by Jack Murray
‘Sir?’
‘No.’
‘Sir? It would only take a second.’ This time more insistently. Kahn glanced down at Vogts with a raised eyebrow.
‘It’s an easy shot,’ pleaded Vogts.
‘I realize this, keep your eyes on the other position,’ replied Kahn. He looked at the two figures, one carrying the other on his back, staggering drunkenly towards their trench.
-
‘Why aren’t they firing?’ asked the British officer, as much to himself. As he said this the flare died. By now it was taking a great effort from the men in the trench to avoid cheering on their fellow soldier. The officer held up his hand to prevent any supportive cheers. They were fifteen yards away. Surely, they would make it.
By now even the young soldier was hoping a miracle would really happen. There were ten yards to go; his route blocked only by barbed wire, maybe two feet high. Keep going he thought; keep going.
-
Why aren’t we firing thought Vogts? What was this dilettante Jew thinking? Honour? Had he not noticed the carnage of the last four years? Honour lay dead and rotting in the mud of Passchendaele, of Verdun. Of a hundred other fields where his class had sent people like him to die. His duty demanded one thing and one thing only. Kill the enemy. They would have done the same to him. He glared up at Kahn. How alike were he and that Colonel Adler, who had left them an hour previously. They belonged to a class whose time would soon be over.
Leave them thought Kahn. It was almost Christmas. What bravery. One of the soldiers would probably die anyway. He sensed Vogts glaring up at him. Kahn shook his head and began to step down from the viewing step when…
-
Less than a few yards from the British trench an explosion rocked the darkness. The officer instinctively shielded his head from falling mud and rock. Regaining control immediately he shouted down to the medics in the trench. ‘Quickly! Get them in.’ Instantly, he and two men leapt out of the trench and grabbed hold of the two soldiers who had collapsed following the explosion.
The young soldier looked up at the officer and the medics. He could hear little, other than muffled orders. ‘Did I make it?’ He thought he heard the sound of gunfire before all went black.
-
Beside him, Vogts had loosed off several shots. Kahn stared down at him. ‘Did you see their sniper?’
‘Yes, he fired a shot,’ replied Vogts.
‘Did you get him?’ said Kahn hopefully.
‘Maybe the other one. The watcher; not the sniper. Why? What happened?’
Kahn didn’t answer immediately but continued to study the activity in the British trench. He looked at Vogts and stepped down to peer through the telescopic sight on the rifle. It was still trained on the British snipers.
Vogts felt the hatred rise in him again, the unspoken lack of trust. Finally, Kahn answered.
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know, Vogts. Do we have other snipers in this area?’
He asked the last question more of himself than Vogts.
Chapter 1
Christmas Eve 1919: Cavendish Hall, Lincolnshire
Arthur Cavendish walked to the window of his library and gazed out onto the expansive driveway at Cavendish Hall. It was Christmas Eve. His guests would be arriving soon. The sky had a yellowish glow which he recognized meant snow. As soon as he thought this, he detected the first flakes swirling gently in the air. The fountain at the front had been switched off; the surrounding pond was already beginning to freeze over. He walked away from the window and went out of the library. Curtis, his butler, was walking towards him with ecclesiastical dignity.
Curtis was a man in his mid-fifties. He had worked in service all his life. His dark hair was greying to match his complexion. There was a look of sorrow on his face that was partly professional but also a comment on his life.
‘I believe the train is due around ten. I’ve sent Devlin to the station. Will there be anything else my lord?’ asked Curtis in response to the question he knew was coming.
‘No thank you. Oh, one thing. Where are the girls?’
‘I believe they went out riding about an hour ago.’
‘Rather them than me. A little bit cold,’ said Cavendish with a smile.
Cavendish nodded to Curtis and returned to the warmth of the library to wait. He sat down in his leather armchair. The morning’s paper lay unread on the table beside him. He looked out of the window once more at the fountain. He thought it an eyesore, like much of Cavendish Hall.
