The Wild Rose (39 page)

“You ready?” he said, turning back to Albie.

But Albie didn’t answer him. One hand was over his face, covering his eyes. The other, the one holding whatever had come in the envelope from Allenby, was at his side.

“Albie?” Seamie said, alarmed. “Albie, what is it?”

Albie didn’t answer him. Instead, he held the document out to him. Seamie quickly took it and started to read.

He skimmed the lines that warned the reader that this was classified information, and quickly came to the subject of the memo. A British plane doing reconnaissance in the Jabal ad Duruz hills had gone down in the desert four days ago. The pilot, Dan Harper, was killed in the crash. The plane was carrying one passenger—the photographer Alden Williams. Williams, whose body was not found at the crash site and who was presumed dead, might have been captured by Bedouin raiders, or by Turkish troops, who held the area. The wreckage was thoroughly searched, but Williams’s camera was not found. Whatever information Williams was able to gain about the size and movements of Turkish troops near Damascus had been lost. There was concern that if the Turks had Williams, they might try to extract sensitive information from their prisoner. And then, at the bottom of the note, was a hand-scrawled message from General Allenby.

“No,” Seamie said as he read it. “Dear God, no.”

Dear Alden,

As this event concerns reconnaissance, and may come under your bailiwick, I wish to apprise you of some particulars.

Alden Williams, as you likely know, was the photographer attached to Lawrence and his camp. Williams is a pseudonym used to obscure the fact that the photographer is a woman. It is highly doubtful that the British public would approve of a woman’s presence on the battlefield. Equally unpalatable to the public would be the idea of a British woman taken prisoner by the Turkish—some of whom, as you also know, have been known to treat their prisoners with the utmost brutality. Please keep me posted of any and all intelligence gathered on this particular topic.

Alden Williams’s real name is Willa Alden. Same surname as your own. Is she any relation to you?

Please keep these details confidential.

Yours,

Allenby

CHAPTER FIFTY-NINE

India frowned. She sat back in her chair and regarded Lindy Summers, her head nurse. “What about the new one? The blond boy who came in yesterday . . . Matthews? Any changes in his condition?” she asked her.

Lindy shook her head. “No, there isn’t, Dr. Jones. Which is both good and bad. Good because I’m still convinced he has bronchitis, not the flu, but bad because he’s so weak, I’m worried the bronchitis alone will be enough to finish him off.” Lindy fished out a folder from the stack she’d just placed on India’s desk and handed it to her. “Here’s the latest on his vitals. Another lad, Abbott . . . now, he has me worried.”

“Tall lad? Red hair and freckles? Facial burns?” India asked.

“That’s the one. He came in feverish, complaining of headache. Now he’s coughing. And his lungs sound wet.”

India’s expression became grim. “We have to set up a quarantine for possible flu victims. Right now,” she said. “We simply cannot afford to take any chances. These men are so weak as it is that if the flu gets hold of them, they won’t stand a chance. Gather the staff, tell them to go ahead and set up the ward in the attic.”

“The attic?” Lindy said uncertainly.

“We had four men arrive this morning, and we’re due to get another seven tomorrow. We’re out of room. The attic’s cramped but it’s clean. It’s hardly ideal, but it’s all we’ve got,” India said. She had long ago learned that when it came to medicine, ideal situations existed only in textbooks.

“Yes, Dr. Jones,” Lindy said. “I’ll get started right away.”

At that moment, the door to India’s office opened and Sid stepped inside. A visit from him during the day was very unusual. He was often so busy with the shell-shocked patients that she was lucky if she and the children saw him at suppertime.

“Sid! I’m so glad you’re here. Lindy and I were just talking about the quarantine ward and . . . ,” she began.

And then she stopped speaking. For as he sat down across from her, she saw that his face was ashen and his eyes were red. She had only ever seen her husband cry once. A long time ago. She could not imagine what had upset him enough to make him weep.

And then a terrifying thought gripped her. “Sid, the children . . . ,” she started to say, her heart in her throat.

“They’re fine. All fine,” he said. “Lindy, if I could have a minute?”

“Of course. Please excuse me,” Lindy Summers said. She quickly stood up, left the room, and closed the door behind her.

