Текст книги "The Burning Shore"

Автор книги: Wilbur Smith

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Текущая страница: 12 (всего у книги 37 страниц)

The leather purse with their hoard of cash lay in the recess beneath it. She weighed the purse in one hand almost two hundred francs in gold louis d'or, then dropped it into the bag.

Lugging the carpet bag, she ran down the stairs into the kitchen.

Where is Papa? she shouted at Anna.

He went up to the top floor. Anna was stuffing strings of onions, hams and bread loaves into a grain sack. She pointed with her chin at the empty hooks on the wall. He has taken his gun and plenty of cognac. I will fetch him, Centaine panted. Take care of my bag. She hitched up her skirts and raced back up the stairs.

The upper levels of the chateau were in confusion. The ambulance orderlies were trying to clear the salon and the main staircase.

Centaine! Bobby Clarke called across the stairwell at her. Are you ready to leave? He was manhandling one end of a stretcher, and he had to raise his voice above the shouts of the orderlies and the groans of the wounded.

Centaine fought her way up against the press of humanity descending the stairs, and Bobby caught her sleeve as she came level with him. Where are you going? We have to get out! My father, I must find my father. She shook off his hand and went on.

The topmost levels of the house were deserted and Centaine ran through them, shouting shrilly, Papa! Papa!

Where are you? She ran down the long gallery, and from the walls the portraits of her ancestors gazed down haughtily upon her.

At the end of the gallery she threw her weight on to the double doors which led through into the suite of bedrooms that had been her mother's and which the comte had kept unchanged all these years.

He was in the dressing-room, slumped in the highbacked tapestry-covered chair in front of the portrait of Centaine's mother, and he looked up as Centaine burst into the room. Papa, we must leave immediately. He did not seem to recognize her. There were three unopened cognac bottles on the floor between his feet, and he held another by the neck. It was half-empty, and he lifted it and took a mouthful of the raw spirit, still gazing at the portrait. Please, Papa, we must go! His single eye did not even blink as another shell crashed into the chAteau, somewhere in the east wing.

She seized his arm and tried to pull him to his feet, but he was a big man and heavy. Some of the brandy spilled down his shirt front.

The Germans have broken through, Papa! Please come with me. The Germans! he roared suddenly, and pushed her away from him. I will fight them once again.

He threw up the long-barrelled Shot rifle that had lain across his lap and fired a shot into the painted ceiling.

Plaster dust filtered down on his hair and mustache, ageing him dramatically.

Let them come! he roared. I, Louis de Thiry, say, let them all come! I am ready for themV He was mad with liquor and despair, but she tried to pull him to his feet.

We must leave. Never! he bellowed, and threw her aside, more roughly than before. I will never leave. This is my land, my home the home of my dear wife – his eye glittered insanely my dear wife. He reached towards the portrait. I will stay here with her, I will fight them here on my own soil. Centaine caught the outstretched wrist and tugged at it, but with a heave he threw her back against the wall, and began to reload the ancient rifle on his lap.

Centaine whispered, I must fetch Anna to help me. She ran to the door and another shell ploughed into the north side of the chateau. The crash of bursting brickwork and splintering glass was followed immediately by the blast wave. It threw her to her knees, and some of the heavy portraits were torn from the gallery walls.

She pulled herself up and raced down the gallery. The nitro-acid stink of explosive was mingled with the biting odour of smoke and burning. The staircase was almost empty. The very last of the wounded were being carried out. As Centaine ran into the yard two of the ambulances, both of them overloaded, pulled out through the gateway and turned down the driveway.

Anna! Centaine screamed. She was strapping the carpet bag and bulging sack on to the roof of one of the ambulances, but she jumped down and ran to Centaine. You must help me, Centaine gasped. It's Papa. Three shells hit the chateau in quick succession, and more burst in the stable field and in the gardens. The German observers must have noted the activity around the building. Their batteries were finding the range.

Where is he? Anna ignored the shellfire.

Upstairs. Mama's dressing-room. He is mad, Anna.

Mad drunk. I cannot move him. The moment they entered the house they smelt the smoke, and as they climbed the stairs the stench became stronger and dense wreaths of it eddied about them. By the time they reached the second level, they were both coughing and wheezing for breath.

