Last Train to Waverley
Page 25
“It was pure blind luck that I came across you,” Flockhart said. He kicked Ramsay again and hung the lantern on a hook situated on one of the wooden pillars supporting the roof. Yellow light pooled around them, emphasising the gloom beyond. Ramsay heard the rustle of rats in the straw.
Flockhart dragged across a three legged stool and sat on it. The rifle rested across his knees with the muzzle still pointing at Ramsay’s stomach.
Should I try and jump him?
He estimated the distance. It was about eight feet and Flockhart’s finger was curled around the trigger of his rifle. He would not be able to muster the strength to leap and grapple with the man before Flockhart fired. It was better to sit tight, hear what he had to say and then try and talk him out of it.
“I really think you have the wrong man,” Ramsay started, but Flockhart lifted the rifle to his shoulder and aimed it in the direction of his navel.
“Rab Moffat saw you with her in the field outside Aitkendean,” Flockhart spoke in a conversational tone. “He did not know your name. You told wee Gracie that you were called David Napier.”
Ramsay tried to shuffle into a more comfortable position but the rifle was steady on him and Flockhart’s finger tightened on the trigger. He slumped down again. He was leaning against a pillar with his legs stretched out before him and his hands at his side. Light from the lantern highlighted the high cheekbones and determined jaw of Flockhart but revealed nothing of the barn outside. Ramsay felt as if they were trapped within their own world, separate from the greater slaughter outside only more personal and just as deadly.
“I am not David Napier,” he said.
“You told Grace that you were, and she told Rab Moffat.” There was no doubt in Flockhart’s voice and Ramsay knew that denial was pointless. He decided on another tack.
“I would have married her, you know.”
“She was too good for you,” Flockhart said.
What? I am a gentleman, she was only a miner’s daughter. A nothing! She should have been grateful even to be noticed by me!
Ramsay’s initial thoughts transported him back to the man he had been then. The wild, arrogant, irresponsible youth who had hunted women for sport, used them for his own pleasure and discarded them with a laugh or a curse.
He thought of Grace lying in the grass and despite his situation, he smiled. She was a lovely, lively and passionate woman. He had never loved her, but there was certainly a spark of affection that he had never felt for any of the other girls he had pursued. Except for Gillian, of course. She was on a completely different level.
“You are right,” he surprised himself by admitting. “She was too good for me.”
He thought of Gillian. Tall, elegant, sophisticated and fun, if shallow in many ways. He was promised to marry Gillian once this war was finished. He loved her. His feelings for Gillian were far different to his feelings for Grace or any of the others. He could see himself living with Gillian; he was comfortable with her as a friend as well as man and woman. He never had that depth of security with anybody else. Yet, he was a gentleman and he had wronged a woman. Grace was of a different class, but so were McKim and Blackley and Niven. They were good men, as honourable and honest as any of the officers he had ever met.
The decision struck him with all the force of a six inch shell landing a few feet away. He could not marry Gillian, he must break his promise to her. He had to do the right thing, although it meant condemning himself and Grace to a lifetime of misery as they tried to reconcile the irreconcilable and equalise the inequality of their class differences.
“Put the rifle away, Flockhart. We can still resolve this. I will do the decent thing and marry Grace, if she will have me now. I did offer already, you know.”
“She’s dead.” Flockhart’s words were brutal.
Oh, dear God. Poor wee Grace.
“Oh, God, I didn’t know! How?” Ramsay stared at the sergeant. “How did she die?”
“In childbirth. My sister Grace died giving birth to your bastard.”
“I did not know.” Ramsay thought of her wide blue eyes and that childlike expression of innocence she had had. His feelings of compassion were much stronger than he would have believed possible.
“And the child, what happened to the child? Did it live?” Suddenly Ramsay was desperate to find out about his child.
Was it a boy or a girl? What was it like? Where was it now?
The prospect of something good coming of that dismal encounter was strong. Witnessing death in all its hideous forms day after day had created a desire to see life.
Flockhart’s voice softened slightly. “Grace had a wee boy. He’s being taken care of.”
“A boy! Where is he?”
I have a son. Somewhere in the world there is a small part of me, somebody who will grow up, perhaps with my likeness and with some of my personality traits.
“I would have married her, you know,” Ramsay said.
Of all the deaths he had been responsible for, this one would haunt him most. Death and new life intertwined and a nightmare that would continue.
“You lying bastard!” Flockhart rose. He slipped the bayonet from its scabbard and clicked it in place. Light flickered along the length of the blade. “You didn’t even tell her your real name!”
Ramsay had guessed that Flockhart would make a sudden lunge and he threw himself sideways to avoid the stab of the vicious blade. He felt the tearing pain as the bayonet ripped up the side of his ribs and then Flockhart was standing over him with the bayonet poised.
“That was my sister, you bastard! You killed my sister!” The bayonet jabbed down, slicing into Ramsay’s arm. He yelled and rolled over, but Flockhart followed with his bayonet held point up, ready for a killing stroke. Ramsay’s blood dripped from the edge.
Killed by a British sergeant inside a Picardy barn. What will Gillian say to that?
The man came from outside the circle of light, launching himself at Flockhart without any hesitation. He did not say a word. Ramsay only saw a blurred shape as the figure grabbed hold of the sergeant’s rifle.
They rolled out of the lamplight but Ramsay heard them fighting in the gloom. He heard Flockhart swearing, and the other man responding in German.
