Timepiece

by Merinda Brayfield

  Richards chuckled. “Never mind. Always in your head. You should learn to unwind a bit.”

  “I’m fine,” said Archibald shortly. He ate the rest of his food quickly, knowing he didn’t fit in at this table. Never had and never would.

  As Archibald ate the last few fresh vegetables, Louis came in to clear plates. The boy was around ten. Most of the other officers barely acknowledged his presence, but Archibald had found the boy intelligent and had been helping him improve his English. Perhaps living alone except for the servants for so many years had made Archibald see them better than most.

  “You know,” said Richards, in a conversational tone that made Archibald brace himself. “I bet we could find you some company.”

  Archibald took a breath. “No, that’s quite all right. I have some work to catch up on.”

  “You mean you’re going to your room,” muttered someone else. “Or perhaps visiting with the General.”

  Archibald glared at him. “Brigadier General Whitestone works very hard. As do I. Perhaps you should focus on your assignments rather than… the locals.” Barclay watched him, though most of the others grumbled and looked away. “Excuse me,” he said, putting down his napkin and pushing back his chair.

  Archibald took another breath as he exited the dining room. They really shouldn’t get under his skin. After all, he was quite a bit older than most of them. But sometimes, it did bother him. He shook his head to clear it and headed up the stairs.

  It was true that he often spent time with the General. But Basil Whitestone had been one of the few schoolmates who had always treated him with kindness. When Basil had learned Archibald had joined up, he’d immediately brought him here to work. It had been nearly a year now, and Archibald knew that he was heavily relied upon.

  Archibald knocked, and his shoulders relaxed as he was beckoned in. Opening the door, he found Basil looking over some papers while Lieutenant Collins, his aide, cleared away the dishes from the General’s dinner. He gave Archibald a nod as he passed by with full hands.

  “Good evening, Archie,” said Basil, gesturing him closer.

  “Evening,” said Archibald, going to the sideboard to pour them each a drink. Basil had always been the one person allowed to shorten his name. “Working late?”

  “Sadly, the life of a General often precludes evening pleasures,” said Basil. “Fortunately, I have Collins here to make sure I eat.”

  “Certainly a good thing.” Archibald put a drink down in front of Basil and sat down across from him. He relaxed in the chair and sipped his scotch. “Anything important?”

  “Always,” said Basil, shuffling the papers before setting them aside. “We need better information.”

  “In what way?” Archibald moved the small framed picture of Basil’s family so he could lean forward on the desk.

  “Someone I can rely on at the front would be nice. We get all the information, but it takes time to compile it. And time is a precious commodity.” Basil looked up into his face.

  Archibald leaned back and looked away, covering the gesture with another sip of his drink. Surely Basil couldn’t be talking about him? His only military experience had been at this farmhouse. The front was distant artillery and the papers stacked on his desk. He hadn’t even fired the sidearm in his room since training. “We should get the reports on today’s attack by the morning.”

  Basil nodded and sipped his drink, glancing out the window and letting silence stretch between them.

  “How is your family?” Archibald finally asked, needing to change the subject.

  “Fine, fine,” said Basil, a fond smile creasing his face and eyes going distant. “Most of them are in school.”

  Archibald glanced at the family picture. Basil’s wife leaned against him, their six children artfully arranged around them. They looked happy.

  “I know you’ve never married or had children, Archie...” Basil paused as if carefully picking his words, “but there are certain benefits to the security of marriage.”

  Archibald looked away from his gaze and threw back the rest of his drink. That was getting a bit personal. He fished around in his mind for another topic. “Did you hear about Waters?” he asked.

  “I did, poor bastard,” Basil got up and collected Archibald’s glass, going to the sideboard to fill them again. “Some days I wonder how many schoolmates we’ll have left when all this is over.”

  Archibald stood and picked up his glass. “Perhaps a toast? To Waters and the others.”

