Authors: David Donachie
‘Bury them,’ Markham said, when he was shown the bodies, ‘and Captain Duchesne as well. There’s some soft ground at the back of the paddocks. There’s no time to go deep, just make sure they have covering enough to keep off any animals. We’ll be moving out as soon as we’re fed.’
Lanester had passed out on the journey through the
maccia,
so that by the time they got him into one of the cots the notion that Rannoch had suggested seemed to make more sense than moving him again. What colour the major had was now gone. His face was pallid, seemingly devoid of blood. Since this was a decision on which his servant should be consulted, Markham went to find Pavin in the kitchen. Of course, Pavin asked the obvious
question
, but with none of his usual ill-humour.
‘And what occurs if they Crapauds comes back this way?’
Markham shrugged, because he really couldn’t answer that. He had no idea where the French had gone. Bellamy had mentioned some kind of mission that would prevent their return to Bastia. If he had the right of it, they could be anywhere.
‘He’d be better not being jigged around, and that’s no error,’ Pavin added. ‘To my way of thinking, that would do for him.’
His satchel of spices and condiments was by his hand, and, having tasted the contents of the pot, he added something unknown to the largest of his copper pans. Then he began to stir. Markham knew he was ruminating, weighing up the pros and cons, and had to fight to contain his impatience. For a moment, the noise he was making, as he poked at it vigorously, seemed unnatural, until Markham realised that Pavin wasn’t the source. The sound of running feet in heavy boots was different.
‘Soldiers!’ shouted Rannoch.
Markham guessed that before he spoke, just as he knew he’d been truly humbugged for a second time. Fouquert had been too shrewd to chase him through the
maccia
,
and he’d been too stupid to see the trap that he set instead. The French had even left their horses and come back on foot. No wonder they’d left the food, the one thing guaranteed to keep hungry men still long enough for him to come back and recapture them. The sound of the boots, clearly moving at speed, increased until they seemed to invade the whole building. As silence fell, he dragged himself out of the kitchen and, watched by his men, who stood in an attitude of fearful anticipation, went towards the door. His hand rested on the handle for several
agonising
seconds before he could be brought to turn it and pull.
The air outside was still colder than that in the chapel, and the light from the low, early March sun, which barely topped the mountains, temporarily blinded him. He could see the figures lined up, indistinct shapes until his eyes adjusted. That and walking forward brought them into view. Looking along the line to find Fouquert, he was wondering if the cutlery knife he had put back in his pocket would do what he required, while cursing himself for not picking up something sharper from the kitchen. Even for dragoons on foot, the troopers seemed small, which he put down to a trick of the light. And the
uniforms
, in silhouette, showed none of their colour. But enough of the weapons were raised to catch the sunlight, and the command, in French, to raise his hands was one he had to obey.
But the voice was wrong and it certainly wasn’t
Fouquert’s
. First, it was of a higher pitch. And secondly, why address him in French, when Fouquert spoke good English? The idea that it was a different French patrol, though unwelcome, gave him some hope of personal
survival
, until he discarded that as wishful thinking. He took four quick paces forward, until the command to stand still could be spoken, which brought him into the shadow created by the mountains. Again that light voice spoke in French.
‘You were expecting someone else, soldier.’
She was uniformed and armed, wearing the
dun-coloured
jacket of the Corsican army, even to the point of having a coxcomb round hat on her head. So were all the other women. If there was a concession to their sex, it was the very elaborate embroidery that decorated their caps. Much as he was taken by the novelty of what was before him, he was too smitten with the leader to spare much attention to her inferiors. She was remarkable, and in every respect except her striking face and fulsome figure, she looked the very image of an infantry officer.
But the face – dark smooth skin, full sensual lips, and black eyes – was enchanting. He guessed the hair would be black too, that tone so deep it was almost blue, the kind of topping they said in Ireland had the Spanish Armada in it. The gun she held, a long, old-fashioned pistol, looked too heavy for her slight frame. But it was steady enough. Even through the dull cloth of the uniform he could detect the swell of her breasts, and in the
split-second
it took to discern all this, he felt his blood race a little as he began to smile.
‘Allow me to introduce myself, madame. I am
Lieutenant
George Markham of His Britannic Majesty’s Marines.’
‘In that coat!’
That stopped him in mid bow. He had forgotten about the coat he was still wearing, which even lacking a shirt identified him as a French dragoon. Absurdly, he was stuck, looking up while remaining bent over, the smile still on his face making him feel even more stupid.
‘Stolen to ward off the cold, madame.’
‘Not madame. Commandatore!’
