‘We fought the French to a standstill in four campaigns,’ said Arena for the third time. He was now very drunk, his face no longer sallow, but red from heat and alcohol.
Lanester, fearing that he would recount every battle again, raised his glass. ‘To the bravery of the Corsican soldier.’
‘And the British soldier,’ Arena responded, once he’d drained his own glass and had it refilled.
‘Let us not forget the marines,’ said Buttafuco, who’d continued to drink sparingly.
‘The marines,’ slurred Grimaldi, who was sitting right next to Markham. Then he leant over with a leer, pushing his goblet under his guest’s nose. ‘And, of course, their nocturnal adventures.’
That made Markham look at him hard. Grimaldi was grinning from ear to ear, pleased with his own wit. His dark eyes sparkled and the candlelight, coming from the side, made his prominent nose stand out even more.
‘We had Colonel Hanger at this very table less than a week ago,’ said Buttafuco.
‘A fine officer,’ said Lanester, trying to deflect the conversation away from what he suspected might be coming.
Buttafuco was not going to be put off, even if he did avoid eye contact when he continued. ‘With a beautiful wife, I understand.’
‘Indeed,’ replied Markham stiffly.
‘In Corsica, we kill men who trifle with our womenfolk. They are like traitors, these people who creep about in the night. They deserve the knife.’
Markham knew he had to remain quiet. He wanted to scream out about the men who’d died in their foxholes at Fornali, of his own near miss in San Fiorenzo. But he couldn’t, and it had nothing to do with the warning look and the emphatic shake of the head from Lanester, a clear injunction to ‘stay calm’. He dropped his eyes for a brief moment before looking up again. It took him a few seconds to realise that the Corsicans were not interested in him, not waiting for him to respond. They all had their eyes on Lanester. Had he, by his reaction, unwittingly confirmed what they must already suspect; that Markham had possession of some rejoinder damning enough to silence them, information that both men would be on the way to Corte to pass on to Pasquale Paoli?
Whatever else was going on behind those eyes, the mood had been totally destroyed. Buttafuco particularly became more and more morose. The speed with which the dinner broke up was almost obscene, the partings having none of the geniality of their welcome. Lanester and Markham left a room full of small knots of officers, all talking in hushed animation. Guards, in the same orange-faced uniform, saluted their passing as they left the main building. The chill of the night air was a welcome relief, Lanester holding his tongue until they were well out of earshot.
‘I fear, despite all my previous efforts, that I might have given the game away.’
‘You think Buttafuco set out to trap us.’
‘If he did, he succeeded.’
‘Might I suggest we post our own guards tonight.’
‘That would be wise,’ Lanester growled. ‘But tell the men the password is Nebbio. I don’t want them shooting some innocent local out of his tent for a piss.’
Markham woke a slumbering Rannoch and gave him his orders, and between them they placed the sentinels and worked out the watches. All around them, in the darkness, fires twinkled, and in the distance Markham could see the torches lining the walls of the French redoubts. With Rannoch on the first watch, and Halsey taking the second, he fell into a shallow sleep troubled both by drink consumed, vivid imaginings, and the loud snoring of Major Lanester, so that when he was roused by the Highlander, long before dawn, he felt as though he hadn’t slept at all.
‘I have been watching them for an age,’ said Rannoch, his voice as level and well paced as ever, despite describing what to his officer sounded like a nightmare. Behind them Lanester’s snores rose to a crescendo, so loud that even he couldn’t stand it. The sudden silence, as he snorted then fell quiet, made the sergeant’s voice sound louder. ‘They are dressed in the local way. Two of them, creeping round as if searching for an opening. But that is all they have done.’
In just his shirtsleeves, on a moonlit night, Markham knew he’d be like a beacon. So, having strapped on his sword, he donned his dark blue cloak and followed Rannoch, who had his grey cape on, as the Highlander slid out into the chilly, clear night air. He could see the circuit of his own piquet, each man with a white cloth tied to the tip of his bayonet, but not Rannoch’s Corsicans. It was easy to think of himself and Lanester as the targets, but the fate of the men at Fornali haunted Markham; the notion, one he could not rid himself of, that the very same could befall both him and his command. So when he finally saw the figures moving on the edge of their tents, he had his pistol up and aimed. Only Rannoch’s hand stopped him from blazing off at what was suddenly just a hint of a floppy round cap behind a tree.
