“Where will I be buried?” he asked suddenly, breaking in to the reading.
The padre looked startled, but then said, “In the cemetery just over the hill. You will not be alone, you will be buried among your comrades and receive a Christian burial, I promise you.”
Tom nodded slowly, and as he said no more, the chaplain went on with his reading, moving on to Psalm 121. “I will lift up mine eyes unto the hills…”
The summer night was short, and just before the sun crept over the horizon, the MO came into the room with some food, hot strong tea and a large measure of rum.
Tom was lying on the bed, his hands behind his head, his eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling.
“Some food, for you, Carter,” he said, “but you may prefer this.” He handed Tom the rum, then he turned to the chaplain, “I’ll be with them when they come. I suggest you get that down him.”
Tom could see no point in eating the food that had come, bread and butter and some ham, but he tipped the rum into the tea and drank the lot straight down. He went and stood by the window and watched the colour steal back into the courtyard below. He could hear the tramp of marching feet and turned abruptly from the window. He knew only too well who was marching at this time in the morning and why. He turned to the chaplain and asked, “What date is it, today?”
Smalley replied, “1st of August.”
Tom gave a harsh laugh. “It’s my birthday,” he said. “I’m twenty-three today.”
The door opened and the adjutant came in. “It’s time to go,” he said.
Tom rubbed his eyes as if banishing sleep and then fell in between the two new military policemen who had come with him. Outside the Assistant Provost Marshal was waiting. With military policemen in front and behind, Tom was marched down the lane, away from HQ to a ruined house half a mile away. All round him were the sounds and scents of a summer morning. As he walked he felt more alive than he ever had before, and his eyes drank in the gleam of the sun on the grasses, the sparkle of dew on a spider’s web and the piercing sound of a lark as it soared high above them, and he thought of Molly. Tom knew the padre was only a step behind and he was glad he was there; behind him were the doctor and the other officers. Their feet tramped on the stony track as the procession approached the execution ground. Ahead, Tom could see men formed up in three sides of a square. They halted a short way off, and the adjutant went forward and read out the charges against Private Thomas Carter and then the sentence. The men stood stiff and straight as they heard it. They made no sound as the lark, oblivious, trilled on above them. The doctor then stepped up to put a blindfold over Tom’s eyes. The last thing Tom saw was the grey face of Tony Cook staring bleakly at him from the ranks.
He was led forward and tied to a stake on the fourth side of the square. Now the moment had come, Tom felt a strange calm come over him. It was almost as if he were watching the whole thing from outside. He felt someone pin something on to his chest and knew it was a piece of white cloth to mark his heart for the firing squad. He could hear the padre saying prayers in a soft voice close beside him, and though he could not see the signal given by the Assistant Provost Marshal, he felt the padre move aside and knew it was time. Behind the blindfold, he conjured up a vision of Molly’s face, her eyes laughing into his, and the world exploded in a volley of rifle fire.
Lieutenant Smalley returned to HQ from the burial and met a harassed looking corporal. “Ah, there you are sir,” said the man. “I think I ought to give this to you, sir.” He looked awkwardly at an envelope in his hand. “A letter for Carter, sir.”
Smalley took the letter and said, “Thank you, Corporal. I’ll see it’s sent home with his other things.”
He took the letter and the letter which Tom had written to Molly and saddling his horse, rode the ten miles to St Croix.
2001
22
Rachel stared at the letter Tom had written on the eve of his execution. Tears burned the back of her eyes and there was a lump in her throat. So that was it. That was what had happened to Tom Carter, her great-grandfather. He had been branded a deserter and been shot at dawn. She read the letter again. He sounded so brave in it, trying to comfort Molly. What must Molly have thought when she got that letter? She must have been in utter despair. For a long while, Rachel couldn’t go on reading. There were still several letters to go, but somehow Tom’s last had brought her to a stop. She sat with the yellowed paper in her hand, its pencilled words still clear on the lined paper, and she felt empty inside. She wondered if Gran knew that her father had been shot. Had her mother told her? Almost certainly not, she’d have been far too young before her mother died. Her grandmother then? Probably not, it would have been adding yet more shame to that of her birth; and Gran’s mother had been ashamed of her already. Gran said that she had not read any of the letters herself, so, she didn’t know.
