The 39 Clues: Cahill Files: Silent Night Page 2

  But what he heard was not thunder.

  Another rumble rolled over them, much closer this time. So close that Rupert could feel the earth tremble beneath him, sending shivers up through his legs.

  “Close one, that was,” said the private, rubbing a dirty hand over a freckled face.

  “What is it?” asked Rupert.

  The private looked at him as if Rupert were quite possibly the daftest person along the front. “The — the Germans. You know — the — the . . . Oh, you’re kidding! You got me. You did. You had me going for a tick there.”

  Rupert played along and smiled, but inside he was not smiling. The Germans were that close — and had weapons that could break the earth beneath him? The Duke of Wellington didn’t have this to contend with when waging the Battle of Waterloo against Napoleon.

  “I am Special Officer Davenport,” said Rupert, brushing the private’s laughter aside. “And I demand to be taken to your commanding officer. Posthaste.”

  “Oh, right away. Special Officer — whoa,” said the private, and Rupert was pleased to see that he was appropriately awed.

  “Indeed,” said Rupert with a smile.

  “Oh, ah, right, yes,” said the private. “Brigadier-General Keswith, that’s who you’ll want. Straight back and then second tent on the right.”

  “Thank you very much,” said Rupert, moving along. The ground rumbled again, and he tried not to let his fear show. In the distance, he could see towers of black smoke, and every now and again the orange bloom of fire. Rupert rapped upon the tent post near the entrance flap.

  “What’s that?” called a voice from inside.

  Rupert stepped inside. And promptly felt himself deflate.

  There were no pages in matching uniforms. There was hardly even a desk for the officer whose tent it was — it actually looked like a barn door atop a crate and an overturned bucket. It wasn’t exactly the setting he imagined for his swift ascent to fame and glory.

  “I — I’m, I’m here . . .” But Rupert was having a hard time coming up with words. This was not what he expected.

  “What is it? Speak up, boy, speak up! I haven’t got all day!” Brigadier-General Keswith checked his watch and stood up. He was tall and thin, with a thick bottlebrush mustache and even thicker glasses.

  He did not resemble the Duke of Wellington.

  “I’m . . . reporting in, sir!” said Rupert, giving his best salute. “I’ve just come off the train from England. I was told to, erm, report here.” He had to make this work. The thought of returning home in disgrace was almost too much to process.

  “What the devil do you mean?” said the officer. “I’m not expecting any men. Certainly not just one.”

  “I was sent on special assignment,” said Rupert. “Special Officer Davenport, sir.”

  “Special officer, eh?” said the officer. “What kind of special are you, then?”

  Rupert smiled proudly. “All kinds. But I’m particularly good at leading the men. I’m also something of a chemist, and I know more military history than, well, almost anyone.”

  The officer burst out laughing. “A chemist! What use do I have for a chemist out here? What are you going to do? Set the Germans to simmer over a Bunsen burner? Bore them to death, will you? What on earth — why are you wasting my time?”

  Bore! Rupert was aghast. There was nothing boring about deadly poisons and the delicate precision of chemistry. He opened his mouth to argue, but Keswith wasn’t paying attention to him anymore.

  “Davenport,” the officer was mumbling, and then he shook his head. “Get down to the trenches. Colonel Bullsworth will know what to do with you.”

  The trenches. Rupert had read about them in the newspapers back home. He knew that the soldiers dug into the ground and built up the sides of their ditches with beams and sandbags. He knew that the soldiers on both sides lived in them to protect themselves from all of the new kinds of weapons in the war — mortars and machine guns, and German flamethrowers that Rupert thought sounded like something someone had just made up one day, and couldn’t possibly be real. He knew the trenches were muddy and cold. But for all that he knew, he wasn’t prepared.

  The trenches spread for miles through France and Belgium, and when Rupert saw them he couldn’t help but think they looked like massive open graves. They were full of water and mud, sometimes knee-deep, and rats ran back and forth like they were on patrol. Barbed wire coiled around the tops like deadly brambles.

