The Inheritance of Solomon Farthing

by Mary Paulson-Ellis

  Once Godfrey was done he blew out the flame on the candle, let the smoke trickle into the air. Outside the rain had ceased, the first grey light silvering the walls. It would be a good day for walking, that was what Godfrey hoped. In the semi-darkness he attempted to help Methven from his chair.

  ‘Can you walk, Archie?’

  Methven looked back at him, two black eyes searching, before he closed them for a moment, took a breath, pushed from his knees. Then together they were up, swaying, before Godfrey steadied them against the table’s edge. They stood there for a moment like some sort of statue sculpted by the faintest early morning light. Then Godfrey led Archie Methven to the door and they began their slow shuffle into the dawn.

  George Stone brought out breakfast at 8 a.m. Not bread and water this time, but a last egg fried with fat scraped from the top of last night’s broth. Ralph did not look as though he had spent the night considering remorse. His breeches were covered in chicken shit, but when Stone unbarred the door of the lean-to, the second lieutenant was lounging on a pile of filthy straw as though it was the best room in the house. Stone handed over the plate of food, leaned on the door to watch Ralph eat. He noticed that despite appearances, the young second lieutenant’s fingers trembled with the cold.

  ‘Where’s the captain?’ said Ralph between mouthfuls, yolk dribbled on his sleeve.

  ‘Taken the accountant,’ said Stone.

  Ralph wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Who’s in charge, then?’

  ‘Hawes.’

  ‘Hawes!’ Ralph licked chicken fat from the rim of his spoon. ‘He couldn’t bloody organize a slaughter in an abattoir.’

  George Stone didn’t smile. He had seen boys like the second lieutenant before, just lads really, full to the brim with bravado until the guns began. Ralph ran a finger round the edge of his plate, sucked it clean. Then he winked at the old sweat, cheeks fresh with the morning air.

  ‘Let me out, Stone. You know it isn’t fair.’

  ‘Orders, sir.’

  ‘Whose bloody orders? I should be in charge here.’ Ralph handed Stone the empty plate, held on to it a little longer than was necessary. ‘I’ll make it worth your while.’

  Outside in the yard James Hawes dismissed the men from parade in front of the pump, let them fall out for breakfast. Flint and Walker. Jackdaw and Promise. Not forgetting Alec Sutherland, the new recruit. A section that had once been eleven, now reduced to eight. Hawes was wearing Ralph’s revolver tucked into the waistband of his breeches as he went to check on the second lieutenant still locked in the shed. The men huddled in a group around the entrance to the barn as Stone appeared from the kitchen to join them, carrying the huge black kettle of tea. It was Percy Flint who brought it up, the matter of the prisoner.

  ‘What shall we do about the sub? Can’t leave him in the shed forever. Apart from anything else it’s bloody freezing.’

  Flint was right. All across the countryside there was a thick cloak of frost – the roof, the fields, the pump all aglitter. For once the ground was hard underfoot.

  ‘Captain Farthing’s orders,’ said Stone. ‘He’ll be back tonight to sort it.’

  ‘That’s what you think.’

  Stone whipped round. ‘Who said that?’

  The men all stared back at him, five pairs of eyes. It was Alfred Walker who dared to speak.

  ‘It’s true though, isn’t it. He’s left us to sort ourselves out.’

  Stone put the kettle down on the frozen mud, came to stand right in front of the petty thief. ‘Shut your gob, Walker. It’s not up for discussion.’

  Jackdaw following up. ‘We should wait for Captain Farthing to return, see what he says.’

  ‘Caw caw caw all you like, little boy.’ Percy Flint spat. ‘He’s not coming back, is he. He’s done a runner, just like Fortune.’

  ‘Flint!’ Stone’s bark was sharp.

  ‘We could vote.’ Promise’s voice was shrill in the cold air. ‘Those who want to let him out and those who want to wait for Captain Farthing.’

  Flint turned on him. ‘This isn’t bloody Parliament, you know. Anyway you’re too young, even for that.’

  Stone put out a hand to stop Promise from responding. ‘Captain Farthing ordered Second Lieutenant Svenson should stay in the lean-to until tonight when he returns and that’s what’s going to happen.’

