Shoulder the Sky

Joseph sat back. He was exhausted. Every inch of his body hurt and he was so hungry he would have welcomed even the worst of trench rations, but there was very little left in the emergency store, and they must make it last as long as possible. It was the lack of water that worried him most. They were restricting themselves to a mouthful each, every hour or so. Even then, there was perhaps another twelve hours left.

Mason looked haggard, and Andy was so white his skin seemed almost gray, but the bleeding had stopped some time ago.

“There’s no point in rowing,” Joseph said quietly. “We might as well ship oars and take a rest.”

Mason did not argue. Together they completed the stroke and lifted the oars in. They laid there along the bottom of the boat, careful not to knock the dead man.

“You should rest, too,” Joseph said to Andy. There was nothing on the horizon in any direction, no land to row toward, no ship whose attention to attract, not that that would be easy, lying so low in the water themselves.

Andy nodded, and carefully, to avoid bumping his arm, he slid down into the floorboards more comfortably. He smiled at Joseph, then closed his eyes. Nestled a little sideways, as if asleep, it was easy to see in him the child he had been a few short years ago.

Joseph glanced at Mason, and saw the recognition of exactly that in his face. His eyes burned with the blame, and the challenge.

Joseph did not speak, but he was as sure of his answer as Mason of his question.

He made himself as comfortable as he could and must have slept for quite some time, because when he woke Mason was sitting up, and the sun was low and murky over the water to the west.

“There’s a fog coming,” Mason said grimly. “Do you want some water?” He held out the canteen.

Joseph’s mouth was dry and his head was pounding. He took the canteen, and could feel by the weight of it that if Mason had drank any at all, it was not more than his rationed mouthful. He smiled, drank his own gulp, and passed it back. “No point in waking him,” he said, nodding toward Andy. He checked that he was breathing, and then sat back again. “We should row,” he said to Mason.

“Where to?” Mason glanced around. “America?”

“Northwest,” Joseph answered. “The storm blew us south. However far we’ve come, there should be the south coast of England to the north of us, and even if we were beyond that, which we aren’t, there’d be Ireland. We’d better row while there’s still light.”

“What the hell do we need light for?” Mason said bitterly. “We’re not exactly going to hit anything!”

“Fog,” Joseph replied. “We’ll only know which direction we’re going as long as we can see the sun in the west.”

Mason did not reply. Silently he unshipped his oar and put it in the rowlock, then, in time with Joseph, he began to row.

It was the hardest physical work Joseph had ever done. His body ached with every pull, his hands were blistered and he was so thirsty it took an intense effort of will to keep from plunging his hands into the sea, even though it was salt, and would only make him sick. Its slick, smooth water was cold and in its own way, mesmerizingly beautiful.

Andy woke and drank his mouthful of water. The sun was so low and the fog thick enough now that the west was barely discernible, but he understood what they were doing.

“There’s no need to sit up,” Joseph told him. “We’ll just go as long as we can.”

Andy smiled.

Joseph lost count of time. It grew so dim, the light so diffused, it was hard to tell anything but the broadest directions. No one spoke.

Then suddenly Andy stiffened and pointed with his good arm.

Mason swiveled around, oar out of the water. “A ship!” he yelled. “A ship!”

Joseph turned to look as well. Out of the gloom to their left there was a high, darker shape.

Mason pulled his oar in and started to climb to his feet.

“Sit down!” Andy cried shrilly. “You’ll capsize us in their wash!” He started forward as if physically to restrain Mason, but he was too weak and fell forward onto the floorboards.

“Ahoy!” Mason bellowed, standing upright now, waving his arms. “Ahoy!”

“Sit down!” Andy screamed.

Joseph lunged for Mason just as the wash hit them. The boat bucked, the bow high and sideways. Mason lost his balance and fell just as the boat slapped down again and pitched the other way, throwing him backward. The side caught him behind the knees. He folded up, hitting his head on the gunwale, and slid into the sea.

Without waiting, Andy went in after him.

The boat swiveled and tossed on the wake and Joseph grabbed after the oars, desperately fumbling as Andy and Mason slipped astern. He got them both at last and turned the boat, heaving with all his strength, his muscles burning, to get back to them. It seemed to take forever, stroke after stroke, but it must have been no more than a minute or two before he was there. A hand came up over the side and he shipped the oars and reached to pull Mason up and on board. He was almost deadweight, streaming water, and gasping.

Then he turned for Andy. He saw him for an instant, just the pale blur of his face, then he was gone.

“Andy!” Joseph shrieked, his voice hoarse, piercing with despair. “Andy!”

But there was no break in the gray sea, nothing above the surface.

He was sobbing as he flung himself on the oars again and sent the boat lurching forward, all his weight behind each stroke. He called out again and again. He was aware of Mason clambering up and going into the bow, peering ahead, calling as well.

It was Mason who finally came back and sat down in the stern. Joseph could see no more than an outline of his body in the darkness now.

“It’s no good,” Mason said, his voice raw with pain. “He’s gone. Even if we found him now, it wouldn’t help.”

Joseph was weeping, the tears running down his face and choking his throat. There was no point in telling Mason he was a fool—he knew it. The guilt would never leave him.

“That’s what he meant,” he said, struggling to speak, even to get his breath. “You give your life for your mates—whoever they are. It’s nothing to do with them, it’s to do with you.”

Mason bent his head in his hands and wept.

CHAPTER

THIRTEEN

Joseph lost track of time altogether. There was no point in rowing, but he was too cold and thirsty to sleep. He drifted in and out of a hazy unconsciousness, grieving for Andy, touched with guilt that it was his decision not to row with Mason that might have cost them a possible landfall, although it was unlikely.

More than that he was worried for Mason, who was not only wet, and therefore suffering far more from exposure than Joseph, but also because of the guilt that tormented him.

Joseph felt a terrible pity for him. He could not get out of his mind the memory of Mason on the beach at Gallipoli, struggling up and down the gullies with the wounded, under fire when he did not need to be, working through exhaustion when every muscle hurt, to rescue others. He worked for the Peacemaker, but he had done it because he honestly believed what he was doing was for the greater good. No man can do more than the best they understand, the utmost they believe.

But the Peacemaker was responsible for the deaths of Joseph’s parents, indirectly of Sebastian, and now of Cullingford as well.

Yet Joseph could not hate Mason personally. And alive, Mason might lead them to the Peacemaker, intentionally or not.

He sank back into a kind of sleep again, too cold to be aware of discomfort, only of thirst and a gnawing emptiness inside himself.

He woke with a jolt to feel hands lifting him and he heard voices, cheerful and urgent. Someone forced a cup between his lips and the next instant the fire of rum scalded down his throat, making him cough and then choke. He was too stiff to help them as they carried him up into the trawler and wrapped him in blankets.

“Mason?” he asked between cracked lips.

“Oh, he’ll make it!” a voice assured him. “I reckon.”

The next hours passed in a haze of the pain as circulation returned to his limbs, the blessed sensation of warmth and food, blankets at first, and then clean sheets.