  Rupert took a deep breath so that his chest puffed up, and he lifted his chin a bit. Colonel Bullsworth had best not think that he would be keeping Rupert in a place like this. It was filthy! And cold.

  Another ripping of artillery crashed nearby, and Rupert instinctively covered his head. The men around him ran up and down the lines, yelling and preparing to shoot back. They were fighting in sopping wet clothes, with bandages around their hands in place of gloves. Their boots were waterlogged and some of the soles flapped around like loose tongues. The gunfire went off in staccato bursts until, eventually, it died down. And instead of a cheer at the end, the soldiers just sighed and slumped down against the sides of the trenches.

  Rupert could tell right away that the trenches were no place for someone of his finely tuned skills. Nor was this the manner in which he wanted to die. And while Brigadier-General Keswith’s little tent wasn’t entirely impressive, Rupert was certain he could improve upon things.

  “Keep your head down, you dolt!” someone yelled at him, and Rupert jumped and ducked his head. “What, are you fresh off the farm?”

  “Certainly not a farm,” said Rupert. “I’m looking for Colonel Bullsworth. Brigadier-General Keswith sent me.”

  “The Bull’s back there,” growled one of the soldiers, pointing down the line. Rupert craned his head and saw a line of soldiers at work digging into a new part of the trench. One of them was an impressively large man shoveling at twice the speed of the others.

  “That’s how you do it, boys!” he roared; he was smiling so much that Rupert thought he must even be enjoying himself. “Keep it up, for King and country!” The rest of the men could only mumble or groan at the weight of all the earth around them.

  Rupert marched right up to him.

  “Excuse me, sir,” he said, “Special Officer Davenport reporting. Brigadier-General Keswith sent me to you, Colonel Bullsworth. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  The officer stopped shoveling, and he gave Rupert the strangest look. Like he wasn’t quite sure what was happening. Like he was a cat, and Rupert was a surprise canary that had just fallen out of the sky.

  “Excuse me,” came a voice from behind him. “I am Colonel Bullsworth. Thank you very much, Major Thompson — back to your post.” The actual Colonel Bullsworth was much smaller than the man with the shovel. He looked, in fact, more like a piglet than a bull. His cheeks were pink, and his hair was white-blond, and his nose turned up. “Keswith sent you, did he?”

  Rupert tried to ignore the funny look that this Major Thompson gave him as he went off, back to wherever his post had been. Instead, he turned his attention to the Bull. “Yes, sir!” said Rupert, brightening instantly. “He sent me right to you — he knew that I’d be perfect for that, erm, important thing that you needed someone to do.”

  Surely the colonel had something important that needed doing.

  “Yes, yes,” said Bullsworth. “Take this message to Captain McIntyre.” He handed a piece of folded paper to Rupert, who looked at it.

  “And what am I to do after that?” asked Rupert.

  “You are to come back with Captain McIntyre’s answer,” he said.

  Rupert gave the message a narrowed glare, but he took it anyway. “Where is Captain McIntyre?”

  “Next trench over,” said the colonel. The trenches weren’t straight ditches like he’d thought they would be. They curved and jutted out at angles. And they weren’t one long line; they were broken up into segments. That way, if the Germans made it into one of them,
the entire front wasn’t compromised.

  But if Captain McIntyre was in the next trench over, that meant that Rupert would have to go up top.

  Up top was where the guns and the shells and the dead bodies were.

  “But what if I . . . what if I don’t make it?” said Rupert.

  “I know what the message says. I can write another. Get on with it.”

  Rupert looked up at the lip of the trench. Right.

  It would be easy. Just up and over, sprint a couple of yards, and then back down into the trench. Still, he shivered to think of it. Maybe there was something else he could do.

  But the colonel was already gone, and Rupert couldn’t give his note back to him. He looked over his shoulder; one of the other soldiers was there, staring at him. The other soldier raised his eyebrows, like a challenge. He’d heard everything, it seemed. Rupert returned the stare, and frowned at the other soldier.

