People, or animals, or . . . things moved through the darkness and rain, stealthy and silent, as I was myself. I didn’t really see them, though I knew they were out there. It was as if I were being accompanied by phantoms, or shadows, all of us blind and following one another by way of paranormal sensitivity.
Were they as lost as I? Or did I only imagine German soldiers on the advance, covered by the night? If they were the same boys who’d ridden in the railway carriage with me, I was traveling with old friends.
“Hola, amigos.” I bit down the almost uncontrollable urge to yell a greeting, subduing it to a whisper. No—make that a whimper. I was in grave danger of losing what little self-control I had left.
One foot, and then the other. Take one step at a time. Stumble over the uneven ground, trip over the ruts, let the heels of my shoes sink deeply into the mud. Lord! I was so tired I couldn’t feel anymore, let alone think. Bone weary, hungry, and more maddening still, I seemed unable to stop myself from ducking from every single shell that passed overhead.
Left, right. Left, right. Such became my litany. This is a battlefield, soldier, so lift that head and pick up them feets. Maybe my uniform was nothing but a costume made up of a dead woman’s clothes, but I wore them to do battle for my nearest and dearest. What did that make me, if not a soldier in the army of life?
The handbag with all my stuff, including the.45 Colt automatic, grew heavier with every step. What a good thing I hadn’t succumbed to temptation with the Worth gown. All of that gorgeous beading must weigh a ton and I could barely pack what I had now. No way could I have brought myself to dump such a beautiful thing on a battlefield like so much garbage.
But wouldn’t it have driven a soldier crazy, wondering where it came from? It made me laugh to think of the look on his face.
I was chuckling aloud, not paying much attention to the way ahead, when I stumbled over what I took to be a downed log. I sprawled flat, only to find myself eye to eye, a bare two inches away from a dead man. His eyes were wide open and staring. I had a feeling mine were, too.
Death was no stranger to me, understand, although I was more in the habit of meeting it in a guise other than myself. Dad kept asking me if I could be killed inside one of these time transfers when I wasn’t me, Boothenay Irons, and I kept telling him I didn’t know. Well, that didn’t hold quite true or so I now believed. I had a very good idea of my own mortality, and I was pretty sure it hung from as frail a line as anyone else’s in this world.
And so did Caleb’s.
This reminder got me up on my knees with blood smearing my hands. I was gagging and choking, and fighting the urge to vomit. Being blown apart by huge explosive shells is not one of the saner ways to die. And this boy, for he was only a boy—maybe no more than sixteen—was only the first of the five I discovered in a group. They must have been huddled together for courage.
I reeled away from the body, sort of duck-walking half on my knees and half on my feet. Going down again when I came to a second dead boy, this time my hand touched the metal of a rifle, which, with automatic care, I picked up. I was thinking it would be a good idea— providential, really—if I carried the rifle with me. There was no telling whom I might meet along the way. No telling where I might discover an enemy and need the protection.
Then I saw the gas mask and nearly had a heart attack. God in heaven! I’d actually been wandering all over a damned battlefield for hours, all alone, and had never given one second of thought to what was perhaps the greatest danger of all—mustard gas.
Had I run into a cloud of the gas, I guess the question of whether death could find me in this time would have been answered beyond any doubt.
I collected the gas mask and, adding it to my load, continued on. What an apparition I must have looked. I actually prayed not to run into Caleb out here, of the opinion he’d never recognize me all covered in mud and wearing these clothes. More than likely he’d shoot me on sight for being so dirty, spreading contamination everywhere I went.
Okay, okay. I was falling to pieces. By this time, I’d been walking for hours and I was so tired I felt as though my feet were sandbags on the ends of my legs. Blinding fatigue clouded my vision with every blink of my eyes.
