The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  “You hear much about Everton?” Seamie said now.

  “Dead. The Marne.”

  “Erickson?”

  “The Somme.”

  Seamie rattle off another dozen names. Albie told him that ten had been killed and the other two had been injured.

  “Gorgeous George?” Seamie asked hesitantly, afraid of the answer.

  “Mallory’s still with us. Last I heard.”

  “I’m so glad,” Seamie said. “Someday, when this whole damn thing is over, we’re going climbing again, Alb. All of us. On Ben Nevis. Or Snowdon.”

  “Wouldn’t that be lovely?” Albie said wistfully. “We could rent a cottage. In Scotland or Wales. Or maybe the Lake District.”

  “Anywhere, as long as there’s a good pub close by.”

  “Oh, for a plate of cheese sandwiches with Branston pickle.”

  “You’re a madman, Albie. You really are,” Seamie said, laughing. “Ask any man here what he misses and he’ll say women. A pint of good ale. Roast beef with gravy. Not you. You want Branston pickle.” Seamie suddenly stopped laughing and turned serious. “We’ll do it, Albie. We will. All of us together again. You and I, and George, and … well, maybe not quite all of us.” He was quiet for a bit, then he said, “Do you … do you ever hear anything from her?”

  Albie sighed. “Very little,” he said. “Mother received a letter, late in 1914, from Cairo. A few more in 1915. Not much since.”

  “Cairo? You mean here in the Mideast?”

  “I do,” Albie said. “She’d followed Tom Lawrence out here, if you can believe it.”

  “Yes, I can.”

  “She arrived here in September of ’14. Just after the war broke out. Lawrence got her a job under Allenby. She was working on maps. I’ve seen some of them. They’re bloody good. Then she resigned her position. Left Cairo. Right about the same time Lawrence went into the desert. Wrote to Mother and said she was traveling east. That was the last we heard from her. I imagine she went back to Tibet, but I really have no idea.”

  Albie’s expression was pained as he spoke.

  “I shouldn’t have mentioned her,” Seamie said. “I’m sorry.”

  Albie smiled ruefully. “It’s all right, old mole,” he said.

  No more was said about it. No more needed to be. Seamie knew Albie’s relationship with his sister was a difficult one. He was glad, however, that Albie knew nothing about the relationship he and Willa had had in London, shortly after he’d married Jennie.

  “Now, if I can just find those figures …,” Albie said, digging under a pile of papers on his desk.

  “Albie, you didn’t tell me … why the devil did London post you all the way out here, anyway? Why Haifa? Are you being sent down? Did you bugger something up? Get a code wrong?”

  Albie laughed unhappily. “I only wish it was that,” he said. “I’d be having myself a holiday. Buy myself a nice pair of field glasses and see the sights.”

  Seamie, who’d gotten out of his chair and walked over to the window, turned around, worried by the grim note in his friend’s voice.

  “What is it, then?” he asked him.

  Albie gave Seamie a long look, then gravely said, “I shouldn’t tell you this either, but I will because your life may well depend on it and because you may be able to help me. However, you must keep the information to yourself.”

  “Of course.”

  “We have a German mole in London. A very effective one. Somewhere in the Admiralty.”

  “What?” Seamie said. “How can that be?”

  “We don’t know. We’ve taken great pains to ferret him out—for years—but we’ve not been successful. I can tell you, though, that we’re almost certain someone has been feeding information on our ships to German high command and that it’s been happening for years. At the beginning of the war, they received intelligence on the design and capabilities of our dreadnoughts. Now they’re getting information on deployment of our ships. In the European theater. And here, in the Mediterranean.”

  Seamie’s blood ran cold.

  “For a long time, Germany was not overly concerned about the eastern front,” Albie said. “Now that Lawrence is making such headway in the desert—and now that it actually looks like he has a crack at Damascus—they are paying more attention. Messages appear to be going from London to a contact in Damascus. We don’t know how. Or to whom. But we do know why—the Germans and the Turks want to keep hold of the city at all costs. They plan to strongly defend it—which means putting paid to Lawrence and his band. When they’ve done that, they want to retake Aqaba, then advance on Cairo. This entails added ground troops, of course, but they’ve also begun to step up their naval presence here.”

