Authors: David Donachie
‘He certainly likes a tall tale. None of that brief glimpses stuff. He practically said you would remember them well enough to get revenge.’
‘What did he add when I wasn’t there?’
‘Dundas never got the chance to add anything. Hood kept them well occupied, I presume with his apologies. When Hanger tried to talk to them, Nelson was alongside them in a flash.’
‘Well it didn’t do much good,’ Markham added grimly. ‘So this time, if you don’t mind, I’ll keep all the senior officers in the dark. I interrogated my men when I came back. This billet has been watched since that day. It didn’t register with them, or me for that matter, and why should it. Who is going to comment on local rankers lounging around in their own bailiwick? It was only afterwards that anyone questioned what so many Corsican soldiers were doing in San Fiorenzo in the first place, when their army is investing the forts before Bastia.’
‘That was nearly a week ago. Why did they wait?’
‘I was never alone, Major, until that night.’
‘You weren’t alone then, from what I hear.’
‘I was when I left this billet. Bellamy, the marine who disturbed them, was out without permission.’
‘Looking for what?’ Lanester asked.
‘A drink, perhaps.’
‘Or a woman,’ said the major, with deep irony. He stood up then, and began to pace up and down, his head sunk on his chest. Markham watched him for several minutes. Finally the pacing stopped, and he fixed him with a serious look.
‘I came here to warn you, Markham. To give you the option, if you like, of declining certain hazardous duties.’
‘For which I thank you.’
That made Lanester impatient. Having marshalled his thoughts, he wanted to speak without interruption. ‘But after what you’ve just said, you stand in more danger than Hanger can provide. If the Corsicans have tried to kill you once, they may well do so again.’
‘Thank you, Sir David Dundas,’ said Markham sardonically.
‘Will you be silent, sir!’ Lanester snapped. ‘The old sod has gone. But that doesn’t alter matters. The army command still thinks that one, maybe even two, of the senior Corsican officers is working against us and his own countrymen.’
‘Then they need to be exposed,’ Markham interrupted, earning himself another hard look. ‘Especially if we are going to try to take Bastia from the sea.’
‘And how, clever Dick, would you go about that?’ snapped Lanester. ‘These are officers of an allied force. Why do you think Hood spent so much time grovelling? Dundas has gone, which has soothed ruffled feathers. The merest hint that Hood suspects them of treachery, without proof positive, could be fatal. I don’t think you have any idea how prickly these Corsicans are in matters of honour.’
‘Methinks the lady doth protest too much,’ Markham murmured.
‘What!’
‘Shakespeare, sir.
Hamlet
.’
‘Damn
Hamlet
!’
‘I merely suggest, sir, that protestations of honour are not always justified. I’ve known them used as a cloak by the most unscrupulous people.’
The look Lanester gave him was singular, almost enough to harden the fleshy jowls of his face. But his voice remained the same. ‘That’s for certain. But it doesn’t alter the fact that Nelson, with you, Hanger and all the fleet marines, intends to be off Bastia within ten days, wind and tide permitting.’
‘That soon.’
‘Nelson contends that delay only makes the enemy stronger,’ Lanester snorted. ‘That from a man who won’t even admit that the numbers he’s been given might be false, nor allow any leeway for the fact that the Corsicans may well not support him.’
‘And the army still won’t move?’
‘No. But General d’Aubent asked me to go to Corte and take a request to General Paoli that he come to Bastia personally and intercede.’
‘Everyone seems very sure he has the power?’
‘I told you before, son, to the ordinary people of this island he’s a saint. But the most vital thing is this. He will know how to expose anyone betraying the cause, or to shift them so that their effect is capped, even if it means replacing them all.’
‘Perhaps a more Corsican method will be employed.’
‘The knife?’ said Lanester rhetorically. ‘Not Pasquale Paoli. He’s spent his whole life trying to rid this land of the vendetta. He wouldn’t engage in the start of one himself.’
‘Why you, sir?’
‘Well, for a start, Sir Gilbert Elliot, the politico who deals with the old man, is not here to do it for us. After our little meeting on
Victory,
I happened to mention to both Dundas and d’Aubent that I know him quite well. So the request that I go is natural.’
‘How did you meet?’
For once Lanester’s face took on a look of utter desolation, the twin lines between his nose and his cheeks deepening considerably. ‘Two exiles, stuck in London hankering after home, we had a lot in common. Mind you, we also had a great deal to disagree about. But that’s the thing about a man like Paoli. You can differ with him violently, and still hold his respect.’
‘D’you think he’ll oblige?’
‘Not without pressure. The man wants some peace and
quiet in his old age. But when you’re the only person who can unify a nation, retirement is not very likely to be on the cards.’
Markham nearly said ‘like George Washington’, but stopped himself.