India got up, came around to the front of her desk, and sat down next to her husband.

“What is it? What’s happened?” she asked him. “Is it Seamie? Did he take a turn for the worse?” India knew, as did the rest of the family, about the destruction of the
Hawk
, and Seamie’s resulting injuries, for Jennie had received a telegram and had told them, but those injuries—the telegram said—were not life-threatening.

Sid tried to answer her and found he could not.

“You’re scaring me,” India said.

He swallowed hard and tried again. “Some new patients came in this morning,” he said.

“Yes, I know. Four of them.”

“One of them is badly shell-shocked,” Sid said. “In fact, it’s the worst case I’ve ever seen. He’s gone. Totally gone. Does nothing but shake and stare straight ahead of himself.” He paused, and then his voice broke as he said, “India . . . it’s Charlie. My nephew. My namesake. And he doesn’t know me. He doesn’t even know me.”

It took a minute for Sid’s words to sink in. “I’m so sorry, Sid,” she finally said, in a choked voice, leaning her head against his. “Is there no hope? None at all? You can do something, I know you can. I’ve seen what you’ve done with the other lads.”

Sid shook his head. “Come with me,” he said, standing up.

India followed him downstairs. He led her to the last room on the hall where the shell-shocked men lived. She looked through the open door and saw a young man seated on the bed, shaking horribly. He was skeletally thin, just skin over bones. His eyes were open, but they had a dead and empty look to them.

India went to him. She sat down on the bed next to him and gave him a quick examination. She talked to him as she did, trying to make some contact, trying to elicit a response, a flicker of recognition. But her efforts were in vain. There was nothing there. Nothing. It was as if all the things inside of him—his heart and his soul, his bright mind and quick sense of humor—had been ripped out, and all that was left was a shell.

“He’s only seventeen, India,” Sid said. “He’s only seventeen years old.”

India heard her husband’s choked sobs then. She thought of what she had to do next—call Fiona and Joe and tell them that their precious child was here, in her hospital. That he was wounded, not dead—but he might as well be.

And then India, who had learned long ago not to cry over her patients, covered her face with her hands and wept.

CHAPTER SIXTY

“Walk!” the man shouted in Turkish. “Walk or I’ll kick the hell out of you!”

Willa had fallen onto her side in the dirt. Her legs didn’t work. Nothing worked. She was dizzy and disoriented. Her eyes wouldn’t focus.

“Walk, I said!” the man yelled.

His boot in her ribs made her scream, but it did not bring her to her feet. Nothing could do that. She was going to die here. In the dirt. In the crucifying heat. And she didn’t care. She had heard the Bedouin talking to the Turks, and had understood enough of their conversation to know she’d been traveling for five days. After five days of crossing the desert, bound and slung over the back of a camel, after nights spent tied like an animal to a stake in the ground, after enduring dehydration, hunger, and excruciating pain, dying would be a mercy.

Her clothes were caked with dirt, blood, and vomit. She had soiled herself. One of her captors had tried to rape her three nights ago, but had been so repulsed by her condition that he’d turned away from her in disgust.

It didn’t matter anymore. None of it mattered. It would all be over soon. She closed her eyes and waited for death. She was not frightened; she welcomed it.

But the Turkish Army had other ideas.

There was more yelling, and then Willa felt hands under her arms, hoisting her to her feet. She opened her eyes, saw a man in uniform hand a leather purse—small and heavy—to the Bedouin raiders who’d captured her. Then two men lifted her off the ground and frog-marched her inside a stone building. She had the vague notion she was in some kind of garrison town. But which one? Was it Damascus?

Her new captors continued to half drag, half carry her through the building. They went through a foyer, down a long hallway, and then down a flight of stairs. It was dark, and her vision was still coming and going, but Willa was certain that she was in a prison.

A thick wooden door was opened, and she was dumped inside a small, dark room with an earthen floor. One of the men left, then came back a minute later with a jug of water. He yelled at her again. She thought he wanted her to drink. But she didn’t want the water. She’d made up her mind to die. She struggled, trying to shake the man off, but he was far too strong for her. He held her mouth open until he’d poured most of the water into her, then he held it shut so she could not vomit it back out. After a few minutes had passed, he let go of her and she slumped to the ground.

