminated everything he touched with his methods. Markham had never met anyone truly evil until he came across Fouquert. And Bonaparte eased matters by avoiding being vindictive. He obviously hated the ex-Representative as much as anyone. But he insisted in a solicitous voice that he must make himself comfortable and continue to occupy the whole of one seat.

  ‘Never mind that we three are squeezed together, Fouquert. You are wounded, and I am looking forward to delivering you to Citizen Barras whole and ready for whatever pleasure he has in store.’

  ‘May God damn you, Markham,’ he shouted, the curse losing a great deal of force by his being in a prone position.

  ‘What you have done is a sin, my son,’ said Aramon, gravely.

  ‘Don’t call me your son, Monsignor. And just ask yourself whose neck you’d rather have on the chopping block, yours or his. Sergeant Rannoch, call in the piquets and see what we’ve got. Then prepare to move out on our original line of march.’

  ‘I request a small deviation, Lieutenant,’ said Aramon.

  ‘To where?

  Aramon looked at de Puy and Ghislane. The gap between them was more spiritual that physical, but it was there nevertheless, a coldness that was almost palpable.

  ‘You told him about the well house.’

  ‘No,’ said Aramon. ‘He asked and she gave him a truthful answer.’

  ‘Would she have done that I wonder, if I hadn’t smoked out what they were up to.’

  ‘We will never know, Lieutenant.’

  ‘Who do you think initiated this?’

  ‘Only God will know for sure. Both were tempted, and that is a ghost that lies within us all, very close to the surface.’

  ‘This detout …’

  ‘Is to a hamlet called Coursegoules.’

  ‘And why should I go there?’

  ‘It will take you to your black marine.’

  Who had it been outside his berth the night Germain came to see him? Clearly it hadn’t been Aramon. That feeling he had the night before, with Halsey, of someone close. Was that Renate, Bellamy or both?

  ‘What will happen to Ghislane?’

  ‘I will take her back to Rome with me. She is a beautiful creature. She will not starve.’

  ‘A beautiful creature who craves freedom.’

  ‘Those godless heathens in Paris craved that, and look where it got them.’

  Ghislane made a point of edging her mount close to him, in an attempt to engage him in conversation. He was stiff at first, but Markham couldn’t sustain it. He understood too much about the need to escape from bonds past and present, and he flattered himself that the girl had gone further than she need to in the well house because of their mutual attraction.

  She told him her version; that de Puy, first smitten by her, had been angry at Aramon’s bargain. The Comte had suggested that they seek an opportunity to steal the treasure as a way of paying the Monsignor back. He wasn’t sure he believed a word of it, but that made no difference. Where would the world be without the odd accomplished deceiver?

  Ghislane didn’t help her cause by allowing de Puy no good qualities, which made him wonder what would have happened once they had their loot and were clear of danger. If she had any regard for him it was now well submerged, while he was subject to subtle doses of flattery designed to make him feel very superior indeed.

  Then the questioning started; about his background; London, Ireland, his relatives and his prospects. ‘A soldier’s life must be exciting.’

  ‘It’s not, girl. It is boring and badly paid.’

  ‘I cannot go back to Rome,’ she cried softly and plaintively, ‘back to that life.’

  ‘What choice do you have?’

  ‘If you tell the Monsignor that you wish to take me with you. I’m sure he’ll agree.’

  ‘He won’t.’

  ‘Then don’t ask him,’ she hissed, excitedly.

  George Markham was thinking it was a good idea he was marching and she was riding. If they had been closer, and especially if they been naked in a bed, he knew he would probably have succumbed. Even now, he was thinking of the nights he could spend with her before they parted company, a lubricious waking dream that was beginning to make marching awkward. He didn’t know how to deny her, but he knew he must. His life was complex enough without further encumbrances. So he just burst out laughing, and felt truly rotten when she reacted angrily, and pulled the horse away.

  ‘God in heaven, Georgie,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘She’s not smitten with you after all.’

