‘Yes, that should do it. Although tunnelling at night is not without risk.’
‘We’re Wessex men, not your Wiltshire faint-hearts. Good. Then let us waste no time. Those who are not part of the first shift should have food and drink.’
As they turned to make their way out of the trench, it began to rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Captain Hancock learns the truth
KEEFER SAID, ‘WILL ye take the first shift, Father?’ He grinned. ‘Or are those soft hands o’ thine too sore?’
‘No, they’re fine, Mr Keefer. I shall willingly do my share.’
In truth, every part of his body was sore, and his hands – swollen and hatched with scratches – hurt worst of all. But he would not allow the church clerk to score a victory over him. Once again he took off his cassock and handed it up to one of the men, who put it in a canvas tent bag along with the others’ outer clothes, to protect them from the rain. Then he helped remove the shuttering and pass up the long planks so they could have a yard cut off them.
The walls of the tunnel, freed from the constraint, began to bulge. A shower of soil mixed with rain fell over his head and shoulders. He bent as if he had been attacked by flying insects, and vigorously brushed it out of his hair. Someone said the noise of sawing from the ground above sounded like the making of a coffin. Nobody laughed. Finally, the carpenter came down into the trench dragging a pair of stout timber frames. Fairfax used the pickaxe to dig the opening of a mine shaft, a yard square, working back to back with a man who did the same on the opposite side, then the carpenter hammered the frames into place, and the shuttering was lowered and re-fixed to the trench walls. But these precautions did nothing to calm Fairfax’s fears. They seemed flimsy barriers against the weight of the earth.
The carpenter left. Fairfax sank to his knees in the shallow water and felt the cold concrete beneath him. He leaned a torch beside him so that he could see what he was doing, took a pickaxe and, by the hissing light of the burning pitch, began to hack away.
It was slow, hard, awkward work. The soil and rock were tightly compacted, veined with fibrous roots too thick to tear apart. When he reached in to the opening and tried to drag them out, he brought down fresh clumps of earth upon his head. The space was too restricted to enable him to properly swing the pick. He had to grip the shaft in one hand, close to the metal head, and peck away at the lumps of stone, loosening them, and then working them free with his hands. Repeatedly shuffling back and forth across the concrete to throw the debris into the wheelbarrow on the other side of the sandbags rubbed his knees raw. The more he excavated, the further he had to venture from the trench, and the greater his terror that the roof of the tunnel would cave in on him – pin his arms and body so heavily that he would be unable to fight his way free, clogging his mouth and nostrils with suffocating earth.
After more than an hour, when he had dug out four or five feet of tunnel, the carpenter called to him to come out so that roof props could be fitted. He reversed himself into the trench. It was a relief to be able to stand. The air was cooler, the day’s light almost gone. Rain was falling steadily from the narrow strip of sky. He stretched his hands up to it to ease his stiffness. The man who had been carting away the spoil in the wheelbarrow offered to swap jobs. Fairfax accepted at once, hoisting the handles before he could change his mind, and pushing the load down the gangway of planks that had been laid along the floor of the trench, past the other pair of tunnels, over the second barrier of sandbags and up the ramp to the surface.
He ran the barrow up on to the nearest pile of spoil and tipped it. When he righted it, he stopped to survey the site. What a spectacle it presented – the heaps of waste, black in the twilight, rising like burial mounds between the abandoned canals of the trenches; the white canvas tents pitched close to the treeline; the flames of half a dozen campfires, protected from the worst of the rain by the canopy of foliage. One fire was larger than the others. Men were silhouetted moving around it. A smell of roasting meat drifted up the slope and made his stomach growl. He marvelled again at the sheer energy of Hancock, at the force of will that had brought them all up here and conjured this teeming effort into existence. But the thought of Hancock reminded him of Sarah and of the imminent confrontation. He seized the handles of the wheelbarrow, grimacing at the pain in his hands, set his jaw and turned back towards the tunnel.