A plate of food was brought and set down on the floor. The door was closed and locked. It was completely dark in the cell. There was no window, no light at all.

Willa did not know where she was. All she knew was that Bedouins had taken her from the crash site, transported her for many miles, and finally sold her to the Turks—who likely thought she was a spy and intended to interrogate her.

She felt very afraid at the thought of an interrogation. She had heard tales of the Turks’ methods and knew they would stop at nothing to get information from her. She promised herself then and there that she would tell them nothing, no matter what they did to her. They would tire eventually and would kill her, but she would give them nothing—nothing about Lawrence, nothing about Damascus.

She would need something to get her through the coming ordeal. Something she could think of to keep up her courage and her strength as they beat her bloody.

An image of a face came to her in the darkness, though she did not want it to. With a trembling hand she traced a single letter in the dirt of her cell floor—the letter S.

CHAPTER SIXTY-ONE

“Seamie, you can’t do this. It’s madness. Total bloody madness,” Albie Alden said.

Seamie, busy tightening the girth strap on his camel’s saddle, did not reply.

“Allenby will send men out to hunt for her,” Albie said.

“What men? In case you haven’t noticed, Albie, there’s a war on,” Seamie replied. “Allenby’s not going to use valuable troops to hunt for one person—a person who’s not even supposed to be in the desert.”

“But you’re wounded! You can’t ride with your injuries. And even if you could, you don’t know what you’re doing. You don’t even know where you’re going!”

“He does,” Seamie said, pointing at a man sitting atop a second camel, his Bedouin guide, Abdul.

Albie shook his head. “The two of you . . . all alone in the desert. You’ll be hopelessly lost within a day. And for what, Seamie? Willa’s plane crashed. The pilot was killed. It’s likely she was badly injured, and it’s equally likely that she is now dead.”

Seamie sighed. “That’s our Albie, ever the optimist.”

“What about your ship? You’re supposed to take command of a new ship in just under five weeks’ time. How are you going to get out to the Jabal ad Duruz hills, search the area around them, and get back to Haifa in time? If you’re not at the docks the morning of the day your commission begins, you’ll be classed as a deserter. You know what the British military thinks of deserters, don’t you? You’ll be court-martialed and shot.”

“I’ll make sure that I hurry then.”

As Albie hectored him, Seamie looked inside his saddlebags, double checking that he’d packed both of his pistols, sufficient ammunition, basic medicines and dressings, and his field glasses; then he rechecked his food and water supplies. It was difficult to see in the darkness. The sun had not yet risen over Haifa.

He had made up his mind to find Willa right after he’d finished reading Allenby’s memo. The news had devastated him. He couldn’t stand the thought of Willa, possibly injured, certainly afraid, in the hands of cruel and vicious men. It nearly drove him mad.

Instead of going to dinner at the officers’ mess, as he and Albie had planned, he’d spent most of the night preparing for the trip. He’d found a guide before the sun had even gone down, and they’d spent the following day gathering supplies. When night fell again, he slept for a few hours, then rose at four
A.M.
, dressed, and made his way to the gates of the city. He’d met Abdul by the east wall just after five o’clock.

Albie, who’d been against the plan ever since he’d heard of it, had met them at the wall and was still trying to talk Seamie out of it. He’d used almost every argument he could think of—every argument, that is, except the one that mattered most to him. He hadn’t want to use that one, but he saw now that if he wanted to stop his friend from doing something rash, he had no choice.

“Seamie . . . ,” he said now, hesitantly.

“Yes?” Seamie said, buckling one of his saddlebags.

“What about Jennie?”

Seamie stopped what he was doing. He stared straight ahead of himself for a few seconds, then turned to Albie. Albie had never broached the topic of Seamie’s affair with Willa; he’d never so much as mentioned it. For years, Seamie thought Albie hadn’t known anything about it. Now he saw that he was wrong. He saw something else, too.

“It was you, wasn’t it, Albie?” he said quietly. “You’re the one who told Willa to go. To leave London. And to leave me. I always wondered if somebody had said something to her. Willa’s note . . . her decision to go . . . it was all so abrupt.”

