There was a crowd round the coach, of his men as well as Aramon’s servants, with Fouquert lying half in and half out. He recognised Bonaparte immediately, even in his black, gold-trimmed general’s uniform, complete with the broad tricolour sash. That sallow skin underneath the large flamboyant hat, the piercing, small black eyes and that air of the fanatic that seemed to surround him.

He was standing with two lieutenants at his side, away from the coach, the trio covered by a pair of muskets in the hands of Quinlan and Ettrick. They were tense, but he looked unconcerned to be so threatened, as if no one would dare to harm him.

Markham pushed through to examine the wounded man, seeing the blood that had stained his chest and spread to cover the front of his shirt, mingling with that which had dripped on to it the night before. Rannoch was to the side of him, pressing a cloth to the wound to stem the flow.

‘It is not a wound to kill him. The ball is not lodged, but he will need the services of a surgeon to stitch him properly nonetheless.’

‘What happened? How did he come to be in the line of fire? The man’s a coward.’

‘We stopped the coach without much bother. The men on the seat were not like to be brave faced with a dozen muskets. Then Tully and I went to one door, while the priest’s so-called servants took the other. I think the three of them saw the situation as hopeless, right off, for even with their pistols out, they declined to fire.’

How long, thought Markham impatiently, as Rannoch meandered though his tale at his usual slow pace. But he kept the look of interest fixed on his face so as not to offend his sergeant.

‘Then they got out. Yon little fellow in the middle was just about to hand over his pistol when that stupid sod Fouquert let out a screaming curse and went for him. The officer raised his pistol once more to defend himself and this is the result.’

‘It didn’t occur to anyone to shoot him?’ asked Markham, jerking his head towards Bonaparte.

‘Fouquert was in the way.’

Markham slammed an angry fist against the side of the coach.

‘How in the name of Jesus, Joseph and Mary are we going to get him to Piedmont with that kind of wound. He will lose too much blood just moving. Get him off the road and into the coach.’

His eyes went to heaven, before settling on the little Corsican general. Suddenly he smiled. Why take the dancing bear when you could take the handler? It was an entertaining notion. Bonaparte had drawn up the plans for the invasion of Italy. He knew more about them than Fouquert did. There was one obvious drawback! The man wouldn’t speak. But perhaps he could get him to confirm that the exit route Fouquert had chosen, through Gorge de Vesuble, was indeed lightly manned.

‘See if there is any food in the coach. If there is share it out. And Rannoch, keep an eye on the Comte de Puy and Mademoiselle Moulins. If they try to sneak away, stop them.’

That produced a look of wonder. But if Rannoch expected to be informed why, he was doomed to yet more disappointment. Markham turned away and went over to where the two Londoners were covering the French officers.

‘Christ, look at this hamper,’ he heard Leech cry. ‘There’s enough grub in here for a regiment.’

Markham still had his loaded pistol, and he re-cocked it.

‘Go and eat, you two, or there will be nothing left. Tell Sergeant Rannoch to post a guard up and down the road. They are to stop any traffic, and take possession of anything they think we might need.’

The pair needed no second bidding. They were gone and Markham was alone with the captives. He nodded his head, in what was meant to be a slight bow.

‘General Bonaparte.’

‘I know you. We have met.’

‘Toulon, monsieur. At a place you called “The Battery for men without fear”. That night I tried to destroy it, but you were waiting for me.’

Bonaparte turned half right and left. ‘Allow me to name my two aides, Lieutenant Andoche Junot.’

‘I think we too might have met,’ said Junot. ‘Or at least spoken to each other.’

‘And this is Lieutenant Auguste Marmont.’

‘Sir,’ said Markham, returning Marmont’s bow.

‘Forgive me, Lieutenant, but I cannot recall your name.’

‘Markham, sir. George Markham.’

Bonaparte said ‘Ah!’ Then he looked at the filthy scarlet uniform, and the aiguilettes on the shoulder. ‘That is a marine coat, is it not?’

‘It is.’

‘I recall you as an infantry officer.’

Markham produced a wan smile. ‘65th Foot, sir, but not much loved by my colonel. I was rewarded with this for my actions at Toulon. Though I am forced to admit you seem to have done very much better out of the siege than I.’

‘I was told that there was a party of British marines around. I am forced to enquire why you are so deep inland?’