The gallery was thick with smoke, so they could not see more than a dozen paces ahead, and through the smoke shone a wavering orange glow, the fire had taken hold in the front rooms and was burning through the doors.

Go back, Anna gasped, I will find him. Centaine shook her head stubbornly and started down the gallery. Another salvo of howitzer fire crashed into the chdteau, and part of the gallery wall collapsed, partially blocking it, and swirling brick dust mingled with the dense smoke, blinding them so that they crouched at the head of the staircase.

It cleared slightly and again they ran forward, but the opening that had been torn in the wall acted as a flue for the flames. They roared up furiously and the heat came at them like a solid thing, barring their way.

Papa! screamed Centaine, as they cringed away from it. Papa! Where are you? The floor jumped under them as more shellfire hit the ancient building, and they were deafened by the thunder of collapsing walls and falling ceilings, and by the rising roar of the flames.

Tapa! Centaine's voice was almost drowned, but Anna bellowed over her.

Louis, veins, ch&i, come to me, darling. Even in her distress, Centaine realized that she had never heard Anna use an endearment to her father. It seemed to summon him.

Through the smoke and the dust the comte loomed.

Flames roared all around him, rising around his feet as the floorboards burned, licking at him from the panelled walls, and smoke covered him in a dark mantle, so that he seemed like a creature from hell itself.

His mouth was open and he was making a wild, anguished sound.

He is singing, whispered Anna. The Marseillaise. To arms, Citizens!

Form the ship of State. Only then did Centaine recognize the garbled chorus.

Let an impure blood swirl in the gutters-, The words became indistinguishable, and the comte's voice weakened as the heat enveloped him. The rifle he was carrying slipped from his hand, and he fell and dragged himself up and began to crawl towards them. Centaine tried to go to him again, but the heat stopped her dead and Anna pulled her back.

Dark brown blotches began to appear on her father's shirt, as the white linen scorched, but still that terrible sound came from his open mouth, and still he crawled along the burning floor of the gallery, Suddenly the thick dark bush of his hair burst into flames, so that it seemed that he wore a golden crown.

Centaine could not look away, could not speak again, but she clung helplessly to Anna and felt the sobs wracking the older woman's body, and the arm around Centaine's shoulder tightened so that the grip was crushingly painful.

Then the floor of the gallery gave way beneath her father's weight, and the burning floorboards o ened like a dark mouth with fangs of fire and sucked him in.

No! Centaine shrieked, and Anna lifted her off her feet and ran with her to the head of the stairs. Anna was still sobbing and tears streamed down her fat red cheeks, but her strength was unimpaired.

Behind them part of the burning ceiling fell, taking the rest of the gallery floor with it, and Anna set Centaine on her feet and dragged her down the staircase. The smoke cleared as they went down, and at last they burst out into the yard again, and sucked in the sweet air.

The chateau was in flames from end to end, and shellfire still crashed into it or burst in tall columns of smoke and singing shrapnel upon the lawns and in the surrounding fields.

Bobby Clarke was supervising the loading of the last ambulances, but his face lit with relief as he saw Centaine, and he ran to her. The flames had frizzled the ends of her hair and scorched her eyelashes, soot streaked her cheeks.

We have to get out of here, where is your father? Bobby took her arm.

She could not answer him. She was shaking and the smoke had burned her throat and her eyes were red and streaming tears. Is he coming? She shook her head and saw the quick sympathy in his expression. He glanced up at the flaming building.

He took her other arm and led her towards the nearest ambulance.

Nuage, Centaine croaked. My horse. Her voice was roughened by smoke and shock.

No– Bobby Clarke said sharply and tried to hold her, but she pulled out of his grip and ran towards the stable paddock. Nuage! She tried to whistle, but no sound came through her parched lips, and Bobby Clarke caught up with her at the paddock gate.

Don't go in there! His voice was desperate, and he held her.

Confused and bewildered, she craned to look over the gate.

No, Centaine! He pulled her back, and she saw the horse and screamed.

Nuage! The rushing roar and thunder of another salvo drowned out her heart cry, but she fought in his grip.

Nuage! she screamed again, and the stallion lifted his head. He lay upon his side; one of the shell bursts had shattered both his back legs and ripped open his belly.

