Cate Campbell (5 page)

Ramona gave a theatrical sigh. “What’s appalling, Margot, is a married woman working when she doesn’t have to, and a man going without a job because she’s taken it!”

Margot tapped her coffee spoon in an irritated rhythm against her saucer. “Who are you to judge a married woman’s need to work, Ramona?”

Preston laughed. Dick said, “Now, now, you two.” Margot threw him an icy glance, and Ramona glared at her husband as if daring him to say anything further.

When Margot rose from her chair, Frank Parrish stood up. “Please don’t get up, Major,” she said. “I have to see a patient at the hospital.”

“Oh, Margot,” her mother said. “Can’t it wait until morning?”

“No. Major Parrish, I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“I’ll call Blake,” her father said.

“No, don’t,” Margot said as she pushed in her chair. “Blake’s day has been long enough. I’ll take the streetcar.”

“That’s what Blake is for, Margot.”

Margot shook her head. “I’m not having an elderly Negro on his feet twenty hours a day just because you think I can’t take care of myself.”

Frank Parrish cleared his throat. “Uh, sir,” he began. “I can—I mean, I would be happy to escort Dr. Benedict.”

Margot said, “No, please. You stay and enjoy the company. I’m perfectly fine.”

Her father said, “That’s an excellent idea, Major.”

Margot said firmly, “It’s chivalrous, but unnecessary.” She started out of the dining room, saying, “Have a nice evening, everyone.” She hurried away before anyone could offer a new argument.

She still had to persuade Blake before she could escape unhindered. When this was accomplished, she retrieved her medical bag, put on her hat, and buttoned herself into her coat as she strode down the street. She glanced over her shoulder once or twice to be certain her father had not won out in the end, and sent Blake after her.

She swung up into the streetcar and settled near the front. As it clicked along Broadway she contemplated Major Frank Parrish. She wished she could get the shirt off him and have a look at his arm. There had to be a reason he hadn’t been fitted with a prosthetic. It looked as if he had lost the elbow, but there were contraptions for that. She had seen a few in her residency, and they were being improved all the time.

He had seemed a nice enough sort at dinner, someone she might like to know better. But he was Preston’s friend, and that wasn’t a good recommendation. There must be some hidden darkness behind those vivid eyes.

 

After the doctor left, the war talk Frank had expected commenced. With his arm soothed by whisky and wine, Frank stretched his legs out to the fire and relaxed a bit in one of the upholstered armchairs. Dickson Benedict poured snifters of brandy for each of the men. Preston began an embellished account of the skirmish that cost Frank his arm but won him his medal, while Frank, embarrassed, stared into the flames. Preston’s tale had little to do with what had actually happened.

He didn’t say so. Dick and his father were enjoying the story, as far as he could tell. Frank took a sip of brandy and rolled it in his mouth, savoring its sharp sweetness.

Of course, he hadn’t been the hero Preston was describing. He had been a man in the wrong place at the wrong time. He had obeyed his orders, and done his duty, but he felt no pride. What he felt was disgust. Humiliation.

Preston was saying, “So Cowboy threw himself in front of one of the colonel’s troops, and took the round in his left hand.”

It hadn’t been like that.

There had been a little knot of Turks hunkered down in a fold of the hills, trying to halt the British march on Jerusalem. They wore the traditional scarves called
kafya,
and their kerchiefed heads popped up from time to time as they took potshots at the advancing army. The main battle was already accomplished. The colonel Preston spoke of was mounted, and so was Frank. He didn’t like the English saddle, with its bars and stitching in all the wrong places, but the horse had been a fine big gelding with an Arab cut to his head and his ears. He had an Arab’s temperament, too, tolerating the
thwump-thwump
of the guns all right, but dancing with impatience at any delay, as when one of the mobile field guns, the small wheeled cannon that were so effective in driving the enemy out of their bunkers, blocked the way.

One of the iron wheels of the gun carriage jammed into a crevice none of the soldiers towing it had seen. They had been moving fast, and momentum drove the mounting into the ground with a great thud. Two of the infantry lost their balance and fell to the ground, with a third struggling to keep the barrel from going over. He couldn’t do it. It overbalanced, freezing the cradle trunnion, sticking the mouth of the cannon straight into the rocky ground. The soldiers sprang up, but though they struggled valiantly, neither their efforts nor the cursing of the colonel did any good.

