Honour Redeemed (36 page)

Markham was out beside Paoli now, secure that the
positions had been reversed. The locals weren’t armed, but they were so numerous, and had such a look of determination on their faces, that the besiegers had become the besieged. Fouquert made to mount, and
Lanester
grabbed his bridle, in an angry gesture. The flash of steel was too quick for any but the most practised eye, but the look of horror on Lanester’s face was proof enough, compounded by the way he fell to his knees.

‘This man has only one reward for failure,’ said Paoli softly.

‘What do we do now?’ asked Markham, indicating the trapped enemy. Fouquert was now mounted, and so were the rest of the cavalry, milling around as if trying to decide which way to go.

‘The people are unarmed. If they try to do anything dozens of them will die. Let them go.’

‘No, uncle!’ cried Magdalena, who’d come to join them.

‘One shot from us will precipitate a massacre. Every Frenchman and Buonapartist would need to die before it ended. Regardless of how much we help, it would not be us who paid that price, but the people of Aleria.’

‘Tell them to surrender.’

‘Look into that man’s eyes, Magdalena,’ Paoli said, pointing at Fouquert, ‘and tell me he will surrender without blood.’

Rannoch’s voice came from behind. ‘I have a musket on him.’

It was as if Fouquert heard, since every carbine the cavalry had suddenly came out to be aimed at the church steps. Paoli waved, then called for the crowds to part. Fouquert smiled, took one last look at Lanester, crouched over holding his belly. Then he looked at Markham, and the smile disappeared, to be replaced with a look of
malevolent
hate, before hauling on his reins to turn his horse away.

‘Lieutenant,’ Paoli said as the crowd surged forward,
‘it would be a Christian thing to do, if we could seek to save Major Lanester.’

The local doctor took one look at Lanester’s slit belly and shook his head. Paoli had been with him all the time, ignoring the crowds in the square, holding the major’s hand and talking to him. Suddenly, whatever the dying man said made the general sit up, and he gestured to Markham.

‘Sir.’

‘Major Lanester. Would you repeat to Lieutenant Markham what you have just told me?’

There was no faking wounds now. The face had lost all of its shape, seeming flabby. Lanester was bleeding to death, and he knew it.

‘The landing at Bastia happened today,’ he gasped. ‘Nelson will already have tried to get ashore. He’s
probably
dead by now. You’re too late.’

Markham grinned, which took some effort. ‘I don’t know whether to admire you, Lanester, or damn you for the endemic liar that you are.’

‘I’m telling you the truth, Markham.’

‘Why start now?’ It took a great effort for Lanester to curse, but he managed it. ‘If I’m given the choice of two potential lies about the date of Nelson’s landing, I’ll take the first one.’

‘Your funeral.’

‘No, Major, yours.’ He saw the flash of fear in the man’s eyes, and wondered if Paoli or the doctor had told him how close he was to death. ‘I’m not much for faith, but it’s a bad idea to meet your maker with a lie on your lips.’

‘I told that stupid swine Fouquert. We didn’t have to kill anyone, or even take Paoli. All we had to do was keep you bottled up for a day or two.’

‘Why was he so insistent?’ asked Paoli.

‘You don’t understand how badly they want you in France, General.’

‘I think I do, Lanester.’

‘And then there was you, Markham. He wanted to kill you so much he could hardly sleep. And having spared you twice, once at Cardo and once at that damned
monastery
, he hardly spent a minute without that knife in his hand, and your skin in his mind.’

‘Buttafuco?’

‘The French asked for terms. Fouquert set it up. He arranged the meeting.’

‘Who arranged that I should see it?’

Lanester shook his head, though whether in pain or refusal, Markham couldn’t tell. Instead he looked at Paoli.

‘We must get to Cardo.’

The old general nodded. But he refused to move until Lanester expired. Markham saw a tear leave his eye as the man who’d betrayed him slipped away.

The fishing boat stank, not just of its function, but also because it was crowded with non-sailors, most of whom were violently sick on what was nothing more than a gentle swell. The attempt to look brave, by flying the black and white flag again, instead made them look slightly ridiculous on such a vessel, a fact of which only Markham seemed aware. Even he felt queasy, though whether that was to do with the jerking motion of the small vessel or the all-pervading odours, he couldn’t tell. All he did know was that he reeked personally of them all, and that had him offering a silent prayer that, when he went aboard one of His Majesty’s ships, that would not provide another stick to beat him with.

