The luxury of rest was not available, since a quick strike on the retreating enemy might sweep them past their own defences. And the senior officers who’d come ashore with the second wave were right up with the forward troops, urging them on. General d’Aubent, the army second in command, stopped to survey the damage that Markham and his small party had done to the artillery position. A taciturn man, he awarded their efforts no more than a grunt of approval, before they were ordered to join the troops under a Major Lanester who were fanning out in the fields to the rear of the road, intent on attacking the enemy flank.
Lanester, fat and red-faced, had commandeered the artillery horses, so he and his officers were now mounted, albeit bareback, and able to ride ahead. Markham, cursing, was left to walk with the infantry, so it was with some satisfaction that he saw them haul up short as they received a volley from what looked like a strong trench line. Lacombe might be short of troops, but he’d known that an invasion was possible for some time, and with only three major centres to defend, San Fiorenzo, Bastia and Calvi, he’d used the time wisely, strengthening their perimeters so that his troops fell back into prepared positions.
Lanester sent one of his captains back to organise an immediate assault, and in the confusion that followed, as the regimental officers lined up their soldiers, the small party of marines was temporarily forgotten, for which Markham was extremely grateful. He was tired and so were the men he led. Added to that they had little or no ammunition left. A further factor in holding back was that lassitude that comes after any action, a feeling of almost total sorrow, the ‘black dog’ which has nothing to do with success or failure.
Markham felt it the most. He’d taken terrible risks, and only the most tremendous luck had saved his little force from annihilation. Standing in the shade of an olive tree, he mentally recalled everything that had happened in the last two hours, cursing himself for the bone-headed decisions that had cost lives. It was with only half his attention that he watched the soldiers go into action, two long lines of redcoats marching across the unsown fields, trying to hold formation on the uneven ground. It had all the foolishness for which the British Army was famous, offering easy targets to even the most indifferent French shot once the men were within range.
He could see Lanester, seeming more plump now that he was mounted, waving his men forward with his hat. The questions filled Markham’s mind. Why had he not waited, examined the position so that both he and his junior officers knew what they were facing; sent forward skirmishers to locate the French fire points and probe the strength of the defences?
The order to halt took him by surprise, and he wasn’t alone. Whoever commanded the French troops had called on every man to aim his weapon and wait. Yet just before the point when he would have been certain to order the opening fusillade, the enemy had stopped. Several muskets, no doubt held by men too keyed up to resist, went off, and that was followed by an uneven rippling fire all along the perimeter. Lanester had his sword out now, and he waved it in a wide sweep that had his men falling back in a line just as disciplined as it had been when they were going forward.
Once they’d covered about thirty paces, they stopped again. Packs were discarded and piled to form a temporary fire point for one section, while the rest took out their entrenching tools and began to dig, oblivious to the popping fire which came from the enemy, musket balls that very occasionally found a British target. Lanester, meanwhile, rode back towards the tree under which Markham and his men rested, one officer peeling off, no doubt with a message, and heading inland to where the troops under General d’Aubent were held up on the road.
‘Now that’s not something I would have tried if some angel hadn’t taken care of those field pieces.’
The voice was soft, American, and close up, Markham could see that Lanester was no spring chicken. Indeed he was old for his rank, the red face caused more by long exposure to the elements than what the marine officer had supposed was just over indulgence in food and drink.
‘I believe I have you to thank for that, sir?’
‘Lieutenant Markham, sir, and a contingent of marines from Hebe and Seahorse.’ This was said as he pulled himself upright, his eyes fixed on those of the major, waiting to see if there was any reaction to the name. After a short pause, in which Lanester’s face didn’t move, Markham continued. ‘That was neatly done, sir, the way you drew their fire.’
‘Damnit,’ Lanester replied, without much rancour, ‘we shouldn’t even be here. Our line of attack was across the beach and through the trees. This position was supposed to be taken by our Corsican allies. I’ll be damned interested, and so will General Dundas, to know where they are. But that’s war for you, boy, and with the slow rate of getting our own men ashore, it looks like all the plans made aboard ship are useless.’
He slid off his horse then, calling to his officers to do likewise. ‘But since we look set to stay here, this tree will provide some shade for a regimental headquarters. Lieutenant Pearse.’
