Honour Redeemed (35 page)

‘I don’t know that the truce will hold for him.’

Paoli was coming as arranged, though given how loquacious Lanester was being it hardly seemed necessary.

‘Make it!’

‘Why should I?’ demanded the Major with a shrug.

‘Because,’ Markham lied, enjoying the sensation of improvising himself, ‘Sergeant Rannoch has a musket aimed at the very centre of your forehead. And it’s not dark yet. If he is even threatened by a mis-aimed ball, you die.’

Markham could see Lanester working himself up to a complaint, and cut him off. ‘And I don’t think, Major, you are in a position to question my notions of gentlemanly behaviour during a truce.’

It was the threat of Rannoch that shut off the protest, a man he suspected might take pleasure in shooting him even if he hadn’t betrayed anyone. He span round and made a sharp, insistent gesture, that there should be no shooting.

‘Just before he arrives, who is the traitor?’

‘For me to know, Markham. Neither you nor Paoli will ever find out.’

‘Major Lanester,’ said Paoli.

His voice was strong, and Markham knew without looking that whatever his inner turmoil, the old man was presenting to this friend who’d betrayed him his habitual strong personality. The conversation they’d had in the farmhouse could not help but be depressing. The question Paoli feared to ask was how long Lanester had been in
the pay of his enemies. Had he harboured, as a close friend, a man who had betrayed him for nearly the entire length of his exile?

‘General Paoli,’ intoned Lanester, adding a small bow.

‘I said to Lieutenant Markham, not ten minutes ago, that if he’d called you a Virginian at any time in my hearing, I would have been able to sow a seed of doubt in his mind.’

‘Quebec, Markham.’

‘So I gather.’

‘French father, English mother. Not really a secret, just a slight change of emphasis to avoid certain discomforts.’

Paoli interrupted, his tone bitter. ‘Like huge debts?’

‘Odd how the English can forgive even American rebels, but still harbour a loathing for any soul who carries in his blood a trace of Quebec.’

‘Come, Lanester. You betrayed them too.’

‘I did not!’

Markham was only half listening to what was a
meaningless
debate. Lanester was a traitor claiming to be a patriot, though he couldn’t quite nail the cause to which he adhered. Paoli, so upright, was relentless in his
strictures
, but clever enough to make the major defensive, so that information came out as hearty justification, not feeble excuses. The Virginian label, he’d adopted in the American war, to ease his activities as an English spy, and hung onto it when forced to flee to England.

‘It was I who brought that slug Benedict Arnold to General Clinton’s notice, me who set up the meeting with André.’

‘Perhaps it was you who betrayed them too.’

‘Damnit, I wish I had! That pack of gabbling lawyers might have paid me a decent stipend, instead of leaving me, like King George did, on the streets of London to starve. Six
thousand pounds and a pension was what Arnold got. He lived like a lord while I was made a pauper.’

Markham had come out here to trap Lanester, to lull the man into a false sense of security. But right now, having heard what the major had said, he was trying to assess the damage it had done him. The despatch, supposedly from Hood, was a forgery. What had he put in the one he’d sent back after Cardo? Not that it mattered. There were enough people around prepared to think badly of him. A hint that he’d gone absent would be only too readily believed.

But for all the trouble that would cause him, his mind was operating, simultaneously, on the required level. The consequences would never interfere with his will to survive. From this closer distance, he was trying to fix in his mind the layout of the enemy positions. They were outnumbered by the force that had them trapped, but not by many, especially if they could, by moving fast, negate the cavalry, who were on the far side of the farmhouse.

Speed was the key, though he knew taking them wouldn’t be easy. But once they were through, the French and their Corsican allies would be surrounded by a hostile, instead of a passive, population. Every village they’d been forced to go through had gone wild at the sight of Pasquale Paoli. The wounded Corsican had refused to answer Markham, but faced with the towering presence of the Liberator, he’d been more forthcoming. The population of Aleria would surely react the same way.

