Honour Redeemed (27 page)

It wasn’t just the horses that came to life when the guns went off. The whole forest did. Birds that had sat in silence while their territory was occupied shot out of the trees and into the sky, squealing and squawking. More distant animals, pig deer and boars probably, broke cover and ran. But nothing compared with the horses, who, even trained for war, panicked immediately. Markham had yelled and dug hard with his heels at the very point of
discharge. Threatened from the rear, and with one obvious avenue of escape available, the pony he was riding shot into the gloom, followed by the others, who while they ran were rearing and bucking to break their tethers. Rannoch and Bellamy were holding one end of each line, so that they ran out through the loops, and set the beasts free.

Within a minute, that dark, narrow path was full of striving horses. He was on the road in no more than ten seconds, hauling on the halter to get his pony round and heading north, a stampede behind him that, given the larger cavalry horses, threatened to overwhelm him.
Suddenly
the road was full of men and animals, some
dragoons
, others Corsicans in blue caps. Those behind didn’t help, firing off their weapons to add to the general mayhem. The few humans between him and the bridge threw aside their guns and held their hands up in vain, their efforts only succeeding in channelling the frightened horses, rather than stopping them.

Ahead of him, Markham saw Leech and Halsey run from the bridge to the safety of the trees, as they’d been instructed. His problem was to do likewise, no easy task considering he was sitting on a pony wild with terror. All horses run naturally, and all want to be in front. He had two cavalry mounts alongside him by the time he was in stone-throwing distance of the bridge. Callously, he headed his pony over, so that the one on his left was heading straight for the pine logs that formed the uprights that lined the side. That forced it to rear and stop, and to shy away towards the trees to avoid plunging into the river.

Markham held his mount on that line, so that nothing came between him and the side rail. He had to raise his left foot out of the stirrup to avoid his leg being crushed, which made his next task more difficult. Control was hard enough without purchase on one side, but he threw his body weight that way, and hauled hard on the reins as
they reached the northern bank. It only slowed his pony a fraction, and he had no time to judge the wisdom of his departure. He only knew how fast he was going when, having leapt clear, he hit the ground, off balance, tumbling in a heap into bushes and saplings, his momentum carrying him clear of the flailing hooves of the rest of the stampede. Hands grabbed him and dragged him further into the undergrowth.

Clods of earth flew high and wide as the rest of the horses streamed by, watched from a recumbent position by the main body Markham had left behind. The question of what happened next was crucial, the whole point of his action being an attempt to get Fouquert and his support away from this part of the Morosaglia road. In his absence, his men had been busy with more camouflage, everyone with a weapon now concealed within yards of the road, so comprehensively that it would be hard for a person standing on top of them to see anything.

‘Here they come,’ he said. ‘Pass it on.’

If they stopped to wonder what had happened to the men who’d been left to hold this side of the bridge, it would cost the enemy dear, exposed as they were on the open road to fire from point-blank range. That would mean a fight, but the muskets would even matters up, and might, with decent shooting, put the odds in his favour. But Markham was relying on the cavalryman’s need for his horse, plus the thought, which would filter through to the most ignorant brain, that without them, this far from base, they were at the mercy of any sizable Corsican force they encountered.

The pounding of feet didn’t register till they were very close, since the thudding noise from the horses was still audible. As the red-faced dragoons ran by, waving their various weapons, shouting and cursing to horses deaf to their pleas, each one was at the mercy of a musket barrel. The same applied to the Corsicans, who like the
Frenchmen
had eyes only for the pursuit of their mounts.
Fouquert was in the middle of them, his face set, jaw clenched so tight it seemed his teeth would crumble under the strain.

The last man to appear was a corporal, his arms full of weapons that his men had dropped in their eagerness to pursue. He looked right at his hidden enemy, unable to see them through the skilful camouflage, calling out names, presumably those of the men they’d killed. The eloquent shrug that followed testified to his belief that they too had deserted their posts, and were in pursuit of their horses.

‘They will catch them, Citizen Fouquert,’ the corporal shouted, to a man probably too far away by now to hear him. His voice had a pleading tone, well suited to addressing a man who’d hanged his officer that very morning. ‘Horses don’t run for ever. They’ll stop as soon as they find some decent grazing. We could be back here within the hour.’