  “My God. The Hawk,” Seamie said, stricken. “My men.”

  Albie nodded. “We don’t believe it was luck that led that German gunboat to you. They knew where you were. We lost two more ships in the last three days as well. One off the coast of Tripoli, the other south of Cyprus. The Admiralty wants it stopped. Now.”

  “But how?” Seamie said. “You haven’t been able to find the mole in London, you said. And he’s been operating for years.”

  Albie nodded. “Captain Reginald Hall, the head of Room 40, thinks that if we can’t nab him, perhaps we can nab his counterpart here. It’s a long shot, admittedly, but a great deal of intelligence comes and goes through Cairo, Jaffa, and Haifa. People here hear things and see things. I’m hopeful that we can collect enough pieces to put the puzzle together. We’re cultivating a lot of sources—Bedouin traders who move between Cairo and Damascus, and who courier goods and parcels. Brothel owners whose girls service Europeans. Hotel owners. Waiters. Barmen. I’m not sure whom the information is going to come from, but I’m chasing down every lead I can think of. We have to find the man and soon. Before it’s too late. Before he does any more damage.”

  “How can I help, Albie?”

  “You can keep your ear to the ground,” Albie said. “It’s amazing who these people are. He could be the man who cuts your hair. The one who serves your lunch. You never know how close you might be.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Alden. …” A young woman was standing in the doorway. She was small and pretty and serious. She wore a white blouse and gray skirt. Her hair was neatly pulled back.

  “Yes, Florence?”

  “One more thing … this just arrived classified from General Allenby’s office,” she said, handing him an envelope.

  “Thank you, Florence,” Albie said. “That will be all. I shall see you tomorrow. I expect to be back here by ten o’clock.”

  “Very well. Good night, sir.”

  “Good night.”

  “I’ll just take a quick look at this and we’ll be off. Grab our jackets, will you?” Albie said to Seamie.

  As Albie opened the envelope and pulled out a typed memo, Seamie took their jackets off the coat stand in Albie’s office. He was glad they were finally leaving for the officers’ mess. Never mind bed rest, a tall cool gin and tonic would be just what the doctor ordered.

  “You ready?” he said, turning back to Albie.

  But Albie didn’t answer him. One hand was over his face, covering his eyes. The other, the one holding whatever had come in the envelope from Allenby, was at his side.

  “Albie?” Seamie said, alarmed. “Albie, what is it?”

  Albie didn’t answer him. Instead, he held the document out to him. Seamie quickly took it and started to read.

  He skimmed the lines that warned the reader that this was classified information, and quickly came to the subject of the memo. A British plane doing reconnaissance in the Jabal ad Duruz hills had gone down in the desert four days ago. The pilot, Dan Harper, was killed in the crash. The plane was carrying one passenger—the photographer Alden Williams. Williams, whose body was not found at the crash site and who was presumed dead, might have been captured by Bedouin raiders, or by Turkish troops, who held the area. The wreckage was thoroughly searched, but Williams’s camera
was not found. Whatever information Williams was able to gain about the size and movements of Turkish troops near Damascus had been lost. There was concern that if the Turks had Williams, they might try to extract sensitive information from their prisoner. And then, at the bottom of the note, was a hand-scrawled message from General Allenby.

  “No,” Seamie said as he read it. “Dear God, no.”

  Dear Alden,

  As this event concerns reconnaissance, and may come under your bailiwick, I wish to apprise you of some particulars.