When he finally awoke to sunlight shimmering through a hospital window, Matthew, white-faced, was sitting beside him. “God, you gave me a fright!” he said accusingly.

Joseph managed to smile, but his skin still hurt. “I’m all right,” he said huskily.

Matthew poured him a glass of water from the jug and lifted him up with intense gentleness to help him drink it. “What the hell happened to you?” he demanded savagely.

Joseph sipped the water, then lay back again. “Ran into a German U-boat on the way back,” he answered, his throat easier. “I found Mynott. Decent chap. He told me about Chetwin in Berlin. It wasn’t him. I’m sorry.”

“Damn!” Matthew swore. “I thought we had the bastard.” He was still regarding Joseph with profound concern. “What else? Was Gallipoli hell? Surely it couldn’t be worse than Ypres?”

“No, about the same,” Joseph replied. “But I met a journalist out there, brilliant fellow—Richard Mason, actually. Matthew, he was going to write a hell of a story about Gallipoli, tell everyone the truth of what it’s really like.” He saw Matthew’s face darken and his body tense. “I tried to persuade him what it would do to morale, but I failed before we left. I think I tipped my hand too far.” The chaotic beach was in his mind as if he had barely left it, the Australian voices, the smells of blood and creosol and wild thyme, the light across the high, wind-stippled sky and the sound of water.

“He was going to write about it, tell everyone at home what a senseless slaughter it is.” He looked at Matthew’s blue eyes. “It would have been even worse than someone like Prentice going on about the gas attack at Ypres. He’s a better writer, a far bigger name. And we couldn’t help the gas. Gallipoli’s our fault.” The words choked in his throat, but they were true enough he could not swallow them. He longed for someone to trust, not just with facts and the things that words could frame easily, but with the grief inside him for all the broken men he had seen, the pain, and for the fear inside himself. He had been prepared to die in order to take Mason with him.

Had Sam felt like that, faced with Prentice, whom everyone hated? Joseph didn’t hate Mason, but he would in effect have killed him.

He felt Matthew’s hand warm and strong on his wrist, and looked up at him.

“Joe, what happened?” Matthew said insistently. “Where’s Mason now?”

He was afraid! Joseph realized it with amazement. Matthew was afraid because something in Joseph had changed irreparably. An innocence of decision had gone. Nothing was as simple as it had seemed, not Judith and Cullingford, not Sam and Prentice, not himself and Mason.

“You’re right,” he agreed quietly. “I would have drowned him rather than let him publish his piece.” He started to shake his head. “I would have let it go down.” He blinked as tears filled his eyes. “But he can’t do it now. I tried to tell him the reason for it all, explain to him, but I didn’t have the words. Andy showed him.”

“Who’s Andy?” Matthew asked.

“Tommy Atkins,” Joseph replied, then in simple, choking words he told Matthew what had happened. Matthew listened in silence, his hand held tight over Joseph’s.

“Where’s Mason now?” he said when Joseph fell silent.

“In the next room,” Joseph replied. “He was colder than I was, because he was wet. But he’s all right. He made it.”

“There’s no one in the next room,” Matthew said with a frown. “I passed it as someone was leaving. Tallish fellow, with dark hair. He looked pretty rough.”

Joseph felt himself cold again.

“You must find out who was going to print it,” he said urgently. “If the Peacemaker gets hold of him, he just might write it again. I don’t think so—but we have to be sure!

“Mason comes from Beverly in Yorkshire. When he thought we wouldn’t make it, he told me he’d known the newspaper owner all his life. The man has several papers, all in Yorkshire and Lancashire. He could kill recruiting right across the Midlands. You ought to be able to find him. Politically he’s a pacifist for a united Europe, doesn’t care at what cost, or who’s in charge.” He closed his eyes, his mind and his heart aching with understanding for Sam. He wished to God he had never told anyone at all that Prentice was murdered. “Bloody Prentice was working for him as well,” he said aloud. “Mason told me.”

“The Peacemaker?” Matthew’s eyes filled with understanding. “The original plan couldn’t work, so his plan now is to bring about British surrender because we haven’t the army to defend ourselves any more. God damn it, Joe! We have to stop him, whatever the cost!

“And you’re sure it’s not Chetwin?”

“Absolutely. It seemed so . . . inevitable. But it’s not.” He repeated to Matthew what Mynott had said about Chetwin’s German fiancée, her death and her parents’ grief and anger. “It would have been impossible for Chetwin to have any connection with the document,” he went on. “The kaiser wouldn’t let him into the palace grounds to deliver the coal, never mind to take a secret document of state to someone here to carry to the king. I think he was lucky to get out of Germany alive.”

“Father would be pleased,” Matthew said with a very slight smile. “He didn’t want to hate Chetwin. Although I don’t think he would have admired that story! Poor girl.”

“And her parents. She was their only child.” For a moment memory of Eleanor came back again. He saw in Matthew’s eyes that the same thought had come to him. His sorrow was there naked, his ache to be able to help, and the knowledge that he could not.

Joseph found himself smiling, not that the memory was much easier, but because Matthew understood it. “We’ve paid too much to give in now,” he said aloud. “How could we face those who’ve given everything they had, and tell them it was for nothing? We haven’t the stomach to go on! We asked everything from them. They gave it and we took.”

“I know.” Matthew bit his lip. “We won’t give in. But we’re a long way from the end. I’m glad it wasn’t Chetwin, but I wish to hell I knew who it was. We need to, Joe, whoever it is. He’s ruthless. Killing Cullingford like that shows he’ll destroy anyone he thinks stands in his way.” His face was bleak. “Gus Tempany died, too. I don’t know if it has anything to do with the Peacemaker, but he was a hell of a fine man, and a friend of Cullingford’s. Died the day after Cullingford. Accident of some sort, in his flat. I actually went and asked the porter if Cullingford had been there the day before, and he said he had.”

The coldness seemed to be in the air of the room. Joseph felt Cullingford’s death more deeply than he had expected to. His mind turned automatically to Judith, and meeting Matthew’s eyes, he knew his had also.

As if in answer, Matthew spoke. “I write to Judith, pretty well every day. She writes back, but she doesn’t really say much. I feel so damn helpless.”

“Letting her know you’re there is about all you can do,” Joseph replied. “It does help, at least after a while.”

Matthew nodded very slightly. “Our losses are appalling,” he said bleakly. “And the war at sea is getting worse.” He shook his head with a slight, self-deprecating smile. “I suppose I hardly need to tell you that! And you’ve seen more of the carnage than I have. No one could know better how little we can afford to be betrayed from within as well. We’ve got to find him and destroy him, before he takes our faith in ourselves away from us.”

“You’ll find the newspaper owner?” Joseph pressed.

“Yes. But that won’t be all the Peacemaker is doing.”

“No. No, of course not. I suppose if Mason’s well enough to get out of here, I must be, too.” He sat up slowly. He still ached, but his head was clear. “I’ve got to get back to Ypres,” he added. “I must see Judith. And I have to do something about Sam.”

