by Carla Kelly
She wondered at his ability to sound so protective, when he was as much a prisoner as she. ‘Hush, my love,’ Polly said. ‘This is my fifth trip, Sergeant. That is all. I have only been in Vila Nova for eight or nine weeks, visiting my sister.’
‘And not your husband?’
She realised her mistake, and fought down panic. I am no actress, either, she thought. ‘Sergeant, surely that goes without saying. We were only married in June, and this war keeps getting in our way.’
To her relief, he seemed to find her statement funny and laughed. ‘Oh, you British!’ he exclaimed, his tone almost fond in a way that Polly found more repulsive than a curse. ‘What am I to do with you?’
‘What will you do with her?’ Colonel Junot asked, looked at Sister Maria Madelena.
The Sergeant glanced around almost carelessly, as though she was already someone in his distant past. He shrugged. ‘I will turn her over to my soldiers. They will make sure she is dead when they are done. You can watch. In fact, I will insist.’
Unable to help herself, Polly sobbed out loud. ‘Shh, shh, my love,’ the Colonel crooned, his hand gentle on her hair again. ‘I have no say in this, Sergeant, but I wish you would just kill her outright. If she must die—if she is a spy, you have your rights, I acknowledge—then kill her cleanly.’
The Sergeant smiled and squatted on the floor by Sister Maria. He lifted her head by the hair. ‘Do you hear that? This Englishman harbours a soft spot for guerillas like you.’
‘Viva Portugal,’ she murmured.
Her heart in her throat, Polly watched the Frenchman as he squatted there, engaged in thought. He rose then, and inclined his head towards them. ‘Very well, Colonel. Since you are so concerned, you kill her.’
Hugh made that same huffing sound that had escaped him on the barco when he was shot. He took an involuntary step back and Polly had to steady him as he threatened to topple them both.
‘Please, Colonel,’ Sister Maria whispered from the floor. ‘Please.’
Polly reached both arms around the Colonel and held him as close as she could, her hands splayed across his broad back. He buried his face in her hair, and she just held him.
The Sergeant came closer until Polly smelled all his dirt and perspiration. ‘In fact, Colonel, I insist. If you do not kill this spy, I will see that your little wife suffers the fate I originally intended for her, and you can watch that.’
‘I will do it,’ Hugh said immediately. ‘Certainly I will. Hand me a pistol.’
The Sergeant laughed as he gestured to one of his men. ‘Don’t you wish you had not come upriver today, Colonel?’
While the Sergeant took Hugh aside and handed him the pistol to load, Polly gathered up more courage from a hitherto unknown source. Ignoring the soldiers, she walked to the nun, knelt on the floor and wiped Sister Maria’s battered face with the altar cloth. She draped the cloth around the woman’s bare shoulders.
‘I never meant you to be involved,’ the nun whispered.
‘I wish you had not invited me upriver,’ Polly replied, dabbing carefully around the woman’s ears. ‘How could you put us in such danger?’
She hadn’t meant to be harsh, not with a woman about to die, but she could not help herself. I can repent later, Polly told herself resolutely, as she dabbed away. If there is a later.
‘I love my country more,’ Sister Maria said. She grasped Polly’s arm with fingers surprisingly strong. ‘Watch over João for me.’
Polly nodded, ashamed of herself. ‘We will treat him as our own son.’ She glanced at Colonel Junot, surprised at herself. He is not my husband, but that came out so naturally, she thought.
Sister Maria Madelena nodded, her face calm now. ‘Come closer,’ she whispered.
Polly crept closer on her knees, as though to arrange the woman’s hair.
‘I never was a nun. Hear me out! My brother is El Cuchillo, a guerilla of León. He said he would always watch out for me…’ Her voice trailed off and she looked up at the dead priest above them. ‘Perhaps one of his men is watching now. Be ready for anything.’
‘Don’t give me false hope,’ Polly whispered. ‘You have done enough.’
There was more she wanted to say, but she knew it would not make her feel any better. Then the moment was gone, when one of the soldiers grabbed her by both elbows and lifted her off the floor. She shrieked, unable to struggle.
‘Polly, my love, steady as you go,’ Hugh said, as the soldier pinioned her arms behind her back and led her away from Sister Maria Madelena, who crouched and clutched the altar cover, her face calm.
