Beginning, Previous Section, Section XXIV, Next Section
"Fees by the look, and both seem intent on landing at the Pasture." Katt frowned after the receding Fees, which were nearly below tree level. "Now why would Fees be coming here and refrain from landing at the tarmac."
"Ashie and Pyro have cleared out." It was Florrie who was spoke, and as he spoke the others realised that he spoke truth, for indeed the Squadron-Leader and his second had left.
"Very clever indeed." Ashie spoke somewhat acidicly as he climbed over the fence and into the pasture where to two Fees rested.
"Well that's what we thought." Mac paused in his efforts to get his Fee turned around. "You've got some ladies come to call and I really didn't think you'd want me to land them at your front door."
"I had wondered." Ashie crossed to where a somewhat sick Elizabeth was keeping a firm grip on Sarah. "Afternoon Sisters, care for a drink?"
"I don't want anything right now." Elizabeth was feeling viley sick. "How do you tolerate flying those things all the time?"
"Well I don't know how you tolerate working with blood, so let's leave it at a mutual disbelief. Sister Johns I take it?" With the latter Ashie turned to Sarah and lifted an enquiring brow.
"That's me."
"Hey! Ashie!" Mac came running up. "Look I think Hal and I had best hop back over the fence while you hold this discussion. Field's a bit boggy like and I don't like the idea of having to dig ourselves out before take off."
"Right." Ashie gave a short nod and promptly started walking to the edge of the field. "What brings you out here?"
"Lizzie." Sarah responded briefly.
"So why are my services in such urgent demand?" Ashie turned back to Elizabeth.
"Uhh." Elizabeth abruptly bit her lip in embarrassment. "I.....I actually need to know how I can get in touch with Colonel Darcy."
"Is it urgent?" Ashie shot Elizabeth a very sharp look.
"Yes."
"Now this will be a trick." Ashie abruptly bit down on his thumb and stared out into space.
"Isn't the mountain out......" Pyro began, only to be very rudely interrupted.
"Yes he is, and that's the problem."
"What's the problem?" Sarah was glancing back and forth between the two men quickly, trying to catch everything.
"The problem..." Ashie paused. "Is that Col....Brigadier Darcy is currently up and getting hold of him can be a bit of a trick....blast the man, he seems to change rank everytime I speak to him."
"Up?" Sarah frowned.
"You mean he's up on the battle front?" Elizabeth glanced straightly at Ashie and received a reluctant nod in response.
"Where?"
"I'm not actually allowed to say, though I can take you to the nearest med station." Ashie bit his thumb again. "Pyro, hump back and get Denny on the blower, see if the Major is even within spitting distance of the telephone. If he is get Denny to have him call us in ten minutes." Ashie scratched his head while Pyro headed back for the aerodrome, where Mac and Hal were finally landing.
"We could wait until he comes back." Sarah hesitated cautiously.
"Not if it's urgent." Ashie bit his thumb again. "And before you ask I will state that it's because they've only just been moved forward, unless there is trouble they won't come back for a week, and after they come back you won't be able to get them for at least a week because they're transferring to another sector at the same time as the move....and even I haven't yet worked out where they're being shifted to. I just know they are. So if you want to wait until they're off the front it will take at least a fortnight if not more before you can even see him."
"Hi Ashie!" Pyro came charging up. "Denny's got the Major on the line right now, says the Major won't call back in ten for unstated reasons and buck up."
"Coming." Ashie promptly started to run, and Elizabeth followed hot on his heels. "Hiya Major." Ashie took over the receiver from Denny, who was undisguisedly staring at Elizabeth. "No not at all, but I am assured it is urgent." No one else could hear what was said in response, but whatever it was it had obviously not been expressed politely. "What's your hurry?" There was another pause while Ashie got an earful which was audible, but not intelligible, to the others in the room. "Look, can you refrain from leaving there for the next two hours.....no but someone wants to see you......speak to her yourself." Ashie abruptly handed Elizabeth the receiver.
"Hello?" Elizabeth couldn't think of anything else to say, and it was with relief that she saw that the others had all left the room, with the exception of Ashie and he had retreated to the furthest corner.
"Elizabeth?" It was a clearly startled question.
"Yes." Elizabeth frantically tried to marshall her thoughts.
"What's up?"
"Well it seems nosey to put it this way, but you know the papers which were dropped at the cricket....?"
"Yes." A distinctly wary note had entered Darcy's voice.
"Oh dear, I'm saying this badly....look, were they any way attached to Lydia?"
"Why do you ask?" Darcy's voice had sharpened.
"Well I've got something which might help you......"
"You've what?" The astonishment was clear in Darcy's voice.
"I think I have something which might help you."
"Put Ashie on." It was a curt and direct order and numbly Elizabeth held the receiver out to Ashie, who promptly took it.
"Come on Geordie." As Ashie gave the agravated growl a sickening roar emanated from a nearby shed. "Ahh, that sounds more like it. Sister Beth, I would if I were you put on this nice heavy coat, flying helmet and goggles."
"Why?" Elizabeth took the offered objects and started to struggle into the coat.
"Because it is totally illegal for non Flying Corps personnel to use Flying Corps equipment.....hence the fact that Mac landed you in the field beyond the aerodrome." Ashie abruptly tightened the chin strap on her helmet before clapping his own helmet on and leaped astride the rusty and rickety looking machine. It was somewhat nervously that Elizabeth sat down in the even more rickety looking sidecar. There was a vicious backfire, an even more savage jerk and then they were off tearing along the road. Had the noise not prevented any thoughts of conversation, it would have taken Elizabeth only one look at the effort expended in just keeping the cycle near attached on the road to cause her to decide that she did not wish to talk.
Forty minutes later a headachey, bone-jarred, somewhat ruffled and very dusty Elizabeth descended from the rickety sidecar at the low squat building which bore the unmistakeable signs of being a Dressing Post. It was infact the remains of a church and tarpaulins were employed to weatherproof the building.
"Brigadier Darcy here?" Ashie had approached a nearby Lieutenant, wiping the thick layer of dust off as he spoke.
"I'll get him sir." The Lieutenant hurriedly vanished, soon to return with the formidable form of Brigadier Darcy behind him.
"'Lo Ashie." Darcy nodded curtly and rubbed his neck. "Sister Bennet." Elizabeth nodded back to him, and shifted her feet uncomfortably, the knowledge that she wasn't really meant to be here made her already difficult task worse.
"Well while you enjoy your silence I'm going to check out the cycle so we can at least make it to 198 without being pitched completely into the ditch......and Major, I want the story of this ascension in rank next time I see you. You change far too frequently for my liking." Ashie turned and went back to the cycle, leaving Elizabeth to continue her nervous shifting.
"You mentioned something about those pages." Darcy finally broke the silence, and the fact that he had broken it caused Elizabeth to abruptly realise that she was delaying him from his duty and that he was probably in a hurry to return to where ever.
"Yes." Elizabeth duck into her pocket and produced the locket. "Back in......I think it was around May of last year Lydia joined the VADs and went to Brighton." Elizabeth was speaking hurriedly and nervously. "At the time I was down in Kent and she stopped to see me when she went down. She had forgotten to wind up her watch or something, but she was actually in a tearing hurry to get to the station when we finally spoke. Anyway just before she left she shoved this into my hand and begged me to keep it safe." Elizabeth bit her lip. "She made some comment at the time of doing something which might seem stupid. She was never without it, even if that meant wearing two necklaces, and Kitty frequently teased her about it for it is not at all pretty and it was made worse by the engraving. I wore it for a couple of months, but the chain was far too long to be safe to have around a hospital so I sent it home and put it in a safe draw. About three months ago I remembered what Lydia said and I realised that in leaving it at home I was hardly looking after it, so I asked father to post it to me which he has finally done. At the cricket match back in december you spilled several pages onto the ground of which one bore the name Lydia and it had a bunch of garbage below it, rather like someone doodling because they were bored."
"Futernshmo, Karatina, Shellipti and Maugerinimonsator." Darcy responded with a perplexed frown.
"I don't know why I remembered them but I did, well not a conscious remembering. Anyway when this arrived today I was startled because I had forgotten I had asked papa to send it. And then I took a look at it." Elizabeth offered him the locket and somewhat cautiously Darcy took it. Darcy inspected the intricately worked chain first before he turned his attention to the locket itself, and then his brows shot skywards.
"Might help? You think it might help?" As Darcy spoke Elizabeth got the scare of her life as Darcy abruptly pulled her in and gave her a hug. "Elizabeth, you have saved me many hours and many grey hairs."
"What is it?" Elizabeth freed herself and took a squint at the locket, but it made as little sense as ever.
"Well take a look." Darcy abruptly squatted down on one heel and held the locket out so the sunlight could catch it. "If you look there are three clear rings. The outer most consists of Roman Numerals, the middle ring consists of a jumbled assortment of fifteen letters, of which none are repeated. The inner ring also consists on fifteen letters of which not one is repeated, but if you were to look at it you'll find that the ring consists of five vowels and the ten main consonants." Darcy pulled out a small notebook from a top pocket as he spoke and produced a pencil stub from another pocket and in a few seconds he had reproduced the locket magnified by several times.