To add to my misery, the most horrible stench you can imagine permeated the whole area. Previous battles had been fought over this same piece of real estate, moving so quickly back and forth between the warring factions, that the dead of both sides remained unburied. As if that weren’t enough, the ones who had been buried were often dug up again, either by soldiers scratching for shelter or by subsequent shellings. I didn’t know all that then, of course. But I did know the stink of the dead.
Burned earth added to the aroma until I was so overcome, I was barely able to breathe. In self-defense, I found a big handkerchief in a pocket of Beatrix’s jacket which I tied over my nose, bandit fashion. Now the simple act of drawing air through the cloth made me dizzy.
At least that’s the excuse I made when I awoke to the fact I actually was surrounded by German soldiers, all moving in the same direction as I. Why none of them showed the least sign of curiosity about me—or seemed to see me at all, for that matter—I am not prepared to say. I wondered if I were invisible to them, yet I didn’t see how I could be.
The soldiers on the train had certainly seen me, as had the conductor, and when I held out my hand, it seemed perfectly discernible, provided one could see through the grime. I hadn’t turned into a ghost. And I was carrying a German-made rifle, very real in its heft.
I came to the conclusion they saw whom they expected to see, and since that most definitely was not a woman dressed like a high-society lady riding to hounds, then what they saw must be another soldier. Like them, I was miserably wet and dirty, separated from my closest neighbor by as much as twenty feet, and made indistinct by the night. That’s why, when the rain-laden sky lightened with a hint of daylight and the soldiers stopped moving and began to dig in, I allowed myself to drop back.
Could we be reaching some sort of destination at last?
From ahead of us came a smattering of small arms fire, then the racket of something heavier, probably a machine-gun. With a sinking feeling, I calculated how far those bullets would carry if nothing stopped them. I found a foxhole well to the rear and claimed its shelter for my own, hugging the earth and trying to make myself small.
Noise grew into a great wall of sound. Men screamed—not necessarily from pain, I think, but from sheer anger and fear and the rush of adrenaline. I peeked over the rim of my foxhole and saw the German soldiers charging forward, crazy with battle rage. No more than five minutes later, much to my amazement, they came back again, running in the opposite direction. Running toward me!
I figured I must be done for. They’d see me cowering in my little hidey-hole and one would be certain to shoot me. How could he not? This was war.
And yet I must have underestimated the level of their panic. Perhaps what saved me was my refuge, a miniscule blip on the landscape of this burnt-over land. It helped, I think, that the soldiers were in a blind rush.
As I raised up for a final peep at the fleeing soldiers, one who had the presence of mind to jump the hole, though not enough to look down and see me, came very close to kicking me in the head. His brogan left muddy streaks in my hair. A rocket shell lit the sky at that moment, and by its light, I saw reason-robbing fear etched on his face. It seemed to me the man glowed an unearthly green, surely a freak of the rocket’s glare.
Then, quite suddenly, they were all gone. A dozen men, although there had been half again as many going forward, disappeared into the night beyond my hiding place. Here and there, light from exploding shells revealed moving shadows dipping and diving earthward with each new volley.
The bombardment moved forward, creeping slowly nearer. A torment, when every atom of my being simply wanted to get this over with. I, like the German soldiers, wished to jump and run as fast and as far as my legs could carry me. My brain, retai
ning a smattering of sanity, told me there was no safety in such a course of action.
I burrowed deeper into my hole. Once or twice, when the noise grew beyond what my ears could bear, I think I screamed. Why not? There was no one to hear. The stench of burning cordite and gunpowder seared the inside of my nose. My lungs felt inflamed. I suspected poison gas, though after I fit the mask I’d taken from the dead soldier over my face, I couldn’t breathe at all. I tore the mask away, choking from a lack of air, not realizing until later that none of the shells had contained mustard gas.
Determined I was bound to die, I slumped against the foxhole wall. I didn’t know what to do. Where to hide. How to save myself, let alone Caleb.
So, of course, I blamed August.
This hadn’t been part of our deal—the deal August and I made before I brought him with me to this time. Our agreement had been for me to bring him back and leave him. He’d atone for his sins and either die here, or he’d live on, same as he had before. Whatever happened, he’d be freed of his burden of guilt.