Her retort at least allowed him to adopt a more dignified pose, standing fully upright. ‘Might I ask your name?’
‘Calheri.’
‘Then you may considerably outrank me. And if the French had not stolen my hat, I would perforce raise it in salute.’
‘What nonsense is this?’
‘Do you speak English?’
‘A leetle,’ she replied.
‘Then if you will forgive me, I will continue in French.’
Having now an in-built distrust of anything Corsican, he found himself being exceedingly circumspect.
Particularly
, Nelson and the impending attack on Bastia could not be mentioned. Markham confined himself to the line of the proposed visit, that their desire to see Paoli was purely social. He told her how they’d come to be captured, followed by a gesture towards the multiple grave.
Expecting
her to be shocked by the murder of the monks, he was surprised when she merely crossed herself and murmured an incantation for their souls, before bidding him
continue
. This was followed by the details of their escape, leaving out that which didn’t matter regarding Duchesne and Fouquert, all the while searching her face both to see how she was reacting and, he was forced to admit to himself, to admire her beauty.
‘You are, of course, free to step inside, and talk to my men. And you may wish to examine the grave. The man in charge of our mission, Major Lanester, is in one of the cells, carrying a wound. He’s an old friend of General Paoli and knew him in London. If he can talk, I think he will be able to convince you more readily than I.’
She slipped past him with ease, so that the long pistol was off its aim for no more than a second. ‘Call your men out.’
Soldiers, be they Lobsters or Bullocks, look the same everywhere, even in tattered garments. But they were, to anyone with an ounce of military knowledge, not cavalry. Several men, like Quinlan and Ettrick, being small and wiry, could have passed muster. But no one but a Prussian martinet without brains would put a man of Rannoch’s height and build on a horse. Bellamy, like half the men present, was also far too tall. His colour made him the
subject of much attention from the Corsican women, who murmured and pointed. Markham was only grateful that at least he’d found the good sense to rid himself of his tricolor sash, even if he’d done so for the wrong reasons.
‘We were informed there was a detachment of French cavalry here,’ she said, for the first time allowing her face to show a trace of doubt.
Markham was half tempted to ask, if that was so, why they’d walked in with such disregard for the consequences, nor even noticed as they did so that the earth they were walking over was well churned up by hooves. But this was a time for courtesy, not a discussion of either
observation
or sensible infantry tactics.
‘A squadron of dragoons. Around thirty men. They were here last night, holding us captive. We escaped into the
maccia,
which will go some way to explain the state of our dress. The French left less than an hour ago, in great haste.’
The tongue in which she barked the commands was incomprehensible. Several of her female troopers darted forward and made their way to the open door, the gait and gender openly admired by his men.
‘Eyes front, the lot of you,’ he barked, feeling like a hypocrite.
There was not much of a search to make. Only Pavin, who’d deserted his pot to take station beside the wounded Major Lanester, was still inside. To inspect the chapel, the kitchen and cells took no time at all, and it was only minutes before the searchers reported back, answering the questions she fired at them in rapid order.
While this was happening Markham had time to think, and to remember what he’d heard. Did the hurried
departure
of the French now have another reason? Was that panic induced by the knowledge that their presence here had been discovered? They must have been unaware of what force would be sent to root them out. Fouquert might well have remained if they had known.
But that didn’t alter the one salient fact. Someone was able to tell them of the danger they faced, and in enough time to let them get clear. Which added some verisimilitude to what Bellamy had told him about his drunken
conversations
with Fouquert. And they’d gone south, in the direction of Corte, not north to Bastia, which surely should have brought them into contact with these female soldiers.
Remembering suddenly how they’d doubled back to capture him and his men, he was wondering how far they’d moved down the road. If whoever was aiding them knew the
maccia
so well, they could have turned off the highway and headed for Corte by the mule tracks.
These thoughts were interrupted by Calheri barking another set of orders, which sent two groups of four women towards the road, where they split up and went off in different directions.
‘Would it help if I were to tell you where the French are headed?’
‘Back to Bastia, since we didn’t meet them on the road?’
‘Perhaps not,’ Markham replied, before shouting for Bellamy to come forward. ‘Please explain to the
Commandatore
what you gleaned from Fouquert and Duchesne last night. And this time keep it brief.’
Bellamy obliged, speaking fluently and convincingly, Commandatore Calheri moving closer to him to listen intently to what he was saying. The use of Paoli’s name, in this context, shocked her, as did the notion that the French would dare to try and arrest him. Markham,
meanwhile
, since Bellamy was talking, was able to study her in more detail, which only served to increase the depth of his admiration.
