Honour Redeemed (26 page)

Markham was in a quandary, and it had nothing to do with what he’d discussed with Calheri. Was any kind of attack necessary, or a useless waste of lives, since it couldn’t be accomplished without killing on both sides? Old Paoli might still be at that damned convent and not on the trail at all, but the only way to find that out without
risking his life was to go straight to San Quilico Rocci from here.

Starting an action which would force a French
withdrawal
sounded wonderful. But holding the bridge, given the field of fire which had been cleared around the approach, wouldn’t be easy. The powder and shot they had was limited, and that would impact on their ability to stand firm. To expend all they had would be fatal. He had to acknowledge the ability of Calheri’s female
troopers
in the thick woods, but standing up to repeated attacks in an open fight against mounted men, with just cold steel as a weapon, required different skills. And if the enemy were numerous enough, skill would not be enough.

Too much imagination was, he knew, a curse in war. But he couldn’t help having one, and in his mind’s eye he could see the action develop. Some of the enemy would use the cover to move forward, sniping to attract return fire, trying to establish the defenders’ supply of powder and shot. Then, when they discovered their caution, the dragoons would come. Mounted men, charging down the narrow track three abreast, on horses so fired up they’d bite the guts out of anyone who got in their way. The defenders would have to occupy the clear space before the bridge, packed into too small an area to manoeuvre, bayonets out to try and stop riders who would see their mounts speared rather than slow their assault.

There would be a second clutch close behind, ready to fan the opposite way from the first, so that the defence would be confronted by a line of six pairs of flaying hoofs. The dragoons, if they had husbanded their own ammunition, would fire carbines first, hoping to hit enough of the packed defenders to crack their solidarity. If the horsemen fell, the next trio would push past them to engage, hacking with sabres at his men and Calheri’s women until they’d cleared a space. Once a single
horseman
broke the line, they’d be in amongst infantry too tightly packed to wield their weapons, on stamping horses
that would trample men and women alike underfoot, as the men who rode them slashed left and right. And behind them would come the rest of the dragoons, trained to fight on foot as well as mounted, accompanied by an unknown number of Corsican traitors, to engage an enemy who would very likely, by now, be decimated, the few
remaining
unwounded in flight.

The alternative, of a long fight in the woods as they retired, stirred up equally lurid and unwelcome images: of trying to move in single file along a track, soaked to the skin, muskets useless because of wet flints. It would be hand-to-hand combat, against pursuers always trying to get round and ahead of them, with his men as the rearguard suffering the most. But how else, could he get Fouquert to withdraw, and quickly?

‘It won’t do,’ he thought, looking at the churned-up surface of the road. ‘There has to be another way!’

He got himself, Bellamy, Rannoch and Commandatore Calheri across the bridge without being seen, heart in mouth, helped by the fact their opponents had to
concentrate
on the possibility of an approach, shifting uncomfortably as they sought to contain their fear. It wasn’t sympathy that made him consider that it must be equally nerve-wracking for his enemies; just his own knowledge. For a soldier facing a fight, to stay still and silent was hard. The mind was given free rein, just as his had so recently been, and all sorts of terrors were conjured up, demons that disappeared as soon as action was joined.

Calheri hadn’t argued with his intentions; she’d merely insisted on coming along. Perhaps time to contemplate, and the use of her knife, had tamed her enthusiasm for pitched battle. Asked to cut camouflage for his men, she and her troopers had put their stilettos to good purpose. An odd note was struck when she, close to Bellamy, had cut off a strip of her own white shirt, still clean from being tucked into her breeches, and tied it round his head, as she said, for good luck.

Halsey had charge of the men remaining in the woods. Gibbons and Leech were now crouched on the north side of the bridge, using the upright barriers and odd bits of foliage to disguise their presence. The orders he’d given them were simple. At the first sight of a horseman approaching from the south, they were to fire off
repeatedly
to drive them back, taking any target closer that presented itself, but to remember that rate of fire was of more importance than accuracy.

Then they were to run, Corsicans and Lobsters, taking the track they’d come on, without trying to fight, and hope that the sheer pace of their withdrawal would give them a breathing space. Under no circumstances were they to wait for him and the party he had brought across the bridge. Rannoch was annoyed that he’d chosen Bellamy to come with them. But a Negro, even one with a white tie round his brow, was a positive asset in deep foliage, Halsey was left with the unenviable task of trying to exert authority over those who remained behind. He knew he could manage the Lobsters. It was the
women
who worried him.

Once on the south side of the Golo, the quartet stayed close to the riverbank until they were at least a hundred yards from the bridge, dropping down into a sudden valley that, opening into a clearing, took them close to the river again at a point where it formed a deep, slower-moving pool. Sheer on the opposite bank, it shelved like a shallow beach here, and was bathed in sunlight. A place for a swim on a hot day, Markham thought, with a beautiful woman, the tumbling sound of water further upriver a pleasant background. He realised, suddenly, that he was staring at Calheri, and tried to concentrate on the task ahead.