‘Sir.’
‘Mark out a defence line to fall back to if the French bring up more field guns. Deloitte, get a party together and set the cannon our friend here destroyed back on their wheels, limbered up and over here. Forrest, take a messenger to General Dundas telling him what we’ve got and requesting new orders, plus some gunners to help us make use of the damn things. Then find the commissariat and get our supplies up here. Tell them we need everything – food, water, powder and shot.’
Lanester took a deep breath then, puffing himself up as if he was about to bellow. But what emerged did so softly, if vehemently. ‘And someone find my servant and tell him if he doesn’t get me some food within the next half hour, I’ll skin him alive.’
As the officers rushed off to do his bidding, he turned back to Markham. ‘You will join me in a late breakfast, and tell me how you found the battle quality of the enemy.’
He saw the marine officer look at his men, straggled around the field, some sitting, others lying, all exhausted. ‘I’ll get them fed too, never fear.’
‘We should return to the beach, sir. That’s where my own superiors are.’
‘To do what? Act as a burial party or navvies hauling guns and stores ashore? Take my advice, Lieutenant. And if you think you need it, I will say I requested you to stay here.’
‘They may be continuing with the assault.’
Lanester shook his head. ‘No! We’ll need to consolidate. The French have good defences round Fornali, certainly better than we thought. They also seem to possess more men than we were led to expect. And we are in double deficit thanks to our allies, extending our lines to face an enemy they should have tackled. There will be no coup-de-main stuff now, Markham. More’n likely we’re in for a tad of a siege.’
Markham responded with a weary grin. ‘We were at Toulon, sir. I don’t think my men are going to be too enamoured of another siege.’
‘Were you, by damn!’ he exclaimed. ‘Missed that action myself, which is a pity. I hear my fellow officers managed to evacuate some very valuable booty.’
The flash of distaste on Markham’s face was so obvious Lanester quickly changed the subject, jerking a thumb towards Fornali. ‘Well, this time you’re on the outside trying to get in. A much better place to be, don’t you reckon? Lacombe will have the devil’s own job to hold his line even against us. And if the Corsicans do appear in strength, as they are damn well obliged to, he’ll find himself having to surrender on whatever terms we choose to allow.’
The major’s head jerked up and he looked past Markham’s shoulder. ‘Where in hell’s name have you been?’
Markham turned round to see a lugubrious, long-faced individual, with grey-brown skin dotted with moles and full of wrinkles. A private, who was looking at the major as if he were tempted to strike him. He had a mule on a rope, and the animal was festooned with sacks, plus several chickens and two leather pouches which had wine bottles protruding from the top.
‘If you wants fed faster, like, you’d best fetch along some decent vittles. If you don’t, you waits till I’s had a chance to scour.’
‘Never mind your damned lip, Pavin. Get the fire alight and get cooking. And those marines in the field need tending, too. We’d still be stuck on the beach if they hadn’t taken those guns.’
‘I’ve got, like, brandy on the mule.’
‘What’s left of it, you mean. Time to put some work in for what you’ve purloined.’ Pavin leant to one side, and spat slowly into the green thick grass under the tree. Then, having favoured his officer with another filthy look, he led the mule away. Lanester grinned at Markham. ‘That man could find a feast and room to cook it in the Black Hole of Calcutta.’
‘I take it that permits him some licence.’
‘That and long acquaintance, sir. He’s been with me over twenty years now.’
‘Your accent is American, Major Lanester.’
‘Not American, Lieutenant,’ Lanester replied sharply. ‘Virginian.’
Several soldiers arrived bearing used ammunition boxes, and these were arranged so that Lanester and his guest could sit down, while others were arranging stores, the collected rations of the troops still digging, which would be prepared in a makeshift field kitchen.
‘I meant no offence,’ Markham said.
‘None taken.’ The stream of messengers began then, officers and soldiers, either imparting information, requesting it, or reporting some task completed; one from General d’Aubent requiring lists of casualties, news of any Corsican reinforcement, plus information on the enemy defences and numbers, which had Lanester scribbling a long appreciation of his present position. By this time Markham had a cup of coffee in his hand, produced from the blazing fire on which Pavin was already cooking. In between he quizzed Markham, imparting as much information as he gleaned.