  ‘He’s not the ranking officer right now, though, is he.’

  The men all looked towards another soldier approaching from across the yard. James Hawes the ex-meat man, returned from checking on the prisoner to rejoin the fray.

  ‘Christ, Hawes,’ hissed Stone. ‘You know what he’ll do if we let him out. March us up the bloody hill and not down again, just for the fun of it. Set one against the rest.’

  ‘He’s done that anyway, hasn’t he,’ said the temporary sergeant, daring them to disagree.

  The men were silent then, shifting their feet on the frosted ground. They all knew that was true. Jackdaw flicked at the black cowl of hair hung across his eyes.

  ‘What do you suggest then?’

  Hawes touched his hand to the butt of Ralph Svenson’s revolver, let it drop away.

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘But I won’t take a friendly bullet. Not for any man. Not anymore.’

  ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ said Flint.

  Hawes flushed then, freckles bright on his neck, didn’t reply.

  ‘What are you not telling us, Hawes?’ Stone’s dark eyes were glittering.

  Hawes looked away, fingers tip tapping for a moment against his leg. ‘Ask the new boy. He knows.’

  The men all turned to Alec where he stood at the edge of the circle, dog tight at his feet. The boy stared back, said nothing. George Stone moved to stand in front of the new recruit.

  ‘Well?’

  Alec shrugged, flicked his eyes away. ‘I don’t know what he’s talking about.’

  James Hawes scowled, his eye twitching now. He rubbed a hand across his face as though to stop it. ‘There was meant to be an attack, all along the line. That’s what the orders said.’

  ‘What!’

  The men gathered in.

  ‘Who says?’ exclaimed Jackdaw.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Alfred Walker swore. ‘And the captain ignored it?’

  ‘He must have had his reasons,’ Stone growled. He turned to Hawes. ‘Let’s see the damn things if you’re so certain they exist.’

  Hawes touched his pocket then, where he kept his book with the red cover safe and clean.

  ‘I don’t have them,’ he said.

  ‘But you’re happy to rile us up and let the lieutenant go,’ snapped Stone. ‘What makes you think we want to know about the orders anyway?’

  Hawes stilled then, eyes boring into the old sweat as though to drill a hole. ‘You of all people know the penalty for disobeying a direct one, Stone. Or have you forgotten?’

  Stone glared at Hawes then, muttered, ‘Fucking coward. Don’t know what’s best for your own men.’

  Hawes stepped forwards, thick shoulders bunched, neck tight, the colour on him high. ‘Say that again, Stone, and I’ll put you in the chicken shed, too. Or worse.’

  ‘You can fucking try, soldier.’

  Two men nose to nose now, ready for a scuffle. But it was Percy Flint who decided in the end, for them all.

  ‘Let’s have a game,’ Flint said. ‘Call it rec time.’

  Ducked over to the lean-to and lifted the bar before anyone could stop him. Not chickens flapping out this time, released at last for their morning scrape. But Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson, sauntering into the pale sunlight as though he’d had the best night’s sleep of the lot.

  ‘Morning, boys,’ he said. ‘Ready for some fun?’

  Captain Farthing and Archie Methven walked and rested and walked and rested until the sun rose over the fields. A thin line of violet stretched out across the horizon as Godfrey stared at the way ahead, one mile further, then another after that, a long v
ista of beaten dirt and crushed stones disappearing into the distance, nothing to see on either side but endless, empty fields. Their progress was slow, a limping, shuffling gait. It was cold, the rain of the last few weeks turned to frost. As daylight arrived they were off map and Godfrey was starting to wonder if they might simply walk their way back into the trenches from which they had once come.

  Mid-morning and as eleven stole near, Methven was resting for much longer than he walked, shivering as though he would never stop. His face was grey, like the tea they used to drink in the trenches, stinking of petroleum or whatever canister it had been carried forward in. Godfrey waited for his accountant to catch his breath once more, thought of that second night in camp, the men gathered around a paraffin lamp aglow with borrowed fuel. He remembered the scent of the barn, cut hay and dirty straw, Archie Methven’s voice low from the shadows as Second Lieutenant Ralph Svenson asked him what he planned to do once the end came.

