Todd, Charles (2 page)

He turned to say something to the private nearest him when the engine brakes caught with a screech of metal that deafened him. The train lurched and fought against the brakes, and for an instant he thought the engine or the cars would jump the tracks. Then they came to an abrupt stop that nearly threw him across the carriage floor.

The Boers had blocked the bloody right of way.

He could hear Sergeant Bellman yelling orders somewhere ahead and the thud of his boots as he ran back through the train, encouraging his men to hold their fire until he gave the order.

Evering, scrambling to his feet, called to the men in the next carriages to keep a sharp lookout, and then, before the words were out of his mouth, the Orangemen were on them, dead shots all of them, and fearless.

It was a short fight. The British soldiers were outnumbered and outgunned.

Private Quarles, cringing behind a large crate, swore, a steady stream of profanity that was in effect a prayer. His rifle, on the floor beside him, hadn't been fired.

What ran through his mind at that instant was purely self-centered. He'd taken the Queen's shilling to get himself out of the mines his father and his brothers had worked as long as he could remember. The army was better than breathing in the black dust until he coughed his lungs out, better than hearing the timbers over his head creak and snap as they gave way, better than living without his legs because the coal face collapsed on them before he could get clear.

And now he was going to die anyway. Those bloody men out there would kill them all, and leave their bodies in the harsh southern sun to rot or be picked apart by those bloody great vultures he'd seen digging into carcasses—

Someone was screaming just behind him, jabbing at his back with the butt of a rifle, and Quarles wheeled, ready to lash out from sheer self-preservation. Boer or British soldier, he didn't care, nothing was going to make him come out and fight.

But it was only Penrith, trying to squeeze his thin body into the space that could hardly conceal one man, much less two. Quarles swung at him, forcing him back, and in that few seconds silence fell across the veldt.

They stayed where they were, two privates so frightened that the sweat soaked their uniforms and ran down their pale faces like rainwater.

Quarles could hear horses now, riding fast. He thought for an instant that they were coming to search the train and shoot the survivors. Someone was groaning in the carriage up ahead, and he could see the sergeant crumpled by a window, his breath bubbling in his throat.
If only the damned fools would be quiet, the commando might believe they'd already finished the killing.

The lieutenant was lying in a pool of blood, and after a few seconds, Quarles reached out, dipped his hand in it, and wiped it across his face and through his hair. Another handful went down the front of his tunic. He could pretend to be dead, if he could stop shaking. But it wasn't him shaking, it was Penrith behind him.

"They've gone. Is it a trap to lure us out? For God's sake, what are we to do?" he was whispering frantically.

Quarles ignored the man, trying to hear.

Nearly a quarter of an hour passed, and nothing happened. Flies were already buzzing loudly in the stillness. Whoever had been groaning up ahead had stopped. But now someone was calling for water. It was a London voice, Cockney.

Quarles shoved the shivering man beside him out of his way and, keeping his head down, crawled to the nearest window, unable to stand the uncertainty.

There was nothing as far as the horizon. Neither man nor animal. The Boers had vanished as swiftly as they'd appeared. Evering had put up a good fight, but the commando sharpshooters were used to hitting their mark.

He crawled into the next carriage, to be sure, shoving the sergeant aside. The man was dead, his body unwieldy. Quarles carefully lifted his eyes to another window. Nothing to be seen on that side, either.

The Boers had gone.

He stood up, his legs shaky from crouching so long, and wiped his forehead with his hand. He was close to laughing at the sight he must make, bloody enough to be a hero.

It was his first fight, and by God, if he had anything to say to it, it would be his last. Looking around, he grimaced at the amount of blood covering the carriage floors. He hadn't realized that a man had so much in him. Or that it could sicken the stomach with its stench.

Penrith, peering out from behind the crate in the last carriage, pleaded, "Is it over?
Say something"
His frantic appeal carried in the silence.

Quarles ignored him. He went through the rest of the carriages, to see how many of Evering's men had survived. Then he came back to the last one, where Evering lay badly wounded. The man's eyes blazed up at him, and his voice, only a husky whisper, demanded,
"Where were you
?"

As if one more man might have mattered. As if another rifle could have held them off.

Quarles dragged the lieutenant out of the sun and propped him against a box of shells.

It was only then that he saw what the lieutenant was lying on—two leather bags, one of them torn open, with the edges of pound notes just visible in the white African light spilling through the window.

He knelt over the bags and reached in, unable to believe his eyes. There was more money in them than he'd seen in his lifetime, more money than God himself had. He wasn't sure where it was being taken, or why. It was
there,
and he couldn't stop looking at it.

Evering was saying something, but Quarles didn't listen. His mind was enthralled by the sight, and he knew he wanted that money more than he'd ever wanted anything. Ever.

Penrith came stumbling toward him. He said, "Most of them must be dead—"

"I counted four wounded," Quarles answered, quickly shoving pound notes under the edge of Evering's tunic, out of sight. "Not including
him
." He jerked his head at the lieutenant.

But Penrith had seen the money. "Good God!"

Falling on his knees, he reached out to touch the bag just as Quarles snatched it away. Evering, behind them, said quite clearly, "Put it back!"

But Quarles had no intention of obeying. He picked up the two bags. "Four wounded," he repeated. "Five counting him." He got to his feet and reached for his rifle, starting toward the engine. "Wait here."

"I'm coming."

"Stay with him, I say!"

Quarles went forward to find three men bleeding profusely but still alive. The fourth was already unconscious, his face gray.

"Water?" one of the men begged, reaching out, his hand shaking like a palsy.

