Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

31

  SARAH STOOD beside a beech tree halfway up the slope, appalled. She could not understand how it had happened, or why they could not see her, or what she should do.

  She saw Deborah start to protest, but immediately one of the two men seized her by the shoulder and propelled her in front of him down the hill. The other man slung Tom over his shoulder and followed after. They were both big, broad-shouldered men, at least a foot taller than her and even taller than Deborah. Both were armed with rifles and Sarah didn’t have even a stone or a branch. If I rush at them, she thought, perhaps that man’ll drop Tom and he’ll run away. But he can’t, not in all those blankets, and anyway where would he go? It’s more likely they’ll shoot him and then what? At least I’m still free, I should be able to help in some way, but what? I’m too weak, my stomach hurts and there’s something wrong with my eye and I can hardly stand . . .

  She was still dithering by the time the men came out of the wood and on to the grass thirty yards away, and then they were going across the grass towards the house and it was far, far too late.

  A minute ago we thought we had saved Tom. How did this happen?

  When they had killed Simon and Deborah had got up to unlock the door, Sarah had staggered outside because her stomach hurt where Simon had punched her and she couldn’t stand the sight of all that blood and she wanted to be sick. She had stumbled a few yards up the hill and vomited on the ground, and then, when she had stopped retching, she had heard some voices further down the hill. So she had climbed up further to a point where she could look down upon the house, and when she had turned, she had seen the men already outside the ice-house. How they had got there without seeing her she didn’t know, but they had, and she had been so paralysed with shock and indecision that she hadn’t moved out of the shadows where she was until they had taken Tom and Deborah and marched them away.

  She remembered there was a rifle in the ice-house, Simon’s rifle. I could take it and try to shoot them, she thought. But she might hit Deborah or Tom instead. Anyway, she didn’t know how to use a rifle, she had never learnt.

  That’s one thing I really do need a man for, she thought grimly. But who? Charles, he’s a soldier. Oh God they’ve captured him too! She remembered what Simon had said to Deborah as she stood just outside the passage only a few minutes ago. ‘Your husband was caught trying to run away through the woods’ — something like that. So no one knew these people were here. Even though Simon was dead, no one could stop them.

  An idea came to her.

  Charles was trying to get to the village to fetch his men from the UVF, she thought. Deborah said his sergeant lives there and so do a lot of the men. Probably they have their rifles with them. I could go and warn them instead!

  How?

  I can’t go past the house, they might see me. But there’s a lane, isn’t there, at the back of these woods. I remember I went for walks there with Jonathan on our honeymoon long ago. Where is it?

  She began to climb up the hill, but almost immediately she stumbled and fell on her hands and knees. She felt exhausted. her breath came in short harsh gasps and her chest and stomach hurt and there was bile in her throat and tears flowed down her cheeks. She clenched her hands in the leafmould and thought: why am I like this?

  I have just helped to kill a man — is that it?

  That’s not it. Even when I was being force-fed I wasn’t as weak as this. It’s because we failed. All that effort wasted. Tom and Deborah and Charles are in the hands of these devils and I’ve turned my back on them. I’m running away.

  That’s not true. You have to believe in what you’re doing, then you find strength. You’re not running away, you’re running to fetch help. Convince yourself, believe it. Make your legs move. They have to move. It doesn’t matter how weak they are. They’re the only hope now.

  She dragged herself to the top of the slope on her hands and knees, and then stood up. Her legs were shaking uncontrollably and her chest and stomach hurt as though they were being rasped with a file every time she breathed. It had begun to rain again and she was wet and shivering with cold. But the track she was looking for was only ten yards ahead. She could see the moonlight glistening on a wet gatepost.

  Grimly, she stumbled towards it. When she had got onto the track the ground began to slope downhill. Digging deep into her resources, she began to run along the dark muddy road, her legs in the long damp skirts wobbling like rubber beneath her . . .

