Angels in the Gloom Read online

  “Hello, Mrs. MacAllister,” the older woman said with a smile. “Where’s the chaplain?” She also spoke of Joseph by his occupation, because to her that was who he was. She had sons and nephews in the regiment at Ypres, and they wrote to him of Joseph often. “Tell him Oi was asking after him, will you please?”

  “Of course,” Hannah said quickly. “He’s recovering quite well, but it will be a few weeks before he can think about going back.”

  A shadow crossed Mrs. Nunn’s face. “But he will, won’t he? Oi mean, he’ll be alroight?” She was echoing Mrs. Gee’s words.

  Hannah hesitated. She was overwhelmed by the power of her longing that he should stay. They needed Joseph’s faith here to lean on if they were to survive. Kerr was useless. More loss, loneliness, and pain lay ahead. She thought of Betty Townsend and Mrs. Nunn. They were only two of hundreds. “I don’t know,” she answered. “He’s thirty-seven, and he was pretty badly injured. They may not send him back.”

  The color and light vanished from Mrs. Nunn’s expression. “Oh, Oi do hope that’s not true. What will moi boys do without him?” She shook her head a little, her face crumpled. “They don’t tell us much, you know, but it’s awful out there. Some o’ them doi real hard. An’ none o’ them come back loike they went. They need men loike your brother worse’n we need them. We’re safe in our own beds, an’ with food on the table in the morning, an’ clean water to drink.” She looked very hard at Hannah. “Oi’d be out there for moi boys, if Oi could, an’ keep them safe here. What mother wouldn’t? But at least Oi knowed Captain Reavley were there for them. He’d be with ’em in the worst, day or noight, winter or summer aloike.”

  She smiled and her gaze was far away. “He were hurt getting moi boy Tucky back out o’ no-man’s-land, you know? Saved his loife, the chaplain did.” She took a deep breath. “God speed him back, Oi pray. Oi’m sorry, Mrs. MacAllister, but the boys come first. They’re foighting for England, an’ we got to do our part.” Sniffing fiercely, she turned and picked her way back through the graves.

  Hannah stood still on the path for a few moments longer. Then with her mind in increasing turmoil, she walked slowly toward the lych-gate and out into the street.

  She walked more rapidly. She had been sure, listening to Betty Townsend, that Joseph should stay here. He was needed to help with their faith, grief, loneliness, and fear of change.

  Then listening to Mrs. Nunn, seeing her tired, wounded face and the strength in her, the gratitude that Joseph was there with her boys, wanting him at home had become utterly selfish, the cry of a small, spoiled child.

  But what about Joseph himself? Would his arm heal well enough for him to be able to go back? Perhaps it wouldn’t. He might have to stay. That would be the best answer of all. He would be here, safe, able to help her and the whole village, and honor would be satisfied. Was that selfish? If it were her sons out there, she would want the best chaplain for them: the one who was strong enough to keep faith; brave enough to try to rescue the wounded, whatever the cost; the one who would not look away and leave them to die alone.

  She opened the front door and went into the familiar hall. Mrs. Appleton was in the kitchen; the smell of baking drifted through the house. The dining room door was open, the bunch of daffodils on the table reflected on its polished surface. She could smell their warm, heavy scent.

  She found Joseph upstairs in his bed. His eyes were closed, but there was a book open upside down on his lap. It was one of those days when his arm was hurting more than usual; she could see it in the shadow on his face.

  He must have heard her step, light as it was, because he opened his eyes.

  “Hurts?” she asked with a half smile.

  “Not much,” he answered.

  “It might not get strong enough for you to go back?” She lifted her voice at the end, as if it were a question. “The vicar isn’t much good. There’d be a lot for you to do here. Everything’s changing, and we don’t know what’s right as easily as we used to.” She drew in her breath. “The vicar hasn’t the faintest idea what the men have been through, but you have.” Without meaning to, she was putting all the arguments at once. She could hear the urgency in her own voice, and knew she had said too much.