What happened after that was incalculable. His mind was full of possibilities – ships, escape routes and killing – until the name Fouquert concentrated his attention.

‘I said he was a Jesuit, didn’t I, Markham? Can’t seem to accept that half a cake is better than none.’

‘What’s the whole cake?’ asked Markham.

‘Don’t go flattering yourself, son. It ain’t you, though it’s odd to think you’d be dead now without he saved you. No, it’s the general here, the Hero of Corsica, taken in a tumbril to meet Citizen Robespierre, before a final soirée with Madame Guillotine. Fouquert won’t give up on that.
Not being a soldier, he can only see so far. Hardly
surprising
. He really doesn’t give a damn about Corsica.’

‘And you do?’ asked Paoli.

‘My mission was simple till that Jesuit came along. Now it’s got more complex. But it don’t matter none, it will end the same way.’ Lanester turned to Markham and fixed him with a hard look. ‘If it wasn’t for your feud with our friend Fouquert, I’d tell you to dump the Liberator and save your skin.’

‘And I tell you to go jump in the harbour.’

‘God,’ Lanester replied, with deep irony, ‘I can’t abide honest men.’

‘Half a cake?’ asked Paoli. ‘What does that mean?’

‘Guess, Pasquale, you were always good at that,’
Lanester
said.

Paoli opened his mouth to continue, but Markham cut across him. The light was fading fast, the sky taking on that brittle blue quality that precedes full night.

‘We must discuss terms.’

‘There won’t be any,’ Lanester snapped.

‘I suggest that you let us retire to Corte, without further fighting. I suggest we meet tomorrow at the same time, to discuss our proposal.’

‘A waste of breath.’

‘So much better, Major,’ Paoli sighed, ‘than a waste of life.’

The walk back was no more than fifty paces, made in silence, Bellamy standing by the edge of the farmhouse holding the flagstaff. Haste had to be avoided, especially now, since Markham suspected he had a double reason for getting Paoli to Cardo. Only the old man beside him could convince those who bore him ill that he had been as much a victim as they had of Lanester’s machinations.

The major had let things slip, but they were conundrums not clues. Cakes; half cakes. Plans laid, made more complex, and spoiled. The outrageous fact that Fouquert,
in pursuit of a higher prize, had spared Markham’s life, taking Duchesne’s instead, for what was no more than an error made out of ignorance. But he knew, or at least suspected, that Fouquert and Lanester must have different agendas. The major had almost said that.

It made no difference now. As he approached the
farmhouse
door, he slowed to let Paoli through. As soon as the old man disappeared, he held out his hand, and was obliged by the feel of his pistol. Turning, as if to take a last look, he could just see faintly that the enemy was still disorganised, still behaving as if the truce was in place. Strictly speaking they were right, but with men like those he faced, breaking his word as an officer was a duty, not a crime.

‘Bellamy, the flag.’

As it unfurled, in the last of the light, cracking open on the evening breeze, the white silk seemed luminous. From behind the straw bales and the upturned cart, Calheri’s troopers and his marines emerged. There was no yelling, no great shout to signal the charge. A party left behind went to work with their flints, rasping at oil-soaked straw which only caught light slowly. They’d gained ground by the time the first enemy musket fired, and were halfway to Lanester’s line before anything like an organised defence was mustered, close enough to get in amongst them before the fires they’d set rose enough to silhouette them.

Markham yelled then, and so did Magdalena. Behind him, in a phalanx of his marines, Pasquale Paoli, protected from harm, felt his Corsican blood race, and even he, as he raised his double-barrelled pistol, managed a war cry.

Deciding they had to break out was one thing, and achieving it quite another. However disorganised they had been, the forces opposing them rallied quickly. But one vital ingredient was missing, something the defenders had banked on. By acting as they had, they’d completely fooled the cavalry. If they’d stirred they hadn’t arrived on the scene. And the fire Markham had started was beginning to take hold, a blaze that would in time consume the barn, the farmhouse, and the oil-soaked lines in between. The horses would shy away from that, further slowing their riders. So Markham and Calheri could concentrate for quite some time on those in front of them, without having to worry about their rear.

