Honour Redeemed (29 page)

They paced around in silence for some fifteen long minutes, the only sound the echo of their boots on the stone floor. The room was cool yet the atmosphere seemed oppressive. Opposite the door through which he had arrived, the General finally stopped, turned to face him, clasped both the British officer’s hands in his own, and said: ‘Welcome to Corte.’

That was a signal for conversation to recommence, and
the buzz of it filled the high-ceilinged room.

‘Please, Lieutenant, come into my private quarters, and bring your Numidian companion with you.’

To Markham it was like sitting before the Star Chamber, worse by far than a court martial. Not that Pasquale Paoli sought elevation. He sat at the same level as his visitors, listening carefully. But the room, high-ceilinged and
panelled
, had just the right degree of oppression, the white flags drooping at the rear providing the only relief. On both sides of the general those important enough to qualify for attendance, numbering about twenty souls, stood
silently
, like courtiers. And all this for a man supposedly retired from active political life!

First of all, he reiterated his concerns for Major
Lanester
. Then, for public consumption, Markham trotted out the story relating to the mission he and Lanester had been sent to perform, the need for more troops. If this old man, with steady bright blue eyes that never left his face, considered it eyewash, he kept that knowledge hidden from his own countrymen. Yet Markham suspected they knew it was a cover for something else as well. Why send a file of marines, and two officers, to deliver a request that could have come by single mounted
messenger
?

The general continued to listen without interruption to a filleted story of what had happened at Fornali, agreeing the escape of the French had been a misfortune. He showed slightly more concern when Markham went on to speak of the situation at Cardo, agreeing in a sage but
noncommittal
way about the lack of Corsican strength, allied to the danger posed by the positions they had adopted. He did not enquire who had made this decision. In fact,
no names were mentioned by either man, not Arena, Buttafuco or Grimaldi.

Yet Paoli was no fool, and even if he claimed to have relinquished power, the evidence of Markham’s own eyes showed that he had it in abundance. He must have sources of information that reported back to him, independently of the titular commanders. What had happened at the Teghima Pass had been a disgrace. Yet, with an informant in front of him who could shed light on the failure of the whole operation round San Fiorenzo, he posed not a single question.

That left Markham high and dry, since he’d banked on curiosity to lead him onto more murky areas. He had no intention of producing Hood’s letter, telling the truth about Fornali, nor of mentioning what he’d seen at Cardo, as long as others were in the room. But he would have been quite willing, with a little probing, to disturb the air of complacency which seemed to prevail in this gathering.

Paoli, speaking for the first time since they’d sat down, suddenly changed the subject. He mentioned the
proximity
of the French patrol, which at least stirred the
audience
from their torpor. That was followed by a series of questions on how they had come to be captured. It was clear, when Markham answered, that those present were less than impressed. Paoli came to his defence,
acknowledging
that the trap Duchesne had sprung showed cunning. He mentioned the original inhabitants, the monks, offering a plea for their souls, and frowned when Markham, responding to another enquiry, reported how they’d been found in the
maccia.

‘I can only assume that was the work of Fouquert.’

‘This, I am told, is the man who has come from Paris to arrest me,’ exclaimed Paoli, to a murmur of anger.

‘He is also the man who claims to have men faithful to him inside Corte.’ That caused uproar, as each person present assured the men next to them of their complete faith in their loyalty.

‘Bellamy,’ said Markham, stepping back.

The Negro started speaking, in his clear faultless French, which shut everyone up. They listened intently, tensed up for denial, as if each one expected to be named. Tempted to stray off the point, Bellamy was rudely returned to it by his officer, and cut off abruptly when it came to
describing
the escape.

‘This man you talk of, this Fouquert, is a priest-killer.’

‘I believe he is. I cannot think Captain Duchesne had a hand in it,’ Markham continued. ‘He paid with his life for saving me. A man of that type does not kill innocent priests.’

