Honour Redeemed

by Donachie, David

  ‘Now, sir,’ Rannoch said pointedly to Markham, ‘I must see to the rest of the men.’

  ‘I’ll lash them to the same wagon,’ spat Lanester, his bound hands pointing at Bellamy and his eyes glaring at Rannoch’s back. ‘So help me God if I don’t.’

  At the other end of the chapel it had quietened down. The meal continued, with half the contents of the paddocks making their way to the table. Voices rose and fell amongst Duchesne’s troopers. Judging by the revelry, it was as if there were no war, no uniforms, no bound prisoners behind the altar. The mood seemed to extend to both Fouquert and Bellamy as well. If anything, those two were consuming more than ever, this in the company of a captain who drank sparingly, and seemed content to take as little part as possible in the conversation. As soon as he decently could, Duchesne excused himself. Having checked on the guard rota, including the pair on the horselines outside, he ordered his men to bed down, ignoring the groans of those for whom the flavour of their own cheap wine had taken hold.

  Soon only Bellamy and Fouquert remained, their movements slow and unco-ordinated, as they leant across the table in deep conversation. Their speech was indistinct but slurred, this obvious even at the distance from which Markham was hearing it. Not that he paid them too much attention any more. His hands had gone numb, as had his feet, with no sign of much blood left in either. It was a wry thought that they’d hurt like hell when the ropes were removed. If Fouquert had his way, the pain would scarcely be noticeable.

  Eventually the two drunks fell silent, Fouquert picked up one final bottle, then staggered to his own cell, slamming the door behind him. Bellamy, after a final tip of a bottle which proved to be empty, fell forward, clearing the plates from the table with a clatter, as he rested his head on his arm.

  Chapter nineteen

  Numb they might be, but Markham’s hands were sensitive to the touch. Nor was he sleeping properly, so that when he felt the first brush of contact, he was immediately awake. Dozing, he’d had several troubled dreams, and it took several seconds to orient himself to his actual physical surroundings. By that time, the knife was already rasping through the wrist ropes. Not being a truly sharp instrument, it took time. But when they parted it was suddenly, which produced an agonising pain that nearly made him faint as the blood rushed back into his extremities.

  The hand that clasped itself across his mouth was large, with an odd and faint odour of mutton fat. There was an unpleasant blast of stale breath, sour with wine, before the voice spoke.

  ‘You must bear the pain, sir,’ hissed Bellamy, trying to press something hard into his hand. ‘Cry out and we will both die.’

  Markham was in agony, biting his own lips until he tasted blood, desperate for something to clench between his teeth. The bone that Bellamy jammed into his mouth created fear rather than security. But he bit on it nevertheless while Bellamy was working on his ankles, sawing away with a knife that seemed too blunt for the purpose. Soon there was suffering at both ends, as the blood began to flow back into his feet as well.

  ‘Rest a while, sir,’ Bellamy whispered. ‘Let the pain subside. They have changed the guard on the horselines half an hour past, and those who had the early duty are now asleep. As soon as you can walk we can make some attempt to get away.’

  Markham pulled on Bellamy’s shirt, working to bring his ear close to his mouth, the bone dropping out as he whispered, ‘The rest of our men.’

  ‘Can rot,’ Bellamy replied, in a voice that bordered on too loud.

  ‘No.’ Markham’s hand was reaching down, to take the blade from the Negro, who was trying to hold it out of his grasp. ‘Damn you, give it me, or I’ll yell the place down.’

  He had Bellamy’s wrist, but not the strength in his hands to hold it. It was as though they belonged to another. The breath to plead was absent as well, taken up in an attempt to stop himself yelling for release. Bellamy pushed away from him, whatever faint light present in the chapel insufficient to show his black face. Why was there no light? Had someone failed to see to the fire and the candles? Markham lay still for several seconds, aware of loud and persistent snoring. His head swung back and forth, looking around in the darkness. It was all wrong, even for men who had drunk themselves into a stupor. Then Bellamy came close again, the sheen on his sweating forehead picking up the faint glimmer from the wads of tow flickering in sconces on either side of the single door.