Nuage! He heard her voice and he tried to lift himself on to his forefeet, but the effort was too much and he fell back. His head thudded on the earth and he blew a soft fluttering sound through his wide nostrils.

Anna ran to help Bobby and between them they dragged Centaine to the waiting ambulance.

You can't leave him like that! she pleaded, trying with all her might to resist them. Please, please, don't leave him to suffer. Another salvo of shells straddled the yard, driving in their eardrums and filling the air around them with hissing chips of stone and steel fragments. No time, Bobby grunted, we must go. They forced Centaine into the rear of the vehicle, between the tiers of stretchers, and crowded in after her.

immediately the driver clashed the gears and pulled away, the ambulance swung in a tight circle, bouncing over the cobbles, and then accelerated through the gateway and out into the driveway.

Centaine dragged herself to the tailboard of the speeding vehicle and looked back at the chateau. The flames were rushing up through the shell holes in the pink tiles, and dark black smoke towered above it, rising straight up into the sunlit sky.

Everything, Centaine whispered. You've taken everything that I love.

Why? Oh Lord, why have you done this to me?

Ahead of them the other vehicles had pulled off the road at the edge of the forest, and parked under the trees to avoid the shellfire. Bobby Clarke jumped down and ran to each in turn, giving orders to the drivers and regrouping them into a convoy. Then, with his own vehicle in the lead, they sped down to the crossroads and turned into the main road.

Again shell-fire fell close about them, for the German observers already had the crossroads well covered. Like a conga line the convoy wove from one side of the road to the other to avoid the shell holes and the litter of destroyed carts, dead draught-animals and abandoned equipment.

As soon as they were clear, they closed up and followed the curve of the road down towards the village. As they passed the churchyard, Centaine saw that there was already a shell hole through the green copper-clad spire.

Although she glimpsed the upper branches of the yew tree that marked the family plot, Michael's grave was out of sight from the road.

I wonder if we will ever come back, Anna? Centaine whispered. I promised Michael – her voice trailed off.

Of course we will. Where else would we ever go? Anna's voice was rough with her own grief and the jolting of the ambulance.

Both of them stared back at the shot-holed church spire and the ugly black column of smoke that poured up into the sky above the forest marking the pyre of their home.

. . .

The ambulance convoy caught up with the tail of the main British retreat on the outskirts of the village. Here the military police had set up a temporary roadblock.

They were sending all able-bodied troops off the road to regroup and to set up a secondary line of defence, and they were searching all vehicles for deserters from the battlefield.

Is the new line holding, sergeant? Bobby Clarke asked the policeman who checked his papers. Can we halt in the village? Some of my patients– He was interrupted by a shellburst that hit one of the cottages beside the road. They were still within extreme range of the German guns.

There is no telling, sir, the sergeant handed Bobby back his papers. I were you I would pull back as far as the main base hospital at Arras. It's going to be a bit hairy around here. So the long, slow retreat began. They were a part of the solid stream of traffic that blocked the road for as far ahead as they could see, and reduced to the same excruciating pace.

The ambulances would start with a jolt, roll forward a few yards with noses to tails, and then pull up again for another interminable wait. As the day wore on so the heat built up, and the roads so recently running with winter mud turned to talcum dust. The flies came from the surrounding farmyards to the bloody bandages and crawled on the faces of the wounded men in the tiers of stretchers, and they moaned and cried out for water.

Anna and Centaine went to ask for water at one of the farm houses alongside the road, and found it already deserted. They helped themselves to milk pails and filled them from the pump.

They moved down the convoy, giving out mugs of water, bathing the faces of those in fever from their wounds, helping the ambulance orderlies clean those who had not been able to contain their bodily functions, and all the time trying to appear cheerful and confident, giving what comfort they could, despite their own grief and bereavement.

By nightfall the convoy had covered less than five miles, and they could still hear the din of the battle raging behind them. once more the convoy was stalled, waiting to move on.

It looks like we have managed to hold them at Mort Homme, Bobby Clarke paused beside Centaine. It should be safe to stop for the night. He looked more closely at the face of the soldier who Centaine was tending. God knows, these poor devils cannot take much more of this.

They need food and rest. There is a farmyard with a large barn around the next bend. It hasn't been taken over by anyone else yet, we" bag it."