“In a day or two,” Matthew agreed gently. “Come to my flat for a while first. Give yourself a chance, Joe. You’re no use to anyone like this.”

“I don’t know if I can afford it. What day is it anyway?”

“May nineteenth. I’ve told your unit; you’ve got till the end of the week at least, more if you need it. I don’t know what you’re going to do about Sam. I can’t help you with that, but Judith will be all right. We’re all going to lose people. She’ll hurt, but she’ll recover. You need a day or two here first. I’ll take one or two early nights. We’ll go to the music hall, or see a Charlie Chaplin film. You need to think of something absurd, that doesn’t matter a damn, before you go back. So do I.”

Joseph looked up. “I’m sorry. I didn’t even ask how you are!”

“That’s all right! I wouldn’t have told you anyway,” Matthew said with a sudden, beautiful smile.

In Marchmont Street the Peacemaker was stunned. Mason looked appalling. His eyes were hollow, and his face had a haunted air as of a man whose dreams make sleep worse than waking. He stood straight, but there was an overwhelming weariness in him, and when he moved it obviously hurt him.

“You lost it?” the Peacemaker repeated. “You said it was wrapped in oiled silk!”

“I didn’t lose it, I destroyed it,” Mason repeated. “I took it out of its wrapping and threw it into the water. Actually I had very little choice, if I wanted to survive. He would have let us all drown rather than have it published.”

“Drown himself? And the other crewman?”

“Yes.”

The Peacemaker stared at the man in front of him and saw in his wide-boned, passionate, stubborn face an immovable certainty that he was right. And there was something more than facts, there was a difference in emotion, a change in his eyes. “Joseph Reavley? The biblical language teacher from Cambridge?” he asked, still finding it difficult to believe.

“Yes,” Mason replied. “He’s serving as a chaplain in Ypres now. He’s seen a lot of action. I watched him helping the wounded in Gallipoli. He’s done a lot of it before.”

The Peacemaker swore. He was not often wrong about men. He could not afford to be, and this was an expensive mistake. That was two brilliant pieces of propaganda, opportunities to tell the truth in its horror, that had been snatched from him. He looked steadily at Mason, trying to read beyond the weariness; the emotion that Gallipoli and the sea had stirred in him. How long had he been adrift in an open boat with a blind and suicidal chaplain? Mason was a good man, he abhorred the waste, he cared for the individual, but he could also see beyond sentimentality to the greater good, which only too evidently Joseph Reavley could not. . . . Damn Joseph Reavley! He was far more of a nuisance than could have been foreseen!

“Never mind,” he said aloud. “You can write it again. It might not have the immediacy of the battlefield, but write the truth! Say you were pursued across the Mediterranean, that you took ship in Gibraltar but it was sunk and you only just survived crossing the Channel in a lifeboat, and you lost your original draft. It will make even more compelling reading.” He went on urgently. “And it will heighten people’s awareness of how vulnerable we are at sea.”

“Possibly,” Mason agreed flatly. “But I won’t.”

“Reavley can’t . . .”

“It’s nothing to do with what Reavley would do,” Mason replied, a flare of anger in his eyes. “Or to save my life. It’s because I don’t believe it’s the right thing to do. It won’t bring peace, only a betrayal of the ordinary soldier who now believes that he’s fighting a just and necessary war. I won’t do that.”

The Peacemaker’s temper flared because he was losing control in a startling and unexpected way. It took him a supreme effort to mask it and keep his expression bland. “Even Gallipoli?” he asked. “What was it like? What happened to you there?”

“I helped the wounded,” Mason replied. His voice was filled with pain, but there was a finality in it, closing off search for detail.

The Peacemaker stared at him. His words were true, but he was concealing something deeper. He could feel it. He could also feel the emotional tension in Mason, a passion just below the surface that consumed him, but he was too frightened of it to allow it through.

The Peacemaker would have to wait, move gently. Mason was too valuable to lose. He must be won back, persuaded, whatever it needed to change his mind again. Perhaps this was not the time to raise the subject of U-boats and torpedoes anyway! He would like to have turned his attention to those plans that included undermining and ultimately destroying this government, but he was not at the moment sufficiently certain of Mason’s loyalties in that direction.

“You’ve had a grim experience,” he said with some warmth. “And perhaps you are right about some of the issues of morale.” It was difficult to say, and he saw the surprise in Mason’s face, but he would come back to it later, slowly and with greater subtlety. “There are other matters of importance,” he went on with a smile. “The situation in the United States is of the utmost interest. Mexico is in turmoil and could invade any day. Unfortunately no one there is to be relied on. They are at war with each other as much as with any outside force.”

Mason’s eyes were wide, stunned with total incomprehension. “Why in God’s name did the Germans sink the Lusitania? I thought even Wilson would go to war over that!”

The Peacemaker pushed his hands into his pockets. “It seems nothing will bring him in. The Mexican move was even more successful than we hoped. We’ll keep working on it. Let me tell you what the exact situation is now, who we have there and what is next to be done.” He indicated that Mason should sit down. “It’s detailed,” he began. “Complicated. You need to understand the people.”

Mason listened, his attention held at last, almost as if he were relieved to have something to fasten his intellect on and rest from the turmoil inside him.

The Peacemaker did not tell him about the mole he had placed in the Scientific Establishment in Cambridge. He would keep that secret. It was as well to give only the information you had to. Trust no one.

Joseph ate and slept and did little more than wander around Matthew’s flat for two days. Then in the evening of the third day Matthew answered the telephone, and Joseph, watching him, saw his face light up, and an intense concern fill his expression.

“How are you?” Matthew said earnestly. He waited for the answer, listening with obvious sympathy. “I can’t,” he went on. “Although I expect Joseph would move for you. He’s been through a pretty rough time. He went out to Gallipoli, and came back by sea. His ship was sunk, and . . . yes, yes, he’s all right!” He glanced at Joseph as he spoke. “He’s here, now. I wouldn’t tell you like that, for heaven’s sake! But he did spend a bit of time in an open boat, rowing the thing. Yes, of course he is! I swear!”

There was another silence.

Matthew smiled. “Of course. That sounds like a good idea. Do you want to speak to him? Right.” He held out the telephone receiver. “It’s Judith. She’s in London.”

Joseph took the receiver. “Judith?” He was terribly afraid of what he might hear—the pain in her he still had no idea how to help.

“Are you all right,” she said urgently, “Joseph?” She sounded as if she were afraid for him.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he answered. “I was only cold and wet . . . and terrified.”

She laughed a little jerkily. “Is that all?”

“Where are you?” he asked. “If you want to stay here, I can move to a hotel.”

“No . . . thank you. I wanted to stay with Mrs. Prentice, and she invited me. I’m going to a dinner at the Savoy tomorrow evening, a sort of government thing, to get some kind of organization into voluntary help. There are people all over the country doing things; knitting, driving around, packing parcels, writing letters. It needs to get some order, or we’ll be falling over each other. It’s Dermot Sandwell’s idea, I think. Anyway, I need to find a dress.”