  Alden Williams, as you likely know, was the photographer attached to Lawrence and his camp. Williams is a pseudonym used to obscure the fact that the photographer is a woman. It is highly doubtful that the British public would approve of a woman’s presence on the battlefield. Equally unpalatable to the public would be the idea of a British woman taken prisoner by the Turkish—some of whom, as you also know, have been known to treat their prisoners with the utmost brutality. Please keep me posted of any and all intelligence gathered on this particular topic.

  Alden Williams’s real name is Willa Alden. Same surname as your own. Is she any relation to you?

  Please keep these details confidential.

  Yours,

  Allenby

  Chapter Fifty-Nine

  India frowned, she sat back in her chair and regarded Lindy Summers, her head nurse. “What about the new one? The blond boy who came in yesterday … Matthews? Any changes in his condition?” she asked her.

  Lindy shook her head. “No, there isn’t, Dr. Jones. Which is both good and bad. Good because I’m still convinced he has bronchitis, not the flu, but bad because he’s so weak, I’m worried the bronchitis alone will be enough to finish him off.” Lindy fished out a folder from the stack she’d just placed on India’s desk and handed it to her. “Here’s the latest on his vitals. Another lad, Abbott … now, he has me worried.”

  “Tall lad? Red hair and freckles? Facial burns?” India asked.

  “That’s the one. He came in feverish, complaining of headache. Now he’s coughing. And his lungs sound wet.”

  India’s expression became grim. “We have to set up a quarantine for possible flu victims. Right now,” she said. “We simply cannot afford to take any chances. These men are so weak as it is that if the flu gets hold of them, they won’t stand a chance. Gather the staff, tell them to go ahead and set up the ward in the attic.”

  “The attic?” Lindy said uncertainly.

  “We had four men arrive this morning, and we’re due to get another seven tomorrow. We’re out of room. The attic’s cramped but it’s clean. It’s hardly ideal, but it’s all we’ve got,” India said. She had long ago learned that when it came to medicine, ideal situations existed only in textbooks.

  “Yes, Dr. Jones,” Lindy said. “I’ll get started right away.”

  At that moment, the door to India’s office opened and Sid stepped inside. A visit from him during the day was very unusual. He was often so busy with the shell-shocked patients that she was lucky if she and the children saw him at suppertime.

  “Sid! I’m so glad you’re here. Lindy and I were just talking about the quarantine ward and …,” she began.

  And then she stopped speaking. For as he sat down across from her, she saw that his face was ashen and his eyes were red. She had only ever seen her husband cry once. A long time ago. She could not imagine what had upset him enough to make him weep.

  And then a terrifying thought gripped her. “Sid, the children …,” she started to say, her heart in her throat.

  “They’re fine. All fine,” he said. “Lindy, if I could have a minute?”

  “Of course. Please excuse me,” Lindy Summers said. She quickly stood up, left the room, and closed the door behind her.

  India got up, came around to the front of her desk, and sat down next to her husband.

  “What is it? What’s happened?” she asked him. “Is it Seamie? Did he take a turn for the worse?” India knew, as did the rest of the family, about the destruction of the Hawk, and Seamie’s resulting injuries, for Jennie had received a telegram and had told them, but those injuries—the telegram said—were not life-threatening.

  Sid tried to answer her and found he could not.

  “You’re scaring me,” India said.

  He swallowed hard and tried again. “Some new patients came in this morning,” he said.

  “Yes, I know. Four of them.”

  “One of them is badly shell-shocked,” Sid said. “In fact, it’s the worst case I’ve ever seen. He’s gone. Totally gone. Does nothing but shake and stare straight ahead of himself.” He paused, and then his voice broke as he said, “India … it’s Charlie. My nephew. My namesake. And he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even know me.”

  It took a minute for Sid’s words to sink in. “I’m so sorry, Sid,” she finally said, in a choked voice, leaning her head against his. “Is there no hope? None at all? You can do something, I know you can. I’ve seen what you’ve done with the other lads.”

  Sid shook his head. “Come with me,” he said, standing up.