"But why the numerals."
"Makes it more complex. When writing with numbers you automatically set them in groups of three, hence the grouping of the numbers helps not in the slightest to the cracking of the code. Writing in letters you tend to group them in the words as you think. What we have is a double scramble. Take the letter 'A' on the inner ring, if we were to just link it to a number we'd either link it to 1 or 24, or however we choose to scramble it, but then the key must be available because it's awkward otherwise. Now we'll take the middle ring. What does 'A' line up with?"
"The 'L'." As Elizabeth frowned at the golden ring it started to make sense. "So the key was already there, but you had to decide which vowels and consonants to attach."
"Correct. The vowels are easy for Lydia has five letters to her name of which none repeat, so we have our vowels. The problem was the ten letters for the consonants, which she has doodled with several other bits of garbage....the pattern for the consonants was also a probelm."
"Do you want to keep the locket?" Elizabeth indicated it somewhat hesitantly, and got a firmly negatived head shake in response.
"No, too risky for me to have it. You keep it." Darcy paused then handed it to her and rose stiffly to his feet, suddenly he seemed to look old and incredibly tired, and Elizabeth realised what Ashie had meant about his remark of terrifying vulnerability. "If you don't hear from me within the next fortnight I want you to wrangle leave on any context you care and get back to London. Take the locket with you and take it to Queen Anne's Gate, number forty-two, ask to speak to Lord Parker Dellingham, accept no one elses services but his, not a secretary, not a relative and most certainly not one of the servants. If Lord Parker is from town, then ask for Miss Anne Marshall. If they can't get Anne go to Kent and get hold of Alastair and say that I told you to ask him to tell you where to find Uncle Mac."
"Uncle Mac?" Elizabeth blinked in surprise.
"Uncle Mac. No more, no less, he'll know exactly who you're talking about."
"So forty-two Queen Anne's Gate, Lord Parker Dellingham, if he's out of town Miss Anne Marshall, and failing her ask Alastair for Uncle Mac, citing that you told me to ask him to tell me where to find him." Elizabeth looked enquiringly up at Darcy.
"Correct." Darcy gave a nod, and then abruptly dug into his pocket and pulled out a small box. "If you go to London I also want you to go to Pemberley and give this to Georgiana."
"What is it?" Elizabeth looked curiously at the roughly bent metal box, it wasn't half clear that the box was home-made, and made to last.
"You can look if you want." Darcy gave a shrug. "But if you go Elizabeth, try to get at least a month, I know George would like to talk to you." Elizabeth responded with a mute nod, it didn't require Darcy to go any further into the subject, she knew what he was taking precautions for and it made her feel sick. People like Darcy did not die, it was impossible.
"Interesting, without doubt I find it interesting." Chris gave a sigh and rubbed his chin, about two miles behind them a string of men were emerging from the wood.
"However you may find that even more interesting." The Count indicated the river, Chris turned his head and frowned for a minute.
"A string of barges." Chris gave a nod and then he smiled. "Indeed I do find it more interesting."
"Add to that your interest in these pieces of paper and then we will get moving."
"How lovely." Chris inspected the sheets with an almost bored manner. "Indeed, how very lovely. Yes I think I like them." As Chris spoke he was searching through his pockets and thoughtfully abstracting several pieces of card. Chris studied the cards for a moment before he finally pointed his finger at two pieces. "Those two. How long do we have?"
"I'd give us half an hour before we must be moving."
"Then I will refrain from wasting time." Chris was hastily clipping one of the sheets of card into a silver embossed slate as he spoke. Chris tapped the side of the slate with a thoughtful finger and then selected a pencil from one side and started making quick and confident strokes. "You wouldn't have a seal like that on one of your other interesting pieces of paper would you?"
"No, but I know where we can get some close enough replicas from." The Count watched without blinking as Chris's fingers flew.
"Remind me I need more Charnleys when we get back to England."
"I will attempt to do so, but I expect you will remember before I do."
"True." Chris gave a nod and twenty minutes later he stretched his legs stiffly before standing up and handing a card across to the Count, he pocketed the second card with his slate and handed the third card to the Count as well.
"Hmm." The Count studiously inspected the two cards he had been handed, then gave a sigh and pocketed both of them. "We now either have a safe card out of Germany......or we have a very quick trip to a firing squad."
"Mm." Chris took a look back over his shoulder as he moved off. "I should like to take you for a meal one day. There is a small inn in Oxford which stands beside a mill run. Beautiful place, there are trout in the mill pool..."
"Sounds pleasant." The Count gave a nod as they skirted the first of many houses and within ten minutes they had reached the waters edge.
"How fortunate for us they are coming to a halt just here.....I wonder what happened."
"Either serious illness or death, and considering that flag I'd say death." The Count moved cautiously part a crumbly bit of the bank.
"I think...." Chris paused and frowned. "Why should we take River Boat to Turkey?"
"Who knows." The Count gave a shrug. "Currently we just want out of Germany, we'll worry about where we're going after we've left Germany."
"Wouldn't it be better to think of where we're least likely to go."
"Berlin, and no." The Count abruptly reached back and caught Chris as the bank crumpled under him.
"Thanks, after Berlin?"
"Vienna."
"Then let us proceed to Vienna."
"A reason for that?" The Count paused and looked back.
"Well observe, we have been seen here, they know we were headed this direction and then we just vanish. What is the first thing you'll suspect?"
"Essen Barges.....you got it, quick." The Count slipped off his coat, trousers, shoes and socks and tied them into a tight bundle before sliding down into the icey waters. Chris silently followed suit, he had long since learnt that the more improbable the venture appeared the more probable it was to suceed. Forty minutes later two completely frozen and fairly hypothermic men emerged from the icey waters of the Rhine and crept into the forest which edged that section of the river.
"I think.." Chris was concentrating hard on not shivering. "That they will not have expected that move."
"They better not have." The Count kicked a hole through the snow and started pulling on his trousers before resuming his shoes and socks and finally pulling on his jacket. "Another change in destination."
"Where to?" Chris was struggling to pull his jacket on, but his numb fingers were not co-operating.
"You'll see." The Count blew on his fingers as he scanned around. "That way." It was after another shiver that the Count finally moved off. Chris wrenched on his last shoe, totally disregarding the shooting pain from the foot which was starting to consider circulation again, and hurried after the Count.
Chris stared silently down at the grey and desolate fortress, pristine snow blanketed the smooth stretches and lumps marked out the hedged pathways. Chris had a feeling that the snow was kind to this desolate old fortress, he had the feeling that under the neat humps of snow would be found straggling, untrimmed hedges, under the pristine stretches would be found lank grass, untrimmed and untreated. Sunk halfway into the mountainside the fortress held little snow on its face. The Count had paused briefly, staring unblinkingly at the scene before he carefully turned and walked slowly around the perimeter, before he finally cut across the snow to a small door, partially obscured by a hedge and a minor rockfall. The Count carefully removed the stones, piling them into a neat cairn on the otherside of the door before he applied his shoulder to the door. The door creaked open slowly and protestingly as Chris passed through behind the Count he silently took a glance at the door, no key hole, no lock, just two immense bolts which slotted home into solid rock. Chris took a brief glance around at the complete darkness before he fished a torch from his pocket and flashed it around, it was a bare rock passage they were standing in and it seemed to just vanish into the darkness.
"I take it there are otherways in and out of this place?" Chris asked the question as the Count carefully closed the door behind them.
"Three." The Count lifted a careful hand and felt a small ledge above the door, from which he withdrew a small lantern which was quickly lit. "Move it." Chris silently stepped back before he fell into step behind the Count.
"Where are we?"
"Poland." The answer was brief and did not encourage conversation. Chris formed a silent whistle and he started taking more careful note of his surroundings. The passage seemed nearly endless as it wound and twisted along, they passed many doors and ascended many small flights of stairs. It was some twenty minutes later when the Count finally came to a halt and started carefully inspecting the wall. Chris could see a small door a small bit ahead of them, but it had no markings at all, which said that it had to have some other way of opening. The Count abruptly reached up and twisted firmly a small lump of rock which protruded roughly from the wall. There was a faint grating noise and the door slid to one side a minute later, the Count immediately ducked through, but a hand wave stopped Chris from following. "Okay." It was a minute later when the whisper came. "Someone was kind enough to clean up."
"There's worthwhile stuff here?" Chris came somewhat doubtfully into the dust laden hall. Even looting and two years of war could not conceal the fact that this had once been an ornate picture gallery. Chris turned thoughtfully and took a look at where he had come from. The picture was a mosaic tiled into the wall, and more than a few tiles were missing, but it was the neatest getaway hole Chris had seen since he had last been at Clarrington. The Count touched a few tiles and the door snapped silently back into position.
"There will be at least some stuff, and no one would dare come near here." The Count spoke coldly as he lead the way through a few rooms and up some stairs and into a small backroom.
"Mm." Chris silently looked around the room while the Count lit a considerably larger lamp which hung from the roof.