‘Those guns should never have been allowed to deploy on that road. We were told that the Corsicans would keep Lacombe occupied, pen the French in their defences, so that we could get ashore and assault Fornali without too many casualties. We were also informed that we would face no more than five or six hundred of the enemy.’
‘There were more than that deployed north of the fort this morning,’ Markham said. ‘And Lacombe must have other lines that need manpower. Unless he knew where we were going to land.’
‘We didn’t know that ourselves till last night, man. The Navy said it would depend on the wind, something they called the mezzogiorno, which blows on land in the early hours, then spins round and does the reverse at night.’
‘Lacombe couldn’t have guessed that, could he?’
‘You’d think not,’ Lanester replied, as a messenger arrived and handed him a note. He examined it for a moment, then opened his map case to study that. He looked up at Markham again, turning the case round so that he could see the outline of the deep bay, plus the contours of Cap Corse which ran north, the high range of mountains forming a spine down the middle. The major’s finger moved as he spoke, pointing out the important features, plus the positions of the local forces.
‘The Corsicans are still stuck on the other arm of the bay. They’ve now undertaken to attack towards Patrimonio and Barbaggio. That’s the route to Bastia, which is the only way that Lacombe can get out of here, if he decides to go.’
‘And if they close the pass?’ Markham asked, pointing at a gap in the mountains called the Colla di Tregima. Lanester just raised his hand and ran a finger across his throat. Markham spread two fingers, to measure the distance between the present Corsican position, and where he and the major now sat. ‘They’re a long way from where they’re supposed to be.’
Lanester waved the note he’d received, a hasty scribble on thin yellowing paper. ‘Perhaps the locals are not much at anything other than slow marching. Anyway, this is their latest proposal. All we have to do, it seems, is drive the Frenchies into their arms.’
‘Vittles,’ shouted Pavin, ‘by which if’n you want them hot, you best shift.’
‘What about those marines?’
‘Saw to ’em first, as you damn well ordered, which is the first time I ever put a Lobster before a real soldier.’
‘I subscribe to the theory that it is sometimes necessary to disobey orders, Colonel. If one sees an opportunity to affect the course of a battle, it is best taken, don’t you think?’
Nelson was enjoying himself, and that statement only added to the fury evident in Hanger’s face. This operation had given rise to the usual arguments between the two branches of the military. Lord Hood had complete freedom to put a landing force wherever they wanted to go, but also a pressing need for a good safe anchorage. San Fiorenzo, in the deep bay created by the long arm of Cap Corse, provided that. The Army, under General Dundas, was happy to comply, seeing it as the weakest of the three towns the French held.
Hanger’s actual position, here on the beach, was somewhat anomalous. Having professional soldiers to hand, Hood was shrewd enough to use them to take command when landing his marines. But with that successfully completed, and the commanding general still aboard Victory, he had no executive function. He’d already been informed that, since Lieutenant Markham was a marine officer, his disobedience of direct instructions should be seen in the light of their result, and in any case he lay beyond the jurisdiction of an army officer to question.
Unaware of what exactly had occurred after the evacuation of Toulon, Hanger had been ignorant of the fact that Markham was no longer a soldier. He’d been commissioned into the marines, and given his present rank, at the personal behest of Admiral Hood, based on the recommendation of his own nephew, the captain of the frigate Juno.
‘Then may I say, Captain Nelson,’ Hanger hissed, ‘that if the right to disobedience is a tenet of seaborne warfare, the Navy has a strange way of going about its business.’
You had to look closely to see the face change, the narrowing of the eyes and shrinking of the cheeks almost imperceptible. Nelson turned away slightly, as if to check on the progress of the landing, looking along a strand now full of marines and sailors, busy hauling the equipment necessary to besiege San Fiorenzo onto the shore.
‘I don’t think, as a service, sir, we have to apologise to anyone, especially King George’s army.’
Markham didn’t know Nelson well. If asked, he would have put him down as the co-operative type, more inclined to flatter a bullock officer than put him in his place. But he’d done just that in reminding Hanger that, if you excused the odd hiccup, the Navy had enjoyed almost continuous success in war for a hundred years. The way Hanger responded was typical, since he wasn’t the type to stand condescension from anyone, and in doing so, he pricked on the greatest running sore in recent inter-service history.
