When evening came, Charles Finley and his Aces were gulping beer in Blackwater’s Pig & Whistle. The seven men sat at a long wooden table in the dim hall, bellowing out a song.
We are the great cadets, as strong as an old oak tree,
I think everyone will agree.
Hello, how is your day? And now please be so good
As to get out of my way.
The Aces yelled the last line at the top of their lungs, finished their pints bottoms up and started banging them on the table demanding more beer. Hot young blood craved adventure, so one of the men, Frank, leaned swayingly towards the gang leader with the proposal to race to the town square for some festive fun.
“Charles, isn’t this the right time for mugging someone?” he asked, turning his head towards his accomplice. Suddenly his mouth snapped shut with surprise. “Hey, did anyone see Charles? Where has he gone?”
“He must have chased off after some skirt,” retorted another youth, who then gave out a boisterous laugh and yelled, “Hell, is someone going to bring more beer!”
At that hour Charles Finley was sitting in the darkest corner of the pub at a wooden table for four people and glaring at a stranger in a black gown and a hat.
“You mean you are the person that my parents have told me about?” asked Finley with a silly grin. “Their telegram said that you could help me. That you do magic.”
The stranger tilted his head sideways.
“It depends on what type of magic you require,” he said in a husky voice.
Charles slammed his open palm on the table, making a loud noise.
“But you are fast. You raced here against time. How much have my old people promised you?”
The man in black did not bother to answer. He just glared at Charles with great intent as if wishing to memorise every tiny detail of his face.
“Have you got a name, Sir?” he challenged him. “I don’t like dealing with people without names.”
“You can call me Fetch,” the man replied.
Finley burst out laughing.
“Good one, Mr Ghost,” he said. “Fine, I will tell you what type of a miracle I would like. I want money and I want glory. I want an appointment at the Royal Regiment of Artillery.”
The man in black kept glaring at the cadet.
“Yes,” he uttered at last.
Out of nowhere, Charles Finley felt shivers down his spine.
“But did my parents mention that at the Academy I am...err err... not really doing well, my marks are not...” he hesitated, but was soon cut short by the man who had called himself Fetch.
“Let’s go, I will walk you back,” there was a cold tinge in his voice as he got up from the chair. “We can talk on the way.”
No one knew how it happened that the discourteous bully Finley obeyed this man without a moment’s hesitation and followed him outside the pub without even a farewell to his associates. It seemed to him that someone was pulling him by a string and he was powerless.
Before long, the lights of Blackwater had been left far behind, and darkness enfolded them. The wind grew stronger and a wet fog emerging from a little brook coiled around their legs. Finley, following Fetch across the moors, started to feel apprehensive. He slowed down and quickly scanned the area, trying to locate a stick; he regretted not taking a pistol with him, but Academy rules didn’t allow it.
“Mr Fetch, you don’t need to walk me any further,” he stammered finally, trying to suppress a trembling in his voice. “And as regards the money...”
“Mr Finley,” a voice whispered right next to the youth’s ear causing the cadet to shudder, as Fetch wasn’t beside him, he was walking a few steps ahead. “Don’t worry about the price, don’t worry about anything.”
“Great,” Finley mumbled and stopped. “I am all yours then.”
The Fetch also stopped and turned around. He walked over to the cadet and extended both hands to say goodbye.
Charles took them into his own cheerfully and...
Charles’ worst childhood nightmare was an outing in the woods on a quiet summer day. While his Mama together with the governess and his younger sisters were laying out the picnic blanket and preparing snacks, Charles set off to explore the area. He sat down on the ground, rested his back against a large tree and dreamily watched the clouds float by. When he turned to one side and placed his hand on the ground for support, it touched something sickly warm and slimy. The shocked boy looked at his hand and started screaming. These were the rotten remains of a dead mole whose life had ended some time ago. Young Finley kept rubbing and washing his hands, but the sickly feeling just wouldn’t go away.
And now the same sensation was coming back to him. But the retching feeling was much more pronounced, as if he had thrust his head right in the middle of the mole’s decomposed body. Charles, overtaken by horror, wanted to tear himself away from the man but his hands were locked stiff as if in chains.
The Fetch pulled him closer, whispering “You are all ours now,” and parted Finley’s lips with a big wet kiss.
Sandhurst had changed overnight. Stillness – the dominant feature of the Academy’s yard yesterday – was replaced this early morning with gardeners, florists, horse handlers, sweepers and cleaners running around. After breakfast, the younger cadets also turned to work – some found their instruments and gathered for rehearsals, others made their way to Christ Church to offer assistance to the new chaplain, who had to deal with his first farewell banquet at the Academy. The freshers had to face the most unpleasant jobs – cleaning the stables and helping the cooks. But not a single cadet complained and there was a celebratory spirit in the air.
Having finished his breakfast, Edward O’Braitis went outside and took a deep breath. The air smelled of damp and rhododendrons. The lad stretched his limbs and, trying not to interfere with the orderlies and weaving his way around potted plants, trotted away along a gravel path. He had an exceptionally good sleep last night as his nerves had been successfully calmed by a book and linden tea with honey, and especially by William’s evening visit. William had brought a flask of good cognac and some brilliant news: the old Joffrey had softened up and the Queen Victoria Medal – the honour for the best cadet – would certainly go to him, Edward O’Braitis.
