by A L Berridge
‘Cholera,’ he said over his shoulder. ‘Captain’s servant. Report to me when you’re done, I need latrines dug too.’
Ryder took the spade he was offered, but could hardly think for fury. A burial party was never one man, there were plenty who could have helped him, but this was nothing to do with burials or latrines, this was bloody Jarvis’s spite. He’d never get to Kamara now, there’d be no hope of seeing what the traitor did or who he met, no chance of getting the evidence they needed. He swung the spade like a pick and hacked it into the earth.
The only comfort was Sally. She’d realize something had kept him and would come straight back. If she’d identified the house they could still salvage something. They could search it, perhaps find out who owned it, and next week they could try again.
Next week. A whole bloody week lost, thanks to bastard Jarvis. He thrust the spade back in the earth and went on digging his grave.
Sally watched the road in frustration. Where the hell was Ryder? Perhaps there was a stand-to, perhaps he’d had difficulty getting away from the forage party, but somehow or other he’d been delayed and they were running out of time.
She was supposed to go back. She’d promised she would, but this was a better chance than they’d ever imagined. They’d always planned to watch, but the Bulgar spoke English and they might even be able to listen. Ryder would. He wouldn’t be afraid, he’d sneak right up to a window or doorway and listen for all he was worth. What if there were a battle before next Sunday, what if this man did it again, ordered innocent, trusting boys to their death, and all because she wouldn’t take the opportunity that was here in front of her right now?
The clock struck a quarter to ten, and she made up her mind. She planted her basket conspicuously by the opening, and set off a second time down the dark and brambled path. It seemed even quieter than before, and her footsteps sounded harder and more urgent as she hurried back to the house with the gate. She hesitated, wondering what to use for a marker, then untied the apron and left it at the bottom of the hedge. Silly really, since it was more than likely Ryder wouldn’t come at all.
The gate was unlatched, and moved smoothly under the push of her hand. She stepped through and found herself on a gravel path leading through overgrown grass to a big white house with tall windows. They were terrifying, those windows, like eyes all staring at her, but she walked across the grass to avoid the crunch of gravel, and no one came or shouted.
When she reached the walls she ducked low and out of sight. The nearest window was less than three feet from the ground, the shutters were open, but the glass reached to the bottom and it was shut. She crouched in silence for a moment, but it was ridiculous, she couldn’t even hear a muffled voice. She peered out along the front of the house, but the line of glass was everywhere unbroken by the bar of a sash. They were all closed.
She thought for a moment. If the men were in this room she’d surely have heard something, however faint. She crouched a little higher, and then slowly, carefully, nudged her head up between the shutters to peer inside.
At first she saw nothing but the daylit garden reflected in the dark glass, but as she pressed her face closer she made out a big square room filled with strange white shapes of furniture covered in dust sheets. The house was unoccupied, its owners had fled the invasion and left their property behind. Most others had taken their furniture with them, but perhaps these were British expatriates who hoped to return, or perhaps there hadn’t been time.
What mattered was there was no one there. The sash made no more than a faint, low creak as she slid it upwards, and she needed to open it only halfway before she was able to wriggle through. She sat up on bare polished floorboards, looked round at the elegant legs of a piano beneath its dust sheet, and suddenly felt like a burglar.
But she wasn’t, she was a spy for her country and men’s voices were talking close by. Afraid to risk footsteps, she crawled quickly over the dusty floor and slipped under the piano. It was a big one, the kind they called a ‘grand’, and a man would need to bend right down to see her underneath the dust sheet. She wished it were nearer the door, the voices were very muffled and indistinct, but none of the other furniture offered such good shelter. She crouched in her little tent, tore off her headscarf, and strained to listen.
It was hard to make any sense of it. The language was English, but there were three different voices, and only one spoke clearly. One man had a high, querulous voice that distance blurred to a refined whine, the Bulgar was mumbling and his accent thick, but the third man was her gentleman, the chivalrous traitor who had saved her outside. Even he was hard to follow, his voice kept coming and going, and his footsteps creaked as he paced. She heard the word ‘Balaklava’ clearly enough, and then something about ships. If she could just pick up the thread it would be easier to guess the rest, but the most she had were partial phrases. Then one word stood out, and it was one her father had used when speaking of something all sailors feared. The word was ‘fireship’.
