by Wilbur Smith
Will somebody kindly introduce me to this paragon among men, that I may accept his fulsome offer? Le Comte de Thiry, I have the honour to present Lord Andrew Killigerran. Michael waved them together and they shook hands. Tiens! A genuine English milord. Scots, my dear fellow, big difference. He saluted the Comte with the tumbler. Enchanted, I'm sure. And this beautiful young lady is your daughter, the resemblance beautiful- Centaine, Anna intersposed, take your horse to the stable and groom him. Centaine ignored her and smiled at Andrew. The smile stopped even his banter, he stared at her, for the smile transformed her. It seemed to glow through her skin like a lamp through alabaster, and it lit her teeth and sparkled in her eyes like sunlight in a crystal jar of dark honey.
I think I should have a look at our patient. The young army doctor broke the spell and stepped forward to unwrap Michael's bandages. Anna understood the gesture, if not the words, and she interposed her bulk between them.
Tell him, if he touches my work, I will break his arm. Your services are not required, I'm afraid, Michael translated for the doctor.
Have a cognac, Andrew consoled him. It's not bad stuff, not bad at all. You are a landowner, milord? the Comte asked Andrew with subtlety. Of course? Bien sfir- Andrew made an expansive gesture which portrayed thousands of acres and at the same time brought his glass within range of where the Comte was filling the doctor's glass. The Comte topped him up and Andrew repeated, Of course, the family estates, you understand? Ah. The Comte's single eye glittered as he glanced across at his daughter. Your deceased wife has left you with four children? He had not followed the earlier exchange all that clearly.
No children, no wife, my humorous friend, Andrew indicated Michael, he likes to make jokes. Very bad English jokes.
Ha! English jokes. The Comte roared with laughter and would have clapped Michael on his shoulder had not Centaine rushed forward to protect him from the blow. Papa, be careful.
He is wounded. You will stay for lunch, all of you, the Comte declared. You will see, milord, my daughter is one of the finest cooks in the province. With a little help, Anna muttered disgustedly.
I say, I rather think I should be getting back, the young doctor murmured diffidently. I feel rather superfluous."We are invited to lunch, Andrew told him. Have a cognac. Don't mind if I do. The doctor succumbed without a struggle.
The Comte announced, It is necessary to descend to the cellars."Papa - Centaine began ominously.
We have guests! The Comte showed her the empty cognac bottle and she shrugged helplessly.
Milord, you will assist me in the selection of suitable refreshments? Honoured, Monsieur le Comte. As Centaine watched the pair, arms linked descend the stone staircase, there was a thoughtful look in her eyes.
He is a drole one, your friend, and very loyal. See how he rushed here to your aid. See how he places a charm on my Papa. Michael was surprised by the strength of his dislike for Andrew at that moment. He smelled the cognac, he muttered. That's the only reason he came. But what of the four children? Anna demanded. And their mother? She was having as much difficulty as the comte in following the conversation.
Four mothers, Michael explained. Four children, four different mothers. He is a polygamist! Anna swelled with shock and affront, and her face went a shade redder.
No, no, Michael assured her. You heard him deny it.
He is a man of honour, he would not do such a thing. He is married to none of them. Michael felt not a qualm, he had to have an ally somewhere in the family, but at that moment the happy pair returned from the cellars laden with black bottles.
Aladdin's cave, Andrew rejoiced. The comte has got it filled with good stuff! He placed half a dozen bottles on the kitchen table in front of Michael. Look at this!
Thirty years old, if it's a day! Then he peered closely at Michael. You look awful, old boy. Death warmed up. Thanks, Michael grinned at him thinly. You are so kind. Natural brotherly concern - Andrew struggled to draw the cork from one of the bottles, and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. By God, isn't she a corker! He glanced across the kitchen to where the women were at work over the big copper pot. I'd rather feel her than feel sick, what? Michael's dislike for Andrew turned to active hatred.
I find that remark utterly revolting, he said. To talk like that about a young girl, so innocent, so fine, so so- Michael stuttered into silence, and Andrew held his head on one side and peered at him wonderingly.