At ten o’clock the shift changed and a fresh line of men trooped into the trench, laughing and joking despite the rain and the prospect of spending four hours labouring in the mud. The source of their good humour was detectable on their breath – ale, wine, gin – and Fairfax realised he craved a drink to take the edge off reality almost as much as he wanted food and sleep. He said to the man replacing him, ‘I hope you’ve saved enough for us!’
‘Aye, Father, don’t ye worry. The captain’s woman’s cooked enough for an army.’
Fairfax gave the man his shovel, stumbled out of the trench and went in search of the canvas bag containing his cassock. The captain’s woman! He felt his jealousy as a kind of nausea. Once he was dressed, he trooped with the others through the wet darkness towards the beckoning light of the big fire. Half a pig was roasting on a spit, a cauldron boiling nearby, potatoes cooking in the embers. Casks of ale and wine and jugs of gin stood on a trestle table next to tin plates and beakers, knives and forks. Sarah Durston was washing dishes in a tub beneath a tree. She looked up as they approached, dried her hands and came over to serve them.
Fairfax stood at the end of the queue and watched her carve the pork. She did it dextrously, slicing through the meat, wasting nothing, joking with the men. He had not conceived of her as a cook, although her upbringing was ordinary, so why should she not have learned kitchen skills, or to talk easily with labourers? He thought again how little he knew her. When his turn came to be served she was still in joshing mood and laughed at his appearance. ‘Why, Father Fairfax, you are as black as the Devil himself!’ She heaped his plate with meat and added a potato. ‘Rough fare, I fear, but the best that may be managed.’ The others had moved away.
He said, ‘Where is Hancock?’
‘Gone to talk to Shadwell. He and Mr Quycke are sleeping in their wagon.’ She frowned. ‘Are you well, Christopher? You look out of sorts.’
‘I am tired, nothing more. And this business with the captain weighs on me – more than it does on you, it seems.’
He took his plate, moved along the table, filled a cup with the local red wine and drained it, filled it again, then walked over to a tree, apart from the rest of the men, sank to the ground with his back against the trunk and began to eat. After a while, she came over to sit beside him.
She said, ‘If the delay troubles you, I shall go and tell him now.’
‘No, not yet. Wait until the morning.’
‘I promise you I mean to set things straight between us. This constant deceit is beyond endurance.’
‘Are you certain of that?’ He spoke bitterly, to wound her. ‘If you deny that woman’s allegation, and I do likewise, what proof of our betrayal exists?’
‘He will still believe it.’
‘In his heart he might. But you know as well as I he loves you too much ever to admit it. He will pretend to himself that all is well so as not to lose you.’
‘And that is what you want?’
‘It may be for the best.’ He spoke quietly, without looking at her, and despised himself. He felt as if some other man had taken control of him – hardly a man at all, he thought savagely, but some pathetic weakling youth. To his shame, he felt hot tears pricking at his eyes. He still could not bring himself to face her. ‘Forgive me,’ he said. ‘I am very tired.’
‘You are afraid of him.’
‘It’s true. I am.’
‘I cannot love a coward.’
She got to her feet and walked away. He watched her go, skirting the fire, heading towards a tent on the opposite side of the encampment. She opened the flap and went in
side. After half a minute he set aside his plate and went after her. He was conscious of the men in the firelight gawping at this private drama. He stooped to enter the tent.
She was standing with her back to him in the candlelight. He took in a few details – a blanket spread across the groundsheet, a heavy earthenware jug and bowl of water, a leather bag – his bag – lying in the corner. It was the sight of that, and the realisation that she had thought to take it in for safe keeping, that pierced him more than anything. He stood behind her and wrapped his arms around her. ‘I should be the one to tell him.’
He felt her shoulders stiffen at first, and then relax. Her expression when she turned was calm – no trace of a tear in those clear green eyes. On the contrary, she seemed to stare straight into him. Suddenly her mouth sought his. After a moment or two she pushed him away. ‘You are filthy.’
‘I know it.’
She pointed to the bowl. ‘Take off your robe.’
