At Some Disputed Barricade wwi-4

by Anne Perry

  Then suddenly he saw General Northrup as an old man, perhaps in years not more than fifty, but worn out in heart and mind, trying to keep up a belief in his son that he knew was false. He might deceive others, or they might concede to his view out of fear or respect—or more than that, pity—but in the end he would be left alone with the truth. He faced forward and he spoke of duty because it was the only road he had left in a world that was slipping away from him and taking with it all that he had believed in.

  “Yes, sir,” Joseph said gently. “I think all the men are trying to do what they think is right. When you are facing death it becomes terribly important. There isn’t going to be time to try again.”

  Northrup stared at him, blinking rapidly several times. “What are you saying, Captain Reavley? That there is some kind of justice other than a court-martial?”

  “I am saying that the men are afraid that finding Captain Cavan and the other men guilty of murder, and having them shot, will damage morale more seriously than we can survive, sir, and may even give the Germans the chance to break through and run for Paris. We have fought too long and too hard, and lost too many of our friends, for that.”

  “Take an easy way,” Northrup retorted, his eyes never leaving Joseph’s. “A wrong way, because we cannot face the enemy and stand for what we believe, for justice, and the rule of law, and each man to account for his own sins? Is that what you are saying?”

  “No way is easy, sir,” Joseph answered him. “And who judges what is a sin, and who is responsible for it? It is seldom only one of us at fault over anything.”

  Northrup shifted his weight slightly, his eyes hard and troubled. He seemed about to challenge what Joseph had said as soon as he found the words for it.

  “War strips a man naked of all the ideas his brain was taught, but didn’t really believe,” Joseph went on. He was compelled to argue, just in case there was still a chance Northrup could plead for Cavan, and the other men if they were caught. It might be hopeless, but he could not stop trying. “These men, ultimately, were loyal to each other, and to the will to win rather than to blind obedience.”

  Northrup’s lips were pressed tight. His eyes reflected his racing mind, and emotion filled his face, the confusion and pressure of anger and doubt inside him. Still he could not find the words.

  “Legally, Major Northrup was in the right,” Joseph began again. “He was the senior officer, and that gave him the power to command, whether his orders were brilliant or suicidal. But it did not make him militarily right. The men who obeyed were legally correct, and then obedience caused some of them to be killed or mutilated. Those who disobeyed are alive, but it looks as if we ourselves will kill them. And in doing so we will destroy the trust and the morale of those who look to us to lead, because they have no other choice.”

  Northrup was shivering very slightly; it was just a tic in his right temple, a tremor in his hands.

  “With being an officer comes the duty to be right,” Joseph added, knowing what he was doing to the man in front of him. “To put your men’s lives before your own vanity. In peacetime you can order obedience, regardless of your own qualities, but in war you have to earn respect. Moral courage is required as well as physical—the more so of officers.”

  Northrup lowered his eyes. “You have no need to labor the point, Captain. I have been obliged to accept that my son’s qualities fell short of the command he held, and that the army offered his men no recourse but to obey or rebel.” He stood almost motionless. “And I am accountable to God for whatever part of his character made him refuse to be guided by junior men who knew better from experience. If he was weak, that was my failure—perhaps more than it was his. Perhaps I allowed him to believe that being in command is a matter of rank, not of knowing your job, or that honor is what other men say of you, not what is true even when you stand alone. If that is so, then I will answer to God, and to my son, but I will not answer to you, sir.” He blinked rapidly, his face flushed and his eyes bright with tears.

  Joseph ached, almost physically, to find anything to say that could comfort him. The only way to ease the pain would be to deny the truth of his part in the private tragedy of a son who had proved unequal to the final test.

  “In the end it is only God’s judgment that matters for any of us,” Joseph said. “And it looks as if the end could be rather soon.”

  Northrup drew in his breath sharply as if to deny it, then let it out in a sigh and said nothing. He seemed drained of everything inside himself, as if only a shell were left which kept up the façade as an act of will. If he had been wrong and, without realizing it at the time, destroyed the son he had loved, in his own way, then at least he would not now lose the only virtue of which he was certain: courage.

