At Some Disputed Barricade (28 page)

It was at that moment that she had realized how small a part of his life she was. Yes, he could laugh and need and give like anyone else. But how much courage had he to hope when it was almost impossibly difficult? To lay the soul bare to the darkness, with the knowledge that it might not end? All the intelligence, the imagination, and pity, the moments of tenderness, were not enough without hope as well.

She sank into a kind of sleep at last, and by five o’clock she was awake again in the gray light. A splash of cold water on her face brought her to attention. Wil gave her a large mug of hot tea. She picked a bedbug out of it, then drank. It was so strong she could barely taste the strange mixture of things that had been in the Dixie can before it.

She was doing a little maintenance on the ambulance when she heard footsteps across the cobbled farmyard. At first she assumed it was Wil again, returned from his errand, but when he spoke she swung around in amazement to see Joseph. He looked tired, as always, the shadows around his eyes making them look even darker.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

She saw an intensity in him that sent a wave of fear through her. In spite of all his care not to, had he found undeniable evidence that it was she who had organized the escape of the prisoners? Would he lie to protect her—tell a deliberate, outright lie? Maybe he couldn’t. Maybe he had some kind of priestly oath, or a covenant with God. Perhaps he would not break that oath for her, or anyone.

“Hello, Joseph.” Her voice croaked a little.

“I know I’m interrupting, but I need to speak to you,” he said. “It’s important.”

She put down the rag with which she had been cleaning the carburetor.

“About the escape,” he went on.

She tried to look as if she had no idea why he was asking her, and knew that she failed.

He smiled bleakly, his face tight, his eyes gentle. “Be careful what you tell me,” he continued. “So far I have ideas of who was involved, but I don’t know for certain, and without proof I wouldn’t say anything.”

“Oh.” She let out her breath in a sigh. “I see. What is it you do not want to ask me?” She was puzzled. “I wouldn’t tell you who it was, even presuming I knew.”

“Of course you wouldn’t,” he agreed hastily. “I imagine you have an intense admiration for them. It was clever, simple, and took great courage, and of course a loyalty as deep as that of any of the soldiers on the line.” He was still looking at her intently, eyes so shadowed with weariness she could not read them. “They are willing to die for one another. And that is what it would come to. If that person, or two people probably, were to be caught, it would be a firing—” His voice cracked, too. “A firing squad matter. I wouldn’t ask you to tell me…if you know. That kind of betrayal is unthinkable.”

Her mouth was dry, her heart pounding. He was playing a game, but what? And what for? “Joseph—”

“But I want you to use your imagination,” he cut across her. “I’ve just spent a little time in the farmhouse where they were kept. And I spoke with Cavan. I know more about what actually happened now. I think only one of them is guilty of murder, the rest of…let’s say ‘conduct unbecoming.’”

She cleared her throat. “Does it make any difference?”

“I think so. I’m going to go after them and try to persuade them to return and face court-martial.”

“They won’t!” She was appalled at his naïveté. “For heaven’s sake, Joseph, they’d be shot! Guilty or innocent, the army’s after blood! You know that.”

“Not if they come back willingly,” he argued. “If they stay away then they’re deserters and fugitives. Worse than deserters, actually: mutineers and murderers.”

“Then they’ll just stay in Switzerland! Or—” She stopped abruptly, realizing she had told him which direction they were going. But they had at least three days’ advantage on him. “Or wherever they go,” she added lamely.

“Yes. Or South America, or wherever we have no treaties of extradition for murder,” he said grimly. “They can never come back to England. Never have careers, never stop looking over their shoulders, never be honest with anyone. That’s a heavy burden to carry all your life.”

She almost said that there might not be an England to come back to, but that was a terrible possibility she refused to harbor. Then the enormity of their situation began to sink in: the endless state of not belonging; the loneliness for anything deeper than passing acquaintance; the knowledge that you were forever a stranger.

“Think of their families,” Joseph said quietly. “They’re not cowards, not ruthless or without honor. I think they would rather try to prove their reasons for acting as they did, their innocence of murder, than run for the rest of their lives.”

“Maybe. But it would take almost impossible courage.”

