The Moonlight Mistress (11 page)

Gabriel glanced longingly at the muddy canal water—it would feel amazingly good on his swollen feet—and instead sent three men off to scavenge for food and for any shovels they could find that were larger than their entrenching tools. Ashby wandered over, cap in one hand, scrubbing his cropped red hair with the other. “It’s bloody hot,” he said.

“At least our uniforms are drying.”

“Speak for yourself. My drawers have been trying to cir
cumcise me for the last five miles. You think I’d be able to marry your sister, then?”

Gabriel choked on a laugh and punched Ashby’s arm. “Idiot,” he said. “What did Wilks say to you just now?”

“Last word he had from staff was that the French can’t close the gap between our flank and theirs.”

“Oh.”

“There seem to be more Germans than anyone thought,” Ashby said, his voice unusually flat. “So the longer we can hold out here, and all those other companies spreading out up the road, the better. We’re trying to hold a salient, though how we’re to manage that with roads blocked all up and down the line, I don’t know. Maybe the Germans won’t be able to move, either. I think it’s just prettying up what’s going to be a strategic readjustment.”

“Retreat, you mean,” Gabriel said.

Ashby grinned. “We’re not beaten. This is only the beginning.” He touched the wolf badge on his cap, as if for luck. His face eased. “I showed Hailey how to make a smokeless fire, and he’s brewing us some coffee.”

“I think I heard a siren’s song,” Gabriel said, though actually his mind had given him the trumpet solo from Handel’s
Messiah
. “If we had milk, I think I would die of pleasure.”

“And you call
me
easy,” Ashby said, grinning. “Hailey found a sow eating her way through a garden. It’s too bad no one left a cow behind, instead.”

“I’ll settle for the coffee. Where in the world did you come by it?”

“Daglish had a packet hidden away—he begged it from the major’s aide sometime before we split off, bless his big
innocent eyes. He insisted I share it with you. I think you owe him a kiss, at least.”

“Very funny,” Gabriel said, glancing around to make sure no one had heard.

A long, hot afternoon ensued, made worse because the sunshine and pastoral setting sang of naps to Gabriel’s fogged mind. The coffee, gulped scalding from a metal cup, had given him energy for directing perhaps an hour of trench digging before his mind again sank into lethargy and a sawing Baroque bass line he could not even identify. By that time, Skuce had found two shovels; Gabriel took one and joined in the digging.

Their shallow earthworks, augmented by mattresses and horsehair sofas dragged from the village houses, were complete enough for shelter by the hottest part of the afternoon. Pittfield and the ever-resourceful Southey had scavenged empty wine bottles and petrol. With the aid of those items and some scraps of cloth, they set the rowboats on fire by dint of tossing their homemade explosives across the canal. The columns of rising smoke made Gabriel uneasy, but as Captain Wilks pointed out, there was only one road. The Germans would come this way no matter what lay in their path. Better to have removed one more method of getting across the canal, since they hadn’t explosives to blow the bridge. Wilks then sent Mason and Southey into the nearby Christian church’s small spire, to keep watch and to sharpshoot if necessary.

Wilks had the rest of them count off, and Gabriel was relieved when a coin toss gave his group first rest period, though ironically for him, they were to sleep in the church, large, nearby and defensible. Daglish wandered over as Gabriel
directed the men to gather their kit. After a quick, nervous glance at the ground, Daglish handed him a suspiciously large sack, saying, “Looks like you’ll get to use this before I do.”

Gabriel peeked inside at a feather pillow, covered in an embroidered slip. He was surprised enough to laugh. “I’ll make good use of it, no fear,” he said. The inside of the church was dim and cool, and once the men had settled, quiet. Doing his best to ignore the graphically carved crucifix hanging above the altar, he lay down on a wooden bench and tucked the pillow beneath his head. He fell asleep before his head made contact.

Gabriel bolted upright, cold and alert. He’d heard a shot. He slid silently to the floor, crouching beside his discarded gear while he slipped out his pistol. Soft rustlings let him know he needn’t wake the men. Another shot came, not too close, then another, then a crackling chorus like fierce iron-throated birds. Gabriel glanced across the aisle at Smith, who held his pistol in one hand and was rubbing his face with the other. A single round window, high above, sent down a shaft of orange light, a hot circle in the middle of the foyer. Gabriel guessed it must be sunset, or close to it. Once he’d caught Smith’s eye, he gestured to the front door, then toward the other exit they’d found near the confessionals.

