‘The plans,’ said Markham, trying to bring him back to the point.
It only set him off on another furious tack. ‘When we return to our rightful place that strutting Corsican peacock Bonaparte will be my first victim.’
The name rang a bell. ‘Is that the artillery officer who was at Toulon?’
‘Yes!’ Fouquert spat. ‘He was then a man I thought I could trust.’
Suddenly the voice he’d heard addressing the sentry and the name of the man he’d encountered at the “Battery of men without Fear” combined to bring forward a solution. He should have placed that accent as Corsican, nearer to Italian in sound than correct French. The crispness of that staccato delivery had fooled him. Bonaparte was like that. He was also, the way Markham recollected him, in the military sense, a touch deranged.
‘He is the man who is pursuing you?’
‘So he should be. They are his plans.’
‘To invade Italy?’ said Markham, surprised. ‘That’s a big task for a junior officer.’
‘He’s no junior officer. He’s a Brigadier General.’
Fouquert’s voice started to rise, showing even greater passion as he continued, damning the whole tribe as Corsican scum. At the same time Markham was wondering if he was in the right army. Only eight months before, when he met him between the battle lines, Bonaparte had been a mere captain of artillery.
‘He is also a turncoat.’ Fouquert whined. ‘It was Robespierre’s brother, through the good offices of Lucien Bonaparte, that saved his neck when he came back, absent without leave, from Corsica. And it was that connection, allied to my influence, that helped the little shit to get the posting at Toulon where he won his spurs. He will tell you it was Paul Barras but that is a lie.’
‘I can’t say I care, Fouquert. To my way of thinking you’re all rats from the same sewer. The only question I have to ask myself is what to do with you.’
‘You must, without delay, get me to the commanders of the Piedmontese forces.’
‘Must I now?’
‘The assault could begin within the next four days.’
‘And the Piedmontese army would require time to deploy to meet the threat.’
‘Of course.’
Markham was suddenly aware that he was talking to this man as though he was a fellow human being, instead of a genocidal maniac. And he was being sucked in by what he was being told. The thought really annoyed him, and he positively spat at the man.
‘You don’t even know what a liar you are, Fouquert. But I do. I have no evidence whatsoever that what you say is true. There may be another very good reason why you are being chased, one that has nothing to do with invasion plans.’
The Frenchman opened his shirt and extracted a thick parchment packet. It was damp from the sweat of his body, smelly from the staleness of that which had already soaked it and dried.
‘The Order of Battle of the Army of the Bouche de Rhone, now renamed the Army of Italy. The commanding officer is General Sherér. The other senior officers are listed. You will find unit strengths and firepower; artillery and infantry with details of reserves and methods of re-supply. I have memorised how they are to be deployed, the points they are to attack, which movements are feints and which are real. I also know exactly what the Army of Savoy will do to aid them. Remember the time of year. The passes are open over the Alps beyond Chambery, and your allies lack the numbers to be in two places at once. Silence me and they will be in Turin in a month.’
Fouquert was grinning now, with a superior look in his eye that made Markham want to whip him across the face with his pistol. He recalled all the other times he had met this man, and the number of cruelties, include downright betrayal, he’d personally witnessed. His face must have disclosed the depth of his feelings.
‘You may not believe me Markham. But the Piedmontese will. And they will be grateful. Who knows what my reward will be for saving their army from certain annihilation? Help me, and some of that gratitude will come your way.’
‘Quinlan, do me a service and tie this man’s hands.’
‘But.’
Fouquert got no time to finish. ‘And when you’ve done that, get something over the bastard’s mouth.’
As he made his way forward, Markham heard the voice being muffled. But much as he enjoyed the notion of gagging Fouquert he had a very clear notion of the dilemma this had put him in. Even Germain would acknowledge that Aramon and his treasure paled into insignificance beside what Fouquert might be able to pass on to Admiral Hood. The French had enjoyed military success on every frontier from Flanders to the Alps. The chance to check them, and with full knowledge of their plans, to perhaps even inflict a defeat, was too important to pass up.
The idea of keeping Fouquert alive, never mind taking him through the enemy lines to the people who could make use of his information, was anathema. An even less acceptable picture was the sod standing in Hood’s cabin, extracting from the British Admiral some reward for his treachery. It would be useless to plead he should be strung up for what he’d done in Toulon. The needs of war would, as usual, make for the usual flock of strange bedfellows.
And was what he contemplated, given the time available, the best way to proceed? The alternative, to just turn round now and head back for the Franco-Italian border, with a regiment of infantry in the way, was fraught with peril. If the land route was to be used a great many detours would be necessary, using up a lot of time. But the idea of returning to Syilphide was not much better. It was too late to attempt anything today. But perhaps, starting at dawn tomorrow, a small party, carrying nothing but weapons, flares and water, moving fast and taking a chance, should get down to the shore in time to signal the cutter.
Alongside Germain, he didn’t speak right away, trying first to assess the state of the captain’s health. The waxy skin colour, and the way it was drawn tight over his prominent jawbone, was to be expected. The man must be in deep pain. Riding was less strain than walking, but not much. A litter might be better, and there was ample wood around with which to construct one. But that would take time and create noise.