‘Madam Junot, you must not struggle so!’ the Sergeant admonished. ‘I am handing your husband a pistol now. You are my guarantee that he will not turn it on me.’ He shrugged elaborately. ‘Call me cautious. I have not lived from Jena and Austerlitz by being overly trusting. You understand?’
‘I understand,’ Polly replied, her voice soft. ‘I’m sorry, Hugh.’
His face pale, his eyes so serious, the Colonel looked at her for a long moment, as though willing her to understand that what was about to happen was not his choice. No matter—she knew that, and tried to communicate her emotions with a return gaze as compassionate as his own.
He squared his shoulders and took a deep breath. ‘I will do this my own way, Sergeant, and in my own time. Don’t interfere with me or my wife.’
He stood a moment in silence, head bowed, then walked to the altar, where Sister Maria Madelena knelt. He squatted beside her and carefully draped her hair over her shoulder, away from the back of her neck.
‘What is your name, my dear?’ he asked, his voice conversational.
‘Maria Ponce, from León,’ she replied in English, ‘although my family is originally from Portugal. Your wife will tell you of my brother.’
He squeezed her shoulder gently, stood up, and cocked the pistol. ‘God forgive me,’ he said.
‘He already has,’ Maria Ponce said.
Polly tried to look away, but the Sergeant put the blade of his sword against her neck and gently forced her to watch.
‘If there is any foolishness, Colonel,’ the Sergeant called, ‘I will violate your wife myself.’
‘I know that,’ Hugh said with a certain weary patience, as though he dealt with a child. ‘There will be no foolishness. You have my word as an officer and a gentleman, if that holds any merit with a soldier of La Belle France.’
‘It’s quaint, but I like it,’ the Sergeant said. ‘An officer, a gentleman, a murderer. Hurry up.’
Hugh pointed the pistol towards the nape of Maria Ponce’s neck, then lowered it. ‘No. Not this way,’ he said, speaking to the Sergeant. ‘I don’t want my wife to see this.’
‘Poor you,’ said the Sergeant, when he finished laughing.
‘I mean it,’ Hugh said. Polly watched as he seemed to stand taller. ‘Sergeant, do you have a wife?’
The Dragoon took the blade of his sword away from Polly’s neck. She held her breath. ‘I do. She is no concern of yours.’
‘What is her name?’ Hugh asked calmly, with all the force of his rank and age behind the question, to Polly’s ears. You are so audacious, she thought. You are trying to bend this man to your will and you have no power whatsoever.
‘Her name is Lalage,’ the Sergeant said, speaking as though addressed by a French officer, and not a British captive. Polly could hardly believe her ears.
‘Lalage is a beautiful name,’ Hugh said. ‘Madame Junot is my Lalage. She is my love and my life. Would you want your Lalage to witness what I must do here? I cannot imagine a loving husband would do such a thing in France.’
Polly reminded herself to breathe as the two men stared at each other. The Sergeant looked away first. He sheathed his sabre and took Polly by the arm, shoving her towards one of his Dragoons.
‘Take her outside. Sit with her on the steps.’
‘Merci, Sergeant,’ Hugh said. ‘I would ask all of you to leave. Let this be between me and Sister Mar
ia Madelena.’
‘I can’t do that!’ the Sergeant protested, but his voice had lost its edge.
‘You can, Sergeant,’ Hugh said. ‘If this woman kneeling before you is not dead when I come out of the church, you may shoot me next, after I have killed my own Lalage.’
Again the two men stared at each other. Again the Sergeant yielded. He gestured to his troopers, who followed him into the sun. Polly felt as though she stood on blocks of wood instead of her feet. With a look at Colonel Junot, one that tried to convey every emotion she was feeling, she forced herself into motion and left the chapel of São Jobim.
The sun was hot on her face. She welcomed the warmth, even as she shivered and knew she would never be warm again. The Sergeant sat her down on the top step, then pulled her up gently and took her down several more steps. He sat down beside her, not looking at her.
Polly steeled herself against the sound of the pistol, but when it went off, she still jumped and cried out. The Sergeant gripped her shoulder, but it was not the grip of a captor. He did not release her until she heard Hugh’s steps behind them.