  “I am sure you have duties, Captain. Thank you for your time.”

  Joseph accepted the dismissal, saluted, and turned to leave.

  Lieutenant Colonel Faulkner arrived before sunset, as he had said he would. Joseph did not see him, but he heard the comments of the men.

  “Looks loike one o’ them guard dogs who can’t find his dinner,” Alf Culshaw said sourly. “Reckon we’re it!”

  Barshey Gee shook his head and winced. He had a heavy bandage on his right arm, but the wound was not serious enough to send him off the front line. “Why is it they send the decent blokes up here with the guns to shoot at Jerry, poor sod, and keep the real bastards back o’ the lines to shoot at us? Who thought that up, d’you suppose?”

  “Some bloke as thought up hard rations an’ Sunday drills and…” Snowy offered.

  “An’ his Ma must’ve knitted moi socks!” George Atherton added with his characteristic jerky laugh. “Got more lumps in ’em than Lofty’s porridge.”

  “That’s what Oi’d loike,” Barshey said longingly, his eyes dreamy. “A noice hot bowl o’ porridge, with sugar an’ the top o’ the milk on it.”

  George threw a dollop of mud at him.

  Bert Collins arrived to tell Joseph that Colonel Hook wanted to see him. He pulled his face into an expression of disgust. “An’ the new man, sir, Lieutenant Colonel Faulkner. You’ll know which one he is, sir, ’cos he looked like he just ate a wasp, ’cept it’s too wet for wasps. If it don’t stop soddin’ rainin’ soon we’ll all drown. What I want to know, Chaplain, is why aren’t you buildin’ an ark, eh?”

  “No wood,” Joseph said with a tight smile. “And no animals to put in it.”

  “An’ no women,” Barshey added. “Koind of more loike no point!”

  Several of them laughed.

  Joseph followed Bert Collins back to the command post, and went into the small room with its bare floor and sparse furniture. It smelled of damp, like everything else. He stood to attention and waited.

  Hook was freshly shaved, a nick on his cheek still oozing a little blood. His uniform was comparatively clean, no more than a couple of bloodstains on the arms and mud splattered up to the thigh. He had probably worn it no more than a day.

  Beside him was Faulkner. He had very short, fair hair and a thin, powerful face that seemed all brow and bone. And yet it was not a face without imagination or a degree of emotion. His uniform was immaculate, tailored to fit his square shoulders and lean body.

  “Captain Reavley,” Hook began, his voice formal, a warning in his eyes. “This is Lieutenant Colonel Faulkner, who is going to be prosecuting the case against the men accused of shooting Major Northrup.”

  “Yes, sir,” Joseph acknowledged.

  “As you are aware, we presently have in custody only one of those men.”

  Faulkner made a noise in the back of his throat. It was wordless, but his disgust was as plain as if he had spoken.

  “Unless we can find those who have escaped within the next two days, we are going to have to delay the court-martial—” Hook began.

  “We can try Captain Cavan,” Faulkner interrupted. “And we can try the others in absentia for desertion. There can be no question as to their guilt of that.”
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  “No, we will not try Captain Cavan separately,” Hook said curtly. “And we will not try the other men for anything in their absence. Every man has the right to face his accusers and defend himself….”

  “They chose not to do that,” Faulkner pointed out. “They gave it up; it was not denied them.”

  “Nevertheless, we will not try them in their absence,” Hook repeated. “You are appointed prosecutor, not judge. Captain Reavley will do all that he can to trace the men’s whereabouts, and—”

  “For God’s sake, man!” Faulkner snapped. “They’ve deserted! They are probably halfway to Switzerland by now.”

  “They may be,” Hook agreed. “Or not. All we know is that they are not here, except Cavan.” He looked at Joseph.