It was Edward’ last morning run and he picked the longest route, wishing to visit all the places that he had come to love in his three years of studies. He still had enough time until the trumpet announced the start of the celebration, so he wasn’t in a rush.
Today’s daily routine was different. Honoured guests were expected to arrive by midday. The celebration was scheduled to commence with the decoration of the best cadet and a short concert, and was to be followed by the announcement of job appointments in the Great Hall. Then there was a gala dinner and the Royal Air Force Farnborough Wing show. Farnborough and Sandhurst were separated by a few miles, albeit united by a friendly relationship. On numerous occasions the commanders of other Army forces had voiced their discontent about the Royal Military Academy’s best cadets requesting the company of the Air Force hotspurs, rather than calling on the reliable artillery, land forces or military engineers, but the commanders of the Air Corps would just quietly smile to themselves and encourage the squadron aces to put together a truly astounding programme, thus embellishing the farewell banquet.
That was the end of the celebrations. Having received their appointments, cadets had to report to their place of service as soon as possible, so by the end of the day, a file of hired horsedrawn carriages, filled with Academy graduates, would be leaving the yard and heading towards Blackwater or another nearby train station.
When Edward came back, he headed for the showers. In the doorway he bumped into Charles Finley, which made him furrow his eyebrows – he wasn’t ready to be put in low spirits so early in the morning.
Finley looked as if he had spent the whole night partying at Pig & Whistle: with dark circles under his eyes, a puffy face and drawn lips. He was obviously
hungover. Edward was waiting for a stupid remark but all of a sudden Finley beamed a big smile and put out his hand.
“Good morning, Edward!” he greeted. “Have you heard the rumours about you and the great Queen Victoria Medal?” he chirped as if he were talking to his best chum. “It’s a shame you couldn’t make it to the pub yesterday – you could have celebrated the medal with your friends and a few drinks. Although on the other hand, I feel as if there’s a 21-gun salute going off in my head.” He scrunched up his face and rubbed his forehead.
O’Braitis listened to Charles Finley’s sweet talk in bewilderment, not understanding what was going on. The Aces leader patted his shoulder and added:
“Keep going, brother. Don’t forget, we are your friends.” He winked to Edward and scurried away, a faint smell of flat beer, dental powder and God knows what else trailing behind him.
Closer to midday Sandhurst became packed with carriages transferring guests from various train stations. Soon everyone gathered in the square across from the Royal Military Academy and sat around the tables, while the cadet choir stood in formation on the staircase.
It was a sunny day with birds singing in the trees, and the guests, the Commander of the Royal Air Corps among them, were deep in lively conversation. Suddenly, the shrill sound of a trumpet announced the beginning of the farewell celebration, making everyone hush.
A moment later, the cadet choir entertained the guests by singing two beautiful songs about the homeland and love. Then Major Stan McDermott, Senior Curator of Studies, gave a welcoming speech. When he had finished, the grey-haired General Joseph Joffrey, chairman of the Examinations Committee, stepped forward and formally announced that the best cadet would now be decorated with the Queen Victoria Medal.
The General’s eyes swept the audience and he smiled.
“I invite...” – he made a deliberate pause – “...Cadet Edward O’Braitis to collect his well-earned prize!”
When the official part was over, Edward felt he was floating in the clouds, proudly showing off the Queen Victoria Medal sparkling on his chest, and gleefully accepting the congratulatory words of his friends, whose ranks had now significantly increased. Charles Finley was among the first to shake his hand. A few of his associates, even though somewhat unwillingly, followed suit. Edward’ friend William, who was walking beside him, was about to question him, but the best cadet of the Royal Military Academy O’Braitis waved off the enquiry. He had no idea what was going on, but had no desire to investigate it.
Now cadets filed into the Great Hall locked in heated discussion and speculation regarding their service appointments. The Royal Military Academy supplied officers to the whole of the British Army and Air Force, although not the Royal Navy. In three years of studies the staff would assess the students’ skills and talents and would match these with the academic subjects and practical training. Therefore, most cadets had a fairly clear idea whether they would eventually end up in either of the Land Forces, the Royal Engineers Fleet, the Royal Artillery or the Royal Air Force. Nevertheless, only a few lucky ones, those with good connections or influential parents, knew exactly where they were going. The purchasing of military ranks and positions had been banned but the habit of a few hundred years was tenacious and not so easy to root out.
At the Academy the leader of the rascals Charles Finley was considered to be the biggest slacker of all, but his parents had money and connections. While Edward O’Braitis, whose dream was the Royal Air Force, was the best Academy’s student with neither of these assets. The cadets couldn’t wait to find out what life had in store for both of these youths.
“Cadets, stand! Attention!” the voice of the lieutenant instructor resonated in the Great Hall, making one hundred and twenty seven cadets, who had been sitting on chairs, jump up, become statue still and pay their respects to the leaders, teachers and other guests of the Academy, who were entering the Hall at that moment, for the last time.
