Both the half doors on Caesar’s stall were closed. Filled with apprehension as to what he might find, Lancer pulled the top door open. He had to jump to one side as the head of the huge stallion, pleased that his stall had been opened, came out fast. Caesar showed his appreciation by swinging his head in a circular motion while blowing and spluttering through extended lips.
There was nothing wrong with the stallion: it was in excellent condition. For a moment bewildered by this, Lancer then grasped the situation. Edelcantz had tricked him into coming to the stables. But for what reason?
Head down, pondering on this, Lancer turned on his heel. Determined to return to the house and demand an explanation, he raised his head and his whole body was electrified by shock. Some ten yards from him stood five soldiers spread out in an arc, each of them holding a Brown Bess musket at hip level, all of the weapons aimed at him.
Ten
‘YOU MUST COME and stay with me now, Ruth,’ Arabella said firmly, as they left the cemetery after the burial of Josephine Heelan.
Ruth’s mother had died on the stroke of midnight three nights earlier. The time of her death struck Arabella as being significant, though she could not comprehend why. Often in the past strange happenings had importance for her but she had never been able to fathom out what message they held. She had been tempted to ask the Reverend Worther for advice, but something had warned her against such a move.
At that moment she had to concentrate on the known, not the unknown. What she was certain of was that she wasn’t going to leave the grief-stricken Ruth alone in the empty house. Though the crippled girl could make no contribution, being as destitute as she was, Arabella kept telling herself that they would somehow manage.
‘Are you sure that I won’t be a nuisance to you, Arabella?’ Ruth questioned falteringly.
‘Don’t be silly,’ Arabella protested. ‘You are more than welcome. I will be glad of the company; you can stay as long as you like. The longer the better as far as I am concerned.’
‘You are a good friend, Bella,’ Ruth stammered gratefully, struggling to hold back tears as they walked through empty streets. ‘Would you like me to carry Thelma for a while?’
‘Thanks, but I can manage,’ Arabella answered with a white lie as she moved her baby from one arm to the other to ease the strain.
When they entered the house Ruth collapsed into a chair and sobbed incessantly. Unable to think of any way to comfort her, Arabella settled the baby in her cot and listlessly searched bare shelves for something that might possibly be conjured up to make at least a semblance of a meal. It was a hopeless task that depressed her so that she was reduced to tears that streamed down her cheeks as she cried for Josephine Heelan, her own mother, the sorrowful past and the doomed to failure future.
One solitary, hollow echoing sob burst from her. An immense effort enabled her to stifle further sobbing but only momentarily. Then the wretchedness of it all returned in full force and she collapsed across the table, her body convulsing with each gulping wail.
Though his surroundings were limited to the three walls of a guardhouse cell and a door with a small barred window, Lancer knew where he was. Three days ago he had recognized the town of Aldershot as the army carriage in which he sat between his escort had passed through. A short while later when crossing heathland he had looked out with interest at the almost completed construction of an army base on his right. While still serving in the army he had heard of a planned garrison for this area. His escort didn’t share his keen interest. The two burly, surly soldiers took no notice of the scenery. Neither of them had uttered one word to him on the long journey.
Lancer was plagued by memories of the circumstances of his arrest at Adamslee House. There was no possibility that the army had traced him to Adamslee. Somebody had informed the military that he was in Devon. Sarai was the only person he had told about his past. It was significant that neither Sarai nor Emil Edelcantz were to be seen when the armed soldiers who had been waiting outside of the stables had moved in on him. Skirting the house, weapons held at the ready, the soldiers had taken him to where several military carriages were concealed among trees at the rear of the building. When he had been roughly shoved into a carriage and was moving out, the clip clop of the horses’ hoofs had brought Sarai to an upstairs window from where she had peered down at him while clutching a curtain in the hope it had hidden her.
