That afternoon, Godfrey watched Alec sew Archie Methven’s wound. The boy had not been lying. He was good with the needle, one careful thread after another until a neat line of pink was stitched into the older man’s skin. But beneath the boy’s repair, Methven’s arm had gone black. No longer the pallor of a man injured in winter, but a deep purple running from his fingertips to his heart. The heat on the accountant’s skin was like a furnace, almost too hot for Godfrey to touch.
George Stone had done the cutting and the draining first, prodding and pressing at Archie Methven’s swollen shoulder until any pus they could squeeze from the wound had dribbled and oozed down the accountant’s chest. The liquid had been clear, but Godfrey had known it would not be long before they could all smell it. That sweet stink of impending putrefaction. Like the men’s feet after they’d stood in a trench filled with water week after week. The kitchen would be saturated with it, Godfrey thought. One day. Two days at most, before it was too late. Only Methven was oblivious to the danger, numbed by a slug of illicit brandy supplied by Stone.
‘Fortune got it for me,’ the cook had said as he slid the quart bottle from a hole in the kitchen wall that would normally house a Bible or a sprig of rosemary to ward off the blight.
The bottle of brandy was a squat thing, French glass thick at the base, the contents gleaming like an amber jewel. Godfrey hadn’t asked what Bertie Fortune had been given in return. Instead he’d gestured to Alec to come forward with his needle, thread borrowed from Percy Flint. The boy had promised him a steady hand and as Godfrey watched him make one careful stitch after another, he’d realized what a relief it was to have a soldier who did exactly as he said.
Afterwards he took Alec to the parlour and thanked him.
‘You did a good job.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you ever stitched a man before?’
‘No, sir. But I’ve helped with a sheep.’
‘You’ll be looking forward to going back soon, eh. Start a flock yourself.’
‘Yes, sir.’
The boy blushed, cheeks flaming. The colour made him look even younger than he was, a lad already walking out with his sweetheart. Godfrey rose from the table and came to stand in front of the new recruit, put his hand on the boy’s shoulder.
‘You didn’t tell, did you, Alec. About the orders.’
It wasn’t a question. Alec flushed again, shook his head.
‘No, sir.’
Godfrey believed him. What else could he do? As he turned away the boy slipped something from his pocket, held it out.
‘Like you suggested, sir. In case something should happen.’
A field postcard, addressed to a girl at a place somewhere in the north, I am quite well the only words not yet crossed out. It was Godfrey’s turn to flush then, two spots of colour on his cheeks.
‘Nothing’s going to happen, Alec.’
But the boy insisted. ‘Just in case, sir.’
The two men stared at each other for a moment. Then Godfrey took the card, flipped it over.
‘Is this all you want to say? I can give you a sticky jack, if you want, keep your message private.’
Alec shook his head. ‘She’ll know what I mean.’
Godfrey nodded. Then he put his hand on the boy’s sleeve. ‘I’ll keep it for you, Alec. But you can deliver it yourself.’
As he watched the boy head back to the barn across the muddy yard, Godfrey felt it within him then. Fury at his second lieutenant burning beneath his breastbone, like the poker that had failed to cauterize Archie Methven’s wound. All Ralph had ever wanted was to go to war, flash his pistol at the enemy, while his men stuck the bayonet in. And yet all the devastation he had caused had been here amongst his men. Fighting. And betting. And strutting the yard like one of those chickens until they were all tip and turn.
Godfrey thought of Ralph’s face two nights before when he’d flipped open Promise’s Housewife, the pleasure his second had taken in bringing another man down. He looked again at the field postcard in his hand, thought of his wooden lockbox, inside the letter Archie Methven had written to his son. Evening the odds, that’s what a gambling man like George Stone might have called it. Playing his own game, that was how Captain Godfrey Farthing thought of it now.
