The Walnut Tree

by Charles Todd

  The train stopped at every siding while troop trains thundered past. And the returning trains, laden with wounded, headed south to the hastily erected military hospitals for those who couldn’t be patched up in the field. Through the dusty windows I could see bloody bandages pressed against the glass, and I wondered how many of these men had raced north in the Paris taxis. If Alain or Henri or any of the men I’d met at the opera, a concert, even a dinner party, was aboard those trains. I tried to shut the thought out of my mind, focusing on finding the first available ship to Dover.

  It was a strange feeling, to be torn between two countries.

  It was not long before I could hear the big guns, thundering salvos that made the ground shake and soon had my head aching.

  And then Calais lay just ahead. The French port was filled with British soldiers, coming, going, waiting.

  There was a brief delay on our arrival, passengers asked to remain in their seats while an ambulance was brought to carry off a man taken ill during the journey. Stretcher bearers soon arrived; I could see them from my window. As they removed the passenger, the sheet covering him slipped a little. I recognized the kind man who had helped me with my valise. Even I could see that he had died.

  I must have gasped or something, because the man next to me said curtly in English, “Heart. Must have been.”

  I turned, wondering if perhaps he was a doctor. But he was dressed more like a shopkeeper. I’d seen a number of expatriate Englishmen at the gare in Paris hurrying home to enlist.

  When the ambulance had gone, I got down and out of habit glanced around, looking for a porter to take my valise, and then picked it up to carry it myself.

  It was difficult to find a taxi, and the streets were cluttered with people, either coming from the port or heading toward it. The journey took twice, three times as long to accomplish as it had when I’d come over from England. And then finally, I reached the harbor.

  Ships of every size and description lay at anchor disgorging men and equipment, others were steaming in or out of the port, heading across the Channel. Columns of troops were marching toward me, while orderlies were carrying wounded down to the quay to be taken aboard.

  I looked up and in the distance saw a tall man wearing an officer’s cap over his unruly red hair giving orders to a young lieutenant.

  “Rory?” I shouted and hurried after him. But he was gone before I could catch him up. Was it Rory? Cousin Kenneth’s eldest son and his heir? I stood there shaken. I wasn’t surprised to find him here, on his way to the fighting. But to see him marching off toward those guns, was entirely different. Wrenching—

  An officer came up to me. “Miss? You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I must take a ship to England. I want to go home. I was caught in Paris, you see, when war broke out.”

  “I doubt it’s possible. Every bit of space is given over to the wounded. I’d advise you to find an hotel, and wait there until something can be arranged.”

  And then he was gone.

  I am seldom at a loss about what to do next. But this was so far out of my ordinary world that I couldn’t think straight. And then I saw an hotel sign and went inside. It was going to be a long day, and my valise was growing heavier by the minute in my hands. I needed to find a room.

  But there was none to be had. The city was crammed with men, and those who were wounded but still ambulatory had taken every available space. I’d lost count of hotels by the time I walked into another one and saw two officers just settling their accounts. I rushed to the desk and bespoke the room before someone else could.

  One of the officers turned, looked down at me, and then exclaimed, “Good God! Lady Elspeth? What in the—what the devil are you doing in Calais?”

  It was Jeremy Martin-Ward, whose sister I’d stayed with in Surrey for a lovely weekend.

  “Jeremy? I’ve been caught in Paris all this time. I’m desperate to get back to England.”

  “Aren’t we all?” his companion said. “I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.”

  Jeremy ignored him, turning to the desk clerk, already bombarded with requests for the room he’d just relinquished. “Cette jeune femme est ma soeur. Give her my room.” Quicker than the eye could follow, a few sous were passed across the desk, and the clerk pocketed them without a trace of expression.

  “But, of course, mon capitaine. It is understood.”

  A very different world from the diffident politeness I’d experienced as a guest of the Villards in Paris. I made a note of how things were done now.

  Jeremy left, and a porter carried my valise up to the room. It was small and stuffy, and the sheets were suspect. I begged two fresh ones, and the porter promised to bring them up tout de suite. I had a few coins in my hand, and the exchange of clean sheets and sous went smoothly.

  These people were in the middle of a war, their future uncertain. Who could blame them for making the most of whatever opportunities came their way?

  I opened my valise to find a fresh handkerchief and blinked in surprise when I saw on top of my belongings a square of heavy brown paper done up with string.

  My first thought was that one of the servants at the Villard house had given me a parting gift. Touched, I undid the string, unwrapped the paper, and found myself staring at a painting of a Highland scene, three men in kilts standing in the foreground of a castle.

  It was very poorly done, this painting, and the pattern of the tartans was wrong. I couldn’t think of a single clan they represented. What’s more, the castle was more French than Scots. Pretty and romantic, not the rugged towers and keeps of Scotland.

  But then someone in the Villard household must have believed that this was a true representation and one that I would appreciate.

  I looked in the folds of the brown paper, but there was no card or letter. Well, that was easily enough remedied, I thought as I wrapped the painting again and retied the string. I’d ask Madeleine when next I wrote to find out who was to be thanked for my gift. I found my handkerchiefs, put everything back in the valise, and set it in the ancient armoire.