  ‘What’s his name, Archie?’ Godfrey said, Methven heavy on his arm. ‘Your boy back home.’

  Methven sagged against his captain, breath harsh in his throat. ‘Tom, sir.’

  ‘How old?’

  ‘Five.’

  ‘He’ll want to see you again, then, won’t he. If you can hold on.’

  The accountant gripped tighter then, fingers digging through Godfrey Farthing’s greatcoat to the flesh beneath, began again with his dragging, stumbling walk. But by noon they were still out on the open road and Godfrey knew that they could not go on. He stopped to gaze at the empty fields all around them, not a soul for miles. Above them the sun was at its highest point, only a few hours until darkness descended once again. Next to him Archie Methven’s breath came in short, ragged gasps, a man exhausted by his attempts to keep alive.

  ‘Lay me down, sir,’ the accountant said. ‘Where I can still feel a bit of warmth.’

  Godfrey helped Methven to the ground at the edge of the road, the injured man sitting pitched a little to one side, aquiver with tremors from his top to his toe. Above them the curled orange leaves of a beech hedge quivered, too. It was cold, freezing air finding every crevice. Godfrey knew they would not be walking any further now.

  ‘What should we do, sir?’ said Methven once his captain had got him comfortable with a greatcoat for cover and a gasbag to lean against.

  ‘I must leave you here, Archie, and continue.’

  ‘What for, sir?’

  ‘To find help, of course.’

  Archie Methven was silent at this. They both knew he was used to doing the reckoning. He did not need soft words to understand how things were adding up now in the profit-and-loss account. They were quiet together for a while, the sun’s rays stretching towards them across the fields. Everything was covered in a cobweb of frost, the sun too weak to diminish its glitter. It was beautiful, thought Godfrey. Nature’s way of excusing man’s destruction, whatever lay beneath. He thought of the rabbit that had gnawed through its leg. Then of Alec Sutherland’s field with two types of clover, buttercups all along the riverbank. What were the men doing now, he thought, released from their chores? Playing cards in the barn, perhaps, James Hawes keeping order with an officer’s pistol on his hip.

  Archie Methven slept on his shoulder for a bit and Godfrey drifted, too. When he woke, the sun was low on the horizon once more. He roused Methven with a gentle touch on the sleeve, fed him some water from his canteen, the final half-grain of morphine. The two men sat in silence for a bit longer, until the accountant broke the spell.

  ‘The orders, sir. That the boy brought . . .’

  ‘What about them?’

  ‘What were they?’

  Godfrey looked away. Did it matter now, that one of his men knew he had tried to keep them safe?

  ‘To attack,’ he said. ‘Across the river.’

  Archie Methven coughed then, flinched with the pain. ‘Will you carry them out, sir? When you get back.’

  Godfrey rubbed at a stain on the edge of his tunic. ‘I must confirm before proceeding.’

  ‘Isn’t that what Fortune went for?’

  ‘I don’t trust Fortune.’

  ‘You paid him though, didn’t you. For the right answer.’

  Godfrey hesitated, taken aback even now at Methven’s boldness. What did his accountant know about his request to Bertie Fortune for orders to withdraw? A forgery, perhaps, if he could secure one. In return for a watch. Or a new letter from a superior officer who saw that the end was coming and understood the reasonable thing to do. Either way Godfrey had paid. But not enough, he thought.

  ‘Not that it’s done me any good,’ he said.

  ‘What did you ask him for? Orders to withdraw?’ Godfrey didn’t say anything. Methven began to laugh, a thin rasp in his throat. ‘They could have you at the end of a six-man squad for that if they find out.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter now, does it.’

  ‘He wouldn’t have come back anyway,’ said Archie Methven. ‘Whatever you asked for.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘You’re the one who said you didn’t trust him.’

  ‘We’ve known each other a long time, me and Bertie Fortune,’ said Godfrey. ‘I thought he would do what I asked.’

  ‘Too long, perhaps.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Methven laughed again, a thin wheezing sound. ‘The second lieutenant will have paid him more.’