Counting on that lost advantage, the Buonapartists hadn’t bothered to do anything other than man points in the buildings that gave them cover. Markham was surprised, though elated, by the fact that no real attempt had been made to block the streets leading into the town. They had left gaps, ones which with the advent of night became very obvious. Markham didn’t want to fight them, but bypass them, so had suggested that they head for the areas that lacked gun flashes. Rannoch and his Lobsters, with one exception, obeyed. But Magdalena Calheri and her troopers, with their flag and Eboluh Bellamy in the middle, had charged the guns, seemingly intent on taking the strongest point on the town perimeter, a low set of cattle stalls, which provided natural and linked cover for defence.

‘Rannoch,’ he yelled, as they made for an opening that
was obviously some kind of street. ‘Once you’ve got the general safe, form up on the corners and see if you can suppress some of that fire.’

‘Those horse soldiers will not be long,’ the Highlande gasped, pointing at the flames beginning to roar, quickly consuming the dry straw. ‘They’ll come round if they can’t get through. And an open street is as bad as a field.’

‘Not if we can block it.’

The yell from his rear killed any idea of getting hold of Magdalena and dragging her away from her own private battle. The shape that loomed up at the head of a
counter-attack
was identifiable. Fat, Lanester still ran at the head of the men he led, swinging his sword right and left, trying to get behind them and close off the route to the port. The whole area had taken on the glow from the flames, making Lanester’s coat radiant. Pavin was by his side, jabbing with a pike, trying to beat down the opposing bayonets.

The flaring of sparks, which silhouetted the positions they’d just left, increased the available light. But they also indicated the danger, showing as they did cavalrymen dragging the bales of straw aside, creating a gap they could ride through. It was stupid considering, as Rannoch had pointed out, the option existed to ride round the conflagration. It mattered little; they would be involved in the fighting within minutes, and if he and Calheri could not present a solid front by blocking one of the streets, they’d be in real trouble.

Markham fended off a stab with a sword, ducked under a wielded axe to skewer the bearer, then disengaged, falling back to where Bellamy stood rooted to the spot, the flames shining off his black skin, holding the black and white flag. How he’d survived was a mystery, pennant carriers being primary targets for the enemy in any battle. But he had, and his officer grabbed him and dragged him towards his own men, yelling to Calheri and her troops to follow him.

It was the flag they obeyed, not him. That square of silk
seemed to exert a strange hold, inspiring them to crazy valour. Certainly they’d fought well, and if they hadn’t taken the cowsheds, they stopped any of the defenders from getting out. What he wanted now was for them to occupy Lanester and his foot soldiers, so that he could get his Lobsters some space. They needed to reload and take careful aim on the cavalry as they came through the gap between the blazing buildings.

They had to be stopped. If they couldn’t be, then the idea of making an escape into the town was doomed. Stepping over a dead Buonapartist, Markham picked up his weapon, a heavy cleaver, and pushed it into Bellamy’s hand.

‘Use it, damn you,’ he screamed, pushing the Negro right to the front of his fellow Lobsters, happy to observe that even if he didn’t like killing, he hated the idea of dying even more. Bellamy had strength, and the cleaver was for him a perfect weapon, fortuitously found.
Flagstaff
firmly placed to give him leverage, the way he swung it had Lanester taking a jump backwards. A shove from behind sent Bellamy after him, and a lucky cut from his cleaver took Pavin under his lantern jaw.

Markham had no time to see what developed after that, busy as he was trying to pull his men back to create a space for Calheri’s troopers to take over. Suddenly he realised he was beside Magdalena. She’d lost her cap, her eyes were alight, and she was searching for a victim to stab with her knife. She looked magnificent, with the light of battle so strong on her features. Her chest was heaving too, and her legs were parted to give her balance. He wondered where it came from, that blood lust. But that word, in his mind, also had Markham querying how he could think of sex at a time like this.