In need of comfort, Rachel picked up the phone and dialled Nick Potter’s mobile. He answered at once.
“Are you busy?” asked Rachel.
“Nothing that can’t wait,” Nick replied as he caught the something in the tone of her voice.
“Can you come over?”
“I’m on my way,” he said. “Are you all right?”
Rachel gave a laugh that didn’t work and said, “Yes, just had some sad news, that’s all. Thought you might like to cheer me up.”
“I’m at my mother’s,” Nick said. “I’ll be with you in about three-quarters of an hour.”
Immeasurably cheered by this news, Rachel poured herself a drink and picked up the next letter. It was from Molly to Tom before she knew about his death.
25th July
Dear Tom,
I got your letter saying you are under arrest. Surely they must believe you about the pass.
Poor Sarah has just heard that Freddie is missing, presumed dead in the dreadful battle. She is very upset. This will mean that he can’t tell them you had leave to go to Albert. What will happen to you now? I suppose you will be sent back to the front to your unit again, so I must go home. Don’t worry about me. We have it all planned and Sarah has given me the money Sir George sent for me to go home last time, so it will not be difficult. It is a good thing we kept it. She was going to write to her father about me, explaining things, but I don’t think she will now. They are both too upset to be thinking much about me. I wondered if she would go home now to be with her dad, but she says not yet. She says her place is here in the hospital. It has been a madhouse here. We’ve had men pouring in from the front. Usually we don’t get many of the ones who will be sent home, but everywhere is flooded out with wounded, and lots of those who have come have been given a sort of first aid and sent home to England. I ought to be here too, but once Rev. mother knows about me I shall be sent packing.
So, dearest Tom, don’t worry about me. Keep yourself safe and know that we shall be waiting for you. I will write again when I get home.
Love from Molly
How had this come back to Molly, Rachel wondered? Clearly it had been sent, as it was in a stamped envelope.
Rachel had been making notes in her notebook as she’d read the letters, now she noted down this query before she turned to the next envelope. This was addressed to Molly at Valley Farm in neat handwriting Rachel hadn’t seen before and had a French stamp. She pulled out the letter and looked at the signature. It was from Sarah.
Convent Of Our Lady of Mercies
St Croix 1st August
Dear Molly,
I am so sorry to be the bearer of dreadful news, but I felt I must write at once. Tom’s battalion chaplain, Reverend Smalley, was here today. He asked for you, and of course you had gone, but he knew about me and so asked to speak to me instead. He told me that your poor Tom had been shot this morning for desertion. He said that though Tom said he had a leave pass he was unable to prove it and was court-martialled. He had been in the battle which took my dearest Freddie, and after that tried to make his way to Albert. They say he deserted
whilst on active service. I know this will come as a desperate shock to you, Molly, and the only comfort I can give you is to say that Reverend Smalley said Tom only thought of you and the baby, and when the time came he walked out steadily and died a brave man. I enclose the letter Tom wrote to you on the night before he died, and also return one that you wrote to him that arrived too late. It hasn’t been opened, of course, the padre simply brought it with him. He was a very kind and gentle man and was upset at not having been able to do more for Tom. He said one of the problems was that most of the officers who knew Tom well, like Freddie, had been killed that first day, and so there was no one to speak up for him. He didn’t condemn Tom for what he did, although I think he didn’t approve. He wanted to tell you face to face, so that you would not simply hear through official channels. Tom made a soldier’s will and left you everything, but apart from the enclosed I don’t think there is much.
My dear Molly, life will be very hard for you now, particularly if this becomes known at home. I haven’t told my father, he wouldn’t understand, and I suggest you keep the news to yourself as well. No one need know and everyone will assume Tom died in action. The padre buried him in a cemetery behind the lines and gave him a Christian burial, so your Tom is lying among his comrades and at peace with God now.
