Muffled Drum (3 page)

No. There was Rudolph. Rudolph, who had reassured him a hundred times that no matter what, no matter where they went, it would be all right, because they’d be together. He took a deep, relaxing breath and tried to smother his feeling of unease.

Back at his tent he undressed carefully and left his uniform on his bed. There was no sign of Becher, who was probably still busy with Danzig. Mathias had an envelope for the man, a quick note and as much money as he could spare. He left it on top of his uniform, where Becher would find it easily. Then, changed into civilian clothes and grateful for the cover of darkness now blanketing the campsite, he made his way to Rudolph’s tent.

As he neared the larger tent, which befitted a rittmeister, Mathias frowned. The tent was brightly lit, and voices could be heard from within, laughing, shouting and singing. It seemed that Rudolph was holding a celebration, but surely to God he wasn’t holding a farewell party for his resignation?
Come to think of it,
Mathias thought, his stomach sinking like a stone,
the
generalleutnant
would surely have reacted more violently if Rudolph had resigned before me…
Oh God—what had he said?
“I already have your commander’s report…”

But not his resignation.

Mathias stopped dead. Then, plucking up every ounce of courage he had left, he strode to Rudolph’s tent and pushed open the flap. Inside it was smoky, hot and packed with celebrating officers, all in full dress uniform. They greeted Mathias warmly, and there were slurred enquiries as to his apparel, but they were all too drunk to do more than ask once before returning to their revels. Mathias pushed his way through the throng to find Rudolph lying on his campaign bed at the far end of the tent, still in uniform. From the signs of mud and horsehair upon his trousers, it seemed he had not moved since Becher attended him earlier.

Mathias stepped closer to Rudolph, accepted a tankard from Goertz, smiling with a jollity he no longer felt. It seemed as though his future was slipping away from him. Rudolph had promised him—over and over—was he just playing with him? Was their brave plan nothing more than a joke? Or worse, a regimental wager? No. He couldn’t think that of his lover.

“Rudolph?” he said, when he was sure no one was paying attention and Goertz had moved away. “What’s going on? I thought…Have you resigned?”

His lover and his best friend looked him straight in the eye, a genial smile on his face and a froth of beer glistening on his moustache, and said, “Resigned? Not yet, although I don’t know if they’ll keep me on after today. You must be one of the new officers? Where’s your uniform, man? Rittmeister Rudolph von Ratzlaff, at your service. Forgive me if I don’t get up, had a bloody fall today and the head hurts like hell. What’s your name?”

The young man standing by the side of the bed went pale, and Rudolph couldn’t help but wonder if he was going to be suitable for the brigade. If he couldn’t cope with a man pole-axed by a simple fall from a horse, how the devil was he going to manage when he was standing knee-deep in dead bodies or had to pull a friend from under a horse, leaving his legs behind him? He decided to give him the benefit of the doubt, for now. “You look tired…”

“Hofmann, sir,” the young man said. He seemed to holding himself very much under control. “And, no. I was with the Regiment—until recently.”

With a relieved smile, Rudolph said, “Ah—your injuries. Of course. You’ll have to forgive me—I should know you, then, it seems. Damnable fall seems to have knocked what little sense I had clean out of my head.”

“Does…” Hofmann seemed almost unable to speak for a moment, and when he did continue, Rudolph warmed at the compassion in the young man’s voice. “Does the doctor give any indication as to recovery? You’ve lost your memory?”

“Not entirely, thank the Lord,” Rudolph said. Goertz passed with a tray of beer and Rudolph took one, indicated for Hofmann to help himself, which he did, draining the pot almost in one. “He hasn’t had much time to spend with me, of course—”

“Of course,” echoed Hofmann.

“But I know who I am, where I live, my family, all that sort of thing. I remember joining the Regiment, but it seems that almost everything after I was promoted to rittmeister has disappeared. No good for the corps, of course. Two years of training, everything about this conflict, gone. Couldn’t even remember the day, if you can believe that. Damn Claasan had to write my report. Not good. Not reliable.” Rudolph looked away, wondering why on earth he was spilling it out to a stranger. “So they are sending me home.”

Hofmann’s face registered shock, and Rudolph liked him for that. Perhaps the man had pluck after all. “That’s unfair, sir.”

“Temporary, they assure me. Not a full retirement. If I recover—
when
, I should say, of course—my place is open to me. If not, well, that’s a different matter, and not something I’m considering. My army is my home.”

