FIC: Roses of Picardy [2/?]
May. 30th, 2012 11:05 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
splixTitle: Roses of Picardy
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Additional note: Brief attempted sexual assault in this chapter.
Can also be read on AO3
*
Chapter 2
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack–
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Siegfried Sassoon, Aftermath
One of the soldiers who’d captured him had taken his watch (a gift from his grandfather; he’d treasured it and no heartfelt entreaty could induce the wretch to return it to him) and hovering between uneasy consciousness and fitful sleep, Jamie had no idea how much time had passed in the windowless and increasingly airless room until the door opened, revealing a bright wash of sunlight. He held his arm up, wincing against the sudden brilliance, and before he had a moment to orient himself, two uniformed figures blocked the light, shouldering their way through the door, grasping him by the arms, and hauling him to his feet.
Here it comes, then – the end. Chin up, you fool. Face it bravely. He’d not suffered a scratch in the melee, and he counted the beating he’d received in the square as nothing at all. There was no excuse to stumble along like an invalid. The effort that it took to stand straight and tall, to get his feet moving without dragging, shocked him, but he managed – just. There was, he supposed, still a part of him that clung fiercely to life, even as its end loomed terrifyingly near. It would be a firing squad, most likely, in the square to deter insurrectionists. They would parade him out, bind him to a post, blindfold him, pin a square of cloth over his heart, and then –
He must have made some small noise of distress, for the two soldiers pulling him along gave him a curious look. Mortified, Jamie clenched his teeth and walked on, planting his feet firmly enough to make his steps ring out in the stone hallway. Your dignity’s all you’ve got now. Hang on to it, for Christ’s sweet sake.
They stopped before a featureless wooden door, and one soldier turned the knob and pushed Jamie over the threshold. He glanced round, puzzled, at the little washroom and enclosed water closet.
“Go on,” the soldier said in German. “Hurry up, though.” Jamie hesitated, and the soldier gave him a shove. “Well, go on! I haven’t got all day.”
Jamie closed the door behind him and slipped into the water closet. It was an unexpected kindness, allowing him some rudimentary hygiene before being shot; it would prevent further humiliation after his death. Not that he would care much, but still, it was more than he’d expected. He finished and washed his hands and face at the little pedestal sink, illuminated by a pretty fluted gaslight, and stared at himself in the mirror. He was unshaven, his hair was awry, the blow to his face had caused a black eye, and his mouth was swollen, but otherwise he looked perfectly well, whole and hearty. He wetted his hair, damping down the worst of the cowlicks, and thought of Jim, who’d complained about the troublesome nature of curly hair.
---Damned silly nuisance. I can never get it to lie one way or the other.
---Like as not that’s because you’ve got any number of girls queuing up to rumple it.
---True, true. I’m a six-foot, two-inch Little Lord Fauntleroy, Jamie. God help me.
---Doubt that’s how they see you, old man.
---You don’t believe me?
---Not a jot’s worth. Come off it, you know you’re a handsome devil.
---Flattery, my dear chap, will get you everywhere.
Jamie pressed his hands to his face, ignoring the pain of his bruises. He’d never given much thought to an afterlife, he’d had no use for the notion, but now – he hoped Jim was in Heaven, and if there was any justice, he might see him once more. There wasn’t much to keep either of them out. Jamie had had longings, to be sure, but when it came right down to brass tacks, he’d been chaste. And Jim had been as good and sweet, as deeply conscientious, as it was possible for any man to be. It wasn’t fair, God damn it all, it wasn’t fair –
“Hey! Get your arse out here, Tommy!”
Jamie straightened his tunic, then opened the door and stepped out, coldly meeting the gazes of the two soldiers. They were boys, neither of them any older than the subaltern who’d been shot yesterday.
“Better,” one said to the other.
“I think he can walk on his own.” The second soldier stepped back respectfully and swept a hand out, indicating that Jamie should precede them. Jamie gave no indication that he understood what they were saying, and moved forward with a disdainful glare for both of them. Boys, he thought despondently, doing a man’s job. God help them all.
Jamie paused at the double doors leading outside, but the soldiers shook their heads and pointed further down the corridor. His heart sank. Not a simple death, then. He feared torture – not only because of the likelihood of agony, but because as an officer, he was privy to sensitive information, and he had heard from his father, who had fought in the Boer War, that eventually, everyone talked. Courage counted for nothing when the soles of one’s feet were slowly roasting thanks to a white-hot iron poker.
