The First of July(120)
The dark river, midway on its journey from a muddy field in the Cotswold hills to the cold estuary in the North Sea, fed by twenty tributaries and interrupted by more than eighty islands, is peaceful. Punts are drawn up on the bank, pleasure boats are moored on both sides; some have remained there, without once making a trip to Oxford or Maidenhead, since the outbreak of war. Away from the lights of Windsor and Eton, the new moon casts much of the scene into darkness, but a careful listener might hear the watery noises of nighttime: water rats, jostling ducks, a soldier on leave with his giggling girl crossing the Brocas. Deadwater Ait, a green islet by day, is a crouching monster by night.
It is hot and stuffy and he has kicked off the tartan blanket that has fallen across his trunk on which his initials have been painted over those of his brother Harry. Harry’s picture, with Harry in uniform, is by his bed, next to the one of Mama and his father. The house dame had commented approvingly how alike the two brothers were. Teddy has kept to himself the fact that he doubts he would recognize Harry easily in a Windsor street and certainly not in uniform.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Jean-Baptiste, France,
July 2, 1916
JEAN-BAPTISTE CLAMBERED DOWN THE ROOF outside his window, clutching his sabots and the water bottle and hoping the roof was sound and that nobody would wake. When he reached the gutter, the drop was slightly more than he’d guessed; but directly below him was a row of what were probably onions, so he thought he would have a soft landing.
He looked back at the two windows next to the one he’d left and was surprised to see a pale face at one. He started for a second before realizing it was the mute girl, the maid, and she was only staring, not moving to raise an alarm. He dropped to the ground, landed heavily but continued, limping slightly, through the bare garden onto the back lane and then on down between the houses, always aware that there might be a jumpy British soldier with a gun somewhere in the shadows. The town was noisy: lorries grinding their way up the main street behind the houses he was passing. Shouts and metallic clatter offered a useful cover for his own movements.
He reached the outer wall of the convent easily. It was in darkness. He went up to the front gate, attempting to open it soundlessly. It was possible that the sisters, with all their praying, might be about, but it occurred to him that there were hardly enough of them to be everywhere in the big building and at night they were likely to be either in their beds or in the chapel. But the gate was locked. Not surprising, with soldiers in the town, Protestant soldiers, he thought, and the idea pleased him. He took off his, or at least Bully Laporte’s, sabots and placed them, neatly together, at the gate.
The side walls were the same height as the gate, but he remembered from childhood that an oak tree grew so close to the wall that one boy had dared climb up it to look in and reported that he had seen two nuns in their drawers. They had all believed it at the time. Would the tree still be there? He saw almost immediately that it was and that, if anything, the branches seemed closer to the boundary. Nor was it hard to climb; but once he was on the wall, the drop on the other side onto a paved courtyard was intimidating. He sat astride the wall, glad the moon was not full, and checked to see whether there was any change in level, where the drop might be lower. Some sort of structure seemed to stand in the farthest corner.
As he eased himself along, it became clear that a shed was indeed tucked away there, but he couldn’t tell whether the roof was sound. But he had no alternative way down; so when he reached the spot where the wall passed behind it, he braced himself and lowered himself onto the roof. It held. From there it was an easy scramble to the ground. Still nothing stirred. He looked up. He was on the northern side of the building; two windows were open on the second story. How many nuns were in there? Did they have a night watchman, as they used to before the war?
The babies’ nursery was around the corner, he thought, and the doors to the outside were shut. He reached out, fearing that they too were locked and wondering whether babies were woken easily by breaking glass. But the latch opened easily and he peered in, just in case a nun sat up with the little ones all night. There was nobody—he could just pick out small sleeping forms; one was snoring gently. The room was stuffy and smelled of ammonia. He walked quietly but quickly to his brother’s cot. The little boy was fast asleep, lying on his back, one arm thrown up. Jean-Baptiste went to another cot and picked up a blanket the baby had kicked off. He then picked up his brother, held him close while he wrapped him, clumsily, but without rousing him.
The child started to wake up as he crossed the yard. He prayed that he wouldn’t cry and that the front gate had been locked only from the inside, leaving the key in the lock. Someone must have heard his prayers, because he was through the gate in a second. The little boy struggled a bit but seemed to want to be carried sitting up. Even in the near-blackness, Jean-Baptiste could see that his dark eyes were wide open now and watching him.