These words were followed by a deep sigh, another shrug, before the corporal, mumbling to himself, trudged away in the wake of his troop.

‘Tell the general to remain at the convent,’ said Markham, as Calheri’s women formed up. ‘We will be there some time after dark.’

‘I cannot
tell
him anything,’ she responded. ‘As soon as I give him news of what happened here, he will probably return to Corte.’

‘He can’t do that!’

‘Why not?’

It was on the tip of his tongue to say. After all, they had fought the French together. But Nelson’s intended attack on Bastia, now no more than five days away, was a subject he wanted to avoid. The injunction from Lanester to trust no one was wise advice he intended to follow. Unlike the major’s assertion that he could carry out the task of telling Paoli what was required himself, an idea that became less appealing the more he considered it.

‘The whole future of Corsica depends on it. Major Lanester needs to speak with him, urgently, just inform him of that. You must send a cart and some escorts to pick him up. Don’t, for God’s sake, let Paoli go himself. And if those men from Corte have left, it would be wise to get them back again.’

Her eyes flashed, preceding the anger in her voice. ‘Does it not embarrass you, as such a junior officer, to issue so many orders?’

‘Requests, Commandatore, they are requests,’ he
replied
, trying to be emollient.

‘Then that is what I will pass on, Lieutenant.’

She span on her heel and marched to the head of her
troop, who immediately took up step to follow her. Markham kicked a clod of earth out of the ground in frustration, which was a bit over-dramatic considering the way his hopes had been realised. The trap was no more, the enemy had withdrawn towards Morosaglia, and neither he nor Calheri had suffered a single casualty. The only thing he was doing now was using up time that could not anyway be put to good purpose.

‘I did not understand a word of that,’ said Rannoch, ‘but would I be right in thinking you have not got your own way?’

The Highlander was looking up the track, at the backs of the Commandatore and her marching troopers. Had there been any alternative but to send them? The
Morosaglia
route had to be held till they knew Paoli was safe, and in a situation in which infantry must face cavalry, this was the best place to do it. And given a choice between his men and the females, there hadn’t been much in the way of an option. But there was also the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind that, in the time available, they would be able to fetch Lanester, and provided he was well enough the major would be able to undertake the task with which Hood and d’Aubent had entrusted him.

‘Thank God there are no women in the marines,
Rannoch
.’

‘Does it not occur to you, sir, that the whole skirmish was a waste? If their man had been coming he would surely be with us by now.’

His officer nodded. ‘It does occur to me, Sergeant. But there’s an old saying that goes like this: “It seemed like a decent idea at the time!” Right now, the best thing we can do is take up our positions.’

‘Yelland,’ Rannoch called, ‘up to that first bend and keep your eyes peeled. The rest of you, into the woods and find enough wood to bar this bridge to those bastard cavalry.’

They worked on through the rest of the afternoon to
build a barricade. Rannoch had the men lay kindling all along the base, which could be lit to make it a fiery obstacle to men on foot. Four feet high, it was not beyond the power of a dragoon horse to jump. But any rider who attempted it would be forced to do so singly, which would leave him at the mercy of the defenders. To Markham it was precautionary. He didn’t think Fouquert would return. But if he did, he would have to risk losing most of his strength. The Lobsters had all the powder and shot that had previously been available to the dragoons, no need to shoot until they were threatened, and good
individual
skills, especially firing from solid cover at short range. Unless there was something Fouquert wanted that he knew nothing about, it couldn’t be worth the price he’d have to pay.

Markham, working alongside Rannoch to raise the barrier, suddenly laughed, which caused the Highlander to give him a look.

‘I was just thinking how nice it would be, being present when that corporal does a roll call of his men and finds how many are missing.’

Rannoch shook his head slowly, his face grave. ‘That Fouquert is not a man I would like to be giving bad news to. The corporal you speak of, if he has any regard for his skin, will want to come back to be sure.’

‘I wouldn’t let him,’ Markham replied, lifting one end of a twisted pine log. ‘He’s lost six dragoons without knowing what has happened to them. For all Fouquert knows, he faces walking into a trap himself, just like the one he set for Paoli. I would swear he values his hide pretty highly. It’s not something he will risk, even for such a prize. My bet is he will retire, and if he thinks his purpose has been discovered, all the way to Bastia.’