  To Werner, it seemed that the war had already begun. Each time there was a shot outside in the darkness matters got worse. First Charles was dragged in wounded and bleeding; now Karl-Otto and Adolf came in with the boy and the news that his bedraggled, bloodstained, hysterical mother had murdered young Simon. The ferocious look in her wild dark eyes suggested that she would do the same to the rest of them if she got the chance.

  Karl-Otto strode into the library and flung the boy down on a sofa. His mother immediately broke free from Adolf and stood protectively over him. Charles forced himself out of his chair and took three paces towards them before he was restrained by Franz.

  Werner listened to their story, appalled. It had to be true; the woman’s dress was covered in blood. This place is looking like a battlefield casualty station, he thought.

  Charles was staring at Deborah, his face white with disbelief, horror and — could it be admiration? ‘You killed him?’ he whispered.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I had to. He wouldn’t give me the keys.’

  ‘The keys?’ It made no sense to Charles. But it didn’t matter. Tom was here, safe. That must be Simon’s blood on Deborah’s dress, not her own. She seemed to him like some avenging angel out of the Old Testament. A witch. A saviour. My wife.

  With an effort he turned to Werner. The man was standing quite still, watching the two of them. He looks as shocked as I am, Charles thought. He decided to press his advantage.

  ‘You must realise your wretched scheme is finished now,’ he said as coolly as he could. ‘There’s your guide and chief torturer dead already, before you even leave the house. That second shot must have woken half the county. I suggest you surrender your weapons to me, now, before anyone else is hurt.’

  He stepped away from Franz, and held out his hand for Werner’s gun.

  Werner hesitated for a second. He’s right, he thought. How can I carry on like this? It’s like trying to pick up quicksilver with a fork — the harder I try the more things run away. He became aware that his men were looking to him for orders, anxiously.

  But if I surrender now we’re all lost. We’ll hang, probably, or spend years cramped in some filthy prison. And this arrogant sod will have beaten me again.

  He wrenched his lips into a grim smile, and said: ‘On the contrary, I see my plan has worked, Colonel Cavendish. The arrival of your son has cured your weakness and given you new energy. I have no need of a guide, I know the way to Craigavon quite well. Now, we will spend the next hour sprucing up your uniform and providing some food for your son, while Franz brings the car round to the front door. As for your wife . . .’

  He stared at the haggard, bloodstained figure on the sofa, her face streaked by tears, her arms wrapped protectively around the fair-haired boy in the grey blankets, whose big eyes stared at him in horror. Werner’s heart almost failed him.

  ‘…. she had better clean herself up as well. She is an affront to humanity.’

  Deborah wrapped her arms tighter round the boy, almost squeezing the breath out of him. ‘I am not leaving my son,’ she said. ‘You can do what you like to me, but you shan’t touch him.’

  The cold blue eyes facing her blazed with an icy determination that made her stomach freeze within her. ‘I shall do what I like, Mrs Cavendish,’ Werner said. ‘To you or anyone else who gets in my way. I suggest you remember that, for whatever short time you may have left upon this earth.’

  If only I had kept the bayonet, Deborah thought. But I couldn’t do that again, it was too foul. And anyway, there are four o
f them. I wish I knew where Sarah was. But she’s all alone, she can’t help now. If only I wasn’t so tired. I never knew fear made you tired but it’s true. But I have to fight back. Not for myself or Charles but for Tom.

  Her gaze did not shift from Werner’s eyes. In a grey, bleak voice she said: ‘That’s what young Simon said, only a few minutes ago. There is still a God in heaven, Mr von Weichsaker. If you lay a finger on my son, what happened to Simon Fletcher will happen to you, as well.’

  The lane was longer than Sarah had ever believed possible. It seemed to her that she had been running for hours and her body wasn’t working any more. She had stopped several times for breath, and twice she had sat down in the mud in the middle of the lane. Once she was down, there was a strong temptation to sleep. But each time she dragged herself to her feet and stumbled wearily on.