  There was indecision in his face. He must feel the warmth around him, smell the clean cotton of the sheets, the flowers on the dresser, bright in the sunlight through the window. He must hear the sound of birdsong outside, and the wind in the branches, sweet off the fields.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quietly. She was ashamed. His decision, whatever it was, would be hard enough. He was the one who would be cold, tired, hungry, perhaps injured in Flanders, not she. She was being unfair.

  “I think Kerr will become better at it,” he said quietly. “With practice.”

  “Yes, I expect he will,” she agreed, and went out again before she made any more mistakes, even if it was just to let him see her tears.

  In the upper room in Marchmont Street the Peacemaker finished reading the letter on his desk and burned the pages one at a time. It was a letter from his cousin in Berlin, one of the few men in the world he trusted absolutely. It was wiser to leave nothing to chance. German plans for the United States were crucial to success in the war. If America could be persuaded to join the Allies, the forces against Germany would be vastly increased. The American army was small as yet, but their resources were virtually inexhaustible. They had coal and steel enough to supply the world, and food, of course. In time it would tip the balance of the war fatally against Germany.

  That was why America had to be kept occupied with the Mexican threat at its southern border, and possibly even with a Japanese base on the Pacific coast, just to the south in Baja California. Germany had brilliant men throughout the North American continent, agents who kept Berlin constantly in touch with every move of President Wilson and of the Congress, of public and private feeling in every state. With great skill and secrecy they moved money and guns into Mexico and judged the ambition and the violence in that turbulent country to an exactness.

  The Santa Ysabel massacre was a piece of extraordinary good fortune, but with care it could be repeated on a scale large enough to keep America’s attention focused entirely on their own affairs, but not so large as to precipitate a full-scale invasion of Mexico.

  Detta Hannassey was becoming more and more useful. No doubt her principal aim was to free Ireland, but she was a far better tool in helping Germany to keep control of the sabotage in America than he had thought she would be. She was resourceful, clever without arrogance, and she had sufficient sense of humor never to betray herself by posturing or losing her temper. She was not as dangerous as her father, and therefore in many ways a better weapon to use.

  He took the poker and crushed the ashes of Manfred’s letter so there was nothing left.

  The war at sea was the more urgent issue now. That could be won or lost on the invention being worked on in the Establishment in Cambridgeshire. He knew about its progress from the agent he had planted there over a year ago, a highly intelligent, eager man, as passionately against the war as he was himself. But he did not entirely trust him. Lately he had sensed a different mood in him, something more personal, a more particular emotion rather than the general horror against the destruction of war. It might be a weakness.

  But it was Russia, that other giant not yet fully awake, that crowded his mind now. Europe had never conquered it with armies. Napoleon had tried, and it had been for him the beginning of the end. Now, a century later, it was a slow attrition eating away at the might of the German Empire, bleeding men and materials it would be far better to use toward the west, where victory could be complete and fruitful, the beginning of lasting peace and all that that meant.

  What of Tsar Nicholas II, and his queen with her obsession with that unwashed lunatic, Rasputin? And the only heir to the throne a hemophiliac boy who bled at the slightest bruise! The whole vast, sweeping country was riddled by centuries of oppression and cor
ruption, injustices crying out for retribution, factions fighting one another, hunger and war slaughtering people by the thousands. The whole rotten structure was ready to collapse, and there were men who longed to bring it about, men of passion and dreams only awaiting the chance.

  Whatever it took, however much latitude he had to give him, whatever flattery or yielding it required, he must get Richard Mason back. He had the passion, the courage, the intelligence, and the supreme daring to pull together the pieces of the plan that was beginning to form in the Peacemaker’s mind. As yet it was just a vague shape—huge areas were missing yet—but so supreme, so sublimely daring it would change the tide of history, carry it forward not only to peace, but to a justice undreamed of before.

  He strode over to his desk, opened it, and sat down to write.