That was sophistry. He could not know the real reason. But with Fouquert lying there bleeding like a stuck pig, there could be little doubt of what he was up to now, his being in the company of the man who’d stolen his plans.

‘That, sir, I cannot tell you,’ Markham replied, playing out the game.

‘I thought you would have been captured by now.’

‘We marines are elusive types.’

Bonaparte waved an arm to the billowing clouds, far off but still visible through the trees. ‘You?’

‘Yes.’

‘Tell me what you did!’

It was like an order not a request, delivered in that staccato voice he remembered, which given their respective situations was damned odd. But then the man was deranged. Markham obliged, not forgetting to acknowledge the clever idea of rigging the cowbells.

‘You were lucky to have those flares. What would you have done if you had been without them?’

‘Used my imagination, sir.’

Bonaparte was not the type to laugh. The nearest he got was another loud exclamation and a wave of the arms to include his companions.

‘There you are gentlemen, spoken like a true soldier. I should have taken charge personally. You would not have eluded me.’

‘You are sure, sir?’

‘Very. I too have imagination. I would have set fire to those woods as soon as I thought you were in them. Then my troops would have surrounded the area to ensure you could not get out alive.’

Halsey came up behind him, carrying food and a flagon of wine. Markham took it gratefully, and started eating, using the silence to collect his thoughts, before resuming his conversation.

‘My task was to get that man to Italy.’

‘Fouquert?’

‘Who else?’

‘I cannot see why.’

‘Yes you can, General. He has your plans for the advance on Turin. He stole them. Your men have been chasing him for days through those very woods. If he can be got to Piedmont, you will have to call off your attack. And given the precise location of your troop strength, it wouldn’t surprise me if the Piedmontese didn’t launch a counter-offensive to push you back to your own French soil.’

Bonaparte positively smirked. ‘They would get a bloody nose if they tried.’

‘The question is, General, now that I have you, the man who actually wrote the plans, what am I going to do?’

‘I suspect you are going to let me go on my way.’

‘Sorry. It seems I must take both you and Fouquert through the front lines.’

‘You would take that scum to safety?’

‘Not through choice. I remember what happened in Toulon. I have also seen some of his handiwork since. Personally, I’d rather string him up to the nearest oak. But I made him a promise, that if he told me the details of your plan, then I would take him to a place where he would be safe.’

‘As simple as that.’

‘You arranged for a feint in the Gorge de Vesbule did you not, a thin screen of troops to fool your enemies into keeping their own forces there in strength.’

What surprised Markham was the way Bonaparte reacted. He should have tried to look unconcerned, as should his aides. But for him to actually laugh was play-acting of a different order. And Junot and Marmont produced genuine smiles.

‘So he did tell you my plans?’

‘Every last detail,’ Markham lied.

‘What a pity they are now of no use to anyone?’

‘I admire a man who can bluff, General Bonaparte.’

The little Corsican reached inside his black coat, and pulled out a heavy packet of letters. ‘You speak good French. How do you read it?’

‘Passably well.’

Bonaparte shuffled through the pack, finally choosing one and offering it, his voice casual and conversational.

‘This is the order from Paris, signed by Lazare Carnot, calling off the proposed attack on Italy. This one, also from him, is an instruction for me to proceed to join the Army of the West under General Hoche. He is controlling operations in the Vendee around Nantes.’

‘Then you are headed the wrong way, General,’ said Markham, taking the letters. He was genuinely stumped by the easy manner of their delivery and the allusion to the route was clutching at straws.

‘I shall go via Marseilles to visit my family, then proceed to Paris. There I will take hold of Carnot’s nose and twist it for daring to suggest that I serve under a peasant like Hoche.’

Both his aides laughed in a rather sycophantic way, at what was clearly a joke they’d heard before.

‘I am not without powerful friends in Paris, Markham.’

The object of that remark didn’t care what he had in Paris. He was reading the first letter, which was a copy of an order sent to the Commanding General in the South, Sherér. And it said exactly what Bonaparte had claimed. That the invasion was to be abandoned, and the army to march back to Marseilles to be available for other duties.

‘We shall invade Italy one day,’ said Bonaparte, his tone bombastic. ‘And that is an assault I will lead personally. Then we will not have any of the palpitations that have afflicted that old fool Sherér.’