Smith took the front with a decisive point, so Gabriel gathered his boys as quietly as he could and led them down the aisle, up a step, and through a narrow door into a room crowded with candlesticks, books, priestly vestments and miscellaneous serving dishes. Pittfield braced his shoulder against the heavy wooden door, then eased it open. The shooting crescendoed, percussive raps ricocheting from bricks and stones and rooftops. Gabriel led the men into the churchyard; there were some bent trees, and though most of the head
stones had sunk some distance into the earth, they also provided some cover. The cover would be more effective as the light failed. If necessary, they could retreat into the church and hold it.

Gabriel slid from tree to tree until he reached the low wall bordering the cemetery. He stepped over, then wriggled to the road on his belly. The terrain dropped toward the canal just in front of him, and he could see. Smoke scummed the air. He smelled acrid burnt powder. Gray-uniformed men crowded the width of the bridge, firing as they advanced, struggling to climb past fallen comrades who blocked their way to the bank. He tried to count, to estimate their numbers, but kept losing track at the middle of the bridge. He couldn’t see how far the crowd of Germans stretched on the other bank. Two companies? Three? A cluster of willows on the opposite bank blocked his view. Where were Ashby and Daglish? Were they safe? He sighed in relief when he spotted Daglish’s stocky torso on the right flank. He looked to be under adequate cover, training a pair of binoculars at the opposite bank.

The men were doing well. He estimated twelve to fifteen rounds a minute, at the least, and considerably more accurate with their aim than their German opponents, even given that the Germans were exposed and moving. He crushed the thought that he, too, might have to shoot soon. He’d never killed a man. He’d never intended to. He only hoped he could manage it if the need arose.

As Gabriel watched, Cawley and Lyton each fired a final round from their advance placement, then abandoned the wagon’s inadequate cover and retreated for the barricades. Cawley went down, his body jerking with the impact of two, then three bullets.

Gabriel closed his eyes for a moment, but the picture was the same when he opened them, Cawley sprawled amid the lush grass and wildflowers like a painting, bright and unreal. He didn’t move again. Lyton didn’t see, and a moment later was dragged behind a heap of sofas and thrust into a trench.

Smith and his platoon edged their way along the other side of the road. He could see Smith’s fevered grin even at this distance, Figgis close by his shoulder with an unlit cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. Gabriel eased himself onto his elbows and tried to spot Wilks or Hailey, to let them know they had somewhere to retreat. Someone touched his elbow, and he rolled, pistol ready. Ashby halted his movement with a hand on his wrist, and Gabriel let his breath free in a rush. Trust Ashby to move like a ghost. Ashby said, loudly enough to be heard over the rifles, “You’re to hold this position.”

Ashby’s usually insouciant expression had tightened, his mouth drawn into a thin line, his face caked with dust and sweat beneath the brim of his cap. A red line streaked across his neck, the blood already crusting. He’d come within inches of being killed already. His throat too tight for words, Gabriel could only nod.

Ashby grinned at him and gripped the back of his neck for a moment, a comforting squeeze that conveyed fresh energy. Then he scrambled down the road. Gabriel worked his way back to the cemetery wall and relayed their orders, then returned to his vantage point. A couple of Germans had fought free of the chaos at the foot of the bridge and were advancing at a run, bayonets leveled. Gabriel couldn’t hear individual shots amid the percussive storm of them, but the two interlopers jerked to a halt and landed short of Cawley’s body. Southey and Mason, he realized, peering up at the spire. Sure
enough, he could just see the tip of a rifle protruding from the narrow arras.

He spotted Hailey, small and slender, darting across a small stretch of open ground to speak urgently to Smith. Smith and his platoon fanned out behind the barricades as three more Germans clambered over corpses and hit the bank. Someone behind them had the bright idea to drag the bodies out of the way and shove them into the cover afforded by the bridge’s arch. Two of those men were shot, then another, who collapsed into the water and thrashed amid a further spatter of bullets. Hailey dashed back to a clump of willows, and Gabriel finally glimpsed a hint of Hammerhead’s coppery flank and swishing tail through the greenery. Wilks was too close to the action; he ought to fall back to Gabriel’s position, at the least. He hoped Ashby had presented this advice. Wilks liked to be in the midst of everything, but sometimes he would listen to Ashby.

