Honour Redeemed (24 page)

‘Hood’s despatch. With the evidence of your own eyes to back that up, the letter will persuade him. It’s in one of the bottles of Bordeaux. The Haut Brion ’eighty, in a sealed oilskin pouch.’ Lanester groaned then. ‘God, I hope Fouquert didn’t find it.’

It was now Markham’s turn to pose a mute question, his eyebrows raised in some surprise. Lanester, as he lay back, actually managed a weak smile. ‘It was a way of passing him the message in secret, by recommending that as a wine to be opened. Not that he would have enjoyed the contents, since before I waxed in the cork again, I refilled it with the local piss.’

Markham had to dash around, between his own men strapping on their packs, searching the whole chapel, and actually found the bottle in the last place he looked. It was on Fouquert’s table, the one that had been spilled. It was an amusing thought that Fouquert had tasted it, then spat it out, knocking the thing over in disgust, too drunk to see what it contained. The thin oilskin roll was just visible above the level of the remaining wine, and Markham had to tip the bottle up to retrieve it. His first act was to examine the wax seal that had kept the letter from being soaked by the wine. It had an elaborate layout of Lanester’s initials. Drying it off on his coat, he took it back to the major, who was lying back, seemingly exhausted.

‘You’d better tell me what it says.’

Lanester blinked and sighed, as if he was having trouble remembering. Outside, Markham could hear the
commands
that would have the Commandatore’s troop forming up.

‘Hood has told Paoli what he suspects happened at
Fornali and Tregima. Then he’s threatened that if he doesn’t take over the army himself, not only will the assault on Bastia be called off, he will seek another island as an anchorage.’

‘Is that true?’

‘Of course not! Nelson will attack Bastia as planned. Hood’s bluffing, threatening to leave the Corsicans to fight the French on their own as a way of levering the old goat out of hiding.’

‘A battle Paoli has already lost once.’

‘Get him alone when he’s read it,’ Lanester gasped, raising himself again. ‘Don’t tell him what you saw at Cardo if anyone else is close enough to overhear.’

‘Shouldn’t I trust those who have his ear?’

‘No!’ Lanester said, before allowing his head to fall back. ‘And neither should Paoli!’

Markham was vaguely aware of Pavin in the
background
, his face anxious as he looked at his master.

‘I take it the decision has been made. That the major and I ain’t goin’ along with you on this jolly.’

Moving away from Lanester, Markham slipped the oilskin roll into his breeches, praying that the seal wouldn’t break when he started marching.

‘There may well be a cart on the way. If not, as soon as we find one, we’ll send it back for you. Stay on the road until you get to the Convent of San Quilico Rocci and wait there. Who knows, Pavin, I might be able to bring one back myself. This whole thing could be a wild goose chase.’

‘What have you told him?’

‘A lot, but I’m not sure I’ve covered everything.’

‘Then you best be on your way, an’ leave that chore to old Pavin.’

Rannoch was in the doorway, pack on his back,
beckoning
him to come. There was no time for the discussion his responsibility demanded. Pavin knew the odds better than his master. Taking the major might kill him, but
leaving him there could do the same. If Fouquert came back to the monastery he’d murder them both. A man who hanged one of his own country’s officers wouldn’t shudder to string up these two. Pavin had seen Rannoch too, and he actually grabbed Markham’s arm to propel him out, the look in his eyes clear proof that what the officer had in his mind was known, therefore saying it was unnecessary.

‘No speed, Pavin, when the cart arrives. Comfort first for the major, and if you can find anyone at that convent who can heal him, let them have a go at getting the ball out, regardless of what he wants.’

Pavin actually smiled, which doubled the depth of his wrinkles. ‘I’ll bet he orders otherwise.’

‘You have my permission, Pavin, to ignore him.’

The servant grinned even more, exposing long yellowing teeth. ‘That, I have to tell you, is a pleasure I have enjoyed for many a year.’