‘It is a great sadness, but hardly uncommon, Lieutenant, even for French officers who are themselves sons of the church. You must understand that nearly every man of the cloth in Corsica supports the desire for independence. This is not like mainland Europe, where bishops live in towering palaces and the monasteries hold great tracts of land. The priests of Corsica come from the same stock as their parishioners, and share a life that is equally hard. Rome to them is a distant place, less of an authority than their loyalty to their own kin. Without their help, I could not have pacified and united the island. They were with us when we fought Genoa, and it was with their help that we rallied enough to hold the French at bay for a decade. The consequence of that allegiance has been to expose them to the kind of reprisals you witnessed.’

He nearly replied that there was no sign of a struggle, or any spilling of blood, and that was part of the reason they’d walked into the French trap: the place was so very peaceful. But he stopped himself, knowing it would imply an insult he did not intend.

‘You were lucky that you and your men got away from this Fouquert.’

Paoli could know nothing of the extent of Fouquert’s intentions regarding his visitor, so didn’t know just how lucky Markham felt. Nor did he want to tell him, since
thoughts of that tended to induce a degree of terror. He went on to describe the escape, pointing out Bellamy and detailing his contribution.

‘Luckily Major Lanester was the only casualty we
suffered
.’

‘Yes, Magdalena,’ said Paoli, with feeling. ‘We must make sure Lanester will be safe.’

‘Cavalry from the garrison are already on their way.’

The use of her first name was welcome. She had been stiff and formal since their last stop, and it served to make her more human. It also revealed an intimacy with the old man that went beyond the bounds of military attachment.

‘Good. I would hate anything to happen to Lanester. He has suffered enough in his time for the choices he has made.’

‘No more than you, Uncle.’

Paoli smiled, a slow warming affair that made his eyes glow. He was looking at Markham, rather than the woman now revealed to be his niece.

‘But I have gained what I desire, Magdalena, whereas poor Lanester, for choosing a king over a congress, lost everything he’d striven for.’

‘Which was?’

‘A sizable fortune.’

‘Money cannot be compared to the independence of a nation.’

Markham, looking around the blank, impassive faces, was beginning to get annoyed at the air of unreality which permeated this gathering. There were traitors, who must be of high rank, in the Corsican army, assassins on the loose, enemies of Paoli riding around the country within ten miles of Corte, not to mention French dragoons who had crossed half the island without so much as a skirmish. He had the feeling that not just Paoli, but everyone in the room, knew things they were keeping to themselves.

All had reacted with theatrical horror to the threat to arrest Paoli, yet it had seemed so stagey and unconvincing
that it would have shamed a Greek chorus. It was an act of dissimulation, not fear, which made him wonder just how many of the worthies with enough influence to make the inner sanctum were loyal to their leader and their country. Even Duchesne had let something slip in that regard before Fouquert had shut him up. It was something he was inclined to believe. If there were traitors in other parts of the island, why would there not be the same in the capital city?

While perfectly prepared to keep his word to Lanester about Hood’s letter, he had an overweening desire to let these smug Corsicans know just how badly they’d failed at San Fiorenzo, and just what he’d witnessed at Cardo. He wanted to see their reaction to an accusation of
treachery
and base murder. Never blessed with much in the way of patience, it took a titanic inner struggle for Markham to keep his mouth shut.

‘You are still in danger, General,’ he said. ‘I’m sure your niece must have told you so.’

‘From one troop of French dragoons?’

Markham looked from one to the other. Judging by the stiff face of Magdalena Calheri, he was sure that she’d indeed passed on everything he’d said about Corsicans being involved in the attempt to capture him. But it was equally obvious that Paoli either didn’t take it seriously, or was disinclined to discuss the matter in public. The anger that had risen in Markham began to subside, along with the realisation that Paoli knew very well that there was betrayal around. If he wasn’t probing, it was because he didn’t want open answers. Instead of being obtuse, he was remarkably astute.

Lanester’s gift of wine, his way of passing the message from Hood, didn’t now seem the piece of tomfoolery he’d initially imagined. The major had foreseen this, known that he would not easily be able to see Paoli alone. That in turn led him to wonder just how much both senior British officers, and the major, knew about the nature of
Paoli’s court. Perhaps there was something in that despatch that Lanester hadn’t told him about. After all, Markham was too junior to be included in the councils of the mighty. The question was, lacking any secretive bottles of Haut Brion, what was he to do about it?