“Who’s taking you?”

“Taking me?” She drew in her breath quickly, a little shakily.

“May I?” he asked before she had time to think.

“If . . . if you want to? Yes. Thank you.”

“Where shall I pick you up, and when?”

She gave him the address. “About six, to give us time in case the traffic is bad.”

He heard the hesitation in her voice. “What is it?” he asked.

“Nothing! At least not . . . Joseph, this is Eldon Prentice’s family, you know. And . . . and General Cullingford’s sister . . . they’ve lost . . .” She did not know how to finish.

“Are you saying you would rather meet me somewhere else?” he offered.

“No! I was saying perhaps you could come a little earlier, and say something . . . decent about Prentice at least. It . . . Joseph, it’s terrible for them. . . .”

“Of course.” He responded immediately and without wondering how he would do it, especially now that he knew what Prentice had really been intending to do. “And no one has anything to say about Cullingford except good.” He took a deep breath. “Are you all right, Judith?”

“No,” she said a little huskily. “But then is anybody?”

“No. It’s only a matter of degree. How about five, or is that too early?”

“Five would be excellent. Thank you.”

“The only thing I have to wear is a uniform. Is that all right?”

“It’ll be perfect. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.” He passed the receiver back to Matthew. “She’s got a dinner tomorrow evening. I’ll take her.”

Matthew smiled. He did not say anything, but his pleasure was like a brightness in the room.

Joseph still looked haggard when he surveyed himself in the mirror in Matthew’s bathroom, but he was almost as presentable as any other soldier home on a brief leave.

He borrowed Matthew’s car, and by the time he pulled up outside the Prentices’ house he was decidedly nervous. He was being faced again with the duty of trying to say something of comfort to people who had lost someone they had loved long and intimately. It hardly ever made sense, in peacetime or war. The wound was gaping, full of all kinds of regrets, wishes, guilt over things said, and unsaid, all sorts of hopes dashed. Mrs. Prentice did not know her son had been murdered, but Joseph did. He remembered Mary Allard’s terrible, consuming grief. Nothing could limit it, nothing attempt to heal.

Would Mrs. Prentice be like that? Was he going to feel just as helpless? Or more so, because he had despised Eldon Prentice. Worse than that, Sam, who had killed him, was Joseph’s dearest friend, and he understood heart deep, bone deep, why he had done it. He had come close to doing something very like it himself.

He rang the doorbell. It was not a maid who answered, but Judith. He was startled because she looked so beautiful. She was utterly different from the healthy, rather coltish country girl, full of shy grace, that she had been a year ago. Now there were shadows in her face, a sculpting under the cheekbones. She looked far older, a woman, one who had seen passion and tragedy and understood at least something of each. She looked even more vulnerable than before, but also, oddly, she was stronger.

She was wearing a blue dress, which was quite deep in color, muted like the sky at dusk. It had a wide waist, emphasizing how slender she was, and the skirt was swathed and fell to below the knee, then another skirt beneath it to above the ankle, keeping the fashionable line.

“Thank you,” she said under her breath, then after giving him a quick kiss on the cheek, she turned as another woman came into the hall. This was obviously Prentice’s mother. She had the same fair skin and hair, although now it was leached of all vitality, almost as if she were a drawing the artist had forgotten to color. She was wearing dark gray, not quite the full black of mourning.

“Captain Reavley,” she said quietly. “How nice of you to come early. Judith said you might. Please come in. Perhaps you would join us in having a drink before you leave for the party?”

“Thank you.” It was unreasonable to do anything but accept. This was what he had come for. He thought ruefully how difficult he had imagined it was to sit in his dugout and write letters to mothers and widows of the men who had died, especially those he had known little, and about whom he had to invent something. It was nothing compared with facing someone like Mrs. Prentice, seeing the grief in her face, finding it hard even to envision what she had been like when there had been light in her eyes, when she could have laughed and meant it. He had disliked Prentice deeply, and now, knowing what he had intended to do, he regarded him as a traitor to his own land. And Sam was his friend, with all the warmth, the laughter and gentleness, the trust that that word encompassed.

He followed Mrs. Prentice into the quiet sitting room with its family photographs, slightly worn carpet, and unmatched antimacassars on the backs of the chairs. There was a bowl of early roses on the Pembroke table by the wall, golden reflections shining in the polished mahogany. A silver-framed picture of Eldon Prentice stood next to it. He wondered where the one of Owen Cullingford was. Or had she room for only one bereavement at a time?

He thought of what Judith had said about seeing the photograph of Prentice and Cullingford at Henley, with the unusual girl, then mentioning it to Cullingford later. She believed it was that which had led him to the Peacemaker, and his death.

He looked again at the photographs. One of them was of a group at Henley; Cullingford, Prentice, a couple of other youths, and a tall girl with fair, wavy hair. Later he would ask who she was. There was no time now, without being rude.

There was someone else in the room, a girl in her early twenties, slender, dark gold hair. She looked too like Eldon Prentice not to be his sister, but the steady look that in him had been arrogant, in her was merely candid.

Mrs. Prentice introduced them. “This is my daughter, Belinda. Captain Reavley has been kind enough to come early, to talk with us. It was he who . . . brought Eldon back to . . . from no-man’s-land.” She was having difficulty retaining her composure.

“How do you do, Captain Reavley,” Belinda said gravely. “Please don’t feel you need to tell us about it again. Judith already did, the first time she came. We are terribly grateful to you.” She glanced at her mother, as if warning her, then back at Joseph again. “It is our maid’s evening off. We’re lucky still to have her. We expect her to go and work in a munitions factory any day now. May I get you a sherry? Or would you prefer something else? Whisky, maybe? I think we have some.”

He had to accept something. “Sherry would be excellent, thank you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” He made himself smile. “It’s very civilized. We get raw spirits in the trenches—navy rum. This would be far better.”

She smiled back at him, relief far more obvious in her face than she could have realized.

Mrs. Prentice invited him to sit, and they all accepted, but awkwardly, not leaning back in comfort. It was his responsibility to carry the conversation. He was the priest, they were the bereaved, the ones he was here to comfort, to offer some pattern of sense. Except that there was no sense he could share with them. And you never knew how much people wanted to know, what healed, and what only made the wound deeper.

Mrs. Prentice was watching him, her blue-gray eyes desperately hungry for any kind of gentleness at all, any hope of good.

“What would you like to know?” he asked her.

“I . . . I’m not sure,” she said awkwardly, looking down at her hands and then up again quickly. “I so much wanted you to come, and now that you are here, I’m not sure what to say. I know Eldon was . . . abrasive sometimes.” She smiled, and her eyes were full of tears. “He could irritate people, because he had no patience with lies. He didn’t understand that people have to . . . to defend themselves, not only what they say, but what they can find the courage to believe.”

Was she talking about Prentice, or was she also asking him not to tell her a truth that would destroy the illusions she needed in order to survive?

“Of course,” he agreed, keeping the smile in his eyes. “People who tell the truth have never been popular with everyone, regardless of the fact that some truths have to be told, and others can be concealed for a while, or perhaps forever. It’s the judgment that’s so difficult. And the horror of the front line is not an easy place.”

