Page 26 of The Unknown Birds

Chapter 10

The Somme, July 1916

The specter of Owens’s dead runner haunted Ash as she wound her way down the next avenue, past the support line, past the reserve line, past the kennel and the aviary, up the steps and out into the fresh night air where she could finally breathe despite a heavy fog.

For a moment she knelt there, touching the little bit of grass that poked out of the muddy earth. What had she gotten herself into coming here? She feared it had all been a very grave mistake.

Then she thought of Charles, pictured his face on that West Kent runner before he fell right down in the muck while he bled. Well, she was here now, not Charles, and there was nothing for it but to keep her chin up and do the job. Except she wasn’t quite ready to go back into the dank, busy labyrinth where to move a hundred feet you had to go a mile.

Owens had said the battle would begin at 7:30, and it must be going on one o’clock in the morning by now. Surely it would be faster to cut swiftly through the countryside to Maricourt and reenter the trenches from there.

With the fog as cover, Ash ran low just inside the tree line, stopping to kneel at the edge of a water-filled crater to wash off some of the mud that weighed her down. She was so exhausted she could almost collapse right there and sleep despite the eerie sounds and the reek of putrid water.

But as she sat back on her haunches to drink from her canteen, the icy steel of a rifle grazed her ear. In that moment, Ashley knew what her own heart tasted like, and it was the bitter bile of pear preserves and potted meat.

There wasn’t time to chide herself for being so cocksure stupid, as the rifle rested on her shoulder, digging into the fleshy part of her throat and settling beneath her jaw. She squatted, stock still, afraid to even swallow.

A rough, meaty hand yanked her upper arm back, and thick fingers traced her muddy runner’s band before dragging her up and spinning her around to face her captor.

He had a wicked-looking dog at his side, but it wasn’t a German shepherd. His uniform and insignia were that of a British corporal, and Ash gasped with relief while the dog sniffed her muddy boots and the patrolman scowled in rank disapproval.

From somewhere close by, a sniper fired off a quick burst and was answered in full by an even closer one. Ash dropped to her knees, as though ducking would protect her with her arm still held aloft by the patrolman—her band a mud-red target.

Both dog and master tilted their heads, listening, and then the patrolman jerked her to her feet, one finger to his lips demanding silence as he guided her through the trees and into the safety of the trench.

“Thank you,” she whispered once they were safely surrounded by sandbag walls. He didn’t answer or slacken his pace, leaving her no choice but to jog along beside him. “I’ve a message for Major Mayweather,” she said.

He merely snorted.

“This is Maricourt Trench?” she asked.

“And ’ow do I know you’re no’ a spy?” he asked, stopping long enough to turn and jab her in the chest.

“A spy?” she repeated, her stomach dropping again, threatening to throw up all the water she’d just consumed. “No, I swear. I’m just a runner. From Whitechapel.”

“Oughta cut you open, peel off your skin. Make sure you’re really Bri’ish inside.”

“Do the British look different inside?” she whispered with a shudder.

He laughed and resumed his stride along the trench, finally turning down the support line and making his way to a rather large dugout.

“S’cuse me, Major Mayweather, but I found this’n here skulking round the craters. Could be a spy.”

A very tired-looking middle-aged officer stepped out into the trench holding a book with his finger tucked inside to keep his place. “A spy?” he asked.

“No, sir, I’m not,” Ash replied.

“On’y said you could be,” the patrolman argued, squeezing her arm again.

Ash wrenched away from him, and the corporal cuffed her up the side of the head, until the major held up a hand to stop him.

“What’s your business here, soldier?” he asked in a smooth, educated accent much like her captain’s.

“I’m a runner, sir.”

“I can see that.”

“Private Ashley of the East Surrey Regiment. Did you say your name is Mayweather? This is Maricourt Trench?”