Honour Redeemed (30 page)

‘It is also in grave danger of failure.’

Markham wished he’d read the letter. Did he need to tell the General about Fornali, then the events which had marred the dinner aboard
Victory
, followed by the attempt on his life, or was that all written down? Lanester had been so vague about the contents, perhaps justifiably so because of his condition. Tired from the exertions of the previous two days, it was easy to see his task of persuading Paoli as impossible. And deep down, his real worry was
that he would fail so comprehensively that any support Lanester might provide when he arrived would be wasted.

He had to speak, but knew he couldn’t start with what he’d seen at Cardo. Besides, he felt he needed to husband some information, quite sure that this old man was doing the same. Paoli knew more than he was saying, and would not quibble to make his visitor look foolish. He would hold to himself what he had while extracting everything from this garrulous informant. The act was instinctive rather than rational, but Markham wanted to shock this old fox, and show him that cunning was not solely a Corsican prerogative.

‘About Fornali,’ he said.

‘Yes, Lieutenant, please tell me about that.’

Yet again he was listened to in complete silence,
something
he found slightly disconcerting. Paoli didn’t even look as though he was curious, never mind pose a
question
. Was he prone to shock? Not even a flicker of a silver eyebrow disturbed his air of serenity, and he listened as Markham related details of the attempt on his life in such a still pose that the marine wondered if he was being believed. Details of the meal at Cardo finally produced a reaction, but that was only a thin smile related to the level of boasting to which the British officers had been subjected.

‘In short, General, and it gives me no pleasure to say this to such as you, treachery seems to be widespread.’

‘That implies a great deal, Lieutenant.’

‘Your niece, no doubt, has told you of what happened when she arrived to look for the French dragoons.’

‘You claim a messenger. But you have no evidence that whoever came to see them was Corsican, or came from Corte.’

That made Markham angry. ‘Then how were they on the route to Morosaglia, waiting to entrap you? Why did we have to risk annihilation, your niece and I, to stop them?’

Again that infuriating unflappability. ‘That you have propounded a reasonable supposition, I cannot contest. But you have no evidence.’

‘No. But taking everything together.’

‘Beginning at Fornali?’

‘Yes.’

Paoli fell silent again. Markham, having told his tale, had expected to be interrogated, anticipated that Paoli would make the same deductions he had. With his host showing no signs of obliging him, he was drawn into doing so himself.

‘Major Lanester’s last words to me were to get you to Cardo in time for our landing.’

‘He would have had a reason?’

‘Well you’ll be safe there,’ Markham sighed, making no attempt to keep the irony out of his voice. ‘At least, that is the received wisdom, because the army adores you. It is my opinion that you would be just as much at risk.’

‘Why?’

‘There can be no doubt that one of your senior
commanders
is in league with the French.’

The reply was infuriatingly unmoved. ‘If you wish to assume that, I cannot stop you. Tell me, does Admiral Hood think so too?’

‘You have read his letter, sir, and in all honesty he could hardly do otherwise.’ That earned nothing but a slow nod. ‘It’s not just Fornali or the attempt on my life. You must know, General, that the dragoons we fought would need help to get as far as they did without using the road. I doubt there is a Frenchman born who knows his way along the mule trails of the
maccia
. We found a family on the road, dead, the weapons of the menfolk not even primed. They died because what they saw they trusted. No Corsican peasant would allow a French patrol within a mile of them. But men in Corsican uniform, perhaps.’

‘How much do you know of the history of this island, Lieutenant?’

‘Not enough,’ Markham replied, with a trace of impatience. The General observed his reaction and gave him a disarming pat on the shoulder.

‘Indulge an old man, and let me tell you. I do not impugn other nations when I say that Corsicans have a higher sense of honour than most people.’ Paoli smiled, noticing Markham’s raised eyebrows. ‘It is not because they are more virtuous. It is more to do with the abiding fear of treachery. So what would pass for a humorous sally elsewhere, could be the start of a blood feud here.’

‘A vendetta.’

‘An Italian word I hate with a passion. A trick of the weak Genoese government, young man. If you cannot impose your will by either ability or force, and have no real desire for justice, why not encourage the Corsicans to kill themselves? Bribe one, then tell a rival that he has taken your gold. Engineer a murder, then when it is done, turn a blind eye – but make sure the family of the victim know the identity of the perpetrator. Arrest the men of a family, then let another steal the sheep and rape the women while they are absent. Set clan against clan, in a series of feuds that become so tangled the original reasons for the spilling of blood gets lost. That way the men who would fight you die at the hands of their own. Should someone arise and threaten to unite the nation, pay one jealous individual to stick a knife in his back. That was the way the Genoese ruled Corsica.’

