The Daughters of Eden Trilogy: The Shadow Catcher, Fever Hill & the Serpent's Tooth (115 page)

‘Shut up,’ hissed Adam. He jerked his head to indicate that the men were listening. The nearest, an eighteen-year-old bank clerk called Nathan, was clutching his rifle and looking sick.

Chastened, Cornwallis fell silent. With his large nose and anxious brown eyes, he reminded Adam of a red setter he’d had as a boy in Scotland.

That made him feel bad. Why shouldn’t Cornwallis talk if he wanted? After all, there was really nothing to choose between them. Both were recently gazetted second lieutenants fresh from the OTC; both were distinctly New Army: part of the ragtag of lawyers, office workers and colliers who’d come out to swell the ranks of the regulars after a hasty training at Aldershot. Both had only been at the Front for a matter of weeks – and had, by various quirks of chance, not yet seen any action. And both had brothers to live up to: brothers who were very much ‘proper soldiers’.

Only in my case, reflected Adam with the familiar dull ache, my brothers are all dead.

Ever since he’d received the last telegram – the one about Erskine – he’d thought of nothing but getting out to the Front. He needed to be where it had happened. He needed to honour Erskine and Gordon and Angus: to honour them by suffering as they had suffered.

And perhaps, too, he needed to carry on the tradition. For over two hundred years there had been a Palairet in the Black Watch. Long after the family had relocated to lowland Galloway, their allegiance to the Highlanders had remained. There had been a Palairet at Charleston and Corunna; at Cawnpore, Tamai, and Magersfontein. Now it was Adam’s turn. His first ‘big show’, as Cornwallis would have put it: a night raid on the German lines, to start promptly at 3.25 a.m., with a barrage of supporting shellfire to blow up the enemy wire ahead of them. At least, that was the plan.

Adam glanced at his watch. 3.20 a.m.

Christ, he thought, I hope I don’t get the wind up in front of the men.

Cornwallis was right. The question was simple. Would one fight or funk?

This waiting was the worst. He kept running over details in his mind. Had anything been left undone? Were the signallers in place, and the stretcher-bearers and the chaplain? Did the guns have the right range?

The telephone rang. Everyone jumped out of their skins.

Further down the trench, he heard Captain Goodwin talking briefly and softly, then fall silent.

‘That’ll be Division,’ muttered Sergeant Watts, a couple of men to Adam’s right. ‘Wanting to know if everything’s in place.’

3.25 a.m.

The night exploded. The earsplitting crump of shells; lights flaring up ahead – greenish yellow, purple; the red and white of flares. Captain Goodwin gave the order to advance, and Adam’s heart lurched. He thought about wishing Cornwallis luck, but suddenly there was no more time, for they were starting to climb. As he struggled to reach the top, he heard the rasp of his breath and the blood pounding in his ears; the grunts of the private next to him, whose muddy kilt kept slapping his knees.

Then they were up and running across the churned-up waste of No-Man’s-Land, and all was weirdly calm. A warm, velvety night with bright moonlight and myriad stars. The crump and whine of shells flowering in the distance. Then, from the German trench that was their objective, a loud, hollow popping of rifles.

As he ran, Adam snapped off his revolver at where he guessed the enemy must be, but he knew he couldn’t possibly hit anyone. It was a hot night. Insects buzzed past his ears.

Another one whipped past, and slowly it dawned on him that it wasn’t an insect, but a bullet. He was surprised by his obtuseness, and his lack of fear.

Around him the men were running forward, heads down, kilts swinging. He saw someone lob a rifle-grenade, and thought, it’s too soon for that, you fool, you’ll never reach them.

Cornwallis slipped and lurched against him, nearly knocking him into a shell-hole. Private Nathan put out a hand to steady him, and as Adam glanced at the boy’s pale, intent face, another bullet cracked past his cheek, and a neat red hole blossomed in Nathan’s forehead. He crumpled to the ground like a rag doll.

Adam saw it, but he didn’t feel it. He ran on.

Suddenly the air split apart. A deafening roar – a crackling of bullets like a swarm of angry bees. The Boche machine-guns had opened up on Madagascar Point.

Still Adam wasn’t frightened. Those bullets weren’t meant for him.