Michael, my boy, this is worse than just a few burns and bruises, I'm afraid. It's going to need intensive treatment. He filled a glass. To start with, I prescribe a liberal dose of this excellent claret! At the head of the table the comte had the cork out of another of the bottles, and refilled the doctor's glass.
A toast! he cried. Confusion to the damned boche! A has les boches!
they all cried, and as soon as the toast was drunk the comte placed his hand over the black patch which covered the socket of his missing eye.
They did this to me at Sedan in 7o. They took my eye, but they paid dearly for it, the devils, Sacrg bleu, how we fought! Tigers! We were tigers-, Tabby cats! Anna called across the kitchen.
You know nothing of battle and war, these brave young men, they know, they understand! I drink to them! He did so copiously and then demanded, Now, where is the food? It was a savoury ragofit of ham and sausage and marrow bones. Anna brought bowls of it steaming from the stove and Centaine piled small loaves of crisp new bread on the bare table.
Now tell us, how goes the battle? the comte demanded as he broke bread and dipped it into his bowl. When will this war end? Let us not spoil good food. Andrew waved the question away, but with crumbs and gravy on his mustache the comte insisted. What of a new Allied offensive? It will be in the west, on the Somme river again. It is there that we have to break through the German lines. It was Michael who answered; he spoke with quiet authority, so that almost immediately he had all their attention.
Even the two women came from the stove and Centaine slipped on to the bench beside Michael, turning serious eyes up to him as she struggled to understand the English conversation.
How do you know all this? the comte interrupted.
His uncle is a general, Andrew explained.
A general! The comte looked at Michael with new interest. Centaine, do you not see that our guest is in difficulty? And while Anna gruffed and scowled, Centaine leaned over Michael's bowl and cut the meat into manageable portions so that he could eat with one hand.
Go on! Continue! the comte urged Michael. What then? General Haig will pivot right. This time he will succeed in cutting across the German rear, and roll up their line. Ha! So we are secure here. The comte reached for the claret bottle, but Michael shook his head.
I am afraid not, not entirely anyway. This section of the line is being stripped of reserves, regimental fronts of the line are being reduced to battalion strength, everything that can be spared is being moved to take part in a new push across the Sornme. The comte looked alarmed. That is criminal folly surely the Germans will counter-attack here to try and reduce pressure on their front at the Somme? The line here, it will not hold? Centaine asked anxiously and involuntarily glanced up at the kitchen windows. From where they sat, they could see the ridges on the horizon.
Michael hesitated. Oh, I am sure that we will be able to hold them long enough, especially if the fighting round the Somme goes as well and as quickly as we expect. Then the pressure here will swiftly be relieved as the Allied advance swings across the German rear.
But if the battle bogs down and is stalemated once again? Centaine asked softly in Flemish.
For a girl, and one with little English, she had a firm grasp on the essentials. Michael treated her question with respect, answering, in Afrikaans, as though he was speaking to another man.
Then we will be hard-pressed, especially as the Huns have aerial superiority. We may lose the ridges again. He paused and frowned. They will have to rush in reserves.
We may even be forced to pull
back as far as Arras- Arras! Centaine gasped. That means- She did not finish, but looked around at her home as though already taking farewell of it. Arras was far to the rear.
Michael nodded. Once the attack begins, you will be in extreme danger here. You will be well advised to evacuate the chateau and go back south to Arras or even Paris."Never! cried the comte switching back into French. A de Thiry never retreats.
Except at Sedan, Anna muttered, but the comte did not deign to hear such levity.