At double marching order, with Calheri’s troops out ahead to make sure their route was secure, they made good progress to begin with. The dragoons, as well as taking their coats and capes, had stolen the British marching rations. The Corsicans had none, so they had to stop occasionally, usually at a small church or monastery very like the one at which they’d left Lanester. Drink was the most important requirement, since even in March the Mediterranean sun had the power to turn the road dry and dusty. What food the priests and monks gave them was filling without being abundant, and offered freely despite the obvious hardship this would visit upon their future wellbeing.

Moving so fast, they caught up with Calheri’s
messengers
, dawdling along with no sense of haste. They received a tongue-lashing for that, as well as for their failure to find the required cart to send back. Not that they could be entirely blamed for the latter. When the French built the road, their construction had naturally been dictated by the topography. So no villages abutted the highway. They were visible, certainly, but they sat, for security, on rocky outcrops too far away to be of any use. The odd conveyance they came across tended to be rickety and man-drawn. What Markham wanted was a horse, not for Lanester, but so that he could send a messenger on ahead to request Paoli to stay still. But the best the monks or priests could offer was an ass, which carrying a rider made slower progress than a running trooper.

Calheri measured her distances in leagues, and after a
quick calculation Markham worked out that the convent rendezvous was some six miles distant. Some of his men were good runners, especially Yelland, with his long legs and slim frame. But they were not trained in that regard, so to send them off too early would be useless. Besides, it would really have to be one of Calheri’s females, with a written message from her, since a man of Paoli’s stature was hardly likely to pay much heed to a British marine dressed only in his spare shirt.

The Corsican women were fit enough, but no more trained at running than his men, which left Markham thinking that if they’d had to fight the Battle of Marathon with this lot the Greeks would have lost. As if to underline the problem, the strain of double marching began to tell on the marines before the local females. The former, having spent most of the last three months aboard ship, had been gifted little chance to retain the excellent physical condition they’d achieved after four months ashore in Toulon. So it was with blessed relief that they saw first a tower, then the roof tiles on the buildings of the town of Sovaria, a place substantial enough to cause the French engineers to bend their road to run through it.

Coming into the town, Markham was struck by the notion that Sovaria was no bigger, and no better endowed, than places of a similar purpose he’d seen in his native Ireland. If the town had a purpose that exceeded the need to change animals, he couldn’t see it. The tower they’d spotted first was a fortress like the one at Fornali, which spoke to him not of garrisons, but of armies of occupation. True, the buildings were taller and the roofs tiled and more steeply canted. But each dwelling had a dilapidated air that had not been present in the richer atmosphere of San Fiorenzo. If there was any wealth in Corsica it did not reside here in the interior, where the locals clearly lived a hard subsistence existence, just as afraid of their neighbours as they were of invading armies.

The tower was empty, long abandoned and used to
house sheep, not soldiers. There was a local clan chief, of course, who’d come into the small square between the church and fortress on being advised of their approach. He was swarthy, squat and elderly, with fine white
moustaches
, dressed in the local costume of smock,
embroidered
waistcoat and baggy breeches, tucked in at the knee to highly polished fine leather boots. From Calheri’s elaborate greeting, carried out in a language which was neither French nor Italian, it was clear that obeisance had to be made to this individual to obtain anything. And that extended to basic hospitality, a gift not given without much head shaking.

The rest of the inhabitants lined the square, and if the inhabitants of San Fiorenzo had been lukewarm about the presence of strangers, the common folk on this part of the island were doubly so, barely able to find a smile, even for their own female soldiery. Markham, still in the dragoon coat he’d asked Bellamy to procure the previous night, was hissed at. Bellamy himself was on the receiving end of many a pointing finger, mostly from bent old crones who looked remarkably like witches.