He saw Captain Goodwin waving his arm and yelling a command – couldn’t hear it – but it must have been ‘Take cover!’ because several men threw themselves into a shell-crater.

Adam followed. He hurled himself into the bottom of the crater and landed beside Cornwallis, who was clutching his revolver and shaking. Cornwallis’s revolver was a spanking new Webley Mark VI with a bayonet fitted to the barrel. Adam shifted slightly to the right to avoid being jabbed by mistake.

A rising shriek coming towards them.

‘Pineapples!’ yelled Sergeant Watts. ‘Heads down, lads!’

As Adam pressed himself into the stink, the shriek came closer – unbearably loud – then a shattering noise burst inside his skull – he was choking on acrid fumes – and a column of earth shot skywards, spattering him with mud and blood and chunks of flesh.

As the spattering subsided, he glanced round for Cornwallis, but he wasn’t there any more. Instead there was only freshly turned earth and an officer’s boot, topped with pulpy bone and blackening flesh.

Is that how it happens? wondered Adam blankly.

More shells screaming overhead. Columns of earth shooting up around him. Bullets hissing and snapping like whips. Choking on lyddite, not knowing where he was going, Adam scrambled past Sergeant Watts to the edge of the hole – and slipped, and put his hand on something spongy. Puzzled, he registered that it was a face: a Frenchman by the uniform, and dead for some time.

A bullet opened up a long red furrow across the back of his hand. He blinked at it in astonishment. Good Lord, he thought, they’re aiming at
me
. I’m part of the target.

But he had no time to take it in. Goodwin was ordering them to advance.

Adam scrambled over the lip of the shell-hole and ran forward.

Six hours later, he sat on an old Fray Bentos crate in his dugout, smoking a cigarette and trying to shake off the feeling that at any moment his brother Erskine would walk in, and he could tell him all about it.

About how they’d managed to take their objective – messily and haphazardly, and at the cost of fifteen men and poor Cornwallis. About Sergeant Watts briskly making sure of the German trench, then slapping a field dressing on Adam’s hand and offering to take him to the Regimental Aid Post. About him waving away the sergeant’s help and stumbling back to his dugout, where his batman, Brewster, had brought him a mug of tea that he couldn’t taste and two letters from home which he hadn’t yet read, before taking himself off for a spot of well-earned souveniring.

Above all, Adam wanted to tell his brother how strange it was that he couldn’t seem to
feel
anything any more. Nothing at all. He couldn’t even taste this bloody cigarette . . .

He blinked at the letters in his lap. Neither was from Celia, which wasn’t unexpected. She hadn’t written for a fortnight, and her last letter had been one long complaint.
I didn’t marry a soldier, I married a barrister
. . .
I
detest
Cairngowrie Hall
. . .
I wasn’t meant to moulder away in some dismal Scottish backwater . . . I’m moving back to London
. . .

At the time, he had been wild to go to her; hadn’t eaten or slept for worrying that she might leave him. But that had worn off surprisingly quickly. If she hated Scotland, then of course she should move back to London. He could afford it – just. Besides, if she was in London, it would be easier to see her when he was home on leave.

So he didn’t experience more than a twinge of pain when he saw that the letter was not from his wife, but her brother.
Sorry I’m not Celia
, wrote Drum in his disarming, schoolboyish hand,
but you know my sister, not a great one for letter-writing. Don’t suppose you’ve heard, but I got my blighty last week: nice clean bullet in the wing. Spot of luck, don’t you think? Good old Boche! I was quite deaf for three days afterwards, which was a bit rum. Doctors said it was nerve exhaustion (me!), but I just told them what rot, and now I’m running straight again, although am still beastly weak, hence the brevity of this note. Chin up, old chap, stay sharp, and write if you feel like it. Best wishes and all that, Drum
.

‘Good old Drum,’ murmured Adam.

That was what everyone said about Drummond Talbot. Big, bluff, blond, hearty Drum. Such an unexpected brother for small, dark, secretive Celia.

The second letter was from Sibella Clyne. Adam was surprised. He knew Sibella only distantly – her first husband had been a Palairet, one of his Jamaican cousins – but after she was widowed she’d swiftly married again: a merchant banker who had died soon afterwards, leaving her wealthy. She’d stayed on good terms with the family – particularly with the Palairet matriarch, Great-Aunt Louisa – and was a favourite of Adam’s younger cousins, as she gave the best dinners in Town. But although Adam liked her, they’d never been close. He found her exhausting, and he knew that she found him ‘frighteningly reserved’.