Fortunately Rannoch had kept his head, and his eyes on the progress of the horsemen. He too was pulling men back to form a line, shouting at them to get their muskets loaded. Markham, watching him, didn’t see the man trying
to club him with his gun. It was only when General Paoli fired both barrels past his ear that he turned to see the danger.

‘We must run, Markham.’

‘To where?’ the marine demanded, as aware as the general of their situation.

‘The church,’ Paoli gasped. ‘We can defend that.’

‘One prison for another.’

‘Better than dying like a dog in the street.’

The old man was right. They lacked the strength to stand, or even to retire at a pace that suited them. It was a case of one volley then run, and hope that they could slow the cavalry down enough to get clear. He knew Rannoch would do his part without orders. The difficulty was to get everyone else moving. He grabbed Magdalena, and spinning her, threw her towards her uncle. He would have to explain. Then it was that flag again, once more in the midst of a heaving block of fighting bodies.

His throat was so dry, and the sounds around him so loud, he had no idea if a shout actually emerged. But the retreating flag, as he collared Bellamy and hauled him out of the mêlée, had some effect, since gaps opened in the jostling combatants. In fighting, whatever the weapon, it is always desirable to go forwards rather than back. Even Calheri’s troopers were trained to that degree. So getting them to run wasn’t easy, and he took a cut on his arm from trying to save one of the thin girls and get her on her way. She paid a higher price than him, as two men speared her with bayonets, her body pushed sideways to protect Markham.

The volley of musketry, loud in everyone’s ears, produced a split-second pause which he used to good effect. Then he was running, swinging the flat of his blade to keep anyone in front of him from turning round. The sudden disengagement left Lanester’s men looking for orders. Once they were given they pursued quickly enough, but that hiatus had given the fleeing soldiers a
breather. They soon caught up with Paoli, hobbling as he tried to get legs that rarely ran to function. Rannoch threw his musket to Markham, and with one sweep, lifted the old man bodily and sped ahead with the general on his shoulder.

The enemy knew where they were going, and Markham was sure he wasn’t the only one who could hear stamping horses. What he couldn’t observe, unable to turn round, was that his back was being protected by his own enemies, who so filled the street that the cavalry couldn’t get through. The square in front of the church, opening up, gave them more room. But by that time the first of the runners had reached the church doors, which yielded to a mighty kick from Rannoch, still with Paoli on his shoulder.

The commands were garbled, the responses mixed, but enough order was in place to form a line of defenders at the door as a shield to protect those rushing into the sanctuary. The horses’ hooves were on stone now, sending up sparks as they sought to climb the steps that would bring them into the well of the church. But the space had narrowed again, now more than ever, and they found themselves hemmed in by walls and columns, fighting off men and women who seemed to want to tear them apart.

How they got the doors shut, Markham never knew. He was just aware of pushing, with his own men all around him, some with hands on the oak doors, others with their shoulders supporting their struggling mates. In the middle, Bellamy still swung his cleaver, ensuring that in the gap between the door edges, no hand could interfere.

‘Magdalena!’ Paoli cried, from the spot where Rannoch had dumped him. ‘Check for other exits and if you find them, bar them.’

When silence came, it was swiftly, with nothing more than the odd echoing boot, as various people rushed around securing any possible point of entry. Markham was, like most others, leaning on something trying to catch his breath. They’d made the church, only to become
besieged once more. But there was some gain in this, only at this stage Markham had no idea how much.

Nearly everyone had a wound of some kind, but to his amazement Markham found he had all his men in the church. Not so Magdalena who, through her decision to attack the strongest point, had suffered half a dozen losses. If they hadn’t been dead when they fell, they would be now. Altar cloths were used for bandages, with various pairs in dark corners assisting each other.

Magdalena, having got her uncle to try and sleep, lying on a pile of hassocks, helped Markham off with his coat. The cut was shallow enough, but the bruise that
surrounded
it was huge and black. Looking round, seeing they were not observed, Magdalena leant forward and kissed it.