“He would have . . . mellowed.” She gulped the words. “He was slow to learn tact. He was so angry at the loss of life, at the way the men were treated.”

“He believed the whole war was wrong, Mother,” Belinda put in, speaking for the first time since she had been introduced.

“Nobody but a lunatic wants war.” Joseph turned to look at her, seeing the anxiety, the confusion in her face. “It’s just that some alternatives are worse. Whatever the cost, there are some things that are worth fighting for, because life without them is a different kind of death, without hope for the future.”

“I know that, Captain Reavley,” she said with a very slight edge to her voice. She was struggling to defend her brother, as well as her own conviction, and yet not tear her mother’s loyalties apart. “Eldon felt he could change things, make people stop talking and thinking about it as some glorious crusade, and realize how terrible it really is.” Her face tightened with anger. “You should read some of the pieces that are written—words like courage and honor and noble sacrifice. Eldon said it’s nothing like that! It’s mud and rats and body lice, filthy food, stinking latrines . . .” She ignored her mother’s gasp. “And terrified men being slaughtered for no gain at all!”

Joseph thought of the men he knew, men like Sam, Barshey Gee, Wil Sloan, Cullingford himself, and Andy.

“He wasn’t there long enough to see all of it,” he answered her, not avoiding her eyes or offering pity. “All those things are true, and worse. But the best is true also. The courage is there, and it’s real, not fairy tale. It’s going forward to face what turns your bowels into water and makes you sick with fear, knowing the shrapnel could hit your body any moment, but you do it anyway, because it’s the right thing to do. Above all there is the friendship, in things as big as giving your life to save someone else, and as small as sitting up all night telling bad jokes and sharing your chocolate biscuits.” His voice was rough with emotion, remembering talking with Sam all night, about anything, everything, and surviving hell, because he was not alone. “It’s about cold and terror and death all around you, and finding someone reaching out his hand to you, thinking of your pain—not his own.”

Mrs. Prentice heard it and bit her lip.

There was a moment’s silence. There were tears on Belinda’s face.

“He had someone willing to publish his work, didn’t he?” Judith intervened, her voice harsh with her own grief. She was speaking to wrench her mind away from it. “Because most national newspapers wouldn’t.”

“Oh, yes!” Mrs. Prentice said quickly. “If anyone had found his notes, we would have forwarded them on.”

“It probably wouldn’t have helped,” Belinda put in. “He used to write in his own kind of shorthand. Unless they could decipher it, it would be meaningless.”

It was absurd. Joseph thought of Sam, and his knowledge of the schoolboy cipher. A week ago he would have given almost anything to have known where to find the publisher. Now, because of Richard Mason, Matthew would find out and it no longer mattered.

“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” he said to Mrs. Prentice, mostly so Judith would know. “If it would be against the Defense of the Realm Act it would be suppressed. The Intelligence Services know who it is.” Then as her face crumpled in confusion he wondered if he should not have said it. It was Judith who needed to know that it did not have to be pursued. Mrs. Prentice could have kept her dreams, if they were of comfort. But could he retrieve it without being obviously patronizing, and destroying everything else he had said? How could you touch such grief without adding to it?

“It was secret,” she protested. “He meant to do so much good! He said no one tells the real truth, and people have the right to know. You can’t ask men to give their lives, and lie to them how it will be.”

“Sometimes we can only take bits of the truth, and still survive,” he reminded her. “We have to fight, and for that we need courage, and hope. By the time he got back to England, he might have realized that, especially if he had spoken with you.”

She turned away quickly, her voice choking. “Do you think so? I’m sorry.” She stood up. “Please excuse me.” And she hurried from the room.

“I shouldn’t have said that,” Joseph apologized with contrition.

“Oh, it’s all right!” Belinda said hastily, her face white. “Eldon was too arrogant to listen to anyone, but it’s nice to imagine he might have. It’s all we have now.”

Joseph said nothing. Perhaps Prentice might never have grown wiser or kinder, or have matured into a man of anything like Richard Mason’s humanity, but it was still a tragedy that he had been robbed of the chance. Sam’s face was sharp in his mind. He was everything that Prentice was not. What he would have become was only a hope, his mother’s hope because she loved him, perhaps felt responsible for his failures as well as protective of the good she knew of him, the ability to struggle, to feel pain. One defended one’s own, it was part of the love that was belonging. It was instinct more powerful than reason, the passion that forgave, that never surrendered belief. It had saved many when nothing else could have.

Now was the time to change the subject and look at the photographs. He turned to them and regarded them quite openly. “It’s a wonderful gift, to be able to have memories kept like this,” he observed. “Happier times caught and held for us. Is this Henley?”

He heard Judith draw in her breath.

Belinda followed her gaze. “Yes. It was a good time. The year before last, I think.”

“A pretty young woman. Were she and Eldon close?”

Belinda looked at it more closely. “I don’t think so. I remember I liked her. She was fun.”

“Perhaps we should leave.” Judith was standing close behind them. She was facing Belinda. “I know why you wanted to talk, but I think it’s too soon. There’ll be other times.”

“I’ll stay up for you?” Belinda said, her eyes eager. There was fierce, shy admiration in them.

“It’ll be the middle of the night,” Judith said wryly. “Are you sure that’s still all right?”

“Of course! I couldn’t leave you to find your own way.” Then she blushed. “And I’d love to talk with you a little bit more, before you go back to see your sister.”

“If I may, I’d love to,” Judith agreed. “London’s got to be more fun than Cambridge anyway!” She meant it as a joke, and after a second’s hesitation Belinda smiled.

She accompanied them to the door, and bade them good night, hoping they would enjoy themselves. Judith hesitated before getting into the car on the passenger side, and Joseph closed the door firmly and went around to crank the engine and start up.

“No!” he said with a smile as he pulled out onto the road. “You are not driving. I don’t care how much better you are at it.”

She laughed, but it was hollow.

He glanced at her. There was a sadness in her face that was more marked now that she was away from the Prentice house, and the need to pretend. The shadows were more obvious in the passing streetlamps.

“Are you all right?” he asked softly, not because the question had any meaning, simply to let her know he was aware.

“No,” she said huskily. “Now I’m sure it was my fault he was killed. That photograph at Henley is almost the same as the one I saw, and told General Cullingford about, but it’s not exactly.” She was looking away from him. “There was an older woman there—I expect it was his wife—and it’s a different girl.”

“Are you certain?” The implication was frightening. It seemed that the Peacemaker had reached this far, in this minute detail. The original girl was indeed someone so close to him he could be identified from knowing who she was, and he had realized how Cullingford knew, and not only had he killed Cullingford, and probably Gustavus Tempany, but he had also substituted another picture for the one with her in it. The only other alternative was that it was all coincidence. Cullingford had been on a wild-goose chase, and died at the hands of some street thief with a knife. Tempany’s death the day after was just one of those extraordinary chances of timing.