Dear Adam
, she wrote in her swift, elegant copperplate,
as your great-aunt is indisposed (albeit not seriously), she has asked me to write with the news from home
. . .

Adam felt a flicker of irritation. The conspiracy between the two women could not have been more transparent. ‘The poor boy’s wife won’t write to him, so we jolly well ought. Keep up morale at the Front, that sort of thing. Our duty as Englishwomen.’

I’m told
, wrote Sibella,
that they’re having a rather trying time out in Jamaica. Last month a hurricane hit the Northside; apparently it seemed at first as if it was going to miss them altogether, but then at the last moment it swung round and flattened a great swath of the coast; that’s hurricanes for you! Cocoa and coffee absolutely destroyed, and everyone who got out of sugar is now bitterly regretting it, especially with the War sending the prices sky high. Of course, your great-aunt isn’t seriously affected at Salt River, but my people seem to have made somewhat of an error, have not they?

Adam noted the undercurrent of glee. ‘My people’ meant Sibella’s father, Cornelius Traherne, who’d recently turned over many of his cane-pieces to coffee, and must now be facing a difficult year. It was widely known that he and Sibella did not get on.

Still
, she went on crisply,
I’m delighted to say that Eden is doing well at last
. So
glad for dear Madeleine and Cameron! And of course that means that darling Belle can finally afford some decent clothes, which
has
been fun. You remember Isabelle Lawe?

Adam raked his memory and came up with an angry schoolgirl who’d once berated him for lack of honesty about something or other. She’d been friends with Dodo Cornwallis, St John’s little sister.

St John Cornwallis. The smoking crater. The boot . . .

Adam lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply. What the devil was Captain Goodwin going to tell St John’s people? He could hardly write and say that their youngest son had been blown apart by a shell, leaving only a boot.

Pushing the thought away, he took refuge in Sibella’s letter.

Of course as it’s term-time
, she went on,
darling Belle oughtn’t to be with me at all, but she’s run away from school (again!), and I simply didn’t have the heart to send her back. Besides, London is so
exciting
at the moment! The streets are filled with uniforms, the Boy Scouts look adorable cycling along sounding the All Clear on their bugles, and the Zepps are really rather pretty, and far too slow and clumsy to be frightening. Besides, they only ever bomb Dover and the East End.

Of course, there are inconveniences. Those horrid new paper pound notes; and the fact that everything’s so frightfully expensive; and the fashions are too drab for words – some people seem to think that if one’s not in khaki, one’s being unpatriotic – although the dear little aeroplanes on the veils are rather sweet.

Unsurprisingly, everyone is absolutely
rabid
about German spies. They’ve even talked of banning Beethoven (which came to nothing, of course), and anyone with a German name is finding things rather trying. I’m only thankful that my poor little boy is safely down in Sussex, as he’d never hear the end of it with a name like Maximilian – and you know how timid he is. Or perhaps you don’t? I can’t remember if you’ve ever met
. . .

How can she imagine that I want to hear all this? wondered Adam with some amusement. He skipped to the last page: . . .
and poor little Bobby Mordenner was killed last week,
such
a trial for his mother. But enough of that. Your cousin Osbourne is staying with us, charming boy, and he seems to be quite taken with Belle.
So
agreeable to have a man about the house again; something I’ve sorely missed since dear Freddie had an attack of patriotism and got himself a commission. Although what Freddie could possibly achieve against the Boche, I cannot imagine
. . .

She had a point. Freddie Austen, who was widely known as ‘Sibella’s faithful swain’, having adored her hopelessly through both her marriages and beyond, was a sweet, sensitive scion of minor Irish nobility, whose talents leaned more towards birdwatching than combat. But then, reflected Adam, the same could be said of a lot of us.

‘Ready for you, sir,’ said Sergeant Watts, making him jump.

‘What?’ Adam said blankly.

‘Burial, sir,’ said the sergeant. Like any seasoned soldier, he didn’t hesitate to tell his young officers what he thought they needed to know. ‘Detail’s just come back, sir; chaplain’s at the ready, and Cap’n Goodwin likes to see all his officers turn out for the service.’