‘Without medicines, it is all I can give you.’

‘There is more,’ he replied, ‘and you know it.’

‘In a church?’

‘I’ll tell you this for certain. If God is all forgiving, he’ll not make a last night of pleasure before you die a sin.’

She looked at her uncle, asleep beside the flag that Bellamy had finally relinquished. ‘I want to put the Moor on the highest point of the church spire. Will you help me?’

They’d be alone up there so, exhausted as he was, he nodded readily.

‘What about guards?’ she asked.

‘Why bother? They know we’re not going anywhere.’

There was a ladder, which stretched above the bell chamber. Markham shinned up, and found a slotted air vent right at the very apex of the spire. Getting the flagstaff through wasn’t easy, but he managed, using his swordbelt to secure the pole.

Back on the platform under the great metal bells, in total privacy, they lay down. There was none of the frenzy
of the previous nights’ half-clothed rutting. Now they were naked, each bruise and abrasion a point to kiss. She tried to stop him as his lips slid down over her belly, a slight air of fear in her grasp.

He took her hand and held it away, knowing that whatever rituals of dutiful sex she’d enjoyed with her dead husband, they had not included much in the way of variety. He had one night to show her what she had missed, and every intention of doing so.

‘Thank you, Markham,’ she said, warm and locked into his body, her head in the crook of his shoulder, her hand gently stroking his groin, and beginning to revive his erection. He wanted to say that her cries of pleasure had probably out-rung the bells above their heads, but stopped himself, knowing how ashamed that would make her feel.

The crack of the flag woke them up, as the morning breeze coming in off the sea made it fill out. The chill of the air was hardly kept at bay by their short jackets, and both Magdalena and Markham were shivering. It was the sound of footsteps ascending the staircase that warmed them up, a loud heavy tread that had them scrabbling for the rest of their clothes. Rannoch’s head appeared, pale blond hair, the innocent blue eyes of a man who knew he’d made enough noise, and allowed enough time, for a semblance of decency to be contrived.

‘A party in the square, sir. And would you believe it, Fouquert is there, along with that traitorous Major.’

‘Have they sent in a message?’

‘With the priest, who is saying Mass for General Paoli and those who wish to cleanse their souls.’

‘And?’

‘Surrender. The general wants to talk to you before replying.’

Markham climbed the ladder and looked through the slats. He could see the men in the centre of the square,
their troops lolling around at the perimeter, the cavalry covering the approach from Corte.

‘I can’t surrender. Not to Fouquert.’

‘Odd, do you not think, since the bastard, saving your presence, Commandatore, must know that.’

‘I think this should be a decision for the whole town.’

Markham ordered two of his men to stand by on the bell ropes, and as the great doors opened, he placed Paoli in the centre of the entrance, and nodded to them to pull. The bells pealed out, not in any sequence so beloved of clerics, but in a cacophony of discordant sound, which somehow, given the circumstances, seemed very
appropriate
. Above, on the spire, the flag of Independent Corsica fluttered, and Magdalena had her women yell from every doorway that the Liberator was here in person.

‘So much for the brave people of Corsica,’ said Markham sarcastically, when no one appeared.

‘Wait,’ said Paoli.

He was right, Markham wrong, the first sign that this was so the sudden activity around the fringes, as the men besieging them stood up, looking warily down each street. Then they began to back away, muskets held up to threaten an invisible foe. Paoli, sure now he was safe, stepped further out onto the platform which surrounded the church, raising his arms in greeting to a square rapidly filling up with silent people.

Fouquert and Lanester had swung round, the
Commissioner
gesturing wildly for the French soldiers to come and protect him. One brought him a horse, which seemed from this distance to confer a feeling of security, even if he didn’t mount it. Lanester was talking to him, earnestly, bending forward to speak into Fouquert’s ear. That he was having little joy was obvious by the angry look on the Commissioner’s face, and the way he swept his arm to indicate the crowd of Alerians come to support their flag and their leader.