Rannoch called another listening halt, and Markham pulled the horse away from the others so that neither Aramon nor de Puy would hear what he was saying. He spoke slowly, leaving out a great deal about Fouquert, only referring to his background where it demonstrated his previous importance. Germain had closed his eyes tight to hold his pain, but Markham knew he was listening. They screwed up even more when Germain heard what was in prospect.
‘Time is of the essence, sir. I favour the option of getting to sea, and setting course for whichever port Mr Booker thinks will put us close to the Piedmontese command. The cutter could be detached with a despatch to inform Admiral Hood of our actions so that he can respond.’
‘The person responsible for delivering such information will earn a Gazette to himself.’
Markham knew that Germain wasn’t talking about Fouquert. He was thinking that with his wound there was no way he could undertake the task, either by land or sea. And he also knew that it was a mission to be led by an officer, and the only one available was George Markham. The marine was wondering what thoughts were going through the Honourable George Germain’s pain-filled brain. Jealousy certainly. Pique probably, plus a general rant against the fates that had seen him wounded at a time like this. He doubted there would be any self-criticism, the notion that the ball that had hit him was his own fault.
‘Believe me, sir, it is my earnest wish that you could be well enough to undertake the task.’
Markham wondered if that sounded sincere. It certainly wasn’t true. Germain, with his excitable ways, was the very last person to take charge of something as delicate as this. And that had nothing to do with Gazettes. He was merely being tactful in a situation where he could afford the sentiment.
‘But even if the ball can be extracted, you will require time to recover.’
‘All right, Markham,’ Germain hissed. ‘Tell me what it is you int
end.’
‘I think if we can avoid the enemy, then we can make the church of Notre Dame by tonight. There are people there to mend your wound, and care for you.’
‘And what about our original task?’
‘I will leave you with enough men to impose your wishes on Monsignor Aramon. And when you are better you will be able to complete it as you see fit.’
‘You forget, Markham, that with you taking the ship, we will lack the means to get out of here.’
‘We can also arrange for that, sir. And who knows, if our allies give the French a bloody enough nose, they may take back that land which is theirs, which will put them within twenty miles of where we stand.’
‘I need time to think.’
His marine officer was prepared to leave it at that. There was no choice in the matter and Germain must know it. He was just stalling. Mentally he was wondering who to take and who to leave. He wanted not only men who could move fast, but also those who could think for themselves. He had to anticipate casualties, one of them himself. But could he take Rannoch, the only man he trusted to look after the others, and if necessary stand up to Germain and Aramon? Should be in fact be even be considering the Monsignor and his party?
That was when Markham decided to take all his Lobsters, and leave Germain in the care of the monks. The Monsignor and de Puy would have to fend for themselves. He reassured himself that at least the Bourbon officer, appraised of the facts, would understand.
Chapter fourteen
Compared to those he’d called previously, Rannoch’s halt lasted a long time, with the entire party, barring Germain and Markham, listening intently to the sounds of the forest. Initially these were few. But as the wildlife became accustomed to their presence, the level of birdsong rose. The Highlander looked puzzled, and slowly walked over to where Markham stood, requesting that he leave Germain’s side so they could talk. The message was simple. If there was anyone close to them, in pursuit and moving through the woods, there should be near silence.
‘Either we have fooled them, or there are no longer any soldiers chasing us.’
‘Perhaps they too have halted.’
Rannoch was looking up at the treetops, sniffing as if he himself was an animal, able to detect human scent.
‘You do not catch people by standing still. And what need have you of too much caution when you are ten times more numerous?’
‘I can’t believe they’ve given up. They must have questioned why we are here, and decided on various theories. And even if no solution was forthcoming, they’d hardly leave any enemy patrol to operate unhindered in their own bailiwick.’
Markham’s eyes flicked to Fouquert, now on his knees, eyes shut, hands tied and mouth muffled. It was as if he was sleeping. Had that ruse with the coat worked, and redirected the search away from them back on to him? If it had, then that made him more important then every one of them, which was even more evidence that he was telling the truth.
Rannoch had followed the direction of his look. He must be wondering why Markham had brought the murderous sod along. And the Scotsman wouldn’t be alone. The rest of his men, having quizzed Quinlan and Ettrick to no avail, must be dying of curiosity.
He’d have to come up with some kind of explanation for Aramon and de Puy, and that right now seemed like a tall order. There was also some risk in Fouquert coming into close contact with them. They couldn’t keep him gagged forever and once free to speak he had no reason to keep his mouth shut. Indeed, in his present mood of whining self-justification, he would probably spill the whole tale to anyone prepared to listen. At this moment, that was not what was wanted. In theory, both the cleric and the Bourbon officer should see where his primary duty lay. But Markham knew that would not happen, certainly in the case of the Monsignor.
‘What did that man have to say?’ asked Rannoch.
‘Nothing that has made our life any easier.’
‘Then he is true to his creed as far as we are concerned.’
Rannoch paused, obviously anticipating details. But it was too long a tale to tell. And given his most recent thoughts Markham wanted time to digest it himself before discussing it with his sergeant. But try at he did to appear reassuring, it was impossible to avoid sounding as though he was just being close mouthed, an impression not aided by the way he failed to look the Highlander in the eye.
