The Passing Bells (24 page)

“No, sir, not at all.”

“Good. It's settled then. Fortify yourself with another whiskey and then go over the details with Blythe.” His hard brown hand shot out and squeezed Fenton's arm. “By gad, it's good to have you with me. I made you my second-in-command when you were eight years old. Do you remember?”

“Yes, sir,” Fenton said, grinning. “And Roger was adjutant.”

“Wood sword, paper hat, and all.”

Colonel Blythe appeared in the doorway and coughed discreetly for attention.

“The battalion commanders are assembled, sir—”

“Right,” the general said, snapping out of his sudden reverie. “Take our new young thruster in hand, that's the good chap.” He turned abruptly and strode out of the room, his spurred boots pounding a brisk tattoo on the landing.

Colonel Blythe smiled faintly. “Comforting sound.”

“He certainly exudes confidence.”

“Yes, and we should be grateful for that. The troops are cheery enough . . . and cocky as hell, but, except for Old Woody, the high command is as nervous as a maiden aunt at a men's smoker.” He poured himself a whiskey and downed it neat. “The French Fifth Army is off to our right somewhere, but there's no communication between them and us—no cooperation of any kind. They may be massed along the Sambre, and then again they may not. They may be about to attack Fritz, and then again they may be planning to fall back. No one knows for sure—nor do we have the foggiest idea what Fritz is up to. There may be two German corps ahead of us or two field armies, but I dare say we'll find out soon enough.” He drew a map from a leather case fastened to his belt and handed it to Fenton. “We start north at dawn tomorrow. Our corps area will go along the canal from Conde to Mons. Third Division HQ will be a couple of miles south of Mons . . . at Frameries. We want you up there with the advance party. When battalion areas have been established and you can place them on the map, you're to scurry over to First Corps and make certain the Guards Brigade has reached Villers-St. Ghislain and that they have at least two batteries of eighteen-pounders covering the road from Thieu—if there
is
a road. The maps are bloody useless when it comes to minor details like that.” He ran a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Lord, what a way to go to war.”

D Company was in bivouac in a field, most of the men rolled up in their blankets beside the hay mounds, but a few sprawled on the ground smoking and talking. The company had been brought up to full strength with reservists—two hundred and forty men in four platoons—and Fenton had hoped to lead it. But strict adherence to custom had prevailed: only majors to command companies. The majors would have preferred the captains had the job. Most of them were well into their thirties, and some, like Major Horace Middlebanks, who was now in active command of D Company, had been on extended leave for months—Middlebanks on his estate in Ireland, where he raised steeplechase horses and distilled whiskey. Too much sampling of the latter had played havoc with his liver, and he was far from joyous to see his second-in-command pack up to move out.

“Hell's bells, Fenton,” he grumbled, pacing the tiny farmhouse room they shared as a billet. “I really feel rotten.”

Fenton shoved his gear into a canvas kit bag and tried to ignore the major stalking back and forth in his underwear.

“Go see the MO.”

The major snorted in disgust. “All he'll do is give me one of those blue pills . . . or yellow pills. Anyway, whatever the bloody color, they'll keep me chained to a latrine for a week. It just isn't fair for me to lose you now. What if I ruddy well collapse in the saddle tomorrow and have to be sent back to Boulogne to see a real doctor?”

“Then Ashcroft will take over. He's a good man.”

“He doesn't have the experience,” the major said with a snort.

“None of us have the experience, do we? I mean, this isn't maneuvers. Have you ever heard a gun fired in anger? No . . . Neither have I. . . . Neither has Ashcroft. What difference does it make? Go back to sleep, Horace, and stop worrying about everything.”

The major tossed and turned in restless slumber, grunting and groaning. It didn't matter to Fenton. He found it impossible to sleep anyway; his brain wouldn't allow it. Thoughts swirled around in a hodgepodge of vivid images. It seemed unbelievable that he had been in France for less than a week. Six days ago he had been in Southampton waiting to board the transport. The Marquess of Dexford had been permitted to come dockside and had brought gifts for his son Andrew, embarking with the 4th Cavalry Brigade, and for “my future son-in-law.”