“If anyone on earth has it, it’s the men here,” he said simply. “All I want to do is give them the chance, Judith,” he said. “Where were they making for? Were they going to travel alone, in separate groups, or all together?”

She did not bother to pretend anymore. “Switzerland,” she answered. “Pretty well all together, although if anyone got hurt or wanted to drop out, the rest would go on. They went on foot, so as to look as much like ordinary soldiers as possible. There was no way of making them look like civilians. Also, only Morel really speaks French, and anyway they’re all of military age and obviously perfectly fit enough to fight, so there wouldn’t be any explanation for their being out of uniform anywhere but a neutral country.”

He gave her a sudden hard embrace and held her for several moments. “Thank you,” he said gently. “Thank you very much.”

“Be careful, Joseph,” she said, clinging onto him. They were always in danger, but this mission was particularly unsettling. This time he was going away from Passchendaele and into country neither of them knew. He would be among strangers, and no one would bring word of him. “Be careful!” she said again, more urgently.

“I will,” he promised. Then he broke free and gave her a quick salute. “You, too,” he said huskily. He turned and walked across the cobbled yard without looking back.

CHAPTER

TEN

J
oseph realized that his only chance of finding the escapees before they crossed into Switzerland would be with the help of one of the reconnaissance planes from the Royal Flying Corps. They were fast enough to cover the distance in hours, and skilled enough to spot a group of men moving eastward instead of with the rest of the troops.

For this, of course, he had a letter of authority from Colonel Hook. Other than that, he took only a shaving kit, toothbrush, the minimum of clean underwear, an extra pair of socks, a pocket copy of the New Testament, and the regulation soldier’s first aid equipment and hard rations.

When the staff car dropped him off at the Royal Flying Corps airfield, the sun was breaking through the mist and it looked like a good day for air reconnaissance. He felt a sudden lift of optimism as he thanked the driver and started walking toward the huts that served as headquarters.

Joseph spoke to the first officer he met, a good-looking young man with dark hair brushed back off his brow, deep-set eyes, and a shy smile. At the moment he had a pipe clamped between his teeth.

“Lost, Padre?” he said, looking at Joseph’s dog collar and squinting a little in the sun. “Or are you an answer to someone’s prayer?”

“I doubt it!” Joseph answered drily. “At the moment, I’m looking to receive help rather than give it.”

The man extended his hand. “Captain Jones-Williams.”

“Captain Reavley.” Joseph shook the offered hand.

“What can we do for you, Captain Reavley? Looking for a trip up to find God?” Jones-Williams gestured into the milky blue of the sky.

“Actually I’d settle for eleven escaped prisoners,” Joseph replied with a rueful shrug. “Sounds a little disrespectful, but I’ve got a few things to do before I meet God. Not really ready for that yet.”

Jones-Williams laughed outright. “A priest who’d rather find eleven escaped prisoners than find God is worth getting to know. Will any eleven do, or do you have a particular set in mind?”

“Sorry, I have a very particular set in mind,” Joseph replied. “They were held in a farmhouse just this side of Passchendaele, and—”

Jones-Williams’s face was suddenly desperately grave. “From that poor bloody regiment that’s being slaughtered? Can’t you let ’em go? Turn a blind eye? Wouldn’t your faith allow you that much mercy?”

“They’ve been accused of mutiny and the murder of an officer, Captain.”

“Sorry, old fellow,” Jones-Williams said with a brief smile. “We’re pretty shorthanded ourselves. Lost quite a few lately. Got to keep what we have for taking a look at Jerry and what he’s up to. Can see troop movements quite well from up there. I’d give it up, if I were you.”

Joseph knew exactly why the captain was refusing, and he understood the pity and the revulsion behind it. He liked the man the more for it. “That’s not the whole picture,” he said, meeting his companion’s eyes. “They would be fugitives for the rest of their lives. Never go home again. And I think all but one of them are innocent. I want to give them the chance to come back and clear their names.”

“Of murder and mutiny?” Jones-Williams’s eyebrows rose in disbelief. “They’ll shoot them. They’ll have no choice.”

“I think the officer’s father, who is a general, might push pretty hard to get the charge withdrawn.”

“Really?” Jones-Williams still looked skeptical.