I IL Anna produced a bunch of onions from her sack and used them to flavour the stew of canned bully beef that they boiled up over an open fire. They served the stew with dry army biscuit and mugs of black tea, all of it begged from the commissary trucks parked in the stalled column of traffic.

Centaine fed the men who were too weak to help themselves, and then worked with the orderlies changing the dressings. The heat and dust had done their worst, and many of the wounds were inflamed and swollen and beginning to ooze yellow pus.

After midnight Centaine slipped out of the barn and went to the water pump in the yard. She felt soiled and sweaty and longed to bathe her entire body and change into clean, freshly ironed clothes. There was no privacy for that, and the few clothes she had packed in the carpet bag she knew she must hoard. Instead she slipped off her petticoat and knickers from under her skirt and washed them out under the tap, then wrung them and hung them over the gate while she bathed her face and arms with cold water.

She let the night breeze dry her skin and slipped her underclothes on again, still damp. Then she combed out her hair and she felt a little better, although her eyes still felt raw and swollen from the smoke and there was the heavy weight of her grief like a stone in her chest, and an enormous physical fatigue dragged at her legs and arms. The images of her father in the smoke and the white stallion lying on the grass assailed her once again, but she shut her mind to them.

Enough, she said aloud as she leaned against the gate to the yard. Enough for today, I'll cry again tomorrow. Tomorrow never comes. A voice replied in broken French from the darkness, and she was startled. Bobby? She saw the glow of his cigarette then, and he came out of the shadows and leaned over the gate beside her.

You are an amazing girl, he went on in English, I have six sisters, but I've never known a girl like you. Matter of fact, I've known damned few chaps that could match you, either. She was silent, but when he drew on his cigarette, she studied his face in the glow. He was about Michael's age, and handsome. His mouth was full and sensitive-looking, and there was a gentleness about him that she had never had an opportunity to notice before.

I say– he was suddenly embarrassed by her silence_you don't mind me talking to you, do you? I'll leave you alone if you prefer. She shook her head. I don't mind. And for a while they were silent, Bobby puffing on his cigarette and both of them listening to the distant sound of the battle and to the occasional soft groan from one of the wounded in the barn.

Then Centaine stirred and asked, Do you remember the young airman, the first day you came up to the chAteau? Yes. The one with the burned arm. What was his name again, Andrew? No, that was his friend. The wild Scot, yes, of course. His name was Michel. I remember both of them. What became of them? Michel and I were to be married, but he is dead– and her pent-up emotions came pouring out.

He was a stranger and gentle, and she found it so easy to talk to him in the darkness. She told him in her quaint English about Michel and how they had planned to live in Africa, then she told him about her father and how he had changed since her mother had died, and how she had tried to look after him and stop him drinking so much.

Then she described what had taken place that morning in the burning chateau.

I think that was what he wanted. in his own way he was tired of living. I think he wanted to die and be with Mama again. But now both he and Michel are gone. I have nothing. When at last she finished she felt drained and tired, but quietly resigned.

You have really been through the grinder. Bobby reached out and squeezed her arm. I wish I could help you. You have helped me. Thank you. I could give you something, a little laudanum, it all would help you sleep. Centaine felt a surge in her blood, a longing for the quick oblivion he offered her, it was so strong that it frightened her. No, she refused with unnecessary emphasis. I will be all right. She shivered. I'm cold and it's late now. Thank you again for listening to me. Anna had hung a blanket as a screen at one end of the barn and made a mattress of straw for them. Centaine dropped almost immediately into a deathlike sleep, and woke in the dawn in a sickly sweat with the urgent nausea on her again.

Still groggy with sleep, she stumbled out and managed to get behind the stone wall of the yard before heaving up a little bitter yellow bile. When she straightened up and wiped her mouth, clinging to the wall for support, she found that Bobby Clarke was beside her, his expression troubled as he took her wrist and checked her pulse rate.

I think I had better have a look at you, he said.

No. She felt vulnerable. This new sickness worried her for she had always been so healthy and strong. She was afraid he might discover some dreadful disease.

I am all right, truly. But he led her firmly by the hand to the parked ambulance and drew down the canvas side screens to give them privacy.

Lie there, please. He ignored her protests and unfastened her blouse to sound her chest.

His manner was so clinical and professional, that she no longer argued, and submitted meekly to his examination, sitting up and coughing and breathing at his instruction.