He sat up in the hard, narrow bed and looked through a hazy mica window at a distorted image of the moon. Lord Sutton's gifts had been appreciated—a box of tinned delicacies from Harrod's, Abdullah cigarettes, a bottle of whiskey, and a beautifully made, but totally impractical, pocket pistol. He had traded it to a captain in A Company for some extra socks. Among the gifts had been a letter from Winifred.

My dearest Fenton: God protect you in this hour of trial. I know you will be brave and daring and help achieve a quick and glorious victory. I am most vexed at Germany for starting this war, but they shall soon rue it. All of the newspapers predict that it will be over by Christmas. I pray they are correct in that assumption and that we will be tangoing at a victory ball on New Year's Eve. Ever, Your Winifred.

He groaned as loudly as the liverish major.
Your
Winifred! It was a struggle to recall her face.

He was dressed and out before dawn, walking across the stubble field toward the crossroads, where a staff car was waiting. Private Webber, his batman, trailed along behind him, carrying the bags and whistling softly to himself. Happy to be leaving, Fenton was thinking. The idea of his officer being attached to staff was pleasing to Webber. No more thirty-mile-a-day marches, no more sleeping on the hard ground. No wonder he was whistling. The tune was certainly appropriate to their change in station, and Fenton mouthed the words: “I'm Burlington Bertie, I rise at ten-thirty . . . and go for a stroll like a toff. . . .”

“What's that, sir?” Webber stood still, head cocked to one side. There was nothing to be heard other than the thin, distant call of a nightingale from the dark woods that bordered the field, but something had moved against them, a pulse of air that was not wind, that could be sensed rather than felt. Then sound came—dull, persistent thuds far off to the northeast, a rumble of thunder bumping the horizon. Sheet lightning flickered against a sky that was beginning to pale.

“Blimey,” Webber said, sniffing the air. “Don't smell like rain.”

Fenton walked slowly on, watching the sky—the dim, shimmering orange and red glow that was, after six years of being a soldier, his first glimpse of war. Not his war, not yet. The heavy guns were miles east, at Charleroi or even Namur. It could be French or Belgian fire and the German Army might be reeling back from those withering blasts, but doubt gnawed at him. His palms became wet, and he stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled to the car with studied nonchalance.

The boat train from Cherbourg was seven hours late arriving in Paris, having been shunted off the main track half a dozen times to allow troop trains to speed by. When it finally reached the Gare St. Lazare, there were no porters available and the passengers were obliged to carry their own baggage into the station. Soldiers thronged the platforms, while harried sergeants and corporals struggled to sort the men into their respective companies and battalions. Bugles blew. Regimental colors were unfurled to serve as rallying points, and gradually the soldiers moved out of the station in orderly lines before more troop trains arrived to add to the confusion. A band standing in the square in front of the church of St. Augustin played the “Marseillaise” and the “Sambre et Meuse” on bugle, drum, and fife as the troops marched down the rue de la Pépinière into the boulevard Haussmann. Thousands of Parisians thronged the pavements, cheering the long columns of men in their blue coats, red trousers, and red kepis.

To Martin Rilke it was a vision out of childhood. He was seven years old again, standing with his mother and her cousin Bette on the Champs-Elysées. The fourteenth of July. Bands and marching soldiers passed. And the giant horses of the cuirassiers, tall men riding them, steel breastplates and crested helmets gleaming in the sun. There were troops of cuirassiers now, turning out of the rue Pasquier to trail the infantry. They looked the same as they did then, except for a covering of brown cloth over their horse-plume helmets. A concession to
la guerre.

Tom Ramsey, an artist for
Leslie's Weekly,
murmured in appreciation, “Colorful . . . and Old World. They look like they're ready to fight the battle of Sedan all over again.”

“The
pantalon rouge
is sacred to the French Army,” Martin said. “Although you'd think khaki would be more practical these days. Those red pants and hats are going to be easy to aim at.”

Ramsey removed a curved briar pipe from his mouth and dug ash from the bowl with his finger.