He did as she asked and kneeled on the blanket. She took the jug and tipped it over his head. The water in the bowl, inches from his eyes, turned black. He scooped his hands and splashed his face. She continued to pour, running her fingers through his hair, teasing out the dirt. She laughed. ‘You’ve half the hillside on you!’ The water was cold. It trickled down the back of his neck. He rejoiced in the touch of her fingers.
‘What a scene,’ said Hancock.
Fairfax’s head jerked around so sharply he almost knocked the jug from her hands. The captain stepped into the tent. The flap fell shut behind him.
Fairfax groped for a towel. Unable to find one, he rose to his feet dripping water, half blind. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes. He felt hideously exposed, standing there in his filthy wet underclothes. Sarah was frozen beside him holding the jug.
Hancock looked from one to the other. He wore a terrible half-smile. ‘This is not what it seems to be.’ He nodded, as if trying to reassure himself. ‘Ye do not need to tell me. I know it is not what it seems to be.’
‘No, Captain,’ said Fairfax. His voice sounded high and feeble in his ears, lacking all conviction. But the moment had come, and he was glad, and he pressed on. ‘I fear it is just as it appears to be.’
Hancock’s expression was disbelieving. ‘Come now, Fairfax! It is not!’
‘I am sorry. I must tell you the truth. Sarah came into my bed last night.’
‘No.’ The captain frowned and shook his head judiciously, as if rejecting a low offer at market. ‘No, no.’
‘Your sister saw her. She will confirm it. She is determined to tell you.’
This information seemed at first not to register either. But then a change came over Hancock’s features, a sort of slow collapse. He started to move towards Fairfax. Fairfax watched his slow approach with a curious detachment, as if the violence that was about to be unleashed would be directed at someone other than himself. Hancock stopped in front of him and reached out his right hand. He touched the side of Fairfax’s face, caressed it. His fingers found the ear and tweaked it – not the lobe, the whole ear – then abruptly closed upon it like a vice and held him in position while his left fist swung round in a terrific blow to the other side of Fairfax’s head. The tent lurched, dissolved, vanished.
When he came to, he was on his knees and Hancock had his hands around his throat, his thumbs pressing into his windpipe, twisting and lifting him, as a farmer breaks the neck of a chicken. His hands beat feebly at Hancock’s arms. The pain was worse than the choking. He could hear Sarah shouting. The tent began to darken again. Something flashed in the air. There was a crash, and brown fragments of pottery exploded in a halo around the captain’s head. The grip on his throat slackened and he toppled sideways.
He felt a thud. The ground shook. He thought at first the blow must have laid Hancock out flat. But when he struggled up on to his elbow, the captain was still on his feet, clutching at the wound in his head, tottering in a circle. Sarah was holding a handle – all that remained of the jug. And this was odd, he thought: all three of them silent and panting with the effort of their struggle, and yet there was a sound of screaming.
Hancock swung around, listening, streaming blood, swaying like a drunkard, then lurched towards the entrance of the tent and disappeared. Sarah held out her hand. Fairfax took it and managed to get up on to his feet. He tried to speak. She gestured to him to save his breath. ‘The men are in an uproar about something.’ They followed the captain out into the night.
Around the base of the tower torches were darting back and forth, casting the elongated shadows of panicking figures running towards the western trench. More were emerging from their tents. Fairfax and Sarah stumbled through the darkness. A narrow section of the ground had collapsed close to the trench. A shallow crevice a yard deep and ten feet long had opened up. Men were standing in it, digging frantically with picks and shovels. Some were on their knees using their bare hands. Others were in the trench. They cried out to one another. ‘Here!’ ‘Over here!’
Fairfax took a torch and picked his way along the gangplank at the bottom of the trench. All he could see were men’s backs. He held up the torch. Hancock was in the middle of the group, shouting at them to give him space. He dipped out of sight. When he reappeared, he had the top half of a man’s body in his arms. He dragged it out of the melee and lugged it along the trench. Two others were holding the feet. Fairfax pressed against the shuttering to let them pass. He glimpsed a white face hanging slackly, bulging eyes, a round black mouth, wide black nostrils.