  Locking the door to my room, I set out on my quest to find a ship for Dover.

  A number of stretchers were laid on the road down to the harbor, and the men lying on them looked parched, their bandages black with flies and dried blood. Shocked, I went into the nearest café, found a jug of water, and brought it back. The owner could only give me a single tin cup, but it would have to do. I gave each man a little water, and when the stretcher bearers came to fetch them, moved on to others waiting their turn.

  “Why are they lying here like this?” I demanded of an orderly hurrying by.

  “The ambulances had to go back, Miss. They couldn’t stay. There was nothing else to do but unload the wounded. We’re that far behind getting them aboard.”

  A ship for England could wait. I went back into the café, bought two more jugs of water, and at a small shop next door, I purchased a leather satchel, the sort men used to carry their work tools. I made more trips to that café and others, and there never seemed to be enough water for all those wounded.

  Before the next convoy of ambulances went back again, I was ready. I found a tough Glaswegian sergeant driving one, and by the time I had finished talking to him, I’d earned a seat in his ambulance back to the sorting station where the wounded were collected. The drive was shocking, through shattered landscapes, broken buildings, pitted roads, that bore no resemblance to the villages that must once have stood here. Such waste, I thought. And where were the people? Long since become refugees on the long hard road to a precarious safety, the driver told me.

  We came to a temporary aid station. I thought I could smell the front lines beyond—sweat and blood and dirty bodies and fear. The bombardment was deafening, and through it, the sounds of rifle fire, machine guns, screams. Explosion after explosion rocked us, sending up great show
ers of earth in the distance where the fighting was fiercest.

  I had a rough idea where we were, having looked at that map in Henri’s study. Ypres was somewhere ahead. It lay in a shallow bowl, rising land on three sides, including Passchendaele Ridge. I had the sinking feeling that all was not going well, that the Germans were pushing hard and the British were barely holding on.

  I got out and began looking for wounded. Instead I found pockets of soldiers who had fallen back after days in the line, and I gave them all the water I had. They were so grateful, as if I’d given them something of great value.

  Moving on, I found the aid station in what had been a small village square. No one sent me away when I offered to help.

  Clouds came over the sun, bringing blessed relief from the late summer heat, and for a moment I sat down on an overturned stone that looked as if it had fallen from the cornice at the top of a house. Behind me orderlies and an overworked doctor did what they could for the wounded. I had never seen so much blood, and it sickened me to look at the wounds, terrible, destructive to bone and flesh and spirit. I had already helped where I could for hours, it seemed, running and fetching, doing what untrained hands could do. My pale cream traveling suit was dusty and stained with blood, filthy at the knees from kneeling.

  I thought to myself I’d never seen such courage as these men showed. I’d grown up on the tales of feuds and clan warfare, of The Bruce, who became king, and William Wallace, who had been killed by another king, of Bonnie Prince Charlie and Culloden Moor. Those had been rousing accounts of battles and bravery, faithlessness and daring deeds. This was different. This was blood and broken bodies and men who held on against incredible odds, and then collapsed in exhaustion. I turned away so no one could see me and I cried for their anguish. And then I stood up to ask again what I might do. I was sent to hold the hands of the dying. It was the most heartbreaking thing I’d ever done.

  Coming back to my cornice a little later, I could feel the weariness in my very bones. Lady Elspeth Douglas, who could dance all night and be fresh the next morning, who could play tennis all afternoon and then dine with friends or attend a musical evening with more dancing, found there were limits to her strength that she had not even dreamed of. It was shocking.

  A man came up to where I was sitting, angry words preceding him. “Young woman? What the hell are you doing here?”

  I turned, and his anger was arrested as he stared at me. “Lady Elspeth? My good God, what are you doing in France?”

  It was Peter Gilchrist, head of one of the larger septs or branches of his clan. I had known him as a child but hadn’t seen him in years. His face was streaked with black smoke and dried blood, not his own, surely. His uniform was ripped in several places, and even his boots were the worse for wear from clambering about over the rubble. I had never seen eyes so haunted and tired—except here, where it was a badge of honor.

  “We’re retreating. From Ypres. You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know. I wanted to bring water to the men. I hadn’t realized how far I’d come.” A ranging shell fell nearby, and Peter Gilchrist caught me by the arm and pulled me roughly behind a high wall, all that was left of a garden, the ground behind it chewed into mud and debris. I saw a single geranium blossom under my feet, its white petals bruised and torn. Like the men, I thought.

  Another ranging shell came over, this time raining debris and earth all over us, and I heard men screaming somewhere on the far side of the wall.

  “Come on, we’ve got to move,” Peter said, getting to his feet and dragging me up as well. “This way. The next one will catch us if we don’t.”

  He turned and shouted to one of his sergeants, and men raced back down what had been a road, now littered with everything from earth to a soldier’s shoe. Others had caught up the stretchers, and the doctor ran alongside, worry on his face as he tried to stop the bleeding of the man he was treating.