“That’s good,” Hofmann said, but his voice didn’t echo the sentiment. He sounded as though he’d just been told his father had died. He swallowed, as if truly affected by Rudolph’s plight.

The doctor had told Rudolph not to try and push his memory, but Rudolph was curious. “I’m sorry I don’t remember you,” he said slowly. He was, too. The young man was handsome, dark blond curls escaping from the bounds of an oily hair dressing, and deep blue eyes, which were large and beguiling, giving him an allure all his own despite the expression of concern they carried within them now. “I don’t remember many of these bastards, either, but they all say they know me, and they are making themselves very free with my provisions.”

The tent erupted into cheers. Someone proposed a toast to the gallant Fifth, and to its courageous generalleutnant, and its rittmeister-captain, who didn’t remember any of them, its fallen heroes and the troops left to carry on. Rudolph participated in each toast and found, when the toasts became no more than a listing—and re-listing—of each officer present, that he’d lost track of Hofmann, and no matter how he scoured the crowded tent, he couldn’t see him. After another round or two of toasts, he’d almost forgotten the incident completely.

Hardly able to see in front of him, Mathias turned away from Rudolph as tears of loss and fear clouded his vision. Every fiber of his being wanted to stay by the man’s bedside, to talk to him, to fill in many of his missing memories—for surely, if Mathias told him, he would remember—surely?

But how could he tell him?

Out of uniform he was already raising eyebrows among his fellow officers and, with Rudolph’s tent so crowded, nothing personal could be said. At the entrance to the tent he bumped into a group of carousing officers and blinked the nascent tears away before they could betray him.

“Hofmann! What the devil are you doing out of uniform?”

Mathias looked up to find Wittenberg and Claasan, two officers he’d been drunk with more times than he could count.

“Why aren’t you drinking?” Claasan shoved a full tankard into his hand and, for want of knowing what else to do at that moment, he drank it as eagerly as he had the last.

“Never mind me,” he said, finally. “What’s happened to von Ratzlaff? Where’s the doctor?”

“Ratz isn’t hurt, Hofmann,” Claasan slurred. “Man’s as tough as a general’s arse. I saw him fall. He must have bounced six times and killed two Austrians before he finally came to rest.”

“Not hurt? He has no idea who I am!”

“He doesn’t know who most of us are.” Claasan laughed. “It’s just as well Goertz does, and keeps the drink coming at least. I still don’t understand why you aren’t in uniform.”

“I’ve resigned, of course,” Mathias spat, the words coming heavy from his mouth.

Their blank looks, made more stupid by the fog of alcohol, and their stunned silence said more than anything else. Like the generalleutnant before them, these men could not understand how an officer could resign whilst on active campaign, much less on the night of a victory, and no explanation Mathias could give would suffice.

Without another word, Mathias stepped outside into the cool air. If things had gone as planned, they’d be gone by now, their horses trotting smartly toward Dresden, making their way to Berlin briefly, and then to God knows where. To hell with everything they left behind. Rudolph had been planning to speak to Goertz after the battle, to have his larger possessions sent on, but otherwise they would have left with what they could carry…and each other.

Grateful for the dark, but more nervous with each passing minute that he would be challenged now he was wandering around out of uniform, he made one more stop, walking through the thicket of wounded to the medical tent. Like Rudolph’s tent, the medical area was lit up, bright and easily seen from all directions, although the sounds that surrounded it and emanated from within chilled rather than cheered the soul.

He found the doctor behind the tent, surrounded by braziers holding fires that blew in the wind, and bending over the face of a man who was being held down by two others. Mathias waited, trying not to imagine what was being done, until the doctor stood, dropped something into a dish beside him and gestured for the men to take the patient away. He turned, wiping his hands on a cloth, and seeing Mathias and recognizing him, nodded before scanning the men around him for his next victim.

“May I have a moment of your time?” Mathias said.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” the doctor said. “Even if your wounds were bad enough to need my attention, which they obviously aren’t or you’d be unable to walk, I have no responsibility to civilians.” The scorn in the doctor’s voice betrayed that the news of his resignation had already leached out from von Tümpling’s tent.