‘Hanger had to persuade d’Aubent to let him go with Nelson. That was the general’s condition. Either the Corsican army has new commanders, ones we can trust, or Paoli himself. Not that failure will deflect Nelson, who’s a glory-hungry lunatic to my way of thinking. He’ll attack Bastia regardless.’
Markham was about to defend Nelson, who he felt was being blackened, even if there was some truth in his desire to gain glory. But Lanester had started pacing again, head on chest. If the major was right, then he was at some risk. Augustus Hanger knew how to give him dangerous duties, ones that he couldn’t decline for fear of losing face. His awareness that such an attitude was stupid didn’t alter things. He could swear to all the saints in the canon that he wouldn’t oblige, yet knew that when the time came he’d never let Hanger embarrass him. And if the Colonel succeeded in getting him killed that way, the stain would be erased from his wife’s reputation.
‘I need an escort,’ said Lanester suddenly.
That made Markham stiffen – though not the notion itself. In such a wild country as Corsica, which had its share of banditti even in wartime, it was unwise to travel the country without protection.
‘I’m sure your own regiment will oblige.’
‘It’s not my regiment, son, I’m on attachment.’
That was common enough. Many regimental officers held their commissions for social rather than military reasons. Given a war to fight, they were happy to stay at home and let a more aggressive, or a more needy, officer take their place.
‘Surely that won’t matter.’
‘What about you, Markham?’
He’d guessed that was coming as soon as Lanester mentioned his requirement. Having him on hand to tell Pasquale Paoli, in person, what he had seen, could be just the degree of pressure the major was seeking. It was tempting, but Markham knew it had to be refused.
‘I won’t run away.’
‘Even if you are given express orders to do so?’
‘No such orders have been issued.’
Lanester grinned then. ‘I think you should be getting on with your firing practice, don’t you Lieutenant?’
Lanester was back before twilight, to inform Markham that de Lisle, invited to replace both his marine officer and the men he led, had jumped at the chance, while the
Seahorse
had yet to return from its mission to Admiral Hotham. Any further protests had been swept aside. Lanester produced written orders from Hood himself, and given that the fleet marines were already being loaded onto Nelson’s ships, there was no time available to make representations for a change of duty.
‘Draw rations as required,’ snapped Lanester, ‘then get some sleep. We leave at first light.’
A fifty-mile march over mountain roads was hardly a job for marines, something Halsey had taken pains to point out. Rannoch, still a soldier despite his coat, merely redoubled his efforts with his moulds, calling on all the men to make enough ammunition to see them to Corte and back, regardless of what they encountered. Markham was just downcast. He knew that, even though he was commanded to the duty, it would be seen in another, less flattering light by those he left behind.
No direct road existed between San Fiorenzo and Pasquale Paoli’s mountain retreat, and Lanester would not even consider the uncomfortable route to Corte, straight through the central belt of mountains. He’d commandeered a wagon and loaded it with gifts, the product of a serious raid on every ship in Hood’s fleet. He’d also helped himself to the better class of supplies, so that, as he put it, ‘his little command wouldn’t starve, or want for a decent glass of wine’. Pavin, his whey-faced, wrinkled
servant, had interpreted this to mean the major himself, and just possibly Markham. The Lobsters who provided the escort could eat hard tack for all he cared.
The wagon obliged the party to cross the Colla di Teghima and skirt Bastia, a route which, of necessity, traversed the rear of the Corsican positions around Cardo. They left the last British post on the rising ground near Barbaggio, some four miles from San Fiorenzo, surprised to learn from the officer in command that French cavalry patrols were active along the route.
‘I thought the Corsicans had them well bottled up,’ said Lanester.
‘The French infantry, yes. But the coastal routes are open north and south of Bastia. The locals don’t have the manpower to close off the whole town, and they are not overly gifted with mounted units of their own.’
‘Is this just rumour?’
‘No, sir,’ the young officer replied, pointing up the road. ‘We had one of them come within long musket range not twelve hours ago.’
‘Lieutenant,’ Lanester called, turning in his saddle. ‘Keep your men closed up, and ready. Once we’re past this piquet, it’s not friendly territory.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Markham responded, with the same sour air he had worn since Lanester told him of the intended route.
The road rose and the encroaching woodland retreated, until they were traversing the open, barren landscape on which they’d camped during the pursuit from Fornali. It looked even more desolate now, devoid of the men and equipment that had surrounded them. Clumps of tough bush alternated with great windhewn boulders and jagged spirals of ancient rock. Deep gullies were numerous to both right and left, some big enough to house an entire squadron of cavalry, which kept the whole party alert.