Extracting a horse plus a mule cart from the headman took so long that Markham wondered if the time expended was worth it. Even the popularity and prestige of Pasquale Paoli had to be weighed in some traditional balance. Finally, after much haggling, a mount was produced, one with ribs that a blind man could count. The mule was little better, a scrawny creature with skin rubbed bare where the straps of the rig made contact. The drover was a toothless individual, and the cart itself had wheels that seemed incapable of moving in a circle. Calheri scribbled two hasty notes, one a receipt to the clan chief, the other handed to the mounted female, who was then sent on her way. Markham waited patiently until this ritual was completed before stepping forward, Lanester’s map in his hand.

‘Can you ask him, Commandatore, to indicate on here
any mule tracks or paths that would bring us to Paoli’s route?’

She was angry again, he could see, the nose losing half its width and all of its blood. Clearly Calheri felt that any alternatives to a straight onward march to the Convent of San Quilico Rocci was her prerogative, one that he should not usurp.

‘It would be better for you, Lieutenant, to stop regarding me as a woman, and acknowledge me as a soldier.’

‘But I do,’ Markham lied. The very idea of women as soldiers appalled him as much as it amused him. General Arena had gone on at some length about this, boring Lanester and him rigid at Cardo. In telling his tale, Arena took it for granted that his description of the Corsican women who’d supposedly fought alongside their men would impress his guests. He also assumed that they would believe what he told them of the battle exploits of the ladies.

Markham had no idea what Lanester had felt, but to his way of thinking the only reason to put women in uniform was to fool an enemy into thinking that you had more troops available than your true strength. The idea that they should go into battle was risible. As a man who liked and admired the opposite sex, he had no desire to tie them to domesticity. There were to his mind a great many areas in which women could become as accomplished as men, even surpass them. In truth, no army marched anywhere without its train of camp
followers
, wives long-term and temporary, plus a majority no better than tuppenny whores.

But most such women tended to be brutes, the dregs of society. Calheri wasn’t like that, of course. And neither, from what he could see, were her ‘soldiers’. They didn’t vary much in height, being small and compact, a
description
which could be applied to their menfolk as well. But in terms of shape there was as wide a variation as you would find in any group. Some were broad of beam,
well endowed, quite a few with more facial hair than young Yelland. Two women were so thin they looked as if a serious blow would break them in half, the remainder being of every shape between those twin
extremes
.

Their skin was not the pale, carefully protected olive of their officer, more the darker hue of creatures who’d toiled for the greater part of their lives in the sun. Collectively, they would make incomprehensible jokes aimed at his men; individually, any form of proximity was to be avoided, an occasion for the head to drop and scurrying feet to carry the unwary back to the safety of her group. His men indulged in much subterfuge to counter this, all to no avail, if you excluded the odd high-pitched giggle. Starved of female company, they would have reacted to a toothless septuagenarian. Close to younger women, especially a group dressed in breeches and uniform jackets, an enticing variation of male clothing, they could barely control themselves.

But regardless of dress and behaviour, war – actual fighting, with its constant hardships, not to mention the pain and suffering of battlefield wounds – wasn’t for women. And since he couldn’t see them as warriors, he could not countenance the notion that their ‘officer’ should be deferred to in a matter of tactics. It was a subject of which she was clearly ignorant, given the way she’d marched right into the clearing in front of the monastery without any kind of preliminary reconnaissance.

Yet it was also true that he must dissimulate, treat her in a way that showed respect for her rank, and put his own agenda in abeyance. If their primary objective was the same, namely to keep Paoli out of harm’s way, it was still her country and the general was her national patriarch. Besides, the women she commanded had weapons and his men did not, a situation which could only be altered if the combined force was faced with imminent action. Accustomed to flattering women, he was
sure he could charm Calheri, so that she followed his tactical instincts and not her own.

‘I am anticipating you, I know,’ he continued. The tone of his voice sounded so false to him, he could scarcely believe it would fool anyone. ‘This I do only out of impatience. You will, no doubt, have decided on the same precaution, to cover the possibility that General Paoli may have left San Quilico and headed off towards Morosaglia.’

