Honour Redeemed (19 page)

‘This must be yours,’ said a voice at his side. Markham turned slowly, just enough to see the braided tricorne hat above the indistinct face behind the outstretched arm holding his sword. And, of course, the officer was smiling. ‘Please be so good, Lieutenant, as to pass me your pistol.’

They were marched into the chapel, Lanester at the head, hands behind their backs, and once the men had unbuckled their packs, the whole party was led to the small space behind the altar. Their possessions, weapons, cartouches and bayonets included, were put in a cell at the far end of the chapel, as far away from the prisoners as possible. The cavalry officer who had effected their capture was a dragoon, who introduced himself as Captain Duchesne, then asked them to remove their red uniform coats.

‘Do you intend to rob us as well?’ asked Lanester.

His colonial twang more evident than usual, which Markham assumed was caused by anger. The captain couldn’t understand him whatever accent, obliging the major to translate his own question into very passable French.

‘No monsieur. But I think even a private soldier would resent being searched.’

Lanester turned round, speaking quickly, his voice more normal. ‘Right, coats off, and if you’re asked, we are on our way to make a private visit to an old friend of mine.’

Markham had to admire that. Lanester had shown great awareness in first establishing his freedom to speak, then said everything necessary in very few words.

‘What have you told them?’ Duchesne demanded, removing his hat. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a bland sort of face and very little chin.

‘That you are a regular officer, who can be counted on
to treat them well.’ Behind Lanester, men were disrobing. ‘I also asked them to take off their coats.’

‘Good,’ Duchesne replied, gesturing to a pair of his own troopers to collect the garments.

Markham had counted thirty men in all, most now outside tethering the horses in lines. Yet more were fetching the hay with which to feed them, so only six remained inside. The two collecting the coats had left their weapons against the wall, well out of reach. And they were in the midst of the captives. He knew Rannoch was tensed up and ready, as aware as he was that if there was going to be a time to overpower them, this might be the best opportunity.

Yet Markham had to shake his head. There were four carbines trained on them, while the officer still had the captured sword in his hand. And after the first yell the rest of the dragoons would come rushing in. It was gratifying to see that as Rannoch relaxed, so did most of his Hebes, who’d been as alert as their superiors to the possibilities.

The coats were searched in front of the men who owned them, while behind them a steady stream of soldiers, now freed from other duties, brought in the articles which had been on the backs of the mules and Lanester’s horse: packs containing the officers’ clothes, the cases of wine, Pavin’s copper pots and pans, as well as the satchel of ingredients he used to spice his various dishes. These were all taken to the same cell that held their weapons, and Duchesne followed them in to oversee the search. The only thing he emerged with was Lanester’s despatch case, which, when he opened it, yielded nothing but the maps they’d used on the journey, the major’s writing materials and a set of seals.

‘Put this with the other things,’ the captain said. He opened his mouth to add something more, but the sound of hooves cantering into the clearing stopped him.

Duchesne wasn’t alarmed, which could only mean that
the horsemen were expected. The dragoon captain turned to face the door, which darkened slightly as a shadow filled it. The newcomer’s boots rang on the stone floor as he appeared, gazing round the chapel in an imperious way. If the sound of arriving horses had depressed Markham, that was as nothing to the sight of the bottle-green civilian coat, the tricolour sash around the thin waist, and the dark-skinned, hook-nosed face.

‘Monsieur Fouquert,’ cried Duchesne, ‘look what I managed to pick up on the way here!’

There wasn’t much light in the chapel. But Markham, every nerve on edge, was sure he saw the facial muscles twitch alarmingly. Fouquert wasn’t looking at him, indeed he didn’t seem to be looking anywhere in particular. The voice, when he spoke, had a hint of strain in it, which Markham put down to the fact that this emissary of the notorious Committee of Public Safety couldn’t quite believe his luck.

‘Well, Captain, this is a surprise.’

‘All theirs, I do assure you, sir. The men who led us to this rendezvous have uncommon hearing, as well as a nose …’

Duchesne was about to go on, when Fouquert cut across him. ‘Let them wonder, Captain. To tell them they could not have avoided their fate would only lift their spirits.’