Now she knew what to listen for. She heard the words ‘cut one out’ and then ‘powder in the hold’ and the last of her doubts disappeared. This was treachery of the worst kind and Ryder had been right all along. ‘They’ll escape in the dinghies,’ said the gentleman’s voice, clearer as if he were facing her way. ‘Light the fuses, then go.’
A mumble from that Bulgar, damn and blast the man, why couldn’t he speak up? But the gentleman seemed to be standing still at last and she heard his reply. ‘No, no, we have your information, you need do nothing more. Borisoff will organize the assault, then our seamen will come before dawn. It’s only a distraction for the main attack, after all.’
The Bulgar was clearer this time. ‘When? Is it still this month?’ She held her breath for the answer, praying the gentleman would stay where he was just a moment longer.
‘Oh, yes, the 24th. The reinforcements must be here by then.’
She stared blindly at the dust sheet. The 24th was two days away. This was crucial, vital information, and they’d so nearly missed it. Thank God she’d ignored Ryder and risked it, thank God she’d –
Footsteps again, but louder and closer, directly outside her room, but the next sound was the clunk of a bolt being pulled back. The front door! They were leaving, and in a minute she could be out and running home with the kind of information that could win a war.
‘You go out the back way, Kostoff,’ said the gentleman, his voice shockingly near. ‘There’ll probably be a set of angry uncles waiting outside the gate after that business with the woman. Really, you should know better.’ She heard a rattle and creak as the front door opened.
‘Oh, I do, your honour,’ said Kostoff, for the first time clearly audible. ‘She wasn’t local, no one will bother after her. Just an Englishwoman looking for something to steal.’
‘English?’ said the gentleman. ‘You’re sure?’
‘Of course,’ said Kostoff, with a note of injury in his voice. ‘She spoke to me, your honour, she said “no, wait”. You know my English is as flawless as your own.’
Sally listened harder, but everything had gone very quiet. Then came another creak and a soft bump as the door closed. The bolt clunked home.
‘Yes,’ said the gentleman, sounding tired. ‘Yes, and that blue dress, I’ve seen it before. If it hadn’t been for the apron and headscarf … Damn it, I think we’re watched.’
Another moment’s silence. Sally became aware of a rhythmic thumping in her throat she knew was her own heart.
The other man spoke at last, and the querulousness was no longer a whine but an aristocratic threat. ‘You’ve compromised my house? Do you realize what you’re saying, both of you? You’ve compromised me.’
The gentleman sounded deferential. ‘I’m sorry, sir, I stopped him at once. But you’re right, we’ll leave by the back way, and this animal shall wait half an hour before he follows.’
Kostoff sounded belligerent. ‘Then how will I … ?’
‘We don’t need
any more from you,’ said the aristocratic man. ‘I’ll send a message if something arises, but none of us must come here again. Understood?’
A shuffle of feet, then the aristocrat’s voice saying ‘Good’. She heard footsteps striding away over polished boards, turning fainter down a corridor, then the soft bang of another door. The Bulgar was silent.
She tried to think. It wasn’t a disaster. They’d never expected to catch the traitor today, but she’d seen him, would know him again, and had all the evidence they needed. But how had he known her, what made him think she was dangerous? Perhaps he’d noticed her on the march, and just knowing she was an army wife was enough.
The Bulgar was pacing in the hall. If only he’d go and do it somewhere else! She was getting cramped under the piano and didn’t want to wait the full half hour before she could escape. The footsteps stopped, and she pictured him standing in indecision. Then he started again, two quick steps to her door, then a firmer, less hollow sound as he turned to come in.