He followed them up to the surface. The body was laid on the ground. He held his torch over it. Hancock dug his fingers into the mouth and gouged out earth, then clamped his own mouth over it and blew. He came up for air and blew again. Earth trickled out of the nostrils. Someone threw water over the face. There was no sign of life. Hancock straddled the man and started working at his chest with the flats of his hands. Now that he could properly see the face, Fairfax recognised him as the handsome youth who had been the first to respond to Sarah’s appeal to resume work. She was watching the attempts to revive him, her hands pressed to her cheeks.
Fairfax said quietly to her, ‘Would you fetch my prayer book and stole?’
A little while later, after she had returned, and when it was obvious the man was beyond hope, Fairfax gave her the torch and put his hand on Hancock’s shoulder. But Hancock would not stop pounding the chest and blowing into the mouth as if his willpower alone was sufficient to recall the dead to life. Eventually Keefer said, ‘Leave him, Captain. Let the father do his work.’
‘No, he can still be saved.’
It took two men to pull Hancock away.
Fairfax kneeled and closed the young man’s eyes and took his hand. It was still warm. Rain fell across his open prayer book.
O Almighty God, he began. He paused while everyone else got to their knees. We humbly commend the soul of this thy servant, our dear brother, into thy hands, as into the hands of a faithful Creator, and most merciful Saviour … The wind whipped the torches and flicked over the page. He trapped it with his thumb. Wash it, we pray thee, in the blood of that immaculate Lamb, that was slain to take away the sins of the world … And teach us who survive, in this and other like daily spectacles of mortality, to see how frail and uncertain our condition is; and so to number our days, that we may seriously apply our hearts to that holy and heavenly wisdom, whilst we live here, which may in the end bring us to life everlasting, through the merits of Jesus Christ thine only Son our Lord. Amen.
‘Amen.’
The body was wrapped in a blanket and bound with rope. Two men took the head and two the feet. One went ahead with a torch. Hancock sat on one of the mounds of earth, his bloodied head bent forward, his arms on his knees, and watched as they started to carry the corpse up the slope towards the base camp. The others came out of the area around the tents holding torches and lamps and followed in procession. Hancock regarded them with growing disbelief. He rose to his feet.
He launched himself in pursuit, ran past them and planted himself in their path, holding out his arms to stop them.
‘Four of ye can take him home. The rest stay here.’ His voice was desperate. With his head and hair all plastered with dirt from the trench and blood from his wound, he looked half crazed. ‘We’ll dig no more tonight, in honour of his memory. We need not start again till daybreak.’
They did not answer, but merely diverted their course to pass around him. He turned to watch the cortège go. His arms dropped to his sides.
He shouted, ‘There’ll be no pay for a job half done!’
Fairfax said, ‘Leave it, Hancock. They’ll not come back.’
The captain glanced over his shoulder at Fairfax and Sarah. He seemed barely conscious of who they were, let alone what had passed between them. ‘If we use more timber, the tunnels will be safe enough. Our error was to work at night.’ He looked back towards the torchlit procession, beginning to thread its way through the trees. ‘I’ll fetch ’em down. It’s foolish to travel in the dark.’
They watched him go, hurrying to catch the men up. For a while they could hear his voice calling to them to wait – pleading, promising, threatening – until the ribbon of lights reached the crest of the hill. Then, as they began to descend the other side, one by one the darkness swallowed them, and after that the only sounds were the wind and rain.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Sunday 14th April: Father Fairfax and Lady Durston pass the night on the Devil’s Chair
THEY SAT BY the fire in silence and waited for Hancock to return. Fairfax kept a pickaxe close beside him, just in case.
After an hour, when still he hadn’t reappeared, they agreed he must have gone back to the mill. Either that, thought Fairfax, or he is out there in the trees somewhere, watching us. He rested his hand briefly on the axe.
The Second Sleep Page 26
