by Terry Deary
Daisy seemed to pick up her hooves and trotted happily when she knew she was near Hirson. The skies were cold and grey as zinc and there was the scent of snow in the air. When Madame Clare reached her home she seemed a different woman from the sulky one who had spent her money on warm clothes for Aimee and Marius. Her voice was shrill once more as she told her gardener the house wasn’t clean enough.
The old man was a gnome with a bent back and a face creased like linen. ‘Sorry, Madame, we’ve not had any ready water for the past week. The rope in the well snapped. The bucket’s down at the bottom. My wife’s had to walk a kilometre to the stream to fetch water for cooking.’
‘So mend the rope, stupid man.’
The gardener sighed. ‘I’m too old to go climbing down wells, Madame. Sorry, but if I went down I wouldn’t be able to get back up.’
‘Then it’s just as well I have a fit young boy with me.’ She turned to Marius. ‘You, boy. Go down the well and fetch the bucket to the top. And you, girl,’ she said to Aimee, ‘take a pail to the stream for some fresh water. We crossed it on the way up here.’
Since they’d left Attilly over a month ago, they were rested and well fed. Marius would soon be home and it seemed the war would be over before Christmas. They didn’t mind repaying Madame Clare with a little help before they left.
Marius went across to the well and found there were iron rungs hammered into the inside wall. Aimee hurried down to the bottom of the hill where a stream ran across the road. The men riding down the far bank looked at first like two soldiers as they wore heavy British greatcoats. One man was wearing a pair of gloves. The other needed only one glove. He didn’t need one on his hand of silver.
As soon as she saw them, Aimee dropped the bucket and sprinted back up the hill. The horsemen kicked their horses into a trot and followed. Aimee ran through the front gate, looking around wildly for Marius. Madame Clare came out of the front door and snapped, ‘Where’s the pail of water?’
‘Where’s Marius?’ Aimee demanded.
‘Getting the bucket out of the well,’ the woman said sourly.
‘Two men on horses... looking for us... don’t tell them where we are. Say we ran off into the woods,’ the girl panted before she raced to the back of the house. She ran across to the well and called down, ‘Marius? Hurry. Silver Hand is here.’
‘How near?’
Aimee could hear the clatter of the hooves on the front path. ‘Twenty seconds at the most.’
‘Then I can’t make it. Save yourself,’ Marius shouted back.
‘I’ve come this far,’ Aimee said. ‘I’m not leaving you now. She climbed on to the wall of the well and began to go down the iron rungs. ‘He’ll never find us in here,’ she said. ‘Once he’s ridden off we’ll get out and escape,’ she whispered. The whisper echoed around the stony walls of the well.
Silver Hand was sure he had his prey this time. ‘If they run we will hunt them down on our horses,’ he told Father Gaulle. ‘It really is over.’
The priest smiled and turned towards the woman at the front door. ‘Good day, Madame. We are looking for a runaway couple.’
Madame Clare said nothing but stared hard. Sergeant Grimm went on, ‘I believe you reported them back in Attilly, did you not?’
She gave a single nod.
‘So where are they now?’ the priest asked.
‘You were offering a thousand francs reward back then,’ Madame Clare said. ‘You didn’t pay.’
‘They got away,’ Silver Hand said. ‘But now the reward is double that.’
‘Show me the money.’
The sergeant reached inside his greatcoat and pulled out his pistol. He pointed it at Madame Clare. ‘What’s your life worth, Madame?’
She swayed and clutched at the door to steady herself. ‘The boy’s in the well.’
Silver Hand grinned. He turned to Father Gaulle. ‘Stay here with the horses, Benedict. Watch this woman.’
He climbed down from the saddle and walked quietly around the side of the house to the back garden. He stopped at the well, leaned over and listened. He could hear the whispering. ‘I know you are down there. I am going to count to five. You will come up or I will shoot you where you are.’
‘Then you won’t get the tank plans,’ Aimee called up. Silver Hand blinked with surprise. So the girl was down there too. Perfect. Two mice in one trap.