He couldn’t have contrived this, and no amount of wishful thinking on Markham’s part could make it so. These letters were official, of that he was certain, just as their meeting on this road was coincidence. Not even the most fertile brain could conjure this one up.

‘Sergeant Rannoch?’

‘Sir,’ he replied punctiliously, in a voice designed to impress these Frenchie officers.

‘Is there any luggage on the coach.’

‘Plenty, sir. I would say all the kit these three officers need for a long journey.’

‘A copy of the plans Fouquert stole are in my writing chest. You can take them if you want. Examine them and you will learn something about higher command, strategy and the movement of large bodies of troops. They are subtle but very, very clever.’

The voice changed to become hard again. ‘Carnot is a fool. We could have had Turin like that!’ He clicked his fingers loudly. ‘Instead of that he wants me to go and do battle with a load of ignorant peasants in a stinking Loire bog.’

‘What nonsense,’ said Junot and Marmont in unison.

‘And what of you, Lieutenant Markham. I doubt you can just walk through the Gorge de Vesbule. But if you stick to the high ground you should be safe. There are no longer any troops on the heights at all.’

‘Then the Piedmontese will walk through and attack.’

Bonaparte spoke slowly for once, as if Markham was too dim to perceive the obvious. ‘Not with the Army of Savoy to the North. They risk being outflanked. And they are not very good soldiers, you know.’

‘And if I invite you and your aides to accompany me?’

‘That would be foolish. Right now, no one will stand in your way. Take us and the country will be up in arms. You cannot just make us disappear. But maybe I can do you that favour. Yes, under certain conditions I can see myself letting you go on your road, without hindrance.’

‘And what would those conditions be?’

The flippant tone vanished. ‘Give me Fouquert.’

‘Clever, General, You will take from me the only insurance I have, the man who knows your plans.’

Bonaparte smiled, a thin humourless affair that was not funny. ‘But you said he had told them to you. Why do you need him?’

A clever man had trapped him. And he held in his hand letters that told him Fouquert had become superfluous. ‘You said you had a copy in your writing case?’

‘I do. Junot will fetch it for you.’

Markham nodded and called out to his men to let Junot proceed. It must have been handy, since he didn’t even climb into the coach to get it. He just reached in and pulled it out. The case was made of fine polished oak, inlaid with the initial ‘B’. Junot held it and Bonaparte opened it, extracting a thick sheaf of parchment tied at the right edge with red ribbon.

Markham took it, called Quinlan and Ettrick back to guard duty, then went back to the coach. Fouquert was lying flat out across one of the padded seats, alternately cursing and moaning, but definitely conscious. Aramon was on the other seat looking at him with disgust.

‘Please help me, Monsignor. I want him upright.’

The wounded man cried out as they lifted him, somewhat over enthusiastically, to Markham. He would milk his pain, that was for sure.

‘Do you recognise these?’ he asked.

Fouquert peered at the sheets, with Markham flicking them so that he could read them. ‘You have to tell me if these are the real plans for the Invasion of Italy. If they are, I can shoot those three officers and we can take written proof with us to the Piedmontese.’

Would he have got away with it if Fouquert had not been wounded. It sounded very flimsy to him. But the man had stiffened perceptibly at the notion of shooting Bonaparte, so Markham added the coup de grace.

‘I’ll even let you kill him.’

‘That’s them,’ Fouquert gasped. ‘The original of those I stole. Where’s that shit Bonaparte.’

‘Outside, awaiting his fate.’

‘Give me a knife and tie his hands and feet.’

‘You are wounded.’

‘I will manage,’ Fouquert spat. ‘I shall cut off his Corsican cock first.’

‘Lieutenant!’ said Aramon, alarmed.

Markham pushed Fouquert hard, so that he flew backwards, and landed painfully. Then he stood up and leapt down to the ground, to rejoin the three French officers.

‘Why do you want him?’

‘He has to answer, in France, for more than theft.’

‘And I doubt he’s alone.’ Markham replied, looking Bonaparte right in the eye. ‘That is not enough.’

‘Junot, Marmont, a moment if you please.’ The two aides moved away, and Bonaparte dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘I would not have them know that danger threatens. I have friends in Paris, I told you.’

‘Yes.’

‘No man at a time like this is without enemies. Carnot hates me, and he is a power in the land. Let me have Fouquert as a gift to my friends and I will have many, many more.’