  ‘We cannot all escape,’ he said, in a voice so soft it was almost inaudible. ‘The horses are in the nearest paddock, with two men who can see the whole front of the building.’

  ‘We must,’ hissed Markham, damning the haste which had lost him the bone. ‘The guard on the door.’

  Bellamy gave a low chuckle. ‘A full wine bottle will fell a man so easily, and rarely break when it does.’

  ‘Cut Rannoch loose first. Then let him see to the others.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Do it.’

  It was impossible to wake and free so many men without some noise. Yet whatever they did, no one stirred from behind their closed cell doors. By the time the last man was freed, Markham had some life back in his limbs. He was able to stand, and to issue whispered commands that should be passed on, the main one being to maintain their position, as if they were still tied. The real question was, could they retrieve their arms. Uniform coats and packs were secondary. If they could get their hands on the muskets, then turning the tables on the French would be easy.

  Hobbling, he headed for the furthest cell from the altar, the one that the enemy had used to stash their muskets. The door, gingerly tried, wouldn’t yield, clearly locked on the inside.

  Markham stood back, his mind working furiously to contrive a solution. He couldn’t batter it down, since that would wake everyone in the monastery long before it produced any positive result. Suddenly he grinned, remembering Toulon. Fouquert as a hostage would guarantee them safe passage. They might not best Duchesne and his men. But they could get clear, with some security against the danger of pursuit.

  He was just about to move towards Fouquert’s cell when the door of Duchesne’s quarters swung open. The captain, fully dressed, stood there, pistol in one hand, a lantern in the other. It was shaded, but produced enough candlelight through the thin open strip to illuminate them both. He had his fingers to his lips, and as he shook his head, he also indicated that Markham and his men should get out. A wave of the pistol underlined the fact that if they chose any other course, he would have no option but to fire it off and raise the alarm.

  Markham pulled himself fully upright, and bowed, a gesture which the Frenchman matched. Then Duchesne shut the door so that only a crack remained, through which he could make sure that his instructions were obeyed. There was no choice, though the thought of hacking through that February forest in nothing but a thin shirt was not inspiring. Making his way to the outer door, he dragged the comatose guard to one side and opened it a fraction. Immediately the blast of cold night air hit him, making him shiver.

  Bellamy was right, though how he’d unearthed such detail was a mystery. The two guards on the horselines were just discernible in the moonlight, as they paced to and fro in their cloaks, only thudding hands to their bodies in an attempt to ward off the pre-dawn chill. The horses, tethered and rugged, stood in two lines. They had their heads down, one foot raised, in that half comatose state, so near to sleep, that such creatures could maintain. But that wouldn’t survive the exit of twenty or so men. Even if the guards didn’t spot them right away, the animals, sensitive to movement or noise, would react to any sound they made. The only possible way to avoid that was to move men slowly and in small groups. He eased the door closed and went back to talk to Bellamy.

  ‘You took care of the guard, and located the men outside. How?’

  ‘I needed to relieve myself,’ hissed the Negro, in his usual formal way. ‘I clipped the guard on the door first, and while I was outside I had a chance to observe the sentries. Perhaps we could employ the same tactic.�
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  ‘Twenty men through one door would be some piss.’

  ‘The number, sir, is your notion, not mine.’

  ‘Get the coat off that guard you clobbered, and hit him again if he shows any inclination to wake up.’

  While Bellamy obliged, Markham crawled amongst his men, sitting in silence behind the altar. He had a quick word with Lanester, to advise him of his intentions, then issued his instructions. First he ordered them to remove their footwear, take a hand each and follow him to the door.

  ‘If you lose your boots,’ he whispered, ‘you’ll march to Corte in bare feet.’ His voice suddenly became angry. ‘And when we get clear, every man jack of you will apologise to Bellamy, and thank him for getting us out of here.’