Annoying his escort by moving to ensure that she was aware that he had seen her, Lancer hoped that he had shamed her. The fact that she had betrayed him had caused his past three nights in the cell to be sleepless. Sarai’s reason for doing so had doubtless been to save her marriage. It appalled him that she had been willing to sacrifice his life to rescue her unsatisfactory and unholy state of matrimony to Edelcantz. That knowledge had caused him much pain from the moment he been taken from Adamslee under armed guard. Nonetheless, it was impossible to share the earth-shattering passion that they had known and ever again be completely separated. Consequently, he still held deep feelings for her, although with a future that would last only until the court martial sentence was pronounced, yearning for Sarai was meaningless.
He had decided that on the eve of his death he would pen a letter to her. Common sense made it evident that her betrayal meant that she was a worthless person who did not deserve one kind thought; he was willing to concede that while in a state of despondency she had been influenced by Emil Edelcantz.
He was lying on his cot composing the letter to Sarai in his mind when the cell door was unlocked and a young second lieutenant stepped in. The door was closed behind him and locked from the outside. Handsome in an aristocratic way, the officer’s diffident manner had him stand uncomfortable and speechless.
Moving in the hope of breaking the silence, Lancer got to his feet. His ploy worked. The officer extended his right hand saying, ‘I am Second Lt Hugh Driscoll, your defence counsel, sir.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Lieutenant,’ Lancer said as they shook hands. ‘But the sir is unnecessary as I no longer hold a rank.’
‘Having been passed your record, I use your rank out of respect for an experienced and courageous officer. I am a lowly second lieutenant who has yet to fire a shot in anger or for any other reason.’
‘You are young and have plenty of time to gain experience,’ Lancer consoled him. ‘I don’t doubt that you will gain promotion quickly.’
A rueful Driscoll nodded agreement as he spoke ashamedly. ‘I will. That is beyond a doubt, sir. You see, I am the only son of Brigadier Arbuckle, sir. You can imagine how I feel in the presence of someone such as you who has come up through the ranks.’
‘I have to admit that I would have preferred to have done it your way, given half a chance, Lieutenant.’
‘It is impossible to see you as a privileged brat, sir.’
‘Believe me, you show no sign of being that yourself … can I call you Hugh?’
‘I would regard that as a compliment,’ Driscoll said, smiling for the first time since his arrival. ‘My second confession is that I have had no legal training whatsoever, sir.’
‘The kind of court martial that I face is fairly new to the British Army, and I suspect that no one from the trial judge advocate will know what he is doing. None of this is of any consequence, Hugh. There will only be one verdict.’
‘I don’t like to think that way, sir. Though I fully realize my limitations, I intend to prepare the best defence that I can for you.’
Lancer shrugged. ‘I really appreciate your kindness, but do yourself a favour by accepting that the outcome of my trial is a foregone conclusion.’
‘I am determined to do everything possible to defend you, sir.’
‘You do as you wish, Hugh, but I fear it will be wasted effort.’
Desperation forced Arabella to climb the hill to Adamslee House that afternoon. There were only a few scraps of food in the cupboard at home, and Mr Clinton, her landlord would be calling in the morning. She had no money to p
ay him that week’s rent, and she already owed five weeks. Faced with the situation there was no alternative but to summon up enough courage to ask Sarai Edelcantz for financial help.
By the time Arabella reached the door of the big house her despair was rapidly increasing while her courage was waning equally as fast. She was about to turn and run away when the maid she had met on her first visit opened the door.
‘Are you here to see the mistress?’ the maid asked absently, seemingly preoccupied with some major problem.
‘Yes.’
Making a listless one-handed signal for Arabella to enter, the maid led the way along the passageway towards Sarai’s office.
‘Is the master here?’ Arabella enquired, prepared to flee if Emil Edelcantz was present.
Neither speaking nor turning to look at Arabella, the maid gave a negative shake of her head. On reaching the office door, she turned the handle to open it a little. Then she hurried away.
Lost for a moment as to what she should do, Arabella took a deep breath, pushed the door open, and walked into the office. There was a strong aroma that she couldn’t identify. Sarai was standing looking out of the window with her back to Arabella. She didn’t turn, which was nothing new for Sarai, who always displayed a lack of tact where greeting people was concerned.