“A capital charge has to be pretty thoroughly proved,” Joseph pointed out, “and the defendants given every opportunity to put their case.”

The drone of an airplane broke the silence above, sounding like an angry insect. Automatically Joseph glanced upward as it made its way lower and sank toward the airfield, sputtering now and then.

Jones-Williams chewed his pipe stem a moment. “I’d have thought in this instance those two were rather the same. Their defense that the man was an ass, and a dangerous one at that, gives the prosecution their motive on a plate. Doesn’t excuse shooting him, though, even to save their own lives. On that score they could get rid of half the officers we’ve got!”

“Thing is,” Joseph went on thoughtfully, “General Northrup won’t enjoy having the court-martial drag out and prove each point of his son’s incompetence, and exactly how many men were maimed or killed because of it. Even the surgeon, Captain Cavan, soon to be V.C., felt no alternative but to put him on trial.”

The plane landed at last, and Joseph felt his shoulders ease with relief that it was safe.

Jones-Williams took the pipe out of his mouth. “So what do you want from us? A lift as far as possible along the line to look for them?”

“That’s exactly what I’d like. I realize it’s only a chance I’ll find them, but it’s worth a try. You’d better see my authority.” He fished in his pocket for the paper.

“What?”

Joseph smiled. “Well, I could be a deserter looking for a damn good start eastward myself!”

“No point. Your dog collar could be real or not, but at your age you could reasonably beg out anyway.”

Joseph winced. “Depends how desperate we are. You won’t have them in the R.F.C., but we have fourteen-year-olds in the army. Lied about their age, of course, but we know. Sooner or later they say something that gives them away.” He stopped abruptly.

“That was a bit tactless of me,” Jones-Williams said by way of apology. “Come on and I’ll find you someone to take you up for a look, and drop you off as near to the Swiss border as you think you want.” He turned and sauntered over toward the line of hangars beyond the smaller buildings of offices and control tower.

Joseph followed him, catching up quickly. He glanced once at the three planes drawn up on the strip, including the one just landed.

“Take you in something much bigger than those,” Jones-Williams said cheerfully. “Two-seater. One of the observation planes. Keep low much of the time. Hedgehopping, we call it. D’you know how these fellows of yours went? Got a car or anything?”

“On foot, at least to begin with,” Joseph replied.

“Won’t have got far, then. Hey, Vine!” he called to a slender young man in R.F.C. uniform, goggles and scarf around his neck, flying jacket slung over his shoulder and helmet swinging from his hand.

“Yes, sir?” Vine paused a few yards away from them, more or less to attention.

“Chaplain here is from the army,” Jones-Williams explained. “He’s looking for a hand to find a few fellows gone AWOL. He thinks if they come back they’ll have a chance of doing better than if they keep on running. Wouldn’t like to take him along the lines a bit, would you?”

“Of course,” Vine agreed obligingly, turning to look at Joseph curiously. “How far, Chaplain?”

“Until you find them. Or Switzerland,” Jones-Williams said cheerfully. “Good. All set then.” He turned to Joseph. “Come and have a cup of tea. Officers’ mess is over there. We’ll find you some decent goggles and a jacket. Chilly up there. Vine will come for you when he’s all ready.”

“Thank you.” Joseph found himself off balance with the speed of the decision, but he could not afford to question it. He thanked Vine again, and followed Jones-Williams over to the low, rather rambling buildings at the side. He felt grateful now for time to prepare himself for the flight.

But all the imagination of his life was futile compared with the reality. First there was climbing up onto the wing and into the small seat and fastening the harness to hold him in. The engine was started with a tremendous roar, then a moment later the tiny, frail craft went racing over the grass, bumping on every tussock, before lifting off jerkily. The plane bucked slightly, catching the light wind and clearing the neighboring stand of trees by what felt like no more than a few feet.

It was an appalling sensation, being out of touch with the earth—and apparently completely out of control. Joseph felt he was a prisoner.

He was sitting behind the pilot. A lightweight machine gun—a Lewis gun, to be precise—was mounted beside him. He had been told cheerfully that it was just in case they should meet any opposition.

