Black Hand Gang

by Pat Kelleher

"Crushed my faith," he said, shaking his head despondently. "Wherever we are, we are far from God's sight."

  Edith shook her head, as if that would somehow flush out the residual effects of the insect's spray. There was something she had been trying to remember, but it was a hollow in her mind. What the deuce was it?

  Suddenly Napoo, stood below the air ventilation hole with his head cocked, urged them all into silence, his keen native senses straining to hear something. Then others heard it, too.

  "This is Second Lieutenant Everson. C Company. Hello?" said a voice drifting from the vent.

  "Give me a leg up," said one of the soldiers. A couple of his companions boosted him up towards the vent. "Sounds like someone said he's Lieutenant Everson," he said.

  "Bloody hell, man, well shout back! It could be a rescue party."

  "What?"

  "Get down. Let me," The other man was dropped unceremoniously while a Corporal was boosted up. He grasped the lip of the vent and called down.

  "Are you all right?" the voice called from below.

  "Yes, sir!"

  "We're on our way. Get ready to make a break for it!"

  Napoo went to the door and tensed, waiting expectantly. Several men joined him.

  "Captain," said Sister Fenton sharply, addressing Grantham. "Captain, it appears your men are here to rescue us."

  "Hmm, what?" said Grantham.

  "Captain," said Sister Fenton sharply. "You do not want to let your men down. They are looking to you to lead them. Whether you feel you can or not, it is your duty."

  Grantham looked up at her as if something she said had reached him.

  Some of the men, too, had got their dander up. Having heard the voice of rescue, they were up for taking a pop at the blasted Chatts. It was amazing how they rallied, Edith thought. They endured so much misery and suffering but their spirit, though dampened, was never truly extinguished and it took the merest spark to renew it. So it was she found herself swept up in their cheery confidence and for a brief, exhilarating moment she couldn't help but believe that everything was going to be all right.

  Turning down another passage Rhengar and the scentirrii brought Jeffries to the gaol chamber. The two scentirrii on guard outside exchanged a few clicking sounds with Rhengar. One then hissed briefly at the barbed door, which opened just enough to allow Jeffries to be shoved through with a prod from his escort's electric lance. He staggered, almost losing his footing, and narrowly avoided stumbling against Napoo who had been by the door. He shot the Urman a glance, warning him off. It was hardly the triumphant entrance he'd intended. He noticed the men were up on their feet as he entered.

  "Glad to have you back, sir," said one private.

  "Don't worry you fellows. Help is on the way, apparently," said Jeffries. He looked down at the Padre with disdain. The Chaplain glanced up but quickly averted his gaze. Next, he spotted Captain Grantham. Hell's teeth, but he wouldn't be sorry to see the back of this sorry-looking shower.

  "We heard them," said a Lance Corporal with a bandaged head. "It's Lieutenant Everson, sir. He'll see us right."

  Everson. Bloody boy scout. Still, a plan was forming. He could use the escape as a diversion to return to Chandar's artefact chamber and collect the map.

  That voice. Now Edith remembered. The recollection washed over her like a wave. The blood drained from her face and the room began to spin. She clutched at Abbott's shoulder.

  "What's up, Edi? What is it? Are you all right?"

  "That voice," she said weakly. "I know where I've heard it before. It's him!"

  "Who, Lieutenant Jeffries?"

  "No, not Jeffries. That's not his name at all."

  "Edi, come on love. Of course it is. It's the effects of the insect drug. You're imagining things. We've been though a right old time. I'm sure you're mistaken."

  "No," said Edith curtly. "It's him."

  "Who?"

  She found herself shaking, not with fear, but with anger. It was a fuse lit by the invitation to a private party, fuelled by the murder of her friends and her survivor's guilt, burning through the years of torment and horror on the Front. Unable to contain it any longer she felt it detonate deep within her. Edith broke away from Nellie's grip and strode belligerently towards Jeffries, with no thought for consequences. No thought but for this one remaining moment of reckoning.

  "You!"

  Jeffries turned towards her, nonplussed. "Me, Nurse?"

  "I know who you are!" her voice quavered, barely able to keep the fury under control.

  Jeffries smiled wanly at the men near him, who looked confused.