  Basil nodded. “To Waters and our schoolmates,” he said, clinking his glass to Archibald’s. They each took a long swig, silence again settling between them as they reflected on lost lives.

  “You know,” said Basil at last. “I was surprised you joined up.”

  “It seemed right,” said Archibald. He thought of the wounded young man that had pricked his conscience and made him realize he could no longer stay in the safety of London. Not that the farmhouse held much danger. But he hadn’t known this was where he’d end up when he joined.

  “Well,” said Basil. “I am glad you decided to join us. You do excellent work.”

  “Thank you,” said Archibald, finishing his second drink and feeling much more relaxed than when he’d come in.

  Collins stepped back into the room. “You should get some sleep, sir,” he said to Basil.

  “Right as usual. You too, Archie.”

  “I shall. Goodnight, Basil.” He set down his glass and headed out.

  It was a short walk down the hall and up a flight of stairs to his own cramped room. It was one of several that had been carved out of the attic and barely had room for a bed, a desk, and a footlocker. Opening the door, Archibald found a letter waiting for him on the desk.

  He sat down and pulled off his boots, seeing that the letter was from his head man, Murphy. Murphy had worked for him since the day he’d set up his own household. Being out of the country, Archibald relied on Murphy completely to keep his affairs in order. He opened the letter and sat back to read Murphy’s carefully neat handwriting. Murphy primarily wrote about the household, informing him of anything he might find of interest. It would have made more sense to close his home completely when he left for France, but he didn’t wish to put his people out of work.

  Archibald picked up his pen and wrote a short response. He wished Harry, a stableboy, well on his upcoming birthday and congratulated Nancy, the cook, on her new grandbaby. There wasn’t much he could say about his work, and nothing much ever happened. But he was grateful for the letter; Murphy was the only one to write him regularly.

  Setting that letter aside to mail, he took out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote another letter, this one to his mother. She hadn’t written in quite some time, but that wasn’t unusual. He dutifully wrote her each month. They weren’t the closest family, but he couldn’t have her scanning the papers to find out if he was still alive.

  Finishing the letter, Archibald set it aside and stood, stretching.

  There was a knock on the door. He opened it and smiled at Louis, who was carefully carrying a bucket of steaming water.

  “I thought you’d like a bath,” said Louis, moving to the far side of the bed and pouring the water into a small tub. Archibald had been so preoccupied with the letter on his desk that he hadn’t noticed the bath waiting for him.

  “I told you, you don’t have to carry hot water all the way up here,” Archibald gently admonished him.

  Louis shrugged. “I don’t mind.” He walked past Archibald, then paused and looked up. “They were right, you know.”

  Archibald raised an eyebrow at him. “Who was?”

  “Lieutenant Richards, at dinner. You don’t spend much time with anyone but the General, and you’re always working.”

  Archibald tousled his hair. “Your English has gotten much better,” he said. “And I appreciate the concern, but I’m fine.”

  Louis gave him a small smile, then hurried for the door.

  “Louis?” cal
led Archibald before he left.

  The boy turned around.

  “Bonne nuit,” smiled Archibald.

  Louis ducked his head. “Dormez bien,” he replied and hurried out.

  Archibald locked the door after him. He finished undressing and moved to the small tub. Louis couldn’t understand. Alone was Archibald’s fate. The only option for a man of his status and proclivities.

  Despite those assertions, Archibald sunk into the water and found his thoughts straying to Captain Barclay.

  Shaking his head, he splashed water on his face. He’d been careful all of his life—now was not the time to throw that all away on a whim.

  He washed himself, trying to think of other things. He wondered if the attack had done any good at all. It seemed wasteful to throw so many lives away for mere inches. But he was here to help win a war, not to question the decisions of those above him. And then there was the matter of Basil’s words about sending someone he trusted to the front. Words that filled him with a sense of foreboding. Perhaps his letters to Murphy would soon be more interesting.

