Maxted tugged at his Sam Browne. ‘I suppose so. Won’t be sorry to quit this place.’
Wyke took out a silver cigarette case and offered him one. He even managed to do that elegantly, Maxted thought sourly. Nothing seemed to dampen his confidence. The family name, he supposed, like Blackwood’s heritage of courage and honour under fire.
If only . . .
Wyke tapped his cigarette on the case with studied ease, but he had guessed something was wrong. Maxted had proved his worth in the field, and had done a lot to encourage some of the greener subalterns who had joined the new battalion. He was a decent fellow, reliable too. It had to be said that John Maxted did not have enough imagination to be afraid; so what was the matter with him?
‘Something up, old son?’
Maxted stared past him. What would Wyke say if he told him? Perhaps it was really Wyke’s fault, always talking about that other life of girls and champagne, and restaurants of which he himself had never heard.
She had laughed at him when he had admitted he had never had a woman before, but it had been too late even then. He had had opportunities, some of which he had not even recognised. But the fear of doing the dis-honourable thing, and getting a girl ‘into trouble’ as his mother would have termed it, had always dissuaded him.
This girl had changed all that. It had been unplanned: a wild, uncontrollable passion. At first he had been shy until she had started to slip out of her clothes, then something like fire had seemed to consume him while she had guided and coaxed him into intercourse.
She had said afterwards, ‘You’ll be better next time.’
He realised that Wyke had asked him something. ‘Just wondering about France.’
It sounded so lame that Wyke said gently, ‘If you ever want to discuss anything, off the record so to speak, old son . . .’ He saw his friend’s doubt and anxiety. ‘I’ll never forget what you did for me.’
The shutters came down behind Maxted’s eyes. He had thought it a mere irritation when he had first become aware of the soreness. There was some pain now, and it was not going to disappear. One night he had had to stuff the corner of his blanket in his mouth to stifle his sobs of anguish and despair. She must have known she had been diseased.
A corporal bobbed his head through the flap.
‘Colonel’s comin’, sir.’
‘Thanks.’ Wyke waited for the man to leave. ‘Chin up, John – we’re going to need all our wits before long.’
He was still puzzling over it when Lieutenant-Colonel Blackwood entered the tent. He looked around with an indefinable air of finality, like someone saying goodbye.
‘Maxted all right, Christopher? Seemed a bit fed up, I thought.’
He seated himself in Maxted’s vacated chair and crossed his legs. Wyke always noticed how he tried to hold his back clear of anything rough or uneven. It must have been hell for him.
‘Nerves, I expect, Colonel.’
‘They’ve given me a motor car.’ It seemed to amuse him. ‘My M.O.A. is furious. He can do most things but driving isn’t one of them!’ He smiled, but there was a trace of something else in it, some unhappiness. ‘I’d like you to ride with me. Should be quite a pleasant drive.’
So that was it, Wyke thought. He didn’t want to go back to it; but he knew he couldn’t stay behind.
The corporal reappeared. ‘H.Q. platoon ready to move out, sir.’
Wyke stood up. ‘I’ll see them off, sir. We’ll meet up at Southampton. At least I’ll be arriving there in style!’
Jonathan heard the car pull up nearby, the sudden stamp of boots as the last of the battalion began to march out. An N.C.O. bawled, ‘Sling yer bund ’ooks! March at ease!’ and he tried to remember the man’s name. It seemed necessary, although he had served with plenty of officers who had never bothered to remember anybody.
She might have got his letter by now. He tried to recall each part of it, from the moment when she had found him sitting by the path. Their path. Smiling at him over the old stile. Friends . . .
What might she think? Most likely regret what she had told him, unwilling to become involved with someone she would never see again . . .
‘Oh, God!’ He thought of the Scotch Payne had packed, and suddenly needed it. What is the matter with me?
‘Is the colonel in there?’
He stood up, angry and ashamed. It was probably the driver.
He heard someone answer, ‘Yeh, mate, inside.’
