A Test of Wills - Charles Todd [63]
The shelling had started down the line when Rutledge summoned six men to form the firing party. It rocked the earth, shook men to their souls, pounding through the brain with a storm of sound until there was no thought left. He’d had to shout, had to drag them, reluctant, unwilling, through the falling snow, had to position them, and will them to do his bidding. And then he’d gone to fetch Hamish.
One last time, he’d said, “It isn’t too late, man!”
And Hamish had smiled. “Is it my death you’re fearing, then? I don’t see why; they’ll all die before this day’s out! What’s one more bloody corpse on your soul? Or do you worry I’ll haunt you? Is it that?”
“Damn you! Do your duty—rejoin your men. The Sergeant’s dead, they’ll need you, the push will come in less than an hour!”
“But without me. I’d rather die now than go out there ever again!” He shivered, shrugging deeper into his greatcoat.
It was the darkness that blinded them, and the snow. But dawn would come soon enough, and Rutledge had no choice, the example had to be made. One way or another. He took Hamish’s arm and led him up the slick, creaking steps and to the narrow, level place where men gathered before an assault.
“Do you want a blindfold?” He had had to bring his mouth to Hamish’s ear to be heard. He was shaking with cold, they both were.
“No. And for the love of God, untie me!”
Rutledge hesitated, then did as he asked.
There was a rumble of voices, strangely audible below the deafness of the shelling. Watchers he couldn’t see, somewhere behind the firing party. The six men didn’t look around, standing close together for comfort. Rutledge fumbled in his pocket and found an envelope to mark the center of Hamish’s breast, moving by rote, not thinking at all. He pinned it to the man’s coat, looked into those steady eyes a last time, then stepped away.
He could hear Hamish praying, breathless words, and then a girl’s name. Rutledge raised his hand, dropped it sharply. There was an instant in which he thought the men wouldn’t obey him, relief leaping fiercely through him, and then the guns blazed, too bright in the darkness and the snow. He turned, looked for Hamish. For a moment he could see nothing. And then he found the dark, huddled body. He was on the ground.
Rutledge reached him in two swift strides, barely aware of the shifting of the noises around him. The firing party had melted away quickly, awkward and ashamed. Kneeling, he could see that in spite of the white square on the man’s breast, the shots had not entirely found their mark. Hamish was bleeding heavily, and still alive. Blood leaked from his mouth as he tried to speak, eyes dark pools in his white, strained face, agony written in the depths, begging.
The shelling was coming closer—no, the Germans were responding, rapidly shifting their range, some falling short. But Rutledge knelt there in the dirty snow, trying to find the words to ask forgiveness. Hamish’s hand clutched at his arm, a death grip, and the eyes begged, without mercy for either of them.
Rutledge drew his pistol, placed it at Hamish’s temple, and he could have sworn that the grimacing lips tried to smile. The fallen man never spoke, and yet inside Rutledge’s skull Hamish was screaming, “End it! For pity’s sake!”
The pistol roared, the smell of the powder and blood enveloping Rutledge. The pleading eyes widened and then went dark, still, empty. Accusing.
And the next German shell exploded in a torrent of heat and light, searing his sight before the thick, viscous, unspeakable mud rose up like a tidal wave to engulf him.
Rutledge’s last coherent thought as he was swallowed into black, smothering eternity was, “Direct hit—Oh, God, if only—a little sooner—it would have been over for both of us—”
And afterward—afterward, London had given him a bloody medal—
10
It was an hour or more later that Rutledge walked down the stairs to the dining room for his lunch. He wasn’t sure how he had reached the Inn, how he’d made it to his room, whom he might have encountered on the way. It had been the worst flash of memory he’d