  “Yes, sir,” Joseph said quickly. “I will do all I can to determine exactly what happened, and if possible find the men and return them. Apart from anything else”—he studiously avoided Faulkner’s eye—“it will be extremely difficult to try Captain Cavan if none of the other men are here who could testify in the matter. There will be no one to give evidence or be questioned. I believe he has not confessed to anything…has he?”

  “No,” Hook said instantly. “Quite right, Captain Reavley. Begin immediately. If there is any help you require, I’ll see that you are given it.”

  “Report back in twenty-four hours, Captain,” Faulkner said stiffly. “Although I can’t imagine what you think you will find. They have deserted, apart from Cavan. And he may well also be guilty of conniving at and concealing the escape of the others. Certainly he has refused to tell us anything.”

  “Or he may be innocent,” Joseph said sharply, a raw edge of anger to his voice. “And feel that he will get a fair hearing, and be able to prove it.”

  “You are excused, Captain,” Faulkner told him. “The sooner you begin your inquiries, the sooner we may proceed.”

  Joseph saluted, then turned on his heel and left. He had no intention whatever of finding out where the men had gone, even if there had been the remotest chance of succeeding. Privately he thought Faulkner was right and they would almost certainly have made for the Swiss border. However, he was afraid that the regiment in general might suffer, especially anyone who had either positively assisted them, or negatively turned a blind eye. And profoundly he did not wish Cavan to be tried at all, but if it was inevitable, then it should be on a lesser charge, simply of having been aware that some of the men were unhappy with Major Northrup and not reporting it. The general might still succeed in getting the charge reduced.

  He was also sure that Hook felt as he did, and had asked him to make the inquiries precisely because he knew he would appear to be busy, but actually do nothing at all.

  Some of the men were suspicious at first, resentful that he should appear to be cooperating with Faulkner, but a couple of sharp words from people like Barshey Gee and Bill Harrison and goodwill was restored. Some even joined in a little play-acting, as if determined to help.

  But of course it deceived no one. Joseph reported to Faulkner twenty-four hours later.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he said, investing his voice with as much apology as he could. “None of the men appear to know anything useful. I daresay those accused were very careful to keep it all secret.”

  Faulkner listened to him with open disbelief, but he could prove nothing.

  At noon the day after that, on Faulkner’s orders, Joseph was arrested for failure to obey a direct order of a superior, and locked up in the same farmhouse from which the eleven men had escaped.

  This time there were regular military police on guard, not wounded men, and in order to preserve their own liberty, they were determined that there should be no further breakouts.

  They were embarrassed to lock up a chaplain and apologized awkwardly. They treated him with the greatest respect. He did not want to assault their consciences by obliging them to be other than courteous.

  By two o’clock he was sitting on the floor in what had once been one of the smaller bedrooms of a farmhouse. The only window gave onto the roof, but from there it was a sheer drop to the ground, where a soldier stood on duty, his rifle at the ready. Not that Joseph had considered escaping. It would only make a desperate situation even worse.

  There was nothing to do. Time crept by. Joseph stood up and paced back and forward again. Where were the men? Had they gone east, making for Switzerland? Perhaps they believed the Germans would break the line and the war was lost anyway. It was painful to accept that Morel would desert now. Joseph would have imagined him doing something more dramatic, more imaginative, truer to his roots and his nature than flight. Possibly he would have gone over the top in a grand gesture, giving his life in a way none of his fellows would ever forget.

  This escape was tragic, tired and grubby, and the pain of it cut deep.

  Food was brought to him at about six o’clock. It was hard rations, much the same as if he were still free. The young soldier looked embarrassed as he put it on the floor just inside, then backed away.

  “I’m not going to hurt you,” Joseph said wearily. “You don’t need to look like that.”

  “No, sir, but I got to be careful. Can’t afford to have anyone else go, or I’ll be the one shot.”

  “Why? Was it your fault?”

  “No!” He looked indignant.

  “How did they get out?”

  The soldier shook his head. “You won’t be able to copy ’em, sir. Please don’t try. I really don’t want to shoot you. We’re on the same side, sir. We all are.”

