Honour Redeemed (31 page)

‘How can people lose sight, so badly, of their cause?’

Paoli leant forward. ‘Is it St Francis Loyola given great power, gentlemen, or the Inquisition applied to
government
. Robespierre and his friends, like flagellant Jesuits, vie with each other to prove that their brand of
revolutionary
purity is the most sincere. And in order to
establish, with the mob, that their care for the rights of man are correct and paramount, they kill even more human beings than their rivals.’

That mention of the founder of the Jesuits made Markham think of Fouquert, and at the same time
Lanester’s
incisive identification of that trait in the Frenchman. Yet he thought Fouquert different. His stand on killing contained less hypocrisy than that of people like
Robespierre
and St Just. They did it at arm’s length, for political advantage. He did it close to, for pure pleasure.

‘I have made you all sad talking of this,’ said Paoli.

They all murmured negatively, denying what was
palpably
true. The conversation had driven them all to their own unpleasant thoughts: Magdalena about the
corruption
brought on by the search for power, Bellamy of a world that despised him, and Markham imagining Fouquert at work.

‘It is my habit to take a turn around the square,’ said Paoli, ‘to breathe some air after eating.’

Magdalena smiled. ‘A filthy English custom.’

‘Which I acquired while a guest in English houses,’ her uncle replied, in a way that firmly labelled the exchange as a family joke. ‘When I insisted that I continue it in London, my friends forbade it, saying crime was too rife.’

‘They were right, sir,’ said Markham, who had lived in the middle of the metropolis himself, and was well aware of the number of villains it housed.

Bellamy cut in. ‘Was it not Horace Walpole who opined that it was safer to take ship to Gibraltar in wartime, than to cross London after dark for dinner with a friend?’

‘I presume Corte is safer than that?’ said Markham.

‘Much safer,’ said Paoli, standing up.

He let Paoli and Bellamy get ahead on purpose, pleased that Magdalena kept pace with him. In front they could see the Negro, who had drunk more than anyone at the table, gesticulating away as he made some histrionic point.
The general seemed perfectly content just to listen, while he aimed an occasional nod at his fellow citizens. They were discussing the value of an Erastian Church set against the central rule of Rome, which was a subject that would have bored Markham rigid, even if he’d had Medusa on his arm.

It was impossible not to treat Magdalena differently. Here was no unkissed maiden, all a flutter at physical contact. She was a mother and had been a wife.

‘Your son is better?’

‘He is asleep again.’ Markham took a fraction off the distance between them, one that she made no attempt to restore. ‘That is not difficult when I am here. But when I am absent, he does suffer for his visions. Gianfranco thinks he will not live if I am not there to comfort him. He thinks his father will come back and kill him.’

It was impossible to mistake the bitter note in her voice, nor the surprise in his when he responded. ‘His father?’

‘We were in Bonifacio. My uncle was doing everything in his power not to invade Sardinia, while making the kind of bellicose noises that keep the more ardent souls happy. That was not a strategy which fooled people for long, especially the Buonapartes.’

‘They tried to kill your uncle?’

It was her turn to close the gap further, by taking a tighter grip on his arm. ‘In Corsica, Markham, things are never that simple. You must often guard against your professed friends, as well as your obvious enemies.
Whatever
, the assassin came, and got within feet of Paoli. My husband tore Gianfranco from my arms – he was but two at the time – and threw him at the knife to distract the assassin.’ That brought forth a sharp intake of breath from Markham, and by now he was close enough to feel her shaking at the memory. ‘The man was a murderer, but he had compassion, or perhaps a son of his own. He moved the knife aside just enough to spare Gianfranco. Then my husband went for him.’

‘And died.’

‘In great pain, Markham,’ she spat. ‘But not great enough.’

She was trembling from head to foot. He span her round and pushed her gently into the deep shadow formed by the flying buttress of a church, pulling her body close to his so that she could rest her head on his shoulder, whispering in her ear, his lips close enough to make contact.

‘You mustn’t,’ she gasped eventually.

‘Wrong,’ he growled.

It took all her strength to push him away, but she managed, then slipped past him until she was on the other side, back in full daylight. ‘I cannot, ever, have another man.’

‘What?’ he said, genuinely surprised.

The words tumbled out, garbled by her confusion: of brothers who would kill anyone who touched her; of her husband’s family, still addicts of the vendetta, who would knife him for an inappropriate sideways glance.

