by Charles Todd
“I don’t believe they did.” The night was quiet after the barrage.
“It’s a puzzle,” MacLeod said. “The question is, how could they be sure it would ha’ been Williams who went back down the tunnel?”
“Because he should have been the one to set the fuse. And because he was sent back the last time it was too long. His responsibility.” Rutledge considered the question. “And because Lloyd wasn’t there. He’d gone to the latrines.”
“Aye. Verra’ convenient, that. Ye ken, if it was on purpose, yon long fuse, they didna’ care if you’d died along with Williams.”
“Whatever their reason for wanting to kill Williams, it has to run deep.” He shook his head. “The problem is, there’s nothing we can do until there’s more solid evidence. I can only hope Williams survives that long.”
But nothing happened to Williams when the next tunnel was set off. Or the next. Rutledge was there, keeping an eye on what was being done.
It was nearly a week after that, toward midnight, when Private Williams was found lying in a pool of blood and half dead.
The soldier who discovered him, Private MacRae, a Scot from Stirling, reported to Rutledge after seeing Williams back to a forward aid station.
“Rumor says he was careless and a sniper got him. But we havna’ had a sniper this fortnight.”
“Rumor . . . was there a name attached to that rumor?”
“It was a Welshman. He was at yon aid station, suffering from a boil on his foot. He said Williams was too tall for a Welshman, and the sniper found an easy target.”
Rutledge considered what Private MacRae had said. Too tall for a Welshman. . .
It was true, Williams could give Jones and the rest of the South Wales miners a good three inches. Sturdy men, compactly built, darker. Williams had a leaner, thinner build, and his hair was lighter. Was that why some of the miners thought he must be from Manchester? Or had Jones and Lloyd started that lie?
But coming from Manchester—or any other English town where industry thrived—was hardly a reason for murder.
“What was the name of the Welshman, do you know?”
MacRae shook his head. “I didna’ think to ask.”
On his next rotation a few days later, Rutledge went behind the British lines to look for Private Williams. He was still in hospital, the shot having missed his lung but damaged his shoulder. Bound up with his left arm braced in the air like the broken wing of an aircraft, Williams lay back against his pillows with the lined face of a man in pain.
“A very little bit lower, sir, and I’d have been done for,” he said, as Rutledge sat down in the chair by his bed and asked how he felt.
“I’ve just spoken to the doctor,” Rutledge replied. “He tells me the bullet entered from the back. Not the front. This wasn’t a sniper’s work.”
“I don’t know who it was. I didn’t see anyone. I was coming back from the shaft we’d been digging. It was dark, quiet. And I felt the shot before I heard it. It spun me around and still I didn’t see anyone.”
Rutledge found that part hard to believe. Williams must have glimpsed the man. And even if he weren’t positive, he must have had his suspicions.
“You aren’t planning on a little private revenge, are you? This is an Army matter. Let the Army deal with it.”
“I’m tired of being hunted, sir. That’s all.”
“The doctor has reported the wound as suspicious. It will be investigated.”
“Yes, well, that may be.” He turned his head away so that Rutledge couldn’t see his eyes. “He’ll claim—whoever he is—that he was cleaning his rifle. And he’ll have a witness, you can be sure of it.” His voice was bitter.
“All the same, I’ll have a word with Jones and his half-brother.”
Williams smiled without humor. “Good luck to you, then. Sir.”
Back in the line again, Rutledge found Captain Marsh during a lull in the fighting and asked permission to speak to the Welsh miners.
Marsh shook his head. “They’ve been sent back. We’ve got Griffiths’s clay kickers now. They know what they’re about. No fuse problems since they took over the task.”
“When were the miners sent back?” Rutledge asked sharply.
“Yesterday morning.” He shook his head. “Two had to be dropped off at the base hospital. A nuisance, that. One had a shell splinter that wouldn’t heal, he said, and the other had a broken toe. I don’t know where the other miners will be posted next. Where they’re needed, I expect.”