A burly military policeman blocked the entrance. ‘Beg pardon, sir.
‘What is it, Corporal?’
‘Didn’t want to disturb you, sir, seein’ as you’re leavin’ soon . . .’
He waited. New orders? A despatch from headquarters?
The redcap answered awkwardly, ‘I didn’t think you’d allow it, sir, but there’s a young lady at the perimeter fence. Says she wants to see you.’ He added doubtfully, ‘I can easily get rid of ’er if you like.’
‘No, I’ll come at once.’ He walked out into the sunshine where Wyke was standing admiring the car and watching his gear being packed into it.
She was by the guard hut, her hand shading her eyes while the long chestnut hair ruffled in the warm breeze. The redcaps stared from their little hut but Wyke, with rather more sensitivity, took one look and then turned towards the car as if he were afraid of disturbing them.
She said, ‘An ambulance gave me a ride.’
‘But how will you get back? What will people think?’ Empty, meaningless questions. ‘You came all this way!’
‘I shall be all right. I’ll manage.’
He wanted to hold her, press his face into her hair, tell her everything. The next moment they were walking together, across the hard-packed earth which had been stripped of grass and pounded flat by many thousands of marching feet. She slipped her arm through his.
‘I couldn’t just let you go without seeing you. I got a train to Salisbury. There were lots of army ambulances there. I – I brought your letter with me.’ She looked up at him, her eyes very clear and bright. ‘It was a beautiful letter.’
‘It’s all true.’ He hesitated. ‘Alex . . . I’ve never met anyone like you before. Never wanted anybody the way I want you. Perhaps it’s as well we’re leaving when we are.’
He felt her fingers tighten on his arm as she said, ‘I saw some of your men marching along the road just now. They looked fine.’ She did not repeat what the ambulance driver had said to his stretcher-bearers. Poor sods. More bloody cannon fodder!
She said, ‘And I have never met a man like you. I was a fool to behave the way I did. And now we are being parted.’ She shivered but there were no tears. ‘Write to me when you can. I’ll write too.’
Another car was driving in past the guard hut. Officers: the first of the incoming battalion.
Jonathan turned her in his arms. ‘Don’t forget me, Alex.’
I must go. He had seen men break down at times like this, but he had never before known how easily it could happen. ‘Do something for me, will you?’ She nodded, her hair partly hiding her face. ‘Take that walk again. I’ll be with you, even if you can’t see me.’
He lowered his mouth to her cheek but she turned slightly, so that their lips brushed, and then sought one another’s.
She said in a small voice, ‘I haven’t had much practice, I’m afraid.’ Then she touched her cheek as he stepped away from her, and walked towards the waiting car.
Only after he had gone did she realise that the tears on her face were not her own, but his.
Thirteen
After all the urgency, the battalion’s arrival in Southampton was something of an anti-climax. Nobody seemed to know what to do with the marines, and out of desperation Jonathan Blackwood decided to contact the Royal Navy directly and without persisting in the accepted channels. As he later explained to Wyke and his second-in-command, Major Ralph Vaughan, the delays were caused by suspected enemy mine-laying in the Channel off Boulogne, the favoured crossing point for tro
ops to France. The naval operations officer had speculated that the Royal Marines would be sent on a longer but probably safer route to Le Havre.
Vaughan muttered, ‘Bloody bad organisation, that’s what it is.’ He was a burly, aggressive officer whose face had been badly battered in the boxing ring, where he had represented the Corps in many inter-service contests, and he was greatly respected for his qualities as a leader. The marines admired him, and were wary of his hot temper. He went on, ‘Didn’t do all that damned training to end up on the bottom of the Channel, what?’
The battalion, the Fifty-First as it was now officially titled, had settled in where it could: in the loading sheds of the docks, in empty railway waggons, even in makeshift tents, and queues formed throughout the days at the mobile kitchens where men consumed bully beef, sausages and baked beans by the hundredweight. They grumbled about the food, but not too much. Every man knew he was receiving a larger ration than any civilian could hope for.