‘I wonder, General Paoli,’ Markham said boldly, ‘if it would be possible to speak to you alone.’

‘Why?’

It had been there, the very slight flash of approval in the older man’s eyes. ‘I have something I want to say that is for your ears only.’

But Paoli was also a consummate actor. The white bushy eyebrows rose slowly, as though he was deeply shocked at the suggestion. The accompanying angry buzz from the others present only underlined what he was implying by his reaction; that the honour of the leading citizens of the island was being impugned.

‘I am amongst friends here, Lieutenant,’ Paoli said, with an expansive gesture of the arms aimed at faces just as angry with him as Markham, men who considered he was indulging in sophistry rather than doing what he should, which was to flatly refuse. Paoli had the sense to keep his voice normal, aware that false anger would probably make them more suspicious. ‘Equals, as well. Some of them are elected members of the National Assembly, whereas I am not. How can I exclude men chosen to govern Corsica from any deliberations I, as a private citizen, may have?’

‘I must insist. And I also assure you that you’ll not regret it.’

‘Does this include your companion?’ Paoli asked, to stifle the protests of his own kind.

‘Yes. Private Bellamy knows nothing of what I want to impart.’

A hand waved slightly towards his niece. ‘It is so great a secret that even my own flesh and blood must be excluded?’

Markham looked around the room, at the scowling worthies, before settling on Magdalena Calheri. As far as he was concerned, given her hero-worship of the man, she could have stayed. But to relent on one would only invite more objections to the exclusion of others.

‘Having heard what I have to say, General, you then have every right to share it with whomsoever you choose.’

‘I trust my niece Magdalena as much as everyone else present.’

‘No doubt, having known her for years, you do.’ Her eyes flashed as she picked up the drift of his words, a clear indication that she anticipated what was coming next. ‘I, on the other hand, only met her yesterday morning. As to the gentlemen assembled in this room, I know nothing of them at all.’

That was like a collective slap on the face, and Markham wondered what would have happened if the towering presence of Paoli hadn’t been there to dominate
proceedings
. The general thought for a moment before looking at his niece in a slightly pleading way, a plain request for her to oblige. If she went with some grace, then the men present would possibly feel less slighted. She was angry, controlling most of it well. Yet she could do nothing about the way her face changed, a physical
reaction
of which she was probably unaware. She felt, like these powerful citizens, that to be excluded at the whim of a mere messenger was intolerable. Her nod of
agreement
was sharp and unfriendly, but it was decisive. One or two of them protested, only to be silenced by Paoli, who asked them, with great politeness, to vacate the chamber.

Magdalena Calheri was the last to exit, and refused to be easily beaten. Her parting shot was delivered on a slightly husky note, which proved that although she dressed and behaved like a cavalry officer, she was also a woman, one experienced enough to have noticed the slight frisson between the marine officer and his Negro private.

‘Come, Eboluh Bellamy,’ she said, ‘you are my lucky talisman. It is time you were shown some proper Corsican hospitality. You need to bathe, don clean clothes, eat some food, and tell me more about your past.’

‘Wait outside, Bellamy,’ Markham ordered, not sure what prompted it: a need for discipline, or sexual jealousy.

The voices of the men faded as she shut the door behind her, and it was some time before Markham could be brought back to thinking about the subject that had brought on this display.

‘What I am about to say to you, General, will not make pleasant listening.’

Paoli put his fingers to his lips again, then, handing Markham a cloak, indicated that he should follow him. They went through a door which led to a balcony
overlooking
a steep drop. The sun was on the other side of the Palais, and the chill air made Markham shiver. Once outside, with the door shut behind him, Paoli nodded for him to continue.

Markham passed over Hood’s letter and stood, trying to contain his shivering, as Paoli tore at the wax seal. Having broken that clear, he unravelled the oilskin, took out the parchment and read it. As soon as he finished, Markham began to speak.

‘I am not privy to the contents of that letter, sir. Does it tell you of British intentions regarding Bastia?’

‘It does. It seems your assault is imminent.’