  Chapter Three

  Frank woke at the sound of reveille, rolling onto his back and staring up at the bottom of the bunk above him. He could hear the others start to stir and closed his eyes for a long moment before heaving himself up to a seat. He rubbed his eyes. Today would probably be quiet. They always seemed to be left alone right after an attack, as if it was an apology for the previous day’s brutality. But soon enough, they’d be facing the ladders again.

  He threw the thin blanket back and reached for his boots. If not for the empty bunks, it might have felt like any other day. Time flowed strangely here. Days blurred together; a night could last a year. Life was mud and boredom punctuated by bright sparks of terror.

  Getting to his feet, Frank pulled his uniform together before going to nudge the last stragglers out of bed and towards the table. They ate quietly, voices growing louder as they got a bit of food and tea into them. Wilson was sitting next to Bates again. Frank pretended not to notice.

  Frank started to help clear the plates away, but one of the other soldiers took them out of his hands. He smiled and thanked him, going to clean his weapon. Seemed like they were always trying to keep him from doing the physical work, perhaps as a silent thank you for the way he watched out for them.

  The morning passed slowly. Frank read a book by lamplight, barely looking up as mail arrived except to make sure that none of his soldiers looked particularly distressed.

  Mid-day, a dozen fresh recruits came in with their gear, looking like anxious children. Frank got up and went to them. “I’m Corporal Martin,” he said. “If you could give me your names, I’ll assign you a bunk and get you settled.”

  The closest one nodded and stepped up to him, the others instinctively forming a queue. Frank put their names into his notebook and assigned them to newly empty bunks.

  All too soon, they’d lose the eagerness in their eyes, but for now, he paired each of them with a more experienced soldier. They’d have a fighting chance if he had anything to say about it.

  Lieutenant Innes appeared in the doorway not long after, gesturing Frank over. In all his time in charge, he’d never actually stepped inside the bunker. Frank picked up his rifle, noticing one of the new recruits staring as he crossed the room and went outside with Innes.

  “They’re getting settled in, sir,” he said without preamble. “But we’re still short-handed.”

  “We have to do our job with what we have, Corporal. I need you to come organize files for me.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Innes led the way back to the bunker that served as his office. He opened the door and pointed Frank at a stack of folders. Two other Lieutenants shared this space, but they were out at the moment.

  Frank started going through the files, noticing Innes carefully folding up the condolence letters and putting them to the side.

  Focusing on his work, Frank made sure that the information on the new soldiers went to the proper place. Not the first time he’d been called on for this sort of thing. Fifteen years as a copper had given him plenty of experience with paperwork.

  The other two Lieutenants came in together, laughing about something. Innes scrubbed his face, gathered the letters and walked out. Frank watched him go, putting the last piece of paper in its place. It seemed Innes was more affected than he’d realized.

  Frank stood to follow Innes out, only for one of the Lieutenants to call him over. “Corporal, take care of this,” he said, indicating a pile of paperwork with a bored tone.

  “Of course,” said Frank, biting his tongue and collecting the offending papers. He sat back down and started going through them while the two men chatted about inconsequential things. Frank was sorely tempted to drop some important documents but didn’t give in to the desire.

  Innes came back in when he was halfway through the stack and raised an eyebrow. “You’re dismissed, Corporal.”

  “He’s not done,” said the Lieutenant that had handed him the work.

  “And he’s not yours. Martin, go. You’ve got watch tonight.”

  Frank put down the work, surprised but not about to complain. “Yes, sir,” he said, standing and hurrying out. He closed the door, but not before Innes started arguing with the Lieutenant.

  Perhaps he’d underestimated the man after all, though he was still fairly certain he hadn’t gone over the top in this last battle. Frank shouldered his rifle and made his way carefully through a particularly muddy patch. Maybe that would change.

  Frank made it back to the barracks in time for dinner. One of the new recruits, Haversham, sat next to him, pushing the questionable food around his plate.

