The Horizon (1993) (29 page)

With characteristic brevity he shook hands again. ‘Good luck, Blackwood. You have a fine lot of chaps – all turned out very well.’

Back at Southampton Jonathan found the two allotted troopships already warped alongside the terminal jetty, from which proud liners had sailed in peacetime to every quarter of the Empire. He skimmed quickly through his
instructions before sending Wyke to gather all the senior officers, the company commanders, and one most unsoldierly captain named Alton, who although listed as being in charge of the Royal Marine Artillery detachment had up until a few months back been the manager of an arms factory. His appointment, like his commission, was temporary, and had been granted specifically so that he could supervise the howitzers he himself had helped to design, and which he would know better than any regular gunner.

Later, when the company commanders went to their men with the news of embarkation, Jonathan was aware of their raucous reception even in the cramped boat-train office which had become his personal H.Q., and where Harry Payne had set up his camp bed. There was wild cheering. They were leaving at last. That was all they knew; all their officers knew. What they really thought, he reflected, was anybody’s guess.

It all seemed to happen very quickly after that: like his departure from the camp at Salisbury, teeming with life one minute, deserted the next. Where they had walked together; where they had kissed. Wyke had never mentioned it, never asked questions, although he was probably as curious as all the others.
The Colonel’s lady. Old Blackie’s bit of stuff.

Eventually he sat down to write the last letter. The tramp of boots had been swallowed up, and even the camp bed had been spirited away.

My very dear Alex . . .

He glanced around the empty office. At least this letter would escape censorship: a naval signals officer at
the docks had promised to post it ‘ashore’, as he had put it.

He sat in silence, staring at her name. The rest of the page was as empty as the future. When all this had begun he had been a mere captain. With the Blackwood name and tradition of service, he had been a captain of promise. Now he was a lieutenant-colonel, brevet or not, with all the responsibility of the rank. He had more men under his personal command than in the whole of the mighty
Reliant
’s ship’s company. And why?

He heard Payne hovering outside the door in case he was wanted.

He had been selected because he was known, and not merely because he knew how to lead men to their deaths; how to die without making a fuss. He thought of Hawks Hill and what might become of it if the worst happened. His cousin Ralf Blackwood had been a major in the R.M.L.I. when he had last heard: he had been involved in several scandals, usually over gambling or women, but he had remained in the Corps, and had shown an unexpected courage while serving under David in the Boxer Rebellion.

He was sealing the short letter to Alex when Payne came in.

‘All your kit’s aboard, sir.’

It would be a strange twist of fate if, after all, Ralf were to be the last of the Blackwoods.

‘I’ll just drop this letter off.’

‘Wish I could deliver it meself, sir.’

Jonathan shot him a quick glance. You never really knew with Payne. It might have been an innocent
comment about preferring to stay at home; or was there already speculation about his clumsy intentions towards her?

He took a last look round. Either way, it made no difference now.

Per Mare, Per Terram, he thought. After the sea, it was back to the land, and the next horizon.

The girl sat on the grassy bank of a tiny stream, her knees pulled up almost to her chin. Jack Swan, his face round and red like a polished apple, leaned against his little trap while the donkey munched grass unhurriedly by the side of the track. Alexandra Pitcairn had been watching the easy way the ex-marine had been cutting and shaping sticks. He had explained that there was a shortage of proper canes for the soldiers who were recovering from their leg-wounds. And in any case, he said, it was a nice day for it.

Swan puffed at his weathered pipe and watched the girl through the smoke. She made a fine picture, he thought, enough to turn the head of any squaddy. Her hair was tied back to the nape of her neck and he could see the tan on her throat and arms where the spring sunshine had made its mark.

‘You’ve had another letter from th’ Colonel, you say, Miss?’

She looked at him warmly. ‘Yes. I’m not certain of the date.’

He asked, ‘He all right, Miss?’

‘All right?’ She frowned. ‘I’m not sure. He and his men seem to be in reserve, whatever that means.’

Swan grinned. ‘That means that the brass don’t know what to do with ’em. The army don’t understand us Royals. Never have.’

Us Royals
. It was much as Harry Payne had told her. Once you were in the Corps you never really left it. She discovered that she had pushed off her shoes, and as the hot breeze fanned her legs she was pleased that she could speak to this man about the family. Probably the only one who understood. She slid her feet into the stream and yelped. After the warm air and dusty grass it was like ice, but she held her feet submerged. It made her feel vaguely sensuous, wanton.

Jonathan’s letters told her very little. He described picturesque villages in France, children marching beside the marines, waving and calling out to his men, who understood not a word. She had become accustomed to his handwriting, so that he seemed less of a stranger. But there was so much he had not told her, or could not.

Like the rumours of mutiny and harsh reprisals in the French army. It did not seem real, especially here in this quiet place. Even the big house was invisible from this part of the estate.

Swan looked up at the great copse and said wistfully, ‘When all the farms were doing well we thought we might clear that lot – plough it maybe. Can’t be sure of anything any more.’

Who did he mean by
we
, she wondered. The old general, or – she allowed her mind to explore it – Captain David Blackwood?

Swan was watching her, almost as if he knew what she was thinking. She asked, ‘When you were with David
Blackwood in China, was that where he won his Victoria Cross?’

‘Bless you, no. He got that for a big battle in Africa, the capture of Benin. That was before we got sent after them Boxers.’

‘What was he like?’ She lowered her lashes to hide her interest.

‘A good officer, never drove the men too hard. But woe betide anyone who took his manner as weakness. Captain David’d come down on him like a ton of bricks!’

He looked up as a church bell rang far away in the village.