  It seemed to her that the lane twisted and turned more than she had remembered. Perhaps that was only the dark, or perhaps she herself was weaving hazily from one side of the lane to the other. She knew she was doing it a little, but she had no idea exactly how much. It didn’t matter anyway, the main thing was that she was going on. It doesn’t matter how slowly I’m going, she thought defiantly, even a snail would get there in the end so long as it kept going in the right direction.

  In the right direction.

  The horrible thought struck her as she tottered around another bend and saw nothing in front of her but a further stretch of dark road between trees, with the puddles on the surface reflecting the lightening grey of the sky above. She sat down abruptly on the line of tussocky grass which ran down the centre of the lane, and dropped her head between her knees, while her legs trembled and the breath rasped painfully into her lungs.

  What if I’m going the wrong way?

  If I turned the wrong way when I first came into the lane all this effort will be taking me further away from the village, not nearer. I couldn’t have done that, could I?

  She knew she could. She had lived too long in a city and she had never had a good sense of direction. She had often got lost in the country, even around Glenfee. She remembered playful arguments about it with Jonathan on their honeymoon. It had been a joke, all those years ago, but not now.

  If I can’t be trusted to find my way in the daytime, how can I be sure I’ve got it right in the dark, in a rainstorm, when my body’s broken because of prison and my mind’s all hazy because we killed that man?

  She dragged herself to her feet and took a few steps further down the lane. But it was so hard, and what was the point if she might be going the wrong way? She stood still, irresolute, wondering what to do. Rain still dripped down the back of her neck, and she shivered with cold. She noticed the grey hurrying clouds above were getting lighter, and realised she could see the track ahead more clearly than before. There were still dark trees on either side, but she could see a strip of grass running down the centre of the lane, puddles in the ruts on either side, a farm gate some fifty yards ahead. Dawn must be on its way.

  Perhaps if she got to the gate she would be able to look out across the fields and catch sight of the village or the house. Then she would be able to work out where she was from that. But she would have to hurry. Dawn was around six o’clock, she thought and Deborah had told her that Charles’s car was expected to leave for Craigavon soon after seven. Even when she got to the village it would still take time to round up the men to stop them.

  But when daylight came, she might meet someone — a farm labourer, perhaps — who could help her.

  With the dawn the wind had got up. Vast gusts of it blustered through the trees, setting them swaying and creaking beside her like the sea. As she lurched towards the farm gate an unusually large gust howled through a gap in the trees, caught her sodden skirts, and sent her staggering sideways into the ditch. I can’t stand much more of this, she thought, my body just won’t take it.

  As she stumbled to her feet again a car came round the corner behind her, its headlights glistening through the driving rain. This is it, she thought. Someone who can help me at last!

  She tottered out into the middle of the lane, waving her arms frantically. The car would have to stop; she was on the grassy patch in the middle of the lane and there was no way round. The driver saw her and applied the brakes, the back wheels sliding sideways through the mud. It stopped about ten yards away from her.

  Sarah sobbed with relief. There were two men in the car, wearing leather driving helmets and goggles that covered their faces. One of them lifted a gauntleted hand, opened the door, and got out. His companion got out the other side.

  She started to walk towards the car, then paused. There was something odd, something familiar about the car, she thought. What was it?

  Fear crawled like worms in her stomach. That car — it was Charles’s Lancia — the one the Germans were going to take to Craigavon! And one of the men — the one climbing out of the passenger seat — was holding a shotgun in his hand.

  Shortly after dawn the rain stopped. But the grey clouds still scudded eastwards over the grounds, chased by a loud, boisterous wind that bent and tossed the tall trees near the road, and churned the waters of the lough into miles of white horses and short, choppy grey waves.

  The wind rattled the windows of Glenfee Lodge, and piercing draughts hissed and scurried through the rooms. Werner stood with arms folded at the end of the library, scowling as he stared out into the cheerless light of day.