‘My sergeant and I heard them leave, madame,’ Markham said, as soon as Bellamy finished, ‘And if you look at what is
left of their tracks in the mud by the pavé, I think you will see enough evidence to indicate which way they went.’
Calheri went to look, bending down and picking up a section of compacted earth that still clearly held the shape of a hoof, following that with a long stare down the road. It was still in her hand when she returned.
‘Please take your men inside, Lieutenant,’ she said, her face screwed up in concentration. ‘I require a moment to think.’
He was tempted to tell her she had no time for such a luxury, but held back. He’d intended to feed his men anyway, so that time used up mattered little. More
important
was that he convince her of both their true status, and their mission, so that they would be free to carry on to Corte.
‘We have food prepared, madame. If you and your troop would be prepared to join us, we can make it stretch.’
‘We will see,’ she replied.
Markham bowed again, and did as he was bidden, his main task to stifle the ribald comments of his men by informing them that the lady in command spoke English. It hardly served to stop Quinlan and Ettrick, who could not resist alluding to the kind of rigid salute that she would be getting from a certain marine lieutenant before the sun rose one more time.
‘It’ll be her hat that’s a liftin’, not his, Commandatore or no.’
‘Quiet, damn you,’ he yelled, to stifle the laughter. But on another mental plane, he could not help but contemplate the pleasure such a seduction would bring. Sharland’s added comment quite spoiled that.
‘Don’t you go thinkin’ your Croppie is going to have her? Seems to me she was more interested in the fuckin’ darkie.’
Markham ate on the move, pacing up and down inside the chapel, wondering what Calheri was up to outside. There was movement after a few minutes. Despite her injunction to stay inside, he couldn’t contain either
patience
or curiosity, and strode back out into the strong sunlight. She’d taken off her cap and allowed her hair to drop free. It was, as Markham had suspected, blue-black, a perfect frame for her olive-skinned complexion, as she swung round to face him.
‘General Paoli left Corte this morning, for his home town of Morosaglia.’
Markham nearly choked on a gobbet of ham, struggling to remember if the place she’d named lay closer to Bastia than Paoli’s capital. He’d seen it on the map, but in the mass of Corsican town names he’d looked at, it was hard to place.
‘I’ve sent off runners with instructions to tell him what happened here. I also told them to look out for a cart with which to transport your wounded Major. He can be taken to Corte to await the general’s return. We, however, cannot wait for you, Lieutenant. We shall return to the rendezvous we have arranged with the general.’
She smiled then, which widened her cheeks, and showed her strong white teeth. The glow it brought to her whole being also made her look even more attractive. ‘He is no longer a young man, and gets impatient.’
‘Might I ask where the rendezvous is?’
He could see her thinking, still not entirely convinced that he was who he claimed. He called to Pavin, and asked
him to bring the Major’s map case, which had been put in his cell.
‘We are to meet him at the Convent di San Quilico Rocci, which is just beyond Sovaria on the road to Corte. The men who have escorted him there, who are part of the garrison, will then return, while we take him on to Morosaglia.’
Markham was looking at the map as she spoke, happy to see that Morosaglia, albeit surrounded by mountains, was halfway to Bastia. ‘Such a complex arrangement for escorts. He obviously fears for his safety.’
‘Never!’, she snapped, mistaking Markham’s worried frown for criticism. ‘It would take the whole French army to get within ten miles of him in his own home city. There he is surrounded by people who revere him.’
He was worried, especially at the thought that Fouquert as well as Calheri knew where Paoli was headed. ‘Perhaps there are those between Corte and Morosaglia who do not.’
For the first time he saw her temper, the opposite of that radiant smile. The way her body stiffened, the black eyes flashed and the fine, slightly upturned nose dilated and paled, becoming sharp and unattractive. She turned away, stood up and headed for the door, which immediately drew Markham’s eyes to her swaying hips. But for all his interest in this female, he was actually thinking about other things, namely everything that had happened on the way here.
The dragoons had used mule trails, not the road: routes which were on no map that he’d ever seen, including the one in front of him. His mind went back to the family dead on the road. He recalled the words Lanester had used about the caution of Corsican peasants, then the undischarged weapons, the way their bodies had been trampled, which indicated that whoever had approached them not only looked like friends, but were numerous.
Then there were the horsemen who’d come to the
monastery with Fouquert, the previous evening. Had one of them returned, alone, this morning? Markham was sure he and Rannoch had heard a single mount. Given the response, he had to be a messenger. What if he hadn’t just come to warn of approaching danger, but to tell the French dragoons that General Pasquale Paoli was no longer in Corte? What if the men who’d killed those peasants, Bellamy’s Buonapartists, were shadowing the general, just waiting for Fouquert to show up?