“I wouldn’t expect it.” Mathias wanted to lash out so badly. Holding himself in check was taking every ounce of his strength. “I wanted to ask about Rittmeister von Ratzlaff.” He’d found a ready lie. “I’ll be riding toward Berlin and, although I might not beat a letter, I can carry more information than the army will impart. I’d rather like to warn his family, to give them whatever news—or hope, if there is any.”

The doctor paused, then picked up a couple of blood-soaked rags from the muddy grass. When he looked again at Mathias he looked slightly less unfriendly. “Your reasons are your own, I suppose, but yes—a warning of his condition would soften the blow, and would be kinder than a letter. He’s a good man, and this will be difficult for him.”

“So what can you tell me—to pass on to his family?”

The doctor sighed and washed his hands in an incongruous Limoges basin. “I don’t really have the time, and I doubt whether you’d understand most of it, but put simply, it’s nothing I’ve not seen before, and even if he were to stay with the Regiment—”

“It’s rather fast, isn’t it?” Mathias said, urgently. “That decision?”

“Young man,” the doctor said, his voice dripping with renewed venom. “I wouldn’t expect you to question your commander’s orders when you were under his command. I find it unbelievable you’d have this conversation with me—now.”

“Forgive me.” Mathias felt sick to his stomach. “I’m…anticipating anything that Frau von Ratzlaff may ask me.”

“Let me put it in simple terms that even someone like you will understand.” The doctor turned away, toward the tent, leaving Mathias no option but to follow him. “Due to a concussion of the tempor—this bone here—” he tapped the side of his own head, “—Rittmeister von Ratzlaff is suffering from specific memory loss or amnesia, brought on by his fall. As far as I have been able to ascertain, his horse leapt a cart, caught its hooves on the edge and was brought down. Von Ratzlaff was thrown clear but struck his temple on something, probably a rock. It is not unusual for memory to be affected in an injury of this type.

“If we weren’t in the position we’re in, if we were on maneuvers or in barracks, I’d advise leaving him to rest and hope he recovers his wits. I’ve seen it happen…and I’ve seen it not. But he’s a liability here. He doesn’t know most of the men under his command, he doesn’t know what he’s done in the last year or so, and if his men can’t trust him, there’s no way on God’s earth that von Tümpling will let him lead the baggage train, let alone the next charge. Is that simple enough for you?

“As for his recovery, he’ll need to take it damned carefully—God alone knows how he’ll even
manage
the journey back to Berlin—and he’ll need to seek further medical advice when he gets there. Another fall, another injury or even a shock—there’s really no way of knowing—could cause his condition to worsen. There are more specialized men than me in Berlin. I’m just someone who cuts off limbs for a living. Now fuck off before someone takes you for an Austrian. And shoots you.”

The words seemed heartfelt, and Mathias knew he’d get little else from the man, so he thanked the doctor and, half-blinded with grief and shock, walked back to his tent.

Becher was standing to attention by the entrance. “There’s no need, Becher,” Mathias said, ducking in. Becher followed him in, and Mathias rounded on him. “I said there’s no need. I’m no longer your officer.” He stopped and looked around the small tent. Everything was packed away, neat as a pin—nothing left except the items that belonged to the Regiment.

“I can see that, sir. I got your letter. And I heard. Word gets around fast. I just wanted to say two things. Before you go. Sir.” Becher said the word deliberately, giving Mathias the respect he didn’t feel he deserved. “I’d come with you, if I could.”

Feeling suddenly embarrassed, Mathias clamped his jaw shut. He nodded shortly, unable to convey his emotion.

“And, sir. I’m saying this—and probably rightly I shouldn’t say nothing—but if Rittmeister von Ratzlaff has to travel home—Berlin, I hear…” He looked down at his feet. “Well then, if he was my friend, I wouldn’t let him travel all that way with just his batman. Seems von Tümpling ain’t going to be able to spare to send anyone else with him, and it’s a bloody long way. That’s all, sir.”

“Thank you, Becher.” Mathias felt the black mood lift, just a little. Becher performed the smartest salute he’d ever given, which Mathias returned. Their eyes met briefly, and Mathias nodded again, then watched Becher leave.

That’s it. That’s it!
Mathias could have kicked himself for being so pessimistic. If Rudolph’s memory was going to return, then Mathias knew he had to be close when it did.
When.
He wouldn’t countenance the idea of it never returning. He picked up his saddlebags and strode out of the tent toward the horse lines, and as the despair of the past hours lifted, a plan began to formulate in his mind.