  It was nearly seven o’clock. He would have to decide in the next few minutes whether to go ahead with his mission or abort it. They would have to leave on time — with a gale from the west like this the journey east to Craigavon could easily take longer than expected, to say nothing of the risk of the engine stopping if it began to rain again, or of the car sliding off the road in the wet. He had sent Karl-Otto and Franz in search of the chauffeur and the car. They would bring it round to the front door any minute now.

  Certainly enough had gone wrong already for him to justify aborting the mission. Charles wounded, Simon dead, several of the servants and that other woman, his wife’s sister, apparently vanished — he had been able to trace neither the butler nor the housekeeper so far this morning — and the boy’s mother was completely intractable. No one could blame him if he estimated the risks were too great at this point to continue, and withdrew with his three subordinates still unharmed.

  But failure will not further my career, Werner thought. There will be no medal. No presentation from the Kaiser. Charles Cavendish will live to laugh, and mock me again.

  But if we go ahead, what can I do with the boy’s mother? She had not let go of Tom once since she had come into the house, and Werner’s men had been reluctant to prise them apart. Werner had been about to order them to do it once, when they had brought her a clean dress, but she had marched upstairs with the boy’s hand gripped tightly in her own, and he had seen a look in his men’s eyes which had made him change his mind and order them to follow her and stand guard outside the door instead.

  They were brave men, but sentimental. They would kill Carson or Cavendish without a thought, but a mother and a child was a different matter. I ought to shoot her myself, he thought. After all she’s a murderess, she killed Fletcher. But if I do I may have a rebellion on my hands, just when I need maximum obedience and devotion to duty.

  In the next few minutes I shall have to decide. If we go ahead we can’t take her with us, and I daren’t leave her behind.

  He glanced over his shoulder at the far end of the library, where Charles, Deborah and Tom sat together round a small fire which Franz had lit. Like the ideal happy family, Werner thought bitterly. Guarded by Franz, watching them quietly with a cigarette in his mouth and a cocked rifle resting on a chair in front of him.

  Charles had not thought it was possible to feel such pain. Not the pain from the bullet that had grazed his skull. That was an ache, merely. Ferocious, but bearable. He had born many worse wounds in his time. In battle, in skirmishes on the
North West Frontier, even in falls from polo ponies. They had all been wounds he had born with honour.

  The pain that hurt him was in his whole body, behind his eyes and in every muscle of his face and especially, deep in his chest. It was unbearable. It felt as though his face were melting into tears that ran down inside his skin so that every tube and sinus and pore was suffused and bloated with ugliness. It felt as though a red-hot wire brush was scraping the lining of his lungs. It felt as though he was standing alone in the middle of a regimental square of sand, watched by all the soldiers he had ever commanded and by his parents and grandparents and family to the twelfth generation, while his badges of rank were stripped from him and his ceremonial sword was broken and flung in the mud at the feet of his son.

  The name of the pain was shame.

  His son sat opposite him, his dark eyes haunted by fear, clutched in the arms of Deborah whose eyes were hot and dark with anger. Charles was ashamed to look at either of them.

  I wanted my son to see me as a hero, he thought, but I do not deserve to have a son at all. None of this would have happened to him if it had not been for me. I was so blinded by lust for Simon’s beauty that I saw nothing of the monster within. Even now I am grieved for his death!

  I am not even a competent soldier. Only Deborah — Deborah! — has managed to fight back. Even now, Charles could scarcely believe it.

  Awkwardly, only briefly glancing up from the fire, he asked: ‘Did you mean to kill him?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  She was not looking at him; all her attention seemed divided between Tom, at her side, and Werner, brooding by the window near the door.

  ‘No, not really. Only . . .’ he drew a deep breath, through the pain of shame in his lungs and his face. ‘. . . I suppose I should say that you were perfectly right to do it.’

  She glanced at him briefly, and tears started in her eyes. ‘There was no time to think of what would happen. Of course we would have avoided it if we could. There was . . . so much blood, Charles.’ She shuddered and glanced at Tom, then lifted her head determinedly to stare warily at Werner. ‘And there will be more, if these devils have their way.’