Once More Unto the Breach Read online

  My efforts were rewarded, and the dog sighed at the delay and rose to pad over and investigate the fish. I rubbed his ears. “You will have your share, bach.”

  Charlotte wiped her eyes. “Wagner is one of my favorite composers when it comes to the cyhyraeth wails.” Her pronunciation was smoother this time. “But his work does not sound soothing when hummed. And I endeavor to not fault him for being German.”

  It was my turn to laugh.

  _______

  Night closed about us swiftly in the shelter of the trees. Charlotte changed the bandaging over the gash at my temple, and then while I buried the fire and cast the fishbones aside, she climbed into the rear of the ambulance and laid out our bedrolls on the stretcher bearers.

  “What do you think of Algernon?”

  The dog and I looked at one another, and I grimaced. I was certain if the poodle could have managed such an expression, he would have as well. “Algernon is not a name fit for a man, let alone an innocent beast.”

  “You’ve said no to all the others as well.”

  “You are not calling the poor animal Archibald, Beauregard, or Cedric.”

  “Digby? Eugene?” I knew she was having one on me when she said, “Fauntleroy?” There was a moment of silence and then a snicker from within.

  “This is what I attempted to impart upon my son,” I said to the dog, who watched me with seeming avid interest if his tilted head and pricked ears were any indication. “Women are fair creatures. Lovely and strong. But passing strange as well, and it is best not to forget the latter.”

  Charlotte leaned out of the back of the ambulance, her smile wide and full of cheek. “That is sound advice. But I will have you know women prefer the term mysterious.”

  Mysterious. Secretive. I did not know why she kept her knowledge of my son from me. “I will keep that in mind.”

  We stared at one another for the span of several heartbeats, and in the fire-light I thought I saw her face flush.

  “Well.” Her tone held a practical crispness I appreciated. “The bedrolls are laid out.”

  “Get settled. The dog and I will walk round the perimeter once more before we turn in.”

  “Don’t startle me upon returning, please.”

  I had no desire to have a personal encounter with her Colt. “I will whistle when we approach.” I demonstrated, and the dog’s ears went up.

  The moon was waxing gibbous, but little of its light reached through the barrier of the limbs overhead. The forest was alive in the dark, and the sounds of the night creatures, the scents of the earth and water and woodsy air were comforts. I walked more surely and more at ease, even in the dark, than I had since crossing the Channel.

  The dog paused and whined low in his throat.

  “What is it now, bach?”

  A finger of moonlight snuck past the boughs and gleamed in his eyes as he looked up at me. I put a hand on his head and felt a quiver run through his body. I expected him to take off into the night, but he continued with me, a black shadow on silent paws, as I circled back to camp.

  A pinpoint of light drew us through the dark like a beacon, and as we approached, I realized Charlotte had lit a lantern. I whistled, and when we reached the ambulance, the dog leapt into the rear. Charlotte was already abed, and I thought she was asleep until she started laughing as the dog climbed onto the stretcher bearer with her and prodded her with his nose.

  She propped herself up on an elbow. “Humphrey, there is not enough room for the both of us! What do you think of that name? Or perhaps Lawrence?”

  He gave no indication of approval for her name recommendations but proved her wrong by tucking himself into a ball in the bend of her knees. He curled up with a heavy sigh and rested his head on her hip. She stroked his long, narrow muzzle. “Do you think we should look for his owner? Perhaps he is lost.”

  “Poodles are smart dogs, they are. If there were a home to return to, he would already be there.”

  “My father had a coon hound. He loved that dog, though she did not care much for anyone but him. I have never had a dog of my own. You?”

  “Aye. I have two at home who help me with the sheep. Bess and Bracken. Bess was expecting her first litter of pups when I left. We have always had a menagerie. Owain was forever bringing home animals.”

  I closed one of the ambulance doors and climbed within, leaving the other ajar to hear anything that might approach. I removed my boots and stretched out on the bedroll Charlotte had prepared for me.