‘Not even for Chesapeake Bay?’
Markham, standing close to the scarred face of his old enemy, had a sudden vision of that campaign in the Carolinas. Of his own personal pain, mixed with the memory of the successes that General Cornwallis had enjoyed before being forced back, through lack of supplies and reinforcements, and his own casualties. Yorktown, the base he expected to hold, turned out to be the point of surrender, Cornwallis and his men trapped between the more numerous Continental Army, and a French fleet that the Royal Navy had been unable to dislodge.
‘I daresay your new marine lieutenant remembers,’ Hanger continued, glaring at Markham.
‘I remember, sir, how the army behaved. Or, at least, the cavalry of Tarleton’s British Legion.’
Hanger reddened then, and Markham was about to continue, to elaborate on some of the disgraceful activities, not least rape and murder, that the British Legion had indulged in. But Nelson, unseen by Hanger, was shaking his head, in a way that looked like a direct order to desist. Luckily, Markham saw the black face, so obvious against the white canvas on the passing stretcher, which gave him an excuse to comply.
The men carrying the stretcher were heading to the point set up by a Navy surgeon, a temporary field hospital under an awning. The sawbones was already working with his assistants on those wounded in the attack. His detachment, both Hebes and Seahorses, well fed and rested, had formed another party under Rannoch’s command to help with the unloading of the naval guns.
‘With your permission, sir,’ he said, addressing Nelson.
The captain followed his eye, then nodded. ‘Carry on, Markham.’
Hanger hissed angrily again, and as he left them he could hear the colonel still complaining bitterly about his behaviour, a litany that his naval contemporary seemed determined to absorb in silence. Markham caught up with the stretcher, to find Bellamy suffering from a blow to the back of the skull that had probably rendered him unconscious. Now he was moaning softly, his eyes glazed and unfocused as he rolled his head back and forth.
Recalling what had happened during that attack, Markham could only remember one man standing to the rear of Bellamy, and that was Rannoch. The idea that his sergeant had inflicted such a blow was hard to believe. Certainly the Highlander was tough and uncompromising. But he was also, to Markham’s certain knowledge, the type to care for any man placed under his command.
‘What happened to you, Bellamy?’
‘Don’t know,’ the Negro mumbled. ‘Something hit me.’
Markham was crouched over him as they entered the shade of the awning, examining the wound more closely. Several inches long, the cut showed through the tight curls, which were matted with blood. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as though the marine had taken a hard blow from something very like the butt of a musket. The men carrying him put the stretcher down at the end of a row of casualties. Judging by the number, and the state of their wounds, it would be some time before the surgeon, bloodstained, cursing and swearing as he worked, would get round to this particular patient.
‘Water, please,’ he called to one of the loblolly boys, tending to those waiting as well as the men who’d already been under the knife. The sickbay attendant, a scarecrow with sunken cheeks, carried a leather water bucket and a ladle. He came over and looked down, first at the round black face, then at the officer. Markham reached into his uniform and produced a purse.
‘Take this,’ he said, holding out a couple of shillings. ‘And make sure he’s looked after till the surgeon’s ready.’
‘Thick skulled, them darkies,’ the man replied, shaking his long, skeletal face as he indicated the gash on Bellamy’s head. ‘And lazy, from what I’ve observed in the Sugar Islands. Scrimshanking, most like, and could get up and tend to himself if he had a mind.’
‘He needs stitches in his head, and someone to make sure his skull isn’t cracked.’
‘Then he’ll be here till doomsday, what with Mr Lewis lopping off legs and arms. Welsh he may be, but he’ll not put no blackamoor afore one of his own. He’ll be lancing boils before he gets round to this creature.’
Markham looked at the surgeon’s back, at a filthy grey shirt streaked with the dark stain of excessive perspiration. To appeal to Lewis would probably be counter-productive. All he could do was leave Bellamy here, and drop by occasionally to see if he’d been treated. He stood up, passing over the coins.
‘Then make sure he doesn’t die of thirst.’
