Honour Be Damned (15 page)

‘As you wish, Markham,’ Germain replied, with as much dignity as he could muster.

T
he last part of the day was the worst time for insects. They seemed to rise out of the still damp earth in droves to torment people who, of necessity, had to remain
stationary
. The ones that couldn’t fly crawled into garments or across bare flesh; ants, beetles and spiders in a quantity that Markham had rarely seen. While the bugs ate them, they fed on hard biscuit, and sipped warm water from the marine bottles. It was also a time for speculation, though no voice was raised to ask the obvious question; why were the French looking so hard just ahead of them? Every ear was tuned to the sound of the French soldiers searching the woods, tensed ready to move as they came closer, easing as the sounds faded. Whispering, Markham had outlined the kind of grid he thought they were working on, and the calculation he had made that they’d never get this far down the hillside before nightfall.

What sunlight they could see was now slanting across the treetops, the colour slipping from pure gold to orange. The road was in near darkness, and Markham waited patiently for the order that must come soon, calling the men in. Once that had happened they could move again, perhaps even using the road to increase their rate of progress. They had planned to be ashore a mere
forty-eight
hours, and if they delayed too long, then the problems of
reembarking
on
Syilphide
would only increase.

Rannoch had set the men in an arc round the rest of the party, who occupied the centre of a thicket so dense that no one would see through it. Markham, de Puy and Germain were on the outer edge, nearest the road, watching the light fade, waiting for the moment when it would be just dark enough to move, but still with some ambient light by which to see any obstructions.

The flare of the torchlight, as well as the smell of fresh-lit pitch, was faint through the undergrowth. But it was unmistakable. He realised, with a sinking feeling, that they were not going to give up, but intended to continue throughout the night. Killing those
two soldiers had obviously stung the man who commanded the regiment, and nothing was going to stop him from finding the culprits. He could hear de Puy cursing under his breath, with an unusual degree of passion.

‘Our man is determined.’

‘He may also be a fool. You do not wander around in these parts with lit torches. That is a very dangerous thing to do. The forest might not be tinder dry as it usually is at this time of year. But one badly handled torch could set the whole area on fire.’

‘How dangerous?’ asked Germain.

‘Put it this way, Captain, I’d rather be caught by the enemy. A fire, once it takes in hold these Provencal forests, can consume a thousand hectares in no time. Neither man nor animal can outrun the flames.’

Markham had eased himself forward to the edge of the trees again, and stuck his head out through a small gap in the hedgerow. The pinpricks of light that dotted the road were, he thought, more numerous than the previous number of guards. Whoever commanded these troops had decided to withdraw them onto the road, spacing them out so that no one could safely cross it. It also put an effective check on movement in the woodlands. It was a hard enough place to traverse in full daylight. At night, even with a moon, it would be near impossible. At the very least it would be extremely noisy.

He watched as a detail came down the road, two men bearing a large metal urn, another two a huge basket of bread. They stopped by each sentinel, dishing out his evening ration. Passing Markham they were no more than ten feet away, and the smell of the stew in that pot wafted across his nostrils to torment him. Behind them came another party, carrying fresh bundles of kindling made up into torches, the odour of the unlit pitch pungent enough to wipe out that of the food. Lastly, there came a trio of officers, who stopped beside each man, no doubt to reinforce whatever orders had already been given.

What Markham did next was risky, but he felt it was necessary. He began to crawl along the ground, on his elbows and knees, determined to get close to the nearest guard so that he could overhear what orders were being dished out. The road was some twenty feet across, if you included the spaces where the hedgerows had been cut back. The guard was no more than a few feet from those, certainly close enough to hear any sound that Markham
might make, and with the officers approaching, staring straight ahead as if looking him right in the eye.