Cavendish Hall was built in the Tudor period. It was a reward to Edward Cavendish for his loyalty to Henry VIII following the aftermath of his split with Rome. The choice to side with the King was an easy one and it caused not one moment of regret. It did, in fact, bring many economic benefits especially following the Dissolution of the Monasteries. The impoverishment of the Catholic Church had become the basis of the Cavendish fortune for the next four centuries.
Over the years, successive Viscounts had added personal touches to the original Hall. It was now a remarkably incongruous combination of Tudor, Baroque and Georgian styles. Half-timbered and gable roofs fought gamely against the, highly elaborate, Baroque extension built by Lord Henry Cavendish. With remarkable enthusiasm, he had insisted on gargoyle features decorating every possible corner. It was difficult to say which was more frightful, the faces of the gargoyles or the resulting impact on Cavendish Hall.
Henry Cavendish’s grandson, William, spent a long honeymoon on the Grand Tour. This honeymoon resulted not only in an heir but also a lifelong appreciation of the Palladian style. He made wholesale changes to the front of the Hall reducing the number of gargoyles but introducing, instead, columns with acanthus leaf capitals around the entrance.
The final inharmonious addition came from the garden designer Joseph Brown. Very distantly related to Capability Brown, he used this connection to great effect in Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. Following a week spent in Versailles in which he took copious notes and made countless drawings of the design of the various gardens at the Palace, he set himself up as a garden designer. These notes formed the basis of a moderately lucrative career creating variations on a Versailles theme throughout the county. His work was popular and found favour with William.
The resulting commission proved to be expensive and contributed to the dwindling of the Cavendish fortune. Trees were imported from around the country and planted to create a small woodland area. Statues were also purchased and placed around fountains. The cost of maintaining the gardens ensured no future modifications were attempted.
Lord Arthur Cavendish’s father had recognized that the ongoing development of the Hall should stop lest it cripple the finances of the family forever. The exigencies of the family’s financial position were clear to young Arthur when he inherited the title on his father’s death in 1882. He maintained a more frugal approach to the upkeep of the Hall. This was partly pragmatism; the family was not wealthy enough to improve the ill-considered work of his predecessors. It was also a recognition of Arthur’s military career which took him far and wide protecting and expanding Britain’s sphere of influence around the world.
Cavendish had been sent to Sandhurst at the age of eighteen. He took easily to army life. Most of his ancestors had served in the Blues and Royals, a branch of the Household Cavalry. He joined the Royal Dragoons.
Not unreasonably, he considered himself officer material. While his family was not among the great families in the country, he felt it his destiny to lead. A combination of ability and the good fortune to be alive at a particularly quarrelsome period, even by the acquisitive standards of Britain, meant he gained valuable experience and very quickly moved upwards through the ranks.
He used his time productively before military service became truly active. At his father’s insistence, he found himself a suitable wife with whom he could ensure the future lineage of the Cavendish family.
Mission was duly accomplished within a year and he wedded Lady Kat
herine Hayward. Her beauty was, sadly, not matched by her fortune. However, the match was a successful one in most every respect. She understood the reality of military life and was more than happy to raise a family while her husband fought for Queen and country in India, Afghanistan and later in South Africa.
He studied the portrait of her by Sargent in the library. Cavendish’s father was as entranced by Lady Hayward as he had been. He played the role of grandfather and even father to the two children from the marriage. Cavendish looked at their portraits, by Lavery. They showed two young men in uniform. His boys, just before they left to join him in South Africa. He was so proud when they had all served together at the same time, in the same place.
The first child, John, arrived in 1874, followed by Robert in 1878. Both would become Dragoons like their father. Both would die within a year of one another. By then, Katherine had also passed away following a burst appendix, the same day Princip assassinated Franz Ferdinand.