Paoli’s voice had risen slightly as he spoke. Yet it was still under control, as if he had said these words a thousand times to many people, the beginning of a plea to put aside their quarrels.

‘And the French?’

‘Royal France began better. But our demand for
independence
meant that Bourbon gold was just as liberally spread as their predecessors’. They were, to their credit, less fond of the knife than Genoa, having some sense of legality. But they were no more able to allow us freedom,
which is what the majority of the people want. The
Revolution
was supposed to change all that. But power has turned the heads of those lunatics in Paris.’

‘Who want you arrested.’

‘They insisted that we invade Sardinia, an idea that appealed to certain local firebrands, but not to me. I had one Buonaparte in Paris insisting that I act, and another here in Corsica, who thought of himself as the new
Alexander
, demanding to be allowed to lead the attack.’

‘He wasn’t called Napoleon, was he?’

That did cause surprise. ‘Yes.’

Markham explained the circumstances of their meeting in Toulon, as well as the success the Corsican had enjoyed. ‘He struck me as a trifle obsessed.’

‘He’s a madman,’ Paoli hissed, showing deep emotion for the first time. ‘But times are troubled, and people like him will prosper, if they can keep their heads. The other one in Paris, who is more sane, is Lucien. If their father was alive, he would be ashamed to look me in the eye.’

Markham heard the catch in his throat, an indication of deep feeling from so controlled an individual. ‘He was at my side in the French wars, a trusted companion. And now his sons fight me, on the side of tyrants who cut off heads for pleasure.’

‘Does it occur to you that Fouquert might lose his head if he doesn’t arrest you?’

‘An interesting notion. It would certainly make him tenacious.’

‘He intends to have your head, I’m sure.’

‘That, young man, is a thing Paris has desired for some time.’

‘Why?’

‘They believe I betrayed them. I came back to Corsica through Paris. I stood before the National Assembly and pledged myself and this island to their principles, the same notions for which I had fought all my life. That men should be free to think and act; that governance was not
the prerogative of kings. Now, in order to preserve their own power, they are worse tyrants than any Louis. They do not understand that it is they who have betrayed the purity of their revolution. So they look elsewhere for cause, and their gaze alights on me. From pedestal to proscription in less than a year.’

‘“And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again”,’ said Markham.

Paoli smiled. ‘No. Shakespeare coined those words for Julius Caesar. They do not apply to me, though I admit to a hope that they will to Robespierre, who is close to the devil incarnate.’

‘Will you join your army, as Admiral Hood requests?’

‘Do you know the contents of this?’

‘Major Lanester told me of that part. He may well have kept concealed anything else.’

Paoli didn’t respond to the invitation to be open. Instead he lifted the letter, and waved it without much fervour. ‘This is a demand, young man, not a request. It is also, very possibly, a blatant piece of bluff.’

‘Hood doesn’t strike me as the bluffing type.’

‘The good ones never do.’

The pause that Markham allowed was part of the
pleasure
. But it was difficult to be offhand, and he was unsure if he struck the note of insouciance he intended.

‘Then General Buttafuco will be free to act against you.’

‘Buttafuco?’

‘Yes!’ Much as he tried to speak slowly, the words tumbled out: men he thought were assassins disappearing like chimeras; himself and Rannoch skulking through the camp; the password, Nebbio. ‘I saw Buttafuco with my own eyes, in negotiation with a French general, whom I took to be Lacombe. The British are preparing to land at Bastia, which is only viable if your army occupies the French at Cardo.’

‘You saw Buttafuco in secret negotiation,’ Paoli said, raising his finger to indicate the need for precision.

‘Yes.’

‘And so you conclude it was he who failed to close the Teghima Pass?’

‘He is a very senior commander,’ Markham replied, unsure where this was leading. ‘You could find out in an hour if his troops had the lead role in that affair.’

‘And, no doubt, you will also deduce it was his men who murdered the marines at Fornali.’ Paoli smiled slightly, then changed the subject slightly. ‘You say you felt threatened at Cardo.’

‘Yes,’ Markham replied uneasily.

‘Yet you go wandering through the camp, with only your sergeant as company, and just happen upon a secret meeting which is taking place beyond the perimeter of the bivouac. The guards posted to stop that happening are conveniently removed, a fact you only discover by chance. I think some people might say that either you are making this up, or that there is something more you have missed.’

‘I did not make it up.’

‘I believe you, Lieutenant. What I’m curious about is the identity of the man who led you to witness something you would never have been allowed to stumble upon unaided.’

Markham, feeling foolish, sensed that his mouth was open, but that he had no words to say. But Paoli hadn’t finished speaking.

