Honour Be Damned (16 page)

‘Let’s hope none of them are as a good a shot as you then.’

‘Even if it didn’t kill you, I would have alerted my comrades.’

‘I don’t see how we can avoid that.’

‘As long as we can avoid a fusillade. A single shot could be mistaken for a hunter or an accidental discharge.’

‘Sleep,’ said Markham. ‘Two men to stand sentry, two on, four off. Tell them to use their ears more than their eyes. All except Bellamy, I want him watching those Frenchmen.’

‘Then I wish you the joy of finding him. He disappears as soon as the sun goes down.’

‘That’s why I want him.’

The whispered calls produced no response, forcing Markham to crawl around repeating his name. When the hand touched his shoulder, he was startled, even though he was anticipating it. The voice, mixed with a chuckle, was smooth, deep and right by his ear.

‘All colours will agree in the dark, sir, according to Francis Bacon.’

‘Damn you, Bellamy.’

‘The gods have seen fit to do that already, else I would not be here.’

‘You should not have taken quite so readily to the bottle.’

‘A weakness of mine, I grant you. That and the fair sex though what I am tempted by is not normally termed fair. Not that is, like the lady you desire.’

To Markham, the man was an enigma. But then he was that to himself as well. Born a slave, he had benefited from a benign employer, who’d educated him. That had acted as both a curse and blessing. It elevated Bellamy above the herd, while condemning
him to double the quantity of abuse meted out to men of his colour. The death of his mentor had left him penniless and in Chatham. Drink from a recruiting sergeant had ensured that he woke up one morning as a marine.

Yet still he retained that infuriating self-assurance. Even here, in the dark, encroaching forest, he managed to make his superior feel second rate. Markham knew his Shakespeare, and could hold his own with that. But Bellamy was likely to quote Latin poets in their own vernacular, never mind English men of letters.

‘Keep your mind on staying alive. And use what god gave you to stay hidden. If any of those sentinels look like coming anywhere near us I want to know.’

‘This is not how I had planned to spend the night.’

‘That’s the trouble with soldiering, Bellamy. You never get left in peace.’

‘According to Renate, it is the same for servants.’

Markham was surprised by the undisguised tone of bitterness in the Negro’s voice. When talking about any subject, Bellamy rarely allowed himself anything other than a tone of amused
detachment.
Perhaps Ghislane Moulins’ maid had touched a deeper chord.

Together they crawled to a point from which Bellamy could observe the road, his black face invisible in greenery made dark by moonlight. Moving back into the thicket, Markham tripped over an outstretched foot, falling forward on his hands. The apology was soft and female, his response forgiving, and Aramon’s interjection, from no more than a foot away, gruff and unfriendly.

‘I think it would be best for all the males to stay on the exterior of this thicket. I have already sent your black man out, who I may say, is paying far too much attention to Renate.’

He didn’t bother to tell the cleric that he had nothing to worry about. Let him fret. ‘You don’t see this injunction as applying to you, Monsignor.’

‘I am a priest.’

‘Sure, where I come from, that’s good ground for a chastity belt and a double lock on the cabinet with the drink in.’

The slight female snigger, hastily suppressed, was worth the growl that such a remark produced from the target of the abuse. Markham reached out a speculative hand, finding an arm, which produced what he sought. The squeeze was as exciting as his first
stolen kiss and he lifted Ghislane’s hand to his lips, pressing his lips to the back.

‘But I think you’re right, Monsignor. I will sleep outside.’

Markham didn’t go on to say that if he stayed in here, he’d likely get no sleep at all.

He chose the pre-dawn to show himself, that time when objects are still indistinct. It is light, but the sun has not yet risen. The figure might still have failed to draw an eye. But the way Markham staggered was enough, though it wasn’t the man closest who spotted him, but another, more alert Frenchman further up the track. That meant no shot from his musket, since with a comrade between him and the target the risk of hitting his own was too great. And as soon as the shout alerted the rest he was gone, stumbling into the thick undergrowth pursued by the thud of ten pairs of boots.