  "Yes, dear and so do all these men here. Sister Fenton, if you wouldn't mind, I think one of your charges is becoming a trifle hysterical. It must be the shock, poor thing, hmm?"

  Sister Fenton steamed in to cut across Edith's bows. "Nurse Bell, that will be enough!"

  Edith balled her hands into fists, her knuckles whitening.

  "Enough!" bawled the Sister, grabbing her wrists. "Do you hear? Desist from this foolishness."

  But it wasn't enough for her. Not by a long chalk. Edith windmilled her arms trying to break Sister Fenton's grip, but she held her fast. Edith fell into Fenton and glared over her shoulder at Jeffries, whose mouth slid into an insincere smile as he stared not at her, but through her as if she wasn't there. As if she was inconsequential. Well she may well be, but her words weren't.

  "I know who you are!" she cried. "His name isn't Jeffries."

  "Bell, be quiet!" said Fenton. "Abbott. Help me!"

  However, nothing could still her now.

  "His name's not Jeffries at all," she cried. "It's Dwyer. Dwyer the Debutante Killer, Fredrick Dwyer, the Diabolist who calls himself The Great Snake. And snake he is," she spat. "Murderer!"

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  "The Verminous Brood"

  Restrained by her companions, Edith began to yell hysterically. The men glanced at each other, uncertain of how to react. However, Edith was oblivious to it all. She was focused on one man, the man who was the ruin of her life, the man whose very existence and proximity filled her with such a righteous indignation that, against all social decorum, she could no longer contain it. That he, of all people, should be here, hale and hearty, having perversely survived all the indignities that the war could heap upon him, when her dear friends had been cruelly dispatched for his heretical sport.

  "You filthy murderer," she cried, spitting a gob of saliva in his direction. It fell short but the gesture shocked those watching.

  Jeffries smiled and casually picked lint off his lapel.

  "Bell. Stop this," said Sister Fenton. "You're making a spectacle of yourself."

  Edith struggled to face the men gathered round, confused and unsure. "Please, you must believe me. That man there is Fredrick Dwyer. He's wanted for murder."

  She heard the muttering of dissent ripple through the soldiers. She knew from the tales she'd heard that he was considered a snob and a martinet. Many men hated his guts, and more than one had a bone to pick with him.

  Several men hesitantly pushed their way forward and, exchanging looks, seized Jeffries by the arms.

  "Is this true, sir?" asked a Lance Corporal.

  "No, of course it isn't, you bloody cretin, she's a hysterical woman," snapped Jeffries. "You're making a big mistake, hmm? Technically, you could both be up on a charge for assaulting an officer. You don't want to add disobeying a direct order to the charge sheet, do you? Apart from which you're messing up my uniform. Unhand me. Now."

  Napoo looked from Edith to Jeffries as if trying to weigh their claims.

  Captain Grantham glanced at Edith Bell, shaking his head.

  Edith tore herself away from Sister Fenton and collapsed into Nellie Abbott's arms, sobbing into her shoulder at the unfairness of it all.

  "Let him go," Grantham said to the soldiers restraining Jeffries. The men shuffled uneasily. "I shan't ask again."

  The two soldiers glanced at each other uncertainly and then,
almost apologetically, at Edith herself.

  "No!" she cried as they reluctantly let go and stepped away, shamefaced. "No." Barely more than a whisper now, defeated.

  Jeffries smoothed out the sleeves of his tunic, gave his cuffs a cursory tug and nodded his head in acknowledgment to Grantham, who turned to Edith.

  "Young lady, this is very serious accusation. The inquest jury found Fredrick Dwyer guilty of the 'wilful murder' of those two girls in his absence. The vermin is still on the run, an absolute coward. Are you seriously suggesting that Lieutenant Jeffries here - who I have personally seen exhibit such bravery as defies description; a man who has been mentioned in dispatches - is nothing more than a common murderer?"

  There was a derisive snort from somewhere among the soldiers. Grantham stared hard at them, his glare sweeping like a searchlight, seeking out the dissenting voice but finding none. He bridled and pulled himself up, pushing his chest out.

  "Fall in!" The crowd of soldiers jostled and resolved itself into well-drilled ranks.