‘I hope that you are right.’ Rannoch wasn’t sure that they should stay here at all. The circumstances hadn’t changed; they were still outnumbered, albeit in a better state to mount a defence. And being the kind of man he
was, he’d let his officer know of his worries.

‘Call Yelland back in, Sergeant,’ said Markham, as soon as the work was complete.

‘It is going to get cold now we’ve stopped toiling, I think,’ Rannoch suggested, ‘and I am not sure I am going to be right fond of this forest in the dark.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Markham replied, grinning. ‘We’ve chased the demons away.’

Many sounds disturbed the forest as the sun began to dip in the sky, but they were those of nature. This bridge, at this time of year, according to Calheri, was the only
crossing
of the Golo for miles. Markham trusted that only so far, especially since Fouquert had Corsicans with him. He put a piquet out on each flank, with orders to keep one musket loaded and cocked, with a finger on the trigger, his words regarding Fornali guaranteeing that his order would be obeyed.

‘We’ll be pulling out about an hour after dark, so anyone not busy, get some rest.’

With so few men, providing that was difficult. The previous night had been uncomfortable, the day a long one of hard marching, and now they were standing watches, grumbling mightily. And Rannoch was right, they were going to get cold, with what heat the sun could produce cut off early by the surrounding trees, and his men still in no more than shirts. Hunger, too, would do nothing to make a night march easier. Rannoch was pushing at an open door when he asked that the situation be remedied and, having been given leave, sent one party off for water, and two more to hunt and kill some food.

The embankment above the clearing that had contained the enemy horses was a rabbit warren, where the skills of the countrymen like Yelland and Leech came to the fore. Ettrick and Quinlan, clodhoppers who were told to get out of the way, responded sniffily that their mates wouldn’t be quite so handy in a town. Bellamy, along with Dornan,
was useless at hunting, so these four were left to man the barricade, as their mates first gathered, then began to
spit-roast
, what they had caught.

‘Stand to,’ called Quinlan, without raising his voice any more than necessary.

Rannoch was asleep, having had less rest than anyone the night before. But he was on his feet a fraction after his officer, musket up and over the top of the logs. Halsey had a pole under the makeshift spit, ready to break it up, while Dymock picked up one of the leather buckets that had been left by the dragoons, preparatory to dousing the fire. The rest were at the musket stack in quick time, and at their stations a few seconds after their sergeant.

Quinlan spoke out of the corner of his mouth. ‘Corsican bastard, with a blue cap, I reckon. Just the one, your honour.’

‘There will be more,’ said Markham.

‘I might be able to shoot him,’ said Rannoch, patting the unfamiliar weapon.

‘How long till that food is ready?’ called Markham.

‘Some of it is there now,’ Halsey replied.

‘Right then,’ Markham barked. ‘Grab what you can, and eat, then man this barricade. Sergeant Rannoch, be my guest.’

‘Sharland, Ebden,’ Rannoch called. ‘Two more muskets here, one either side.’

He didn’t lay his own weapon back on the top of the logs, but instead found a gap he could aim through, keeping as much of the muzzle hidden as he could. Markham looked at the track, gloomy now and getting darker by the minute. He guessed Rannoch would try for the horse first, then the rider, wounding him so that if he wasn’t alone another target might be presented when his companions tried to rescue him. In the event, Rannoch was denied that. He fired just as the blue-capped horseman hauled on his reins, the shot going wide of the mark, removing a branch not far from the animal’s flank. By the
time he’d got upright, grabbed Ebden’s musket which was on his right, and fired, his target was on his way, astride a horse even more eager to find cover than its rider, and the sole result of his second discharge was another felled branch.

‘Useless,’ Rannoch spat, holding out Ebden’s musket. ‘How can anybody, man or women, expect to score a hit with these?’

‘Eat, Sergeant,’ said Markham.

‘Do we stay?’ the Highlander asked softly.

‘We don’t know how many there are,’ Markham replied, as Leech lifted one of the leather buckets up, using his mess tin so that his officer could take a drink.

‘If he was local, he might know just as much about these woods as your lady officer.’