‘We do not know for certain who they are.’
‘I do.’
Rannoch swept his free arm in a small arc, his voice soft and insistent. ‘We cannot go shooting at people for crawling around their own encampment.’
‘I can when I feel threatened,’ Markham hissed.
‘If they do not have firearms, and we can get close enough, perhaps we can catch hold of one of them.’
Markham thought for a moment before replying. ‘I’d rather scare and chase them, to see where they go.’
Rannoch must have picked up the note of excitement in his officer’s voice, since his own sounded worried. ‘They might lead us straight into a trap.’
Markham’s hand was already under his cape, the scrape of his sword leaving the scabbard covered by a renewed bout of noise from Lanester. He jerked his arm to dislodge Rannoch’s grip, then stood up and began to walk deliberately towards the spot where he’d last seen that head in the flop-sided round cap. The guttural cry of alarm was followed by the sound of scurrying feet. Markham shouted ‘Halt!’ Rannoch, with more sense, called to the guards to fall back on the tents and stand fast.
There was no wisdom in what Markham was doing, only a fierce anger, manifested in racing blood and a stream of Irish curses, as he plunged after the men he thought were trying to kill him. Rannoch was at his heels, musket raised, fixing his bayonet on the run, pleading to be allowed to catch up. What slowed Markham was the realisation that he had no idea where his quarry had gone. But he didn’t stop, he kept moving at a fast walk, his eyes ranging around the silent rows of tents, flickering low fires, the only sounds those of a camp full of sleeping men, with the odd rattle of a musket as a sentry moved his weapon in response to the password.
‘There,’ murmured Rannoch, pointing to a line of trees, tall swaying poplars at the southern end of the camp. Markham just saw a fleeting image, the same kind of silhouette he remembered so well. But the hand on his shoulder stopped him from giving immediate chase. ‘They are leading us on, sir, surely.’
‘Then let us follow them.’
‘Slowly.’
Markham nodded and agreed, though the desire to race on was strong. But Rannoch was right. To pursue at the run would rob them of any advantage. ‘Use the trees.’
They leap-frogged from trunk to trunk, weapons raised, every nerve strained to hear or see danger. It was Markham who saw it first, the very faint glim of a lantern light that filtered through the trees in a small grove of pines. He dropped to a crouch, Rannoch following suit. At his next signal, the pair crept towards the edge of the wood, picking up the first hint of voices as they reached the edge of the trees. Soft and slightly damp pine needles made their progress silent, until they reached a point where they could see some of what was happening in the clearing.
‘Who are they?’ Rannoch whispered.
‘My guess is that the man facing you,’ Markham whispered, his hand pointing to the knot of blue-coated officers, one seated, the other standing, ‘is General Lacombe St Michel, the French commander.’
The hum of voices rose and fell as the slight breeze made the pines above their head sigh. Markham moved a few paces closer, so that the faces of those in the lamplight became clearer. ‘And facing him is one of the Corsican commanders, a man I had dinner with earlier, General Arsenio Buttafuco.’
There were several more officers in their dull brown uniforms. But Markham wasn’t looking at them. His eyes had suddenly fixed on the sharp Moorish face of a man in a bottle-green coat. He’d been standing a few paces to the rear of the seated French General, but had stepped forward to say something. Even at this distance, Markham imagined he could see the cruelty in the man’s eyes, the sneer that was so often on his lips it seemed habitual. But it was Rannoch who whispered the name, not him.
‘Fouquert.’ Then he added, after a pause. ‘It would be nice to know what they are saying.’
Markham, even if his voice was low, was obviously angry. ‘I think I can guess.’
‘If this is a secret gathering, why are there no guards?’
Markham jerked as though he’d been physically jabbed, and he span round, not sparing Rannoch a glance as he began to crawl away. He took a different route out of the copse, using thick undergrowth to stay hidden, only stopping when one outreaching hand touched the still, warm body. Steadying himself as Rannoch bumped into his back, Markham ran his hands up the arms to the shoulder, then on to the face. He could smell sweat and the acrid odour of urine, feel the moustache and the open mouth. His hand dropped into the wetness of what he thought was the neck, which produced a gasp as he realised his fingertips were dipped into still-running blood.