  "I will not have any insolence or insubordination. You are professional soldiers. To that end, you will follow all orders that are given to you. Is that understood?"

  "Sir!"

  Any help Edith might have expected from the men had now been snatched from her. Napoo was left hovering, still uncertain, his eyes flitting between Edith and Jeffries. The Padre was still slumped on the floor, muttering to himself. Sister Fenton had distanced herself from her charge and looked on frostily, as if she no longer knew her. Only Nellie stood by her, but Edith began to think it was more to stop her making even more of a fool of herself than for actually believing her. Edith sniffed, wiped her eyes, shrugged herself from Nellie's embrace and turned round to glare defiantly at Jeffries. He smiled back at her. The arrogance of the man! Well, there was nothing he could do to her here. There were too many witnesses. At least there was that.

  Explosions and rifle fire sounded from outside the chamber.

  "Sir, they're coming!"

  "Oh, Edith, we're going to be saved!" said Nellie, clasping her hands. "Come on, love. Let it go. You were mistaken, that's all."

  "No," said Edith, pulling her hands from Nellie's, adjusting her posture and straightening her back, trying to recover at least some dignity as Jeffries walked over to her.

  "I remember you," he whispered. "You missed a frightfully good party, as I recall, hmm? I've just decided to invite you to another."

  "Go to hell," she muttered from between clenched teeth.

  Quicker than Edith was prepared for, Jeffries swung around behind her, locked his forearm round her neck and drew the pistol from under his tunic. "Oh, I am, but you're coming along, too, I'm afraid. Everson, its seems, has forced my hand."

  He covered the startled men with his pistol.

  "Jeffries! Damn it, man," said Grantham. "What's got into you?"

  "It would be so easy to believe I've funked it like you, wouldn't it, old man? You pathetic oaf. You have no idea who I am, what I've accomplished. It's every man for himself. You have served your purpose. I have no further need of you. Of any of you. Except you of course, Bell," he added, the intimacy of his warm breath against her ear making her shiver with revulsion.

  "Edi!" cried Nellie. She took a step towards Edith.

  Edith blinked away tears, shook her head, and watched, relieved, as Sister Fenton put a firm hand on Nellie's shoulder, holding her back.

  Several men advanced slowly towards them. Jeffries stilled them with a wave of the pistol in their direction. Napoo, having made his decision, took advantage of the brief distraction and lunged for Jeffries. Jeffries was too quick and pulled the trigger. Edith squealed and Napoo dropped to the floor with a grunt of pain.

  "Ah-ah. The rest of you stay back," said Jeffries. "You wouldn't want your little Rose of No Man's Land to wilt prematurely, would you? Don't try and follow me if you know what's good for you, hmm." As Edith struggled to find purchase with her toes in order to relive the pressure against her throat, she felt the last dying embers of her anger fade, leaving only the cold ashes of fear.

  "Is it true then? Are you? Are you Dwyer?" asked Grantham with a look of hurt betrayal, like a whipped dog.

  "Oh, I've been many people," said Jeffries as he continued to edge toward the door. "I was Dwyer once and I have been many others since. And now, it seems I am done with Jeffries too. The Great Snake sheds its skin once more. Adieu."

  "Then where is the real Jeffries?"

  "Dead in a ditch outside 'Bertie the last time I saw him," said Jeffries. He stepped back towards the barbed door and called out to the guards. "I want to see Rhengar. GarSuleth wills it!"

  There was a brief pause and the doorway began to shrivel open. As soon as he got a clear shot, Jeffries fired through the gap, blowing away the head of the scentirrii outside. He then forced his way through the narrow opening and shot the second scentirrii as he dragged Edith through, her dress catching on the barbs and ripping as he yanked her into the passage. "Don't struggle. You're only alive for as long as I need you. You start struggling, you're a liability."

  Some part of Edith, some small part of her, the part that had dried up and withered away that night long ago, accepted this and was at peace with it, perhaps even longed for it. It was as if she had been guided to this moment all along, and that now, at last, she would rejoin her friends. It was almost a relief.

  "Ediiiiiii!" she heard Nellie scream before the plant door dilated shut.

  Now that the Chatt scent had worn off, the week old stink of sour sweat, smelly feet and musty uniforms was telegraphing their position to every insect in the edifice. Everson and his party had to fight every step of the way.