‘Happily,’ the loblolly boy replied, lifting his leather bucket and tipping it over Bellamy’s face. The Negro sat up suddenly, shaking his head, and cursing in an unintelligible tongue. The medical attendant looked at Markham triumphantly, with a toothless grin. ‘See, I told you he was lead-swingin’, didn’t I just?’
‘Which ship are you off?’ Markham demanded.
‘Agamemnon.’
‘Then I’ll have you know that your captain is a personal friend. So if you don’t want to find yourself out of this cushioned billet, digging trenches, you’ll do as I ask.’
‘I’ll take care of him, all right, your honour,’ the man replied, completely unabashed. Then he laughed, exposing his gums again. ‘Can’t let him pass over, can I. If a sweep brings you luck with a dirty face and hands, stands to reason this crow will bring on double.’
‘Markham!’
He recognised the voice well before he turned to face Captain Richard de Lisle, the commanding officer of the Hebe. Standing in the entrance, against the white bright sand, he was no more than a tubby silhouette. Small, compact and a stickler for his amour propre, he didn’t realise how such a position demeaned him.
‘Sir.’
‘I watched you disobey your orders coming ashore, and Bernard has confirmed that your deviation was deliberate. And what am I subjected to the minute I myself land? Colonel Hanger giving me chapter and verse about your damned insubordination.’
‘Have you, sir?’ Markham replied. He felt suddenly weary, too tired to stand to attention. The sun might be deflected by the awning, but the breeze had fallen away and the late afternoon heat was trapped and stifling in the confined space. Lanester’s food, which had revived him originally, was now inducing its own post-prandial torpor. Normally, facing de Lisle, he stood rigidly to attention and never looked the man in the eye. This was not through fear, but from a desire to avoid the little smirks that touched the captain’s lips every time he delivered one of his insults.
Forced to weigh anchor from the Nore with the rest of the fleet, and told that he would have to take soldiers aboard to make up for his lack of proper marines, de Lisle had hit the cabin roof when he’d found out the identity of the officer who led them. He was careful to avoid the word bastard, having already discovered such a barb might cause Markham to strike a blow. But there were plenty of other cracks in his locker for an illegitimate rake, a known duellist who clearly lacked two guineas to rub together. That applied even if his natural father had been a full general, since dead parents had no influence. Hints that Markham was a Papist, and should never have been given a commission in the first place, surfaced often, as did references to what had happened in the American war, during and after the Battle of Guildford.
If George Markham had withstood these insults with seeming fortitude, it was only through long exposure. There had hardly been a time in his life when he’d not been vulnerable to such gibes from some source. His parentage, when he was a child, had been no mystery. With a wealthy Protestant father not married to a middling Catholic mother, he’d fallen foul of both religious groups, an outsider to one and a traitor to the other. That had at least taught him to fight from a very early age, especially since Sir John Markham refused to follow the practice of his ascendancy peers and ignore his very existence.
He not only acknowledged George as his child; he visited both him and his mother regularly, and such was his standing locally that he forced others to acknowledge them too, though the fact that they resented the need was ill disguised. School in Dublin had been little better than Wexford. He’d known peace when Sir John, as Governor of New York, had taken him to America, and allowed the boy to revel in the life of a Headquarters brat. To be gazetted an Ensign in the 65th foot was a dream come true, and he’d marched to war against the colonists, head high and proud. But that had all ended in his first real battle.
If relations with the ship’s captain had been bad from the start, they were now even worse. Hood’s intention to allow him a marine commission had sent de Lisle into a towering rage, during which he’d written an intemperate letter to the Admiral. The reply, couched with equal severity, and including a reminder to the captain of a 24-gun frigate of precisely where he stood in the naval hierarchy, had first cast him down. But it wasn’t too long before it caused him to redouble his efforts to undermine the person he blamed for the whole affair, a task in which he was aided by every other officer aboard the Hebe. Personal dislike was now supported by the belief that Markham had, by making the Admiral angry, blighted all their prospects.
‘I await an explanation, sir,’ snapped de Lisle, dragging Markham back to reality.
‘I did what all my experience suggested was correct, sir. If that displeases Colonel Hanger it can only be because he is ignorant of war, or a damned fool. I suggest you speak to either General d’Aubent or Major Lanester, who will give you a true appreciation of what we achieved.’