  “Carry on, then,” Rupert sneered. He put the message in his breast pocket and buttoned it shut. Besides, there was always the possibility that this note would turn the tide of the war. He thought of what they’d say at home when Rupert returned ablaze with shining medals.

  Rupert put his hands to the ladder. It was covered in mud and grit, and something sticky he didn’t want to think about right then. In his mind, he queued up a thunderous, dramatic song to set the stage. And then, like a shot, he took off up over the top.

  The Germans wasted no time. There was a crack, a crack, another crack. The sound of gunfire ricocheted around in his head, and he dove forward into the dirt.

  Every animal instinct in his brain came alive all at once. His body locked and his mind went blank. He wanted to scream, but no sound would come out of his mouth and no air would go into his lungs. He couldn’t move and they were shooting at him and Rupert knew he would die.

  He had to move. It took every ounce of self-control that Rupert possessed, but he crawled forward in the dirt on his belly, sopping through the cold mud with his elbows and knees. He was scrambling, trying to make it another twenty, another ten, another five feet. Dirt sprayed next to him from where a bullet landed and burrowed into the ground. He dug his toes into the dirt and half ran, half crawled through a haze of gunfire, pikes, and coils of barbed wire. And then, with the edge of the next trench in sight, he dove.

  He tumbled awkwardly down over the side and into the arms and legs and shoulders of the soldiers there. Some had been having cups of coffee; another had been napping. Rupert effectively ruined that for them.

  Luckily for him, they were good sports about it.

  “Right side up now,” said the tallest, who, again, didn’t seem to be much older than Rupert. “Who’d you come looking for?”

  But Rupert found that he was having a hard time talking. And hearing. Everything around him was a dull white roar. His hands were shaking and he couldn’t get them to stop. He crossed his arms and tucked his hands into his armpits but the rest of him began to tremble until his teeth chattered and he thought his eyes might get shaken right out of his head.

  “First time making the dash, huh?” said the tall private. “Here, you sit down. Smitty, hand me that cup there.” Another soldier, who hadn’t been napping, handed a tin mug over to the first. “Here now. Take a minute and get your pieces back in place.”

  He gave Rupert the mug, and Rupert took it. The mug was still warm, despite the cold December air. And while, in the normal world, Rupert Davenport would never, ever put his mouth to anything that someone else had touched, he took a drink of the coffee. It was hot and bitter, and it coaxed some sense of feeling back into his rattled self.

  “Thank you,” Rupert said. And the tall soldier tipped his helmet. “I’m looking for Captain McIntyre.”

  “Sure thing,” said the tall soldier. “Back over that way.”

  Rupert thanked him and set off. He found the captain, and then had to wait while he composed an answer.

  “There you are,” said Captain McIntyre, handing the note back to Rupert. “And tell the colonel that yes, if he wants to send over the tin of biscuits, that’d suit me just fine.”

  “It was a note about biscuits?” said Rupert, aghast.

  “Not entirely,” said the captain. “Off with you now. These things don’t deliver themselves.”

  But when Rupert was in front of the ladder again, he found he couldn’t move. He knew that everyone was watching him. He could feel their eyes on his back. His hands were shaking and no matter how much his brain screamed at his legs, he couldn’t make them lift his feet up onto the rungs. And before Rupert knew it, he was shaking his head and saying, “No. No, I won’t. No.”

  “Hey.” The tall private who had given Rupert his coffee came up next to him. “Look, you’ve got to. You don’t get to say no. You’ll be shot, kid.”

  Rupert’s mouth went dry. Be killed in the trench for not going up top, or get killed in no-man’s-land because he went up top. That didn’t seem a fair bargain. For a moment, Rupert wished he hadn’t been quite so dismissive when Albert tried to warn him about what war was really like, but it was far too late for that now.

  “I’m no coward,” Rupert said. And he tried to mean it. He swallowed the dryness on his tongue and lifted one foot up onto a rung. His heart was like a lead block beating inside of him — it was so heavy and frantic that he could feel the thumping down in his knees and up in his eyes.

  If he wanted to be taken seriously, he had to do it.