Quarles shot him, and before the others could move, he shot them as well. Then he moved on to the locomotive. Both the engineer and the fireman were dead. Looking out, he could see the Boers had pulled out the tracks and piled the ties in plain view, to force the engineer to stop. There would be no going forward now. And no returning to the depot unless Penrith knew how to manage the damned controls. He went back to the last carriage and knelt beside Evering.

"Is there any more of this?" He held up the bags for the lieutenant to see them.

Evering shook his head.

"What's it for, then?"

Evering, fighting to stay alert, didn't answer.

Penrith, crouched in a corner, said, "I heard gunfire! They're back—"

Quarles was on the point of shooting him as well. And then he thought better of it. "I was afraid there was something out there. Never mind, it was nothing. Nerves. Penrith—can you run the locomotive? The way ahead is blocked, we have to go back."

"Me? No. What are we to do, then? We've got to get the wounded to cover, and one of us ought to go for help." Even as he said the words, he read the decision in Quarles's face, and began shaking his head. "Why does it have to be me?"

Quarles was in no frame of mind to argue. "I'll see to the men. Go on, then, walk as far as you can before dark, then find somewhere to dig in. I'll stay here until you come back."

"I don't want to go. And what about this money? What are you going to do with it?"

"I'll see to that as well. Mind you don't mention it to anyone! Otherwise they'll take it from us."

"I'm not leaving it behind. I don't trust you."

"You've done nothing to earn it, my lad. Not yet. Go for help. Leave me to clear away here. And when you find that help, mind you act dazed, confused. Just tell them the Boers attacked, and the lieutenant here sent you for help. The less you say to them, the better."

Without warning, he set aside his rifle and swung his fist as hard as he could, catching Penrith on the cheekbone, and then hit him again. Blood ran from a torn lip, dripping onto his uniform.

Penrith, angrier than he could ever remember being, lunged at Quarles, but the man had already retrieved his rifle and kept him at bay.

"Don't be a fool, Penrith! If you arrive after a fight with the Boer looking fresh as a bleeding daisy, they'll be suspicious."

Something in his face made Penrith look sharply at him. "I counted four shots. You killed them, didn't you? The wounded."

"Yes, and I'll kill you too, if you don't listen. You want a share of that money? How are we going to do that, hmmm? Tell the Army we've taken a fancy to it? Tell them no one else is alive, so we thought we'd help ourselves? They'll hunt us like animals. First we must deal with this lot. Go back to the camp. And think about it as you walk. If we're smart, we'll let the Army blame the Boers for the money going missing. We know nothing about it, eh? It was the lieutenant's little secret, and we never laid eyes on it."

"But he's alive—"

"Look at him. Do you think he'll last the day? I'm no doctor, I can't save him. He's the only one can talk, if we keep our heads. What's it to be, then? Do your part or die with the others. It's all the same to me."

Penrith, staring at the rifle in the other man's hands, said with as much bravado as he could muster, "I'll go. But play any tricks on me, and I'll see you hang."

He backed out of the carriage, his gaze on Quarles, and nearly stumbled over a railroad tie as he stepped down. Then he stopped. Fool that he was, he'd left his own rifle in the train.

As if he'd read Penrith's mind, Quarles reached down, picked up a rifle, and tossed it to him. "Take the sergeant's. You won't get far without it."

Penrith caught it, retreating, watching those cold eyes watching him and expecting to be shot in the back when he turned. When he was safely out of range, Quarles was still standing there in the carriage door, his face a mask of blood and determination. Penrith turned on his heel and began to walk the tracks back to the depot. He didn't trust Quarles. On the other hand, he told himself, the man was right. If he didn't share the money, Penrith could turn him in. And he thought, on the whole, the Army was more likely to believe him, a curate's son, than Quarles, a less than exemplary soldier. Time would tell what would come of this day's work.

He could still see those pound notes, thick wads of them.

It was all he could think of as he walked steadily toward the depot.

On the train, Quarles waited until Penrith was out of sight and no threat to him. Then he did three things. He went through the carriages again to be certain there were no more wounded, he scanned the veldt for miles to be certain the Boers had gone away, and then he searched every inch of the last carriage for other bags of money. As he did, he could feel Evering's eyes on him, baleful and full of pain.

There was no more. He'd found it all.

Quarles took the two bags, ignoring the weak protests of the severely wounded man, and stacked the notes to one side. He remembered an oiled cloth he'd seen near the dead fireman and trotted forward to fetch it. It was thick with coal dust and torn, but it was still large enough for his purpose. Wrapping the money carefully in the cloth, he took it outside and searched for a place to dig. He found that some thirty yards from the tracks, and with his bare hands he worked furiously at creating a hole deep enough to conceal the bundle.

It took him over an hour. But when he was finished, there was nothing to show that he'd been there. A small branch, swept across where he'd worked, erased any signs of digging. He stepped back, considering his handiwork. The question was, how to mark the spot? Looking around, he saw a flat rock, shaped like a turtle. It was heavy, but he carried it across to where the money was hidden and set it on top. It was the best he could do.

When he got back to the carriage, he was surprised to find Evering still alive. The man was holding on tenaciously, determination in the set of his jaw. His eyes watched Quarles, bright against the flushed skin of his face, as if recording everything he saw for the court-martial to come.

Quarles ignored him, going about his next task with cold efficiency. He placed the empty money bags at Evering's feet, and then went searching for lanterns.

After pouring all their oil over the last carriage, he took the lanterns back to where he'd found them. Evering was still watching him, but with alarm in his eyes now.

"What are you doing, man?" he managed to say with sufficient force to be heard.