Fear fluttered in her chest. He couldn’t possibly see her, but she saw his polished black shoes and grey trousers, and the nearness tightened her throat. What could he want? There was nothing in this room but shrouded furniture, and he wasn’t going to uncover it – was he? A sharp whipping noise, and she saw a white dust sheet billowing to the floor in front of something big and red with clawed wooden feet. An armchair, a velvet-covered armchair, and his legs turned to face her as he sat down with a sigh. The creak of a chair-back, then another rustle, a firm snip, the crack of a match and a moment later the smell of a cheroot.
Relief trickled through her. He was only having a smoke. Fool that she’d been to think otherwise, or imagine a brute like that would suddenly decide to play the piano. She almost giggled, but recognized her light-headedness in time and forced herself calm. He was still here and very close, and now she didn’t even dare move to relieve her cramped thighs.
A faint sound turned her head, a gentle thump-thump from the window. A gust of wind must have got up and was playing with the shutters. The sound was not repeated and the Bulgar didn’t move, but alarm was suddenly shooting up inside her as if to come screaming out of her mouth. The window! She hadn’t dared close it for fear of the noise, and if the wind came in he was bound to feel it, to turn and see it, to know she was right here.
She froze in her position while her mind ran. Please God let the wind drop, let him not feel it, let him get up and go somewhere else, please God make him go.
Ryder’s fear was choking him like the dust of the shovelled earth. Where the hell was Sally? At half past she’d have known he was late, at twenty to she’d have known he wasn’t coming, she should have been back by ten at the latest.
He’d looked at his watch at ten, at five past, at the quarter, he wouldn’t look again till he’d finished the grave. What was she doing? What else could she do but come back? Then he thought what he’d have done himself, hurled out the last shovelful and stood back. ‘Report to me,’ Jarvis had said, and so he would – after he’d been to Kamara to fetch Sally.
He picked up the bucket, stuck the spade over his shoulder, and strolled out from the camp perimeter. He was a poor trooper on some obscure work-fatigue, a man no one would look twice at, and not till he was past the first fold in the hills did he throw down bucket and shovel and start to run.
Run. His boots slithered on the smoothness of long grass, he stumbled against concealed rocks, banged into an oak, swung his arm round its trunk and ran on. On past the low slopes of Number 2 redoubt, Turks looking down and waving, ‘Yes, yes, Buono Johnny to you too,’ then on to Canrobert’s Hill, skirt it and up, more Turks looking down from the earthworks, ‘Buono Johnny, Buono Johnny, but I’ve got to bloody run.’
Into the vineyards, find the path and crash through. The vines were sad things now, stripped by the scavengers of the army, that same army he was trying to save and that was doing everything in its bloody stupid power to try and stop him. Well sod the army, sod everything it stood for, he was here for Sally and the rest could go to hell.
Kamara, the centre track, and no sign of her anywhere. She must be here, she was hiding, they’d said to meet here, but he turned round and round, saw a goat, some screaming geese, nothing and nobody else. There were too many houses, lots of little paths to get to them, dark green entrances all the same – and a basket of gorse laid by one of them with a pair of shears laid neatly on top.
The wind banged the shutters harder, and a gust of air flicked up the corner of a dust sheet. Sally stared intently at the Bulgar’s legs as they fidgeted, tucked in, then straightened as he stood. He was walking to the window, and a moment later she heard it shut. He was too far away to see now, and she made no attempt to stoop lower for a better view. She didn’t want to see or hear anything but the sound of him going away.
Silence. He was just standing there, and she imagined him thinking. She tried to put words into his mind – burglars, just burglars, been in and gone, leave it and go home.
His shoes creaked, then a new noise, a sudden exclamation. What had he seen? She was invisible, screwed up small as a child playing hide-and-seek, her dress tucked tight about her, but still he’d seen something and his feet were turning towards her. She stared at the bottom of the dust sheet and saw his shoes coming purposefully back into view. He was following something, and now she saw it herself, a faint brightness in the dusty floor. Her dress had made a trail as she crawled, and it led right under the piano.