"See if you can find something that fits, I'll go dig up some food for us." The Count left the room after that and Chris pulled a face as he inspected the first cupboard, there was no possibility of the clothes in there fitting him and Chris was quite thankful for that. But as Chris moved onto the next cupboard he stopped with a frown because the clothes had become many times larger and dramatically changed in style. Chris quickly glanced in all the other cupboards and discovered that the clothes were all of similar size and style, except for that first cupboard. Chris paused to retrieve a suit that actually fitted him before he returned his attention to the first cupboard and inspected it thoughtfully.
"Interesting." The clothes were nothing like the suits in the other cupboards. Silk shirts replaced coarse cotton shirts, fine linens and flannels were present instead of the coarser tweeds, infact it was a cupboard which reminded Chris very strongly of his own cupboard once, it was the cupboard of a wealthy young man who was cutting a dash in town.
"Do you mind?" The voice was totally devoid of expression.
"Oh, not at all." Chris closed the doors of the cupboard again with a faint shrug and looked somewhat curiously at the Count. The Count dumped the food tray which was plentifully, but plainly, supplied onto a low table and crossed to remove a suit of his own from the farthest cupboard. The Count then retreated once more. Chris watched the departure in silence and then with a thoughtful frown he stripped off his sodden rags and quickly changed into the suit he had selected.
"You'll find shoes in the third cupboard." The Count came back into the room, he had changed while he was gone, but he had also acquired a large assortment of rags, oil bottles, and bullet kits. As the Count settled down to cleaning his armoury Chris took up fossicking for a pair of shoes which would fit him among the multitude scattered in the bottom of the third cupboard, but eventually he settled for a pair of heavy hobnailed boots.
"Eat." The Count mumbled the near command around a hard biscuit he held between his teeth.
"M-hmm." Chris gave a grunt and grabbed some biscuits for himself as he retrieved pistol, slate, and various pieces of paper from his previous suit. "Are we going to want these passes?"
"I'll keep them if you'd rather not, but who knows when it comes to travelling through Turkey they may come in handy."
"We're going to Turkey?" Chris looked up somewhat disinterestedly.
"After we've been to Russia, I think a minor detour through St Petersburg would be to our advantage." The Count ground thoughtfully on the rock hard biscuit before he abruptly spat it out and retrieved one of the largest, most detailed maps of Europe Chris had ever seen. "Russia's going to have a revolution before the week is out, we're going to have to lay down some knew lines, and preferably work a few further into the government, my old friends will probably lose their heads for the most part. Turkey I think will be advantageous because we must vanish for a bit so that things can settle down in Germany and there's always useful trouble to cause down there."
"Do I just meet you down there or do we both go to St Petersburg?"
"Both to St Petersburg, there may come a day when for some reason or another you need to know how to contact the major lines." The Count was busy scribbling a small note on the map.
"You're expecting trouble?" Chris frowned.
"No, but then you never expect things to happen before they do." The Count studied the map for a moment. "I think we'll come this side of the Black Sea and cross the Carpathians when we come back, the line is nice and unstable there and we shouldn't have too much difficulty in getting through.......a pity we didn't catch those barges, we could have turned the load into useless junk without overly much difficulty."
"We could also have lost ourselves, and probably an innocent Captain, a life. Last time I was on one of those barges the Captain was a deep sea fisherman who really would have been happier in pea soup fog navigating through the reefs at full flood. He really did not like just drifting down the river."
"Who would." The Count finally pushed the map across to Chris. "Take a look and make your own decisions....and then get some sleep."
"Right." Chris pulled the map towards himself, then paused and looked up. "Who was he?"
"My son." The Count might have been discussing the weather for the amount of emotion in his voice. "He was killed during the initial invasion of Russia."
"I see." Chris returned his attention to the map, commiserations were not what you offered two years after someone's son was murdered, least of all when the someone was so obviously totally uninterested in commiserations. Chris pondered the matter thoughtfully as he studied the map in front of him, but soon it fell to a backwards consideration as Chris started meticulously working his way through the map. Names were written in a tiny, cramped hand and joined together by thin lines all over the place, and in more than one place the tiny name had been erased and replaced by another, and another, and another. The information level in the map was immense, it was years and years of meticulous work and Chris quickly realised that it was not all the Count's, someone else had been at this game before the Count, and they had been at it for decade upon decade upon decade.
"Andrea, the map belonged to Andrea before it came to me." The Count answered the unasked question. "Nickel nailed him back in about August of 1915."
"M-hmm." Chris silently stored the information away as he continued to study the map, more than one line vanished off the edge of the map and into Africa. Chris had realised that it was a large and well organised game he was coming into when Uncle Mac had sent the directive that he was now attached to the Count, but he hadn't realised that it was nearly this large, or this well organised. If the Count had this good an organisation and couldn't pin down Nickel, then how large and organised was Nickel's group?
Author's note: If there are such a group as the Carpathian Gypsies, then I appologise to them. I was searching for something which seemed unlikely for the name of a group which were produced to enable a change in the plotline.
Anne paid off the cab two blocks from her destination and proceeded on foot to the musty South London building which had once been an hotel. Anne paused in the downstairs lobby, remembering the first time she had come here.
"'Lo Miss Anne." It was a lazy drawl, turning Anne found herself facing the brownest, most disreputably attired man she had seen in many years....if she had ever seen a man in such ratted hand-me-downs.
"Hello to you." Anne greeted Chris when she finally remembered who he actually was.
"Shall we hi ourselves up the stairs or do you wish to continue your dreaming in this lobby?" Chris indictated the dusty lobby with an airy wave.
"I think we may as well head up the stairs."
"Well if it isn't Flash Harris." It was a snide, excessively Oxford voice which spoke as they reached the stairs.
"Nah then Bott, ye've got nuttin' agen me 'is time." Chris turned to face his old antagonist and it was only from long training that Anne managed to keep her expression straight. She had known that Chris was almost as good with voices as he was with paper and pen, but she had not realised that he could change that quickly, and the sight of the most noble Earl of Clarrington speaking with a heavy cockney accent was almost more than she could take.
"Don't you believe it, we'll hang you yet."
"Betcha won't!" Chris responded with a grin before resuming his journey up the stairs.
"I see you've both made it safely." The words greeted their entrance into Uncle Mac's dusty office. "Get anything Chris?"
"Another meeting with Bott and a word with some official at the Admiralty......he most obligingly gave me a look at the necessary pages so I could decide if I had any of them." Chris was already pulling out his slate as he spoke and with Uncle Mac's nod of response he retreated to a back corner by the dusty window where a fly struggled without success in a spider's web.
"What's up?" Anne took another of the many chairs which were scattered around that dusty office.
"Just a minute, there's a few others coming yet." Uncle Mac turned his attention back to some report or other which lay on his desk. The next five minutes passed in undisturbed silence and then quite abruptly a door banged nearby and four more men filed into the room and arranged themselves of dusty chair. Ten minutes later another three men seemed to just appear in the room, as if they had oozed through the floorboards. "Well that seems to be everybody." Uncle Mac finally laid his pen aside and closed up the file. The remark was met with silence, the men in the room did not bother asking questions, anything of relevance would eventually surface and at its own time. "It would appear that some close associates of ours have run into trouble. Chris if you care." Uncle Mac pushed his chair back as he spoke, clearly signing that he had withdrawn from the speaking position.
"I honestly don't know why so many people are here." Chris hauled stiffly out of his chair and stowed his slate into his side pocket. "But be that as it may you're here and I hope like hell at least one of you can help me." Chris paused and rubbed his finger in irritation. "Some of you, if not all of you have probably heard of the Count, and if you haven't heard of him you'll at least have heard of Andrea who was his former associate." There was a moment of pause, a great man from their circles had been named and the pause came out of innate respect. "Do any of you speak the dialect of the Carpathian Gypsies?" Silence blanketed the room.
"There are Gypsies in the Carpathians?" It was a blank expression which came back.
"I don't know, but I'm told there are. I'm told that it's important I find someone who can speak speak the language."
"Somehow I think that that supplies your answer." Uncle Mac chewed thoughtfully on his finger.
"The Carpathian Gypsies, I do not see how they could help you." Anne spoke thoughtfully from her corner.
"So there are some Carpathian Gypsies." Chris looked thoughtfully at Anne.
"You might say that." Anne spoke gravely.
"You know someone who speaks the dialect."
"They do....but yes, I do know someone who can." Anne responded gravely.
"The rest of you can go." Uncle Mac curtly dismissed the others. "I'll speak to you all this evening." The seven men slid from the room which left Anne alone with Uncle Mac and Chris.
"Who are the Carpathian Gypsies?" Chris had returned to his seat by the window and had pulled out his slate once more.
"The Carpathian Gypsies are a group of medical queers, to use the usual name for them, who live in the Southern Carpathian Mountains. Because of their reputation you very rarely hear of them outside of their own particular circles, but they are held to be good."
"Are they gypsies?"
"No, they're mostly exiled Poles actually, a few Austrians, two Russians and a German. They claim no country as their own and their valley is one frightful place to go to unless they've invited you."
"So why would the Count say to find someone who speaks the dialect?"