“Did you examine these wounds?”
“There was no time. The Sisters will sort them out.”
“Who were these wounded men?”
“Privates Jones and Lloyd.” Marsh frowned. “Look, Rutledge, what’s this about? What have you got against those two? They didn’t shoot themselves in the foot, you know. They had a legitimate reason for stopping by the base hospital.”
He had his answer.
The base hospital for this sector was where Private Williams was being treated. And if Jones and Lloyd intended to finish what they’d begun, this was very likely their last chance.
The Germans attacked five minutes later, and a vicious defense was all that kept the British line from folding. Rutledge, encouraging his own men, held his sector, and managed to rally men down the line as the Germans breached the barbed wire, firing down into the trenches and tossing grenades as soon as they’d come within range. When the British machine gun, which had jammed, had been cleared and opened up again, it turned the tide, and the German advance became a shambling retreat.
Relieved to find they had fewer dead than he’d expected, Corporal MacLeod, set about collecting the wounded.
He pointed to Rutledge’s roughly bandaged arm. “Ye’ll need that attended to as well.”
“I can’t leave. Not until I’ve been relieved.”
“Aye, and ye’ll be down with the gangrene, wait and see.”
Later, when the relief column came down the line, Rutledge went back to the nearest aid station to look in on his wounded men.
The doctor insisted on treating him as well. Examining Rutledge’s arm, the doctor looked up. “You’re lucky that shot didn’t sever the artery. You’re out of the line for three days.”
His men were in rotation, in the reserve trenches where they could lick their wounds and rest. They were safe enough. It was his chance. “I’d like to visit a soldier sent back to the base hospital. Can you arrange it?”
“You should be resting. Still—if you’ll ask one of the Sisters to see to clean bandages tomorrow, and you don’t exert yourself unduly and start with a fever, I see no harm in it.”
“I give you my word.”
There was room in one of the ambulances heading south with the next contingent of wounded. Rutledge took a seat next to the driver. The man smelled of wine, and glad to have an audience, he launched into a long monologue, never pausing as he rambled from one thought to the next. He was from Leeds, he said, a baker before the war, and he hated France.
Rutledge, left to his own thoughts, wondered if he was making too much of the danger to Williams. Now that he was on his way to the base hospital, nursing his aching arm as the ambulance bounced and slid through the ruts, he told himself that the orderlies and Sisters were the only protection Williams needed. Killing someone in full view of so many witnesses was different from shooting someone in the back. What’s more, Williams wouldn’t be leaving the hospital anytime soon. He wasn’t likely to encounter either Jones or Lloyd even when he did, for they would be reassigned elsewhere.
Then why, Rutledge asked himself, did he feel such a sense of urgency?
Just then the driver said something that brought his mind sharply back to the rambling soliloquy.
“I’m sorry—what was it you were saying?”
But the driver took exception to Rutledge’s sudden interest. He retorted gruffly, “I shouldn’t have told you—”
“But you did. You said you were given a choice between prison and en
listing. Since your lungs weren’t good enough, you had no choice but to drive an ambulance.”
“What if I did?” he asked sullenly.
“Before that. Why was it you were brought up on charges?”
“I told you.”
“Tell me again. Or I’ll report you for drinking and ignoring your patients back there.”
“All right, then, you needn’t cut up stiff over it. I tried to kill a man. But he lived.”
“Who was the man?”
“He was a trades union man. He caught my brother when he tried to cross the strike line and go back to work. Fred needed the pay, he couldn’t afford to be out on strike.”
“Where was this strike?”
Goaded the man said, “What are you, a copper? Why does it matter?”
“Was it in England—or was it a colliery in Wales?”
“Of course it wasn’t Wales, it was in Lancashire. The trades union men beat him nearly senseless. And the doctors said they couldn’t do anything for him. He died the next morning. He was a good man, and he left a wife and three little ’uns. Tell me that’s fair?”
“It isn’t fair. But neither is attempted murder. Were they brought up on charges? The men who did this to your brother?”