  Markham, wearing the cutaway coat of a French dragoon, started retching as soon as he opened the door, the sounds from his throat mixed with a string of French curses. He stood, one hand against the stone wall, feet splayed wide, head dropped low so that he could see the two sentries. At first they called to him, soft but rude reminders of the price of taking too much drink, as well as the lashing he would receive if he woke the others. But after a short break they resumed their desultory pacing, calling quiet jokes to each other to which he was clearly too ill to respond.

  Markham counted their steps, and called to Rannoch as soon as they were at the furthest point of their beat. The orders had already been issued, so he, with a pair of Seahorses, were out of the door and tiptoeing for the treeline as soon as he hissed the command. Markham nearly retched for real, so close was his heart to his mouth, when he saw the way the moonlight picked up the reflection of both shirts and breeches.

  ‘This isn’t going to work,’ he hissed. ‘Pavin, Halsey, get Major Lanester out next. As soon as he’s at the trees, the rest of you go in single file.’

  ‘And if they shoot?’ asked Lanester, clearly alarmed at the notion of having to run.

  ‘Then I will be their target, Major. Now go.’

  It was Lanester who set off the horses. Fat, lacking any grace in his movements, he tripped over his own feet and stumbled into the wall, throwing himself back so violently that he nearly fell over, emitting an involuntary cry as he did so. Markham’s loud retching sound might have fooled the guards. But not the animals. One head came up sharply at the perceived danger, and the uplifted hoof hit the ground simultaneously, which set the beast next to it shuffling sideways to bump into the succeeding tethered animal. That stopped the sentries pacing, and they peered round in the darkness, their eyes eventually coming round to their distressed compatriot leaning on the door frame. The line of ghostly shapes crawling along the wall was as obvious as he.

  ‘Garde!’ they shouted together, raising their carbines.

  ‘Run!’ Markham yelled.

  He stood upright and turned to face them, presenting a target at which they could aim, willing the pair to fire off the weapons without taking too careful an aim. They obliged, with a standard of shooting that was deplorable. If muskets were inaccurate, cavalry carbines, with their short barrels, were worse. But they should have been able to hit Markham at thirty-five yards even with a weapon whose main purpose was to maim at ten paces. Both shots were way too high, coming nowhere near their target. He flinched as one of the two balls, having hit the wall, ricocheted so that it span past his head.

  He ran himself, glad to see that the last of his men were halfway to the woods. Behind him the interior of the chapel had come alive, the shouts magnified by the confining echo, as the troopers armed themselves. Through the ballyhoo he thought he could hear Duchesne issuing clear instructions, but that notion faded as he put distance between himself and the open door, aware that in a moment, those very men, having loaded their own carbines, would be rushing out behind him.

  It was Rannoch shouting ‘Down!’, when he was about five yards from the trees, which saved him. Unknown to Markham, Duchesne had brought out his men, all thirty of them, in a disciplined manner, and they’d lined up in good order behind him. Inaccuracy was not a consideration when firing so many guns, so that the Frenchman allowed little time for aim. As soon as the carbines were shouldered, he ordered them to be discharged.

  Flat on his stomach, still sliding forward over the damp earth, Markham heard and felt most of the balls crack over his head. One or two hit the ground in front of him, others thudding into the trees behind which his men were hiding. A scream told him that at least one had found flesh, but that was just a fleeting thought quickly suppressed by the need to get to his feet and move. The word to reload, clearly shouted by Duchesne, surprised him, since the escapees were unarmed. That lasted until he realised that the French officer, whose honour would not permit him to partake of torture and mutilation, was giving him more time to escape.

  ‘Who was hit?’ he yelled as he made the treeline.

  ‘Major Lanester,’ called Pavin. ‘He’s taken a ball in the chest.’

  ‘He stayed on his feet,’ spat Rannoch, holding out an arm to slow down his own officer.

  ‘We’ll have to carry him,’ Markham replied. ‘And you and Dornan are the strongmen.’

  ‘Enemy preparing to fire,’ said Halsey who, good soldier that he was, had never taken his eyes off the enemy.

  ‘Get behind …’ Markham shouted. The word ‘something’ was cut off by the way that Rannoch lifted him bodily, and slammed him into his own broad chest. The Highlander had his back to a tree, which, judging by the sounds, took several of the carbine rounds in its trunk.