But he’d stopped crawling until the scrunch of the boots on the hard-packed roadway covered the noise he made, the final few yards covered quickly, rather than at the previous snail’s pace, his progress aided by the spill from the sentry’s torch. Markham ended up behind a thick bush, with no actual view of the road, but certain he was within earshot. The sound of boots ceased, to be followed by the sound of a brusque voice, demanding to know the soldier’s name.

Whatever it was, it was mumbled and incomprehensible. But the officer, when he spoke, did so clearly.

‘It is best to vary any routine, soldier. Do not stand still all the time, but neither should you pace a route at specific intervals. Our quarry will, I think, try to use the road before the moon comes up. He must if he wishes to get clear. Otherwise he will spend a very uncomfortable night in the forest, with little chance of sleep, and we shall find him in the morning.’

‘Sir,’ said the soldier, this time speaking crisply.

‘You will be relieved in two hours.’

The trio moved off. But as the boots passed by his nose, Markham wasn’t thinking of what the man had said, he was thinking about the familiarity of the voice which had said it. He couldn’t move until the sentry in front of him did so, and was left with plenty of time to speculate. Where had he heard that before? It could be any number of places.

His first real mistress had been French and noble, and she had introduced him to a wide circle of her Parisian acquaintances. There had been French officers in the Russian service, and he had seen duty with them when fighting the Turks. Then there were the
émigrés
who had fled to London at the start of the Revolution.

They were the most numerous. Rich and poor they’d flocked to the entertainment centres of the town, the same places he, seeking opportunity, had frequented. Quite a few were like him, spending more than they could really afford in an attempt to create an attractive illusion, one that might produce some gainful employment. They liked the area around Covent Garden too, for its cheap housing and ready, all-pervasive low life.

The last lodgings he’d had before fleeing the bailiffs had been in Long Acre. And with his many friends in the theatre, he was a constant visitor to Drury Lane, a friend to the Linley family who
owned the place, as well as a goodly number of the actors and actresses who performed there. People like Sheridan and Fox were fellow enthusiasts. They were also sympathetic politicians, who could elicit a favour for some particularly hard-up French aristocrat. It was one of their number he’d killed in Finsbury Park, the poor fellow taking great exception to finding George Markham in bed with his wife.

There had been an accent in that voice. Not much of one, but nevertheless something quite distinctive. Then there was the crisp delivery, which was singular. Faces and situations floated through his mind in an endless stream, but try as he did, he could not put a face that voice. The thoughts evaporated as the sentry moved, which allowed him to crawl backwards a few feet, then get onto his hands and knees and turn round. Once clear he had a chance to hit out at the numerous creatures which had been eating him while he lay on the ground.

‘Did you find out anything?’ whispered Germain.

‘I did,’ Markham replied.

He was trying to think of another way of saying what he had already stated; they were trapped. De Puy had said that this was a busy road between the coast and Grasse. Yet not a single cart had passed down it while they’d been close. That meant it had been closed. He looked up through the canopy of trees, to the patch of clear sky twinkling with the first hint of stars.

‘They will keep those torches lit until the moon is high enough to illuminate the road.’

Germain opened his mouth to say something else, but Markham held up his hand, running over yet again in his head the words the officer had used. Never mind the accent and the familiarity, what was it he had said? He’d mentioned the quarry, but then referred to it in the singular.

‘
He
must if
he
wishes to get clear.’ Was that just a slip of the tongue?

The shout that split the night air was followed by the crack of a musket, then another, general yelling following on the heels of that. Markham shot forward again, throwing caution to the winds, so that he could see what was happening. He had to pull back quickly as those sentries who’d been down the road rushed past, their torches waving as they made for a group gathered about a hundred yards up the hill. The torches were waving madly until the officers arrived and some sense of order was restored.
Markham could hear one of them yelling like a parade ground sergeant, demanding both quiet and information at the same time.

His voice barely dropped as, having got what he was after, he reported to his superior that the man they were seeking had crossed at the run, and entered the forest on the opposite side. The sentry nearest, who fired off the first shot, was sure that he had winged him, since he heard a cry of pain. The familiar voice raised itself, issuing a string of instructions; that a file of ten men should stay on the spot to seal the road, while the rest should be prepared to march.