In return, he promised he would show me where to find Caleb. That was the deal.Well, I’d fulfilled my part of the bargain. He hadn’t. I’d known all along I couldn’t safely rely on the old weasel. I’d needed his help so badly I allowed myself to be deluded—or suckered—into putting my trust in him
He hadn’t sprung his change of plan on me until we fled the castle, or fortress, or whatever he called his home. He was too smart for that. Instead, he waited until we were already racing for the train where it sat at the station, chugging smoke out the stack and working up a head of steam.
“You’ll be fine,” he’d told me, in a little too hearty a manner, as it turned out. “Stay on the train until you get to Metz. You’ll want to go St. Mihiel from there. Start walking. If there’s a farmer or shepherd or such, he may give you a lift. But count on this, Boothenay. You won’t be able to miss the battlefield, even if you want.”
“Great,” I said. “Marvelous! That way both sides can use me for target practice.”
“You won’t be shot,” he said, with a finality that almost settled my mind.
“I’d like to know what makes you so sure,” I muttered, unable to speak louder, what with the running taking all my breath.
Not that it made any difference. I was committed—no turning back. My goal was to rescue Caleb and I would, no matter what.
So I had gotten on that damn, ill-fated train and wound up here, cowering in a hole in the ground and trying desperately to figure out what was going on.
CHAPTER 20
Silence reigned. Or I thought it did. I may not have known the difference after all the noise. But as I became aware of the blood thrumming through my own veins, with an accompanying heartbeat swelling like thunder to my super-aware senses, I swear I really did hear the silence.
As I listened, I detected the sound of rain blipping into a puddle of water at my feet. I heard a fading echo of German speech as distance gave them the courage to cry defiance. Guns rumbled from a northeasterly direction.
I waited. Perhaps I dozed a moment, the backwash of stress causing a slight blackout. I know I was standing, propped against the side of the shell hole, when all my senses popped back into overdrive. Someone— perhaps several someones—were on the move.
Whoever it was made little noise. The tiny ping of metal meeting metal; the scrape of a body crawling close to the ground; a grunt as someone found the going hard.
I watched for motion, taking care to glance from the corners of my eyes rather than staring straight on. Hunters reveled in bragging to me, the gunsmith, telling their secrets of how they sighted game. Now the lessons came in handy.
And these were Americans! I became sure of it as they got close enough for me to identify their helmets, shaped like soup bowls inverted over their heads.
First came one single man ahead of the rest, moving like a wraith. Next, a soft-footed mule appeared out the dark, being led by a man I felt sure must be a Native American. I managed to convince myself there was no mistaking an American mule. More mules followed that one, hauling howitzers and heavy machine guns. More men crept along behind the guns.
A moment of indecision gave me pause. August had said the Germans didn’t execute Mata Hari—the French did. Would Americans be any more inclined to listen to my story—let alone accept it—when I came to them by way of the enemy lines? Or would they suspect me of being yet another spy sent to ferret out their secrets, and summarily opt for the death penalty?
I blew all the old air out of my lungs, like at the end of an aerobic workout, and drew in a deep breath. In the end, it didn’t matter what their first thought might be. I had to act now.
Straightening my shoulders, I stood erect.
“H⏤” I began, but before any more sound than the first aspiration came out, a bullet whizzed past my head. I felt the wind of its passage. Let me tell you, I figured my time was up. My heart nearly stopped. I froze as still as one of the tree stumps poking out of the field.
The young soldier scouting ahead of the main body of men was either a passably good shot, to miss by that close a margin, or very bad, given that he was practically on top of me. I chose to trust the former option—better for my peace of mind.
“Hey, Americans,” I cried, looking directly into his face on the premise he was less likely to shoot someone staring him in the eye. “You guys are lifesavers. I thought you were never getting here.”