The Great War began with Cavendish becoming a widower. He decided not to retire but to continue his service. It seemed the best way to stay close to his boys. As he thought of them a wave of grief enveloped him and tears stung his eyes. By staying on he had been able to retain regular contact with his sons and yet, when the time came, he couldn’t save them. Nothing could have. The waste of their lives seemed horribly inevitable from the earliest days of the War when Cavendish realized how woefully under prepared his country was for the fight.
The clock struck ten. The sound echoed in the room and interrupted his thoughts. It reminded him that his guests would soon be here. He heard young female voices in the hallway. His granddaughters had clearly returned from riding. Their voices brought a swell of comfort. He heard them ask Curtis where he was. Life began to return to him as he anticipated their arrival in the library. The door opened and his youngest granddaughter, Mary, entered.
‘I hope you’re not moping in here, grandpapa.’
His eldest granddaughter, Esther, followed her sister. She looked at her sister and said, ‘He’s not moping, is he?’
‘With you two around, I scarcely have the opportunity to mope, as you would say,’ replied Cavendish grinning. The two girls were always such a tonic for an old trooper.
They both kissed him on the back of his head. Mary observed the unread newspaper and glanced at Esther. ‘What news is there?’ she asked.
‘I haven’t had a chance to read yet. Two young scamps interrupted me,’ complained Cavendish affably.
Mary put her arms around his neck and hugged him. ‘Let me guess then, Paris Peace Conference erupts in disagreement. Britain walks out. Mr Keynes denounces France and….’
‘Lillian Gish declares Broken Blossoms to be her best film yet; praising her director Mr Griffiths…’ added Esther airily.
Esther and Mary both giggled as their grandfather shook his head, albeit with a smile. ‘You know, it’s not too late to send you both to the workhouse. A spell up some chimney would soon see more discipline and respect for your commanding officer.’
‘You’re positively Victorian, sir,’ laughed Mary. Changing the subject, she asked, ‘When do our guests arrive?’
‘Devlin is at the station already. They’re due in at ten from London,’ reported Cavendish.
‘All of them?’
‘No, your aunt is coming with young master Henry by car.’
‘Seventeen hardly qualifies as either young or master, these days,’ said Esther. ‘He’s only five years younger than me.’
‘I agree with grandpapa,’ said Mary. ‘He’s still a child. A horrible one at that. I don’t know what happened to him. Ahh, I think I do. How is our sweet Aunt Emily?’
Cavendish glared at Mary. ‘Don’t, young lady. No matter how provoked you feel by Emily or Henry, I will not have that tone. Do you understand?’
Mary executed a perfect military salute, before breaking into a grin and giving her grandfather another hug saying, ‘I shall be sweetness personified.’ Then she pointed dramatically at Esther, ‘And as for you, young lady, I will have none of your ill temper and gutter language. Don’t think I’m not aware…’
Esther laughed, her grandfather, too.
‘I shall keep Mary under control, grandpapa,’ said Esther.
Both girls left a few minutes later to make ready for the arrival of the guests, leaving Cavendish alone again with his thoughts. He wondered how this Christmas holiday would unfold. The two girls had certainly lifted his spirits, as they usually did, but a feeling of gloom remained. He was not sure if it was the time of year and the loss he felt for Katherine, the boys or something else.
The future of the girls was also a major preoccupation. He wondered if this Christmas holiday might provide some resolution. Then there was the issue of Robert’s wife, Emily. They had never bonded in the way he had been close to John’s wife, Rebecca. She and the two girls had comforted him since the loss of his boys, in a way Emily had not. Sadly, Rebecca had succumbed to Spanish flu the previous year.
He resolved to try again and build something stronger with his daughter-in-law and grandson. More pertinently, young Henry would inherit the title when he died, as well as Cavendish Hall. He sometimes wondered if Emily hoped this event happened sooner rather than later. Immediately he regretted thinking such a foul thought. Cavendish looked out the window again to see if there was any sign of his guests.