Arabella coughed, but Sarai either didn’t hear or didn’t care. She cleared her throat again. This time Sarai turned, slowly. She pointed a wagging finger vaguely in Arabella’s direction, her speech slurred as she said her name over and over again. ‘Bella, Bella, Bella….’
Running her well-rehearsed plea through her head once more Arabella was about to speak when Sarai took one clumsy step. Faltering, she lurched back against a wall, from which she bounced to collide with a small bureau. The bureau toppled sideways and a stumbling Sarai caught her legs against it and fell heavily to the floor.
Panicking, Arabella moved hesitantly towards the fallen woman, wanting to help but not knowing how to. Coming close to Sarai she could hear her making tiny whimpering sounds. Then she retched loudly; and Arabella had to turn away as the prone woman vomited explosively, splattering the floor and Arabella’s shoes.
The stench was awful, and Arabella quickly linked it with the odour she had noticed when first entering the room. It was alcohol. Sarai Edelcantz was hopelessly, helplessly drunk. Now she understood the maid’s attitude. Disgusted by her first experience of such an inebriated person, Arabella fled from the room as another eruption of vomit splashed noisily on to the polished wood floor.
The court martial of Lancer was convened at 10 a.m. in a newly constructed wooden hut. Due to the unfinished state of the base, the whole set-up had a makeshift appearance that devalued the line of grim-faced officers of the court martial board sitting on each side of Captain Bluett, the trial judge advocate. That this court was an experimental one was evident by the civilian lawyer who sat in isolation from the uniformed figures, ready to advise should any legal difficulties arise.
Carrying a file of documents, Second Lieutenant Hugh Driscoll hurried into the hut to sit beside Lancer. Placing his file on the table in front of him, he leaned close to Lancer to inform him, ‘I have made some substantive progress, sir.’
Grateful to the young officer for his diligence, Lancer tried to look pleased as he gave a neutral and unenthusiastic answer. ‘Thank you, Hugh.’
‘In all modesty I think, I pray, that I may well be able to prove you wrong as to your prospects, sir,’ Driscoll responded, but then fell silent as counsel for the prosecution stood to relate the facts against the accused.
He was a lieutenant who spoke with a confidence and skill that strongly suggested that he was a either a lawyer or a blustering egotist. He gave an account of the night of Lancer’s alleged offence in stark and vivid detail.
‘Are you calling witnesses for the prosecution, Lieutenant?’ the judge enquired, when the prosecutor had put his case.
‘All who could have testified to this court to the events of that night are dead, sir,’ the lieutenant replied. ‘But their deaths bear silent witness to the fact that the accused deserted his post that night.’
‘Witnesses for the defence, Lt Driscoll?’ the judge invited.
Rising to his feet, Driscoll surprised Lancer by answering, ‘I will be calling two witnesses, sir. The first is an officier supérieur of the Armée de Terre, Commandant Jacques-Pierre de Breteuil who was in command of the French unit involved on the night in question.’
Lancer’s estimation of Lt Hugh Driscoll soared sky-high as the smart French Army officer took up his position as a witness. He stood to attention, the tunic bearing three rows of medal ribbons, the sleeves emblazoned with the mainly gold insignia of the artillery.
‘I am conversant with Armée de Terre insignia, Commandant de Breteuil,’ the judge began, ‘but for the record I must ask if on this particular night you were in command of a compagnie, an escadron, or a batterie?’
‘My command was a batterie,’ de Breteuil replied with barely a trace of a French accent to confirm that he had been in command of an artillery unit.
This led to a series of questions skilfully posed by Hugh Driscoll during which the Frenchman revealed that, due to a breakdown in communications between the French and British Armies at midnight on that fateful New Year’s Eve, his batterie had opened up on enemy positions without being aware that Captain Lancer and his men were occupying a forward post close to enemy lines.
‘Did you make contact with Captain Lancer later that night?’ Driscoll enquired.