"Because someone who speaks the dialect will also have spent at least a year there, and will have a Gypsy name. The Carpathian Gypsies can travel anywhere, they move without interference and many who live in those parts believe that they practice witchcraft and black arts."
"Do they?" Chris found himself curiously fascinated by the subject.
"Depends what you call Witchcraft, yes, they burn blue-green fire, but they also live in a valley which is rich in Copper Ores." Anne gave a shrug.
"Do you trust this person?"
"I hope so, I'm in real trouble if I don't." Anne gave a faint smile and the two men abruptly jolted to their feet as they abruptly caught on.
"I can't.....there is no way I can do this, I'll just have to see how things go otherwise." Chris shook his head.
"You can't." Anne spoke quietly. "The Count can wait for months if need be, but without a member of the Gypsies you will not get him free."
"How do you know?" Chris looked at her sharply.
"The fact that you mentioned the Gypsies tells the story. You were released by the sanction of the Gypsies and you probably owe your safe return here to the gypsies, and for the time being the Count is being held by the gypsies.....he won't be free, and you can't get him free without help."
"Are you saying that we have no choice but to take you?"
"I'm afraid so my Lord."
"None of that here." Chris growled shortly.
"Then perhaps if you should stop treating me as you would once have. I am not a fragile and elegant Miss, and infact very few of us are."
"It was not your gender to which I object, my concern is for your hands."
"I did not say what you objected to, but the fact remains that it is not you whom can judge what I am capable of. I can see little harm in making a journey across Europe which I have made before."
"Then I have no objections what so ever." Chris' tone said he had objections, and lots of them.
"Are you sure this is the right place?" Captain Pepel Fordingham looked around the dank street with an expression of extreme distaste and distrust.
"Well this is where our instructions lead so we must be in the right place." Dakota looked around himself curiously, it had been many years since he had been in such dingy and dirty surroundings. "Do you mind!"
"Ah ain't doin' no 'arm guv'ner." The whining tone made Fordingham aware of a ragged man standing just behind him.
"I'm sure." Dakota rolled his eyes. "But nevertheless Fingers, I'll thank you not to pick my Captain's pocket."
"Aww Guv'ner."
"Fingers!" Dakota's tone was warning, and with a grimace Fingers Clay stepped away from his position behind Fordingham.
"A'righ' Guv'ner."
"Who's the friend Dakota?" Fordingham eyed the ragged man somewhat speculatively.
"Sir, permit me to introduce 'Fingers' Clay to you....I would check your pockets before we part company."
"Aww Guv'ner!"
"Fingers, Captain Fordingham......pick his pockets at your peril." Dakota gave the man a warning look.
"A'righ' Guv'ner, give over do. 'Ow do you know 'oo I am?"
"That, Fingers, is for me to know and you to wonder about." Dakota gave a grin. "Now oblige me, is this the neighbourhood where Flash Harris once lived?"
"Flash 'Arris? Now 'oo might that be?" Fingers looked puzzled.
"Fingers, if you expect me to actually believe you have never heard of Flash Harris I must say that you have lost your grip in your old age."
"Well mebbe Flash is just a 'magination on your side." Fingers looked up ingeniously.
"Flash is not one of my imaginings Fingers and well you know it.....you do not so abbreviate names of people you do not know."
"Aww garbage!" Fingers snapped in irritation. "Ya, Flash was 'round dese parts. We ain't seen noddins of 'im since '13."
"What happened in '13?"
"'E got clinked." Fingers responded briefly.
"Has he been released yet?" Dakota was well used to Fingers mode of communication.
"Yar."
"When?"
"May or June of '14."
"Do you know what has happened to him since?" Dakota gave another question.
"Well 'e spent a four mont' in.......up nor', den 'e cem back to Lunnon and spen' a se'en nigh' or so on da pavemen's....den he vanish." Fingers gave a shrug. "Now if ya don' min' guv'ner, I got dinner ta ge'."
"Perhaps if we give you dinner in exchange for all your information. I know Flash is here and I want to know why he's here and where he is."
"Ah dunno why 'e's 'ere, an' ah dunno where 'e's stayin'.....'e sure ain't in is usual 'ole."
"Perhaps you can find out for us." Dakota gave a look at the man.
"Ah dunno that ah can." Fingers was looking uncomfortable. "Ah tell ya guv'ner 'e ain't movin' where ah can speak to 'im."
"I see." Dakota unconsciously nibbled on his little finger as he pondered the matter. Fordingham had been watching the proceedings closely and he was now astonished to see a light of recognition glowing in Fingers' eyes.
"Well if i' ain't Quick Pip."
"Shut up Fingers." Dakota snapped sharply, his attention coming back from where ever. "Well see if you can find anything, I'll stand you dinner at the Hook and Hope just after eight."
"A'righ' Guv'ner." Fingers turned to leave, but was stopped by Dakota's voice.
"My stuff please Fingers."
"Blimey guv'ner, ya ain't arf sharp ternight." Fingers grumbled as he removed a few very familiar objects from his pockets.
"Fingers?" The question was clear.
"Guv'ner!" It was an outraged protest. "Ya teld me not ta snitch 'im.....whaddaya take me fer?"
"A very good pickpocket. Hop it!" Dakota watched as Fingers slid into the shadows.
"Quick Pip?" Fordingham's eyebrows rose.
"Not now Sir, please I would advise a quick departure."
"Whatever Dakota, you seem familiar with this place."
"Not very much, Sir." Dakota lead the way quickly through the streets.
"Care to explain." Fordingham easily kept pace with his subordinate.
"I spent a few months in these parts six or seven years ago....okay I spent the better part of a year here. A most fascinating place to stay you know.....provided you wish to be interested."
"I could well believe it." Fordingham's tone was dry as he followed Dakota into a small, but slightly less dingy inn.
"I don't think I wish for a translation of that remark." Dakota spoke briefly to the landlord of the building before he led Fordingham into a small side room.
Two hours later Fordingham was startled by the appearance of Fingers Clay in one corner of the room and he gave a cough to catch Dakota's attention.
"Eh!" Dakota jerked out of his reverie. "Hullo Fingers, you get anything?"
"Well ah fund 'im an' 'e'll be 'ere in 'bout ten minits."
"Why's he here?"
"'E wouldn't say." Fingers looked morose.
"Well dinner's on the table over there, tuck in and eat what you can."
"Thank'ee guv'ner." Fingers withdrew to the table at the end of the room and applied himself to the task of eating as much food as possible and sliding as much of the cutlery into his pockets. One never knew they might just forget to check him out.
"Pieter, goodeven." Chris abruptly dropped his accent.
"Flash." Dakota gave a nod. "Sir, permit me to introduce Flash Harris to you. I know not what name he is currently going by, but I doubt it is Flash."
"To true Pieter." Chris gave a wry smile and nodded to Fordingham. "How do you do Captain Fordingham, you seem to have been busy tracking me down."
"Have I?" Fordingham stared blankly at the man.
"Sir, don't bother, Flash knows everything and frequently even knows it before you do yourself."
"Then maybe he can tell me why I'm here." Fordingham's face tightened in irritation.
"I believe you were so directed here by the First Lord of the Admiralty....who had his directions from one Lord Parker Dellingham, Earl of Dellingham."
"Damn it all, so much for hush hush secrets. How the devil do you know that?" Fordingham gave an annoyed look at Chris.
"The same way as I know many other things." Chris gave a grin. "Where are we to meet you for transport to Europe?"
"How many are there of you?" Fordingham's expression was tense.
"Myself and one other." Chris paused. "and the sooner we are crossed the better for all."
"We have regulations concerning non-military personnel on military craft."
"Tell me something I don't know. Is not that communication from the Admiralty sufficient to persuade you or must I obtain more?"
"Which communication?" Fordingham responded warily.
"The communication which concerns the activities which I have mentioned to you namely the transportation of my person and others such as I name to Continental Europe. Infact the communication which reads: Extend to Mr Christopher Angel such as you have in your power to ensure his safe return to Continental Europe, with exception of life and safety of your crew."
"How the devil do you know that?" Fordingham glared at the man.
"Because I was with the First Lord when he wrote it."
"Which makes me doubt the order all the more...."
"Fingers!" Dakota's warning tone stopped them all and drew attention to the fact that Fingers was in the process of departing.
"Wassup guv'ner?"
"I think Tweedle will be obliged if you will remove his cutlery and other items from your pockets."
"Guv'ner!" It was a protest.
"Fingers just give it up....and while I think of it my slate, coin purse and other items which you have abstracted from my pockets."
"But Flash, I ain't bin near ya."
"That's why I'm asking for them back. Now hand them over."
"A'righ' Flash, no need to get antsy." Fingers grumbled as he pulled the array of cutlery from his pockets, along with Chris' slate, coin purse, note case and assortment of odds and ends which sent Fordingham's eyebrows upwards.
"Fingers I am not in the mood for your humour. My stuff and anything else you have filched from this room."
"G'arn it Flash." Fingers removed a few more items from odd corners of his attire before with another mumbled growl he headed for the door.