‘What you’re telling me, Magdalena, is this. That if I try to take liberties with you, I’ll gain myself some enemies.’

‘Deadly enemies!’

‘Jesus, girl,’ he replied, ‘I’ve got dozens of those already. A few more won’t faze me.’

She got him walking again, the distance restored between them and her uncle. ‘You must not even look at me so. I would remind you I’m living in my uncle’s house.’

‘I wasn’t planning to ask him for anything.’

‘The servants,’ she replied.

Markham needed no further explanation. When it came to improper liaisons, he’d had more trouble with servants than he’d ever had with their mistresses, or the husbands of the house for that matter. Nothing could happen under their roof that they didn’t know about. And it wasn’t just a case of relying on one or two. You had to trust them all,
right down to the lowest kitchen skivvy who scrubbed the sheets.

Paoli’s voice floated across the square, asking them if they’d had enough. Markham’s response was whispered to himself.

‘Holy Mother of Christ, we haven’t had any.’

Any attempt to pin down Paoli regarding his intentions was swept to one side, politely but firmly, and once back in his room and feeling the effects of good wine, Markham soon succumbed once more to the need for sleep. The bells of the church woke him, great pealing strokes that called the workers from their toil and the faithful to their evening prayers. The last of the sun had faded outside, and he thought he could hear, faintly, the sounds of
sentinels
calling to each other.

It was nice to lie there, warm, imagining Magdalena’s body under the same sheets, perhaps lying with her back to him, until that became too uncomfortable and he threw himself out onto the wooden floor. There was no fire in the grate and the room was chilly. So was the water in the jug, which was refreshing.

Few people can resist the sound of marching boots, and certainly no soldier. He threw on his breeches and the scarlet coat, and dashed out into the hallway. There was a shuttered window, and it opened on to the square
before
the National Assembly building. The torches
lining
the portico revealed Rannoch and his Lobsters marching towards it, packs on their backs. A shout made them halt, and once he was out of the door he was presented with a disgruntled group of men covered in dust.

‘I take it you’ve been marching all day, Sergeant?’

‘Most of it, sir,’ Rannoch replied bitterly, ‘only to find the bastards would not open the gates after sunset to let us in.’

‘Did they expect you to spend the whole night out there?’

‘They did. Under the walls, freezing our parts off. If I had possessed my own musket, I would have shot the sentry.’

Markham, suffering from some degree of guilt, noticed that all his men were eyeing the scarlet coat, the braid of which picked up the torchlight. It was Rannoch who voiced the question, which had undertones of perfectly understandable resentment.

‘Had a bit of good fortune in the promotion line, sir?’

‘A loan, Rannoch. I’m not a Foot Guards colonel, it’s just that they don’t like French coats round here.’

‘Nor British marines, it seems.’

‘Follow me. I’ll see about a billet and some food.’

At that moment Eboluh Bellamy appeared, still wearing the plum-coloured coat and yellow waistcoat. He didn’t look quite as grand as he had earlier, since his clothes were somewhat creased, and his face looked puffy and pale, if you could say that about a black man. Markham had left him at the table, very close to the port bottle, and it looked as though he’d indulged himself.

‘Holy Christ,’ said Rannoch, ‘would you look at that black bastard.’

The way his men were looking at him, Markham knew he was close to forfeiting whatever trust he’d built up these last months. The prejudice against Bellamy was widespread, his manner multiplying the feelings about his race. To men who had just spent an uncomfortable day on the road, the sight of him, clearly the worse for drink, dressed like a gent, was infuriating.

‘Bellamy,’ Markham barked, with a slight feeling of shame. ‘Get that damned kit off and rejoin the unit.’

The ‘sir’ was slow and slurred, partly by drink, but as much by confusion. What had happened to that amusing companion of the meal? Then he observed the hate
emanating 
from the rest of the men, and that made him scurry to comply.

‘Where’s Major Lanester?’ asked Markham suddenly.

‘They couldn’t find a trace, sir. Major Lanester has disappeared.’

Markham organised food and a billet for his men, and sent a message to General Paoli requesting an immediate interview. The news of Lanester bothered him deeply, but he was at a loss to know what to do about it. He lacked both time and any knowledge of the terrain to go searching for him. But he’d ordered Rannoch to return when he was ready to do so, and give him more details of what had occurred.