‘I will search the house till I find them. That woman won’t stop me.’
‘We’ve hidden them,’ Marius said.
‘Then we have a deal, my young friends. You come up and show me the plans. I will spare your lives.’
‘He’s lying,’ Aimee muttered to Marius.
‘I know. But it’s the only chance we have,’ the boy sighed.
Aimee shifted her hands on the rungs and pushed herself upwards. ‘We must stall him,’ she said. ‘Distract him and make a run for it. It’s only twenty metres to the garden fence, and then we’re in the woods.’
‘Let’s hope he’s a bad shot,’ Marius muttered and began to climb.
They were five metres from the top when Aimee froze. She heard the priest’s voice as he walked across the garden to the well. ‘Madame Clare showed me their backpack. There are no Whippet tank plans in it. They must have destroyed them.’
‘They say they’ve hidden them,’ Grimm said.
‘They haven’t had time, the woman says.’
As Aimee looked up she saw two heads appear and block out the light from the dismal, cloudy sky. ‘Then we may as well shoot them now,’ Sergeant Grimm said.
Aimee heard the safety catch on the pistol click and watched as the man pointed it down towards her. She closed her eyes.
There was a soft thumping sound, then a cry from the priest and another thump. Silence. She opened her eyes and looked up. The two faces were gone. In their place was a single head, shrouded in a black cloak. A hand reached down and as she climbed up it grasped hers and helped her out. Marius followed and they looked in wonder at the scene.
Silver Hand and Father Gaulle lay stretched out on the grass, crumpled and still. The stranger in the black cloak had a walking cane in his hand. It had a heavy silver handle and he was gripping the cane by the tip. He’d used the handle to club the men to the frosted earth.
The stranger reached up and pushed back his hood. Aimee looked at him and a slow smile spread across her face. ‘You are the last person I expected to see here,’ she said.
9 November 1918: Hirson
‘You followed us all this way?’ Aimee asked the man with the hooded cloak.
‘You mother asked me to,’ Master DuPont said. ‘I lost sight of you from time to time. But every village has a member of the White Lady in it somewhere. They were looking out for you and they always put me back on your trail. And the pilots from the Royal Air Force flew over every day and their observers dropped me notes whenever they saw you... they told me where both you and Grimm were. But I was almost too late getting here,’ he said.
Aimee threw her arms round her old teacher and hugged him. ‘I am so pleased to see you. You saved our lives.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ Marius added and shook Master DuPont’s hand. ‘Will you take Aimee home now?’
‘We have two fine horses at the front of the house. We can thank Father Gaulle for them.’
‘What shall we do about Grimm and the priest?’ Aimee asked. ‘Kill them?’
The old teacher shook his head. ‘We are none of us killers,’ he said. ‘We need a day’s start to get Marius across the border and get ourselves on the road home. No, we’ll tie them to the well and tell Madame Clare not to set them free for twenty-four hours.’
‘They’ll freeze,’ Marius said.
‘That would be a shame,’ Aimee said.
The groaning and groggy pair were tied securely with rope from the garden shed. Master DuPont led the way past the pale and frightened Madame Clare. ‘They are spies,’ he told her. ‘And if you set them free before tomorrow morning
you will go to prison for a very long time.’
They walked the horses back to Hirson where the old man led the way to the church and met with the White Lady contact there. Father Raoul, the priest, was wrinkled like an ancient apple but willing to help. ‘Yes, a brother called Father Gaulle told me to expect a German refugee coming to cross to the other side. What was his name again? Something to do with fairy tales, I seem to remember.’
‘Grimm?’ Master DuPont said. ‘You are due to help a German called Grimm to cross?’
‘That’s it. Grimm. See? I’m not losing my memory. I have a permit to take a dead German across to the other side so he can be buried in his home. All the paperwork is correct. So this young man is called Grimm, eh?’
‘Yes,’ Aimee said quickly.
‘Come back here at midnight,’ the priest said. ‘We’ll pop him into a coffin and four strong men will carry him over. Once he’s in the church on the other side they’ll set him free.’