“What the hell?” He had dropped into a crouch at my first word and was waving his gun around as if he suspected me of being the front wave of an enemy counterattack.
“Don’t shoot!” As they say in cowboy parlance, I reached for the sky. “I’m American, too, honest.” Not one word of recrimination passed my lips regarding the close call with the shot he did fire.
“Yeah. And I’m Ulysses S. Grant. Where did you pop up from?” His rifle remained pointed at me, a precaution I might have admired under different circumstances. His eyes moved constantly, back and forth, watching for a trap.
“Well, uh, that’s a long story,” I said, thanking my lucky stars he was listening instead of shooting. I realized I ought to have had my explanation already made up. “I’m looking for someone.”
“Here?
“Yes,” I said. “Here.
While taking note of the skepticism in his tone, I also became aware I could actually see his expression. Daylight was finally on the way. I hadn’t a real good idea of how far I’d traveled since leaving the train. I only knew I’d spent the entire night walking, walking, and then walking some more.
“The only folks out here, lady, are Huns.”
“Not anymore,” I replied, yawning suddenly. “They took off running a while ago, acting like they’d met up with the devil. Now there’s you guys⏤and me.”
“Get up outta that hole,” he said. “Let me see what kind of creature this devil has caught.”
Obediently, I tossed my purse over the edge of the hole first, then climbed after it. The German rifle I left half-buried in the mud, hoping it would stay that way. I refrained from mentioning that, in point of fact, the soldier hadn’t caught me. I’d caught him.
“May I put my hands down?” I asked. By this time the first of the mule drovers—I suppose they were part of the artillery corps—had arrived on the scene, circling around like so many vultures.
“Whatcha got, Caferro?” A thickset man, tough looking, with an attitude, leered at me. “Capture a Boche general, did ya?”
I knew his face, I realized, feeling a surge of excitement. He’d been with Caleb and Will in the barn during my dream. He’d coveted the Colt.
Caferro shot the man an uneasy glance. “Go ahead,” he said to me. “Put ’em down. I guess you ain’t going to pull no tricks on us. You better not.”
The ring of gathered men was separated in short order by a man mounted on a horse, forcing himself through the ranks. An officer, as even someone as ignorant as I could tell.
“Who’s this, Caferro?” he snapped, apparently none too pleased with my presence. He stepped down from the horse. “Where in Christ’s name did she come from?”
Caferro shrugged. “I dunno who she is, major. We ain’t been introduced as yet. All I know is, she was already here when I arrived.”
“Well, find out her name, private. Does she speak English?” The officer was plainly nervous, suspecting a trap. His horse, held on a tight rein, danced in place.
In an effort to alleviate some of the tension I said, “I’m as American as you are, general. Just a little out of place.”
“Major.” Caferro leaned over to whisper out of the side of his mouth. “That’s Major Page.”
Major Page? What was there about that name? Something I should remember⏤ My heart took a tremendous leap as my brain kicked in.
“Major Page! Do you know Ned Smith? Sergeant Ned Smith?” Oh, please, my mind was begging. Oh, please let this be Caleb’s Major Page. If it was and I could get him working with me, then surely my troubles—and Caleb’s—would soon be over.
And beyond all expectation, my prayer was answered, for I saw recognition light behind the major’s eyes. Behind Caferro’s, too, and one or two of the others, including Walsh. I felt renewed, filled with energy as I anticipated the answer.
Unfortunately, none of them seemed as thrilled as I was with this discovery.
“What do you know about Ned Smith?” Page growled.
His response gave me pause. “Well, he’s the reason I’m here,” I answered slowly. “I’m looking for him.”
“Why?” The major fixed a grim stare on me.
“He . . . I . . . he and I . . . we’re . . . ” I was struck by panic. “He’s all right, isn’t he? Oh, please, don’t tell me he’s . . . he’s . . .”
I had apparently lost the ability to form a complete sentence
Shadow Soldier (The Gunsmith Book 2) Page 19