So when they spotted
Hebe,
some ten miles south of Bastia, his heart sank. Any hope that he might slip by and get through to another ship, was dashed when she put up her helm to come and investigate. A fishing boat would have been ignored normally, but one flying the
Moor’s-head
device deserved an interrogation. Naturally, when they were hove to with the frigate alongside, it was he who had to go first up the side.

‘Clap that cowardly bastard in irons,’ yelled de Lisle from behind a row of officers – a place, Markham thought of some safety.

‘Best hose him down first,’ said Bowen, the premier, who hated Markham almost as much as the captain did. ‘Sod stinks.’

‘That’s his normal smell, sir,’ added Fellows, another lieutenant, ‘only you’re too much of a gent to pick it up.’

‘Are you quite finished?’ said Markham.

‘Damn you, sir, it is you that is finished!’

Markham smiled. ‘You will forgive me smiling,
gentlemen
, but the thought of you all on half pay amuses me.’

That got their attention, being, as it was, a constant source of worry. ‘We have coming aboard General
Pasquale
Paoli, whom I’m sure you will wish to greet in the appropriate manner.’

‘What nonsense is this?’

‘If you choose to insult the Corsican flag, and anger Admiral Hood in the process, I cannot stop you.’

Paoli, probably through impatience, started to come aboard, climbing from the fishing vessel onto the frigate’s deck. If anything, given that he was dressed in
better-quality
clothes, he looked even more disreputable than Markham. He certainly smelt the same. But he did have such natural dignity that he was able to force de Lisle to drop his stare. Then the purser stepped forward to whisper in the captain’s ear, which made his tiny black eyes bulge.

‘I wonder if you could indulge me, Captain, with a change of clothing and the means to wash? I must join my army, and it would not do to arrive smelling like a long dead tunny.’

De Lisle’s mouth moved, but nothing emerged.

‘Sir, is Captain Nelson off Bastia?’

The chance to bark at Markham restored his voice. ‘He is. And so should you be if you were not a coward.’

‘Please do not call this man a coward, I beg you. I have rarely come across such courage and sagacity in one breast.’

Jaws dropped then, but Midshipman Bernard was smiling broadly.

‘I won’t say you had me in a stew, Markham,’ said Nelson. ‘But I was concerned, especially with de Lisle and Colonel Hanger after your blood.’

‘I’m surprised he’s not aboard
Agamemnon,
sir.’

That merited a raised eyebrow, as Nelson looked up and down an officer now returned to his proper
red-coated
estate. ‘He won’t come aboard unless specifically requested. Prefers to sling his hammock in one of the transports, anything rather than sup with the likes of me.’

‘You don’t sound too sorry, sir.’

‘Can’t say I am, Markham,’ Nelson replied, giving his guest an arch look, ‘though his wife would certainly grace our table.’

‘His wife!’

The door opened after a perfunctory knock, and Allen, Nelson’s servant, appeared. ‘Colonel’s boat has put off, sir.’

‘Right. Best rout out the old General.’

Hanger stopped dead when he saw Markham, while his wife blushed to the roots of her hair. Pure mischief on Nelson’s part, of course, evident from his expression – fish-faced was the best way to describe it. By the time the colonel was introduced to Paoli and Magdalena he’d recovered some of his sangfroid.

‘You know the lieutenant, of course, don’t you? Markham, do the honours with the wine, will you.’

He felt like a bird watched by a cat, as he took a glass of wine to Lizzie Gordon. Two cats, since Magdalena Calheri was quick to pick up the undertones. Nelson was enjoying himself, only Pasquale Paoli seeming to be in any way relaxed. Hanger could ease a bit as they discussed the forthcoming landing, but Lizzie was left out of that, to be entertained by Markham and Nelson’s officers. They tried to engage Magdalena’s attention too, and got short shrift. By the time they sat down to eat, it was like a Hanoverian family royal dinner, icy in the level of mutual loathing.