‘Thank you, Father. We’ll be back at midnight,’ Aimee said.
They hurried into the town centre, hunched against the cruel wind. They walked through the crowds of British soldiers marching east. ‘We’re so close to the German army but there isn’t the usual roar of the guns,’ Aimee said.
‘No, there’s not much fight left in the Germans now,’ Master DuPont explained. ‘The harder they fight the more chance the Germans have of being killed in a British revenge attack. They’re keeping their heads down. They say there will be peace next week.’
They ate well in a tavern near the town, where Master DuPont decided to stay the night. As the town hall clock chimed midnight Aimee and Marius were walking up the path to the church, the wind whining through the gravestones.
The inside of the church was lit by two lanterns. In the gloom there stood a black coffin. The lid was open. Marius seemed to tremble a little as he peered into its dark red satin lining. The four coffin bearers and the priest stood in silence.
Aimee bit down on her lip. At last she trusted herself to speak. ‘We can go home now.’
‘I owe you my life, Aimee,’ Marius said.
‘You saved mine back in Attilly,’ she replied. ‘I guess that makes us even. Now get in the coffin or I’ll take Master DuPont’s cane and knock you out.’
‘You’d do that too,’ Marius said with a lantern-lit shadow of a smile. ‘After all, we are enemies.’
‘We are,’ Aimee said. ‘But you are a good enemy to have. You went to war and hurt no one. You saved a hundred lives with your medicines.’
‘And you hate me still?’
‘Of course. Until the war ends. I hate you Marius Furst,’ she tried to say but the last words were lost as she choked back tears. Suddenly she stepped forward and threw her arms round him. They held one another tight for a minute. The old priest gave a gentle cough. ‘We are expected on the other side, Master Grimm,’ he said gently. ‘Time to go. Time to say goodbye.’
‘Goodbye forever?’ Marius asked Aimee.
‘Forever is a long time. Who knows,’ she said and ran from the church.
11 November 1918: East of Hirson
Sergeant Grimm and Father Benedict Gaulle walked up to the general in charge of the front-line troops. Grimm was still raging that Father Raoul had told him he’d been carried across the night before. ‘There will be no more rescues now. Tomorrow the war will be over,’ the priest of Hirson explained.
‘By tomorrow the British military police could have arrested us,’ the sergeant said. ‘We’ll have to take a chance. Walk across.’
Father Gaulle nodded. ‘If peace is arriving soon, they won’t shoot a couple of priests. Put the robes on.’
The spies walked towards the front lines of the army. The British soldiers in a new trench were chatting, taking the lice from their uniforms, drinking tea and telling jokes.
‘You are taking a risk, gentlemen,’ the general said.
‘We’ve been sent forward to observe the truce,’ Silver Hand explained. ‘To see the Germans lay down their arms and surrender.’
‘I see,’ the general said. ‘No one told me you were coming.’
Grimm looked surprised. ‘Really? A message was sent yesterday. I guess with this sudden cease-fire everything is a little confused.’
‘It’s been chaos the past few days,’ the general agreed. He glanced at his wristwatch. ‘Ten a.m. now. Can’t you wait? The war ends at eleven.’
‘Yes, but we have to be there... on the German side... for then. So if you don’t mind, we’ll cross no man’s land now.’
The general’s jaw went slack. ‘Are you quite mad? They can still shoot you right up to the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. Armistice doesn’t start till then.’
Father Gaulle was getting restless. They’d spent the night before just five miles behind this front line and word was going around the soldiers’ camp. The military police were looking for two men. Traitors. A sergeant with a metal hand and a Catholic priest. If they found them the men would stand trial and hang. If they tried to escape, the police had the right to shoot them down. But no one was looking for two priests and Grimm had hidden his metal hand in a glove. It was urgent that they get across to the safety of their homeland as soon as possible.
‘You must have also missed the message which says the Germans have agreed not to shoot anyone who is showing a white flag.’ He picked up a stick and tied a grubby white handkerchief to the end. ‘This will do.’
The general shook his head. ‘Sounds odd to me. But if you have your orders I’ll have a look at them and let you take the risk.’