“There was no one who could identify them. No one saw anything,” the driver said bitterly and turned his attention to what passed for the road. They traveled in silence for the rest of the journey.
Rutledge found Williams sitting on the side of his cot this time, trying to manage to spoon up the dinner he’d been brought.
Taking the chair from the next bed and sitting down, Rutledge greeted him and then said, “Are you a trades union man?”
Williams stopped, the spoon half way to his mouth. “Am I what?”
Rutledge repeated the question.
Shaking his head vehemently, Williams said, “No, by God, I’m not. Sir.”
“I suspect Jones and his friends think you are.”
Williams stared at him. “I’ll be damned. But why?”
“I don’t know. It could be the reason they’ve tried to kill you. There’s bad blood on both sides of that fight. Men have been murdered. And Williams is a common-enough name in Wales and in England. You could have lied about your background at the slate mines.”
“I haven’t. But there’s no way to prove it, short of sending to the manager of the mine.”
“The coal miners have been moved back from the Front. Griffiths has brought in some of his clay kickers, men building the Manchester sewers. More to the point, at least two of the coal miners were on their way here, to the base hospital. Lloyd and Jones. It may be a coincidence, and it may not. Watch yourself. You’re in no condition to do battle with anyone.”
“There’s truth to that, God knows.” Williams realized he was still holding his spoon in midair, and he set it down carefully. “I don’t like this.”
“Then tell me what you saw that night, when you were shot. Let me charge whoever did this.” Rutledge gestured to the bound shoulder.
“My word against theirs? No, it won’t save me. Can I be moved to another hospital?”
“By the time the paperwork is completed, it could be too late. I’ll see if I can persuade Matron to put you on the next convoy to England.”
But Matron shook her head after Rutledge had made his request. “We have far more serious cases than this one. Private Williams is healing well. I can’t justify sending him back.”
“His life could be in danger, if he stays here.”
“Surely you exaggerate, Lieutenant. We’ve had no trouble at this hospital. The men who are here need care, and there’s no time for or thought of private quarrels.” She looked at a list. “What’s more, I don’t even have a record of the two men you’ve mentioned. Private Aaron Lloyd, Private Taffy Jones. It could be that you are entirely mistaken.”
But she didn’t know Private Lloyd or his half-brother. It was worrying that they hadn’t been treated yet—where were they? And Williams’ willingness to believe in the danger facing him was further proof that he wasn’t satisfied that the two Welshmen had finished with him.
Rutledge went to have a final word with Williams. “Matron won’t consider England. Still, I’ve warned the Sister in charge of this ward that you have enemies. It’s the best I can do. I’ve also asked one of the orderlies to watch for Lloyd and Jones, and report to Matron. It’s possible they won’t turn up here, that they’re waiting for you come to them. I wouldn’t go walking far, if Sister asks you to start exercising your legs again.”
“I’m grateful, sir. Truly I am.”
Rutledge stayed at the base hospital another day, walking through the wards, speaking to the patients, keeping an eye open for Private Jones and Private Lloyd. On the third day, his ambulance was set to leave for the Front and he had no choice but to be aboard, if he was to rejoin his company.
He spoke to Williams a last time, and five minutes later he was settling himself in the uncomfortable seat beside a different driver when he heard a commotion in the ward he’d just left.
“Wait for me,” he ordered the man as he got out and sprinted back the way he’d come.
He found a Sister bleeding from a blow to the face, and down the ward, where Williams had been lying just minutes before, he could see an overturned chair and bedclothes dragged out into the aisle. Men were sitting up in their cots, shouting to Rutledge, pointing back the way he’d just come.
He bent over the Sister, asking her, “What happened here?”
“Two men—they took away Private Williams. I couldn’t see their faces. They were wearing hospital masks. I don’t know where they’ve taken him.”
He shouted for help, but didn’t stay to explain to the staff rushing to the Sister’s aid, his mind already busy with the problem of where the three men might be. Had his own presence at the hospital precipitated this attack? Or the fact that he was seen to be leaving?