‘Personal contact, no, but it was brought to my attention that a patrol of our compagnie, that is infantry soldiers, had brought Captain Lancer back to our lines. He had been injured and was unconscious. The patrol explained that every one of Captain Lancer’s men had been killed.’
‘By a cannonade from your batterie?’ Driscoll half-asked half-assumed.
‘Very much to my regret, I have to say that is correct.’
The prosecutor came quickly to his feet to enquire, ‘It is correct that quite a number of Captain Lancer’s men died that night, Commandant?’
‘I do not have the exact figures.’
‘But Captain Lancer was the only survivor?’
‘That is correct.’
‘Something of miracle,’ the prosecutor commented wryly to himself, yet loud enough for the court martial board to hear, as he looked down at the papers in front of him.
The civilian lawyer spoke quietly to the judge, who nodded in agreement before addressing the prosecutor. ‘Confine yourself to evidence, Lieutenant.’
‘I would call my second witness now, sir,’ Driscoll said, when the hostile few moments came to an end. ‘Sergent Henri Allègre of the Armée de Terre.’
The sergeant, who had the tough look of a battle-hardened veteran, answered through an interpreter.
Driscoll said, ‘You led the platoon that found Captain Lancer in the wake of the cannonade, sergent. I understand that he was unconscious?’
‘That is right.’
‘Roughly what distance would you say separated Captain Lancer from his men at this time?’
When this question was translated for him, for some reason it bewildered the sergeant. Studying him worriedly for some minutes, Commandant de Breteuil then got to his feet to address the judge. ‘Permission to answer for Sergent Allègre, sir?’
Before replying, Captain Bluett looked to the civilian adviser, who assented with a nod. Captain Bluett then signalled for Commandant de Breteuil to go ahead.
‘I submitted Sergent Allègre’s report with the file that I forwarded when the sergent and I were first summoned as witnesses,’ the French commandant stated.
Captain Bluett turned to the lieutenant who was the assistant trial judge advocate, to ask, ‘Do you hold a report by Sergent Allègre, Lt Marston?’
‘I am not aware of …’ the lieutenant mused, as he reached for a file that he leafed through. ‘No, sir, there is no such report in the file lodg
ed by Commandant de Breteuil.’
With a frown creasing his brow, the judge apologized to the French officer. ‘I am sorry about this, Commandant de Breteuil. As you no doubt realize, our legal system here at Aldershot is in its infancy and the administration section leaves much to be desired.’
‘I understand, sir,’ de Breteuil said.
Hugh Driscoll rose from his seat. ‘In my opinion it would be unfair to the accused to proceed without this document.’
‘I agree,’ the judge said, although at the same time censuring the junior officer for his effrontery with a hard stare. ‘How long would you estimate it will take to get a copy of the sergeant’s statement to this court, Commandant de Breteuil?’
‘No longer than two full days, sir.’
‘Then we will now adjourn and, provisionally, reconvene on Thursday at ten o’clock,’ he pronounced.
Speaking quickly as he saw Lancer’s escort approaching, Driscoll commented on the missing witness statement. ‘The outlook is brighter, sir.’
‘That may be so,’ Lancer conceded before adding a reservation. ‘Everything depends on what Sergent Allègre has said in his statement, Hugh.’
‘Is there any hope of getting you to look on the bright side, sir?’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Hugh,’ Lancer warned with a grin. ‘If I get off you might end up under my command.’
‘If you don’t get off I may ask Daddy to secure your command for me?’ Driscoll quipped.
They were both still chuckling when Lancer’s escort led him away to his cell.
Thunderclouds had been gathering from the west all that dark day, and there had been a constant deep grumbling beyond the horizon. The pain of Sarai’s now ever-present headache had been exacerbated by pressure from the heavy, warm air. A blazing quarrel with Emil late that evening had turned the ache into agony. Tearfully escaping to her room, she had been unable to sleep and became agitated. Disagreements between them, teetering on the brink of violence, were far from rare now, but there was something different about the altercation tonight; something ominous.
The Toll of the Sea Page 17