‘And you say you did not hear any spoken exchanges, so you only have a visual impression of what was taking place.’

‘You think I’m mistaken.’

‘I don’t know. But I wonder who wanted to send, through you, a message to me.’ Paoli continued without waiting for him to reply, holding up the letter in his hand. ‘You say Admiral Hood is unlikely to bluff. What is he like when it comes to apologies?’

Markham visibly shivered, even though he tried not to. ‘I don’t think it’s something he enjoys, General.’

Paoli noticed his discomfort. ‘I have kept you out here too long, and after such adventures. You must get some rest. My house is at your disposal.’

‘And?’ asked Markham, pointing at Hood’s letter.

‘A decision on that will wait a few hours.’

‘Sir, Nelson lands in five days from now!’

‘And I, young man, have ridden the length of Corsica twice in the same period. I understand your impatience, but you must also take into consideration my concerns.’

‘I must know, sir. If need be I am obliged to risk a fast horse back to San Fiorenzo to tell Admiral Hood.’

‘Something which I would happily provide.’

Those words chilled, indicating that he’d probably failed. ‘In a few hours, sir, perhaps Major Lanester will be here to help you decide.’

‘Let us hope so.’ He opened the door, ushering Markham in, an avuncular hand on his shoulder. ‘I am glad that you were protected from that knife you so feared. Too many men have died by the blade in Corsica.’

Bellamy was waiting for him, as instructed, holding open one of the white Corsican flags. He turned and grinned when Markham appeared, and pointed to the head of the Moor which was the main device. In profile, the black face, with one white eye, stood out sharply. Looking at it now made certain things obvious: the reaction of the citizens of San Fiorenzo in the Place de Chaumettes, when Bellamy’d saved him from assassination. Likewise the way Magdalena Calheri had taken a strip off her own shirt to bestow on him. The Corsican moor had a bandage round his head, and though blacker even than Bellamy, had a profile which was not dissimilar.

‘Independent Corsica, Lieutenant,’ said Calheri,
emerging
from the shadows. ‘No cross of St George or Bourbon lilies, just the head of the Moor.’

Markham pointed towards the thin white line at the neck. ‘Is that jewellery he’s wearing, or the sign of
decapitation
?’

That jibe earned him another dose of Corsican folklore.

‘It could be either. Ugo della Colonna defeated the Saracen King Nugalon at the Battle of Mariana. That was the first time we threw off a foreign yoke. My uncle chose it to symbolise the idea that, having been successful before, we could be so again.’

‘You’d best be careful, Bellamy,’ Markham replied. ‘They might take their lucky talisman too far, and don’t rely on a Corsican to be open about which alternative they’ll choose.’

‘You don’t like us much, do you, Markham?’

She’d rarely used his name, sticking to black looks and his rank. Nor was the accusation delivered in a harsh way; if anything her voice contained a note of sorrow.

‘I’m tired, hungry and cold, Commandatore.’

‘I am waiting to escort you to my uncle’s house.’

‘Then please lead on.’

‘What did you talk about?’

‘You must ask him that,’ Markham said.

That removed any trace of sympathy from her features. He then looked at Bellamy, sure that he’d related his part of the private conversations already. Markham was fed up with both of them: her coquetry, friendly one minute, angry the next; his playing to her moods, not to mention the endemic insubordination. Yet his sense of gallantry was too ingrained to leave matters there.

‘I’m sure if General Paoli will tell anyone what we discussed, it will be you. His trust, as far as you’re
concerned
, is almost as great as his justifiable pride.’

Did he detect a responsive tinge of rouge in her cheeks, or was it just a gust of wind, swinging the lantern light to deceive him?

‘The house is in the square, if you will follow.’

The luxury of heat, to aching, tired and cold limbs, could not be exaggerated. Paoli had ordered a hip bath placed in his chamber, which was on the first floor of the general’s residence – a tall building that looked tiny, until it was entered, and its true spacious dimensions were revealed. With a servant to pour the blissful hot water over him, Markham was as near to heaven as he could be.

Given the travails of the past few days, he fell asleep, that kind of deep slumber that was total, and very
necessary
to a soldier, who never knew when he would be called upon to fight. Woken by the water cooling, he felt distinctly refreshed, and any new chills were relieved by a rough towelling before a roaring fire. There was a razor, soap with which to lather, and a proper mirror. Clean
linen had been laid out, and while he slept his breeches had been cleaned and his boots polished. ‘Garry Owen’ was in his mind again as he combed his hair, and tied it back with a black silk queue.

‘Enter,’ he said, in response to a soft knock.

