Angels in the Gloom_ A Novel - Anne Perry [53]
She was walking slowly, squelching in the mud. “Perhaps you were right about war and peace, and it’s all pointless.”
He pulled her forward and she increased speed without complaining. He could have wept to see the change in her. Only now did he realize it was far more than beauty, it was the inner light of a uniquely precious belief, one person’s heart and vision, which he would miss irrevocably should it be destroyed by the terrible experience of war. That she was wrong that the war was pointless, that she was Joseph Reavley’s sister, did not matter; only that she was alive, and she was in pain.
“I never said it was pointless! I said it was . . .” He could not remember. Anyway, it did not matter. All that mattered was catching some passion in her, any passion at all—anger, hope, love, hate. He would have said anything to free her from the grip of despair. “I said we shouldn’t start a world war over one boundary dispute.”
She looked at him with a slight puckering of her brow. “No, you didn’t. And it wasn’t one boundary dispute. Wars never are.”
He felt a flame of exultation. She was going to argue! “Yes, it was! The kaiser crossed through Belgium. If he’d gone straight across the French frontier we would probably have stayed at home!”
“No, we wouldn’t!” She turned away sharply. “If it hadn’t been Belgium it would have been something else. I don’t know much history, but even I know enough for that. It’s bloody, it’s consuming half Europe, and it’s beginning to stain the rest of the world. Perhaps it’s even senseless now. But it wasn’t ever just a squabble about boundaries, and you can’t be stupid enough to think it was.”
Was he losing her again? He looked at the weary slope of her shoulders. She was trudging along, too exhausted in body to do more than barely pick up her feet. But it was her heart he needed to reach, her will. She needed to believe there would be something left to win, no matter how hard it was or how long it took. He was not sure that he believed it himself.
“Perhaps I’m too close to it,” he said, although it was a pointless observation.
“Where’ve you been?” she asked.
It was broad daylight now and the rain had eased off. There would soon be other traffic, even though this was not a main road and it was too badly cratered for convoy use.
“Verdun,” he answered.
She turned to look at him. “Was it bad?”
“Yes.”
“Poor devils.”
He needed to think of something else to say, but for a moment memory of Verdun drove out everything else. He did not realize that she was still looking at him.
“Don’t tell people they’re losing,” she said firmly. “It might be true for the moment, but it would be a betrayal. They need our faith.”
He stared at her incredulously.
She gave a tiny, twisted smile. “You have to have faith, even to die well,” she explained.
It was there! The old fire, just a tiny light, but the grace and the courage he loved. He seized hold of her, ignoring her bandaged arm, and hugged her, half lifting her off her feet and swinging her around. She was wet and cold, and her skin smelled of antiseptic and engine oil, but the warmth inside him was enough to make all of it sweet to him.
He put her down on the rutted road again and went forward, increasing his speed, willing to drag her if necessary. They had to reach an outpost, one of the field dressing stations, a command dugout, anyplace where she could get warm and dry and eat something.
Two hours later she was asleep and Mason had eaten the usual frontline breakfast of stale bread, beef stew, and strong tea. Then a corporal brought up the mail, and ten minutes after that the major in command of the station handed Mason a sealed letter.
He tore it open and began reading. The handwriting was clear and strong, the wording casual, as any man might use to a friend. However, the message within was anything but ordinary. It was from the man he knew as the Peacemaker and, masked by pleasantries, contained the information that he had heard about the social unrest in Russia—the vast possibilities of relieving the