“I didn’t have a choice, Seamie. It was wrong. For you. For Willa. And for Jennie. I went to your flat one night to see you. You weren’t there, but Jennie was. She was very upset. She knew, Seamie. And she was carrying your son. You and Willa are the most important people in the world to me. How could I do nothing? How could I let you destroy yourselves and everyone around you?” Albie looked at Seamie. “You’re furious with me, aren’t you?”

Seamie felt gutted by his friend’s revelation, and by the knowledge that he himself had caused Jennie such grief. “No, Albie, I’m not furious with you,” he said. “I’m furious with myself. I had no idea that Jennie knew,” he said, sadly. “I thought I’d managed to keep it from her.”

“I’m sorry. I’ve only caused more pain by bringing this all up. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, Albie. I’m the one who made a mistake. Quite a few of them. I made one when I married Jennie. And another one when I took up again with Willa. And I’ve tried to set things right. I’ve tried my best to be a good husband and a good father. And when this war is over, I will try again.”

“Is going after Willa your idea of being a good husband?” Albie asked him.

“For God’s sake, Albie!” Seamie said angrily. “I’m not riding out into the desert to rekindle a love affair. What do you want me to do? Sit on my backside while she rots in a Turkish prison? While her guards beat her or starve her . . . or worse?”

“Lawrence will search for her. If she is alive, he’ll find her.”

Seamie laughed joylessly. “And risk giving away his position? The size of his troops? Right before an offensive? I doubt it. Lawrence is a soldier through and through, Albie, and you know it. As much as he might want to rescue Willa, he cannot risk the lives of thousands for the life of one.”

“You mustn’t do this.”

“What the hell is it with you, Albie? Don’t you want me to find her?” Seamie said, but he regretted his words as soon as they were out of his mouth. The pain they caused Albie was evident on his face.

“Of course I want her found. She’s my sister, Seamie. We have been at odds over the past few years, but I care about her greatly,” Albie said quietly, looking at the ground. “But I don’t think you can find her. I think all you can do is recover her body. Which is what I will attempt to do from here with the help of local contacts—Bedouin traders, Turkish informants, and the like. I wish you would help me in that. I wish you would stay here and . . .” He faltered.

“What?”

Albie looked at Seamie. “I’m afraid this will be it, the thing that finally kills you. I’ve always thought you’d do each other in, you and Willa. Always. As children on my father’s boat. In Cambridge, when you climbed up buildings. You came damned close on Kilimanjaro. And then in London I thought you’d do it by breaking each other’s hearts. You still might. It’s a madness what you have between you. Love, I guess you call it. It almost destroyed Willa in Africa. And again in London. She’s likely dead now, Seamie. I know it, and you do, too, but you can’t accept it. And now you’re hell-bent on destroying yourself on this impossible mission. If you’re captured by the enemy, well, you know what will happen . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Albie,” Seamie said. “I have no choice. Can’t you see that? She is my heart and my soul. There’s a chance she’s still alive, even if it’s a slight one, and while there is, I can’t abandon her. I can’t.”

Albie sighed. “I knew I wouldn’t dissuade you,” he said heavily. He reached into his trousers pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “It’s a map of the region. The most current we have. Destroy it if you’re taken.”

Seamie took the map. Then he pulled Albie close and hugged him tightly.

“I’ll be back,” he said. “She’ll be back, too. In the meantime, get off your skinny, bespectacled arse and find some spies, will you? So my next boat doesn’t get blown up like my last one did.”

And then Seamie mounted his camel, and he and Abdul were off. As they rode away, Albie heard the song of the muezzin rising from within the walled city, calling the faithful to prayer. He was not a religious man, but he never failed to be moved by the beauty and emotion of the muezzin’s voice, and as the sun rose, sending its golden rays across the desert dunes, he sent up a quick prayer of his own.

He asked God to protect Willa and Seamie, these two people whom he cared about so deeply. He asked Him to overlook the mad and reckless love that bound them, and then he asked for one more thing—he asked God to please spare him from ever knowing anything like it.