While his officers tried to keep the marines occupied and out of trouble, Jonathan had attempted to discover the true situation on the Western Front. The news for public consumption was optimistic. A rising star in the French army, a general named Nivelle, had the solution to the bloody and costly stalemate. There was to be a further Big Push, in which all of the French army’s divisions on the Western Front would participate. The enemy’s front line would collapse, and the others would soon follow suit.
But after the promises at Gallipoli and a similar brand of optimism from the G.O.C. there, Jonathan was doubtful. He recalled, too, Loftus’s frankness concerning the Verdun mutinies.
As he went about his daily rounds and visited the navy over the water at Portsmouth, Alexandra Pitcairn had been much in his thoughts. He had written to her, very conscious of the strict censorship and the eyes that would read every word, and even dared to hope that he might be able to see her again before the Fifty-First was eventually ordered to France.
At the end of April he was surprised to receive a summons to Portsmouth, where he found Major-General Sir Herbert Loftus waiting at the commodore’s house in the dockyard.
They shook hands gravely. ‘Better meet here, I thought. If they saw me at Eastney or somewhere it would hardly take a genius to put two and two together.’ Loftus seemed on edge, his mind elsewhere. Then quite suddenly he said, ‘This is strictly confidential – secret, if you like.’ His blue eyes fixed coldly on Jonathan. ‘Later on, you can use your own discretion.’
He already knew; it was like an icy hand closing around his heart.
Loftus said directly, ‘I think you’ve anticipated me, Blackwood. The French attack has completely failed, and there is a real mutiny this time. Can’t say I blame them, but it leaves us right in the dung-heap. You will embark your people this evening. There will be escorts available – the C-in-C Home Fleet has promised that at least. I am informed that Sir Douglas Haig’s original plan to relieve the pressure on the French is to be executed, but remember, Blackwood: your battalion is to take a supporting role only, at least until my whole division can be properly deployed.’
With characteristic brevity he shook hands again. ‘Good luck, Blackwood. You have a fine lot of chaps – all turned out very well.’
Back at Southampton Jonathan found the two allotted troopships already warped alongside the terminal jetty, from which proud liners had sailed in peacetime to every quarter of the Empire. He skimmed quickly through his instructions before sending Wyke to gather all the senior officers, the company commanders, and one most unsoldierly captain named Alton, who although listed as being in charge of the Royal Marine Artillery detachment had up until a few months back been the manager of an arms factory. His appointment, like his commission, was temporary, and had been granted specifically so that he could supervise the howitzers he himself had helped to design, and which he would know better than any regular gunner.
Later, when the company commanders went to their men with the news of embarkation, Jonathan was aware of their raucous reception even in the cramped boat-train office which had become his personal H.Q., and where Harry Payne had set up his camp bed. There was wild cheering. They were leaving at last. That was all they knew; all their officers knew. What they really thought, he reflected, was anybody’s guess.
It all seemed to happen very quickly after that: like his departure from the camp at Salisbury, teeming with life one minute, deserted the next. Where they had walked together; where they had kissed. Wyke had never mentioned it, never asked questions, although he was probably as curious as all the others. The Colonel’s lady. Old Blackie’s bit of stuff.
Eventually he sat down to write the last letter. The tramp of boots had been swallowed up, and even the camp bed had been spirited away.
My very dear Alex . . .
He glanced around the empty office. At least this letter would escape censorship: a naval signals officer at the docks had promised to post it ‘ashore’, as he had put it.
He sat in silence, staring at her name. The rest of the page was as empty as the future. When all this had begun he had been a mere captain. With the Blackwood name and tradition of service, he had been a captain of promise. Now he was a lieutenant-colonel, brevet or not, with all the responsibility of the rank. He had more men under his personal command than in the whole of the mighty Reliant’s ship’s company. And why?
