Charlie thrust one foot ahead of him, leaning his full weight on the pick handle. He couldn’t rise. A moment later, a strong arm encircled his shoulders and lifted him to his feet. The German had come to his aid.
“Thank you,” Charlie whispered.
“He’s not fit for work, captain,” said the small man.
“He’ll help us build ovens or be baked in them,” the captain said. “And there’s where he’ll start.”
Charlie followed the captain’s finger to a row of grey granite crypts, each of them nearly the height of a man.
“We can’t carry those, captain. We’d best send for a wagon.”
“We’re not going to carry them, Parkes. We’ll build them right where they stand. Easier to transport supplies here than carry a quarry back to camp. We’ll send for the cooks, that’s all. Now get to work.”
“Aye, captain. You heard him, Wolfgang; you too, boy. Get to work. Haul up those stones.”
“But… but those are gravestones,” Charlie said. “You can’t disturb the dead.”
“Rebel dead,” the captain said. “We’ll put those stones to some good use, building ovens to feed the living.”
“Go on, boy,” said Parkes. “It’s your bread we’ll be baking. You look hungry.”
“But they weren’t reb—Patriots,” Charlie argued. “They were here before this trouble, before the taxes or any of it.”
“Patriots, is it?” the captain snarled. “I’ve heard enough out of you to last me a lifetime, boy. How’d you like to lie down here forever with these dear friends of yours?”
Charlie walked to the first of the crypts, where Wolfgang had already begun to dig at the base of one stone. The German’s pick grated against the granite, leaving bright bone-white streaks in the lichen-mottled surface. Charlie circled around to the other side of the tomb, aware of the captain’s gaze. Parkes stood loading a pipe with tobacco, his own pick propped against his leg.
“Should I take a run back to camp, captain?” he asked.
“Fetch the cooks?”
“A run?” the captain said sarcastically. “On your fat stumps? No, I think we’ll wait till we’ve assembled a few ovens— give the cooks something to do when they get here. You could put yourself to better use digging up stones.”
“Right away, sir. Just as soon as I finish this bowl.”
“Bowl be damned, Parkes. Do it now.”
With a sigh, the portly Parkes strolled over to stand behind Charlie, as if he would supervise the progress of the work.
“Hold your pick a moment, boy,” he said. “Let’s have a look at whose sleep we’re disturbing, shall we?”
Charlie stood back and Parkes came up to the stone. He stood on his toes, craned his neck sideways at an awkward angle, and mumbled a few syllables, reading to himself. When he moved back from the stone, his face had gone white.
“Captain,” he muttered, hurrying away.
“What is it, Parkes? Another excuse to keep you from your duties?”
“No, sir. I think it’s a Mason, sir.”
“A Mason? What are you talking about?”
“Come look for yourself, sir. There’s signs and sigils of the sort the colonel warned us away from.”
“Masonic signs?”
“I don’t know, sir, not being a Mason myself. But the colonel was very particular about not disturbing any Masons, as you must surely recall, sir. Those were his direct orders to you, sir.”
“I remember his orders, damn you. Let me see.”
The captain accompanied Parkes back to the stone. The German meanwhile kept digging, his pick striking the granite with a grating sound that turned Charlie’s stomach. While the captain leaned over the crypt, Charlie tried to imagine what might be lying within. He had seen plenty of death in recent weeks, but it was all of the fresh, bloody kind. Whatever those stones contained would be at best shrivelled and dry, if not mere dust. Still, he did not like the thought of disturbing it. He hoped the soul that slumbered here could see and understand his predicament, and that if it were inclined toward any form of ghostly revenge, it would show him mercy.
But he had seen too many of his comrades, alive and shouting one moment, fall down in battle and never rise again, to believe that something so long dead could ever manage to stir against its enemies, no matter how just the cause.
The captain leaned across the stone, tracing the carved figures there with his fingers, then he shook his head. “I don’t know what these are, but they’re not Masonic.”
“Rosicrucian, then?”
“Take my word for it, Parkes, these are nothing to do with the colonel. And he won’t know a thing about it anyway, because when we build the ovens we’ll turn the inscriptions inward. Blank stone, that’s all he’ll see. Now stop putting off your labor.”
“But sir, it’s almost night. We should be getting back to camp.”
“We’ll camp here if we must. Now there’s an idea. Why don’t you go gather some firewood? Be useful for once.”
Seeming mildly offended, Parkes strolled into the trees. The captain followed him a short distance, as if to ensure that he went about his task properly, and Charlie took the opportunity to look at the inscriptions on the surface of the stone. The dusk had deepened to such an extent that very little should have been visible, but the lines and designs must have been incised very deeply. Each one looked like a thin edge of night, infinitely deep instead of mere fractions of an inch. He almost thought he saw stars glimmering down inside them, though that must have been flecks of the silvery mica that always dwells in granite. The letters of the deceased’s name were very queer indeed, written in a script that bore only a superficial resemblance to any Charlie had ever seen. Of course, he couldn’t read. Apart from the letters, the stone was covered with a wealth of intricate symbols, star-shapes and triangles, all growing like leaves from a carved vine that almost completely covered the crypt’s topmost slab.
He had just stepped back to raise his pick when the German let out a warning cry. With a grinding sound, the sides of the tomb began to shift and tilt, caving in on themselves like the walls of the Dagonite temple. The German’s digging had undermined the whole support, though it scarcely seemed possible that four thick walls could be so easily toppled. The heavy slab atop the four drove them sideways to the earth, where they collapsed almost gently, unbroken. The coffin must have been buried beneath the earth, and not imprisoned in the stones as Charlie had feared. There was nothing but hollow space in there.
Parkes and the captain came running from the woods.
“What happened here?” the captain said.
The German stared at him as if he were an idiot.
“Our first oven!” Parkes cried. “I can almost smell that bread. Please, captain, let me run for a cook. We’ll eat fresh loaves tonight.”
“While the rest of the army dines on stale?” said the captain, but something in this must have pleased him, for he nodded, smiling, and told Parkes, “Run back, then. But be discreet. One cook, and bring only enough supplies for our own needs. We’ll give the oven a trial to break it in; let heat scour the grave-grubs from the stone.”
“What about the boy?” Parkes asked. “The prisoner?”
“We can’t send him back just yet or he’ll no doubt tell them what we’re up to. He bears us no love, you can be certain.”
Parkes rubbed his hands together, barely restraining his delight, and hurried away faster than Charlie would have thought was in his power. The dark was oppressive now, no less so the heat, which seemed to have increased with nightfall. Heat lightning flickered far off, followed seconds later by thunder.
“Bloody provincial weather,” the captain griped. “Heat and damp. It’s like living in an armpit.”