Fed and warm in the general’s kitchen, Rannoch told his tale. First the scrawny carter had turned up at dawn, empty-handed. He had been about to set out himself when the Corsicans sent by Paoli turned up. Given their greater mobility it made sense to let them go to the monastery. This they did, only to find no sign of Lanester or Pavin. A search of the surroundings produced no trace either, so they’d returned to San Quilici Rocci. Rannoch, on his own initiative, knowing that his officer would want to be informed, had upped sticks and marched out.

‘Had I known what mean-spirited swine I would have to deal with, I would have stayed where I was, or at least brought those cavalrymen back with us.’

‘They didn’t even come and tell me,’ Markham replied, his mind full of images of Lanester and Pavin swinging from the branch of some tree.

‘That would be because they denied your existence, if I understood one word in ten of what they said.’

‘Did you mention Commandatore Calheri?’

‘I did. All that produced was laughter and ribaldry.’

‘I thought you didn’t understand them?’

‘The laugh produced by men slighting women is the same the world over.’

Markham’s anger on her behalf was deflected by the way Rannoch suddenly looked over his shoulder, and shot to his feet, which made his officer turn round. Paoli, dressed in civilian clothes and looking very benign, stood in the doorway smiling. It was a testimony to his presence that the Highlander, who often had to be dragged to his feet in front of most British officers, had spotted right away that this man deserved his respect.

‘Lieutenant.’

‘Sir. Allow me to introduce Sergeant Rannoch.’

Paoli stepped forward. He was a tall man, but he still had to look up into the Scotsman’s eyes. ‘You fought on the Morosaglia trail, sergeant?’

‘I did, sir!’

The General held out his hand, showing a fine sensitivity to the nature of United Kingdom politics. ‘Then I shall thank you in the British manner, and shake you by the hand.’

Rannoch grasped the outstretched limb and shook it, his eyes open more than usual, evidence of his surprise. ‘You will have brought Major Lanester to us.’

‘No, sir,’ Markham replied, before passing on
Rannoch’s
explanation. A cloud descended immediately over Paoli’s features, a clear indication of deep distress. It was one Markham only partially shared, but he spoke to reassure the General.

‘He was a soldier, sir, as we are, and took a soldier’s risks.’

‘That may explain a loss, Lieutenant. It does not, however alleviate it.’

‘Major Lanester may be safe, sir. Indeed he may well have decided to return to San Fiorenzo and expand upon the despatch he sent Admiral Hood.’

‘Which one was that?’ Paoli asked, absentmindedly.

‘After Cardo, sir, and what we had seen.’ That got the General’s attention, and as he continued Markham found himself looking into the old man’s penetrating blue eyes.
‘We felt that Admiral Hood should be apprised of any information we had.’

For the first time since meeting Paoli, Markham was exposed to the rod of steel that upheld that elderly frame. It was hardly surprising it was there. No man without it could have even begun to tame the Corsicans. But it stood as testimony to his skill with people that it was so well concealed.

‘You did not tell me of this?’

‘I’m sorry, General. I took it for granted that you would guess.’

‘It is my fault, Lieutenant, for not inquiring,’ Paoli replied, managing to look as though he meant it. ‘But what you and Lanester have done is a mistake. Can you tell me precisely what the Major said?’

‘No sir. I told him what I saw, he wrote the despatch and we sent it off, in a sealed packet, with three marines.’

‘How far did they have to travel?’

‘A day’s march, perhaps more than that if the terrain was rough.’

‘And they left you when?’

‘Four days ago.’

Paoli sucked in a great quantity of air, which he released slowly. ‘We must leave at once, Lieutenant.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Because the situation is grave.’

‘You think Admiral Hood will withdraw?’

The reply, given Paoli’s habitual behaviour, was quite sharp. ‘No! I told you he was bluffing. But from what little I know of Hood he is strong-willed. He may act on that information and precipitate a crisis.’

‘Surely, sir, if he acts on what we have told him he will avert one. General Buttafuco will at least be neutralised.’

‘He will condemn an innocent man, and in doing so he will allow the true traitor to flourish.’

‘Buttafuco is innocent?’ asked Markham with disbelief.

‘If Arsenio has taken French gold, and sought to betray
us, I hope God sends a plague to rid this island of all human life. I know of no man more patriotic than him.’

‘Then what was he doing talking to the French?’

‘That is not the real question, Lieutenant Markham.’

‘Well what is?’

‘I have already told you. Why were you allowed to see him doing so? Whoever arranged that will be the real traitor. How soon can your men be ready to march?’

Markham looked at Rannoch, whose opinion was likely to be more accurate than his own. As usual, in what appeared to be a crisis, the Highlander answered slowly.