The door opened to reveal a very different Magdalena Calheri. No longer in uniform, with the blue-black silky hair brushed out, her appearance was transformed. He spent so much time staring at her face that it was an age before he could take in the clothes she wore; blue lace over orange silk, cut low to reveal a smooth olive neck and bosom. Over one arm she had a scarlet coat, which looked distinctly military.

‘I was hoping it would be a message from your uncle,’ he said, before he realised how dismissive that sounded. What he added had a lame quality. ‘With news, perhaps, of Major Lanester.’

‘We have no information regarding the major as yet. My uncle, however, is on his way to eat with us.’ Then she held up the coat. ‘He wondered if you’d consent to wear this, Lieutenant. It was presented to him while he was in London by King George’s First Regiment of Foot Guards. They gave him an honorary commission.’

Markham took it off her by the collar, and let it fall open. It was outdated, of course, a uniform more tailored to the American War than the present day. But it induced an odd sensation. As a youngster in New York,
surrounded
by glittering officers, he’d wanted a coat like this more than anything. The Irish in him longed for a cavalry regiment, but the romantic saw the Foot Guards as the very pinnacle of British military prowess. Their officers were richer, grander, wittier and braver than anyone. Just the place for an impressionable boy.

It had been one of the experiences that taught the foundling out of Ireland exactly where he stood in the wider world. The First Regiment of Foot Guards would eat at his father’s table; they would drink his wine and
laugh at his jokes, even accept hints from the rough old General that led to pecuniary advantage. But nothing would induce them to grant a commission to Sir John Markham’s bastard son.

‘I’d be delighted,’ he replied. There was no choice, regardless of bad memories. General Paoli had made a kind gesture, one he must accept.

‘Then put it on, Markham,’ she said, ‘I have never seen you in anything other than your shirt, or that horrible French thing.’

The swish of the silk lining slipping over his body was matched by the sound of her breathing, audible even above the crackling fire. He looked at her breasts, rising and falling in the tight bodice, pleased to see that the rate of movement hinted a degree of excitement.

‘It suits you, the scarlet. Please hurry, the food will be ready in a matter of minutes.’

The way she was dressed, the meal would no doubt be formal, and he felt guilty. There was no time for this. On leaving San Fiorenzo he had thought the span he and Lanester were allowed for their task to be tight, and the major’s attitudes had eaten into that long before the misfortune of meeting Fouquert. Now it was getting very close to a crisis: Lanester still missing, Paoli dithering and Nelson already under sail, his warships and transports crammed with troops and equipment.

There was a desperate desire to move matters on, to insist on a conclusion. But that, he knew, was an emotion he’d had in the past, especially before a battle. To say he’d learned to control it would be an exaggeration. But at least he’d come to recognise the fact, so that he could try to convince himself that certain things were beyond his control. This was one of those occasions, and all he could do was make the next hour pleasant for all concerned. So he held out his arm, smiling.

‘Then, Commandatore Calheri, the most beautiful officer I’ve ever served with, you would do me great
honour by allowing me to escort you to the table.’

‘Delighted, sir,’ she replied, curtsying just enough to draw his eyes to her cleavage.

But he was all innocence by the time she rose again, and she slipped her hand chastely over his red sleeve. Both kept a respectful distance as they exited the room and made their way down the hall to the top of the wide staircase. But decorum was no proof against elemental force, and George Markham felt as if his body had been invaded by some rushing demon, which seemed able to ebb and flow from him to her and back again, through that very slight point of contact.

‘My dear, you look wonderful,’ said Paoli. His eyes flicked to Markham, causing him to smile. ‘And you, Lieutenant, look ten times the warrior I ever did in that coat.’

Eboluh Bellamy was standing at a respectful distance, as well dressed as Markham, but in civilian clothes. The plum-coloured coat and yellow waistcoat suited him admirably, since he had the necessary air of insouciance to carry it off. Catching his officer’s eye, he favoured him with an elegant bow, one that only lacked an eyeglass in his hand to turn him from marine private into salon rake.

‘I dressed Bellamy in this fashion,’ added Paoli, ‘so that you would not feel discomfort sharing a table with him.’

‘I’m most obliged to you, sir,’ Markham replied, taking a step on to the first tread, certain that there was nothing else he could reply. But the look he gave Bellamy was singular, and noted. It said behave yourself; no gabbling or showing off, and no attempt to play the wise man while casting me as the fool.

The next two hours had a surreal quality, as if outside the four walls of the house, all was harmony. At least he wasn’t subjected to a repeat of the dinner at Cardo. Paoli had an urbanity that his generals totally lacked, and a breadth of interests that seemed to span the whole cosmos. He had, in his time, met or corresponded with all the
leading figures of the age. Rousseau, Voltaire, Davy Hume, Burke, both the Elder and Younger Pitts, even Markham’s old commander, the Czarina, Catherine of Russia.