The temperature dropped inexorably until, still bunched up and watchful, they reached the highest point of the Teghima Pass, hills towering on either side, a
thousand feet higher than the road itself, with a lonely Corsican outpost the only visible sign of human habitation. Once inside the Corsican positions, with a junior ensign delegated to escort them, they could relax a little. After a brief stop, some food and a hot drink, they were marching downhill, in increasing warmth, the tensions which had plagued them since Lanester sprung his surprise beginning to fade.
‘Might I suggest we cut the corner off the road, sir? A couple of my men can escort the cart round without stopping. That will at least keep you and me clear of the Corsican camp.’
Lanester replied in that jokey way which he’d previously found amusing. On this day it grated on Markham’s nerves. ‘You’re not suggesting I forgo a decent dinner, Lieutenant, are you?’
‘Given the lack of time, sir, I’m proposing a course of action that would be expedient.’
‘Can’t hear you for the rumbling in my belly, son. I believe I said plainly before that I have no mind to make my way by mule track.’ He jerked his head towards the Corsican ensign, riding alongside him. ‘Besides, what would this young buck think if we headed off into the woods?’
Markham nearly said, ‘Just don’t tell them where we’re going, or why.’ But he stayed silent, feeling the words would be wasted. Nor could he point out what Lanester should have taken into account: that for George Markham, proximity to such an encampment was like volunteering for a spell in the lion’s den, that he’d feel more secure under Hanger’s orders. He was a grown man and an experienced fighting soldier. There was no way he could say to another officer that every time he spied one of those tight-fitting Corsican hats, he had to suppress a shudder.
They saw the three French forts first, well-constructed
redoubts really, lacking only numerous artillery pieces to make them truly formidable. They stood high on the coastal plain commanding the approaches to the walled port of Bastia, some distance in the rear. Markham’s depressed spirit rose a little at the sight. Soon the bay beyond would be full of ships, this the place to be regardless of risk from supposed friends or foe. The tinge of exhilaration didn’t last long, as he contemplated the drudgery, not to mention the dangers, of the task Lanester had landed him with.
The administrative centre of French rule on the island, as it had been for the Genoese, Bastia was Corsica’s largest city. It was also home, according to their escort, to a multitude of people who still supported the notion of French rule, this information imparted with a gobble of spit and an air of great sadness.
‘But we will chase them into the sea, will we not, Major,’ the boy said, the worry that had creased his brow clearing as his optimism was restored. ‘God Save King George and the people of Corsica.’
‘Amen,’ Lanester replied, his eyes ranging over the tent city that held the bulk of the island’s army.
‘They’re pushed well forward,’ said Markham, professional interest overriding his other feelings. ‘If the enemy sortied out from those redoubts, they’d have scant time to man their defences.’
Asked about this, the ensign fumbled for an answer. But when his imagination provided one, it was supplied with a glow of pride. ‘We want them to see the whites of our eyes, to know that we are close so that they will have great fear. Every night, they must run a hand across their throat to see if it is still whole.’
Markham was tempted to say something about sabre cuts, but stopped himself. General Arena must know the French had cavalry available, and outside the defence lines, well able to mount a surprise attack. If he hadn’t bothered to take precautions to deal with it, no words of
his would change anything. That attitude was less assured when they examined the Corsican front line. The battlements of the nearest French redoubt, eight hundred yards distant, were easily visible with the naked eye, alarmingly close when viewed through his small telescope. Lanester, striding along beside him, likewise examining the French defences, was scathing.
‘If they’d been this hugger-mugger when we came ashore at Fornali, the whole island would be French free by now.’
‘It’s too close for my liking. We’re practically within six-pounder range.’
‘Hanger reported they’re short on cannon.’
‘They wouldn’t need too many at this distance.’
Lanester nodded without looking at him, his air slightly bewildered. ‘They sure have a funny way of making war, these fellows.’
Seen close up, and in quantity for the first time, Markham could examine the Corsican Army, and begin to consider the difficulties they faced in fighting disciplined French troops. Their uniforms, such as they were, consisted of homespun jackets that had all the variety of features which come from being made by hundreds of different hands. Boots varied in length and quality. Even the round, oddly-shaped hats were mixed, vivid colours, some embroidered and tasselled, others plain black.
Equipment was just as primitive and individual, everything from ancient musketoons to the odd, even older, blunderbuss. A few regiments were fully supplied with the muskets Hood and Dundas had gifted them, and these, being the smartest clad, were probably Arena’s most experienced, and certainly most disciplined troops. For the rest, they were a militia, men called from farms, villages and tending sheep to fight the enemy. Order seemed less than perfect in their ranks, hardly surprising in a peasant army. Yet history proved that they were tough, individualistic and brave, even if they did need inspired direction to achieve success. According to the perceived
wisdom, he and Lanester were on their way to see the only person in the whole island who could provide such leadership.