Markham called after Calheri. ‘This visit of General Paoli’s, was it long planned?’
She turned abruptly. For some reason her anger had evaporated and she now sounded sad. ‘One of his cousins, who fought the War of Independence with him, is dying. He has gone in the hope of holding his hand, and easing him into the arms of God.’
‘When did he receive this news?’
‘The night before last.’
‘So his decision to go was an impulse?’ Calheri nodded. ‘Will the escort he has now wait with him?’
‘Till he moves on. Why do you ask?’
‘The French left here in some haste. Did they do that because they knew you were coming, or because they heard that the man they had come to arrest was no longer in his capital city?’
‘Have no fear for the general, Lieutenant.’
‘Where is the Convent San Quilico Rocci?’ he said, reaching for the leather map case again. She came back as he opened it, stabbing her finger. ‘And where, precisely, are we?’
That produced another stab. Markham used his finger, tracing out the long narrow triangle, the Convent at one point, the monastery they were now sitting at in another, with the town of Morosaglia some twenty miles away.
‘I think the French have gone after him. They’ll probably wait till he leaves your convent …’
‘They’ll never find him, Lieutenant.’ She interrupted,
waving her hand languidly towards the French-built highway. ‘Pasquale Paoli is not a Frenchman. He does not need to travel by that sort of road.’
‘If you’re trying to tell me he’s on mule tracks, I have to inform you that’s how the French came to this place. And since you didn’t meet them on the highway, that is how they would have avoided you.’
‘Frenchmen cannot hide in Corsica. They stick out like the plague.’
‘What if they murder anyone who sees them? An
innocent
family was slaughtered on that very road, I believe merely because they saw something.’ She looked at him keenly wanting him to explain, but Markham was in too much of a hurry. ‘They have been brought this close to Corte by Corsican guides.’
‘I still think he’s in no danger. People flock to touch him wherever he goes. You are English, you don’t
understand
.’
‘Irish!’ he snapped. She looked confused, a clear
indication
that she didn’t know the difference. ‘You say he’s an impatient old man. I daresay he feels as safe in his own country as you claim. Will he wait for you to return, if he has the chance to press on?’
Her doubt had been growing, first in her eyes, then in the clenching of the jaw, as Markham continued. ‘You are, after all, his escort?’
‘So!’
‘It’s a clever idea to detach that escort on a futile chase, while the men they are supposed to be after leave the road and head cross-country to a point where they can intercept their quarry.’
‘You have too much imagination.’
‘It’s a feature of my race, I grant you. But can you afford to take the chance that I’m wrong?’
Calheri thought for a moment, her tongue running round inside her lower lip. ‘Are you fit enough to march?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then we will leave in ten minutes. Half my troop will stay here with your men.’
That was no good. There was a lot he was unsure about, but not that. Markham wanted his men with him.
‘Commandatore, I …’ He hesitated, not quite sure how to phrase what he had to say. ‘My men have not enjoyed the comfort of female companionship for some time.’
‘Nor will they enjoy it now, Lieutenant. And you may tell them so.’
Markham spread his hands in a gesture of impotence. ‘Officers can issue orders. They are not, unfortunately, always obeyed.’
The smile lacked humour, if anything displaying instead a streak of cruelty. ‘They will not require orders, monsieur. Just tell them that the first man to misbehave will find he has three balls in his point of alliance.’
The French expression stumped him for a moment, until he realised she meant the groin. Then the directness and vulgarity of what she had said produced a smile,
‘I think it would be better if they came with us. That way you can take along your full strength. And my men are good in a fight. Who knows, you might need every pair of hands you can get.’
‘The only people we need, Lieutenant, are you and your handsome Moor.’ That threw him too, until, with a slight stab of pique, he realised she meant Private Bellamy. ‘But if you insist on bringing all your men along, I will not stop you.’
‘It all depends on Major Lanester how many I leave.’
‘You’ll have to get me up on a horse,’ Lanester said, trying hard to smile, ‘even if I’m hanging over the saddle. All you have to do, Lieutenant, is find me one.’
Markham couldn’t see the wound, swathed as it was in Pavin’s clean bandages, made out of a surplus sheet he’d found. But he could see his superior’s face, which despite the ample flesh, looked blotchy. The eyes were wet too,
and bloodshot, the whole an indication of serious
ill-health
. And he was caught on the horns of a triple dilemma. He needed Lanester to convince Paoli to head for Bastia, but given the immediate danger the old Corsican was in, saving him from an ambush was
paramount
. So was keeping the Major well enough to talk, given that time was running out for Nelson.