As if he’d heard Gabriel’s thoughts, Wilks’s wide shoulders poked free of cover, then he set off at a jog for the rear area. Gabriel’s relieved breath caught when Wilks’s hunched-over form froze. An endless moment later, he collapsed to his knees, then forward.

Hailey burst from the trees, heedless of danger, still grasping Hammerhead’s reins. He fell to his knees beside Wilks, struggling to turn him over. Even from this distance, Gabriel could see bright blood rapidly soaking the front of Wilks’s tunic as his heart pumped too much, too fast, like one of those horrid dreams in which one could see and see but not touch or interfere. Hailey struggled to lift the captain’s immense form onto Hammerhead, but wasn’t nearly strong enough, and Gabriel could tell it wouldn’t matter anyway. Ashby skidded into sight then, grabbing Hailey and heaving his small form onto the
horse instead, then dragging the horse and running for cover, back toward Gabriel and the church.

Gabriel yelled for someone to provide cover. Ashby sprinted toward them while Hailey scrambled for a grip on Hammerhead’s saddle and neck. Gabriel waved them toward the cemetery; Ashby vaulted the low wall and Hammerhead neatly popped over it behind him, narrowly missing a headstone.

Hailey yelled incoherently as he tumbled to the ground; his arms were stained red to the elbows. Ashby swept him into a tight embrace, Hailey’s flailing hand leaving a smear of blood down his cheek. Ashby firmly kissed the top of the boy’s head and looked over him at Gabriel, and the anxious cluster of his platoon. “Wilks is dead,” he said. Hailey burst into sobs, and Ashby clutched him more tightly, rubbing a hand up and down his back, but otherwise continuing as if nothing had happened. “We’re going to be overrun shortly. I’m going to have Daglish take his platoon and fade back to this position. Smith will follow. We’ll pick off as many as we can, to make it look like we’ve still men behind the barricades. Then we’re getting the hell down the road as soon as it’s dark, quick as we can.”

The next hours were a blur of action, retreat and more action. Skuce was killed. Pittfield, Mason and Evans were all wounded but still mobile, and Figgis shot through both legs. Corporal Joyce rigged a sling between two men so he could be carried. Later, if they could find poles and had the leisure, they could build a stretcher for Hammerhead to pull behind him.

Once darkness fell, the shooting slowed to an occasional crack. Gabriel was shocked that the Germans seemed to be halting for the night, though if they’d had as little rest and food as his own men, he shouldn’t be surprised. As soon as he judged it safest, Ashby got them moving, chivying them along
like sheep until they reached the cover of the next hamlet down the road. Wisely, its inhabitants had already fled before the German onslaught.

Gabriel entered another church, a much smaller and humbler one than before, when he and Lieutenant Daglish were assigned to fortify the building as best they could. They worked in companionable silence, then split the abandoned communion loaves among the men and allowed them to sleep, some for the first time in nearly twenty hours.

A bicycle messenger found them four hours later with new orders. This line of defense was being strategically readjusted. They must make all speed. Again.

Gabriel spent the next hours running and rerunning the melody line of his adagio in the back of his mind, while at the same time periodically counting his platoon to make sure no one had fallen behind. He had to continually remind himself not to look for Cawley. Ten hours later, as they dug yet another hasty line of scratch trenches for the rearguard to occupy, he was too hungry and exhausted to create. His mind disconcerted him by playing through an obscure work by Salamone Rossi he’d learned in his conservatory days. Twenty hours after that, even his vast musical memory had failed him, and he was reduced to hearing an endless repetition of a single phrase of a cello exercise. He thought he might claw his own skull open to make it stop.

He lost count of the trenches they dug, both his platoon and Daglish’s switching off with Ashby’s and Smith’s. His service dress was stiff with dirt all down the back, and he blistered his hands helping dig, because no man’s hands could be wasted when the aim was to get the army away from the German onslaught intact. No one had any rations left, and there was no one left in the army’s path to sell them any.

Ashby sent the company, a few men at a time, foraging into every field of corn or orchard they passed, but an apple wasn’t much to sustain a man through a day of marching in full kit, stopping only to dig and snatch brief naps while sitting upright. Worse, they had to be sparing with their canteens, for without the cavalry scouts who were otherwise occupied, no one knew where water could be found, and when they could be refilled. Gabriel could only imagine what all this was like for the men, who carried considerably more kit than he did, and some of them wearing stiff new boots.