He did not believe that.

“I think I am,” she replied. “That’s proof the Peacemaker killed him, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I think so.” He reached out and put his hand over hers. “I’m sorry.”

She sniffed and gulped. “I’ll have a good cry about it later. I don’t want to go to the party with a blotchy face.”

“Of course not,” he agreed. “We’re all hiding some wound or other. Head up, eyes forward.”

“How about you?” She turned to look at him. The tears brimmed over and slid down her cheeks, but she was searching to know if he was also hiding something too big and too heavy to bear.

“I know who killed Prentice,” he answered, wondering why he told her. He had thought he was going to tell no one, but the decision he had made in the boat was now impossible to live with. He must face Sam, and he was almost certain what he was going to do about it. It would hurt bitterly, almost unendurably. But he had watched hundreds of men bear wounds they would have thought beyond any strength to survive, and yet they had done it with dignity; they were ordinary men, some of them little more than boys. Men sent their sons and brothers and friends into horror unimaginable, and did it without crying against fate. So could he. The loneliness afterward was the price for all of them.

“Who was it?” she asked.

He shook his head very slightly. “I’ll deal with it. Let’s go to the party. Put on our best faces, and pretend it’s fun.”

She smiled at him, and reached over to kiss him on the cheek.

The party was fun, in an absurd, dreamlike way. All the women wore beautiful gowns, but the colors were subdued. It was unseemly to wear reds and pinks, as if denying other people’s loss, and yet everyone was pretending to a laughter and an ease they could not feel. Diamonds glittered, hair was perfect in the latest style, swept back, totally without curls except for the most discreet, just one on the brow, or at the nape of the neck. More would be unacceptable. The men were either in black, or uniform. Even though it was a formal dinner, nothing was more honorable than khaki, and Joseph was looked at with respect verging on deference.

The twenty guests were at one long table, so they might discuss information and ideas more easily. No attempt had been made to balance the numbers. There were fourteen men and six women. Their host was Dermot Sandwell, tall and lean, impossibly elegant in black and white, the light of the chandeliers gleaming on his fair hair.

“Good evening, Miss Reavley, Captain Reavley,” he said warmly as they entered the room where the reception was held. “It was very good of you to come,” he said to Judith in particular. “You will speak on behalf of a body of women we admire intensely. You have a nobility and a courage second to none.”

“We have men, too, Mr. Sandwell,” she reminded him. “Many of them are young Americans who came at their own expense, because they believe in what we are fighting for, and they care.”

“Yes, I know. And we will do more to give you the supplies and the support that’s appropriate,” he promised. “That’s why we need you here, to tell us exactly what that is. It’s time to stop guessing, doubling up some actions and omitting others. There is so much goodwill in the civilian population, people willing to do anything they can to help, but it is desperately in need of organization.” He turned to Joseph. “I see you are a chaplain. Are you home on leave?”

“Yes, sir, briefly,” Joseph answered. “I return in two days.”

“Where to?”

“Ypres.” There was no indiscretion in answering. Chaplains were often moved from one place to another, and a cabinet minister like Sandwell probably knew far more accurately than Joseph exactly which regiments were where, and what their numbers were.

“Front line?” Sandwell asked.

“Yes, sir. I think that’s where I should be.”

“Were you there for the gas attack?” Sandwell’s face was bleak, almost pinched. Joseph could not help wondering if he had lost someone he knew and loved in it.

“Yes, sir,” he replied, meeting the wide, blue eyes and seeing the imagination of horror in them, and perhaps guilt, because he knew, and still had no choice but to send more men to face something he did not experience himself. Joseph wished he could think of something to say that would at least show he understood. For ministers and generals to risk their own lives helped no one. Their burdens were different, but just as real. Quite suddenly he felt an almost suffocating sense of loss for Owen Cullingford, not for Judith’s sake, but simply because the man was gone, and he realized how much he had liked him. “Yes, I was there. It’s a new kind of war.”

“I’d give anything not to have to send men to that!” Sandwell said quietly, his voice shaking. “God in heaven, what have we come to?” He took a deep breath. “I’m sorry, Captain. You know better than I do what the reality is. Perhaps you would be kind enough after dinner, when we address the subject more seriously, to tell us anything you think might assist us to be of more help, and more support to our men?”

“Anything I can,” Joseph agreed.

They moved further into the room, side by side, acknowledging people, being introduced, making polite remarks. After a little while they separated, Judith to talk to one of the other women, Joseph to answer questions from a bishop and member of the House of Lords on conditions and supplies that might be helped by civilian donations.

It was only as they were going in to dinner that he heard a voice he recognized with a stab of memory so sharp the sweat broke out on his skin and he felt cold the instant after.

“Virtuous and no doubt commendable, but naive, Miss Reavley.”

Joseph spun around and saw Richard Mason talking to Judith. They were standing a little apart from the stream of guests moving toward the dining room. He still looked tired, his skin, like Joseph’s own, chapped by the wind, eyes hollow, as if Andy’s death were with him all the time. Also he had been at Gallipoli longer, and was perhaps more profoundly shocked by it than Joseph, who was used to Ypres. His dark hair had been properly cut and was smoothed back off his brow, and the power in his face, the carefully suppressed emotion, was naked to any observer who had ever been racked by storms themselves, or known feelings that overwhelmed caution and self-preserving.

“I have seen as many wounded men as you have, Mr. Mason!” Judith retorted icily. “Don’t patronize me.”

His eyes widened slightly and there was reluctant admiration in them. It could have been for her spirit, or the fact that she drove an ambulance. Or it could simply have been that she was beautiful. Anger and grief had taken the bloom of innocence from her and refined the strength. Cullingford had awoken the woman in her, and scoured deep with loss, all in the same act. Perhaps Mason saw something of it in her, because another kind of certainty had gone from his eyes, and whether she was aware of it or not, it was she who had caused that.

Without waiting for his reply, she turned and went through the doors to the dining room, leaving him to follow or not, as he wished.

Joseph found himself smiling, even though he was overtaken by a wave of fierce and consuming protectiveness toward her, and a knowledge that he could never succeed; no one could protect Judith, or be protected from her.

He followed after her, awed, proud, and a little frightened.

As always, he could smell the sour stench of the Front before he heard the guns, or saw the lines of troops marching, the broken trees, the occasional crater beside the roads where heavy artillery shells had fallen. There was a terrible familiarity to it, like reentering an old nightmare, as if every time sleep touched you, you were drawn back into the same drowning reality.

Like anyone else, he had to walk the last few miles. He was passed by Wil Sloan, driving an empty ambulance. He stopped, but not to offer a lift; it was forbidden and Joseph knew better than to hope.

“How’s Judith?” Wil asked anxiously, sticking his head out of the side and trying to make himself smile. “I mean . . .” He stopped awkwardly, memory sharp in his eyes.

Joseph smiled. “Last time I saw her she was making mincemeat out of a top war correspondent,” he answered. “She looked gorgeous, in a long, blue gown, and she was going in to dinner at the Savoy.”