They should have left it. They should have finished their climb up the hill, routed out the nest of Turks, then sent a detail back to recover the gun when it was all over. But Colonel Beardsley had another vision, all of his forces driving smoothly up the hill, pouring over the height so that Allenby’s right flank marched, unimpeded and triumphant, into the old city. Beardsley, like Frank’s gelding, had no patience. He had his eye on a promotion, and on that curious ceremony in which King George would whack his shoulder with a ceremonial sword so that Mrs. Beardsley could be called Lady. None of that made any sense to Frank. But Beardsley ordered him to see what was wrong with the mobile cannon, to help the soldiers get it free, drag it forward into position, and put an end to the intermittent fire from the bunker.

Other officers called orders and queries, fired rifles, ducked when the Turks jumped out of cover to shoot at the approaching force. Dust swirled up from the ground in yellow clouds. Only the men on horseback could see both their troops and the target.

Frank reined his horse to the right, to circle the gun carriage and assess the position of the wheels. It was bad. The weight of the cannon had driven the whole engine into the hillside, one wheel spinning slowly in the air, the other wedged into a crevice of granite. Frank scowled at it as the soldiers gazed helplessly at him.

“Don’t see how you managed that,” he shouted over the noise of the battle.

One of the Brits, a stocky fellow with sandy whiskers and a snub nose, tugged at the cannon’s cradle without effect. Another, a skinny boy who looked to Frank like he should still be in short pants, pushed back his cap and squinted up through the dust. “It was too steep, sir,” he shouted back. His eyes were a painfully bright blue against the red rims of his eyes, inflamed by the dust. “We was at the back of ’er, and we couldn’t see ’er nose for the dust. Gave ’er a shove, and over she goes!”

“Have to dig it out,” Frank told him.

“We know,” the boy called back. “But the rocks—”

“Need a lever!” Frank’s nervy gelding threw his head, and danced through the dust, nearly stepping on the soldier.

“Yes, sir,” the boy began. “But—”

Impatiently, Frank pulled the horse’s head to his knee to stop his curvetting. The gelding spun in a tight circle, and stood still, blowing, shivering with tension. The colonel shouted something, and Frank signaled with his hand that he heard him. He secured the gelding’s rein in his right hand, and threw his right leg over the cantle to dismount.

His memories of the moments that followed remained painfully clear, despite the nearly two years that had passed. The seconds that changed his life stretched and slowed, illuminating each speck of the whorls of yellow dust, every freckle on the face of the lad from the Cotswolds. The boy straightened, stepping up out of the crevice where the cannon was lodged. Frank saw his head emerge from the dust, his cap pushed back, his pale face lifted, mouth open to explain to the major why he couldn’t get a lever under the mouth of the gun. It seemed, in Frank’s crystal memory, that he could also see the bullets spinning toward the hapless boy, just as he put his own left foot on the ground.

There were two shooters, triangulating the infantryman in their sights. Their shots lifted him, turned him. One ruined his face. Another pierced his throat just below his beardless jaw.

Frank heard his own hoarse cry, knew his mistake even as he made it. Though it was too late for the boy, Frank lurched forward, left hand out to catch him as he fell, bloody and broken, back into the dust cloud.

But the Turks weren’t finished. The gelding reared and backed away, throwing Frank off balance as he found himself stretched between his hold on the reins and the lad collapsing against him. Three shots sounded a dull staccato through the tumult. One missed. Another, with a sickening sound of breaking bone, took the gelding down, shot straight through his pretty forehead.

The third caught Frank’s left arm, shattering the radioulnar joint, ripping the radial artery. Blood spurted in a scarlet fountain, mixing with the blood of the dead boy and the dust of the field, its flow turning sluggish and ugly.

Frank Parrish had stared down at the ruin of his arm, knowing, with a cold certainty in the midst of the heat of battle, that he was going to lose it.

Both of the elder Benedicts were nodding, murmuring admiration. Frank shook his head, but Preston said, in his smooth way, “Nonsense, Cowboy. You tried to save that poor bugger. Not your fault you couldn’t do it.”

Dick Benedict said, “It’s a pity about your arm, Major.”