  They had to wait outside the hamlet of Coursegoules, till a retiring column of artillery passed through. De Puy was close to Markham now, as gloomy as ever, looking down into the valley that contained the nest of buildings. The ground in between was wooded, with small, colourful, cultivated fields. Some were purple with lavender, others yellow and pink, full of the herbs that had once been used to make perfumed gloves for the high social classes.

  De Puy was one of that class. They hadn’t exchanged a word since he’d accused him, and that depressed Markham. He was never one to cast stones, and if de Puy had been tempted and fallen, as far as Ghislane Moulins was concerned he probably wouldn’t be the last. What was he thinking now? Of her, or the treasure that he had so nearly got away with?

  ‘Why here?’ asked Markham.

  ‘My family owned the land round Coursegoules, until we were proscribed as émigrés. There is also a small inn at the crossroads that was a tenant’s.’

  ‘You may get it back.’

  ‘It has been passed to the people who use to work it on our behalf. It will take a miracle to get it back. You would not know this perhaps, since you can hardly be expected to care. But they asked the late King’s brother, the Comte d’Artois, to recognise the rights of the people to elect a parliament on the English model. He demanded all that his brother owned be returned to him as the rightful King of France. He took the best chance we have of peace and threw it back in their faces. Now it will be war till we are all exhausted. And at the end, whoever wins, it will mean poverty for the likes of me.’

  Perhaps Ghislane had been telling the truth after all, thought Markham.

  ‘Will Bellamy be looking out for us.’

  ‘Possibly not yet.’

  ‘Sergeant Rannoch. You and I will enter the village alone.’

  ‘But what of me?’ said Aramon.

  ‘Unless you think me also a thief you must stay here.’ Rannoch had come alongside, and Markham and he discussed the route, using trees, dead ground and an embankment to get in without being observed. ‘Make sure your musket is loaded, Rannoch. There might be French soldiers still down there, and if our man tries to run I want him brought down.’

  ‘That’s Bellamy.’

  ‘I know,’ Markham responded, sadly. ‘But I have to take him in if I find him, you know that.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rannoch replied, in a rare show of brevity.

  They moved as fast as prudence allowed, knowing that if the Negro was watching for them with anyth
ing bordering on efficiency, he could not fail to spot their red coats against the mainly lush green background. They reached the first building, a dilapidated barn, and used that to get them as close to the crossroad as possible. Then, taking a tight grip on his weapon, Markham stepped out, the tip of Rannoch’s musket following him.

  If the enemy was around, this was the moment of maximum danger; a loose shot fired off in fear before he could show them Bonaparte’s laissier passer. There was not a soul in sight in the noonday heat, not even a dog, just some geese by a half-filled pond. Rannoch joined him when he signalled and together they walked down the road into Coursegoules. The houses were shuttered and silent, but there would be people watching, the locals, too afraid to come out and investigate.

  ‘Is that the Inn?’ said Rannoch.

  He was pointing to a run-down place by the pond. The only sign that it might be so was the bench outside where weary travellers could, no doubt, remove their boots. They made their way to the door, and ducking under the low lintel, they entered a smoke-blackened room that was suffused with the smell of delicious food.

  The woman that came out of the back was small and had once been a beauty. But hard toil and sun had turned her skin loose and leathery. She wiped her hands on her apron, and asked, in very heavy accent, what they required.

  ‘Have you food there for eighteen?

  ‘There can be, if I am given a half hour.’

  ‘Who is going to pay for it?’ asked Rannoch, when Markham told him they were up for a good meal.

  ‘That bloody priest can.’

  This was delivered while still smiling at the lady, and he enquired politely if she had other guests. She shook her head, but the rubbing of her hands on her apron denoted a degree of anxiety. Markham came straight out and asked her if she’d seen two Negroes.

  What followed was a long voluble explanation, which Rannoch couldn’t follow, and Markham struggled to. Cut down to the bone, it meant they had stopped here, but only to eat and write two letters. They left her money, and instructions to pass the letters on to a very beautiful lady, and a tall man that she might recognise as the Comte de Puy. Markham was informed that she would not know the Comte from Adam, and that he was not welcome here in any case, what with him probably wanting back his land and property.