The idea that such an aim and destination could be kept secret turned out to be wishful thinking. Either through a deliberate leak or casual conversation, the officers of the Corsican Army seemingly knew where they were going before they arrived. Lanester, with a face like thunder, came back from a courtesy call to headquarters that had lasted for nearly an hour, instead of in the time it would take to sort out part of the camp where Pavin could light a fire, as planned.
‘Damnit! San Fiorenzo must leak like a sieve. I never got a chance to tell them our destination, since they told me. I’m surprised they didn’t decide to read me my actual orders for a joke.’
‘Do they know why?’ asked Markham, with some alarm.
‘No. But by damn they probed enough. That’s why I’ve been so long. I’ve managed to convince them it’s just a courtesy visit, one old friend calling on another, social like.’
‘Are you sure they believe you?’
‘They don’t give away much. I’ve seen snakes whose eyes move more.’
Markham looked at the fire, blazing with its third quota of logs. ‘I’d like to feed the men before we move on, sir.’
‘You’d best sort out some billets. We’re staying till the morning.’
‘What!’ Markham protested. Lanester looked at him hard, then jerked his head to indicate that the men could overhear them. But Markham wasn’t to be deflected. They should never have come near Cardo at all in his estimation, and he didn’t care what the major, or the Lobsters, thought of that opinion. He looked at the sky, grey and overcast, but still light. ‘We can make another six miles before dark.’
‘Too late, Markham,’ Lanester said softly. ‘An invitation
to dine has been issued. After all I said about being social, I figured it would only excite their suspicions if I declined.’
‘Did you accept for both of us?’ Markham asked, matching the major’s quiet tone.
‘Why?’
‘I can move on with the men, sir, and you can make up the distance on horseback.’
‘Not on your life,’ Lanester exploded. ‘I’m not eating with these fellows alone.’
‘Time, sir. Nelson will land in nine days.’
Lanester looked grave, and he took Markham by the arm and led him away from the men. ‘For the sake of six miles, Markham, we have to chance it. It would never do to let these bastards, with their nasty distrustful ways, think we’re in a rush.’
‘Even if we are?’
The response to that was delivered with an impatient hiss. ‘I was told you were quick to the nick, boy, and yet I find you’re slow, real slow. You still haven’t figured it out, have you?’
With no actual answer, Markham adopted the only sensible course and said nothing, even though Lanester’s pause was more than long enough to allow it.
‘Coming through here was deliberate. Do you really think we could have crossed half the island without these men finding out where we were headed? Lord save us, we couldn’t have got clear of San Fiorenzo. I’m trying to allay their suspicions, boy, and that includes any they have regarding you. I aim to get us to Corte in one piece, and bring back Paoli, even if it means cutting it a little fine. Now do me a kindness: park that sour puss of yours, and acknowledge that this is my mission, and that I know what I’m about.’
Lanester and his unwilling escort thus found themselves changing into their very best uniforms, one with good cheer, the other still reluctant. Markham became steadily
more morose, and he made no secret of his feeling that one dinner with the senior Corsican commanders had been quite enough. But the major’s servant, Pavin, easily out-gloomed him.
‘One slobber of an officer is enough for me,’ he moaned, as he stabbed a needle at the torn aiguillette on Markham’s coat with all the venom of a bayonet. ‘An’ them damned Lobsters we fetched along will be laying about having downed their supper, while I slave over their governor’s needs.’
Lanester, tweaking his fresh linen, ignored him and addressed Markham, who was polishing his own boots, holding them up so that they reflected the light of a dozen candles. ‘You should be grateful, Lieutenant, that it’s only one dinner. If I’d accepted all that was offered, including an invite to hunt, we’d be here for ten days.’
‘What do we say to them, if they probe further? They’re not going to believe that our mission is purely social, regardless of how much you smile.’
‘Acknowledge the truth, up to a point. No sense in denying what they’ll already have guessed. Just say we’re going to see Paoli to ask him to redouble his efforts to help us. Hint that we’re not concerned about Bastia, but Calvi. That will make sense, since the defences around Calvi are naturally stronger.’
‘So we need more troops?’
‘That’s a good idea. If you’re stuck, mention that there are several regiments sitting to the south of Calvi, outside Ajaccio, which don’t seem to be doing much.’
‘And my being here?’
‘Coincidence, man!’ Lanester barked.
‘There,’ barked Pavin, as Markham opened his mouth to respond, ‘best I can manage.’
Markham sat for a moment, unconvinced. But a growl from Pavin forced him to take his coat, and examine the expert repair. The thick gold threads entwined across each shoulder, made from the same material as Lanester’s
epaulettes, were once more a perfect match, as good as new. He opened his mouth to offer thanks, but Lanester’s servant didn’t wait for him to speak.