He came towards them slowly, going down each step as though he weighed a thousand pounds. Polly knew if she lived to one hundred, she would never be able to entirely erase from her mind his expression. She couldn’t interpret it. She had thought to see revulsion at the terrible act he had been forced to perform. There was something thoughtful in his look, instead. If she hadn’t known it was impossible, she would have called it relief.
He sat down heavily beside her and gathered her close to him, his grip as tender as the Sergeant’s had been.
‘Where is the pistol?’ the Sergeant demanded.
Hugh shook his head and gestured behind him. ‘You can get it. I’m not going back in there.’ He looked across Polly at the Sergeant, wonder in his voice now. ‘I pointed the barrel right at the nape of her neck. Before I could fire, she grabbed the gun and killed herself.’ He began to weep.
It was Polly’s turn to gather him close, uttering sounds of comfort that had no language, as he sobbed into his hands. To her surprise, the Sergeant and the Dragoons left them there on the church steps as they went inside again.
‘Oh, Colonel,’ she whispered into his neck, at a total loss for words.
‘From now on, I am “Hugh, love” to you,’ he said, after a long moment. ‘Never forget it. Our lives depend on it, Polly, dear wife.’
They held hands and sat as close together as they could while the Dragoons finished up whatever business they had in the church. When they came out, the Sergeant gestured for them to stand up.
‘What do you intend to do with us, Sergeant, now that Sister Maria has done our dirty work?’ Hugh asked.
‘Dirty work it is, Colonel,’ the Sergeant said. ‘Do you know who the whore’s brother is?’
‘El Cuchillo,’ Polly said. ‘Sister Maria told me before she died.’
The Sergeant’s smile broadened. ‘Poor you, indeed, my Colonel! He is a guerilla leader of León, where we are heading.’ He sheathed his sword. ‘I have always been amazed how word gets around. El Cuchillo will probably assume you killed his sister. You might as well paint a bull’s-eye on your back.’
‘Perhaps you should just kill me now,’ Hugh said, pulling Polly closer.
The Sergeant laughed and shook his head. ‘And miss the fun? Never. They say he likes best to kill with a long needle through the eye.’
‘Well, into every life some rain must fall, I suppose,’ Hugh replied, with just a touch of amusement.
‘You’re a cool one,’ the Sergeant said.
‘No, I am not. Actually, let me suggest a very good reason why you should keep me and my wife alive.’
The Sergeant looked down on them from the step above, perfectly at ease again and in charge, looking for all the world like a cat with cornered mice. ‘Colonel, will you never cease to entertain me?’
‘Probably not,’ Hugh said, his tone equally affable. ‘In a word, Sergeant, money. This knowledge is for you alone. You have no idea how rich Madame Junot is.’
Chapter Twelve
‘So that is why you married her,’ the Sergeant said.
Polly flinched, which made Hugh’s heart sink even lower. Bastard! he thought. Damn the man. But this was no time to argue, so he merely shrugged. ‘Think what you will. I am speaking of money. Dinero, dinheiro, denaro, geld. Think of all the words for money you have learned as you have tramped through Europe! Imagine that in your pockets.’
He had no idea how this would play. If today was his unlucky day—so far, there was nothing to dispute the notion it could be the unluckiest day of his life—then he had just attempted to bribe one of the few incorruptible men in anyone’s army. He stood up, pulled Polly to her feet, and started walking away from the church. One step, two steps, another. The Sergeant did not stop him, but walked at his side. Was it possible even a battle-hardened veteran of Napoleon’s campaigns didn’t care so much for what had just happened? One could hope; Hugh did. But then,
‘A bribe? You want to bribe me, Colonel?’ the Sergeant asked, putting out his hand to stop them.
I found the only honest man in Napoleon’s army, Hugh thought with regret. Well, then, we have nothing to lose. ‘I suppose I do,’ he said frankly. ‘One doesn’t make Colonel without exercising some initiative. Not in the Royal Marines, at least.’
He knew how that sounded in English. In French, Hugh thought it had a certain Gallic panache. At least the Sergeant hadn’t motioned for one of his men to run him through with a sword.