  ‘Run,’ gasped Markham.

  ‘We’re not armed,’ growled Rannoch, already on his way to pick up Lanester.

  ‘Then we have to use the forest.’

  In the dark, it was truly a hellish place. Little moonlight filtered through to aid them, once they’d gone a few yards. Each man had to hold the hand of another, just to avoid getting lost. But there was one consolation. It was not a place where cavalry could follow. And horse soldiers, even dragoons who were trained to the task, had a deep aversion to fighting on foot. The dark woods would hold just as much terror for them as for their quarry. What use was a weapon when your enemy could be standing right next to you without your knowledge? The trail they were leaving would not become obvious until daylight, by which time Markham hoped to have put enough distance between them to contrive a hiding place they’d never find.

  ‘Where in the name of God are we going?’ asked one of his men, in a muffled, unrecognisable voice.

  It was Quinlan who replied, easily identified, even though he was gasping, by his endemically cheeky London accent. ‘To Lucifer’s hell by the look of this place, old mate, which is where most of us belong.’

  ‘Quiet!’ Markham called, trying to shout and whisper simultaneously, bringing the whole line to a halt by the act of stopping.

  It was impossible to be sure how long they’d been going, but there was one thing of which he was certain and that was the silence around them; no breaking of wood or cries of frustrated soldiery. Any pursuit still moving through the maccia would have to be making a noise they could hear, and there was none. Markham realised that his own party were all close to exhaustion, and though he didn’t think they’d achieved more than a couple of hundred yards, in this tangled woodland that might just be enough. By staying quiet, they’d hear the chase long before it arrived, and they could either move on themselves, or, given some light, contrive decent concealment.

  ‘Try to make yourselves comfortable. Sit close to stay warm.’

  ‘Here, Daisy Quinlan,’ Ettrick squealed, in the midst of a great deal of shuffling, ‘you mind where you place your hand.’

  Quinlan’s reply was delivered just before Markham could renew his call for silence, in a gruff imitation of a farmer’s voice. ‘You ain’t no use to me, Ettrick, without you’ve got a fleece.’

  It produced suppressed laughter. Not much, but enough to revive battered and fearful spirits. Markham, annoyed by the noise, was nevertheless grateful for their presence, as well a
s their inability to be serious. Chuckling through heaving lungs himself, he called out softly to locate Rannoch, following the voice with some difficulty, not realising they were practically beside each other until the Highlander’s outstretched hand touched his.

  ‘How’s the major?’

  It was Pavin who answered. ‘No idea. And we won’t have till it’s light. I’m afraid to start poking about in case I cause more damage than I save. All I can say is that there is blood, and he’s breathing enough to emit the odd curse.’

  ‘He should learn to obey an order to get down,’ said Rannoch.

  ‘That’ll be the day,’ spat Pavin, ‘when the likes of Luke Lanester take instructions from a sergeant.’

  ‘Try and make him as comfortable as you can. It’s a long time till dawn. Sergeant Rannoch, there’s no way of setting a proper piquet in this place.’

  ‘You and me then, sir.’

  ‘’Fraid so.’

  They barely spoke, though such a duty had been occasion for some intimacy in the past. But here the need to concentrate was paramount, and confined them to the odd exchange just to ensure they were still awake. There were sounds in the forest, rustlings and scrapings that were probably moving wildlife, but could just as easily be human, certainly enough to keep them on tenterhooks. Not that any of the others got much sleep. Whatever bodily heat they had generated in their escape soon evaporated, and a deep chill set in.

  The first birds started to sing before the dawn grey tinged the sky. And, in truth, so little light penetrated their position that the sun was well up before they noticed much change. Enough filtered through eventually to show a sorry bunch, not one of whom, apart from Markham, could be said to have a whole shirt. The French coat he’d stolen had saved his own linen from a shredding, but all the others, in their lacerated flannel, looked like workhouse paupers. Hollow-eyed, unshaven, with their tattered garments, they were hungry as well.