Wil looked uncertain whether to believe him or not.

“Actually,” Joseph amended, “that wasn’t the last time. I did take her to where she was staying after that.”

Wil relaxed. “She’s going to be all right?”

“In time,” Joseph told him. “We all will be, one way or another.” He stood back, waving him on, to avoid the embarrassment for Wil of having to explain why he couldn’t offer a lift, even to a chaplain.

Wil smiled and gave a little salute, then slipped the ambulance into gear again and moved forward. Joseph watched him drive into the distance on the long, straight road with its shattered poplars and the ditches on either side. The fields were level, a few copses left. One or two houses were burned out. There was a column of smoke on the horizon.

It was dusk and the heavy artillery was firing pretty steadily, sending up great gouts of dark, sepia-colored earth, when he reported to the colonel.

“You look rough, Reavley,” Fyfe observed. “Leave doesn’t agree with you. Feeling all right?” He asked it casually, but there was a genuine anxiety in his face.

“Yes, sir.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir. I ran an errand to Gallipoli. Bit of bother on the way back.”

Fyfe raised his eyebrows. “Bother?”

“Yes, sir. Ship I was in got stopped by a German U-boat. They let us off before they sank it, but rather more rowing than I care for.”

“Are you fit to be here? You look stiff!”

“Yes, sir, but not too much.” Deliberately Joseph used the words he had heard from so many wounded men. “I’m a lot better than many of those who are fighting.”

Fyfe gave the ghost of a smile. “True. Glad to have you back. Morale needs you. Lost one or two good men since you’ve been gone.”

Joseph nodded. He did not want to know who they were yet. “Do you know where Major Wetherall was moved to, sir? I need to see him.”

The colonel looked surprised, then curious. He looked at Joseph’s face, and read absolute refusal to speak. “I don’t know where he went, but he’s back. Been here a few days. He’s probably in the same dugout as before. Are you going to tell me what it’s about?”

“No, sir.”

“I see. I suppose your calling allows you to do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go on, then. If you go to the front line, take care. It’s going to be a rough night.”

“Is anyone going over on a raid?” He gulped. It was too soon. Far too soon. Yet what difference did it make? Whenever it was, it would come, and then that would be the end. The sweetness and the burden of friendship ached inside him like a physical pain. It would serve nothing to delay it.

“Are you sure you’re all right, Reavley?” Fyfe repeated.

“Yes, sir.”

The colonel nodded and made a small gesture with his hand. “Glad you’re back. The men need you. Young Rattray was wounded. Not too bad.”

“Yes, sir. Is he still here?”

“Hospital in Armentières.”

“Thank you. Good night, sir.”

“Good night, Reavley.”

Outside in the dark he walked over the mud to the beginning of the supply trench and down the steps. It must have been raining again because there was water under the duckboards and he heard the rats’ feet scuttling and the heavy plop and splash of their bodies as they slid off.

He made his way west toward Sam’s dugout. He half hoped he would not be there. It would delay what he had to do. He passed the Old Kent Road and turned along Paradise Alley. Now and then a star shell flared up, lighting the trenches ahead and then he heard the stutter of machine guns. He recognized the pattern.

He went down the familiar slope and called out.

Sam came to the door, pushing the sacking curtain back, his face in the glare alive with pleasure to see Joseph.

“Come in! Have some hot brandy and mud! I’ve got chocolate biscuits.” He held the curtain open and stepped back.

Joseph almost refused. What if he put it off another day? He knew the answer. He would make it worse, that’s all. He would have behaved like a coward, and Sam did not deserve that.

He went down the step into the small, cramped space he knew so well. The pictures were the same, the books, the windup gramophone, a few records he had heard a dozen times, and the red blanket on Sam’s bed. The hurricane lantern was lit, warm yellow, touching everything with a golden edge.

“You look like hell,” Sam said cheerfully. “I heard about Cullingford. That’s a damn shame. He was a good man. Is your sister going to be all right?”

“In time.” Joseph sat down on the pile of boxes that had always served as a visitor’s chair.

Sam was heating up tea in a Dixie can. He added a generous dash of brandy, then pulled open a box of chocolate biscuits. There were five left. He gave three to Joseph and took two himself. “And your brother?” he asked.

“Fine. I went to Gallipoli on an errand for him.”

Sam’s eyebrows shot up. “Gallipoli? No wonder you look like that. They say it’s worse than here.”

“No, it isn’t. But it’s as bad.” Joseph had to be honest. “Well, maybe the chaos is worse. They don’t seem to have thought before they ordered the attack. Poor devils didn’t even know there were cliffs there.”

Sam swore quietly, not with rage, but with pity at the waste of it.

Joseph could not turn back now. “I found a war correspondent out there. Outstanding writer, not a novice like Prentice.”

Sam’s eyes were wide. “And?”

“And he intended to write it up exactly as he saw it, no excuses, nothing softened,” Joseph replied.

Now Sam was motionless, his body stiff, his hands clenched around his mug of tea. “You say he intended to. He changed his mind?”

Joseph looked at him carefully. He could see the fear in his eyes, but he knew beyond any question that it was not for himself but for Joseph, for what he might have done that he could not live with. How well Sam knew him! And accepted him.

“I tried to persuade him not to in Gallipoli, and I failed,” he answered. “He left and I caught up with him on board a ship from Gibraltar. We were sunk by the Germans, and ended up in the same lifeboat.”

Sam continued to stare at him, waiting.

“I tried again to persuade him,” Joseph said. “There was another man with us, a crewman, wounded, and one who died. Mason and I were rowing the boat, trying to keep it into the wind as long as we could. And when we couldn’t hold it any longer, we turned and ran before the storm.” He took a deep breath. He had to say it now. “When Mason said he would publish his story, I stopped rowing. I sat in the stern and watched him struggle with both oars. I’d have let him go down, all of us, the crewman as well, rather than have him publish it.”

“But he changed his mind,” Sam said softly. “He must have, or you wouldn’t be here. And you believe him?”

“Yes.” He saw the doubt in Sam’s face. “Not because of what he said. We got becalmed in a fog. A ship came by, destroyer, I think. Mason stood up to hail it. Andy yelled at him not to, but it was too late. Mason didn’t listen. The wash of the destroyer caught us and Mason overbalanced and went into the water. Andy went after him.” He found it hard to say, even now. “I had the oars. I turned the boat and went back. Got Mason out, but we lost Andy.” His throat was aching and his voice was barely audible. “That . . . that’s what changed Mason, not really anything I said. Andy was typical Tommy, his brother’s keeper. . . .”

Sam nodded. He did not need to speak. Suddenly the dugout seemed very small and close.

“Sam . . . I know you killed Prentice,” Joseph said in the silence. “And I know why. Mason told me what he was doing, because he didn’t know he was dead. He said it was all in his schoolboy code—but you could read that, couldn’t you!” He did not wait for an answer—it was in Sam’s eyes. “I don’t know whether I would have done the same or not. A fortnight ago I’d have said no. Now I’m not certain. I couldn’t kill Mason with my own hands, but that’s an equivocation. I was willing to stand back and let him die, which comes to the same thing. And I liked him. We tended the wounded together on the beach at Gallipoli. He was a decent man, not an arrogant, self-serving bastard like Prentice.”