And then he heard one of the ambulances roaring into life, men shouting, and someone firing a shot.
He raced toward the line of ambulances he’d just left, saw his driver lying on the ground, dazedly trying to raise himself on his elbow. An orderly was already kneeling beside him. Rutledge ran on to the second ambulance in the line and called to the driver, “We’ve got to stop them.”
But the driver leapt out of his door, shaking his head. “They’ve got a weapon.”
Rutledge took his place behind the wheel, gunned the motor, and pulled out of line, turning in the direction of the fleeing ambulance heading fast toward the main road to Calais.
The ground was wet from recent rains, and he could feel his tires slipping and sliding in the viscous mud. Holding grimly to the wheel, he drove as fast as he dared, and then, when he saw he was making no headway, faster than was safe.
He was gaining, even as the ambulance bucketed across what passed for a road, narrowly missing a column of men marching toward the Front. He could hear the big guns behind him, opening up for another punishing marathon of shelling. And then the ambulance ahead of him skidded wildly, spun around, and missed a yawning ditch by inches. The driver got control again, but it had given Rutledge his chance. Praying that the tires would hold, he rammed his foot down on the accelerator and came up even with the fleeing vehicle.
Someone swung open one of the rear doors, and Rutledge could see Private Lloyd kneeling there. Behind him lay Williams. Lloyd was raising a revolver, pointing it toward Rutledge. But Williams somehow managed to use the rigid brace on his shoulder to spoil the man’s aim just as he fired. Furious, the man backhanded him, sending Williams hard against the metal side of the ambulance, just as Rutledge sped past, cut in front of the vehicle, and forced it into the low wall that was all that was left of what had been the approach to a French barn.
The ambulance hit the wall at speed and came to a jarring stop, throwing Private Jones, the driver, into the wheel and then the windscreen. By the time Rutledge had braked and got out, he could see blood
running down Jones’s face. But it was the man with that revolver who was his main target.
He ran to the back of the ambulance and flung open both doors. Williams and Lloyd lay on the floor in a jumble of legs and arms.
Rutledge could hear another vehicle coming after him, but there was no time to wait. He climbed into the ambulance and pulled the unconscious Williams out, setting him against the stone wall. And then he went back for the armed man.
But Private Aaron Lloyd had broken his neck in the crash, his head striking the metal rim of the upper berths that held stretchers in place. He lay where he’d fallen, the revolver still clutched in his hand.
Leaving him, Rutledge went to look at the driver. Jones was badly hurt but alive, his nose and cheekbones broken by the impact with the windscreen.
“What the hell were you trying to do?” Rutledge demanded, pulling him from behind the wheel and leaning him against a wing. “Was it worth it, this abduction? Your half-brother is dead!”
“Williams ran off with my wife,” Jones tried to answer, his voice muffled by his bleeding nose. “Then he left her in Manchester to die penniless and alone.”
“Was he a trades union man? This Williams?”
“Aaron thought it likely. He came to the village where Sarah was staying with her sister. There was trouble with the colliery owner, and the man had to get out. When he left, Sarah went with him.” He closed his eyes. “Williams was the right man. I swear he was. My brother told me. He recognized the bastard.”
“Williams is a slate man. From North Wales. He had nothing to do with your wife.” Rutledge was watching the approaching ambulance come to rescue them. “Your brother lied to you.”
“Aaron never lies. Williams is from Manchester.”
“Then why didn’t Lloyd try to stop Sarah—or call you to come to Manchester to fetch her back? Where was he all this time, watching and doing nothing, letting her die alone?”
Jones stared at him through bloodshot eyes. “He said he tried. He said he even followed them to Manchester, but Sarah wouldn’t listen.”
“Apparently Aaron was a great one for saying. Where was he?”
“He was ill, bad lungs. He was sent away to recover. Away from the coal dust.” After a moment he added unwillingly, “To the same village. That’s how he knew.”