The way she was looking at him gave nothing away, regarding her opinion either of him, or the notion he’d just propounded. And when she agreed to what was, on reflection, an obvious step, he had no idea if she had already thought of it, or was merely picking up the
requirements
of the situation from his intervention. Plainly, there was no point in proceeding up a road that carried no threat. If Paoli had stopped at the convent, he was safe. The only risk he ran was plain: that, in ignorance and impatience, he would leave his Corte escorts there and set off down his ancient trails, to where Markham believed Fouquert was waiting for him.

‘I have no need of this old man’s help, Lieutenant,’ she replied eventually, reaching out to take his map, which she held towards him as she traced with her finger. ‘There is a track that runs along the river Golo. Though it is far from straight, and hard marching, it will bring us onto the Morosaglia road in less time than we would take to get to San Quilico Rocci. Once there, we can head back up the track to the convent.’

‘Cautiously,’ Markham added.

‘Let us see if there is something we need to be cautious about first.’

Water from the well had been given freely, the only commodity the inhabitants of Sovaria were prepared to part with on those terms. Compared to the heat of the middle of the year, the early afternoon sun was pleasant. But it was still warm to a marching man, and Markham
could see the sweat stains on the backs of his marines as they left the town behind. After about half a mile they cut off to the left of the road, and plunged into forest made even deeper than normal by its proximity to a fast-flowing stream.

By the time they reached the Golo, full to the brim with rushing water from the melting mountain snow, the situation was reversed. Now they were shaded from the sun by the canopy of trees. They were so dense they reached out over the riverside trail, leaving, between
themselves
and those on the opposite bank, only a thin strip of sunlight in the middle of the deep cutting. A fine, icy spray filled the air. Initially welcome as cooling, it soon became an irritant. Calheri’s females had capes in their packs, which they were quick to use. Markham’s men, after the depradations of their enemies, had nothing but their shirts, and were soon shivering.

Markham’s dragoon coat was soaked in minutes, his hair matted and stuck to his skull by the icy spume. The track itself didn’t offer much comfort, being at times right next to the edge of the river; at others, after a steep climb, they’d cross a slippery glacis of bare wet rock, above the natural tree line, which gave them a panoramic view of towering rock formations, worn by weather and wind into fantastic shapes, wrinkled granite that testified, like the face of a venerable sage, to the years they’d withstood the elements.

Keeping a hold on their position wasn’t easy, even with such a view, since each huge rock formation was surrounded by the same kind of dense forest they were trying to negotiate. But Markham knew that they were still somewhat to the north of the river, while Corte, invisible in the distance, must lie to the south. With water dripping from his chin, he felt as he spoke just how much the spray had frozen his bones.

‘Is there a crossing?’

Calheri, who’d tucked her hair into her cap, looked
younger than she had previously, her skin shiny from the same source as everyone else. The noise of the rushing water made hearing difficult, forcing Markham to repeat the question, this time much closer to her head. It never ceased to amaze him how much his senses could extract from such brief opportunities: the perfection of her ear, small, perfectly formed, with lobes that he was tempted to nibble there and then. The slight down on her face, caught by wetness and a flash of sunlight. Then the smell of her body, mingling with the freshness of the mountain water. When she replied, the feeling of her hot breath on his own ear.

‘There is a wooden bridge half a league distant, where the rocks rise to form a narrow gorge. We will have to move away from the river, anyway, as the road has to follow more level ground.’

‘A good place for an ambush,’ he replied, more to get close to her body smell again, than as a true appreciation of possible danger.

Yet once the thought was voiced, it made sense, because the potential for escape, in a trap set next to a narrow bridge, was much reduced. It would also provide added security as a place to defend, for a troop of French
dragoons
who, even if they did have some local support, were deep in hostile territory. Markham got even closer to her ear, so that his lips were almost touching it.