Terror wiped out thought. She backed away an inch or two, but there was nowhere to go, nothing to do but stare at the sheet, waiting to jump as it was ripped away. Fragments of panicked hope flickered and went out. Hit him, buy herself seconds to run – but the window was shut and the door bolted. The knife – it was in her apron outside. Why hadn’t she listened to Ryder? Why had she … ? She stared at the sheet, and it trembled, lifted, and a face loomed in the opening, upside-down and nightmarish, the thick lips twisting into an ogre’s smile.
‘Hello, English lady,’ said the Bulgar. ‘Have you come back for some more?’
The path was dark, he’d got to the last house and seen no sign. She must have left one, and he retraced his steps more slowly, studying the entrance to each house as he went. The Colt was capped and ready in his hand.
The third house had an iron gate, and his attention quickened as he saw it swinging slightly ajar. Had Sally crept in here, perhaps to listen at a window? He stared at the ground around it, saw something pale under the hedge, and drew out a brown Crim-Tartar apron.
Faint but high, a woman’s scream. He swivelled round and it came again – Christ Almighty, she was in the house! The gate flew aside as he charged through and down the path, cocking the revolver as he ran. Damn the windows, that was the scream of a woman in fear for her life, and Ryder threw himself full at the door. It held at the top, some kind of bolt, but he gave it his shoulder and crashed the thing through.
An empty hall, but an open door to the right and Sally’s voice crying ‘Here!’ He hurtled through, saw the blue of her dress as she was shoved across the room, but in front of him a big man in green, then a flash of light as a blade slashed within an inch of his face. He stepped back fast, brought up the gun, and yelled, ‘Drop it, you bastard, drop it now!’
The man bared his teeth with a sound like a hiss, but the knife was still weaving. The blade was near a foot long, curved viciously to the tip, and the edge already tinged with blood. Sally. Fury exploded in his head, his finger tightening to the trigger, but Sally’s voice cried ‘No!’ and brought him sharply to his senses. This man could be vital, they’d got to take him alive. He said again ‘Drop it’, and motioned downwards with the barrel.
The man hesitated. He probably hadn’t understood the words, but seemed to recognize the gesture, and at least lowered the knife to his side.
Ryder stepped cautiously towards him, extending his left hand, but Sally screamed ‘Watch out!’ and the man moved, one hand streaking for t
he pistol, the knife snaking up savagely at Ryder’s groin.
He leaped sideways and back, the blade slashing harmlessly at his coat, but the man had the pistol barrel and was twisting it in Ryder’s hand. It was pointing everywhere, and Sally in the room, he must not, must not pull the trigger. The blade whipped at him again, he grabbed in desperation at the knife hand, clamping his fingers tight round the man’s wrist. For a second they faced each other, hands to hands in a grotesque dance, then Ryder lowered his head and moved in. Wrestling now, gun and knife, hands sliding on the metal, slippery with sweat. He had to put the knife out of it, free himself to get two hands to the gun. Twisting the wrist, bending it back, clenching his teeth with effort, the intimacy of another man’s breath in his face. The fist unclenched, the knife dropped, but the man’s other hand slid down the pistol, jolting Ryder’s finger on the trigger. Light cracked, a bang and the bitter powder smell, the revolver was loose in Ryder’s hand and the man slumped gurgling to the floor. Half his face was shot away, and his heels drummed horribly on the wooden boards.
Ryder looked away. His own fault, he should never have cocked the gun if he didn’t mean to use it. ‘Is there anyone else, Sally?’
‘No. I’m sorry, the officer’s gone.’
He allowed himself to look at her, and was shocked at what he saw. Her hair was dishevelled, one cheek stinging red, but almost worse was the way she was huddled against the wall with her arms wrapped tightly across her chest as if she fought not to scream. She was watching the man on the floor, and he saw her wince as he gave a last gurgle and died.
Then he was barging through the shrouded furniture, reaching for her, seizing her hands, but at once he felt their stickiness and stared in horror at the palms. The cuts were superficial, only fine scratches, but they blurred into an image of a curved blade being slashed at the face of a girl who’d tried to fight back with only her bare hands. Anger tore at him, and he could only grapple her into his arms, whispering, ‘I’m sorry, oh God, he hurt you, I’m so sorry.’