I will stand here, on my own land. He pointed at the ancient chassepot rifle that hung on the kitchen wall. That is the weapon I carried at Sedan. The boche learned to fear it there. They will relearn that lesson. Louis de Thiry will teach it to them! Courage! cried Andrew. I give you a toast. French valour and the triumph of French arms! Naturally the comte had to reply with a toast to General Haig and our gallant British Allies!'Captain Courtney is a South African, Andrew pointed out. We should drink to them."Ah! the comte responded enthusiastically in English. To General, what is your uncle, the general, called? To General Sean Courtney and his brave South Africans."This gentleman, Andrew indicated the slightly owl VIA eyed doctor swaying gently on the bench beside him, is an officer in the Royal Medical Corps. A fine service, and worthy of our toast! To the Royal Medical Corps! The comte accepted the challenge, but as he reached for his glass again, it trembled before he touched it, and the surface of the red wine was agitated into little circular ripples which lapped against the crystal bowl. The comte froze and all their heads lifted.
The glass of the kitchen window-panes rattled in their frames and then le of the guns rolled down from the north. Once again the German guns were hunting along the ridges, clamouring and barking like wild dogs, and as they listened in silence, they could imagine the misery and agony of the men in the muddy trenches only a few miles from where they sat in the warm kitchen with their bellies filled with food and fine wine.
Andrew lifted his glass and said softly, I give you those poor blighters out there in the mud. May they endure. And this time even Centaine sipped from Michael's glass and her eyes swam with dark tears as she drank the toast.
I hate to be a killjoy, the young doctor stood up unsteadily, but that artillery barrage is the work-whistle for me, I'm afraid, the butchers vans will be on their way back already. Michael tried to rise with him, but clutched quickly at the edge of the table for support. I wish to thank you, Monsieur le Comte, he began formally, for your gentility - The word tripped on his tongue and he repeated it, but his tongue blurred and lost track of his speech. I salute your daughter, Mademoiselle de Thiry, Pange du bonheur - His legs folded up unde r him, and he collapsed gently.
He is wounded! Centaine cried as she leaped forward and caught him before he hit the floor, supporting him with one slim shoulder under his armpit. Help me, she pleaded. Andrew reeled forward to her assistance, and between them they half-carried, half-dragged Michael through the kitchen door.
Careful, his poor arm, Centaine gasped under the weight, as they lifted Michael into the side-car of the motor-cycle. Do not hurt him! He lolled in the padded seat with a beatific grin on his pale features.
Mademoiselle, rest assured he is beyond all pain, the lucky devil. Andrew tottered around the machine to take the controls.
Wait for me! cried the doctor as he and the comte, giving each other mutual support, bounced off the door jamb and came crabbing down the steps in an unintended sideways charge.
Climb aboard, Andrew invited, and at the third attempt kick-started the Ariel in a roar of blue smoke.
The doctor clambered on to the pillion behind him, and the comte thrust one of the two bottles of claret that he carried into Andrew's side pocket. Against the cold, he explained.
You are a prince among men. Andrew let out the clutch and the Ariel screeched into a tight turn. Look after Michael!
cried Centaine.
My cabbages! screamed Anna, as Andrew took a short cut through the vegetable garden.
A has les boches! howled the comte and took a last surreptitious pull at the other claret bottle, before Centaine could confiscate it from him and relieve him of the cellar keys once more.
At the end of the long drive that led down from the chAteau Andrew braked the motor-cycle and then at a more sedate pace joined the pathetic little procession that was trickling back from the ridges along the muddy, rutted main road.
The butchers'vans, as the field ambulances were irreverently known, were heavily loaded with the fruits of the renewed German bombardment. They chugged through the muddy puddles, with the racks of canvas stretchers in the open backs swaying and lurching to each bump.
The blood from the wounded men in the upper tiers soaked through the canvas and dripped on to those below.
On the verges of the lane little groups of walking wounded straggled back, their rifles discarded, leaning on each other for support, lumpy field dressings strapped over their injuries, all their faces blank with suffering, their eyes dead of expression, their uniforms caked with mud and their movements mechanical, beyond caring.
Beginning to sober rapidly, the doctor climbed down off the pillion and selected the more seriously hurt men from the stream. They loaded two of them on to the pillion, one astride the petrol tank in front of Andrew and three more into the side-car with Michael. The doctor ran behind the overloaded Ariel, pushing it through the mud holes, and he was completely sober when a mile up the road they reached the VAD hospital in a row of cottages at the entrance to the village of Mort Homme. He helped his newly acquired patients out of the side-car and then turned back to Andrew. Thanks. I needed that break. He glanced down at Michael, still passed out in the side-car. Look at him.