‘And I get a safe conduct in return.’

‘I don’t recall mentioning a safe conduct.’

‘Nevertheless, it is what I want. And if I don’t get one, I will take you and Fouquert to Italy, and shoot you both as soon as danger threatens on the way.’

At the back of his mind, Markham was examining what he was doing. The notion of handing a man over to certain death was unpleasant, until you accounted for the fact that it was Fouquert. He had killed thousands and would have chopped up every one of Markham’s Lobsters for sheer pleasure. What he would do to him didn’t bear too close examination. And by the sacrifice of that scum he could save not only his men, but the Monsignor’s party as well. It made no difference what de Puy and Ghislane had done. He had to save their lives if he could. The Revolution was well practised at eating its own. One day it would probably eat Bonaparte.

‘Very well. It is a bargain. Give me my writing case.’

Markham was so tempted to say ‘get the damn thing yourself’. But this was no time for nit picking. ‘I want one more favour.’

‘What!’

‘There is a wounded naval officer at the church of Notre Dame de Vacluse. He took a bullet in his shoulder from one of your infantrymen.’

‘And?’

‘He will, according to the last report I had, be too ill to move. I would like you to arrange for his safe passage to a point from which an exchange of prisoner cartel has been arranged.’

‘Is he a gallant officer?’

‘None more so,’ replied Markham, truthfully, for if Germain lacked brains he didn’t lack élan. If anything he had too much of that commodity for his own good.

‘Then it will be an honour.’

The parting from Fouquert was noisy and unpleasant. But even if his conscience was pricked there was a feeling of cleanliness about getting away from him. The man contaminated everything he touched with his methods. Markham had never met anyone truly evil until he came across Fouquert. And Bonaparte eased matters by avoiding being vindictive. He obviously hated the ex-Representative as much as anyone. But he insisted in a solicitous voice that he must make himself comfortable and continue to occupy the whole of one seat.

‘Never mind that we three are squeezed together, Fouquert. You are wounded, and I am looking forward to delivering you to Citizen Barras whole and ready for whatever pleasure he has in store.’

‘May God damn you, Markham,’ he shouted, the curse losing a great deal of force by his being in a prone position.

‘What you have done is a sin, my son,’ said Aramon, gravely.

‘Don’t call me your son, Monsignor. And just ask yourself whose neck you’d rather have on the chopping block, yours or his. Sergeant Rannoch, call in the piquets and see what we’ve got. Then prepare to move out on our original line of march.’

‘I request a small deviation, Lieutenant,’ said Aramon.

‘To where?

Aramon looked at de Puy and Ghislane. The gap between them was more spiritual that physical, but it was there nevertheless, a coldness that was almost palpable.

‘You told him about the well house.’

‘No,’ said Aramon. ‘He asked and she gave him a truthful answer.’

‘Would she have done that I wonder, if I hadn’t smoked out what they were up to.’

‘We will never know, Lieutenant.’

‘Who do you think initiated this?’

‘Only God will know for sure. Both were tempted, and that is a ghost that lies within us all, very close to the surface.’

‘This detout …’

‘Is to a hamlet called Coursegoules.’

‘And why should I go there?’

‘It will take you to your black marine.’

Who had it been outside his berth the night Germain came to see him? Clearly it hadn’t been Aramon. That feeling he had the night before, with Halsey, of someone close. Was that Renate, Bellamy or both?

‘What will happen to Ghislane?’

‘I will take her back to Rome with me. She is a beautiful creature. She will not starve.’

‘A beautiful creature who craves freedom.’

‘Those godless heathens in Paris craved that, and look where it got them.’

Ghislane made a point of edging her mount close to him, in an attempt to engage him in conversation. He was stiff at first, but Markham couldn’t sustain it. He understood too much about the need to escape from bonds past and present, and he flattered himself that the girl had gone further than she need to in the well house because of their mutual attraction.

She told him her version; that de Puy, first smitten by her, had been angry at Aramon’s bargain. The Comte had suggested that they seek an opportunity to steal the treasure as a way of paying the Monsignor back. He wasn’t sure he believed a word of it, but that made no difference. Where would the world be without the odd accomplished deceiver?