‘We have no coats, your honour, and we have returned the guns and ammunition.’

‘Given those?’

‘We are ready as soon as you want to leave.’

‘Lieutenant, organise your men while I find my niece. I will get her to take you to the armoury and see you fully equipped.’

‘Do you have any British weapons there, sir?’ asked Rannoch.

‘Twenty stands of Brown Bess muskets, Sergeant, with bayonets and cartridges.’

Paoli turned to leave, but Rannoch wasn’t finished with him. ‘From which manufactuary, your honour?’

‘Birmingham.’

‘Hirst and Waller?’

‘You know your guns, Sergeant.’

‘It helps me survive, sir.’

Markham, still slightly shocked, suddenly returned to the real world. ‘Clothing, General Paoli.’

‘Will have to be Corsican, since we have no others to provide.’

‘Do we march for San Fiorenzo?’

‘No, Lieutenant. We go to Aleria, which is on the east coast.’ He could see the question in Markham’s eyes, and paused just long enough to stretch his eagerness to know. ‘In that despatch you brought, Admiral Hood offered me
a ship to save time. There is a Royal Navy sloop at Aleria, waiting to take me to where I need to be.’

Paoli turned to leave, but Markham’s voice stopped him. ‘I have to know, General, would you have undertaken this journey without that despatch?’

‘I cannot say, Lieutenant.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I do not know the answer.’

They were back through the gates within two hours, Paoli ahead on his horse. Magdalena was Commandatore Calheri once more, in breeches and short dark jacket, with a carbine over her shoulders, Markham’s troops, dressed in the same uniform, marching along behind. It had been a disappointment to the marine officer when the General designated his niece’s female soldiers as his main escort, instead of the male garrison of Corte. His men, however, were as pleased as punch. Some of them had even got a smile as the two groups formed up, and harboured high hopes of turning those shy grins into something more substantial before the journey was completed.

Aleria was straight down the valley of the River
Tavigiano
, which twisted along a valley floor hemmed in by huge mountains, the foothills coated with the inevitable
maccia.
As they marched the old man was able to relive the battle they’d fought on the Morosaglia trail. The details of the action produced cries of wonder from his lips, with an inordinate amount of praise bestowed on his niece and her troopers. It was an indication of how struck the Lobsters were with the idea of rogering the lot of them that they didn’t resent this.

‘Uncle, we must move further into the forest,’
Magdalena
said, on one of the frequent stops.

‘Of course, my dear.’

‘Lieutenant,’ she said stiffly, ‘please ensure that your men stay on the road.’

Markham just nodded, and watched them file down a
path, looking for a place private enough to double as a latrine. ‘Why don’t we stop in the towns?’

‘Two reasons, Lieutenant,’ the old man replied. ‘I cannot enter any Corsican municipality without being afforded a reception. Given that, I have to stay and show that the hospitality is welcome. To show gratitude, in other words. Speeches are called for, drink is consumed and if I am not there till after dark, insult is taken.’

‘Which means you cannot travel fast enough?’

‘Nor discreetly enough. The camp at Cardo would know of my coming before I had gone twenty miles.’ Markham opened his mouth to speak, then hesitated. The old man gave him that knowing, sometimes infuriating smile. ‘You have something you wish to say?’

‘Yes. Bellamy was told, in no uncertain terms, that there were traitors active in Corte. What is to stop one of them using the road, which is a faster route even if it is longer, to get to Cardo before us?’

‘The gates of Corte were shut behind us, young man. The garrison, which I think you would have been happier to bring along with us …’

‘I … em …’ stuttered Markham.

‘I saw your face when they formed up. Magdalena you welcome, and I will not inquire why. But her soldiers.’

‘I didn’t know it was that obvious.’

‘If a little self-regard may be allowed, I have trained myself to observe men’s moods. I have had to hone that skill in order to survive. I think that I was the only one who noticed. Anyway, the garrison will keep those gates shut, and patrol the walls to ensure that no one leaves without declaring themselves.’

‘Is that protection enough?’

‘Probably not. I regret to say that the society of this island is not like that.’

‘Whatever possessed you, sir, to form female units?’ Markham asked.

‘We are short of men, a situation made more acute by
the actions of clans like the Buonapartes. Our women are fighters, Lieutenant. Don’t ever make the mistake of seeing them as lesser mortals.’

‘Certainly not in the
maccia.
They use their knifes well. But in open battle?’