Frank never knew what to say about the arm.

Preston said, “That’s right, old son. We all felt terrible about what happened.”

Frank stared into his brandy snifter, wordless. Dickson Benedict came to his rescue, saying, “Come now, Preston. Tell us about Jerusalem. Did you see the sights?”

Preston began a travelogue of the wonders of Jerusalem. Frank watched him above the rim of his glass.

Preston seemed larger, somehow, than he had in the East. He was better looking, more confident. His smile, though it seemed too easy to Frank, was full of charm, and bestowed evenly on everyone, even the freckled maids who slipped in and out from time to time. His conversation was quick and clever.

When there was a pause, Edith turned to Frank, saying, “Were you there, Major Parrish? When Preston led the charge against the Turks?”

Frank put down his glass, gaining a moment to frame an answer to Preston’s mother. Her gaze was innocent, vulnerable, as she waited to hear grand things of her son. Preston’s eyebrows lifted slightly as if to encourage Frank to say whatever was on his mind. He wouldn’t do that, of course. He knew well that his own views of war weren’t shared by everyone, not even those who had fought it.

The truth of Preston’s “charge against the Turks” was that it had been a rout. Two dozen mounted officers had crushed a little knot of foot soldiers beneath their horses’ hooves, and slashed them with their bayonets. Frank had heard Preston say afterward that the whole encounter gave him a chance to use his bayonet for something other than toasting bread. In truth, the enemy had already been decimated by a grenade tossed by a foot soldier. The officers had cut down the remaining handful of Turks. Frank’s principal memory of the event was the acrid smell of smoke peppered with the coppery tang of blood. He had held his gelding back, disgusted by the carnage.

But he had to answer Edith’s question. He leaned back against the brocade of his chair, and answered cautiously, “I was. Good horseman, Benedict. Tricky mare they gave him.”

Preston laughed. “Wasn’t she, though, Cowboy? Too much thoroughbred in her, I always thought. Still, too bad she didn’t make it.”

Frank stared into the candle flames. The memory of the mare, screaming when a machine-gun round shattered her slender foreleg, was one he wished he could wipe from his mind.

Dickson Benedict said, “Explain something for me. I thought the machine guns made the cavalry obsolete over there.”

Dick put in, “Trench warfare is the new thing, right?”

Preston nodded to Frank. “What do you think, Cowboy? You’re the real horseman. Is the cavalry old-fashioned now?”

Frank said, “Afraid so.” They watched him, waiting for him to expand on the subject. He shifted a little in his chair, wondering if he could politely get away soon. “Horses are no defense against artillery. And they’re expensive to transport. Feed, water.”

Preston nodded. “Cowboy’s right, though the Brits don’t want to believe it. They find the cavalry romantic, you know.”

“It is.” Ramona set her coffee cup aside, and leaned forward, her eyes brightening. “There were pictures in the
Times
. Soldiers on horseback, officers with their medals and swords, the horses prancing. They look so—so proud. Don’t you agree, Major Parrish?”

It was a question Frank couldn’t answer. His jaw twitched with tension, and he took another sip of brandy to cover it. He had spent months trying to forget. These curious questions, asked with such naïveté, made it all new again. Twinges ran through his arm, despite the alcohol the Benedicts had lavished on him.

Dickson, again, seemed to understand. He harrumphed, and pushed the brandy decanter forward. “Nasty subject, isn’t it, Major? I don’t blame you for not wanting to talk about it.”

Dick said, “But, Father, the Great War! The war to end all wars. It’s a wonderful thing.”

Preston smiled at Frank. “Come on, Cowboy. We won, after all!”

Frank met his clear-eyed gaze, and gave a slight, one-shouldered shrug.

“More coffee, Major?” Edith Benedict asked. It was, after all, just dinner conversation.

“No, thank you, ma’am. Think I’d better—that is, in the morning, I need to—”

Dickson stood up. “Yes, of course, Major. I almost forgot.” He walked to a cherrywood writing desk against one wall, lifted its slanted lid, and rummaged through cubbyholes until he found a slim leather-bound book. He came back to his chair, settling his weight into it with a grunt, and began to riffle the pages of the book. “Let’s see, let’s see,” he muttered. “I have it here somewhere.”