They stopped before plunging after him; a momentary pause while the risk was assessed. Common sense dictated that they split up, with a few continuing the pursuit while the rest stayed on the road. But he was one, seemingly unarmed man, quite possibly wounded, against ten fit muskets. Added to that every man would want any reward that might be going for his actual capture. If they wondered how a single human could leave such a wide trail it didn’t surface. Perhaps they were just grateful their progress was so effortless. That is, until they reached the edge of the thicket which had sheltered part of Markham’s party the night before.

The French soldier in charge shouted for silence, his head spinning right and left to pick up some trace of their quarry’s movements. The loud rustling to their right took every eye, and saw each weapon trained in that direction, so that the men who emerged behind them had a slight period of grace in which to take their designated opponent.

For Rannoch it was clinical; a bayonet on the end of his land pattern musket, plus the extent of his arm, scything into his target right under the heart at a distance of six feet from his own body. Others were less sure of their skill, and sought closer contact. Halsey, Gibbons and Ettrick scored cleanly. Quinlan missed the vital spot and had to grapple with his opponent, who fought for nearly half a minute despite what the blade had done to his insides. Germain slashed with his cutlass, nearly decapitating his
man, and such was his desire to kill that he kept on slashing long after it served any other purpose than to ruin the victim’s uniform.

Leech and Tully had to wrestle with enemies who were still in a fit state to kill their attacker, the shouts and grunts of all four echoing through the woods. Leech earned a deep gash in his cheek before he overcame his man. Yelland, the youngest Lobster in the unit, used his musket as a club, then skewered the kneeling figure through the neck.

Dornan was slow, as usual, and though he stabbed his man, he failed to follow it through with sufficient venom, and so had to use his weight and strength to subdue his opponent, dropping his musket in the process and finishing the man off by strangulation. Bellamy was nowhere to be seen, leaving one Frenchman to turn and run. Markham and de Puy, who’d sealed off the rear to ensure no one escaped, took care of him. The two officers walked up the line of bodies to check that each man was dead, stopping by Germain, who had his back to the thicket.

‘Let’s have their uniforms off,’ he said. ‘Sergeant Rannoch, get out on that road and find where they had their camp.’

Rannoch looked at Markham, who nodded that he should obey. ‘I still have reservations about the uniforms, sir.’

‘It is my decision, Markham. If it offends you, go with your sergeant.’

To be so publicly rebuked was galling. Germain, it seemed, couldn’t make up his mind. He wanted to assert his authority, but only when it was not the time to make any real decisions.

‘Fit to be a general,’ said Rannoch, softly, clear evidence that he at least understood what was going on.

As they made their way back to the road, they passed Bellamy. There was perspiration on his face, but no blood on his bayonet. The huge dark eyes, made even more prominent by the enormous whites, declined to meet those of Rannoch, but fixed
on Markham’s. Then they shifted to gaze on the bodies of the French soldiers.

‘On horror’s head horrors accumulate.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Rannoch, as they emerged onto the road, now lit by the sun reflecting off the higher trees.

‘It’s a quote from Shakespeare.’

‘Then it is as Dutch to me,’ growled Rannoch, as he set off up the road. ‘Thank God I have not got his cleverness, for it is of no use to him at all in a fight.’

Passing what remained of the used torches, they found the camp that had been set up the day before, the embers of the fire used to cook still burning. The deep ruts of the coach that had stood on the road were still evident, the bones and bottles around where it had stood an indication that this had probably accommodated the officers. Markham looked up the road, wondering where it had been blocked to stop any traffic coming from the interior. If it were in Grasse itself, they would be all right, since they would turn off the road well before that at the village of Mouans Sartoux. But if they’d barred it before that point they might well walk straight into a fight.

Looking back he saw his own party emerging from the woods. What he observed made him frown, even if his Lobsters, in bloodstained coats, looked better than the others. Ghislane Moulins’ dress was in the same state as that of her maid Renate, torn and streaked with filth. Aramon and his servants were little better, the mud that had dried on their dark clothing showing up as pale streaks.