Three
The punishment began at 1600 hours and took place in the yard so that all the men could see. Godfrey took the prisoner’s red identity disc and left his green, as though he was dead already, nothing to do but write and inform the next of kin. He removed the boy’s tunic, left him shivering in his shirt. All the other men watched as though it was some kind of theatrical performance, couldn’t believe what they saw. But what else had Godfrey been doing for the last four years apart from maintaining discipline and ensuring the chain of command? It wasn’t difficult to get soldiers to do what one wanted in war, Godfrey had found. It was more a question of choosing one’s moment and acting when it came.
Godfrey had written the order while Hawes waited, used a piece of paper scored out on one side:
Dear Mother and Father . . .
Flattened all its crinkles and wrote on the reverse.
His hand fluttered as he detailed his decision, felt the naked patch of skin on his wrist where only recently the watch had kept it warm. No need to verify, or to send for further instruction, petition for court martial as the rules allowed. They were in the blue. This was an emergency. Nothing to do but preserve discipline and carry out the necessary punishment. It might be one man’s say against another’s, but Captain Godfrey Farthing was still in charge here.
‘You can lock him in the chicken shed after,’ he said as he handed the order over to his temporary sergeant. ‘Keep him there for a night on a diet of bread and water.’
‘What will the men think, sir?’ said Hawes.
‘What have the men got to do with it?’ Godfrey slid the lid on his pen, put it in his pocket. ‘I’m the officer in charge.’
There were all sorts of punishments available had Godfrey chosen to enforce the army rules these last two weeks, rather than let his men dance with the chickens and gamble amongst themselves. Penalties for men who no longer kept curfew. Who failed to wear their tunics for parade. Men who didn’t shave for two days if they didn’t feel like it, bartered work duties when they wanted a change of shift. Godfrey could have punished them all. With a ten-shilling fine. Or a reprimand. A mention in dispatches, and not in a good way. Or perhaps simply confinement in camp. For loss of personally issued clothing. Not saluting correctly. Breaking into a house in search of plunder.
But wasn’t it he who had requisitioned the farmhouse with just that intention, to eat all the cabbages and use someone else’s furniture as his own? Besides, they were already confined to camp – eleven men reduced to nine without the enemy even in their sights. One injured beyond repair by his own side. The other wandering the fields. Their lucky man, Bertie Fortune. A talisman Godfrey Farthing had let go.
Godfrey looked through the parlour window at his makeshift Eden as Hawes went outside to prepare, saw it suddenly through different eyes. The mud. The piles of rubbish beginning to accumulate. The overflowing latrines. It reminded him of the trench he had once shared with Beach, a mess of rat bones and lice, men’s bodies festering on the rancid leftovers from Plum & Apple, the stench where men had relieved themselves rather than fight their way to the officially sanctioned pit. How far he believed they had come, this close to the end, hidden in their own little oasis against the never-ending disaster outside. Only for Godfrey Farthing to discover that they had not come far at all.
Inside the farmhouse as four o’clock approached, Godfrey went through his belongings item by item deciding what to take and what to leave. The black half-walnut he had meant to set loose on the pond had spilled on the floor and he retrieved it and put it on the table to remind him. He didn’t like the idea that the tiny boat would never get to journey, when that was what he had intended all along.
He turne
d out each of the pockets of his tunic, tossing away odd bits of this and that, added the whole walnut to the half one, slid the accountant’s notebook and letter into his top pocket, hesitated before adding Alec’s field postcard, buttoned it all down. He kept a pen and a stub of pencil, a box of Vestas and a pinch of French tobacco that he had bartered once with Ralph. Ralph preferred the rough stuff that they got with the ration, never seemed to smoke more than a blink. He used the ration fags for gambling instead. Along with everything else.
Godfrey packed his pouch with ammunition for his revolver, stuffed his bag with binoculars and whistle. He added two field dressings and some bandages, the last grain of morphia, secured the clasps and buckles. If this was to be his last stand, he wanted to be ready. Who knew what the next few hours might bring?