The trail through the pine needles was clear. In such strong light they could even see the wet line of water spilt from the sutler’s buckets. It was so easy to follow, up a gentle, leaf-strewn slope. But not one of them was deceived by the tranquillity. Their muskets and pistols were aimed forward, and they were moving with the minimum amount of noise.

The forest closed round them again before long, more darkly brooding and still because of the preceding light. The undergrowth was so deep that the track of the men fetching water for their horses was soon lost, leaving them sniffing the air like dogs as they tried to pick up the scent of drying equine sweat. Calheri insisted on being in the
forefront, and Markham had to admit to her skill in this environment, as she found a route that, though less dense than it appeared at first, was sufficient to hide them from anyone more than ten feet away. Bellamy and Rannoch, carrying muskets, found the going harder than the officers, who could tuck their weapons in their waistbands and leave both hands free.

If any distance opened up between them, the forest swallowed the body. The Commandatore was definitely aided by the dark brown of her uniform. Not that the other three were too disadvantaged. Bellamy and Yelland had on grey flannel, now as stained as their breeches, while Markham’s coat, being dark blue with green facings, blended quite well into the surroundings. A verdant mass like this produced odours of its own: thyme and myrtle were strong, as was the sharp, throat-catching scent of pine. But the stink of a hard-ridden horse, added to the reek of fresh dung, was powerful enough to rise above even that. Calheri half turned, her nose twitching as she pointed silently half right. Markham came forward to join her as she whispered to him.

‘The ground must dip again, into a hollow, I think. They will have their mounts in a clearing that gives easy access to the road.’

Markham nodded, then fell in behind her again as, on hands and knees, she led the way, his face too close for comfort to the tight breeches she wore, producing unwelcome thoughts. Stopping suddenly, she motioned him alongside, a command he passed back to the others. The ground in front of them dropped sharply, a barren face, as if a section of earth had been recently dislodged. Three temporary horse-lines were strung between trees, each dragoon mount tied head up so that they wouldn’t try to graze on the pine needles. Though their girths were eased and stirrups raised, they were still saddled, ready for a swift departure.

The cavalry mounts, by far the bigger of the two types of
horses, occupied two of the lines. Two dragoons, carbines slung across head and shoulder, were making their way along the line, holding leather water buckets to the
animal’s
mouths, rationing the intake of each so that their performance wouldn’t suffer from over-indulgence. The other, smaller mounts, sturdy island ponies, were unattended, on longer halters that allowed them more freedom of movement, their shuffling noisy enough to still any sound of birdsong, so that the approach of Markham’s party had gone unnoticed.

Calheri pointed to their right, indicating the route by which the riders had made their way on foot to the road, ground well disturbed by marching feet.

‘Forty-five horses and ponies,’ Markham whispered, without adding, because it wasn’t necessary, that there were at least fifteen Corsicans keeping watch on that road, as well as the Frenchmen. ‘It would be nice to know how close they are.’

‘There is no time. Let us shoot those two French pigs and stampede the animals.’

The ‘No!’ was loud enough to make all three of the others cringe, and they pulled themselves slightly back to the safety of the bushes. Markham kept his eyes forward, so that they could all hear his whisper.

‘Those men have to be dealt with in silence, and it makes no difference if they are killed or just clubbed. Any noise, too soon, and we’ll have the whole force to deal with.’

‘Paoli!’ hissed Calheri.

She didn’t like to be checked, that was obvious from her glare and the way her eyes narrowed. Nor did she much like what he said next, made all the more telling by the low growling tone of his voice.

‘I think if I hear that name once more I’ll yell blue murder. I haven’t even met this paragon and already I’m sick of him.’ She looked set to respond in kind, but he cut her off. ‘But I will save him, if indeed he needs it. Die
even, but not uselessly. You’ve proved you’re good with that knife. Do so again. Take Bellamy round to the other side, while Rannoch and I come down off this ridge by the path that leads to the road.’

‘Why there?’ she asked, suspiciously, since what he proposed put her much closer than him to the dragoons.

‘If that path is too narrow and dark, we’ll never get the animals down it at anything like enough speed. If you’d ever tried to get a horse into a dark stall you’d know that. Some of them might have to be led in there, so that when they go, the rest will follow.’

She nodded as he added, ‘And I don’t know how far away the road is, do you? Let us come from that direction, and get our guns on them. You can then take them from behind.’

Markham grabbed Bellamy as she slithered away, pulling him close, aware for the first time that the odour of his body was different. ‘No guns till I say so. Club her if she tries to use her pistol.’

‘If she orders me?’

‘You are a marine, Bellamy,’ Markham interrupted. ‘You obey me, not her. And if you doubt the wisdom of doing so, then just think of staying alive.’

‘If he does not go he will lose her,’ growled Rannoch.

Markham pushed Bellamy away, indicated to his
sergeant
to follow, then, on his belly, crawled off in the opposite direction, keeping the edge of the ridge on his left. Soon he was heading downhill, at an angle so steep that he needed both hands to hold himself. He felt Rannoch, encumbered by his musket, slide into him, which pushed him faster than he wanted to go, and forced him to grab hold of a sapling to stop both men tumbling to the bottom of the slope in a noisy heap.