Markham was staring at the side of the bucket, water dripping from his chin, in his mind the place they’d got to that morning, where the men looking after the horses had drawn their water. Calheri was right about this being the only crossing at this time of year. But that, surely, only applied if you didn’t like getting wet. The pond he
remembered
was swimmable, and anyone who could lower
themselves
down the cliff on the far side had a fair chance of getting safely to the opposite bank.

‘Get all the wood we have on the fire well spread out, and gather more, green stuff that will smoke. I want a blaze that will last.’ Markham grabbed the remains of a rabbit from the hand of Gibbons and threw it into the embers. ‘And let’s get the smell of cooking filling this forest.’

The men moved to obey too quickly, and he had to order them to act normally. He was looking anxiously over his shoulder to the Morosaglia side of the bridge, knowing that they’d have someone up a tree by now, high enough to see over the barricade, able to tell those on the ground what was happening. If he went too soon, before they deployed to find an alternative crossing, they would
simply charge the barricade. If he delayed too long, they might get across the river and take him in the flank. He had to judge the light as well. Retreating at leisure through a dark forest was one thing. Running in fear of a horse, a creature with better natural night vision, was quite another.

He waited for ten agonising minutes before he spoke again, slowly explaining the situation as he saw it. His Hebes had become accustomed to this, the Seahorses less so. Both Bellamy and Sharland were prone to ask
questions
, the calls for them to shut up loud enough to override the way they growled at each other.

‘If I’ve got it right, we will separate them from their mounts long enough to give us a head start. And they won’t pursue us on foot, which increases the margin. Everyone stay in the woods till the first bend, then we can use the road.’

The light was going. Now the track between the trees at the first bend was barely visible. The green wood was placed on the fire, which was hot enough to produce quickly billowing smoke. As soon as it began to blow about them, Markham gave the order to each man
personally
, so that they slipped out of sight singly to form just inside the line of trees. They moved fairly quickly, covering the hundred yards to the first bend without exposing themselves. Then they were back on the track, Markham at their head, not actually running, but keeping up a good trot, on a path that twisted and turned, rose and fell as it followed the contours of the country. It was hard to hear when you were moving fast, because of the sound of your own breath, but every ear still strained to pick up a hint of a pursuing horse.

‘Take them on, Corporal Halsey,’ shouted Markham, as they rounded a tight bend that marked the end of one of the few long straights, jumping to one side to let them pass. The sky above his head was going from blue to indigo, and this would present his last chance to shoot at
anything with any hope of seeing it. ‘The last four, halt.’

Rannoch was bringing up the rear, and the other three were Bellamy, Leech and Dornan. Not the best shots by any means, but then accuracy was not what he sought.

‘You’ve heard something?’

Markham shook his head, and grinned. ‘I’m going to wait here just two minutes, Sergeant. I’ll take a wager on it.’

In the event he was wrong: it was five minutes or more before they heard the sound of hooves. Not galloping, but moving fast, aware that even if time was running out for a pursuit, on the open trail they were sitting ducks. Markham waited until the first outline of the enemy was visible before calling his men out to fire a salvo. He used his pistol, and had the odd feeling as they let fly, and the glade was lit by the streaking flames of the discharge, that not all the weapons had fired.

He would have liked to listen to the confusion, in his mind’s eye imagining rearing horses, men trying to wheel and flee, a degree of chaos. But they had to run, the job of slowing their pursuers done.

But it wasn’t. The narrow track suddenly seemed full of sound, the thud of hooves loud even on the yielding earth. They all stopped and turned, Rannoch swift to whip out his bayonet and fix it, discarding any attempt to reload on the move. Leech was halfway to the same state, but Dornan dropped his and Bellamy just stood with his mouth open. All Markham had was a pistol to throw.

A single horseman, determined to get to them while their weapons were unloaded, came round the twist in the track, his head low over the pony’s shoulder, blue cap just visible and a sabre extended enough to pick up what light was left in the sky. The sound of a musket going off by his ear, plus the orange flash, firing into the air, startled Markham. It also made the charging Corsican sit up and slightly check his mount. That was a split-second which was fatal to him, for Rannoch charged forward, bayonet
extended, swept aside his sword, and rammed the blade home into his chest.