Why did they not change? What was the point in bringing those three square cases if they were not going to use the contents. In all they looked forlorn. Which, much as he hated to admit it, might just be what was required if Germain’s plan was to be put into operation. Then it struck him, as he recalled the ease with which Aramon’s servants had handled those boxes. It was so obvious he’d been a fool not to see it. They were empty, designed to carry something out, not to take clothes in.

‘I will leave you to organise your men, Markham,’ Germain called, holding out a coat that, unlike the others was free from blood or any sign of a gash. ‘Might I suggest you wear this.’

‘Certainly, sir. But if we encounter a superior enemy, I will be obliged to rip it off.’

‘Of course.’

He turned abruptly to Rannoch. ‘Tell the rest of the men to have their red coats to hand. We’ll put Yelland on point, and ensure he rounds each bend well head of us. If there are any more piquets barring the road, I’ll dump this coat. The men can escort me to them, as though I’m the fellow they’re looking for.’

‘Another surprise?’

‘Captain Germain’s idea.’

‘You do not consider we have been lucky thus far?’

‘Yes, we have.’

‘But that does not persuade you to insist we turn back?’

Markham looked Rannoch straight in the eye. ‘God knows I’ve tried. But if you wish to approach Captain Germain and repeat what I have said, I will not stand in your way.’

The Scotsman was silent for a bit, looking up the road, then at the green-capped mountains that straddled their route. Markham wondered if Rannoch believed him, and was pleased to find out that he did.

‘It would do no good. I have never been one for the notion of desertion. And if I was, the middle of enemy territory would be no place to do it.’

‘I think it’s the only option he would give you. That or, when you got back, a flogging round the fleet.’

‘I suppose you are right, him being in dire need of a bit of glory.’

Markham suspected there was a barb aimed at him in that remark. But he didn’t respond, because if there was, and he checked Rannoch, he’d only get what was innuendo in plain unadulterated English. That attitude, of careful insubordination, was one of the reasons he appreciated the Highlander. It meant there was someone alongside him who would not indulge in blind obedience; who forced him to think, to look at his actions objectively. In over ten years of fighting George Markham had learned that doubt was a good thing. He’d seen many too many officers, and the men they led, perish for their certainties.

‘Let’s get them formed up, Sergeant. The quicker we get to this damned church, and load up what Aramon’s after, the quicker we can think about getting back to the ship.’

‘Amen to that!’ Rannoch replied, with feeling.

They marched as they had when they came ashore, so that anyone coming across them by accident, or observing them from a higher part of the road, would see them as prisoners escorted by a file of troops. And Markham set a cracking pace, hoping that the less fit could keep up, constantly consulting de Puy’s map, searching for the point at which they could leave the road. Up ahead the two highest peaks never seemed to get any nearer, the only indication of progress the greater definition of the high valley though which the road inland must run. It was a country of brooding dark greens all the way up the summits, oppressive in itself, made more so by the increasing heat.

The sound of a single horseman, cantering, was audible before Yelland signalled. Markham waved for him to withdraw into the
woods, and hustled his own party to do likewise, and there they stood as the rider went by, glancing neither right nor left. Markham, in the brief time he had, noted that the man was well mounted and equipped, in sharp contrast to his foot-slogging brethren.

As soon as he was out of sight they regained the road. Markham allowed no time for discussion, even ignoring Germain. That rider might be on a duty that would take him all the way to the coast. But that was doubtful. More likely he had either orders for the men they’d killed, or required a report. He might find their bodies, and he might not. But the chances were he’d be back up the route in less than an hour, to tell his commanding officer what he’d seen.

On each side, the forest began to thin, until it was gone completely, cut back to allow for cultivated, steep fields. There was the odd clump of woodland, but basically they were moving out of cover, and approaching the point where the hills peaked on a heavily wooded ridge before dropping in to the next valley. They crossed a tiny wooden bridge over a stream, and, despite the risk from that solitary horseman, he called a brief halt so that everyone could take a cooling drink.

‘If we stay on the road we are exposed,’ he explained to Germain. ‘If we want to remain completely hidden we’ll have to retrace our steps and take a longer route through the forest.’