‘Orders?’ Gaulle said. ‘Do you have the orders, Father?’
Grimm joined in the play-acting. ‘I thought you had them. They’re in my pack, but that’s back at base camp, five miles away.’
‘Oh dear, if the good general here sends us all the way back there’ll be terrible trouble.’
A captain arrived with a thick pile of telegraph messages for the general. ‘Orders for the day, sir.’
The general rubbed his tired eyes. He waved a hand at Grimm and Gaulle. ‘Oh you’d better get away then. But I won’t be to blame if they welcome you with machine guns.’
Sergeant Grimm almost saluted. ‘Thank you, sir. When they see two priests they will not shoot. A sensible decision from you.’
He turned on his heel and marched to the steps that led up from the trench to the muddy patch of ground above.
The German trenches showed a line of sandbags. Sad soldiers looked over the top as Silver Hand and his friend waved their white flag and started to cross the half mile to safety. When they were over halfway across – a hundred yards from safety – Grimm called out in German, ‘Greetings, comrades. Hallo, kameraden.’
The sullen and sulking German soldiers watched in silence.
* * *
A mile behind the German trenches the gunners were in a different mood. A man with a small moustache stood on a gun carriage and shouted, ‘We didn’t lose this war. Traitors back in Germany threw it away. Traitors who starved the German people so they could make money from selling food. First we will destroy the traitors. Then we will build newer and better guns and ships, planes and tanks, make deadlier gases and make sure every German is fitter to fight.’
The gunners cheered. But one man spoke against the man with the moustache. ‘The British will be here in an hour. They’ll take our guns away from us.’
‘We’ll make more,’ someone argued and he was cheered too.
‘They’ll take our shells and turn them against us.’
‘Then let’s get rid of the shells. Let’s fire them all.’
‘If we hit the British trenches they’ll start firing back. We’ll all be killed. How stupid would that be?’
The man with the moustache waved a hand. ‘I didn’t say hit the trenches. Let the shells explode in no man’s land. It will be one last fireworks party. Who agrees?’
It seemed as if the whole troop of gunne
rs agreed. They ran laughing to their cannon and loaded them. When the man with the moustache waved his handkerchief they fired. The shells soared and landed in the muddy earth between the German and the British trenches. The British troops ducked out of sight and wondered at their enemy’s final burst of madness.
Sergeant Grimm and Father Benedict were smiling and waving when the shells began to land. They struggled to go forward and couldn’t go back.
When a shell explodes near a man he is not wounded. He is turned into vapour. He is scattered like a fine mist on a foggy November day.
One moment the men in the trenches were watching two priests struggle through the mud. The next there was nothing left of them.
They were gone, faster than the speed of life.
Nothing left? Almost nothing.
The hot steel of war had claimed its last victims before the silver hand of peace put an end to the cruelty.
Chapter Nine
‘The name of peace is sweet’
11 November 1923: Hirson
The November day was cold but fine as the soldiers marched through the streets of Hirson. They paused at the stone cross in the market square and stood in silence to remember the friends who had died in the Great War. It was five years since the peace but the memories were still strong and bitter.
After a service of prayers and hymns and a speech from the mayor, the people made their way home with their memories of the dark days.
Some headed for the Blue Boar tavern for lunch. The quiet crowd was disturbed when the door banged open and a farmer stood there, red-faced from the cold and eyes shining with excitement. ‘Landlord,’ he cried. ‘Tell me that story about the man with the silver hand.’
The man behind the bar poured a glass of wine and said, ‘Settle down, Charles.’
The farmer gulped the wine and spoke quickly. ‘Remember the story you told after the war. You said a man came in here – a British soldier with a Catholic priest. The soldier had a silver hand.’
‘I remember,’ the landlord nodded. The people in the bar were all listening now. ‘He showed us his hand. He said he was a hero – he had rescued an officer under heavy machine-gun fire, but lost his hand. The officer was so thankful he paid to have a new hand made. It was made from the officer’s family silver. It was solid metal and worth a fortune.’