  Rupert counted to three, and then he scampered like a rabbit in a fox hunt. The German line erupted with gunfire again, and Rupert’s head went light. He was stumbling. At the edge of his home trench, he tumbled in again.

  “Well done, Davenport,” said the Bull, seeing him fall over the side.

  But Rupert didn’t hear him. His head was still light and he was shaking again and this was awful. It was the worst he’d ever felt in his life, and that included the time that Albert had stolen his stuffed bear, Baron von Tuffington, and buried him in the stables.

  “I said” — the Bull came over to him and clapped a hand on his shoulder — “well done, Davenport.”

  And that’s when Rupert threw up on the Bull’s boots.

  This was not what Rupert had signed up for. He’d been relegated to trench-digging duty and his hands were covered in calluses and blisters, his shoulders and back ached with every swipe of his shovel, and his boots were ruined from standing in ankle-deep water for eight hours every day so that now the water crept in and wrapped his feet in ice and dirt. This had happened to some of the other boys, too, and their feet were swollen and spotted with sores. Essential work, it was called, but Rupert didn’t believe it. He wanted a chance — he kept looking for the opportunity to make one. Like Father said he should.

  But his chance found him the next morning. Rupert was eating a breakfast of cold beans from a can when another soldier came up to Rupert, panting.

  “You’re . . . you’re Davenport,” he said.

  “Indeed,” said Rupert, as gentlemanlike as he could. “How can I help you?”

  “The major,” said the soldier. “I’ve been looking all . . . all over for you. The major wants you,” he said, and then turned and took off through the other soldiers again. Rupert grabbed his rucksack and went after him, stepping over other soldiers, who were sleeping or shaving or writing letters home.

  The private took Rupert to one of the damp holes that had been built into the trenches. Wet sandbags made the walls, and the crumbly dirt ceiling was held up by bowing wooden rafters. Wild, flickering light spilled out of a smoky lantern, casting jumpy shadows all over everything. The major sat upon an overturned crate, a map rolled out in front of him, and a fat cigar clenched between his teeth. It was the same man Rupert had seen on his first day, shoveling the dirt like a machine. Just thinking about it made Rupert’s arms ache. The major was a wide and tall man; Rupert thought he looked like he, too, was made of crates all piled up on top of one another.

  “Sir!�
� said the private, jumping to attention. “Special Officer Davenport as requested, sir!”

  “Yes, thank you, Private,” said the major, looking up. He took his cigar from his mouth and gestured at Rupert with it. “Sit down, son. Private Jenkins, bring in the tea tray.”

  Jenkins hopped to it, and Rupert sat himself down across from the major.

  “I’ll be mother,” said the major. He picked up the teapot and daintily poured a cup for Rupert, and one for himself. “Sugar?” he asked, before adding four lumps to his own cup.

  “Thank you,” said Rupert, stirring his tea. “I appreciate the gesture. It’s been so long since I’ve sat down to a proper cup.”

  “I thought you might say as much,” said the major.

  “Did you?”

  “I did. I’ve been watching you, Davenport. Imagine my shock at meeting you on your first day here! Well, I know what you expect. I know about Eton. I know about Oxford. And I know about the Marne. I was surprised to see you in these parts, but I should have known you’d have heard the rumors by now.”

  Rupert paused for a moment, and then he nodded. So the major thought he was Albert. That was okay. Rupert could play along with that.

  The major leaned back on his crate, took a sip of tea, and leveled his gaze at Rupert. “I’ve a mission for you, Davenport,” he said.

  Rupert knew that was coming. He could feel it, he swore, from a mile away. Even so, he sat up a little straighter. “Yes, sir?”

  “I need someone with your particular . . . skills,” said the major. “And connections.”

  “Certainly!” said Rupert. He was trying very hard to not look too eager — he desperately wanted to play it cool. But he was failing. The prospect of stealing a special mission from right under Albert’s nose made Rupert’s very muscles twitch with excitement. He could just imagine telling the tale at the dinner table. “Well, you know, they had originally wanted Albert for the job, but then they realized that I was much better suited to the task.”