"Fingers." Chris' voice stopped Fingers at the door. "Repayment." The comment came with a crooked grin and a gold coin went flashing through the air. Fingers caught it easily and having subjected it to a sharp look he shoved it into some hideaway.
"Well ah'll trust it, ya never went in fer da clinkers 'afore."
"Gracious of you. Hop it." Chris turned away from the door. "Now where were we?"
"I think Sir was on the point of accusing you of having forged a telegram from the Admiralty."
"That's a good idea, never thought of it before." Chris nodded thoughtfully. "But frankly sir, you were given a street address where to find me, you were not sent to scour London for me. Had I had my way you would never even have heard of me until I turned up at your temporary port down near Penzance complete with introductory letter and your orders."
"Well perhaps if we now try your way....." Fordingham resolutely bit back of the sarcastic remark he wanted to make, he was not happy at all about this situation, and he liked it even less that the man they were to take on board seemed to think nothing of carrying two knives and a revolver on his person. What his companion might carry Fordingham was in no hurry to find out...if they ever met the man.
It rolled impressively around the room. There was absolutely no doubt, if there ever had been any doubt, that President Wilson was as good at speeches as he was at writing letters. As Knightley listened to the speech he abstractly banged his pen against the fingers of his opposing hand, occasionally he scribbled notes, but his eyes were fixed neither on the President, nor on the page in front of him. It was a grand and ornate room where they sat and its appearance jarred with what was going on around them. "What price America?" Emma's questioned echoed through Knightley's head as he sat there. Indeed, what price America?
As Knightley sat there he remembered the twenty-four odd hours when he had feared that both John and Isabella were dead, could he possibly even consider forcing others to go through with it? But then would not war do the same?
What is the difference? Knightley scribbled the thought on his pad and then stared at the ornately carved chair infront of him. Indeed, what was the difference? Those ships carried arms and they were instructed to use them if the necessity arose, did that not automatically mean they were no longer non-combatants? Did one considered the passengers on an armed ship combatants? If one did not, then were not the 'passengers' on naval ships who did not handle the guns also non-combatants? Which immediately introduce the question of what a combatant was. Knightley stared at the page in front of him.
An answer. Knightley ticked the page infront of him. Whatever happened either the trans-Atlantic ships were going to be disarmed again or the United States would declare war......and the probability that Wilson would let the ships go undefended wasn't even worth the effort to consider, the President had more respect than that for human life.
War it would be, of that there was absolutely no doubt......not that there had been any doubt since the peace mediation failed. Knightley drew a smiley face on the edge of his page, he then drew a small gun and scribbled out the face, scribbling underneath Whose son was that? Which was a good question. Whose son would be the first to die after the United States declared war. Whose son had been the first to die as a result of German actions when the United States had chosen neutrality? Knightley restlessly tapped his pen against his fingers again, and then he resumed his scribbles, quickly enlarging the scene. The gun now had a man lying behind it, he was protected by a hump of dirt. But which side was the gunner on? Knightley drew a large question mark next to the figure. Must these men, who were only following orders, pay the price for the men who ordered them?
Taxation! Knightley drew a dollar sign in the corner of the page. Knightley studied the dollar sign for a moment and then drew in another, slightly smaller, dollar sign, and then filled in the remainder of the space in that corner with tiny little dollar signs which looked much more like squiggles. As Knightley studied his artwork he remembered Emma's comment. Indeed it had been truth for there was no question that Mr Woodhouse would bemoan the household accounts, and Emma most certainly would bear the brunt of them. Knightley pondered briefly whether there had been a time when people did not bewail the taxes they had to pay, be it the modern day or Ancient Rome, everyone seemed to bewail the amount of tax they had to pay. Who had it been? Cicero? Had he been the one to mention taxes? Probably, Cicero mentioned everything Knightley had ever heard of in politics and a fair pile of stuff he would never even have considered.
Knightley drew another smiley face in the corner of the page, he was not so sure that he agreed with this.....but likewise it was entirely possible that it was just 'that public schooling' coming out in him as Emma referred to it. Infact Knightley very nearly disagreed for it was a well known fact, within Cambridge at least, that the undergrads knew what was going to happen before the professors did. Infact the only things that never escaped early were the examination answers and results....and it was a well known fact that even Democracy kept the votes under wraps until all had been counted. It was in Knightley's personal opinion that whatever the government type there would be sercrets from the people if the government felt like having secrets. You did not state every single last one of your intentions while campaigning....infact you kept all the nasty surprises under close wraps until you were safely elected. Likewise it was equally well shown that if you wanted to know something you would most likely find the answer.....it just depended on what extents you were willing to go to.
The government, why was it always the government's fault? Obviously the country at large could not have too many objections else the situation in Russia would already have occured in Germany for Germany was at war on two to three separate fronts and was doing little but holding its own ground in the process. A trench deadlock was what they referred to it as. Knightley bit back on a grin and scribbled a stream of dollar signs between the gun on his page and the scribbled out smiley face. There was little more to it than that, why did they not just throw money at each other, it would have about the same effect and less people would be injured in the process.
There was a slight stir through the room as Wilson descended and left the room, and as the door closed behind the President the stir broke out into small groups of conversation as congressmen started to rise from their seats disgussing the matter. Knightley had seen Bobby from across the room, but he had no inclination for talk right now so he had given a brief wave and left it at that. now he had to go home and think......which reminded him, he had better check his evening suit out for Emma would certainly do her duty the day after tomorrow and it would be all too hideous if he did not do her service. Thinking of his dinner suit reminded Knightley of another question he had to settled, and that was whether Miss Taylor, now Mrs Weston, had heard further on the subject of Frank Churchill. To say the least it annoyed Knightley that the son of his fellow Senator had such little respect for his father and for his father's wishes. Frank Churchill had been brought up by his mother's people, and as a result he had chosen to take the Churchill name instead of the Weston name. It had now been over a year since Senator Weston had been petitioning for his son to pay a visit to D.C.. Admittedly Frank had never refused to visit, infact he had promised no fewer then three times and even gone so far as to set a date and send travel information, but everytime he had called off at the last minute, and the cancellations were in Knightley's opinion puny and senseless. Surely the elder Mrs Churchills could survive without their dear Frank for a month while he visited a father. Knightley cleared the buildings with relief and then hastily scribbled a reminder note on his diary to ask Emma after Mrs and Miss Bates again. Knightley didn't know what had happened, but Emma was somewhat uncommunicative on the subject of the Bates' now, it was a matter he had to look into for the Bates' were far to good to be ignored for petty or illogical reasons.
"What's going on here?" Knightley looked around the shambles in surprise. The small room Emma had turned into her office looked like a tornado had paid a call. Papers and files lay everywhere, higgledy-piggledy and all jumbled up.
"We're leaving." Emma responded from somewhere behind a pile of files.
"Where to?" Knightley picked up one of the files and just as hurriedly laid it down again. Since the declaration of war had become public the flow of correspondence across Knightley's desk had grown exponentially.
"Back home." Emma shoved an immense stack of papers into a box and gave a satisfied sigh. "The Red Cross don't need me here, and father's returning to farming, for Jake is bound to enlist immediately and we can't have the farm fall into disrepair."
"Does Ann Weston know you're going?"
"Most certainly." Emma grabbed another box and dug into another huge pile. "Infact Senator Weston has asked me to arrange for a new tenant should his current tenant enlist."
"That is certainly a wise consideration of his." Knightley gave a nod. "I would enquire whether you could do the same, but Robert Martin will sooner grow his own wings and fly than get into the military."
"That sounds to be quite an assumption.....not at all complimentary to him."
"Considering the fact that he is missing half an arm it is nothing but a fact......and no Emma he has no need of your assistance."
"You are presumptuous." Emma closed another box.
"Emma, when the day comes that you do not stick that little finger of yours into any and every pie it will also be the day when I fly myself. Don't meddle with things that don't concern you."
"Well I like that!" Emma banged another set of files into a box.
"I'm glad to hear it, so few people like to hear the truth about themselves."
"Why didn't you tell us." Emma abruptly rounded on him.
"Tell what?" Knightley hedged cautiously.
"About the vote." Emma frowned up at him.
"What vote?" Knightley had no idea which vote she was referring to, there had been a large number of votes lately and all of them would have been of interest to Emma.
"That vote." Emma grabbed a folded newspaper out of a nearby pile and shoved it under Knightley's nose.
Thursday April 5, 1917
Knightley observed the date and gave a yawn, it was the New York Times and if there was any day he wished to forget it was that day and the day before.....he had gotten no sleep at all and been handed the newly revised Trade Unionist Act, which had put him to sleep.
SENATE, 82 TO 6, ADOPTS WAR DECLARATION;ITS
"Though I fail to see what influence we may have on Russia, our coming into the war can hardly make up for the fact that the Russian Army is abominably ill-equipped, is even worse trained, and no one is doing anything about it. All they do is reshuffle the management department."
"You're the ones at fault for management reshuffles.....and you know very well that Russia was not what I was referring to."
"Well what else am I meant to say? You saw that paper sooner than you saw me after that vote.....infact between then and now you've seen all the papers which I have yet to get around to.....you wouldn't happen to have anymore would you?"