At three fifty-five he had Hawes call the men to order, paraded them for the second time that day. He could tell they were wary. The youngsters Jackdaw and Promise kept glancing at him as though he might lock them in the lean-to. For fighting or worse; kissing behind the high barn wall. Flint wouldn’t look at him at all, staring into the distance and scratching at the cut on his face where Jackdaw had scraped him. Alfred Walker’s casual charm was gone, given way to a furtive sort of fiddling with whatever he had in his pocket. Even Alec seemed suddenly vulnerable, his eyes cast to the sea of manure about their feet as the dog watched from the barn door. Only George Stone had a more resolute look about him, as though he was someone for whom the worst had already happened a long, long time ago.
Godfrey had spoken to Ralph first, called his second lieutenant into the parlour to let him know a sanction was coming. For fighting. For brandishing a weapon when the enemy were nowhere in sight. He’d handed the young officer his two dice back, watched Ralph grin, a sudden sight of the boy’s former self.
Once he had the men gathered, Hawes stepped back towards the middle of the yard, heels together, yelled:
‘Parade!’
Seven men lined at the pump to see what might happen next. Beside them Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson was all dressed up, flashing on his cuffs. He kept glancing at Jackdaw with those strange translucent eyes, smiling as though he knew what was coming.
Stealing. Punishment by confinement to barracks. By a fine of ten shillings or, in the worst case, dismissal.
Disobeying a lawful command given by his superior officer. Penal Servitude.
But striking a superior officer, as Jackdaw had done to the second lieutenant. Death. Or at the very least humiliation.
Godfrey saw how Ralph’s eyes flickered with confusion as he came to stand before him instead. Tunic on. Belt on. Cap, boots and cane.
‘Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson, I am charging you with the negligent discharge of your weapon occasioning false alarms in camp. Also the wounding of a fellow soldier. Please surrender your weapon and come with me.’
It rained for the whole afternoon. For once even the birds were silent. Lashed to the pump wearing nothing but his second-best shirt, Ralph’s hair was soon plastered to his face, flattening over his forehead and his cheeks, the blond curls turned dark, streaked with the constant run of water into and out of his eyes. At first he tried to shake his hair to keep it from bothering him, but eventually he gave up, just bowed his head further and further, let the rain drip drip drip from every part of him until it made a pool in his lap.
They released him at six when it was already dark, Hawes untying the knots as the men continued to sit guard in the barn. The second lieutenant could barely walk as Hawes dragged him to the chicken shed and shoved him inside. At seven the men ate in the barn, watching through the open door while George Stone brought their officer food – a hard biscuit and a tin of water. The old sweat held the tin to Ralph’s mouth, an awkward gulp as some of it slid down the boy’s throat and the rest sluiced down his chin. Godfrey stayed indoors and ate in the parlour, a glass of water and a piece of cold chicken. The last remains of the grey. Afterwards he cracked open one of the walnuts that he kept in his pocket, took his time to chew on the creamy contents, a bitter aftertaste lingering on his tongue.
James Hawes came to see him once the deed had been done. ‘When do you want me to let him out, sir?’
A good man, Hawes, despite his fear of blood. Tried to do the right thing whatever the circumstances.
‘Leave him,’ Godfrey said. ‘We’ll keep him there for the night at least.’
‘He won’t forget, sir.’
‘None of us forget, Hawes.’
There was an uncomfortable silence between the two men before the temporary sergeant spoke again. ‘Are you sure this is the right way to go, sir?’
‘Well, let me tell you, Hawes,’ said Godfrey, ‘humiliation is a two-way street. I think Second Lieutenant Svenson needs to understand that.’
‘What next, then, sir?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Are we going over?’
Godfrey pushed back his chair with an abrupt shove, stood up.
‘No, we’re not fucking going over, Hawes. Not tonight. Or tomorrow. You’re staying here and all the men are staying here, including Second Lieutenant Svenson, and you’re going to keep your heads down until they sign the bloody papers and the whole thing is done.’
Hawes stood rigid. ‘It wasn’t him, you know, sir. Who did the shooting.’
‘Who was it, then?’
Hawes was silent. Godfrey took off his cap and ran a hand across his stubble of hair. Asked another question, more direct this time.