His guests: this was the next worry to consider. How would Esther and Mary respond to what was clearly a transparent attempt by him to marry them off? He felt confident that one of his guests would be very welcome. He thought of Esther again. As the eldest daughter and now, of age, it was natural that she should be considering her future husband. Lord Christopher ‘Kit’ Aston was eminently qualified in Cavendish’s view.
Cavendish had first met Kit in France. He was a Captain in the same Dragoons where Cavendish was a Colonel. From their first meeting he had been impressed by this young man. If he had chosen to make the army a career, his intelligence and character would have marked him out for the highest of ranks. His bravery had already been rewarded with many medals and his men adored him for the principal reason that they believed him ‘lucky’.
His one concern involved Kit’s activities towards the end of the War. He had left the Dragoons, and for a period little was heard of him. There were some whispers he was working in Intelligence. Cavendish had heard from a friend this was indeed the case. After the War there was a famous case in the papers in which Aston had solved the murder of a French Diplomat. The newspapers suggested Kit was now engaged as a private consulting detective, like a Sherlock Holmes. Following the case, Kit seemed to disappear, probably to avoid the public attention. There was a suggestion he’d gone to India.
That he had agreed so readily to be a guest over Christmas, gave Cavendish grounds for hope. He knew Kit would be aware of his granddaughters, particularly Esther. What young man of means would not be aware of Lady Esther Cavendish? She was considered one of the most beautiful young women of the day. He had turned down several invitations for their family to be a guest with other potential matches. None compared, in his mind, to Kit in terms of rank or character and he hoped fervently this project would bring success and happiness to both.
His thoughts turned to the younger sister, Mary. He wondered how she would react to Kit or to the idea of Esther and Kit. The sisters were very close. Would there be jealousy? It made him wonder why he discounted so easily the idea of Mary with Kit. There seemed little sign of her adventurous spirit calming. For this reason, he could not see her wanting to be trapped by marriage; at least not yet.
Of the other young man, Cavendish knew less. Eric Strangerson, like Kit, had been a scholar at Cambridge. He appeared to be an adventurous sort as he had left Britain to be involved in various scientific expeditions. Strangerson had accompanied Shackleton in his quest to reach the South Pole in 1909. Following this, he had gone to South America to be involved with an American called Bingham who had made
some discoveries in Peru.
These adventures might make him more suitable for Mary. She would be of age later in the year. Perhaps a match with Strangerson would be just the thing for her. He would not try to exert control instead he might provide an outlet for her energy.
Strangerson had served under Robert with the 5th Dragoons. Cavendish scrutinized the letter Strangerson had sent him a few months ago. He picked it up and read once again the line that had prompted him to invite Strangerson to Cavendish Hall for Christmas.
It read: ‘I was with Captain Cavendish at the last. As usual, he was leading from the front. This is the type of person he was. I saw he had been hit and I ran over to him, but he died instantly. There was no pain...’
Cavendish put the letter down as the writing became blurred. His boy: such a brave boy, such slaughter. He looked around the room. The library contained extensive writing on the subject of war. There were clues contained in these volumes on the nature of modern warfare. The various conflicts where the British Army had been involved like South Africa or Crimea had not prepared the country for the Great War. Why had the lessons of the American Civil War not been learned? Cavendish saw very early on how this conflict would progress. The parallel with the Civil War’s trench-style attrition was painfully obvious.
Outside the first of his guests had arrived. He looked out of the window and saw Lord Kit Aston stepping gingerly from the back of the car followed by Eric Strangerson. Another, oddly familiar, man climbed out, this time from the front of the car where he had been sitting with the driver, Devlin. Cavendish assumed this was Aston’s man.
Cavendish rose and went into the hallway. The front door was already open, he stepped through to greet his guests. Walking forward he held his hand out to a tall, slender man, in his late twenties.
‘Kit, so good to see you again.’
‘And you too, sir.’ They shook hands, both smiling warmly.