"Yes." Emma handed over a pile of newspapers with an exasperated sigh. "More Trade Unionist Acts?"
"No, I finished that on the seventh and have been supposedly considering war laws since then." Knightley flipped through the pile and pulled out the oldest newspaper.
HOUSE, AT 3:12 A.M.; VOTES FOR WAR, 373 TO 50;
$3,000,000,000 ASKED FOR ARMY OF 1,000,000;NATION'S GIGANTIC RESOURCES MOBILIZED
And that had been on the sixth. Well it was certainly a relief to know that the newspapers didn't know more than he did this time. To say the least Knightley had been mortified when the Times had published a large article concerning the Transport System in mid-western America. Knightley had been mortified for the most part because the issues were important and he hadn't even realised that they existed, an extended enquiry produced the information that everyone thought the Transport System belonged to someone else.
"Emma." Mr Woodhouse came shuffling into the room. "Goodafternoon George. Emma have you seen my overcoat?"
"I'll get it." Emma scrambled to her feet and hurried from the room.
"Which is Emma's way of saying she relegated it to the back room four months ago and probably won't be able to find it this side of christmas." Knightley flicked open the paper and settled into a nearby, and in Knightley opinion very uncomfortable, chair.
"I hope it doesn't take her that long....Emma's never taken that long to find something before....she will be very hungry when she comes out, I will speak to cook about some food for her." Mr Woodhouse moved off, leaving Knightley to bury his head in his newspaper.
"What is father talking about?" Emma came into the room frowning in complete bewilderment some five minutes later.
"You really don't want to know."
"I should have guessed it was something you said Mr Knightley." Emma rolled her eyes at the raised newspaper and returned to her piles of boxes and files.
"Then why did you ask?" Knightley turned a page.
"I asked what father was talking about, not who started him talking about it. What does he mean by saying I must be hungry? The way he's talking anyone would think it was Christmas....." Emma stopped and glared at the newspaper which was shaking violently. "Mr Knightley will you kindly remove that newspaper from in front of your face, it is most impolite to keep it up there."
"You'll have to excuse me if I am rude to you Emma, for I am most certainly not going to lower this newspaper."
"Then at least tell me what was so amusing." Emma was strongly tempted to throw the pile of files she was currently holding at him.
"Just your choice of words Emma, just your choice of words." Knightley choked on his laughter.
"Emma....Cook says the christmas decorations aren't here......where are they Emma?" Mr Woodhouse came into the room again and poked through various boxes.
"Father." Emma gave her father a quick hug, having first glared at Knightley. "Mr Knightley was just joking, it is not Christmas."
"But he said you wouldn't be back until Christmas....you're back so it must be Christmas."
"Father, it is just one of Mr Knightley's exceedingly sad exaggerations, all he meant was that he expected me to take a long time.....longer than he expected, to retrieve your coat." Emma carefully guided her father out of the room before turning back to glare at Knightley, who had finally lowered his newspaper. "I suppose you think that was funny!"
"Not at all." Knightley carefully folded up the newspaper and returned it to the pile. "but you must excuse me, I have seen your father only three or four times since he arrived here and I had forgotten how muddled he became in a city......besides which the remark was made to the newspaper, not to him, it wasn't until he responded that I realised he had not left with you." Knightley rose to his feet and caught Emma by one arm. "Why are you leaving Emma?"
"I told you, the farm needs father and the Red Cross doesn't need me here." Emma shook her arm free.
"Emma, you stopped fooling me years ago, stop trying to do it now." Knightley caught Emma's chin and forced her head up so their eyes met. "What happened in this past week which has caused this turn around? You couldn't give a damn, sorry, whether the Red Cross here wanted you, if need be you'd start your own. Now why?"
"Mr Knightley, please." Emma tried to free her head, but his grip was too firm. "You'll give me bruises."
"Good, you can then tell everyone you got them because you were so stupid as to fight against me." Knightley paused. "Why Emma? What has happened?" Knightley stared down into the upturned face searchingly, searching for the faintest flicker which would show he had hit on the reason. "You're not running away are you?"
"No." Emma shook her head briefly. Knightley continued to study her face, indeed Emma was telling the truth, she was not running away from anything.....and yet. Knightley's eyes had caught the faint flicker, the brief shifting of attention, and the hurriedly quenched flicker of worry, something was wrong, something was seriously wrong.
"Emma, you may as well tell for I'm not leaving until you do......and I mean the truth, not some story you hope may fob me off for a while."
"Honestly Mr Knightley, there is no reason, we just want to go home."
"Emma a country maid?" Knightley lifted a doubtful eyebrow, but released her anyway. "Are you sure that city muddle is not the only thing wrong with your father?" Knightley did not miss the sudden tension which followed his question, in fact a blind man could not have missed it, it was as if someone had run a knife into her. Knightley grabbed the tense shoulders and turned Emma around. "What is it Emma?"
"Oh." It was a choked gurgle and Emma buried her face into Knightley's waistcoat.
"This does not sound good." Knightley quietly stroked the golden head which leant against him, Knightley continued to speak softly, a monologue, and later Knightley had no idea what he had said. "Okay blubber baby." Knightley tapped the head with a firm finger. "My Public Schooled sensibilities will not take much more of this.....and my new waistcoat certainly won't. So either dry up and tell me what has little Em so worried.....or continue to cry and tell me anyway."
"I'd prefer to stop." Emma spoke thickly as her hand went searching for Knightley's hankerchief.
"Here." Knightley pulled it from his breast pocket and shoved it into her hand.
"Crying gives me a headache and is so utterly useless." Emma wiped her eyes and then blew her nose in a firm, but very unladylike manner.
"That's fine with me. Drink of water?" Knightley indicated the nearby decanter, the contents of which he had inspected earlier but refrained from sampling.
"Yes please." Emma blew her nose again.
"Here, water from brother George. Now you are going to sit in that chair, I'm going to pull up that nearby box, and you can cry your eyes out if you feel so inclined.....but I want to know what's up.....and all of it."
"You'll insist on interfering." Emma grumbled as she sat in the indicated chair.
"You have that wrong young lady, I am not the nosey one, you are." Knightley hauled up the nearby box. "Now, out with it."
"I can't." Emma bit her lip and turned her head away.
"I'll guess then." Knightley settled on the box more comfortably and frowned at the wall for a minute before he started thinking out loud. "We have a young lady who is an excellent manager who has abruptly decided to return to the country where she swore only three years earlier never to return to. We add to this equation one father who is much loved and certainly pampered, but who is known to have a liking for the country. We then have the complication that father dotes on daughter as much as she dotes on him, and the result is that the family move to the city for a while." Knightley paused for a minute. "For the daughter to return to the country means that something has upset the scales.....in the direction of father. Extensive questioning produces the information that something is the matter with father......we will assume that the problem is not mental or father and daughter would probably not return to a place where they were well known. Therefore the problem must be either financial, which is unlikely considering the temperament of both, or it is physical...or more namely father is sick." Knightley paused again and carefully reordered his thoughts. "If there was anything useful a medical man could do, I doubt the said daughter would be persuaded to leave his doorstep until said thing was done. Hence we deduce that that problem is either minor, highly unlikely since the daughter is worried, which leaves us with only the untreatable to consider." Knightley stared thoughtfully across at the wall and scratched the back of his hand thoughtfully.
"It's TB and neither father nor I are interested in his going to a sanatorium." Emma spoke in a stiff tone.
"I see.....why home?"
"Where else can we go? We can't stay here for father doesn't really like it, so we go home. Who knows, maybe the change will help. Doctor Franklin seemed to think that a drier, more arid climate might help." Emma gave a sudden, dry, but slightly bitterly toned laugh. "He suggested we try the Canadian Mountains."
"I can just see your father up there." Knightley rolled his eyes. "Don't worry Emma, I'm not going to interfer.....But Emma, promise me one thing."
"Depends on what it is." Emma responded cautiously.
"I want you to come to me if you have any problems at all.......I'm serious Emma, even if you just want a friend to visit, or someone to send you a new hat, just call and I'll do my level best to help."
"Thankyou." It was a soft little whisper that Knightley nearly missed.
"Good." Silence reigned in the room for several minutes, before Emma shook her head and broke it.
"We're taking Mrs and Miss Bates back with us, they're to live in the South Cottage, it seems that this recent excitement has upset Mrs Bates."
"Your a good soul Emma, now remember, keep your chin up, no problem is nearly so bad if faced squarely." Knightley tapped a nearby cheek, then frowned and looked hard at the clock. Knightley then pulled out his pocket watch and compared it with the clock on the mantle. "I seem to have a problem." Knightley gave his watch a quick twist, but it went no further. Knightley freed the clock with a practised twist and rose to his feet. "You must excuse me Emma, it seems I'm on the verge of running very late indeed for a meeting......and keep this evening free for I'm taking you to a nice place I know so you can forget for one evening that anything is wrong. Prepare to revel and be wild in your last evening of freedom.....and if necessary you can catch a different train to the one that your father is travelling on."
"We were leaving tomorrow morning for Mrs Bates does not like travelling at night, she thinks it improper." Emma rose to her feet and held out her hand.