He heard Payne hovering outside the door in case he was wanted.
He had been selected because he was known, and not merely because he knew how to lead men to their deaths; how to die without making a fuss. He thought of Hawks Hill and what might become of it if the worst happened. His cousin Ralf Blackwood had been a major in the R.M.L.I. when he had last heard: he had been involved in several scandals, usually over gambling or women, but he had remained in the Corps, and had shown an unexpected courage while serving under David in the Boxer Rebellion.
He was sealing the short letter to Alex when Payne came in.
‘All your kit’s aboard, sir.’
It would be a strange twist of fate if, after all, Ralf were to be the last of the Blackwoods.
‘I’ll just drop this letter off.’
‘Wish I could deliver it meself, sir.’
Jonathan shot him a quick glance. You never really knew with Payne. It might have been an innocent comment about preferring to stay at home; or was there already speculation about his clumsy intentions towards her?
He took a last look round. Either way, it made no difference now.
Per Mare, Per Terram, he thought. After the sea, it was back to the land, and the next horizon.
The girl sat on the grassy bank of a tiny stream, her knees pulled up almost to her chin. Jack Swan, his face round and red like a polished apple, leaned against his little trap while the donkey munched grass unhurriedly by the side of the track. Alexandra Pitcairn had been watching the easy way the ex-marine had been cutting and shaping sticks. He had explained that there was a shortage of proper canes for the soldiers who were recovering from their leg-wounds. And in any case, he said, it was a nice day for it.
Swan puffed at his weathered pipe and watched the girl through the smoke. She made a fine picture, he thought, enough to turn the head of any squaddy. Her hair was tied back to the nape of her neck and he could see the tan on her throat and arms where the spring sunshine had made its mark.
‘You’ve had another letter from th’ Colonel, you say, Miss?’
She looked at him warmly. ‘Yes. I’m not certain of the date.’
He asked, ‘He all right, Miss?’
‘All right?’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure. He and his men seem to be in reserve, whatever that means.’
Swan grinned. ‘That means that the brass don’t know what to do with ’em. The army don’t understand us Royals. Never have.’
Us Royals. It was much as Harry Payne had told her. Once you were in the Corps you never really left it. She discovered that she had pushed off her shoes, and as the hot breeze fanned her legs s
he was pleased that she could speak to this man about the family. Probably the only one who understood. She slid her feet into the stream and yelped. After the warm air and dusty grass it was like ice, but she held her feet submerged. It made her feel vaguely sensuous, wanton.
Jonathan’s letters told her very little. He described picturesque villages in France, children marching beside the marines, waving and calling out to his men, who understood not a word. She had become accustomed to his handwriting, so that he seemed less of a stranger. But there was so much he had not told her, or could not.
Like the rumours of mutiny and harsh reprisals in the French army. It did not seem real, especially here in this quiet place. Even the big house was invisible from this part of the estate.
Swan looked up at the great copse and said wistfully, ‘When all the farms were doing well we thought we might clear that lot – plough it maybe. Can’t be sure of anything any more.’
Who did he mean by we, she wondered. The old general, or – she allowed her mind to explore it – Captain David Blackwood?
Swan was watching her, almost as if he knew what she was thinking. She asked, ‘When you were with David Blackwood in China, was that where he won his Victoria Cross?’
‘Bless you, no. He got that for a big battle in Africa, the capture of Benin. That was before we got sent after them Boxers.’
‘What was he like?’ She lowered her lashes to hide her interest.
‘A good officer, never drove the men too hard. But woe betide anyone who took his manner as weakness. Captain David’d come down on him like a ton of bricks!’
He looked up as a church bell rang far away in the village.
‘Time to move on, Miss. We’re so short-handed here I don’t know what we’ll do if they take any more off the land.’
He seemed to recall what he had been saying and gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Mind you, Captain David was a bit of a lad with the ladies. Took after his father, I shouldn’t wonder!’
The Horizon (1993) Page 22