It’s a German. It’s that bloody Guards Hauptmann. I thought he was a prisoner, he must be the escapee the guards were speaking about.
Ramsay tried to rise, swore at the tearing pain across his ribs and his arm, and slumped back down again. He heard the two men fighting and caught the occasional glimpse of the struggle in the periphery of the lamp light. He placed his back against the pillar and pushed himself up, groaning in pain and feeling the blood run hot and sticky down his side.
“You dirty Hun bastard!” That was Flockhart’s voice. Ramsay heard a long moan and saw one man standing in the gloom. He could not make out who still remained on his feet.
Ramsay slid out of the pool of lamplight. He was unsure what to do. He saw somebody move and then both were on their feet. They closed, grappling in the gloom. The door of the barn opened and three soldiers were silhouetted against the bright light outside.
“It’s that escaped Hun!” One of the men raised his rifle and fired. The others joined him and the sharp crackle of multiple shots in the confined space deafened Ramsay. He felt the shock of the bullet entering his body but there was no pain. The impact slammed him against the pillar. He gasped for air and slowly slid downwards until he was on the ground.
The firing stopped. Five British soldiers pushed into the barn.
“There’s one of ours in here as well,” another of the soldiers spoke and fired a final shot into the body of the Prussian officer. “Jesus, there’s two of ours. The Hun has murdered a British officer.”
“You call me sir,” Ramsay said, and fainted.
CHAPTER TWELVE
EDINBURGH
June 1919
There were no larks.
Ramsay shook his head to clear it of the images and rea
lised that Gillian was looking at him.
“Is it the war?” Her voice was sympathetic.
“And other things,” Ramsay said. That tune was still bouncing around his head.
“Après la guerre finie
Soldat Ecosse parti
Mademoiselle in the family way
Après la guerre finie”
Well, the guerre was finie now and his mademoiselle had been in the family way when she left him. He looked down at Gillian and smiled. This was his future now. Mrs Gillian Ramsay.
And what of his son? Ramsay thought of a little boy growing up in the mining community of Newtongrange. He thought of men such as Flockhart and McKim, Blackley and Niven. They were honest, forthright men, generous with their passions and loyal to their friends. Ramsay smiled as a hundred memories crowded and jostled through his head. He had gone to war feeling like he belonged to a different species from the men he would command. He had marched to peace with the humbling knowledge that they were better men than he. With men like that, and women like Grace, his son was in good hands.
I still want to see the little tyke though. I will keep looking for him. It may take me a lifetime but I will never give up.
Gillian hooked her arm through his.
“Come away, Douglas. The war is finished and done with. It is time to think about other things.”
They walked away from the Botanical Garden and into the bustle of Inverleith Row. But the words were still circulating around Ramsay’s head. He knew they always would.
“Après la guerre finie
Soldat Ecosse parti
Mademoiselle in the family way
Après la guerre finie”
HISTORICAL NOTE
There was no 20th Royal Scots and no Lieutenant Douglas Ramsay. However the German advance of March 1918 occurred and pushed the British Army back as far as forty miles. This was a major success in the First World War where advances were frequently measured in hundreds of yards rather than miles. The March Offensive, Operation Michael was also the beginning of the end of the trench warfare that had typified the war in France and Flanders since the autumn of 1914.
The Germans commenced their attack with a targeted five hour bombardment that was one of the heaviest of the war. General Erich Ludendorff had 72 divisions against the 26 British infantry and three British cavalry, although the French supplied a further 23 divisions in the latter stages of the battle. The Germans used infiltration tactics with storm troopers and flame throwers, aided by a thick fog and a lack of British manpower. They penetrated the British forward positions and pushed them back miles in some of the fastest advances of the entire war.
The British retreat was over the old battle ground of the Somme, a place of terrible memories. The battle, or rather series of battles, lasted well into April, when the heat went out of the German attack. The Germans did capture the town of Albert, and their advance was delayed by indiscriminate looting and British machine gun ambushes. The final stage of this phase of the German attack on the British 5th Army was an attack on Amiens, which the British and Australians repulsed. The Germans then turned their attention to the Third Army to the north.
These German attacks were their last of the war. Once the allies had held the line, they consolidated and went on the offensive. The British victory of Amiens in August was called the Black Day of the German Army and after that the Allies were on the offensive until the Armistice of 11 November 1918.
Malcolm Archibald
Pluscarden
January 2014.
Books by Malcolm Archibald
www.malcolmarchibald.com
Bridges, Islands and Villages of the Forth 1990
Scottish Battles 1990
Scottish Myths and Legends 1992
Scottish Animal and Bird Folklore 1996
Across the Pond: Chapters from the Atlantic 2001
Soldier of the Queen 2003
Whalehunters, Dundee and the Arctic Whalers 2004
Whales for the Wizard, Dundee Book Prize 2005
Horseman of the Veldt 2005
Selkirk of the Fethan 2005
Aspects of the Boer War 2005
Mother Law: A Parchment for Dundee 2006
Pryde’s Rock 2007
Powerstone 2008
The Darkest Walk 2011
A Sink of Atrocity: Crime of 19th Century Dundee 2012
Glasgow: The Real Mean City: True Crime and Punishment in the Second City of Empire 2013
A Burden Shared: The Dundee Murders 2013
© Malcolm Archibald 2014
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