"Until this evening then." Knightley gave the hand a firm shake before he dodged out of the room. Emma heard the front door bang, but only as an abstract sound, she coud not say why but she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, someone else knew, someone else had made a free offer of time. Emma could not say why, but just the knowledge that she could call on someone if she needed help was a great comfort......even if it was only for a new bonnet. Emma smiled wryly as she returned to her boxes, Harriet Smith was good company.....but she didn't seem to understand. Emma worked for close on an hour without break and it was with relief that she boxed up the last of her files and packed them out into the hall. Admittedly the files would come later by freight delivery, but it was a relief to know they were done. Emma dusted off her skirt and headed for the stairs, there was the supervision of clothes being packed, and also the more delicate objects which she trusted only herself to pack.
Author's note: My information concerning the battle of Arras comes courtesy of Robert Lindsey MacKay's Diary of the 11th Argyll's Battalion. Due to the fact that it is the best record I have found of the Battle of Arras to date I have made use of it. As a result I appologise to any Scot who takes offense at the fact that the activities of a Scottish Battalion were turned into the activities of an English Battalion. No insult was meant by this move, it was far too good an account to ignore and I fail to have a Scotch Battalion to take on the activities for me.
Ashie glanced at the day's orders as he stumbled sleepily into the Recording Office, then stopped and turned back and stared at them.
"Oh BLOODY HELL!" Ashie turned on his heel and stormed from the office, leaving Denny to smile somewhat appologetically at the desk.
"What's up Ashie?" Pyro was studying the sky when Ashie came storming out of the Recording Office.
"Strafing, that's what is up. Come on, we need to get the rest of this place up."
"I wonder when the order came through." Pyro spoke to himself as he headed for the barracks.
"After we went to bed obviously." Ashie ducked into C-flight's barracks and with rude hands he dug Florrie from his nest of blankets. "Up Florrie."
"Why?" Florrie rolled over and gave Ashie a very distasteful look.
"Because your Captain said so. Now up." Ashie went straight to B-Flight's Barracks next and in a minute all nine pilots of the Cads of the Flying Corps were dragging their pups out of the hangers, and none of them really awake as fuel and ammunition were loaded up, guns were primed and oil levels checked.
"Why everyone Ashie?" Florrie was having his usual fight to get his gun fixed firmly onto its mount.
"Because we don't have the usual flight orders. We've got strafing assignments at Arras." Ashie growled in irritation as he wrestled with a tappet which had shown a propensity to jam on his last couple of flights. The last thing Ashie wanted right now was to have an engine failure while strafing the Hun trenches. "Damn it all why do we always seem to be near a strafing point."
"Why the curses?" The question came from six of the nine pilots.
"Laddies, before tonight you're going to know why we curse." Katt was buckling on his helmet as he spoke. "Or....at least I hope you do."
"Already?" Ashie had swung up into his cockpit, and he most certainly agreed with Katt, if the others didn't curse strafing by that evening they would never curse anything again for they would never have returned.
"Right." Florrie swung up into his cockpit as he spoke, the sick knot he had not experienced since his first crossing of the lines was back with a vengence. The other pilots uttered their personal okays as they swung up, and with a nod Ashie turned his switches off and responded automatically as Saine wound up his prop and gave it a swing. Ashie pulled easily into the slot above the aerodrome and he studied the map on his knee as he circled waiting for the others to join him. With nine pups in the air the airspace around the aerodrome was crowded, Ashie didn't waste a minute in waving for form up.
"We have had a complete Squadron for the space of three days....what a record." Ashie mumbled the remark as he took a second check over his shoulder that the Squadron had formed up properly. With the form up fine Ashie gave another wave before he peeled out of the circles and headed for the lines. Today was going to be a long, long day.....and it was going to be an even longer week.
Lieutenant Jack Carrigan scowled unpleasantly at the reel upon reel of wire which lay in front of him. Just what he needed right now, to be told that a sector of the lines were completely without communications and needed them fast. A beautiful system in Carrigan's opinion, and he was not the only one of that opinion. After the dirty ditches on the Somme, and the waterfilled gashes at Loos, the trench system at Arras was a dream. Carrigan gave a sigh as he called together a few privates and some Sergeants, they needed to get this wiring down, and if it wasn't done soon one particular Brigadier would have his scalp.
"Are you still here?" It was a choloric looking Colonel who came out of a nearby hut.
"Yes sir." Carrigan ceased his directions of the loading of the truck to salute, only to howl and swear as a round of wire rolled from where the private had hastily placed it and fell from the back of the truck and onto Carrigan's foot.
"Well hurry up and get moving or the Brigadier will have plenty to say to you."
"Yes sir." Carrigan actually didn't need to be told of this, the Brigadier was going to have plenty to say either way....or it would be plenty to say by the Brigadier's standards which for most meant that he'd twitch an eyebrow. It was with relief that Carrigan saw the Colonel retreat back into his hut, and immediately he bent down and removed the roll of wire from his foot. "Careful with that stuff."
"Awfully sorry sir." The Private grabbed the roll and stored it in place.
"Carrigan!" The Colonel came out of the hut again.
"Yes sir." Carrigan saluted, thankful that this time nothing was being moved.
"Once you've got the wires down come back by Hell's Corner, there're a crowd of prisoners out there who need bringing back."
"Lucky suckers." Carrigan muttered the remark to himself. "Yes sir." The latter was out loud, Carrigan was not at all thrilled by the idea of visiting Hell's Corner, the corner was named for a reason, and a very good reason.
"Also the Brigadier just sent news by Hawley that the Battalion and Company headquarters have moved along, seems they got bombed out of the previous ones."
"Very good sir." The day was getting better, not only did he have several miles of wire to lay, but he didn't know where he was meant to lay it. It took Carrigan three hours to reach the lines, and though he had not heard the bombardment that morning it wasn't half obvious that a battle was in progress. Men were everywhere, going forward, coming back, lying on the road. It took Carrigan another hour to find the Battalion Headquarters.
"Oh there you are Carrie. We need three lines and fast." Miles gave the yell as he shot out the doorway and ducked into the nearby communication trench. Carrigan took a deep breath and ducked into the headquarters.
"Morning Carrie. Johnstone will show you where we need the lines." Darcy was scowling darkly at a huge field map as he scribbled off a series of notes. "Jack, get this forward to Mitchell. They have got to take that embankment, tell them to try again at 1250 hours."
"Yes sir." The Lieutenant shot out of the room and dove into the trench.
"Yes sir." Carrigan ducked into the indicated side room where useless field telephone sets and a wireless set reposed, watched by some very bored looking Signalling N.C.O.s. "Johnstone?" Carrigan looked around for the familiar face.
"Not here sir, he just went up the line because Mitchell is having some unspecified problem."
"Oh hell." Carrigan swore. "Do any of you know where these bloody wires need to go?"
"Yep."
"Then move it. I've got to pickup some prisoners as soon as I'm done here."
"Ver' good sir." The Corporal slipped from his perch on top of a bashed up piano and followed Carrigan out of the room.
Mac was swearing with impressive width and fluency as he charged across to the mess hut, this was it, he was getting a transfer. This was the last time he was doing reconnaissance in a Fee, the damn things weren't fast enough to run, they weren't mobile enough to fly, and the guns were too damn good at jamming.
"What's up Mac?" Freddie looked up from the files on his desk.
"Casualties, but what more can be expected." Mac gave a snort. "They've taken the blue line and sections of the brown. Heavy fighting at the Railway embankment, I don't envy the sods down there. They've got Blangy's Wood, but they seem to be having minor problems for there are bombs going off all over the place."
"Sounds like the place must be littered with snipers." Freddie turned over a sheet. "Did you see Archie while you were up?"
"Yes." Mac grunted morosely as he hurriedly filled in the observance reports.
"How'd he go?"
"Sod of a Fokker, saw six go down. I hit the deck when George went and hedge-hopped back, but Archie hadn't a hope and none of the others saw the sod." Mac handed the reports across. "Where to now?"
"I'm afraid it's back to Arras. Same place. How are the fighters going?"
"Been making hay. Ashie's got to be swearing, the two Birdies have been nabbed and it's only the second trip for the day."
"Poor blighters. No hope I take it?"
"Nary a chance, Bunch exploded on impact, just flew straight into one of those pillboxes Fritz has. Morely lost a wing and then got in the way of a 'cottar' gun as he went down."
"Poor sods. Well get moving, Garry's in a pretty foul mood already and it's not yet lunch time."
Ashie quickly drank the tea he was handed and munched on the bread roll, having already restocked the chocolate in his instrument board. It wasn't worth the trouble of descending while he was refuelled and checked over. Ashie swallowed his last mouthful and waved Saine to his prop, only to immediately hold out a hand as Pyro came in to land. With Pyro landed Ashie waved Saine to his prop and was soon back into the air. Formation had become non-existant as soon as they had reached the lines, and in the pale pre-dawn light strafing had been absolutely hell, it was bad enough with the light and the german machineguns, but throw in the allies heavy artillery and the result was plain hell. This was Ashie's third refill and he'd needed his empennage re-canvassed after the first flight it had been so chewed up.