‘I must land when you land, Colonel. To make my presence felt too early would undermine the Army commanders.’

‘Feeble,’ thought Markham, giving Magdalena a smile,
pleased to see, when that lady responded, a slight upsurge in attention from Lizzie Gordon.

‘I would also like Lieutenant Markharn as my escort.’

‘I think he would be better placed serving with his fellow marines,’ growled Hanger. Then he barked at the subject of the request, ‘Don’t you think, Markham?’

Paoli cut Markham off just as he was about to reply, giving him cause to curse his openness on the fishing boat. But then, everybody was open with this old man.

‘It would grieve me to insist.’

‘Have him, sir.’

‘And his men, of course.’

Hanger nodded sharply, then he stared at the tablecloth, as though he wanted to say something other than what emerged.

‘You’ll have to forgive me, Nelson. I must have found the trip over upsetting. I can’t do justice to your food and I must, in any case, return to my work.’ He stood up, throwing his napkin down with some force. ‘I’ll leave you to see the general here ashore, shall I?’

‘If you wish.’

‘Right. Come along, my dear.’

Lizzie Gordon rose slowly, in a way that clearly
infuriated
her spouse. ‘Thank you, Captain Nelson.’

‘Pleasure, ma’am.’ A round of curtsies and bows
followed
, then they were gone, leaving a deep silence, until Nelson filled it. ‘Exemplary manners, Colonel Hanger, don’t you reckon?’

Markham could not understand Paoli. Why march into the camp at Cardo flying his flag, so that those who were betraying his cause would know of his arrival? All the senior officers assembled to greet him as he made his way down the cheering ranks of the army. If any of them were nervous, it didn’t show. Not one of his generals did anything else but meet Paoli’s eye squarely; Markham was greeted stiffly but with punctilious correctness. Nor did
they demur when he suggested an attack against the redoubts to back up the British landing. Arena, tall and sallow, tipped his pock-marked head in agreement. Grimaldi agreed enthusiastically, and Buttafuco gave one of his habitual glares.

‘I have one more request to make, gentlemen?’

‘Name it,’ said Arena.

Paoli pointed to Markham. ‘This officer has done Corsica such signal service, that I would wish him to escort our standard forward tomorrow at dawn.’

‘A foreigner?’ demanded Buttafuco.

‘Yes.’

‘What service has he done to deserve this?’ asked Grimaldi.

‘He unearthed several plots against us, hatched by a villain called Fouquert, and another officer you
entertained
at this very table, Major Lanester.’

‘What!’ said Grimaldi.

‘Impossible!’ said Buttafuco.

Arena stood in stupefied disbelief.

‘All the plots have failed, the tendrils are known. Let us then lay them to rest.’ Paoli raised his wine glass. ‘To the morrow.’

Markham went searching for Magdalena, and found her in the company of two officers, both short,
dark-skinned
men with black hair. His cheerful greeting to her was met with deep frowns and hard, exchanged glances.

‘Lieutenant Markham. My brothers, Alfredo and Guilio.’

He bowed, a gesture which was not returned. In fact they began to talk to their sister in such a way that their bodies cut him out. But they conversed with her in French, telling her in no uncertain terms what they would do to any one who trifled with her affections. Markham took the hint, and left.

The following morning saw them up before dawn, the
redcoats given pride of place, not on the right of the line, but in the centre. Bellamy again held the flag, surrounded by the rest of the men, listening to the cheers as Pasquale Paoli rode along the line. Out in the bay the bombardment had started, great clouds of smoke rising to obscure the topsails and battle flags of Nelson’s squadron. Markham could imagine the boats already in the water, surrounded as he had been at Fornali with shot and shell. What they were about to do carried as many risks, but with earth under his feet rather than water, he was a happier man.

‘Rannoch?’

‘Sir?’

‘What happened to change everyone’s attitude to
Bellamy
?’

‘I do not rightly know,’ Rannoch replied guardedly.

Markham knew he could press, knew it wasn’t personal. ‘Tell me. Now!’

There was hesitation, but not much. ‘That night we made camp outside Aleria.’

‘Yes,’ Markham replied. He had a vision of Magdalena, her back against a tree, her legs wrapped round his waist.