Now I will examine you, he said. Do you wish your maid to be present as a chaperone? She shook her head mutely and he said, Please remove your skirt and petticoat. When he had finished, he made a show of packing his instruments back in the roll and tying up the retaining ribbons, while she rearranged her clothing.

Then he looked up at her with such a peculiar expression that she was alarmed. Is it something serious? He shook his head. Centaine, your fiance is dead. You told me that last night. She nodded.

It is still very early to be certain, very early, but I believe that you will need a father for the child you are carrying. Her hands flew to her stomach, an involuntary protective gesture.

I have really known you only a few days, but that is long enough for me to realize that I have fallen in love with you. I would be honoured, his voice trailed off, for she was not listening to him.

Michel, she whispered. Michel's baby. I have not lost everything. I still have a part of him Centaine ate the sandwich of ham and cheese that Anna brought her with such relish that Anna examined her suspiciously.

I feel so much better now, Centaine forestalled her inquiry.

They helped feed the wounded and ready them for the day's trek. Two of their critical cases had died during the night, and the orderlies buried them hastily in shallow graves at the edge of the field and then the ambulances started up and pulled out into the main stream of traffic.

The congestion of the previous day's route had abated as the army shook itself out of mindless confusion into a semblance of order. The traffic still rolled slowly, but with fewer halts and false starts, and alongside the road they passed the rudimentary supply dumps and advanced headquarters echelons that had been set up during the night.

During one of their halts on the outskirts of a tiny village, half-concealed by trees and vineyards, Centaine made out the shapes of aircraft parked at the edge of the vineyard.

She climbed up on the running-board of the ambulance for a better view, and a flight of aircraft took off from the field and flew low over the road.

Her disappointment was intense as she realized that they were ungraceful two-seater De Havilland scouts, not the lovely SESas of Michel's squadron. She waved to them, and one of the pilots looked down at her and waved back.

. it cheered her somehow and as she returned to her selfimposed duties, she felt strong and lighthearted, and she joked with the wounded men in her accented English, and they reacted with delight. One of them called herSunshine and the name passed quickly down the line of ambulances.

Bobby Clarke stopped her as she passed. Great stuff but remember, don't overdo it."I will be all right. Don't worry about me. I can't help it. He dropped his voice. Have you thought about my offer? When will you give me an answer? Not now, Bobby. She pronounced his name with equal emphasis on each syllable, Bob-bee, and every time she said it he lost his breath. We will talk later, but you are very gentil, very kind. Now the roadway was almost impassable once more, for the reserves were being hastened up to help hold the new line at Mort Homme. Endless columns of marching men slogged past them, and interspersed between the ranks of bobbing steel helmets were batteries of guns and lines of supply trucks loaded with all the accoutrements of war.

Their forward progress faltered, and for hours at a time the ambulances were signalled off the roadway into a field or a side lane while fresh hordes streamed past.

I'll have to send the ambulances back soon, Bobby told Centaine during one of their halts. They are needed . As soon as we can find a field hospital, I'llhand over these patients. Centaine nodded and made as if to go to the next vehicle where one of the men was calling weakly. Over here, Sunshine, can you give me a hand. Bobby caught her wrist.

Centaine, when we reach the hospital there is bound to be a chaplain there. It would only take a few minutes– She gave him her new smile, and reached up to touch his unshaven cheek with her fingertips. You are a kind man, Bobby, but Michel is the father of my son. I have thought about it, and I do not need another father. Centaine, you don't understand! What will people think? A child without a father, a young mother without a husband, what will they say? As long as I have my baby, Bobby, I don't give a, how do you say in English, I don't give them a fig! They can say what they like. I am the widow of Michel Courtney.

In the late afternoon they found the field hospital they were searching for. It was in a field outside Arras.

There were two cottage tents, emblazoned with the red crosses. These were serving as operating theatres. Rough shelters had also been hastily thrown up around them to accommodate the hundreds of wounded waiting their turns on the tables. They were built of tarpaulins over timber frames, or of corrugated iron scavenged from the surrounding farms.

Anna and Centaine helped unload their own wounded and carry them into one of the crowded shelters, then they retrieved their baggage from the roof of the leading ambulance. One of their patients noticed their preparations to leave.