  The Chatts proved no match for the Tommies' weapons; a few had got off discharges from their lances, but otherwise they only had rudimentary spears and swords. However, their sheer numbers were another matter and the Chatts were reacting to their intrusion in a more organised manner now.

  Hobson and Atkins continued their advance on point, sticking to the outer wall of the spiralling passage, maximising their field of fire as they fought their way up the edifice; a task made all the more awkward by the restrictive vision of their gas hoods. Everson followed with Poilus. Atkins had that dashed Chatter of his, nosing its way forward on its string lead. Everson felt he was taking a chance trusting the rodent, but it was the only lead they had in finding their friends and comrades.

  "Keep a look out, Sergeant. We must be almost there," Everson yelled over the staccato chunter of the Lewis gun behind him. He was vaguely aware of a thick whoosh, a smell of fuel oil and a light blooming and fading as Evans and Nicholls sent a spurt of cleansing flame down an adjoining passage.

  Atkins heard a roar from Sergeant Hobson ahead of him as he fired at another mob of advancing Chatts. They seemed to exhibit no sign of fear, despite their brethren being mown down in front of them. Atkins ran forward, emptying his clip into the Chatts as he did so, but they were upon him before he could reload. One lunged with its short sword, cutting Gordon's leash. Atkins parried with his rifle before driving his bayonet through the creature's thorax and twisting the blade. His weapon caught fast on the chitinous armour. Atkins lifted his leg and stomped forwards, driving his foot against the creature's chest, freeing the blade as a second Chatt lunged at him with a spear.

  Hobson fired and the Chatt fell back. Atkins brought his hobnailed boot down squarely on the creature's head, smashing its facial plate and grinding his heel into the soft pulpy tissue beneath. He fired again and took out a further two, a single bullet driving straight through both of them.

  There was a loud report to his right as Lieutenant Everson finished off another Chatt with his service revolver.

  As a fifth lunged with a short spear, Atkins stepped aside and swung his rifle round, catching it in the faceplate with the shoulder butt, sending it reeling against the wall. He fell against it, the length of the rifle barrel against its throat, trying to choke it. He pushed harder on t
he barrel and felt something crack, but the Chatt continued to struggle. Something stabbed at his abdomen. He felt the claws of the middle limbs pressing into his skin though his tunic and shirt, holding him in a vice-like grip, as the creature's mandibles scythed lethally together again and again in front of his gas-hooded face.

  Then the Chatt pushed forward with its powerful limbs, slamming Atkins into the opposite wall. He collapsed heavily to the floor, gasping for breath, lights bursting in front of his eyes. His gas hood had been knocked askew in the impact and he could only see out of one eyepiece. The Chatt's mouthparts filled his small circle of vision. Atkins struggled to keep the scissoring mandibles as far away as possible, saliva dripping thickly onto his mask. He felt his strength fading. In seconds, the weight of the Chatt would bear its mandibles down towards him. He thought of the face of the German soldier he had killed in the shell hole and began to sob with desperation. He didn't want to die, he couldn't die. He had to survive; he had to get back to Flora.

  Oh, God, Flora. Poor Flora.

  He roared in frustration as the muscles in his arms began to burn with the effort of keeping the thrashing louse at bay, then he heard a crunch and felt the weight lifted from him. He felt a hand find his.

  "Up you get, son," said Sergeant Hobson, pulling him into a sitting position. Atkins ripped the suffocating gas hood from his head and sucked in a lungful of air, his face dripping with sweat. The Chatt lay by his side, its head caved in by 'Little Bertha.'

  "You were bloody lucky. By rights, that thing should have spat acid at you," said Hobson.

  "It tried," he said. "But I think I broke something in its throat."

  "If you get in that close again - and I don't recommend you do - go for their antennae, lad. It doesn't always stop them but it does seem to confuse 'em for a while."

  "Thanks, Sarn't," Atkins rasped. Coughing, he picked up his rifle and struggled to his feet, shoving his gas hood back into its bag. It was proving more a hindrance than a help. He noticed the string hanging limply on his belt. "Blood and sand! Gordon, where are you? Gordon!"