‘Where is he going to march to?’ asked Markham when he’d rejoined the others.

‘There is a good wide track along the top of the peaks from the village of Mouans Sartoux, part of an ancient trading route. If he wants to go west he will follow that. It has the advantage of a good view of the terrain below. That, as you can see on the map, is even steeper and narrower than the route we are on. Anyone moving through it will struggle, and he is bound to disturb the wildlife and give away his position.’

‘Who is it they are pursuing?’ asked Germain.

‘I don’t care, as long as it’s not us,’ stated Markham.

In the dark, he could not see any faces. But he did wonder how many showed relief that they had not, as they might have imagined, been betrayed by one of their own number.

‘What do we do now? asked Aramon.

‘We shall not be comfortable, Monsignor, but I suggest we try and get some sleep.’

It was de Puy’s turn to pose a question. ‘What plan do we have for the morning, Lieutenant Markham. There are still soldiers on the road.’

‘A file of ten men we can take care of, Monsieur le Comte, that is if we have to.’

He wished he could see Germain’s face. Was his captain happy or angry that all these questions were being put to him? That was answered by the way Germain suddenly asserted himself.

‘Using the road, Monsieur le Comte, how quickly could we get to Notre Dame de Vacluse.’

‘Six hours at the most.’

‘Then we must do that,’ the captain said emphatically. ‘Using these tracks through the forest was a grave mistake, especially with the ladies in tow.’

‘And if we are seen on the road?’ asked Markham.

‘We got through the column on the coast road by pretending you were prisoners, we can do the same again.’

‘Do we pray for rain so that the men can wear the greatcoats?’

‘Why bother,’ Germain replied, his voice carrying a degree of authority that had been missing since the failed boarding operation. ‘There are ten French uniforms out there, just waiting for us to take them as soon as the sun comes up.’

‘Another legitimate
ruse
de
guerre
, Captain?’

‘Yes.’

‘Only this time, if we are caught, we will be shot.’

‘You really must try to be more positive, Markham. Such pessimism does not become a King’s officer.’

The temptation to reply sharply to that was difficult to control, especially to a man who had trouble keeping a grip on his temper. But relations between himself and Germain were bad enough without him making things worse. And given the other potential disputes that might arise, should they succeed, the need for some form of cohesion in the British contingent was paramount. But he had to, for his own sake, say something.

‘The acquisition of these uniforms. Do you wish to take personal charge of that, sir?’

‘I doubt that will be necessary.’

‘We have to do something about them, in any case,’ said Markham. ‘As long as they are in position we cannot move. We have no idea what their orders are, so they might be still in position tomorrow night.’

‘I’m surprised Captain Germain does not want us to form up like infantry and do battle with them.’

‘Keep your voice down. He needs no encouragement when it comes to woolly-headed notions of how to fight.’

‘It is an even match,’ Rannoch responded, in his measured way. His face was nothing more than a ghostly shape in the small amount of moonlight. ‘Mind you, if the rest of the soldiers are still on this mountain, we should not be using musket fire.’

‘No,’ Markham replied.

‘It is scarce possible that all of our men will be able to sneak up on the Frenchmen without one giving himself away.’

‘Then we must draw them down on us, and deal with them as a group.’

‘We cannot be taking prisoners, can we?’

The voice was enough. Markham didn’t have to see Rannoch’s face. In battle he was a killer of the most ferocious kind. But the prospect of visiting death on his fellow humans was not something that excited him. It was very much the opposite. Useless slaughter was to be avoided on the very good grounds that if you wanted compassion from your enemy, the best way to get it was to be benevolent yourself.

‘I will act as a decoy, a single man like the fellow they were pursuing. Let them chase me into the forest at a point of our choosing, and we can take them there.’

‘I would fire off a musket as soon as I spotted you.’