Ghislane didn’t help her cause by allowing de Puy no good qualities, which made him wonder what would have happened once they had their loot and were clear of danger. If she had any regard for him it was now well submerged, while he was subject to subtle doses of flattery designed to make him feel very superior indeed.

Then the questioning started; about his background; London, Ireland, his relatives and his prospects. ‘A soldier’s life must be exciting.’

‘It’s not, girl. It is boring and badly paid.’

‘I cannot go back to Rome,’ she cried softly and plaintively, ‘back to that life.’

‘What choice do you have?’

‘If you tell the Monsignor that you wish to take me with you. I’m sure he’ll agree.’

‘He won’t.’

‘Then don’t ask him,’ she hissed, excitedly.

George Markham was thinking it was a good idea he was marching and she was riding. If they had been closer, and especially if they been naked in a bed, he knew he would probably have succumbed. Even now, he was thinking of the nights he could spend with her before they parted company, a lubricious waking dream that was beginning to make marching awkward. He didn’t know how to deny her, but he knew he must. His life was complex enough without further encumbrances. So he just burst out laughing, and felt truly rotten when she reacted angrily, and pulled the horse away.

‘God in heaven, Georgie,’ he said quietly to himself. ‘She’s not smitten with you after all.’

They had to wait outside the hamlet of Coursegoules, till a retiring column of artillery passed through. De Puy was close to Markham now, as gloomy as ever, looking down into the valley that contained the nest of buildings. The ground in between was wooded, with small, colourful, cultivated fields. Some were purple with lavender, others yellow and pink, full of the herbs that had once been used to make perfumed gloves for the high social classes.

De Puy was one of that class. They hadn’t exchanged a word since he’d accused him, and that depressed Markham. He was never one to cast stones, and if de Puy had been tempted and fallen, as far as Ghislane Moulins was concerned he probably wouldn’t be the last. What was he thinking now? Of her, or the treasure that he had so nearly got away with?

‘Why here?’ asked Markham.

‘My family owned the land round Coursegoules, until we were proscribed as émigrés. There is also a small inn at the crossroads that was a tenant’s.’

‘You may get it back.’

‘It has been passed to the people who use to work it on our behalf. It will take a miracle to get it back. You would not know this perhaps, since you can hardly be expected to care. But they asked the late King’s brother, the Comte d’Artois, to recognise the rights of the people to elect a parliament on the English model. He demanded all that his brother owned be returned to him as the rightful King of France. He took the best chance we have of peace and threw it back in their faces. Now it will be war till we are all exhausted. And at the end, whoever wins, it will mean poverty for the likes of me.’

Perhaps Ghislane had been telling the truth after all, thought Markham.

‘Will Bellamy be looking out for us.’

‘Possibly not yet.’

‘Sergeant Rannoch. You and I will enter the village alone.’

‘But what of me?’ said Aramon.

‘Unless you think me also a thief you must stay here.’ Rannoch had come alongside, and Markham and he discussed the route, using trees, dead ground and an embankment to get in without being observed. ‘Make sure your musket is loaded, Rannoch. There might be French soldiers still down there, and if our man tries to run I want him brought down.’

‘That’s Bellamy.’

‘I know,’ Markham responded, sadly. ‘But I have to take him in if I find him, you know that.’

‘Aye,’ Rannoch replied, in a rare show of brevity.

They moved as fast as prudence allowed, knowing that if the Negro was watching for them with anything bordering on efficiency, he could not fail to spot their red coats against the mainly lush green background. They reached the first building, a dilapidated barn, and used that to get them as close to the crossroad as possible. Then, taking a tight grip on his weapon, Markham stepped out, the tip of Rannoch’s musket following him.

If the enemy was around, this was the moment of maximum danger; a loose shot fired off in fear before he could show them Bonaparte’s laissier passer. There was not a soul in sight in the noonday heat, not even a dog, just some geese by a half-filled pond. Rannoch joined him when he signalled and together they walked down the road into Coursegoules. The houses were shuttered and silent, but there would be people watching, the locals, too afraid to come out and investigate.

‘Is that the Inn?’ said Rannoch.

He was pointing to a run-down place by the pond. The only sign that it might be so was the bench outside where weary travellers could, no doubt, remove their boots. They made their way to the door, and ducking under the low lintel, they entered a smoke-blackened room that was suffused with the smell of delicious food.