Following a short pause, which gave time for the cadets to sit back on their chairs and those who had just entered to make themselves comfortable, Major McDermott stepped forward, took one of the folders from the desk, opened it and announced in a crisp voice:
“I call cadet Edward O’Braitis.”
Edward got up and saluted.
“Cadet Edward O’Braitis, Sir,” he reported.
“Cadet, you have applies for service in the Royal Air Force?” McDermott asked.
“I certainly did, Sir.”
Major McDermott hesitated for a while. The hall went dead quiet.
“Very well, cadet,” responded Major. “Your request has been granted. You are being appointed to the position of an adjutant on the corvette-type dirigible The Star of St George. Its mission: the protection and maintenance of public order in the Alliance City of Vilnius. Your leave has been cancelled. You are to report to Farnborough airfield by tomorrow lunchtime. Any questions, cadet?”
Edward only gasped and shook his head, gave a salute and collapsed in his chair. He fought back a strong urge to take his head in his hands. He had been expecting a position in Britain or, even better, in some hot spot of the world but now he was being put in some hole to guard a Britain-friendly Alliance city. What was even worse, it was in the country that his parents had once fled. Some hapless good-for-nothing with nothing to recommend him was maybe worthy of such a fate, but not the best student of the Academy with the Queen Victoria Medal on his chest.
General Joffrey nodded his head almost imperceptibly and gave a half smile.
Edward sat aiming a sullen stare fixedly at the floor, while other cadets whose academic performance had been much inferior to his were reaping much superior jobs.
“I call cadet Charles Finley Junior,” Major McDermott announced.
Shaking his thoughts off, O’Braitis looked up. He noticed his fellow students go very quiet.
Everyone knew that Finley had been dreaming about the regiments of the Royal Cavalry. The lords at the top of it gave much more weight to the cadets’ origin and money than tactical skills. Hence the Cavalry was the ambition of all aristocratic offspring.
“Cadet Charles Finley Junior,” reported the rascal leader. Since the morning his appearance has improved, but the circles under his eyes were still dark and his eyes were bleary.
Major McDermott thrust his nose into the file and furrowed his eyebrows. He scanned the papers several times, as if trying to convince himself that he really had correctly understood what was in them, and then lifted his eyes and looked Finley, standing at attention, up and down.
“Cadet, you have applied for service in the Royal Air Force?”
“I certainly did, Sir.”
A wave of whispers rolled across the hall, “But wait a minute, what about the Cavalry?”
“Cadet, your request...” McDermott cast a glance at the paper again, “ ... has been granted. You are being appointed to a position of the second adjutant on corvette-type dirigible The Star of St George. Its mission: the protection and maintenance of public order in the Alliance City of Vilnius. Your leave has been cancelled. You are to report to Farnborough airfield by tomorrow lunchtime. Any questions, cadet?”
“No, Sir,” replied Finley in a happy voice, then saluted and sat down.
McDermott frowned as if still finding it hard to believe what he had just read, then hesitantly picked up another folder.
As soon as the graduates – the newly appointed servicemen – and their belongings left the Academy yard, the men pulled out the fragrant cigars they had been saving for this special occasion, and smoked them, their eyes blinking slowly with delight. This type of pleasure was strictly prohibited in Sandhurst. The only place where cadets puffed on their cigars without risking being caught was the Devil’s Pound Grotto on the outskirts of Sandhurst. Supervisors were not frequent visitors to those parts, and even if they did wander as far as the Grotto, cadets had enough time to pull out their textbooks and pretend to be reading.
Just like that, fol
lowing the graduation ceremony, two second-year students showed up at one of the grottos to have a few smokes and share the news of the day. Many were surprised by Edward O’Braitis’ ill fate, but the thing that surprised everyone most was Charles Finley’s appointment to the Air Force, and especially the fact that he had been sent to the same dirigible where O’Braitis was to serve.
Had these second year students gone as far as the deep end of the grotto and for some reason decided to scatter the carefully piled up rocks, they would have been in for a shock, for the rocks hid a corpse. But even if they had found the body, they would have hardly recognised it as the remains of cadet Charles Finley Junior.
Chapter VI
Someplace near Trakai
20 04 1905
A man lay on the ground, a pool of blood slowly spreading out around his head.
“Slimy louse! He’s knocked himself out.”
Stepas Rickus regarded the rather large rock that was lying beside the poor soul, spat and hitched up his trousers. He did not wear a belt, and the trousers that Rickus had appropriated from one unfortunate merchant and then decorated with metal skull-shaped brooches were way too large for him. He had to pull them up constantly to prevent them from slipping off.
“He’s knocked himself out,” confirmed Zaremba, who was kneeling down with his ear against the prone man’s chest, before getting up and rubbing his soiled knees. Preceding his addiction to opium, this man had worked as a paramedic in Kaunas, and it paved the way for his current important position as the Rickus gang medic. “He’s knocked himself dead.”
“Ahh you serpent, serpent,” mumbled Rickus. “Didn’t I make it clear: one, two, three, then pull the rope and the wind-catcher folds out. Why on earth did this tramp hesitate?”
The dead body was now surrounded by other gang members. Some of them were limping as a result of the rough landing.
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