In fact, the Sergeant was smiling—a little smile, to be sure, but a smile. After a long pause, the Sergeant even chuckled. In for a penny, Hugh thought. ‘It’s not for me, especially,’ he said. He turned to Polly and gave her a kiss on the temple and a little shake to get her attention. ‘And it’s not even just for my wife.’ He nudged Polly again. ‘Shall I tell him, darling?’
He looked her in the eyes and she gazed back through those spectacles that magnified her eyes a little. Follow me with this, he thought, trying to communicate through nothing more than a look, something he knew his parents, married years and years, had been quite good at. To his infinite relief, she inclined her head towards him as though the conversation was a delicate one.
‘It’s this, Sergeant: my wife is in the family way. I especially want her to survive this experience and at least give my estate an heir.’
To her credit, Polly didn’t even flinch. He knew she understood his French, because her lips came together in a firm line and she concentrated on her shoes.
‘If you can help us, it is worth a great deal to me, Sergeant,’ he concluded simply.
They were in the square now. Hugh concentrated all his attention on the Sergeant, even as his skin crawled at the sound of women and children screaming in some of the buildings. The Sergeant seemed almost reflective, as though he stood in a glade in southern France filled with carnations. My God, these are hard men, Hugh thought. He almost hated to interrupt the thought process of a man who obviously had the power to end his life in the next second, but time was passing.
‘I know you have a wife, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Do you and Lalage have children?’ Maybe it wasn’t such an unlucky day. While not appearing to stare, Hugh watched the Sergeant’s face, and at least thought he saw a slight thawing. He breathed more regularly when the Sergeant gestured with his hand towards a bench and spoke to Polly.
‘Madame Junot, let us sit here. You look done for.’
It was probably the understatement of the ages, considering what had just happened in the chapel. Polly nodded, her pale face tinged with pink now, as though she were shy about sharing her faux husband’s phony admission with a complete stranger, much less the enemy.
Hugh kissed Polly’s temple again and whispered in her ear as he sat her carefully down on the bench, ‘You’re a game goer, Brandon.’
In response, she burrowed in closer to him, shivering in the warmth of the afternoon sun. I
n a more familiar gesture, Hugh put his hand on her waist and pulled her as near as he could. She responded by resting her hand on his thigh. Bravo, Brandon, he thought, enjoying the act.
‘Can I get you some wine, madame?’ the Sergeant asked.
Polly nodded, and the Sergeant gestured to one of his men and made his request. The Corporal shook his head and indicated there was none. The Sergeant merely nodded philosophically. ‘We travel light, madame. Perhaps he can find something in this pathetic village.’
‘Water will do,’ she said.
The Sergeant was silent until the Corporal returned with water in an earthen jar. Polly tried to take it from him, but her hand shook so badly that Hugh took it instead and held the jar to her lips until she sipped. A frown on his face, the Sergeant observed her terror.
He spoke at last. ‘We have two sons on a farm near Angoulême. It is a small farm.’
Hugh nodded. ‘If you will see to my wife’s safety, I can promise you your wife will receive whatever sum you consider appropriate.’
The Sergeant nodded, and gazed across the small square of São Jobim, where his men were methodically going through the buildings. He rubbed his unshaven jaw, looking unconcerned as flames suddenly roared skywards from a home. It was just another day in Portugal.
‘Of course, I cannot promise anything until we—or she—is restored to Allied lines, but you can trust us to deliver what you wish, and where,’ Hugh added, keeping his voice soft, hoping not to distract from whatever the Sergeant might be thinking.
‘Because you are an officer and a gentleman?’ the Sergeant said suddenly, and his voice was harsh again.
‘No. Because I want to be a father,’ Hugh said. ‘You understand.’
The Sergeant stood up suddenly and slapped his worn gauntlets on his thigh. Hugh had always been a praying man, much to the amusement of his fellow Marines, and he prayed now, as the Frenchman weighed the offer on a scale of delicate balance.
Polly tipped it, to Hugh’s everlasting relief. ‘Sergeant, what are your son’s names? And who are you?’
The Sergeant looked down at her, and Hugh thought he saw pity in the man’s eyes, as brown as his own, and something more: a father’s love. ‘Emile and Antoine,’ he said. ‘I am Jean Baptiste Cadotte. Colonel, I will help you if I can.’