We can't go on like this forever."Michael is just slightly pissed, that is all. But the doctor shook his head. Battle fatigue he said. Shell shock. We don't understand it properly yet, but it seems there is just a limit to how much these poor has tards can stand. How long has he been flying without a break, three months? He will be all right, Andrew's voice was fierce, he's going to get through. He placed a protective hand on Michael's injured shoulder, remembering that it was six months since his last leave.
Look at him, all the signs. Thin as a starvation victim, the doctor went on, twitching and trembling. Those eyes - I'll bet he is showing unbalanced illogical behaviour, sullen dark moods alternating with mad wild moods? Am I correct? Andrew nodded reluctantly. One minute he calls the enemy loathsome vermin and machine-guns the survivors of crashed German aircraft, and the next they are gallant and worthy foes, he punched a newly arrived pilot last week for calling them Huns. Reckless bravery? Andrew remembered the balloons that morning, but he did not answer the question.
What can we do? he asked helplessly.
The doctor sighed and shrugged, and offered his hand. Goodbye and good luck, major. And as he turned away, he was already stripping off his jacket and rolling up his sleeves.
At the entrance to the orchard, just before they reached the squadron's bivouac, Michael suddenly heaved himself upright in the side-car and with all the solemnity of a judge pronouncing the death sentence, said, I am about to be sick. Andrew braked the motor-cycle off the road and held his head for im.
All that excellent claret, he lamented. To say nothing of the Napoleon cognac, if there was only some way to save it! Having noisily unburdened himself, Michael slumped down again and said, just as solemnly, I want you to know that I am in love, and his head flopped back as he passed out cold once more.
Andrew sat on the Ariel and drew the cork from the claret bottle with his teeth. That definitely calls for a toast. Let's drink to your true love. He offered the bottle to the unconscious form beside him. Not interested? He drank from it himself, and when he lowered the bottle, he began unaccountably and uncontrollably to sob.
He tried to choke back the tears, he had not wept since he was six years old, and then he remembered the young doctor's words, unbalanced and illogical behaviour, and the tears overwhelmed him.
They poured down his cheeks, and he did not even attempt to wipe them away.
He sat on the driver's seat of the motor-cycle, shaking with silent grief.
Michael, my boy, he whispered. What is to become of us? We are doomed, there is no hope for us. Michael, no hope at all for any of us, and he covered his face with both hands and wept as though his heart was breaking.
Michael awoke to the clatter of the tin tray as Biggs placed it beside his field cot.
He groaned as he tried to sit up, but his injuries pulled him down again. What time is it, Biggs?"All past seven, sir, and a lovely spring morning."Biggs, for God's sake, why didn't you wake me?
I've missed the dawn patrol- No, we oven't, sir, Biggs murmured comfortably, we've been grounded."Grounded? Lord Killigerran's orders, grounded until further orders, sir. Biggs ladled sugar into the cocoa mug and stirred it.
"Igh time too, if I may be allowed to say so. We've flown thirty-seven days straight. Biggs, why do I feel so bloody? According to Lord Killigerran, we were severely attacked by a bottle of cognac, sir."Before that, I smashed up the old flying tortoise Michael began to remember. Spread her all over France, sir, like butter on toast, Biggs nodded. But we got them, Biggs! Both of the blighters, sir. The book paid out, I trust, Biggs? You didn't lose your money? We made a nice packet, thanking you, Mr Michael, and Biggs touched the other items on the cocoa tray.
"Ere's your loot- There was a neat sheaf of twenty onepound notes.
Three to one, sir, plus your original stake. You are entitled to ten percent commission, Biggs. Bless you, sir. Two notes disappeared magically into Biggs pocket. Now, Biggs. What else have we here? Four aspirins, compliments of Lord Killigerran. He is flying, Biggs, of course?