you. We are working on an entirely new invention, something no one else has even thought of. And when we’ve solved a few remaining problems, it will revolutionize the war at sea. U-boats will cease to be a threat. Germany won’t strangle us. The shoe will be on the other foot; we shall destroy them.” His eyes were dark and brilliant with the knowledge of what could be, and the passion to bring it about. It was a kind of pride, but the love of it robbed him of all arrogance. “It’s beautiful, Joseph. The concept is as simple and as elegant as mathematics; it’s just the last few details of practicality we have to iron out. It will make history!”
He reached across and put his hand on Joseph’s. “But don’t whisper of it to anyone, not even Hannah. I know she worries herself ill over Archie, like every woman in England who has brothers, husband, or sons at sea—but she can’t know yet.”
Joseph felt a surge of hope and found himself smiling widely. “Of course I won’t tell her. That should be your privilege anyway.”
“To be able to tell her will be one of the greatest rewards of all. But I’m glad you will be home with her for a while. Take good care of yourself. Allow yourself to mend slowly. Build up your strength again. You’ve done such a lot already, you deserve a little time to see the spring.”
Ten minutes later, as Corcoran bade him goodbye, Joseph felt there was a new warmth in the room, an easing of pain. Instead of going back to sleep, or trying to read, he contemplated the reality of being at home for the blossoming of the year. He would see the lambs and calves, the first leaves on the trees, the hedgerows filled with flowers, and all of it untrampled by marching feet, far from gunfire—with nothing broken, poisoned, or burned.
He thought quite suddenly of Isobel Hughes, to whom he had been obliged as chaplain to write and inform her of her husband’s death. She had written back, thanking him for his kindness. A correspondence had developed, only a letter once a month or so. Although they had never met, Joseph was able to convey his feelings of weariness—and his guilt that he could do so little to help. She, in turn, did not make futile suggestions, but gave him accounts of the village in Wales where she lived, providing little stories of gossip, even the occasional joke. It brought him a remembrance again of the sanity of village life where quarrels over a piece of land or a churn of milk still mattered, where people danced and courted, made silly mistakes and gave generous forgiveness.
Should he write and tell her that he had been wounded and was at home for a while? Would she care or worry if she did not hear from him? Or would he be presuming on her kindness? He liked her very much. There was a gentleness and wry honesty in her letters he found himself thinking of more often than he would care to tell her.
In the end he asked Hannah for pen and paper and wrote a brief letter. After she had posted it, he wondered if he had been too terse, and rather silly to think Isobel would be concerned anyway.
He thought of the dugout where he had slept and where most of his belongings were, the books he loved best, and the portrait of Dante. That was where he wrote the almost daily letters he had to, to tell of a death, or a serious injury . . . presumably someone had done that for him, to tell Hannah? He had not thought of it until now. It would have been one of the easy ones to write, because he was still alive.
Who was doing it now that he was not there? Would they have got another chaplain? But he would not know the men, or their families! He would not know the rivalries, the debts of kindness, the weaknesses, and the strengths. He himself should be there! But not yet. He still had time to watch the slow spring at least begin.
The next day he got up for a little while. He knew if he didn’t, he would begin to lose the use of his muscles. The fever was gone; it was just a matter of his wounds healing and his gaining strength again.
It also meant he was well enough to receive visitors outside the family. The squire was already dealt with; however, the local minister was not, and he arrived in the middle of the afternoon. Hannah showed him in to the sitting room where Joseph was sitting quietly, the dog at his feet, tail thumping on the floor now and then as Joseph spoke to him. Hannah shot them both a quick glance of apology.
Hallam Kerr, a man in his forties, was of medium height and build with straight hair parted in the middle. His manner was full of enthusiasm, rather like a school sports master at the beginning of a match, but there were lines of anxiety in his face and something faintly dated in his dress.