‘Well none of us parley the language, so getting to know the ladies was hampered.’

‘And he helped.’

‘He lacks charm in the English, sir. But he must have it in the French.’

‘Lieutenant,’ said Paoli, hauling his mount’s head round to face the enemy. ‘Please lead us forward.’

‘Mr Bellamy,’ called Markham. The Negro responded to the courtesy with a huge grin. ‘At your pleasure.’

The drums beat as the Corsican army fidgeted behind them. Immediately there was movement on the walls of the redoubts. Bugles blew, and flags began to shoot up and down the staffs. Bellamy, in the middle of the Lobsters, waved the device of the Moor back and forth. Paoli, from atop his horse, signalled a general advance, which brought
forth a great cheer as the troops surged forward at a slow walk.

The French might be surprised to be attacked, but they were not going to give up easily. What cannon they had spoke as soon as the Corsican line moved, spewing forth round shot that scythed into the massed ranks of infantry. With only six hundred yards to cover the enemy had no time for another such salvo, and turned to case shot, the shells bursting above and behind the Corsican flag. Markham saw the staff cant over, and Bellamy staggered as he rushed forward to aid him. The Negro wasn’t wounded, just thrown off his stride by a ball hitting the standard. Bellamy marched on, and it was only then that Markham realised he had his eyes closed tight, and was mouthing a desperate prayer.

Soon the Lobsters found themselves enveloped in the smoke from the guns. The line behind them was now ragged and torn, but if he had ever doubted the quality of the Corsican peasant soldiery, it was laid to rest now. They marched on, taking anything the enemy could throw at them with admirable steadfastness, closing the gap on the redoubts to the point where they could begin to break into a run. The redcoats signalled that, clearly visible even in the murk. And the standard of their race, the Moor’s head, which tipped forward as Bellamy kept pace, raising a huge and terrifying cheer that must have chilled the blood of the defenders.

There was a trench line in front of the redoubts, full of Frenchmen, all with their muskets aimed along the wooden parapet. But they must have known that the force coming at them was irresistible, since the volley that could have decimated their attackers was ill-disciplined, and immediately followed by an attempt to withdraw.
Suddenly
the Lobsters were amongst them, Markham slashing right and left at the enemy, Rannoch yelling his heathen Highland cry as he jabbed forward with his bayonet.

But that was as nothing to the savagery of the Corsicans.
This was war as they understood it, close-quarter stuff where a knife was the equal of any other weapon. The French infantry tried to fight them with bayonets, but against their quicksilver reactions seemed to lose every time. And there was no quarter once they were through the enemy’s guard, the depth of hate these people felt for their oppressors in every knife that cut, sliced and skewered.

Markham was on the glacis now, hard-packed earth set at an angle to deflect shot, scrabbling like his men to make some way up the slope. Again the Corsicans proved themselves, as they raced barefoot up the ground like mountain goats, even managing to keep their footing when engaging the defenders. The Lobsters might have been left at the bottom if it had not been for the flag. But the men of the island wanted that with them, and the redcoats found themselves pushed and dragged until they were on the ramparts.

Men were fighting in and around the wooden embrasures, some tumbling back down the slope as a Frenchman, more secure behind his palisade, took
advantage
of his bayonet’s length. This was familiar territory to Markham and, shouting at the top of his voice, he managed to get enough of his Lobsters together to form a cohesive group around the flag. Discipline, rather than Corsican brio, was needed now, and as he called out the orders he was proud to see how his men ignored whatever was going on around them to obey.

‘Present!’ The muskets levelled, all aimed at a trio of embrasures manned by knots of Frenchmen getting in each other’s way. ‘Fire!’

The Lobsters were charging as soon as the balls flew, bayonets extended to take in the smoke an enemy that had survived their fusillade. Markham led them, jumping onto the palisade and waving for his men to follow. This they did willingly, fanning out on the other side to clear defenders right and left from the walkway. It was nip and
tuck to begin with, the weight of the enemy greater than the force they could bring to bear. But fighting the Lobsters left them open to the knives and bayonets of the Corsicans, and behind the first line that the marines were fighting Frenchmen were dying.