Honour Redeemed (37 page)

Markham was between Leech and Dornan, who, if he was indifferent with a musket, revelled in the close-quarters use of the bayonet. The stoop was narrow, and open at the rear, so half the men Dornan engaged ended up as casualties because they fell under furious assault. Markham couldn’t slash, just jab, and against a weapon six feet in length was at a disadvantage until, as one defender lunged at him and missed, he grabbed his musket, dragged him forward, clubbed him with his hilt, and removed the man’s weapon. That was just before the soldier died under the blades of the Corsicans who were now pouring through the gap he and his men had created.

Noise was the key, even if it seemed impossible that any human ear could tell if it was diminishing. The defence was crumbling because the cries from the Frenchmen were futile pleas for mercy, rather than shouts to raise their valour. They couldn’t break off the action, there was no room, so they had a stark choice: to jump and maim themselves, or die where they stood. Most jumped, and suddenly the stoop was clear of blue coats, and full of cheering men in red Corsican caps.

Behind the redoubts the walls of Bastia stood, high, white and formidable, another obstacle that would have to be conquered. But the space between was full of retreating Frenchmen, who could hear the bombardment from
Nelson’s
ships, and some of the crack of musketry from the southern shore. Men who must know that the town they had tried to hold was now in the grip of a siege that could only end in surrender.

The Lobsters didn’t need to fight their way to the beach. Even those who had opposed the landing had withdrawn, and the Navy was once again busy shipping cannon
ashore. Nelson, surrounded by other officers, stood on a gun carriage, telescope to his eye, chest out and rightly proud as he surveyed the extent of his success. When he saw Markham and his men plodding towards him, he lost all sense of his dignity as a post captain in His Britannic Majesty’s Navy, and waved like a child would to a long-lost friend. The likes of Serecold laughed, but de Lisle and Hanger frowned, and glared at the object of this greeting.

‘We have done some sterling work today, Markham.’

‘General Paoli sent me to inform you, sir, that the redoubts at Cardo have been driven in, and that the French have retired into the city.’

‘Excellent.’

‘I take it your men are available for duty, Lieutenant?’ Hanger demanded, his scarred, ugly face as close to
happiness
as was possible. ‘I can assure you there is still warm work to be done.’

‘What,’ cried Nelson, before Markham could reply. ‘You would not remove my own guard detail from me, Colonel, would you?’

‘Guard detail!’ Hanger barked.

‘These are my marines,’ said de Lisle.

‘Not any more, Captain. They are transferred.’ Nelson’s eyes were twinkling. ‘I think my dignity as a commodore allows me a file of marines to guard my quarters, sir. Just as it allows me to convene, provided I have enough captains present, a court martial.’

Both men knew immediately what Nelson meant, and it showed on their faces. With the odd exception like de Lisle, the commanders in his squadron were hand chosen by him. He would select who sat on the court, and those picked would be unlikely to bring in a verdict that would displease their patron.

‘Lieutenant Markham.’

‘Sir!’ he replied, pulling himself to stiff attention.

‘Be so kind as to return to General Paoli, with my
compliments, and ask him if he would care to inspect our positions.’

He found the Liberator in the convent building at Cardo, in the very room in which he’d dined a week ago,
surrounded
by his jubilant officers. Markham had a quick look around the faces, particularly those of high enough rank to be close to Paoli. The Liberator, with a mark of respect that was as genuine as it was deep, stood and came to greet him.

‘You seem to be light on the odd general, sir,’ Markham said quietly.

Paoli replied in the same way, so that his officers would not hear. ‘Generals Arena and Grimaldi departed last night, we believe for the safety of France.’

‘You should have hanged them.’

‘Ah! Markham, you do not understand. They have family. If I kill them then their relatives must kill me. It is the vendetta.’

‘Which I thought you’d wiped out.’

‘No. The vendetta will never leave Corsica. It is in our blood.’

He led Markham to the door and indicated the redoubts, now with the flag of Corsica flying on the
palisades
. The wind was strong from the north, and the Moor’s-head device was visible to the naked eye.

‘But as you see, our honour is redeemed, Lieutenant Markham, and for that I have to thank you and your Lobsters.’

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BY THE MAST DIVIDED

A SHOT ROLLING SHIP

AN AWKWARD COMMISSION

A FLAG OF TRUCE

THE ADMIRALS’ GAME

AN ILL WIND

BLOWN OFF COURSE

ENEMIES AT EVERY TURN

A SEA OF TROUBLES

THE PILLARS OF ROME

THE SWORD OF REVENGE

THE GODS OF WAR

MERCENARIES

WARRIORS

CONQUEST

THE BURNING SKY

A BROKEN LAND

A BITTER FIELD

SON OF BLOOD

SOLDIER OF CRUSADE

PRINCE OF LEGEND

D
AVID
D
ONACHIE
was born in Edinburgh in 1944. He has always had an abiding interest in the naval history of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries as well as the Roman Republic, and, under the pen-name of Jack Ludlow, has published a number of historical adventure novels. David lives in Deal with his partner, the novelist Sarah Grazebrook.

A Shred of Honour