“Ye let them die, damn you, ye let them die!”
It was what Hamish had shouted to him the last time they’d been ordered over the top, and the young Scots corporal, his face set in anger, had accused him of not caring. “Ye canna’ make tired men do any more than they’ve done. Ye canna’ ask them to die for ye, because ye ken they will. I’ll no’ lead them o’er the top again, I’ll die first, mysel’, and ye’ll rot in hell for no’ stopping this carnage.”
But Rutledge had cared, that was the problem, he’d cared too much, and in the end, like Hamish, he had broken too. He could hear the big guns firing from behind the lines as the Germans prepared for a counterattack, and firing from his own lines to cover that last sortie over the top. The Hun artillery had their range now, and he struggled to get what was left of his men to safety.
He’d had to shoot Hamish for speaking the truth, and that was the last straw—his mind had shattered. Not from the war, not the fear of death, not even the German guns, but from the deaths he couldn’t prevent and the savage wounds, and the bleeding that wouldn’t stop, and the men who lived on in his head until he couldn’t bear it any longer.
Hamish’s voice had stopped, and he knew then that he’d killed the best soldier he had, a good man who was more honest than he was—
who was willing to die for principles, while he himself obeyed orders he hated and went on for two more years killing soldiers he’d have died to save.
Someone was grappling with him, and he couldn’t find his revolver. His head was aching, blinding him, and his chest felt as if the caisson mules had trampled him, but instinct was still alive. He swung his fist at the man’s face, and felt it hit something solid, a shoulder, he thought —
Hamish had come back—
His breath seemed to stop in his throat. Hamish’s shoulder, hard and living, under his fist. If he opened his eyes—
A voice said, “Here, there’s no need for that, I’ve come to help.”
And Rutledge opened his eyes and stared in the face of Death. He slumped back, willing to let go, almost glad that it was over, and longing for silence and rest.
The farmer grasped his arm. “Where are you hurt, man, can you tell me?”
Rutledge came back to the present with a shock, blinking his eyes as the light of a lantern sent splinters of pain through his skull.
They were going to truss him up in that contraption, and hang him in the tithe barn—
And then the darkness receded completely, and he said, “I’m sorry—”
The farmer gruffly replied, “There’s a bloody great lump on your forehead. It must have addled your brains, man, you were shouting something fierce about the Germans when I came up.”
Rutledge shook his head to clear it, and felt sick again. Fighting down the nausea, he said, “Sorry,” again, as if it explained everything.
“You need a doctor.”
“No. I must get to London.” He looked behind the farmer’s bulk and saw the motorcar mired in the plowed field. His first thought was for Hamish, and then he realized that Hamish wasn’t there. “Oh, damn, the accident. Is it—will it run now?”
“There’s nothing wrong with your motorcar that a team can’t cure.
But I didn’t want to leave you until I knew you were all right. There’s no one to send back to the house. I saw your headlamps when I went to do the milking. You’re not the first to come to grief in the dark on that bend in the road.”
Rutledge managed to sit up, his eyes shut against the pain. “There’s no bend—a dog darted in front of me, I swerved to miss him.”
“A dog? There’s no dog, just that bend. You must have fallen asleep and dreamt it.”
It was a dog barking that had brought Padgett to the tithe barn . . .
“Yes, I expect I did.” He put up a hand and felt the blood drying on his forehead and cheek, crusting on his chin. It was a good thing, he thought wryly, that he’d brought that fresh shirt with him.
He heaved himself to his feet, gripping the farmer’s outstretched hand for support until he could trust his legs to hold him upright.
“I’m all right. By the time you get your team here, I’ll be able to drive.”
“Drive? You need a doctor above all else.”
“No, I’m all right,” he repeated, though he could hear Hamish telling him that he was far from right. “Please fetch your team. What time is it? Do you know?”
“Past milking time. The cows are already in the barn, waiting.”
“Then the sooner you pull me out of here, the sooner they can be milked.”
The farmer took a deep breath. “If that’s what you’re set on, I’ll go.
I don’t have time to stand here and argue.”
He tramped off, a square man with heavy shoulders and muddy boots. As the lantern bobbed with each step, Rutledge felt another surge of nausea and turned away.
Without the lantern, he couldn’t see the motorcar very well, but as he walked around it, it seemed to be in good condition. The tires were whole, and the engine turned over when he tried it, though it coughed first.
Hamish said, “Ye fell asleep.”
“I thought it was your task to keep me awake. We could have been killed.”
“It was no’ likely, though ye ken your head hit yon windscreen with an almighty crack.”
Rutledge put his hand up again to the lump. It seemed to be growing, not receding, though his chest, while it still ached, seemed to feel a little better. He could breathe without the stabbing pain he’d felt earlier. His ribs would have to wait.
“It was pride that made you drive all night. To reach London before yon inspector.”
He and Mickelson had had several run-ins, though the chief cause of Mickelson’s dislike of Rutledge had to do with an inquiry in West-morland last December.
“Aye, ye’ll no’ admit it,” Hamish said, when Rutledge didn’t reply.
The farmer was back with his horses, and the huge draft animals pulled the motorcar back to the road with ease, the bunched muscles of their haunches rippling in the light of the farmer’s lantern.
“Come to the house and rest a bit,” the man urged when the motorcar was on solid ground once more. “A cup of tea will see you right.”
Rutledge held up the empty Thermos. “I’ve tea here. But thanks.”
He offered to pay the man, but the farmer shook his head. “Do the same for someone else in need, and we’re square,” he said, turning to lead his team back to the barn.
Watching the draft animals move off in the darkness, the lantern shining on the white cuffs of shaggy hair hanging over their hooves, Rutledge was beginning to regret his decision. But he could see false dawn in the east, and he would need to change his clothes and wash his face before finding Penrith.
The drive into London was difficult. His head was thundering, and his chest complained as he moved the wheel or reached for the brakes. But he was in his flat as the sun swept over the horizon. He looked in his mirror with surprise. A purpling lump above his eye and bloody streaks down to his collar—small wonder the farmer was worried about his driving on.
A quick bath was in order, and a change of clothes. He managed both after a fashion, looking down at the bruised half circle on his chest where he’d struck the wheel. His ribs were still tender, and he suspected he’d sustained a mild concussion.
Nausea stood between him and breakfast, and in the end, after two cups of tea, he set out to find Quarles’s former partner. There was a clerk just opening the door at the countinghouse in Leadenhall Street, and Rutledge asked for Penrith.
“Mr. Penrith is no longer with this firm,” the clerk said severely, eyeing the bruise on Rutledge’s forehead.