  She settled onto her side, hands folded beneath her cheek. “Is Owain your only child?”

  I reached out and snuffed the lantern. An acrid waft of smoke curled over my head and escaped through the vent like a ghostly kestrel fleeing into the night. I lay on my back and tucked my arm under my head. “No.” The word left me with an almost soundless breath, lost to the night like the waft of smoke. I cleared my throat. “No. There were two others. Twins. I lost the pair and my wife at their birthing.”

  “I should not have asked.”

  “You could not have known. It was many years ago, but I still visit their grave often.” Especially within the last few years. “I had the babes buried with Aelwyd. She would have wanted it that way. The priest was none too happy, but…Well, I made him see reason.” And had spent several nights in the local gaol after having done so. I flexed my left hand with remembered soreness.

  She was quiet for so long I thought she had fallen asleep. Her voice was a mere whisper when she spoke. “We will find Owain.”

  “Aye, we will.” I would not consider any other possibility. And I would discern why she sought him along the way.

  _______

  I woke, as was my habit, before first light. Charlotte slept on, but the dog followed me outside and lay on the shore watching as I caught fish that were slow moving in the dark, cool water.

  On our stroll back to camp, the dog halted, tail and ears alert. I glanced around but heard and saw nothing that hinted at danger or another presence. The dog looked up at me, though, and then bolted deeper into the woods, lost from sight quickly in the morning shadows. I whistled and waited for his return, but it did not come.

  The fish were cooking over hot coals when Charlotte emerged from the ambulance. The amber light of the new sun glinted on her head and gilded her hair. She lifted a hand in greeting and moved into the woods toward the water. When she returned, the hair about her face was damp and her eyes were clearer.

  She sat beside me on a fallen log and leaned toward the fire to smell the fish. Her stomach rumbled. “Where is Galahad?”

  I smiled at her choice of names. “Not Lancelot?”

  She grimaced. “I never cared for Lancelot. And I always thought Guinevere had cotton for brains.”

  I chuckled and then broke the news to her gently. “He took off into the woods this morning.” Her face fell. “I am certain he will return for breakfast. He ate two fish last night.”

  But the dog did not return, not even when Charlotte ventured into the brush calling for him. Disappointment was evident in the set of her shoulders as she folded the bedrolls while I doused the embers of the fire.

  “We should set off, then, I suppose,” she said after checking the petrol tanks and oil.

  Before I could suggest one last trek through the woods to find the dog, the distant sound of barking reached our ears.

  “That’s him! Here, boy! Here!”

  He did not respond to her calls for the barking continued but drew no closer.

  “Come,” I said. “We will find him. But have a care. We do not know what he has found.”

  Charlotte followed me into the woods, and we both called for the dog, adjusting our course to the direction of his barks. We followed the sound downriver and deeper into the forest. The trees grew less dense, and the boulders dominated the landscape.

  “There!” Charlotte pointed ahead and raced forward.

  The dog’s barking ceased when he
saw us, and his tail began to wag. He stood under the edge of an overhang of rock.

  “There you are, you silly beast.” He leapt up and placed his paws around her waist like a child embracing his mother. “I thought for certain—” Her words cut off, and she stiffened.

  “Charlotte?”

  She did not respond or turn at my query, just stared into the shadows of the overhang. I lengthened my stride to reach her, stopping abruptly when I caught sight of what held her transfixed.

  A soldier lay in the belly of the cave-like rocky protrusion. He was gravely wounded if the amount of dried and caked blood on his clothing and the gray pallor of his face was any indication.

  His uniform was German. And the pistol he held in a trembling hand was pointed at Charlotte.

  19 October 1940

  Dear Nhad,

  The OJ published two new “laws” yesterday.

  “On the status of the Jews” is the phrasing they used.

  I am uneasy. This denaturalizing of a people can only mean ill.

  -Owain

  v

  I stepped in front of her and held up my hands when the gun jerked. My shirt tightened across my shoulders as Charlotte gripped the back.

  “I have my gun,” she whispered.