Markham was sure the dragoon was confused. He wasn’t. Fouquert was telling him, in as polite a way as he could muster, to shut up. Something soft was said as the civilian walked past the soldier, too quiet for anyone but the pair of them to hear. And all the while Fouquert’s eyes were on him, black, glinting and full of hate.

‘Lieutenant Markham. I have prayed that one day I should meet you again.’

The eyes swept along behind him, flicking slightly as he recognised a face from the last meeting in Toulon. Markham spat softly, trying to generate an air of bravado
he certainly didn’t feel. The Frenchman smiled, and once again Markham was struck by the way such a facial gesture chilled rather than cheered. It was like Fouquert’s laugh, cold and humourless, inclined to acknowledge someone’s pain.

‘Insult me at your will. There was a time you did it before. I seem to recall, then, I said I would make you beg.’

‘I hope you remember my reply to that.’

‘Oh! yes. I wonder if you will, when I get round to you.’ Fouquert span away, and barked at the dragoon captain, ‘Duchesne, a word in private.’

He was halfway to one of the cells before Duchesne responded, the look on his face one of shock at being addressed like a common soldier. Fouquert shut the door behind them, slowly.

‘Who in God’s name is that?’ asked Lanester.

Markham told him. How they’d met, what he’d seen Fouquert do, and the way they’d parted company. ‘He was in that copse as well, talking to Buttafuco.’

‘Which you forgot to mention.’

‘I didn’t forget,’ Markham replied. ‘It just made no difference to say so.’

‘Are we in more trouble because of him?’

‘I am!’

‘I kinda guessed that, son.’

‘He might take it out on my Hebes as well. If you could save them, I’d be grateful.’

‘I don’t see much chance of getting out of here.’

‘If I try to kill him, or to get him to despatch me quickly, make sure no one interferes.’

The major opened his mouth, no doubt to proffer the ritual reassurances, none of which would do any good. But the door to the cell opened and Duchesne came out. His face was flushed, like a man who’d been made angry, though no sound of any dispute had come through the thin wooden door. He marched straight over to Lanester.

‘Major, as the senior officer I have to ask you a few questions.’

‘Of course,’ Lanester replied guardedly.

‘If you would not mind joining me and my colleague.’ He turned to one of the men guarding them, and pointed to the pile of red coats. ‘Please find the major’s garment, and his despatch case. The rest can go in the cell with the weapons.’

Finding the coat wasn’t hard, it being the only one with blue facings. Duchesne took it and passed it on. ‘It is better for your dignity that you wear this.’

‘Thank you,’ Lanester said, beginning to put it on. ‘My lieutenant tells me that the other gentleman has some strange ideas regarding the asking of questions.’

‘He may well have, Major,’ the Frenchman barked. ‘But you are a military prisoner, not a civilian one.’

‘Well, that is a relief.’ Lanester followed these words with a bow, and an invitation to lead the way. Duchesne demurred, giving way to him, and as he followed, he growled to his men. ‘Search them, every one, including the officer.’

As soon as the door closed behind him two of the guards started to move into a group of men buzzing with alarm. Rannoch was tensed and ready again, just like Markham, waiting for a chance to grab for a weapon. But the corporal in charge was too shrewd to be caught out. He called his men back, ordered them to find some rope, then told them to drag the prisoners out one at a time from the front. Their hands were tied so that they could be searched without difficulty.

Each man was then returned, once he was finished, round the other side of the altar. Markham was one of the last, his breeches’ pockets producing very little in the way of possessions. He refrained from looking as the others were taken, but he heard the soft sighs of anguish, knowing what Fouquert had guessed, that there would be concealed knives, and various other articles that could be
used as weapons. Quinlan’s picks went in a stream of curses that earned him a clip round the ear. The only consolation was that, either through ingrained deference or forgetfulness, Markham’s hands remained free.

‘What now?’ said Rannoch.

‘Wait for Lanester,’ Markham replied, biting his lip. ‘There’s nothing more we can do right now.’

The Hebes listened hard, unable to believe that someone of Fouquert’s stamp could be dissuaded from using torture. But they heard nothing, though the wait was a long one. Finally Lanester emerged, with Duchesne and Fouquert behind him, and the blank look on his red, healthy face testified to his wellbeing.

‘Your coat, Major,’ said Fouquert.

