A Pale Horse - Charles Todd [48]
Rutledge watched this leg end in a victory for the bald man with a birthmark on his face. The man went to the bar to claim his wager, another glass of his choice. A shorter man, broad in the shoulders, called out to Rutledge, as he pulled the darts out of the board. “This is a worthless lot. Will you have a turn?”
It was a dare, not an invitation.
Rutledge got to his feet, shrugging off the long drive, and answered, “I’ll give it a try.”
They eyed him with interest as he took the three darts and lightly hefted them in his hand. Judging his skill. Or lack thereof.
Hamish was saying, “I won best of three in the canteen.”
Suddenly, without warning, Rutledge could feel himself slipping back, reliving a night in France.
He had been invited to the canteen by his men. It had been his birthday, and he never knew how they’d found that out. Darts was a working-class pastime, but he’d held his own with a good elbow and a better eye. He’d been grateful not to disgrace his men in front of the other onlookers.
Hamish had stood them all down, the quiet young Scot already respected by his men, his corporal’s stripes still new on his uniform.
It had been a brief respite from the Front, tired men pulled back for a few days of rest after a hard week of fighting, and nowhere to go in the rain and the mud and the dark save the popular canteen set up in a small stone barn—all that was left of a French farmhouse—that had been too rat infested to serve as a field hospital. Rumor was, officers turned a blind eye to the use it was put to by a trio of enterprising Welshmen, miners at home outside Cardiff but sappers now.
Someone had found a great gray and black tomcat, and it soon made short work of the earlier residents. A broom and some odds and ends of scavenged paint, and a rough bar built from whatever wood could be found or stolen, and the canteen was in business. A large oil painting of a French officer of the Napoleonic wars had materialized from somewhere, hung at one end of the barn by a length of scorched rope. It had become a habit to salute the officer on entering.
Evenings were usually rowdy, some of the strain and fatigue draining away as young soldiers old before their time had tried to forget the war.
He and his men had walked through the door and lifted the blanket behind it. Lamps had been hung from the rafters, the room was smoky from cigarettes, and the scent of moldy hay still lingered. Rusted kettles were whistling on a wood stove that gave off sufficient heat to keep the building just barely comfortable.
When Rutledge took the mug of steaming tea handed to him by one of his men, he nearly choked on the first swallow. In lieu of sugar, someone had added a liberal spoonful of brandy to it. But he said nothing, aware of anxious eyes on his face.
They had played darts after that, though the numbers on the board were badly worn and the colors had faded to a uniform brown. But the sisal still held each throw firmly where it landed.
At the end of the evening, Rutledge had returned to his quarters feeling not relaxed but burdened by guilt. How many of the men who had shared this wartime birthday tonight would be alive by month’s end?
Ten had died the first day back in the line. And he’d heard a year later that the Welshmen had died outside Ypres when a tunnel they’d been digging had collapsed prematurely, burying them alive. By the time help reached them, it was too late.
Rutledge brought himself back to the present as a lorry driver, a man his mates called Jimmy, said, “Loser buys drinks all round.”
There was general agreement to the terms, since the general opinion was that the man from London would pay the accounting.
Rutledge found the rough line drawn on the floor, put the outside of his right foot against it and considered the target. This one was worn too, but from long use, not from rain and mud and countless journeys across northern France in haversacks.
He forced his mind to concentrate on what he must do.
Hamish warned, “They’ll want to see your