  I felt useless, helpless. But I could run, and I did, staying clear of the men fighting a ferocious rearguard action, staying clear of the stretcher bearers, taking care not to fall and make trouble for everyone.

  I don’t think I’ve run so far since my school days, playing sports in the afternoon.

  Out of breath, my throat so dry it hurt, I kept Peter in sight.

  And then we were out of range. But not before I’d seen that garden wall blown to bits not minutes after we’d left its shelter.

  We dropped where we were, to catch our breath. Peter saw to his men and then came to me. “You must get back,” he said urgently. “We could still be overrun, or shelled. And there have been no ambulances for the past two hours. What am I to do with you, Lady Elspeth?” There was despair in his voice.

  “I’ll be all right. If I didn’t have vapors when those shells came in, I won’t have them now. Just tell me where I can stay out of the way—or what I can do to help?”

  He looked around. Down the street from where we stood was a ruined church, one wall and a doorway still standing, the rest only a mountain of stone where the nave and sanctuary had been.

  “There. Stay in that space between the wall and the church door. It should be safe enough. But if you see us running, don’t wait for me. Just follow, fast as you can.”

  Someone had found the time to brew hot water over a tiny flame, and I still had my tin cup. The corporal, a young Highlander with hair as red as Cousin Kenneth’s own, came shyly up to me, offering me a little of his tea. I was going to refuse, and then I saw that he meant for me to have it, and I took it, drinking it gratefully.

  “Ye’re a Douglas,” the corporal said, no idea that I had a title before my name. “Any kin to Major Rory Douglas?”

  “A cousin,” I said. “Is he still alive? Is he all right?”

  “He’s well. Last time I saw. But he’s lost a brother.”

  My heart turned over. Not Bruce, who played the piano so beautifully and had a devil of merriment in his gray eyes.

  “I didna’ hear which one,” he went on before I could ask. “But I served under yon Major. He’s a verra’ fine officer. If I see him again, I’ll tell him a cousin was asking after him.”

  And then he was gone. They say a Scot will search the world for his kin, and this man—boy—had done just that, giving me comfort and telling me the news, as he would to his own cousin in London or Canada or Australia. I was touched.

  It was nearly dark when Peter came back to where I was sitting. The guns were silent now all along the Front, and I took it that the Germans were resting as well. But for what? Tomorrow’s attack?

  He leaned his dark head back against the stone arch of the church door, moved to a slightly more comfortable place, and sighed.

  I’d seen his care for his men, and in their turn, their respect for him, their trust in him. I’d seen his concern for his wounded, his awareness of everything happening around him. He’d found time for me, in the midst of a major withdrawal, and tired as he was, he still had hope. Hope that this was a temporary reversal of fortune, and that in due course, he’d soon be retaking lost territory. Most of all, I could see how the boy I’d known, a friend of Cousin Bruce’s, had grown into this man. There was something about him that I found myself liking more than I should.

  “Dear God, what a day. The French have turned the German Army back on us. It’s a holding action now, trying to keep them from breaking south here along the coast. They won’t retreat back into Belgium. They came to fight, and they will.”

  “But surely you’re outnumbered,” I said, remembering the taxis of Paris. They needed taxis here too—desperately. The British Army was scattered across the Empire, and the Expeditionary Force, although made up of tested men, couldn’t multiply itself overnight.

  “We are indeed outnumbered. We came to protect against a flanking movement as the main body of the German Army made for the Marne Valley. From what I hear, they came very close to taki
ng Paris.”

  I told him what I’d seen, a regiment in Renaults.

  He chuckled appreciatively. “That was a clever move, I must say. I wish we could expect rescue as easily. But as it is . . .” His voice trailed off. “I have no food to offer you. But you must be dreadfully hungry.”

  I thought of the night I’d gone out with Alain and eaten simple but delicious food at a café where the ordinary people of Paris went to dine. Where we wouldn’t be seen by anyone we knew and cause gossip.

  “I must admit I could do with a little cheese and a heel of one of those lovely crusty loaves.”

  “God, yes.” A silence fell. “I haven’t seen you since your father died. I’m sorry. I know how close you were.”

  “Were you at his funeral?” I hadn’t seen him. I’d been in a state of shock and hardly knew where I was.

  “I came in at the last minute. The train from London was late, and I had no chance to speak to you before the service. Afterward, you were in seclusion.”

  I’d given instructions that I didn’t want to see anyone. There had been so many mourners that I’d been overcome by their grief, and I’d needed time to face my own. “It was kind of you to come,” I managed to say, and then, to shut out the painful memories that were rushing in, I added, “And you? What has happened in your life, besides the war?”

  “I lost my father as well. But you must have heard that. I chose the Army, as he had done.”

  “Who’s minding the clan?”

  “My younger brother. The lame one. He’ll do better than I ever shall.”

  “I doubt that.”

  “No, seriously, there’s so much to be done. And I’m not there to do it.”

  “And you’ve never married?” He was five years my elder. I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear he’d taken a wife, if only to assure an heir. Heirs mattered in our families. I understood that very well.