  Joseph looked up quickly.

  “Who else is in here?”

  “Just you an’ Treffy Johnson, an’ the doc, of course.”

  “Treffy? What is he here for?” Joseph was startled.

  “Insubordination. Nothing much. Probably let him out tomorrow.”

  “And send him back up to the line?”

  “Yes, of course. Poor little sod.”

  Joseph waited.

  The soldier pulled his mouth down in a grimace. “He’s only fifteen. Scared stiff, and can’t hardly bring himself to shoot another man, Jerry or not.”

  A dozen ideas flashed through Joseph’s mind: to keep Treffy Johnson in here on some other charge, to find a medical reason why he should be invalided out, even as a last resort to put him beside someone who would care for and protect him. They were all pointless. He was one of thousands. He might survive. Even if he did, he would never be the boy he was before. No one would.

  “Eat it.” The soldier indicated the tray of food on the floor. “It’s rotten, but it’s probably better than you’d get up the line. And at least it isn’t raining in here.” He went out and closed the door. The moment after, the lock turned and the tumblers fell home.

  Joseph walked back to the window out of curiosity. How had the eleven men gotten out, then tied up the guards, and left? The more he thought of it the more obstacles there seemed to be.

  He stared over the roof. A man with a good head for heights could probably manage it quite easily and reach a place where there was a down pipe. Except that the whole place was in such disrepair after three years of neglect, and the occasional bombardment extremely close by, that he could not see any down pipes left fully attached. The weight of a man, let alone eleven one after the other, would rip them off altogether. The yard below was paved. Anyone landing on it would be likely to break an ankle at the very least.

  He tried to remember the other walls as he had seen them when he came in. There had been nothing to give a firm enough hold to climb down: no outhouses attached, no woodshed or apple house or milking shed. Nothing of half the height to form a safer landing. Certainly there were no trees left within half a mile. And that meant there was also no cover to hide anyone fleeing. But then they had gone at night. Still, the distant artillery lit the sky and would have made any figure on the barren landscape as obvious as a fly on a whitewashed wall.

  There had been twelve men imprisoned here, and Treffy Johnson. Ho
w had they been separated? There were not thirteen rooms in the house, so at least some had been together. There were no blankets in his room, only a straw palliasse. But then one had no blankets in trenches. And it was August. Could they have used their own clothes to make a rope to descend from the window? All of them? At the same time? Were they even in communication with one another?

  The light faded outside and it began to rain again. He could hear it on the window.

  He sat on the palliasse in the dark. The more he considered and weighed what he knew, the more it seemed impossible that the men had all gotten out at the same time and tied up the guards. Without help, how had they escaped over the barren land and gone sufficient distance that, by the time their absence was known, they were untraceable? The escape must have been carefully planned—and it must have been effected with a vehicle large enough to take all eleven men.

  Such as an ambulance! That was the thought Joseph wanted to push out of his mind altogether, but the harder he tried the more firmly it became fixed.

  He lay down at last. He was cold in spite of the warmth of the air. It was probably because he was tired and miserable, and—no matter how hard he tried to quell the thought—afraid for Judith.

  If the court-martial of Cavan went ahead, and they found him guilty, there would be only one sentence: the firing squad. It would be referred right up to Field Marshal Haig.

  Joseph realized that in the morning he must find a way of persuading the guard to let him see Cavan. Cavan was a doctor and Joseph was a priest! There must be some argument for one of them needing the other!

  When his breakfast came, the tea was at least hot. He was grateful for that.

  He disliked lying to the guard, but he could think of no better alternative. He sat hunched forward, looking wretched, trying to make one shoulder lower than the other.

  “Something wrong, Chaplain?” the soldier asked.

  “Think I’ve pulled a muscle,” he replied. “Thought it would be all right yesterday, but it kept me awake all night.” He gave a bleak smile. “First time I’ve had the chance to lie down for more than a couple of hours. Could you let me see Cavan? Lock us in. Room with no window. I don’t care. He might be able to put it right for me.”