‘Body in front,’ he said trying to sound unaffected. ‘Don’t trip on it.’
They got far enough away, onto a clear track, so that they could stand up and move normally. Markham’s mind was racing, and Rannoch had the good sense to keep his own counsel until his superior was ready to speak.
‘There were guards, or at least one.’
‘Dead?’
‘Throat slit. Someone went to a great deal of trouble to ensure we saw that.’
‘Those men led us to it.’
‘Yes.’
‘Who?’
‘Nebbio,’ said Markham, as a sentry challenged them. ‘Think where we are going, Sergeant, and why. To tell General Paoli that one or more of his generals have betrayed the Corsican cause. Up till now we had no idea who, but that has changed.’
‘A written note would have been easier.’
‘From whom? And would we have believed it, signed or unsigned? The man who arranged this is not going to reveal his identity.’
‘Because it would put him at risk.’
‘We have to believe so. Instead, he has allowed us to see for ourselves. To watch Buttafuco actually conversing with the enemy.’
‘Including that bastard from Toulon.’
‘Why not challenge him openly, and just arrest him?’
‘Could it be,’ Markham asked, ‘that Buttafuco is not alone?’
They made their way back up the lines as the first hint of grey tinged the sky behind Bastia. The whole party, with the exception of Major Lanester, was up and dressed, arms at the ready. Pavin was working on his fire close to the front flap of his master’s tent, his copper pots and pans arranged around him; a box was open to reveal beefsteak, trussed game birds, and fresh eggs ready to be cooked. Ordered to desist he glared at Markham, his gravelly voice a soft but rude litany, aimed at the flames, regarding the pleasures of serving decent folk, instead of bog-trotters.
‘Please be so good as to wake the major, Pavin, and saddle up his horse. We shall be on the road before the half-hour is gone.’
Pavin poked hard at his fire. ‘That’ll never be time enough to get him fed and watered.’
‘Nevertheless,’ Markham snapped, ‘it’s all the time you have.’
‘We’ll be seeing about that,’ Pavin growled, tugging at the tie on the Major’s tent flap. ‘Seems to me some folks has got above their place, an’ forgot the rank of the officer in charge of this here venture.’
Bleary-eyed and puffy faced, Lanester looked like a man who’d had a restless night. He looked at a sky just turning blue, and being no more convinced of the need for haste than his servant, he ordered Pavin to get on with his cooking. Looking at him, Markham felt a sense of utter frustration. He knew that dead guard would be missed. Even now the other sentinels on that meeting would be searching for him. What would happen when they found the body, as they were bound to now it was light, he didn’t know. All he was sure of was that he had no desire to still be in the Corsican lines when it happened. The other thing he didn’t want to do was to explain his nocturnal wanderings to Lanester.
‘I cannot see that our purpose can be served by delay, sir,’ Markham insisted. ‘We lost enough time last night.’
‘A good breakfast will put a better tinge on the day,’ said Lanester with relish.
‘I will, if you don’t mind, forgo the pleasure, sir.’
‘Gawd, boy, if it’s that vital to you, let’s get on the road with no more than a cup of warm coffee.’
‘Your honour,’ protested Pavin, pointing to a partridge already roasting on a spit.
‘Warm coffee,’ Lanester answered, softly but firmly, without taking his eyes off Markham. ‘And get my kit packed.’
‘Not till I’ve checked that cart,’ Pavin snarled. ‘Seems to me there might be a reason for all this hellfire haste.’
‘I doubt that’s the reason,’ Lanester said, his voice still soft, and aimed at Pavin’s retreating back. The Major didn’t elaborate further, but the look in his eyes was plain enough. That might not be the cause, but he had little doubt that there was one.
‘With your permission, sir?’
‘Carry on, Lieutenant.’
Markham left Rannoch to organise everyone, and went for a last, quick look at the redoubts. He ranged his glass along the embrasures, pinging to himself as he shot each presented target, like a child pretending to fire a gun. The one outline he sought wasn’t there, despite his careful examination. There was no bottle-green coat, no black eyes, and no sneer.
‘Impossible,’ he said to himself.
‘We are ready, sir,’ said Rannoch, from behind him.
‘I did see him last night, Rannoch, didn’t I?’
‘What is a bloody butcher like Fouquert doing here in Corsica?’