  India followed him downstairs. He led her to the last room on the hall where the shell-shocked men lived. She looked through the open door and saw a young man seated on the bed, shaking horribly. He was skeletally thin, just skin over bones. His eyes were open, but they had a dead and empty look to them.

  India went to him. She sat down on the bed next to him and gave him a quick examination. She talked to him as she did, trying to make some contact, trying to elicit a response, a flicker of recognition. But her efforts were in vain. There was nothing there. Nothing. It was as if all the things inside of him—his heart and his soul, his bright mind and quick sense of humor—had been ripped out, and all that was left was a shell.

  “He’s only seventeen, India,” Sid said. “He’s only seventeen years old.”

  India heard her husband’s choked sobs then. She thought of what she had to do next—call Fiona and Joe and tell them that their precious child was here, in her hospital. That he was wounded, not dead—but he might as well be.

  And then India, who had learned long ago not to cry over her patients, covered her face with her hands and wept.

  Chapter Sixty

  “Walk!” the man shouted in Turkish. “Walk or I’ll kick the hell out of you!”

  Willa had fallen onto her side in the dirt. Her legs didn’t work. Nothing worked. She was dizzy and disoriented. Her eyes wouldn’t focus.

  “Walk, I said!” the man yelled.

  His boot in her ribs made her scream, but it did not bring her to her feet. Nothing could do that. She was going to die here. In the dirt. In the crucifying heat. And she didn’t care. She had heard the Bedouin talking to the Turks, and had understood enough of their conversation to know she’d been traveling for five days. After five days of crossing the desert, bound and slung over the back of a camel, after nights spent tied like an animal to a stake in the ground, after enduring dehydration, hunger, and excruciating pain, dying would be a mercy.

  Her clothes were caked with dirt, blood, and vomit. She had soiled herself. One of her captors had tried to rape her three nights ago, but had been so repulsed by her condition that he’d turned away from her in disgust.

  It didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered. It would all be over soon. She closed her eyes and waited for death. She was not frightened; she welcomed it.

  But the Turkish Army had other ideas.

  There was more yelling, and then Willa felt hands under her arms, hoisting her to her feet. She opened her eyes, saw a man in uniform hand a leather purse—small and heavy—to the Bedouin raiders who’d captured her. Then two men lifted her off the ground and frog-marched her inside a stone building. She had the vague notion she was in some kind of garrison town. But which one? Was it Damascus?

  Her new captors continued to half drag, half carry her through the building. They went through a foyer, down a long hallway, and then down a flight of stairs. It w
as dark, and her vision was still coming and going, but Willa was certain that she was in a prison.

  A thick wooden door was opened, and she was dumped inside a small, dark room with an earthen floor. One of the men left, then came back a minute later with a jug of water. He yelled at her again. She thought he wanted her to drink. But she didn’t want the water. She’d made up her mind to die. She struggled, trying to shake the man off, but he was far too strong for her. He held her mouth open until he’d poured most of the water into her, then he held it shut so she could not vomit it back out. After a few minutes had passed, he let go of her and she slumped to the ground.

  A plate of food was brought and set down on the floor. The door was closed and locked. It was completely dark in the cell. There was no window, no light at all.

  Willa did not know where she was. All she knew was that Bedouins had taken her from the crash site, transported her for many miles, and finally sold her to the Turks—who likely thought she was a spy and intended to interrogate her.

  She felt very afraid at the thought of an interrogation. She had heard tales of the Turks’ methods and knew they would stop at nothing to get information from her. She promised herself then and there that she would tell them nothing, no matter what they did to her. They would tire eventually and would kill her, but she would give them nothing—nothing about Lawrence, nothing about Damascus.

  She would need something to get her through the coming ordeal. Something she could think of to keep up her courage and her strength as they beat her bloody.

  An image of a face came to her in the darkness, though she did not want it to. With a trembling hand she traced a single letter in the dirt of her cell floor—the letter S.

  Chapter Sixty-One

  “Seamie, you can’t do this. It’s madness. Total bloody madness,” Albie Alden said.