Lanester took it off and threw it at the civilian’s feet with a defiant gesture. Fouquert stepped forward to strike him, but Duchesne intervened, which earned him a glare. That was followed by a quiet demand, which had the dragoon officer violently shaking his head.

‘What did they want?’ whispered Markham.

‘Who we are, where we’re going. Over and over again. The soldier was satisfied the first time I answered. That bastard who hates you so went on and on.’

‘Look at them now.’

The two Frenchmen were arguing, with Fouquert engaged in much pointing. Their voices, quiet at first, began to rise until first the guards, and then the whole chapel, could hear them.

‘
Non!
’

The French cavalry commander’s tone had grown increasingly harsh to match Fouquert’s, neither seemingly prepared to give way. The subject, in such a confined space, was clear to anyone with a knowledge of French. Fouquert was demanding that Lanester be tied up. But he also wanted Markham, and a quiet room, to himself. The captain of dragoons would have none of it.

‘He is no Corsican peasant. He’s an officer and a prisoner, monsieur.’

‘Citizen is what you call me, Captain Duchesne, not monsieur.’

Duchesne waved a hand in an airy way, as if what Fouquert had just said was true, but too bothersome to contend with. Having removed his cloak while interrogating Lanester, he’d revealed his uniform, and with it, some trace of the basis of his attitude. Well cut in a period way, and discreetly trimmed with braid, it was the standard wear of a Bourbon cavalry officer, dark blue with green facings, adapted to look like a National Guard coat. While the French troops in the island might be loyal to their masters in Paris, they’d been on service here for many years. They adhered to cut and cloth, as well as traditions, that had died out in the mainland army.

‘Nor, sir,’ the captain continued, his tone extremely haughty, ‘will I consent to him being tied up like some common criminal. He is, like Major Lanester, an officer of an opposing force. And as such he will be treated with all the courtesy to which he is entitled by his rank. In fact, as I would wish to be treated myself, should I be unfortunate enough to be taken prisoner.’

‘Your orders are to assist me in my mission.’

‘Which I will do. But I will not go beyond that.’

‘Do you know who I am?’ Fouquert demanded, his black eyes blazing with anger.

‘I could hardly not, since you boast of it so often, monsieur. But I would remind you where we are.’ This was followed by another wave, more elaborate this time, that even in the confines of the small monastery seemed to take in the whole island of Corsica. ‘We are on active duty, and that means I have the command.’

‘You won’t have it for long, Duchesne,’ Fouquert spat. ‘Indeed, if I were you, with that aristocratic tone, I’d be concerned about keeping my head on my shoulders.’

The captain replied to such an open threat with
complete disdain, almost suppressing a yawn in his indifference. ‘When we have completed our mission, and returned to Bastia, you may take up your dissatisfaction with General Lacombe.’

‘I have a power that exceeds even that of the general.’

‘Not here!’ Duchesne said sharply.

‘I represent the Committee of Public Safety,’ Fouquert insisted quietly, his eyes ranging over the old-fashioned uniform coat in a very threatening way. ‘The supreme body of the nation. And the Committee represents the Revolution. To disagree with such an august body is tantamount to suicide.’

‘I would not claim to represent anything, sir,’ Duchesne replied, turning and heading towards the knot of prisoners grouped behind the tiny altar. ‘Except, of course, a tradition of proper military honour.’

Markham had been quietly translating this for the benefit of the men nearest him, all sitting with their hands tied. Rannoch was closest. The Highlander was listening, but also looking at Fouquert, his pale blue eyes almost opaque with the murderous thoughts that filled his mind. Lanester sat with his back to the wall, staring at the rough beamed ceiling of the small chapel.

Markham, as he translated, was running his eyes along the half-dozen monk’s cells, desperately seeking a means of escape. Most of them had been taken over by Duchesne’s troopers, leaving one free for their officer, plus the other where they’d questioned Lanester. He knew, from approaching the building earlier, that they didn’t even have a window at the back to the outside world. With a guard on the only door, and an unbroken stone wall at their back, the British were well confined.

‘Major,’ said Duchesne, as soon as he was close enough. ‘I would be most honoured if you will consent to use one of the cells. My men will make way, of course. That goes for you too, Lieutenant. It is unbecoming that officers should share the discomforts of the common soldier.’