‘Did Jackson shoot the accountant?’
‘Why don’t you ask him?’
‘He won’t say, will he.’
‘Jackson couldn’t hit a cow’s arse with a banjo, sir.’
Godfrey turned away. ‘In which case we’ll have to take Lieutenant Svenson’s word for it and leave things at that.’
Early to bed in the barn, the men all bedded down by ten, the rain dissipated until it was nothing more than a soft patter on the roof. Ralph had been taken to the latrine by Hawes before being shoved into the lean-to with a rough cloth to dry himself and a blanket to sleep under. Godfrey watched from the parlour window. He didn’t bother to speak to his second. What man would want to listen to his abuser at just the moment he had been freed to curse?
At eleven, Godfrey called Hawes into the parlour. On the table before him lay the little brass key for his lockbox, the orders tucked safe inside the tobacco tin, hidden beneath the rest. Also Ralph’s Webley in its holster. Hawes stared at the gun. Godfrey didn’t bother with a preamble.
‘I’m going to take Methven, Hawes. If we wait, he’ll die.’
‘What about Fortune, sir?’
Godfrey paused. Twelve hours there. Twelve hours back. A few more for misadventure. Bertie Fortune should be home by now. But there was something about the emptiness that had settled on the farm and its yard since his lucky man had gone, which suggested to Godfrey that Bertie Fortune might not be returning any time soon.
He looked directly at his sergeant. ‘Would you trust Fortune, Hawes?’
Hawes shifted, dipped his head to the floor, didn’t reply. Godfrey slid the brass key across the parlour table to the temporary sergeant.
‘Keep this. It’s got the men’s pay books inside, if you need them. Also their letters, just in case.’
‘Sir.’
Hawes took the key, slid it into one of his tunic pockets. Then Godfrey picked up Ralph’s Webley, held it out towards his temporary sergeant.
‘You’re in charge now, Hawes. Make sure to keep them busy. Leave Lieutenant Svenson in the lean-to until I return. I’ll be back by nightfall tomorrow.’
‘I don’t like guns, sir.’
‘None of us do, Hawes. But I trust you to handle it wisely.’
Godfrey waited until Hawes held out a reluctant hand, slight tremor in his fingers, placed Ralph’s revolver in his sergeant’s grasp, watched him stuff it into the back of his waistband. Then he held out his hand again and dribbled six bull
ets into Hawes’s open palm.
‘Try not to use them,’ he said. ‘But if you have to, don’t hesitate.’
He marked up his diary before he left. It was the ninth of November. The rain had ceased at last.
1948
Fortune
Bertie Fortune returned with treasure. Not two-string pearls for his wife. Or a brooch for the bride-to-be. French champagne for the wedding breakfast. Or cigars for all the men. Not even a suit with a lining dark as midnight. But a conscience as clear as the day he first took up his rifle. At least that was what he liked to think.
They had sent him out to gather in the laundry – no use for a man in the house when a wedding was in the air.
‘Get a treat, too,’ shouted his wife, Annie, as she closed the front door behind him. ‘For a celebration. You’ll know when you see.’
They left him on the step with nothing but the laundry tickets in his hand. For his wife’s dress with the silk collar. His son’s best shirt. Stockings and undergarments. His own lucky suit. But Bertie Fortune knew that he could not return until he had acquired some other sort of treasure, something with which to make the party swing. What the women requested, the women got. Bertie Fortune’s motto for a long and satisfying life.
The wedding was to go off at noon the next day, all the outfits waiting to be collected so that they were spick and span. Annie was already laying out the china, wiping the rims of the saucers, polishing the spoons. Their daughter Alice was in the kitchen with her sleeves rolled up and her apron tied double, making pastry with real butter. It still amazed Bertie to see so much in a single bowl. Perhaps he should bring oranges, he thought as he buttoned his coat. Fresh from the Canaries, a sudden burst of colour to make them feel alive. Or maybe even a pineapple, with its prickled skin and golden flesh. Something they used to dream of through those long despondent years.
The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing Page 25