  In the yard, amongst the sharp nip and slide of frost, Second Lieutenant Svenson got Promise to work the pump once again. The A4 boy heaved on the handle till his shirt was splashed and soaked. Ralph ducked and ducked his head again, silver droplets scattering all over as he shook chicken shit from his hair. He rubbed himself dry on a cloth brought out by Percy Flint, shrugged on his tunic. Then he came to stand in front of Hawes, held out his hand.

  ‘Give me the pistol, Hawes. Or have you forgotten what we discussed when you visited the chicken shed earlier?’

  Still Hawes paused, glancing towards the other men, Promise shivering and shivering as Ralph’s body softened into its usual languid superiority.

  ‘You know the punishment for desertion, Hawes,’ he said, his voice threatening.

  The temporary sergeant flushed, a painful crimson all about his neck. ‘I’m here, aren’t I.’

  ‘Cowardice, then.’ Ralph waved his hand towards the remains of the section. ‘Or would you rather I did a French on them.’

  The decimation of a battalion, one man in ten shot on an officer’s orders, for the mutiny of a few.

  ‘What!’

  Jackdaw couldn’t help himself. But Ralph just laughed, pushed a hand through his damp curls.

  ‘Or maybe I’ll get Promise to do it instead. Seems like he could be a decent shot.’

  The men flinched then, shifted on the icy ground. Behind them Stone swore, a low curse.

  ‘Bastard,’ as Hawes uncurled his fingers from the butt of the pistol, slid it from his waistband and held it out to the second lieutenant as though relinquishing a toy. But Ralph just smiled, took the weapon and shoved it into his holster. Then he reached into the pocket of his breeches, pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper.

  ‘Now, men, here are the orders we’ve all been waiting for.’

  Flipped the paper open in the cold air.

  Out on the road, huddled beneath a hedge as the day began to turn, Archie Methven shivered and shivered until he stopped. Then he shivered some more. Godfrey laid his accountant down, with his gasbag for a pillow, covered him in his greatcoat to try and keep him warm.

  ‘You’ll remember, sir,’ Methven whispered. ‘What I asked you. About visiting my wife and boy.’

  ‘Of course, man,’ said Godfrey. ‘Of course. Till you see them for yourself.’

  ‘And the account, sir?’

  ‘I have it here, Archie. I have it here.’

  The notebook with the profit-and-loss account, all written out on neat horizontals, divided by red. Godfrey slid the book from his pocket and h
eld it up for Methven to see. The accountant gazed at it for a moment, closed his eyes before speaking again.

  ‘You must go back, sir,’ he said. ‘Otherwise Lieutenant Svenson might do it himself. Fire into the grey, I mean. Take the men, too.’

  Godfrey put a hand to Methven’s arm, as though to reassure him. ‘Second Lieutenant Svenson is locked in the lean-to with the chicken, Archie. I don’t think we need to worry about him.’

  Methven raised a faint smile at this. He had seen Ralph’s glee at winning too many times not to take some satisfaction in the second lieutenant’s temporary demotion. But they both knew that the lean-to was nothing compared to a desire to win.

  ‘He won’t like it, sir,’ said Methven. ‘Best go back and let him out.’

  ‘You were the one who was shot, Archie. Don’t you want to see him punished?’

  ‘It wasn’t him who shot me, though, was it.’

  ‘Who did then?’

  Methven closed his eyes again. ‘It was an accident, sir. I got in the way.’

  ‘In the way of who?’

  ‘Jackdaw, sir.’

  ‘And why did Jackdaw shoot?’

  ‘He got in the way of Promise.’

  One A4 boy protecting another. Just as they’d been taught.

  Godfrey was silent for a moment. Then he shifted, turned to his accountant. ‘Why was Promise waving his gun? He must have known it’s not allowed.’

  Archie Methven breathed out, a long sigh into the frosted air. ‘The second lieutenant wouldn’t pay, sir. Only so far a man will let another get away with that.’

  ‘Pay what, Methven?’

  ‘The cap badge, sir. The one you took from Beach.’

  The orders had come from the company commander. To attack across the river. To engage the enemy wherever possible. To hold their ground whatever happened. To be the first over. The last to return. It was the end, but not as the men had hoped for, turned by the stroke of a general’s pen to dust.