The woman that came out of the back was small and had once been a beauty. But hard toil and sun had turned her skin loose and leathery. She wiped her hands on her apron, and asked, in very heavy accent, what they required.

‘Have you food there for eighteen?

‘There can be, if I am given a half hour.’

‘Who is going to pay for it?’ asked Rannoch, when Markham told him they were up for a good meal.

‘That bloody priest can.’

This was delivered while still smiling at the lady, and he enquired politely if she had other guests. She shook her head, but the rubbing of her hands on her apron denoted a degree of anxiety. Markham came straight out and asked her if she’d seen two Negroes.

What followed was a long voluble explanation, which Rannoch couldn’t follow, and Markham struggled to. Cut down to the bone, it meant they had stopped here, but only to eat and write two letters. They left her money, and instructions to pass the letters on to a very beautiful lady, and a tall man that she might recognise as the Comte de Puy. Markham was informed that she would not know the Comte from Adam, and that he was not welcome here in any case, what with him probably wanting back his land and property.

‘The letters?’ demanded Markham, in a loud voice.

She showed some reluctance so he fingered his pistol. As she turned to go Markham asked Rannoch to signal to the others to come in. By the time they arrived, he and Rannoch were sitting enjoying their second bumper of local red wine, feeling at peace with the world. His men waited outside, but Aramon, de Puy and Ghislane rushed in, to be greeted by Markham holding out two letters, one of them addressed to him.

‘I forbore to open mine till you arrived. What intrigues me is that yours seems to be somewhat thicker than mine.’

De Puy opened the one addressed to him and Ghislane slowly, catching the five gold pieces that fell out. When he read it he passed it to Aramon. He in turn went puce as his head dropped down the page.

‘They have stolen it and taken it for themselves, and they have the devil’s cheek to apologise.’

‘They ask that we send that on to you,’ said de Puy, clinking the coins, ‘by whatever means possible.’

The lady came out of the back of the inn, and having spotted Aramon she sank to her knees and kissed his hand, spouting what sounded like gibberish. He was led into the rear of the building, and no sooner had he disappeared than he was shouting for assistance. His servants rushed in, and they emerged holding fine gold caskets, with crystal glass on each side, inside which lay what looked like piles of old bones.

‘The relics. That blessed pair left the relics, with my name and enough money to send a messenger to Rome!’

‘This makes you happy I take it.’

‘These, Markham, are what I came for.’

The Monsignor reeled off the names of the saints whose bones lay in these caskets, St Gobain, Lazarus of Nimes, speaking so quickly that half of them were lost.

‘So you did not come for the gold and silver?’

‘The church has much of that, and can when it wants get more.’

‘Then I am pleased for you.’

Markham opened his and began to read.

My dear Lieutenant Markham,

You will be angered at my desertion, I am sure. But I beg of you to pause and consider the plight of a creature who carries more natural burdens than most. What could I hope for in His Majesty’s service? With you, little in the way of punishment. I fear you are a poor officer, too kindly for the rank you hold. But others are less scrupulous, and it would only be a matter of time before I met a man who loved the lash. You will know, with my tongue, what the consequences of that would be!

So, as this opportunity presented itself, I had to take it. France will serve as a place to live, and if not that then Italy. The treasure Monsignor Aramon sought was not so fabulous, but it will allow Renate and I to live in decent estate, without providing the means to cut a true dash. I have left his relics in the care of the inn so that they can be passed on to him.

As to the lady and gentleman who arranged for us to steal it, I imagine they were sad. But they only have themselves to blame. Renate was easy to engage in conspiracy, but Mademoiselle Moulins’ pursuit of me was masterly in its tact and subtlety. Who could not warm to a tale of love denied by circumstance, and be excited by the means to free two troubled hearts?

Yet our star-crossed lovers, even in felony, treated us as servants, never once offering a portion free from entail to the two people they needed most. What were we to do, acquire the means to make them rich, then serve them faithfully there after? What vanity!

Truly it is a strange world where people only see skin colour and not quality. You, it has to be said, were not like that. And for the rest, after we buried our initial animosities we managed to arrange a modus vivendi in which I sought not to annoy them more than necessary. It is my wish that they live and prosper.

That applies of course to you as well. And should chance put you in my way, nothing would give me greater pleasure than to treat you as an honoured guest.

I am, your most humble ex-servant,

Eboluh Bellamy.