  CHAPTER

  * * *

  FIVE

  Joseph picked up a fresh newspaper and read a long article by Richard Mason, the man regarded by many as the best of the war correspondents. He was writing from the Balkans. It was vivid, immediate, and tragic in its evocation of courage and death. There was an anger in him at suffering that came through all the measured words.

  Joseph remembered working beside him on the beach at Gallipoli. He thought of the cheerful Australian voices with their desperate jokes, their inventiveness, irreverence, and good-humored stoicism. He remembered the sinking ship afterward, the cold, and facing Mason in the open boat as the wind rose, and the terrible decision he had made. For all the rage he had felt, oddly enough he had not personally disliked Mason, even then.

  He knew that Hannah wanted him to stay at home after he was better, but he had refused to consider the possibility seriously until now. He thought about the men he knew who were still in the trenches, men from the village and from Cambridge itself. Some of them he had taught at St. John’s. In his dreams he was there also. He still woke with surprise to find himself in the quiet, familiar room of his childhood, birdsong in the silence outside, no guns, no soldiers’ voices.

  Could he stay? There was certainly plenty for a man of the church to do here, grief to comfort, confusion to try to ease, even anger and specific evil to fight against. He had been nearly two years at Ypres. No one would blame him if he said it was enough. He was thirty-seven, far older than the vast majority of the men. Even most of the officers below the rank of colonel were in their twenties, some even younger.

  He would never again have to face the noise—incessant, battering the mind until thought and sense were almost impossible. He need never see another rat, another mutilated body, or watch another young man die and try to find meaning or hope in the closest one could see of hell.

  Of course the suffering and the loss would be just the same. It would simply be that he did not have to share the physical reality. He could stay at home and only hear about it, imagine it, remember, and of course see the results in the faces of the women. And after it was over, he could help to rebuild again, whether they won or lost.

  Was that what he wanted? With every nightmare, with every aching bone or stab of pain, yes! Yes, he longed to find a reason never ever to go back. He longed to stay here where he was safe and clean, where he could sleep at night, where he could see the slow, sweet spring blossom over the earth, watch the patient horses pull the plow, walk with his dog and see the birds circle in the sky at sunset and fly low to roost in the elms.

  Could he do that with an easy heart, knowing his men in Flanders expected him back? No one wanted to return after leave. The only ones who imagined war in heroic colors were those like Hallam Kerr who had never been there. Even most of them were a little wiser, a little more sober now.

  The morning post had brought him a letter from Isobel Hughes. He was surprised how much it had pleased him to see her handwriting on the envelope. He had torn it open eagerly.

  She was concerned for his injuries in case they were more serious than he had said. They were. But then he would have felt childish telling her the pain had been so consuming he had, at the beginning, even wished he could die of it to escape. That sounded so cowardly now he was intensely grateful he had not said anything.

  As always, she told him of village life in Wales, the changing seasons, a little gossip about those she knew and cared for, making light of the hardships without denying them. Only this time there was something darker, a story she introduced quite casually, but her choice of words was different and even her handwriting had an urgency about it.

  A young man here on leave from the front has deserted. They say he has run away, but those are simple words. I don’t think they tell anything like all the truth. I saw his face when he was in the village shop. He spoke to me quite pleasantly, but his eyes looked beyond me to some hell I could not see, but perhaps I had a glimpse of it for an instant.

  I know there are a million men out there who are staying and facing everything there is, no matter what, and that many of them will not come back. Every reason in my mind tells me that if I knew where he was hiding in the hills, then I should tell the authorities so they can hunt him out. I imagine he will be court-martialed and then shot. I can see how that is necessary, or maybe thousands would desert, leaving only the bravest to face the enemy alone.

  His father is so ashamed he won’t go to chapel anymore. His mother weeps, but for him, I think, not for herself or for shame. Perhaps it is something in us because we are women, we admire the strong and the brave, but we protect the weak. Is that pity, or simply that we do not think far enough ahead to see the damage it does?