‘We would be best to go down on our arse,’ muttered Rannoch, his measured way of speaking causing Markham to wonder if the Highlander had ever gabbled a sentence. ‘That is, if we want to arrive with some dignity.’

Back on flat ground, life was easier, if no less scary. They were close now to the road; Markham could sense it, even if he couldn’t see it. The path that led to it was, as he had suspected, an overgrown track, so dark that no horse would go into it unless driven. So little light penetrated the thick arc of cover that he slipped across it without the slightest danger of being seen by the horse minders. Rannoch followed and they stayed upright as they made their way round the perimeter of the clearing, to a point just far enough away from the horse-lines to avoid spooking the animals.

The two dragoons had finished their watering, and were now looking to their own needs, opening saddlebags to produce bread, a flask, pipes and tobacco, the sound so like rustling hay that every horse’s eye was on them. Their carbines were still slung across their shoulders, which would make it impossible for them to get them off, over their heads, and presented in under five seconds, then a threat only if they were loaded. So preoccupied were they, so secure, that the pair didn’t notice the two intruders until they were within ten feet. An accidental scuff of Markham’s boot made one turn round, his gasp doing the same to the other. What they saw caused confusion: one giant blond in just his shirt, another man, who would have looked tall next to anyone normal, wearing one of their dragoon coats. What they didn’t misread was the two weapons aimed right at their chests.

As they turned to face the muzzles, hands raised,
Commandatore
Calheri walked out of the trees behind them, stiletto in her hand. Yet she herself was taken by surprise. A figure in Corsican uniform appeared at her left before she’d covered half the distance to the dragoons she intended to knife. Having been hidden in the trees, the third man’s view of both the marines and the dragoons had been obscured: he must have seen their upraised hands as he rushed forward, judging by the surprised flick of his eyes. Calheri, turning in shock, rocked back on her heels.
Her attacker took advantage of her lack of balance and knocked her over. She fell, arms spread out, and as she sprawled on the ground he whipped out his own knife.

Then Bellamy stepped forward, and froze. For reasons only the Negro knew, his musket was pointing towards the ground, and his face was shocked and pleading rather than angry and full of resolve. He stopped when he should have come on, which earned a curse from Rannoch, one that was redoubled when he swung his musket, pulled his trigger, and was rewarded with nothing but the crack of flint striking flint, as the musket misfired.

Both dragoons went for their carbines as soon as they heard that sound, only to hesitate when Markham moved forward, pistol extended. Calheri’s assailant was still standing astride her, knife out, but his gaze fixed on a Bellamy who appeared to be no threat. The
Commandatore
lunged up with her stiletto, plunging into the man’s lower belly so hard that it sliced right up to his leather belt. He should have screamed then, yet he didn’t. His eyes stayed on Bellamy as the black marine stumbled forward, slowly raised his weapon, and pushed the man to the ground. There he lay, twitching and groaning, one hand raised, pointing towards the Negro’s head.

Calheri jumped up and ran, her knife taking the first dragoon in the small of the back, ramming hard upwards towards his heart. Her other hand was a little late, and he got off half a cry before she smothered it. His companion stood, transfixed by terror, looking as the light of life died in the eyes of the man beside him. Rannoch moved forward and clubbed him with his useless musket, a blow the victim, mercifully, didn’t see coming.

‘Ponies first,’ snapped Markham. ‘Just untie their lines from the trees and leave them on their halters.
Commandatore
, relieve those two men of their carbines, and Bellamy, once you’ve untied the ponies, make sure your musket will fire.’

While they complied he was looking at the animals
closely, with that practised eye that every Irishman prided himself on. In all equine groupings, there was a hierarchy. Man might think he’d tamed horses, but they were still full of wild instincts. One of these ponies would be respected by the others, not so much a leader in the true sense, but a mount that inspired confidence. Where he went, they would follow. There was no time for deep analysis. First they had to be kept under control, and second, the sound of sixty hooves was bound to carry. He thought he detected one less frisky than the others, a
roan-coloured
stallion that had an air about him as he pawed the ground without fear.

‘Right,’ he said, moving forward and taking the reins. The animal tried to move sideways as he tightened the girth, but soothing words stilled it, and kept the beast there while he lengthened the stirrups. ‘Cut the cavalry horses loose on my command, and then blaze way with everything we’ve got.’

‘Lieutenant,’ Calheri demanded, standing in the middle of the clearing, a carbine in each hand, the very image of the kind of bandit queen so beloved by dramatists. ‘How do you know which way the horses will run?’

Markham leapt into the saddle with ease, grabbed the reins and rode to the very entrance of the tunnel-like path. The roan jibbed of course, but he held it steady and, spinning round, said in a joke that was wasted on her, ‘Sure, they’re like my men, Commandatore. They’ll bloody well follow me anywhere.’