“Ah! Captain Reavley! Congratulations!” He thrust out his hand, then as if feeling that Joseph might attempt to get up, he snatched it back again. “Please, please don’t stand, my dear fellow. I simply came to see if there is anything I can do for you. And of course to say how immensely proud we all are. It’s superb to have a holder of the Military Cross in the village—and for the church as a whole! Shows that we men of God are fighters, too, what?”
Joseph’s heart sank. There was an eagerness in the man’s eyes as if the war were all somehow magnificent. That was the moment Joseph realized how alien he felt here at home. What could he say to this man without betraying all that was true? “Well . . . I suppose you could put it like that. . . .” he began.
“Very modest,” Kerr said. “I’m proud to meet you, Captain.” He sat in the chair opposite Joseph’s, leaning forward earnestly. “I envy you. It must be superb to be part of such a fine, brave body of men—helping, encouraging, keeping the word of God alive among them.”
Joseph remembered the young men with lost limbs, lost sight, terrified, bleeding to death. Their conduct was heroic, certainly; it took the ultimate courage, going into the darkness alone. But there was nothing glorious in the circumstances. He was choked with the desire to weep just at the overwhelming return of memory. He looked at Kerr’s idiotic face and wanted to run away. He had no desire to be cruel. The man could not help his blinding ignorance. He might in his own way be doing his best, but his every eager word was an insult to the reality of pain.
“I wish I could have gone,” Kerr continued. “Too old,” he said ruefully. “And health not up to it. Damn shame.”
“There’ll be plenty of people in hospital you can help,” Joseph pointed out, then instantly wished he had not. The last thing on earth crippled men wanted was platitudes about God or the nobility of sacrifice.
The light went out of Kerr’s face. “Yes, I realize that, of course,” he said awkwardly. “But that’s not the same as being with our boys in action, braving the gunfire and standing by them in their hour of peril.”
Joseph thought of real fear and its pathetic indignity, those who wept, or soiled themselves with terror. They desperately needed compassion and the willingness to forget as if it had never happened, the passionate, driving urgency to love, to reach out a hand in the bitterness of extremity, and never, ever let go. These easy words were a denial of honesty.
“We’re bored most of the time,” he said flatly. “And tired, and cold and fed up with the mud and the lice. The whole trench network is infested with rats, hundreds of thousands of them, as big as cats. They eat the dead.” He saw Kerr blanch and recoil, and it satisfied something of the anger inside him. “We get used to them,” he said a fraction more gently. “Believe me, you’re needed here as well. And there will be plenty of widows to comfort who will require all your strength.”
“Well, yes, I suppose that is true,” Kerr admitted. “There is need for great faith, great faith indeed. And if there is anything I can do for you, please let Mrs. MacAllister know.” He looked sideways, as if Hannah had been standing in the doorway.
Joseph was ashamed of himself now for having been so crushing. The man spoke from ignorance, not ill will. He wanted to help. It was not his fault he did not know how. “It was very good of you to come by,” he said. “You must have a lot to do with so many men away. I don’t suppose you even have a curate, do you?”
Kerr’s expression lightened. “No, no, I don’t. Poor fellow felt obliged to go and do his duty. Went to the East End of London, actually, where they had no one. Had a game leg, no good for the army.” He rose to his feet. “I don’t want to tire you. I’m sure you need all the rest you can get—to grow strong again and go back into the fray, what?”
“Yes, I expect so,” Joseph agreed. What else could he do?
After Kerr had departed, Hannah came into the room. “What did you say to him?” she demanded. “The poor man looked even more lost than usual.”
“I’m sorry,” Joseph apologized. He drew in his breath to explain to her, then realized that he couldn’t. She knew no more of the reality than Kerr did, and it would be unfair to try to force her to see it. She had her own burdens, and they were sufficient. He smiled at her warmly. “I’ll be nicer to him next time, I promise.”
“Don’t push him into the water, Joe. He can’t swim.”
He knew exactly what she meant. It was a touch of the old Hannah back again, from before the war, before the world changed, and youth had to grow wise and brave and die before its time. He hated the Peacemaker for the