‘We need to know how we stand, right enough. The church of Notre Dame must be close now. We dare not go near if the French can follow us there.’
Rannoch did a poor job of hiding his displeasure, though he tried hard to sound unperturbed. ‘We have one or two people who are good in the woods from a life of poaching. I would like to send them back, to see if we are still being hunted.’
‘They might be working round to get ahead of us.’
‘I thought we had already laid to rest the notion that they know where we are bound.’
Rannoch was now gazing at him, not attempting to hide his resentment, the question unstated but plain; that his officer was behaving as he had from the start of this operation. He was still not telling him the whole truth. Then he looked up at Germain, slumped forward on the horse.
‘Besides, it would do some people good to rest.’
Markham was tired himself, and had only begun to realise how much as, having become stationary, a feeling of deep lassitude seemed to creep though his bones. The entire party had been on the move since first light and had covered quite a distance. Though not actually complaining the weariness was evident in the way that no one sought to punctuate the silence. Even Aramon, rarely silent, had now dismounted and was resting his back against a tree.
‘Who will you send?’
‘I’ll take Yelland and Tully.’
‘You need rest too, Rannoch.’
The Highlander began to undo his red coat. ‘I can do without rest. But I am less happy about being in the dark.’
‘It no worse than being in a fog, which is where I am, Sergeant.’
‘Is there a risk of that clearing?’
‘You’ll be the first to know, Rannoch, believe me.’
The Highlander moved away, calling softly to the men he wanted to disrobe and follow him. Markham helped Germain down to the ground and saw him comfortable, then indicated that the other Lobsters should form a tighter perimeter, and that at intervals they should take food and water. Aramon and his party carried their own rations, and Markham took some to feed the captain. He was followed over by Ghislane Moulins, who said she wanted to take a look at the wound.
Germain groaned as Markham pulled him off the tree, exposing his left shoulder. Gently, Ghislane placed her hands on his back, feeling his flesh through the great tear she’d made in his blue uniform coat. She was frowning, deep in concentration, her forehead lined and her eyes half-closed. That gave Markham the chance to once more examine her closely. The shafts of sunlight coming through the trees, allied to the dust which had caked her in crossing those fields, showed the very slight down on her face. Having pushed back her hair, the ear underneath was exposed, a quite perfect oreille that fairly begged to be nibbled.
‘The flesh is hot around the wound.’
Markham was thinking that Germain wasn’t alone in having heated flesh, before he cursed himself for his insensitivity and solicitously enquired whether bathing the wound might help. When she nodded he poured some water from his canteen into her hands.
‘We are not over-gifted with the stuff, but some can be spared.’
‘Where has your sergeant gone?’
‘To look for the enemy. He thinks they have given up the pursuit.’
‘Then his departure has nothing to do with your prisoner?’
Markham was suddenly guarded, and she must have realised that by the way his body stiffened. Ghislane spoke quickly, though she never took her eyes off Germain as she did so, well aware that from across the clearing Aramon was watching her every move.
‘The Monsignor is curious. You did say you were going to
leave him behind.’
‘He was recently a very important man, more powerful than the generals of the French Army. It occurred to me that he might have information that will be of use to us. That is to someone like Admiral Hood.’
‘Why don’t you just tell her the truth, Markham?’ hissed Germain through clenched teeth.
‘What, sir,’ he replied, trying to sound as light-hearted as he could. Inwardly he was seething, cursing Germain, and convinced that the emotion would be the one showing on his face. Fortunately, she still hadn’t looked at him ‘Tell this beautiful young lady what I have in mind to do to him.’
That made her look up. Markham held her gaze. ‘You have no notion, Mademoiselle, of what crimes I have witnessed that man commit. While I will not do so here in the forest, since it would not do to have his screams overheard, I intend that he should suffer some of the indignities he has visited on other people.’
Germain must have taken the hint, since he remained silent. And the direct nature of Markham’s gaze had forced Ghislane to look away again, so he had no idea if he’d been believed. He wasn’t sure what prompted him to continue. Was it a wish to deflect her own enquiries that he started on her, or a deep desire to know the truth of her relationship with Aramon?
‘Is the Monsignor a relation?’
The emphatic way she replied showed that she understood clearly what a loaded question he was posing. ‘No, Lieutenant, he is not.’
‘Yet he is your guardian?’
The reply was deliver in a near whisper. ‘Yes.’
‘A curious estate for a lady of your age, to be travelling unchaperoned with a man who is not your relative.’
She looked up for a second time, the hurt in her eyes plain. The fact that he could flatter her and make her smile, touch her and make her shudder, were two important parts of an increasing intimacy. The final portion was the ability to inflict pain. That he could do so both pleased Markham and at the same time made him feel like a scrub. She stood upright and walked away, leaving him to ease Germain back onto his tree trunk. He was annoyed with himself, not sure if such a direct attack had been necessary to deflect her curiosity about Fouquert. It was the ship’s captain who took the brunt of that.
Honour Be Damned Page 20