  I did not take my eyes from the soldier. He met my gaze for several taut moments, and Charlotte’s fingers tightened in my shirt. His face was heavily lined with pain, and his eyes were wide and darting. I recognized the wildness in his eyes as fear, and his breath came shallowly and quickly. I could see the struggle it took for him to hold the pistol. “No. Leave it.”

  The gun dropped to the ground, the arm too weak to hold it up any longer.

  “Otto,” he whispered. “Kommen Sie.”

  The dog trotted obediently to his side. The man’s eyes closed. He was not a young man. He was closer to my age, perhaps older, and wore the uniform of an officer. A tear leaked from the corner of his eye as he hugged the poodle to him.

  “Bitte.” He looked up at me, and I could see he fought to keep a tremor from his voice. He nudged the dog toward me. “Nimm ihn. Bitte.”

  “What is he saying?” Charlotte asked.

  “He knows he is dying.” How long he had been here and how he had survived even hours after the wound, I did not know. “I think he wants us to take the dog.”

  “Bitte,” he said again. The poodle whined and licked the man’s forehead. “Er heißt Otto.”

  “Take him, Charlotte. His name is Otto.”

  She released the back of my shirt. “Here, Otto. Here, boy.”

  The dog whimpered and glanced between us uncertainly.

  I nodded at the man. “We will take him. He will be safe.”

  He may not have understood my words, but he understood the tone for his eyes closed again. “Danke. Vielen Dank.”

  I knelt beside him. The odor emanating from his wound was unmistakable. I had met death enough to recognize its cloying perfume. A bullet had exited his body with grueling, widespread damage in the center of his abdomen. With careful hands, I rolled him to his side. The bullet had entered at the small of his back. A spine shot.

  I eased him down and rubbed the back of my neck before turning to look at Charlotte. She knelt beside Otto, an arm around his neck. “Take this.” I picked the Luger up from where it had dropped into the dirt and handed it to her.

  “What are you doing?”

  I caught the man’s arm and lifted him to a seated position. “I apologize. This will hurt.” I hefted him up and over my back, taking care to balance his upper legs on my shoulder rather than his gory abdomen. I paused to balance myself with the weight and then rose to my feet. I jostled him as little as possible, but still he groaned.

  “Rhys?”

  I answered her honestly. “I do not know.”

  _______

  The wooden planks rumbled under the tires, and the bridge creaked ominously, listing to the side when we reached its center.

  Charlotte did not flinch or hesitate but kept driving at a slow, steady pace. When we jounced onto the sandy road on the opposite bank, though, she took a deep breath and rolled her shoulders.

  “Well done.”

  She darted a small smile in my direction as she shifted gears. She had been silent for hours. The road had narrowed as we drove south, and the trees crept closer about the track. The way was rougher, wilder, and she had been tense the entire time, constantly searching the terrain. Her hand on the gearshift was white knuckled.

  We both scanned the road before us. We had ventured west of the river, but streams still traced their way out from the Seine. The sound of the one we had just crossed faded as the ambulance rumbled down the road. It was midday, but the canopy of trees cast deep shadows.

  “There,” we said at the same time when we caught sight of the turn-off.

  Charlotte braked and downshifted. Alfonse had said it was a lane, but it was no more than a path, and branches slapped the hood and scraped along the sides as we turned onto it. The way was rutted and uneven, and the ambulance bounced and rocked through the overgrowth.

  There was a groan from the back and a hoarse mumble in delirious German. From the corner of my eye, I saw Charlotte’s fingers tighten on the steering wheel and gearshift, and she maneuvered carefully over a rough spot in the path. Even so, I had to brace a hand over my head to keep from hitting the roof.

  “I still do not like this.”

  “I know.”

  “If the Resistance finds him with us…”

  I pointed. “Just ahead.”

  It was just as Alfonse had described. The church in the meadow was half in ruins, the ancient stone brought down by time rather than the fighting. The forest was working to reclaim the ruins and would soon threaten to overtake the section left standing as well.