There is something else I must tell you, dearest Molly and that is that I have decided to stay here in the convent and to become one of the sisters. Reverend Mother has accepted me as a novice and from now on I shall be known as Sister Marie-Pierre. You will probably be surprised at my decision, but you shouldn’t be. You know that I have always felt myself comfortable here. I feel this is where God wants me to be and I am at peace with myself in my decision. Of course for the rest of this dreadful war I shall work as I have all the time we were together, but I am not sure I am really cut out for nursing, and will be happy to live a more contemplative life.
I have of course written to my father and told him. I know he will be disappointed in me, but I am sure I am doing the right thing. I hope to return to Charlton Ambrose to see him for a few days when I can be spared, so, I shall be able to see you and the baby when I come.
I am so sorry to have to break this awful news to you, Molly, but you know you will be in my prayers now and always.
Your loving friend Sarah
Rachel sat with the letter in her hand and tears in her eyes. What a desperately sad letter to receive, she thought. How on earth had Molly coped with it when it arrived? She must have told her parents that Tom was dead. Did she tell them the truth?
Unlikely, Rachel thought, I wouldn’t have, considering the relationship she seemed to have with them. She certainly wouldn’t have told her father, but perhaps she shared her grief with her mother. She certainly needed someone.
It was interesting that the chaplain was called Smalley. Was he the same as Henry Smalley who turned up at Charlton Ambrose after the war? He must be. In the article about him in the Chronicle archives it said he had served at the front in the Great War. Perhaps he had known Freddie and come to see his father after the war. Or was it Molly he came to see? Rachel wondered. Clearly Tom Carter’s execution had greatly disturbed him. Why else would he ride over to the convent, in the hope of breaking the news to Molly himself? He knew where Molly lived from Tom’s pay book; had he come especially to see how she and the baby were getting on? It was also clear that he had great sympathy for the men who had been killed in the war. It seemed to be he who had convinced Sir George to allow him to dedicate the ninth tree. Perhaps Sarah had sent him to her father. However it had happened, it appeared that the Reverend Henry Smalley came to the living of Charlton Ambrose in 1921 and had stayed until 1938. He had written a history of the parish and, Rachel was now convinced, he knew who the ninth tree was for. She thought she did, too. It was for her great-grandfather, Tom Carter.
How had Smalley convinced Sir George to allow the ninth tree to be dedicated to the unknown soldier? He must have told him the partial truth, that it was for Molly’s soldier who had been lost, like Freddie, on the Somme, one of Freddie’s men. Almost certainly he did not tell him the exact circumstances; as Sarah had said in her letter, her father would not have understood, but he seemed to have convinced the squire somehow that it was a simple act of charity to allow the tree to remain.
Nick Potter arrived with a bottle of wine and a bunch of flowers whose gaudy cellophane wrapping paper proclaimed that they had been bought in a motorway service area. He followed Rachel through to the kitchen and when she had put the flowers and the wine down on the counter she turned round and said, “Oh Nick, I’m so glad you came.”
“So am I,” said Nick and taking her in his arms he began to kiss her. For a split second she tensed and then relaxed against him, returning his kisses as naturally as if she’d always done so. After a moment he let her go and looking down into her face said, “If I’d known you were going to do that, I’d have kissed you before,” and proceeded to kiss her again.
At last he said, “Now tell me, what’s the problem?”
Rachel led him into the sitting room and they sat together on the sofa. “It’s not a problem, exactly,” she said, “just something rather sad, and I needed company.”
“Tell me.”
So, Rachel told him everything she had learned from the letters, and she read him the last from Tom and the letter from Sarah. As she did so her voice broke and she began to cry, tears sliding down her face as she imagined Molly’s anguish when she received Sarah’s letter and Tom’s farewell. Nick put his arms round her and held her close. He said nothing, simply held her until she sniffed and said, “Sorry. Shouldn’t be such a wimp.”
He gave her his handkerchief and she blew her nose. He poured her a drink and handing her the glass said, “Does your grandmother know all this?”
“No, I don’t think so. She says she never read the letters, and I shouldn’t think anyone would have told her while she was a child.”
“So this is your great-grandfather.”