“But . . .?” Sam’s voice was hoarse, his eyes full of inner pain.

He did not deserve to have to listen to Joseph excusing himself, talking about Prentice’s murder, as if that would make what he said any easier.

“But you killed him,” Joseph said. “There are other men here, young men who are offering their lives to save what they believe in, a decency they trust, who know he was killed by one of us. I wish to God I’d covered it some way, but I didn’t, and now it can’t go unanswered.”

Sam looked crumpled, hurt more than he knew how to deal with. “Are you going to turn me in?”

“No,” Joseph said softly. “I can’t do that. I can’t even tell you that you were wrong, only that the army will see it that way. They have to.” He had tried to think of the words ever since he had decided what to do the night he had visited Mrs. Prentice, but it was no easier. “Next time there’s a big raid, like later tonight, you can go over the top with the others.” His voice cracked, but he could not stop. “Find someone dead who looks near enough like you, or whose body is beyond recognition, and change identity tags with him.” He was shivering. “You’ll live, and Sam Wetherall will be missing in action.” He wanted to say he was sorry, that he would have done anything he knew how, but none of it would help. He wanted to close his eyes, not look at Sam’s face, but he could not do that either. “If I can work it out, so will others. Before that . . . please . . . go . . . “

Sam did not speak for several moments. He stared at Joseph, searching.

Joseph wanted to answer, but he could not go back on the decision, or all it meant. Nor could he tell Sam’s brother the truth. No one else must know. It was not his own survival or morality that mattered, it was Sam’s. With passionate, consuming intensity, he wanted him to live. He wanted the gentleness, the anger at wrong, the courage, the pity, and the laughter to go on.

“You’d have died to silence Mason?” Sam said at last. “And taken the crewman as well?”

“Yes.” There was no hesitation.

The hunger eased from Sam’s face. It was what he needed to know. He held out his hand.

Joseph took it and gripped it hard, so hard it hurt. Then he stood up and went outside, tripping over the step, his eyes blind with tears.

It was a big raid. Thirty men went over the top, through the wire and into the German trenches. Joseph advanced immediately to the front and spent the night on the fire-step until there were wounded. One of them was Plugger Arnold, but his was only a flesh wound in the thigh.

“Glad to see you back, Chaplain,” Plugger said, gritting his teeth as Joseph tied the bandage tight and then hoisted him onto his back, his muscles screaming in protest. There was little room here to turn a stretcher, and Joseph could not carry one alone anyway.

Half an hour later it started to rain, then their own heavy artillery began. There was a lot of cursing, because it meant that the German heavy stuff would reply. They always did. This stretch of the line would get it hard. There would be casualties, and a lot of digging and shoring up to do in the morning.

The raiding party came back just before dawn, with three German prisoners, five of their own wounded, six dead. One of those was Sam. The lieutenant who had led the party told him.

“I’m sorry,” he said wearily. “It was a hell of a mess out there. I know he was a friend of yours. The body’s over there. I’m afraid he must have taken a pretty direct hit with a grenade or two. I only know it’s him because of the tag. At least it was quick. Better than being hung on the wire.” And he moved away to be with his men, the injured, the shocked, others who had seen their friends blown to pieces.

Joseph knew it had had to happen, and somewhere inside him he was at peace that it was accomplished. Sam had accepted and done what was necessary. But there was also a gnawing loss, an emptiness that was always going to ache, like a missing limb. But first he had to look at the body and still the horror in his mind that it could, in hideous irony, really be Sam. Sam was the only one who would have seen the black laughter in that! God! How he was going to miss him!

He found it hard to make his way between the stretchers and the bodies lying on canvas, or duckboards. His legs were shaking. It was almost daylight now. The sky above was streaked with light drifting banners of cloud.

The bodies were all badly injured, but one was so torn apart, both legs gone, one arm shattered and the head half blown away, that all one could be sure of was that he had been at least average height, and had had dark hair. It could have been Sam.

Trembling, sick with fear, Joseph picked up the dog tag and read Sam’s name and number on it. Now his whole body was shuddering. He reached for the one good hand, the left hand. Would he recognize it? He stared at it, trying to be certain. Then he saw the pale indentation on the third finger where there had been a ring, a plain circle, a wedding ring. Sam had never worn a ring. Relief swept over him, breaking out in sweat over his body; he was dizzy, the makeshift room swaying around him.

Someone grasped him from behind, holding him up, steadying him.

“You all right, Chaplain? Pretty bad, eh. Poor devil.”

Joseph wanted to say something, but his voice would not come. He gulped for breath, fighting the sudden nausea.

Someone passed him a cup of tea, hot and laced with rum. It was vile, made in a Dixie can that had held a Maconochie tinned stew as well. As he drank the tea, his balance returned.

“Thank you. I’ll . . . I’ll have some letters to write. Lots of letters.”

He conducted all the funerals, just brief words over white crosses in the Flanders clay, a few quiet men standing to attention, the sound of guns in the distance, the banners of sky like lead above them, as if their shoulders held it.

Sam’s was the last. Joseph stood there alone after the others had gone. He did not realize anyone else had stayed until he heard Barshey Gee’s voice.

“Oi’m real sorry, Captain Reavley. The major was a good man.”

“Yes.” Joseph found it hard to speak. “He was my friend.”

“Did you ever foind out who killed that newspaper wroiter?”

“Yes. It’s taken care of.”

“Knew you’d see to it,” Barshey said quietly. “Debt settled then.”

Joseph turned to look at him. There were tears on Barshey’s face, but he was smiling. He stood smartly to attention, and saluted the cross that bore the words

MAJOR SAMUEL WETHERALL,

KILLED IN ACTION, MAY 25, 1915.

By Anne Perry

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

FEATURING WILLIAM MONK

The Face of a Stranger

A Dangerous Mourning

Defend and Betray

A Sudden, Fearful Death

The Sins of the Wolf

Cain His Brother

Weighed in the Balance

The Silent Cry

A Breach of Promise

The Twisted Root

Slaves of Obsession

Funeral in Blue

Death of a Stranger

FEATURING CHARLOTTE AND THOMAS PITT

The Cater Street Hangman

Callander Square

Paragon Walk

Resurrection Row

Bluegate Fields

Rutland Place

Death in the Devil’s Acre

Cardington Crescent

Silence in Hanover Close

Bethlehem Road

Highgate Rise

Belgrave Square

Farriers’ Lane

The Hyde Park Headsman

Traitors Gate

Pentecost Alley

Ashworth Hall

Brunswick Gardens

Bedford Square

Half Moon Street

The Whitechapel Conspiracy

Southampton Row

Seven Dials

THE WORLD WAR I NOVELS

No Graves As Yet

Shoulder the Sky

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Ballantine Book

Published by The Random House Publishing Group

Copyright © 2004 by Anne Perry