  Charlotte brought the vehicle to a halt still within the shelter of the trees and killed the engine. “If the Resistance finds him with us, they won’t only kill him. They will shoot us as well. They will not ask questions.”

  I cracked the door into the back of the ambulance. We had raised the stretcher bearer and placed the wounded officer on the lower stretcher. Otto lay across his legs, and he thumped his tail when he saw me. I closed the door and turned to Charlotte. “Do you want to wait here?”

  In reply, she slipped out of the cab. I followed suit and rounded the hood to pause beside her. Before I could check the action, I cupped my hand around the back of her neck. She glanced up at me, but her face was in shadows and I could not see the color of her eyes. She held her Colt at her side.

  “We will not let them find us.”

  I felt her hesitate, and then her hand came up and she squeezed my wrist. Her skin was cool against mine. She stepped away and moved within the shadows along the perimeter of the meadow. I watched her for a moment before circling the opposite direction and focusing on the church.

  There was no movement, no sounds from within the ruins. Charlotte met me at the far side of the meadow.

  “It looks deserted. Perhaps Alfonse was wrong,” she whispered.

  I put a hand on the butt of the Luger. I had taken the German’s holster from his hip and buckled it about my own. “Stay here and keep watch. I want to take a look inside.”

  I picked my way across the crumbled, briar-filled courtyard, avoiding being in direct line of sight from the yawning entry. I reached the wall and pressed my back to the warm stones. Slipping the Luger from the holster, I crept along the side of the building. I paused when I reached a section of the wall that had weakened and caved outward. With one last glance around, I climbed over the rubble and ducked within.

  Nothing stirred. The bell tower had collapsed into the nave, and the result was as if a shell had exploded. The damage to the interior was extensive. The choir and the apse still stood, though the stained glass was long since gone from the windows. Moss made the stone slick underfoot, and vines draped the walls like finely w
oven tapestries.

  It was cool and shadowed, and only one pew remained intact. The others were rotted or splintered. On the remaining pew, though, was a stack of neatly folded blankets, and on the overturned altar was a lantern.

  The apse was laden with hulking shadows, squared edges sharp under the canvas drapery protecting what lay beneath. I holstered the Luger and approached the curved recess, my footfall muffled by the carpet of moss. I grasped the edge of the canvas and pulled. The heavy protective fabric unfurled like a wave, eddies of dust drifting upwards to catch in the sunlight like a spray of sea foam. I stepped back, coughing into my elbow, and took in the storehouse that had been unveiled.

  Dozens of crates were stacked shoulder to shoulder in the space. The sizes were varying—some taller than me, others no larger than a child’s height. All were tightly slatted and nailed shut. I could find no identifying markings on the crates, but I could hazard a guess at their contents.

  I retreated from the chapel. “Bring the crowbar from the ambulance.”

  “What did you find?”

  “Bring it and see.”

  I watched Charlotte’s face carefully as she took in the crates, noting the excitement that lit her eyes and the satisfied curve of her lips. I took the crowbar from her and slipped the edge into the seam of the crate, leaning down on the tool to pry the nails loose.

  As soon as the top was ajar, Charlotte lifted it and carefully eased aside the fabric wrapped around the contents. Her breath caught as she unveiled the sculpture within the crate.

  I set the crowbar aside and knelt beside her. “Is it from the Louvre?” I could not see much detail about the piece looking at it from such an angle. It was bronze, the figure of a man clasping a woman to him with his face tucked into the curve of her neck.

  “No.” Charlotte’s voice was but a whisper. A sheen of moisture glinted in her eyes. “This is a Camille Claudel. She died in an asylum last year. I tried to send her a letter a few years ago, but her brother wrote back to me instead.” She caressed the heads bent together with a gentle finger. “I thought she had destroyed all of her work.” She took as much care with wrapping the sculpture back in its protective layers as one would with swaddling an infant. When she sat back on her heels, I replaced the top of the crate. She reached for the crowbar. “I want to check the others.”