“Yes, and you know I’m sure that the ninth tree in the Ashgrove was planted for him. I think somehow Molly managed to plant it. You know they mention this chaplain, Smalley, who was with Tom at the end? Well he became the rector of Charlton Ambrose in 1921. He must be the same chap, don’t you think? It would be too much of a coincidence if it was a different Henry Smalley.” Rachel sipped her drink and went on, “In the paper at the time of his induction, it said that he had served at the front. I can’t prove it, of course not without a lot of research, but if it was him, he could have helped Molly plant the tree, or at least known that she had. We shall never know for sure that the tree was for Tom Carter, but I’d like to think it was.”
“Have you read all the letters now?” asked Nick
“Almost,” Rachel replied. “There is one more envelope. It’s bigger than the others and is not addressed or dated. I read the others in date order and decided to leave that one till last.”
“Why not read it now?” suggested Nick. He was concerned about what it might contain and he thought he’d like to be with Rachel when she opened it.
“OK.” Rachel set down her glass and reached for the last envelope. She turned it over in her hands. It was thick and brown, with nothing written on the outside, and its flap was stuck down. She fetched a knife and carefully slitting the envelope open, pulled out the contents. There was a smaller white envelope, also sealed and addressed to Rosemary Day. “I suppose that’s Gran,” said Rachel, but she was puzzled. She had always thought her grandmother’s name was simply Rose. “That must be a letter for Gran. It’s from Molly, look it’s addressed in the same writing as the diary.” She looked at it for a long moment and then regretfully set it aside unopened and turned her attention to the other things. There was an army pay book in the name of Thomas Carter, something wrapped in crumpled tissue paper and a black and white photograph. Rachel picked up the photo and held it to the light, and for the first time she saw Tom Carter’s face. He was
in uniform, his cap at a rather raffish angle. Looking straight at the camera, his expression was serious, but with slightest suspicion of a smile round his eyes. Rachel remembered the words Molly had used when she had received this photo, “very spruce”. It was clearly a posed photo, taken specially to send her. His face was long and narrow, with a determined jut to the chin. His mouth, unsmiling, was straight, the lips full, and his eyes…? I know that expression, Rachel thought suddenly as she studied the picture. She put her hand over the bottom half of the face, and there were her grandmother’s eyes, almost smiling at her, the faintly quizzical look Gran had when she was suspicious you were teasing her.
Rachel handed the picture to Nick. “It’s him,” she said. “That’s Tom Carter. He’s got Gran’s eyes, well, or the other way around.”
Nick took the picture and turned it over. On the back there was a French photographer’s stamp and written in faded ink “February 1916”.
“So it is,” he said. “Has your grandmother ever seen one of him?”
Rachel shrugged still studying the picture. “I doubt it,” she said. “I’ll take it round tomorrow when I take her the letter.”
She picked up the crumpled tissue paper and carefully unwrapped it. Into her hand fell a bracelet, its clasp in the shape of a heart. It was tarnished and black, but Rachel knew if she polished it up it would be silver. She held it up on her finger. “Tom gave her this for Christmas, when they got engaged,” she said softly. “It was in the diary.” She laid it gently back into its tissue. Everything in this last envelope belonged to Gran, and Gran had never known it was there.
Rachel sat for several moments in deep silence, her mind back in 1916, her heart aching for those who inhabited that time. In her researches they had become very real to her, and she ached for their pain and loss.
Nick watched her face and realised in that instant, just how much he loved this woman. She was unlike any woman he had ever known, some quality within her reaching out to him. She was beautiful, but it wasn’t that. He’d known other beautiful women, and never had a shred of the feeling which engulfed him now. Rachel. He longed to hold her again, to make love to her, to share all that he was with her, and he longed from the inner depth of his being to protect her from the cares and dangers of the world. He thought about Tom Carter and realised he must have had just such feelings for Molly, enough to risk everything to protect her from the stigma of having a child out of wedlock. He had died because he tried to protect Molly, Nick thought. Would I do the same for Rachel? In that moment, he thought he would. Very dramatic! he told himself as he watched the firelight play on her face, but probably true.
The Lost Soldier Page 36