  “Might as well eat,” said Frank, noticing a rat skittering along the wall.

  “You’ve been out here a long time, haven’t you?” Haversham asked, taking a cautious forkful.

  Frank shoveled his own food, speaking between bites. “Two years, thereabouts.”

  “Never been hurt?”

  “Nothing major,” shrugged Frank. “You just joined up.” It wasn’t a question. Even if he hadn’t just seen the man’s file, the way he held himself showed just how green he was.

  “I just turned eighteen. It seemed the right thing to do,” Haversham said quietly, taking a bite and looking like he was questioning that decision more with every moment.

  “Well, you’re here now. You’ll get used to it in a while. Smith is your age and joined us a month ago, talk to him.” Frank pointed out the private in question.

  Haversham nodded and picked up his plate, moving to talk to Smith. Frank watched as they sat close together and fell into conversation. Smith had reacted similarly when he’d first arrived, but he’d adjusted quickly. Hopefully, he could guide Haversham through the transition. Even going from training to here was vastly different. Nothing could fully prepare these recruits for the noise and the dirt and the abject terror of the battlefield.

  Wilson moved in his direction, but Frank shook his head. Not here. Wilson nodded and retreated, sitting down on his bunk and taking out a letter. Frank knew him well enough to know he wasn’t actually reading it.

  No point in putting this or his watch off any longer than he had to. Frank took a last bite and put his plate with the others. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and picked up his rifle, checking to make sure he had his gas mask and settling his helmet on his head.

  He stepped outside and breathed in the touch of chill in the air. Summer was over, with autumn already on its heels. He heard steps behind him and moved a little further away from the barracks. In the warren of the trenches, there were a few quiet corners where a man could be alone or with a bit of company.

  As he expected, Wilson followed him into the shadows. He took a breath and faced Frank, awkwardly holding his hands and shuffling his feet.

  “I know,” said Frank.

  Wilson scrubbed a hand through his hair. “You’re a good man, Martin.”

  Fr
ank took a step closer to him and took his hands in his own. “We were getting too close,” he said quietly. The ache in his heart only seemed to confirm the words.

  Wilson moved closer still and put an arm around Frank, awkwardly hugging him. “Are you really okay with this?” Perhaps he’d expected Frank to argue, to fight for what they’d had.

  But Frank thought it was better this way. He’d seen this coming, and if something did happen, why leave Wilson with the regret of an argument? He put an arm around Wilson in return, holding him close, trying to memorize the feel of him. “We had fun, we’ve been good to each other, but when this is all over, we’ve both got families back home.”

  Wilson grumbled and rested his head on Frank’s shoulder. Frank wished they could have more time, one more moment of intimacy. But it would be too much.

  They stood there quietly in their own thoughts for a few long minutes. “Hey, this war might be over sooner rather than later,” said Frank, trying to lighten the mood.

  “The Americans are going to show up and then take all the credit,” muttered Wilson.

  “You’d know,” teased Frank.

  “Leave my Da out of this,” said Wilson, reluctantly pulling away and smiling sadly at Frank. He cupped Frank’s cheek and then slowly took a step back. “You be careful on watch.”

  “Take care of yourself,” said Frank.

  Wilson caught his hand and kissed his palm. Frank closed his eyes as Wilson walked away, his palm tingling with the lingering sensation.

  Chapter Four

  The sun cast a golden trail over a desk strewn with paperwork. Archibald rubbed his temples as he looked over casualty reports. His pen scratched out lines of figures and totals. If not for the distant sound of artillery, he might almost think himself in England.

  There was a knock at the door. Archibald called for them to enter, and a private brought over a sheaf of papers. “These are the last of the reports, sir.”

  “Thank you,” said Archibald. He took the pages from him and skimmed his eyes past the names to the totals. One hundred and seventy-two casualties were acceptable. He made a note on one of his pages and looked up to see the private still standing before him. “Yes?”