‘Time to move on, Miss. We’re so short-handed here I don’t know what we’ll do if they take any more off the land.’

He seemed to recall what he had been saying and gave a quiet chuckle. ‘Mind you, Captain David was a bit of a lad with the ladies. Took after his father, I shouldn’t wonder!’

She tried to cover her surprise. ‘Jack – what will happen over there?’

He stared at her, vaguely conscious of the use of his first name, and of the fact that she had so neatly changed the subject.

He answered, ‘Well, Miss, it was April when the Colonel left, an’ now it’s near the end of May. According to one report in the newspaper, the Germans have had enough. They couldn’t take another battle like Verdun and this last bloody set-to with the whole French army. An’ with the Yanks in the war, old Jerry might decide it’s time to throw in the towel.’

She stared into the stream, at her own small feet so pale against the loose stones.

‘But you don’t think that.’

Swan said slowly, ‘I’m not really the one to ask. I did my soldierin’ against spears and muskets, brass cannon an’ screaming natives. Hardly the Somme, or Loos. I’ve spoken to a lot of the poor fellows who come here to try and get over what’s happened to them. They’re not bitter, as you might expect. Nor do they act like the world’s rejected them because of how they are or how they look. It’s as if they’ve rejected
our
world.’

She watched him as he loaded the last of the sticks onto his cart. Why had she never spoken to him like this before? Why hadn’t anybody?

Swan tapped out his pipe and heeled the ash into the track with great care.

‘Fact is, Miss, I don’t think they know how to stop it. If they lose an attack the general staff seem to think that to try something different would show the enemy we’ve lost our guts, begging your pardon, Miss. So they do it all over again!’

He touched his hat and clambered onto the little cart.

‘Nice talking to you, Miss.’

She watched them until they had topped the rise. A man and his donkey, like a picture in one of her books when she had been at school. She pulled the neck of her dress away from her skin and felt something like guilt as her fingers touched her breast. Was that how it might be? Could be?

She recalled how she had deliberately turned her head so that their mouths had met in a clumsy kiss. The
awareness had been there; but experience? Not at all. Not a bit how Swan had described Jonathan’s beloved brother David.
A bit of a lad with the ladies
.

Perhaps she was the strange one. She had not been teaching Braille for more than a month at Hawks Hill when she had seen the other side of men. It had been before the place had been enlarged, when the flood of wounded and shell-shocked officers had scarcely begun.

It had been a day much like this one, heavy with the scent of grass and flowers, the air full of birdsong. She had been sitting in a small ward using both hands on the fingers of the man who sat with her, moving his bandaged head and eyes from side to side, listening to birds he would never see again. Or merely trying to remember, as she worked his stiff fingers in her hands.

She had suddenly been aware of his arm encircling her waist, and she had lightly scolded him and thought nothing more of it.

In the next instant she had been thrown back across the bed, while he held her with a grip so hard she had almost cried out. She had forced herself to lie quite still while he had pressed his face against her, gasping staccato sentences about the smell of her perfume and her body. Then she had begun to struggle, and heard herself scream as the man tore the front of her blouse apart and pulled at her until his fingers were digging into her breast. One of the other blind patients had come in with an orderly and it was all over. While they were pressing the emergency bell she had tried to cover her nakedness: her skin was raw where he had clawed it. Looking back, almost the worst part had been the
immediate aftermath. The two blind men had circled one another, hitting out and shouting every obscenity they could think of like a pair of sightless gladiators.

After that, the duty sergeant always had an orderly close by when she was in the ward alone. It was not possible to blame them all, or be wary of them all: she could not even dimly imagine what shattered thoughts and images preyed upon their minds. There were many failures, where memory and interpretation were too broken ever to retain anything again, but other men who worked with her and not against her while she had taught them the mysteries of groups of raised dots had given her an indescribable sense of pride even as they had saddened her.

She put on her shoes, and was walking down towards the village when the thought hit her like a slap. Suppose Jonathan should return like that, shattered in mind or body; or the war and its brutalities fuel his hunger for something she sensed he had never known? If he touched her, what would she do?

She walked on, oblivious to the whistles from passing lorries and other army vehicles. She was used to it: everyone was. When she reached the house she could hear voices in the surgery. Her father’s practice had become his whole life, and he would see anyone at almost any time if he thought it useful.

There was a familiar envelope on the hall table, stamped with the Crown and the words PASSED BY CENSOR.

She took it and went straight up to her room, and opened the windows to catch the scent of the garden.
Then she sat on her bed and tore the envelope. For just a moment she stared at her dressing-table mirror and touched her breast again as she had by the little stream. It was like looking at a total stranger, as the question came once more to her mind.

When she unfolded the letter she saw his now-familiar hand, as if she could hear his voice.
My very dear Alex . . .

When she looked up again the stranger was still there. Lips slightly parted, eyes devoid of shame.

As usual it was a short letter, as if he could not bring himself to speak his mind.

‘
We
are
in
a
quiet
village
now
,
not
even
as
large
as
Alresfordd
 . . .’ There was a blue smear in the margin, as if the censor had been trying to decide if they were using some kind of code, and had obviously given them the benefit of the doubt. ‘
My men
are
in
good
heart
and
have
settled
down
very
well
in
rather
primitive
conditions
. I
received
another
letter
from
you
today
. I
shall
reread
it
when
things
are
quieter
.’ Quieter? Did that mean they were closer to the front? ‘
I long
for
the
day
when
I
shall
see
you
again
.
You
are
never
distant
when
I
think
of
that
meeting
we
had
at
 . . .’ The name
Salisbury
had been deleted.

He had ended, ‘From your friend and admirer, Jonathan.’