You aren't going, Sunshine, are you? And hearing him, others pulled themselves up on an elbow to protest.

What are we going to do without you, luv?

She went to them for the last time, passing from one to the next with a smile and a joke, stooping to kiss their filthy, pain-contorted faces, and then at last unable to bear it any more, hurrying back to whence Anna waited for her.

They picked up the carpet bag and Anna's sack, and started along the convoy of ambulances which were being refuelled, ready to return to the battlefield.

Bobby Clarke had waited for them, and now he ran after Centaine. We are going back, orders from Major Sinclair."Au revoir, Bobby."I'll always remember you, Centaine. She went up on tiptoe to kiss his cheek. I hope it will be a boy, he whispered.

it will be, she told him seriously. A boy, I am certain of it The convoy of ambulances trundled away, back into the north, and Bobby Clarke waved and shouted something that she did not catch, as they were carried away on the river of marching men and lumbering equipment.

What do we do now? Anna asked.

We go on, Centaine told her. Somehow, subtly she had taken charge, and Anna, increasingly indecisive with each mile between her and Mort Homme, plodded after her. They left the sprawling hospital area and turned southwards once again into the crowded roadway.

Ahead of them over the trees Centaine could make out the roofs and spires of the town of Arras against the fading evening sky.

Look, Anna! she pointed. There is the evening star we are allowed a wish. What is yours? Anna looked at her curiously. What had come over the child2 She had seen her father burned to death and her favourite animal mutilated barely two days before, and yet there was a ferocious gaiety about her. It was unnatural.

I wish for a bath and a hot meal Oh, Anna, you always ask for the impossible. Centaine smiled at her over her shoulder, transferring the heavy carpet bag from one hand to the other.

What is your wish, then? Anna challenged.

I wish that the star leads us to the general, like it led the three wise men– Don't blaspheme, girl. But Anna was too tired and uncertain for the rebuke to have real force behind it.

Centaine knew the town well, for it contained the convent where she had spent her schooldays. It was dark by the time they made their way through the town centre.

The fighting of the early years of the war had left terrible scars on the lovely seventeenth-century Flemish architecture. The picturesque old town hall was pocked with shrapnel splinters and part of the roof destroyed. Many of the gabled brick houses surrounding the Grande Place were also roofless and deserted, although the windows of others were candlelit. The more stubborn of the popu lotion had moved back again immediately the tides of war had rolled by.

Centaine had not made a special note of the way to the monastery that General Courtney was using as his headquarters when she had last visited it with Michael, so she could not hope to find it in the dark. She and Anna camped in a deserted cottage, eating the last scraps of stale bread and dried-out cheese from Anna's sack, using the carpet bag for a pillow and each other for warmth as they lay on the bare floor.

The next morning Centaine dreaded finding the monastery deserted when she finally rediscovered the lane leading to it, but there was a guard on the main gate.

Sorry, miss, Army property. Nobody goes in. She was still pleading with him when the black Rolls came racing down the lane behind her and braked as it reached the gates. It was coated with dried mud and dust, and there was a long ugly scratch down both the doors on the nearest side.

The guard recognized the pennant on the bonnet and waved the Zulu driver on, and the Rolls accelerated through the tall gates, but Centaine ran forward and shouted desperately after the car. In the back seat was the young officer she had met on her last visit.

Lieutenant Pearce! She remembered his name, and he glanced back, then looked startled as he recognized her.

Quickly he leaned across to speak to the driver, and the Rolls pulled up sharply and then reversed.

,Mademoiselle de Thiry! John Pearce jumped out and hurried to her. The last person I expected, what on earth are you doing here? I must see Michael's uncle, General Courtney.

It's important. He is not here at the moment, the young officer told her, but you can come with me. He should be back fairly soon, and in the meantime we'll find you a place to rest, and something to eat. It seems to me that you could use both He took Centaine's carpet bag from her. Come along – is this woman with you? Anna, my servant. She can sit in front with Sangane. He helped Centaine into the Rolls. The Germans have made it a pretty busy few days, he settled beside her on the soft leather, and it looks as though you have been through it as well. Centaine looked down at herself: her clothes were dusty and bedraggled, her hands were dirty and her fingernails had black half-moons under them. She could guess what her hair looked like.