Ashie checked the page on his knee noting the movements of the line as he pulled up and over through a loop, only to dive wildly as he heard the vicious chatter of a machinegun. Pulling out of his dive Ashie climbed sharply and then looped across, catching a brief glimpse of the Fokker as he went. Bloody sod! Ashie yanked around in a tight turn and promptly fired, he had the satisfaction of watching streamers of canvas spring from the tail of the other. Ashie pulled up and over, doing another tight turn an a quick slip as he went over, a manoeuvre which brought him down on the Fokker's tail. The exchange was brief after that and soon Ashie was back to strafing the lines, the Fokker had been smoking nicely when he had made off and Ashie's primary task was not the destruction of German aeroplanes....or at least not for today.
Carrigan glanced up at the sky as the prisoners were piled onto the back of the truck, above him he could see a Pup and a Fokker fighting furiously. He'd watched several strafing runs while he had been laying the lines and he did not envy the pilots, the idea of flying along the enemy lines at a height not much above five feet and emptying a machine gun as you went was not his idea of fun. Those pups were totally without protection and Carrigan had seen more than one execute that peculiar wiggle which then turned into a graceful arc, which ended with the pup plowing its nose into the lines.
"Hi!" The yell informed Carrigan that he was now fully loaded and Carrigan promptly put the truck into gear so the driver could move off. Three hours later and Carrigan was back at the reserve headquarters trying to get what information he could on the battle.
2000 hours. Ashie peeled his helmet off, he had already removed his gauntlets and goggles, and stared thoughtfully across the dim aerodrome which was only faintly lit by the fully set sun. Ashie could remember another venture under the dim lights of dusk.
"You alright Ashie?" The voice startled Ashie and brought his thoughts back to the present.
"Yes sir." Ashie gave a sigh as he rubbed his face and then pushed his hands back through his hair.
"Here, coffee." Thomlin pushed the steaming mug over the side of the cockpit.
"How many?" Ashie sipped slowly on the brew which was vilely sweet, and yet sickeningly bitter.
"I dunno, but I'm hoping you're just not all back yet."
"Who's here?"
"Well Pyro came in an hour ago with a shattered centre strut, they've only just finished replacing it. Florrie's down at Base Hospital 23 with a broken arm, but he should be back in a week or so. The call came through just after lunch that he was alive, kicking, and cursing like a Bedouin Camel driver."
"I'm sure he was."
"Birdies went west with the second flight, but everyone knows that. Hilton's back, he crashed out just this side of the lines, Saine and Geordie have been working flatout with Morgan to get Huxley's pup up and running. Huxley's gone west, died on the tarmac. Katt's in bed with the threat of morphia over his head, silly ass didn't have a drink all day. Moggie says he will be fine for tomorrow. Nothing's been heard of Phillip since five, we'd been hoping you might have seen him."
"No." Ashie stirred the coffee with his finger and watched in numb disinterest as black sludge boiled up. A quick swallow, a large grimace and Ashie was handing the empty mug back to Thomlin. "I'll be back for supper round ten."
"Well give Florrie my regards and tell him from me he's a silly ass."
"Yes sir." Ashie finally pulled stiffly from his cockpit. "Hi! Saine!"
"Yep?" Saine appeared at the door of his barrack.
"See the cycle prepped, I'll want it for this evening."
"Yes sir." Saine ducked back into the barracks as Ashie swung down to the tarmac.
"Bus is in beaut condition, shouldn't need nothing but new oil and fuel."
"Tappets?"
"Bonza." Ashie spoke from somewhere within his flight-jacket as he pulling it over his head.
"Tail?"
"Could be better." Ashie was stripping off his boots as he spoke. "But much better than I expected."
"That's a relief, when I saw you tacking it on you nearly killed me for what it would do to the aerodynamics."
"G'arn te aeros." Ashie frowned down at his uniform. "Just a moment, I gotta change."
"Ashie, I fear your relatives will die when they hear you speak." Thomlin's face wrinkled up wryly.
"Ehh." Ashie jerked back and frowned over his shoulder.
"G'arn te aeros....gotta change......Bonza.....Beaut.......Bus....Ashie your father would be after you with a meataxe."
"All the better!" Ashie spat furiously. "He should have bloody well done it years ago.....Saine where is that bloody cycle."
"'Ere she is Captain." Saine came up, a curious wrinkle on his brow.
"About time." Ashie kicked it up violently. "I'll see you in time for dawn patrol." With a roar and a cloud of dust the cycle leapt forward and was gone.
"What in bloody 'ell got him?" Saine was staring after the cycle with an expression of complete amazement.
"What got the Captain was my clumsy feet." Thomlin's expression was deadflat as he turned and walked back to the Office building.
March 13th 1917-The Rhine, Germany
Every man dies. Not every man truly lives. - Braveheart
March 24th 1917-London, England
Not everything that can be counted counts, and not everything that counts can be counted. - Albert Einstein
April 2nd 1917-Washington D.C., U.S.A.
The future depends on what we do in the present. - Mahatma Gandhi"Gentlemen of the Congress:
I have called the Congress into extraordinary session because there are serious, very serious, choices of policy to be made, and made immediately, which it was neither right nor constitutionally permissible that I should assume the responsibility of making.""On the 3rd of February last I officially laid before you the extraordinary announcement of the Imperial German Government that on and after the 1st day of February it was its purpose to put aside all restraints of law or of humanity and use its submarines to sink every vessel that sought to approach either the ports of Great Britain and Ireland or the western coasts of Europe or any of the ports controlled by the enemies of Germany within the Mediterranean."
"I am not now thinking of the loss of property involved, immense and serious as that is, but only of the wanton and wholesale destruction of the lives of noncombatants, men, women, and children, engaged in pursuits which have always, even in the darkest periods of modern history, been deemed innocent and legitimate. Property can be paid for; the lives of peaceful and innocent people can not be. The present German submarine warfare against commerce is a warfare against mankind."
"Armed neutrality is ineffectual enough at best; in such circumstances and in the face of such pretensions it is worse than ineffectual; it is likely only to produce what it was meant to prevent; it is practically certain to draw us into the war without either the rights or the effectiveness of belligerents. There is one choice we can not make, we are incapable of making: we will not choose the path of submission and suffer the most sacred rights of our nation and our people to be ignored or violated. The wrongs against which we now array ourselves are no common wrongs; they cut to the very roots of human life."
"With a profound sense of the solemn and even tragical character of the step I am taking and of the grave responsibilities which it involves, but in unhesitating obedience to what I deem my constitutional duty, I advise that the Congress declare the recent course of the Imperial German Government to be in fact nothing less than war against the Government and people of the United States; that it formally accept the status of belligerent which has thus been thrust upon it, and that it take immediate steps not only to put the country in a more thorough state of defense but also to exert all its power and employ all its resources to bring the Government of the German Empire to terms and end the war."
"It will involve the immediate addition to the armed forces of the United States already provided for by law in case of war at least 500,000 men, who should, in my opinion, be chosen upon the principle of universal liability to service, and also the authorization of subsequent additional increments of equal force so soon as they may be needed and can be handled in training. It will involve also, of course, the granting of adequate credits to the Government, sustained, I hope, so far as they can equitably be sustained by the present generation, by well conceived taxation...."
"We have no quarrel with the German people. We have no feeling towards them but one of sympathy and friendship. It was not upon their impulse that their Government acted in entering this war. It was not with their previous knowledge or approval. It was a war determined upon as wars used to be determined upon in the old, unhappy days when peoples were nowhere consulted by their rulers and wars were provoked and waged in the interest of dynasties or of little groups of ambitious men who were accustomed to use their fellow men as pawns and tools. Self-governed nations do not fill their neighbour states with spies or set the course of intrigue to bring about some critical posture of affairs which will give them an opportunity to strike and make conquest. Such designs can be successfully worked out only under cover and where no one has the right to ask questions. Cunningly contrived plans of deception or aggression, carried, it may be, from generation to generation, can be worked out and kept from the light only within the privacy of courts or behind the carefully guarded confidences of a narrow and privileged class. They are happily impossible where public opinion commands and insists upon full information concerning all the nation's affairs."
"It will be all the easier for us to conduct ourselves as belligerents in a high spirit of right and fairness because we act without animus, not in enmity towards a people or with the desire to bring any injury or disadvantage upon them, but only in armed opposition to an irresponsible government which has thrown aside all considerations of humanity and of right and is running amuck."
"To such a task we can dedicate our lives and our fortunes, everything that we are and everything that we have, with the pride of those who know that the day has come when America is privileged to spend her blood and her might for the principles that gave her birth and happiness and the peace which she has treasured. God helping her, she can do no other."
April 8th 1917-Washington D.C., U.S.A.
It's the friends you can call up at 4 am that matter. - Marlene Dietrich
OPPONENTS SCORED; HOUSE ACTS TODAY;
BERLIN FEARS OUR INFLUENCE ON RUSSIA
April 9th 1917-Arras, France
Never take words as fact, it is the actions which tell the truth.
© 1999, 2000, 2001 Copyright held by the author.