They seemed to veer around quite badly as they gained height. Joseph had the very alarming feeling that he could be pitched out any moment and find himself falling through the air. Was he high enough up that it would kill him outright? Or might he be left broken but alive? Why on earth could he not have left well enough alone and stayed on the ground?

Then there was the question of keeping his stomach in place.

They were a few hundred feet up now and steadying. He could see nothing but trees slightly below him. The airfield and control tower were somewhere over to the left.

He steeled himself to look down, afraid of an overpowering sense of vertigo, but below him and stretching into the distance he saw a landscape that took his breath away. There was a strip of desolation a few miles wide, ruined, it would seem, beyond recall. It was cratered with shell holes that steamed in the August warmth—or perhaps it was poison gas that curled yellow-white in the hollows.

Blasted tree trunks poked up here and there. The wreckage of vehicles and guns was easy to see by outline rather than any difference in color. Everything was gray-brown, leached of life. Shape also distinguished the corpses of men and horses, too many to count. From up here the sheer enormity of it was overwhelming. So many dead, enough men to populate cities, and all destroyed.

Faint sunlight gleamed on the watery surfaces of trenches in recognizably straight lines, zigzagged to block the lines of fire. Two long stretches were waterlogged, like some gray mire, dotted with corpses.

He could see men moving around, foreshortened, dun-colored like the clay. Up here it was ridiculous how anonymous they seemed, and yet he probably knew all of them. He understood what they were doing only because he knew; he had done it all himself: shoring up walls, carrying supplies, cleaning weapons. A few cars chugged slowly on pockmarked roads, sending little puffs of exhaust out behind them. Judith might be in one of them, seeming to crawl along compared with the crazy speed of the plane. Ambulances were easy to spot. Columns of men moved on foot, reinforcements going forward, wounded going back. It was also easy to see the field guns, the huts and tents, the dressing stations, and the first aid posts. Some of the humps in the ground he knew were dugouts.

The plane gained more altitude, and Joseph could see the German lines as well. He knew their trenches were deeper, their dugouts better organized—and better furnished, so he had heard. But the land was the same: shattered and poisoned. The men, such as he could see, were engaged in the same activities. They, too, when motionless, catching an hour or two of sleep, blended into the earth and became almost invisible.

The terrain was becoming less distinct as they climbed higher. Beyond, the green was visible again, in both directions: Trees had leaves; there were patches of grass. On toward the horizon to the south and west there were the dark scars of roads and railways, but they lay across cornfields and meadows, and soft, blurred patches of woodland. Here and there Joseph saw the silver curl of a river.

It was like looking at the track of a wound across the land, or the scorched path of shrapnel through flesh, leaving the rest oddly whole.

For three long, terrible years they had faced each other over those few thousand yards of ground, and killed—and killed—repeatedly. It was madness! In the silence up here with nothing but wind and sun and the shattering roar of the engine, it was so obvious he wanted to lean over and shout invectives at them. But of course no one could hear him. He might as well scream at an anthill.

They were moving east and south. He saw railway tracks and marshaling yards. He thought he recognized some of the features of the land, the curve of hill and river. He saw what he thought was Lille, but he was not sure how far they had come.

Half an hour passed in silence. He searched the sky nervously, but there were no other aircraft visible. The French lines below them looked the same as the British or Canadian: just gray mud, wreckage, what one could make out of men moving about the same midday duties.

When was Vine going to go low enough for him to have any idea if there were men moving eastward? So far they had followed the battle line southeast as it curved away from the advancing German army.

Had they not gone far enough yet? He had lost any sense of where they were. The ground was so far below he could barely make out the roads, let alone who was moving on them. Perhaps this was an idiotic cause anyway, and Jones-Williams had let him come only because he had no imaginable chance of succeeding.

He leaned forward and shouted at Vine, and as he turned for a moment, Joseph pointed downward.

Vine held out his hand, thumb up, and obediently swooped the plane low, hedgehopping, as Jones-Williams had called it. Details became sharper—roads, the colors of men, horses, and artillery—but Joseph saw nothing to indicate the presence of his eleven men. He thought they would have moved much farther eastward by now. They could have covered twenty or thirty miles a day with a little help—a lift here or there. They were all fairly fit and used to marching.