Bellamy tried to cap him by mentioning Mozart, Haydn, Schiller, Kant, Washington and Jefferson, only to find that Paoli knew them too. He had more luck with Boswell, the man who’d brought Corsica and its leader to world notice. Bellamy’d shared his company, and no doubt his fondness for drink, on more than one occasion, but was astute enough to draw a veil over his whoring. To move on to Johnson was inevitable, and the great lexicographer was dissected sympathetically.

‘Did he not say, Uncle, that you had the greatest port of any man he’d ever met?’ exclaimed Magdalena who, having drunk glass for glass with the men, was in a very alluring mood.

‘He did indeed, my dear,’ Paoli replied, before adding modestly, ‘That is, according to Boswell. But I think it was Lanester who warned me, in quite an amusing fashion, that one must have a care with Doctor Samuel Johnson.’

‘He was acquainted with the doctor?’

‘He was,’ Paoli replied, ‘quite a man about the town after his ejection from North America. He was a seeker after pleasure, his chief love being conversation. I used to chide him for his love of the tavern, which was only surpassed by his addiction to the salon and the card table. I daresay you have Boswell in common, as an
acquaintance
.’

‘Odd that I never came across him,’ Bellamy said, ‘either by name or reputation.’

‘The revolution in France changed him, a subject on which we had our greatest disagreement. I freely admit that I did not foresee the Terror.’

‘And the major did?’

‘Not in precise terms. But he knew, from his own past, that revolutions eat their own children.’

‘Hardly amusing,’ said Magdalena.

‘No. But he also informed me that for every compliment Sam Johnson throws out, he has a pair of barbs to go with them.’

A female servant emerged from behind a screen and, with a shy bob to the master, came up behind Magdalena’s chair to whisper in her ear. She immediately looked at her uncle and said, ‘Gianfranco.’ Paoli nodded and waved his hand.

Standing up, she proffered an apology. ‘Forgive me. My youngest child.’

Markham was nodding sympathetically, wondering why he had assumed Magdalena to be unattached. She must have a whole tribe of children, if this Gianfranco was the youngest. That in turn meant a husband somewhere.

‘The boy has dreams,’ said Paoli, indicating to an attendant that he should pour more wine. ‘Bad ones, full of blood, which is a sadness in one so young.’

‘How many children does Magdalena have?’

‘Three, all with her beauty.’

‘Of course,’ Markham replied.

‘The two girls will need careful watching, or they will start a blood feud by the attention they command. I would have sent them abroad for their education, but times do not permit of such luxuries.’

‘They could go to England, sir,’ said Bellamy.

Paoli smiled again. ‘I wish to tame their wild natures, Mr Bellamy, not freeze them to the marrow.’

‘The boy’s dreams, does he have them often?’ asked Markham.

‘Every time he has visions of his father, my nephew, Luciano.’ The old man’s eyes suddenly became watery, as though the memory had the same effect on him. ‘He died saving me, old, weary and useless Pasquale Paoli, which was a very foolish thing for a young man to do. Especially one who would have risen to be a leader to his country.’

Neither guest spoke. They just sat and watched as the
tears began to run down the general’s cheeks. ‘There are many joys to a celibate life, gentlemen; the suppression of jealousy, the time to pursue great causes. But to lack an heir, which seems so unimportant at thirty, becomes a sad gap at forty, and a positive curse in old age.’

‘You say he died saving you?’ asked Markham.

‘Did I not say to you, Lieutenant, that too many of my fellow countrymen have died by the knife? Luciano was one such. An enemy wanted me removed so, in
time-honoured
fashion, an assassin was employed.
Magdalena’s
husband distracted him from his task, and paid the price instead of me.’

‘I take it the son was there?’ Bellamy inquired.

‘He saw his father die.’

Whatever General Paoli had been going to say next was killed off by Magdalena’s return. She moved into the candlelight which filled the table, with Markham looking at her in a new way. The mood of the gathering had changed as a result of her absence, though it wasn’t gloomy, just more introspective as they discussed how and why the bright hopes of liberty had died in France. Paoli, with his long political experience, knew the faults of men in the public eye, the way some competed to be holier than their neighbours, losing the capacity to forgive in the process.

‘I thought of going to France after my benefactor died,’ said Bellamy, ‘believing for a moment that my situation in such a society would be improved.’

‘It would have been under the Bourbons, sir,’ Paoli replied, ‘though I hate to credit kings for anything. But not under the Revolution.’