‘According to Colonel Hanger, you sat uselessly on the enemy flank until the army attacked and took the French field guns. Then you appeared out of the woods when the enemy was in retreat, and it was safe to do so.’
‘And you, sir, like a fool, believed him.’
‘How dare you speak to me in that tone! Might I remind you that you carried the honour of my ship in your actions? And once again you appear to have been found wanting.’
Markham blew then, the strength of his voice seeming to move the still air under the awning. ‘The honour of your vessel, sir, is akin to your own, and would not comfortably reside in a flea carried by a ship’s rat.’
‘You will withdraw that remark!’
‘No, sir, I will not.’
De Lisle didn’t shout in reply. In fact, his voice was soft and silky, as if he had achieved some prior purpose. ‘You will consider yourself under arrest, Lieutenant, until such time as I can convene a court. Colonel Hanger may not be able to haul you before the judgment of the Army, but given your present status, I will be able to see you brought before a naval hearing. I’ll see you damned, Markham, as much for what you are as for the gross insubordination which you have demonstrated since we left Chatham.’
‘Did Colonel Hanger hint at a reward for this, or actually promise you something tangible?’
De Lisle reacted as though he’d been slapped. Yet, once that shot in the dark had been fired, it was so obvious. His captain was a climber, with all the attributes of the type, which included an ability to sacrifice both principles and people to ambition. Hanger was very rich, and well connected in both London and the Mediterranean. At home, he caroused in the company of the Prince of Wales. Here, he’d lately become betrothed to Lizzie Gordon, the niece of another man of influence, the recently ennobled and promoted Admiral Lord Keith.
‘I should be wary of him, Captain de Lisle,’ Markham continued. ‘Colonel Hanger has the morals of a snake.’
‘I doubt your opinion of his moral standing would impress the colonel much.’
‘This arrest, Captain. Does it confine me to the ship?’
‘No, it does not,’ snapped de Lisle. ‘We are far too short-handed to have you skulking in your cabin. You may go about your duties. And if there is a god for a heathen like you, then perhaps he will see fit to arm a French ball to take off your insolent head.’
‘There won’t be one for you, sir. They do not have sufficient range.’
The silhouette turned sideways, and de Lisle spoke softly. ‘Mr Bernard.’
The midshipman was outside, in the sunlight. Markham wasn’t sure, as the boy stepped into view, if his face was red from excessive heat or embarrassment. And he kept his eyes resolutely on the face of the captain, not willing to engage those of the marine officer.
‘You will have overheard every word exchanged here?’ said de Lisle.
‘Sir,’ the boy replied noncommittally.
‘Good,’ the captain responded, unaware of Bernard’s lack of enthusiasm. ‘You will be called at Mr Markham’s court, and you will be asked to repeat what he said.’
The silhouette was square-on again, but Markham didn’t have to use much imagination to put a smirk on the pasty round face. ‘We will see if half a dozen naval captains take kindly to the notion of a marine officer of this ilk. One who disobeys orders with impunity, and chooses also to call his commander’s bravery into account.’
‘Don’t leave out your motives, sir,’ said Markham.
‘Have you turned in your army commission yet?’
‘Yes,’ Markham lied.
De Lisle, knowing how strapped he was for cash, must have supposed he’d done so. After all, he’d come aboard at Chatham with the bailiffs on his heels, further evidence of his raffish nature. Not that a lieutenant’s commission was worth much, especially in a normal line regiment like the 65th. What the captain didn’t know was that the commission in question was the last gift he had had from his late father. Since Sir John had died while he was serving in Russia, his half-sister Hannah had demanded back every penny that his natural father had gifted him. Even if he had no use for it, he’d keep that commission till his dying day.
For once de Lisle actually snorted, so great was his pleasure. And the irony in his tone was pitched too high to be anything other than contrived.
‘That’s a damned shame, Markham. You’ve gone and sold the only thing that might be of use to you. And God knows, you’ll never get one back on your own account.’
De Lisle turned then and marched out into the bright light. As he stopped by Bernard he took a deep breath that made his whole frame swell up, as though to emphasise that he’d just concluded a very satisfactory interview.