“I was just thinking the same thing, but it's none of my business how they want to dress for war. Anyway, it's sure going to make my pictures a damn sight prettier.” He stretched his arms in an expansive gesture, embracing the scene. “Paris! City of light and beauty. Red trousers and blue coats against chestnut trees. I'll do watercolors of regiments of cuirassiers and battalions of
pantalons rouges
in the gardens of the Tuileries.”

Martin laughed. “What if they aren't there?”

The artist shrugged. “So what? Artistic license. Anyway, if they're not there, they should be.” He breathed deeply. “Paris. Like coming home for me.”

“Hey, you said you'd never been here.”

“I haven't. Took my training in Philadelphia, but, boy, have I ever dreamed of this town. I guess I've looked at a million pictures of the place. I know it by heart. I can't tell you how much I envy you, Rilke.
Born
here. My God.”

That fact had impressed all of the eleven American newspapermen who had been on the train. Most of them spoke French with varying degrees of ineptness. They could ask for simple things—a cup of coffee, a glass of wine, the direction to the lavatory—but more complex thoughts had been beyond their abilities to express. Their papers had arranged for interpreters to meet them in Paris, and Martin had been their spokesman during the interminable train journey, as not one porter, conductor, or waiter in the dining car could, or would, speak English.

“Why?” Jasper King of the New York
Herald
had wanted to know. “This is a boat train, for cryin' out loud. They must be used to English-speaking passengers.”

“They all understand English,” Martin had explained after conversing with a conductor in faultless French. “They're just irked at Americans. There was an editorial in one of the Paris papers about America's decision to maintain an impartial neutrality and to honor trade commitments with Germany. They're just giving us the needle.”

Martin had been pumped for information about Paris—the best restaurants, the location of various hotels, the Métro system. There was nothing he could tell them. Paris was an alien city to him. All he could remember with any clarity were a few streets near the Luxembourg and the small park off the rue Campagne where he used to fly kites with his friend Claude. Paris was not his hometown. He would have traded the Champs-Elysées for one block of State Street.

But here he was, seated in one of the taxis provided by the French Minister of Information; an army officer rode in the leading taxi, and the little cavalcade was wending its way through the twisting streets of Paris to the Quai d'Orsay, to the grim stone building housing the ministry. His reason for being there was contained in his attaché case, in a letter that he had been asked to present to the third deputy assistant to the Minister of Information along with his passport. The letter was from Harrington Comstock Briggs, authorizing Martin Rilke to serve as sole European correspondent for the Chicago
Express.

The deputy assistant solemnly checked before him on his desk a list of those newspapers in the United States which had revealed pro-German attitudes. There were quite a few of them in Milwaukee, Chicago, St. Louis, Philadelphia, and New York. The
Express
was not on the blacklist.

“You may go in and see the minister, Monsieur Rilke.”

They were all acceptable to the deputy, as the deputy knew they would be since their credentials had been checked in London before visas had been issued. It was a formality, and the deputy assistant was a stickler for formality.

“We are at war, monsieur,” he had said icily to the war correspondent of the New York
Times
, who had had the temerity to lose his patience when the deputy had taken ten minutes to study his papers.

“Damn it, sir,” the
Times
man had blustered, “I know it. Why do you think I came to France?”

“You did not come at our request, monsieur. I can assure you of that.”

The chill deepened when the Minister of Information himself, a man of great girth and regal bearing, entered his chambers nearly an hour after the last newspaperman had been ushered into the room and told to wait. He offered no apologies for the delay.

“Gentlemen,” he said, speaking English with barely a trace of an accent, “let me welcome you to Paris. I hope your stay here will be pleasant. This ministry will do everything in its power to provide you with up-to-date information on the progress of the war. Let me caution you on the use of the telegraph service and the postal service. Censorship has been imposed. Nothing pertaining to the war may be sent out of the country unless it has been approved by this office and stamped accordingly. No foreign journalist may venture into the Zone of the Armies without the written permission of Marshal Joffre. Such permission is not likely to be granted in the foreseeable future.”