‘Even if I had one to hand, you don’t have the strength. You’d fall off before we got a mile down the highway. And we can’t double-march stretchering you. It will slow us all down.’
‘Perhaps we can find a cart,’ he replied, his voice weak.
Markham took refuge in a hastily contrived excuse. ‘If the officer in command of the Corsicans can’t put her hands on one, what chance do I have? Besides, I fear we might not be on a proper road for long.’
The need to know why was in Lanester’s eyes long before he gathered the breath to pose the question.
Certainly
long enough to allow Markham to feel that he was reluctant to give an honest answer. That would, of necessity, once more involve Bellamy. On balance, he thought it better not to mention the Negro again if it could be avoided.
‘The Commandatore fears that there are quite a few French sympathisers lurking around in these parts.’
‘I can’t fault that assumption,’ Lanester gasped. ‘The bastards are everywhere.’
‘What we have uncovered, unfortunately, means you’re right.’
‘Tell me.’
‘That sod Fouquert got drunk last night.’
‘With your damned nigger.’
Even ill, that was said venomously. But now that he’d alluded to Bellamy, there was little point in covering up his part in things.
‘He hinted to Bellamy …’ Markham paused, to let both pain and distaste at the name subside, ‘that their aim was
to arrest Pasquale Paoli so he could be shipped back to stand trial in France.’
There was some strength in Lanester’s grip as he
clutched
at Markham’s sleeve. ‘If there are traitors in Corte, or even in the surrounding countryside, then they are in touch with the men who captured us last night. This morning Rannoch and I heard the arrival of a solitary rider. Within fifteen minutes, the place was deserted.’
‘Apart from Duchesne.’
‘I think it was a messenger, who came to tell Fouquert that Paoli had left Corte and was on the way to
Morosaglia
.’
Lanester sat bolt upright, his hands grasping the facings of Markham’s dragoon coat, so close that the marine could see the open pores on his cheeks, the sheen of sweat, and the black stubble on his skin. He stared into Markham’s eyes for a few seconds, breath wheezing, before the effort proved too much and he fell back on to the cot.
‘That’s why they left in such a hurry,’ Markham added, picking up a cloth and mopping the patient’s brow.
‘Morosaglia?’ he gasped.
‘Yes. It’s not on this road, but it is halfway to Bastia.’
Lanester just repeated the name of the town, this time in a whisper, before Markham added, ‘His birthplace, I believe.’
‘I’d forgotten.’
Markham explained briefly what Calheri had told him, trying to keep his voice calm, since his words were clearly having a detrimental effect on the major’s condition. So much fluid was leaking out of his eyes he looked very like a man consumed with grief.
‘Can you get to him, Markham?’
‘We intend to try. The question is, if we can find him, what do I do, and more important what do I say?’
‘You’ve lost me, boy.’
‘Given where he’s headed, which is on the way to where
we want him to go, do I escort him on to Morosaglia, or try to persuade him to come back to Corte to talk to you?’
Lanester’s head started to roll, as if he was approaching delirium. ‘I must see him, Markham. We have to persuade him to go to Cardo. Nelson needs him!’
‘Calm down, sir.’
For the first time since they’d set out from San Fiorenzo, the major looked set to agree with him. He laid back his head, jerking slowly as Markham swiftly outlined the alternative. First to make sure that Paoli was safe, second to ensure that he, Lanester, got some attention, then
contrive
a way to bring them to each other in the limited time they had available.
‘We must make a decision now, sir. If the French do catch him, we can almost guarantee the Corsican army will not move. Every man Nelson takes ashore could be captured or killed.’
Blood had come back to Lanester’s face, turning it red again. But it was not the glow of health, rather the effect of too much pain, that and the tears running down his face showing the effort he was expending. Markham sought to calm him again, his voice soothing and confident.
‘We’re not even sure the French are after him. That messenger might have just been warning Fouquert about the approach of Commandatore Calheri.’
‘Don’t turn back to Corte,’ Lanester hissed. ‘Get him to Cardo.’
‘How?’
‘You don’t need me any more, Markham. It was you who saw what happened with Buttafuco and Lacombe. Tell him that.’
‘If there is time I’ll take him to San Fiorenzo.’
‘No!’
‘He’d be safer there than anywhere.’
Lanester’s bloodshot eyes were afire. He shook his head to and fro several times, his mouth moving like a man seeking words.
‘Like you were, Markham?’ he asked finally. Then for the third time he said, ‘Cardo. With his troops. Send ahead for an escort.’
‘I can try. But without you to sway him, what assurance do I have that he will be willing to do my bidding?’