  I have troubled myself about this quite a lot. I ask you because I hunger for the answer and I know no one wiser or more able to weigh the matter from the view of both the army and the kinder and greater judgment of God as well. Or at least as much of God as it is given us to know.

  Joseph had thought about the letter, rereading it to make sure his first impression was right. She did not dare write it openly, but he was convinced she knew where the deserter was, and wanted his opinion as to whether she should betray him or not.

  Then he realized with a jolt that by the very use of the word betray he had allowed his sympathies to be as engaged as hers were. He knew the blind stare on young men’s faces when they had seen too much for the mind to bear, when their ears never ceased to hear the roar of the guns, even in the silence of the fields or the chatter of a village street.

  And yet if she knew and sheltered him, even by her failure to report it, she would be held accountable for aiding a deserter. At the very best she could be shunned by her own people, at worst she could be charged with a crime. His instinct was to protect her, urge her to take no risks.

  But there were other risks, to the conscience, the grief and the shame afterward, to the belief in one’s own compassion or morality. All her life she would remember whatever she did about it, and the life or death of this young man, and his family. One wanted to save everyone—and it was impossible.

  He folded up the letter and put it away. He must answer it today. It would not wait. But he was not ready yet. If he was right and she wanted his judgment, then he too would never escape the consequence of it. He drifted off to sleep, the newspaper on the floor beside him.

  He was jerked awake by the sound of shouting in the hallway. It was excited voices, high-pitched, over and over again, “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy!” and Henry barking.

  He stood up stiffly, papers sliding to the floor, just as Archie came through the door, Jenny on one side of him, Luke on the other, and Tom and Hannah behind him. Archie was smiling. He was still in uniform and there was something enormously impressive about the navy with the gold braid. Tom’s eyes were blazing with pride, and Jenny looked up at her father as if he were close to a god.

  But the momentary joy did not hide the fatigue in Archie’s face, and Joseph recognized it with aching familiarity. He had seen that battle-weariness countless times before, the slowness to refocus the eyes, the way the shoulders were tight as if movement was not quite coordinated. Arc
hie’s skin was wind-chapped and there was a razor cut on his left cheek. His dark hair had a touch of early gray at the temples.

  “Joseph!” He held out his hand. “How are you?” His glance took in the heavily bandaged arm and the awkwardness of stance as he stood up. He understood injury.

  “Good to see you, Archie,” Joseph replied, gripping his hand firmly. He met his eyes only for a moment, giving away nothing.

  Tom carried his father’s case upstairs. Luke stood around, longing to ask questions and not sure how to begin. Archie sat down and Jenny slipped onto his lap and leaned against him. Hannah went to get hot tea and cakes.

  “How long do you have?” Joseph asked, hoping it was at least a week.

  Archie shrugged very slightly. “Three or four days,” he replied. “We’ve lost a few men. Had one or two nasty scraps. Gun turret caught fire.” He did not add that there were no survivors. Joseph knew enough about such things not to need explanation and he did not want the children to hear. There was so much that was better unsaid. Nor would Archie ask Joseph about whatever shell-fire or explosion had caused his injuries. One did not relive it; there was no point, no explanation, nothing eased.

  Tom came back into the room silently.

  “I hear the Duke of Westminster’s unit has reached Bir Hakeim and rescued the crews of the Tara and the Moorina,” Joseph observed, struggling to think of something hopeful.

  Archie smiled. “That’s good. All I heard in London was the political news, and word about Verdun. We’re taking bets as to whether Lloyd George will be prime minister by autumn.” He stood up restlessly, sliding Jenny onto her feet, and began walking around the room, looking at the familiar ornaments, pictures, the way the afternoon light fell slanting through the windows onto the worn patches in the carpet.

  Joseph knew what he was doing. He had done it also, making sure in the deeper parts of his mind that he was really home, that it all remained the same, whatever happened to the world away from here. Later, alone, he would probably touch those things, steeping his senses in their feel and their smell, to carry with him when he had to leave.