He was surprised, then, to be escorted to a small but handsomely appointed room, where a table had been set for breakfast. The first young soldier pointed to the food. “Eat,” he said, “but if you get sick, you’ll clean it up.” When Jamie didn’t move, the boy rolled his eyes and made gestures of scooping food into his mouth. “Eat!”
“Or don’t,” the other boy said. “I don’t give a damn. Come on, Eber.” He pushed Jamie toward the table and left the room with the first soldier, closing the door firmly.
Jamie stared at the food, which looked utterly delectable and was emitting the most exquisite aromas. He hadn’t eaten for at least twenty-four hours, and his stomach was making plaintive noises. Perhaps it was poisoned, though.
Does it matter, if I’m going to die? Might as well die on a full stomach.
He sat at the table and spread a fresh linen napkin on his lap. There was ham and boiled eggs and fresh bread with butter and jam, and a pot of coffee. He ate, tentatively at first, then with intense appetite. The condemned man’s last meal, he thought with grim humor, but his gallows wit failed to stop him. Only when he was halfway through the excellent breakfast did it occur to him that perhaps his men were not faring so well. He set down his fork, laid the napkin on the table, and got to his feet, feeling ill.
The door opened, and a young man strode in, wearing the uniform of a German cavalry captain. “Major James Stewart?”
Jamie stood at parade rest and lifted his chin. “Yes.”
The captain took off his cap and gave a brief, courteous bow. “Good morning to you.” He spoke in excellent English. “I am Rittmeister Christian Maier, First Württemberg division.” He held out a gloved hand, which Jamie ignored. A faint blush spread over his already pink cheeks, and he shrugged. “Have you enjoyed your breakfast? The residents here have been most hospitable.”
“Not by choice, I’ll wager.”
Maier smiled. “Major Stewart, they are a sensible people and understand that they are as free as is possible at the moment. But I have interrupted your meal – please, sit down.”
“I shall stand if it’s all the same to you.”
“As you like. I, however, will sit.” The young captain strode to the table, took the seat opposite Jamie’s plate, and helped himself to a slice of bread. “Yesterday was a most devastating loss for you. Please believe my most heartfelt sentiments when I express my sorrow.”
“You weren’t there yourself,” Jamie said. The German battalions had been infantry only.
“No.” Maier buttered his bread and spread a spoonful of jam onto it. “No, Major Stewart. As you no doubt witnessed, there is a decided time and place for cavalry action, and it is no longer on an open field of battle. Your charge was undoubtedly brave, but foolish.” He took a bite of bread, chewed, and swallowed. “I have seen your horse. A magnificent animal. Some of the officers were looking upon him with a covetous eye.”
Jamie’s heart thumped dolefully for the loss of Topthorn. “Don’t mistreat him. He’s a splendid creature.”
“It is not for me to say, alas, but I will pass the word. Major, please – do sit down. You are giving me a twinge in my neck.”
Reluctantly, Jamie resumed his seat, perching stiff-backed on the edge of his chair.
“Finish your breakfast.”
“I want assurance that my men are receiving fair and decent treatment.”
“Naturally they are. You may speak to them later, if you wish.” That was a surprise. Jamie stared warily at Maier, who poured himself a cup of coffee and added cream. He sipped and closed his eyes as if in ecstasy. “God. After the horrors of field coffee, it is delightful to taste the real thing, is it not?” He smiled ingenuously at Jamie. “I am a great admirer of the English. I spent many summers in your Yorkshire Dales. A beautiful place. Most beautiful. And the Bilsdale hunt – perhaps the most exciting thing I have ever witnessed.”
Jamie had hunted in the Bilsdale twice. “Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. A triumph. I have devoured Horse and Hound more intently than the Bible.” Maier spoke effusively about fox hunting for a few moments. “You have the look of a hunter to me, Major.”
“Yes.” Jamie felt himself unbending in the presence of this friendly young man. “Not much recently, but…in my youth.”
Maier leaned back and took a little box from his pocket. He extracted a cigarette and offered it to Jamie. “Please.” Jamie took the cigarette, and Maier stood and walked round the table with a lighter. He leaned close and cupped the flame with a hand, then straightened to light his own cigarette. “So great was my enthusiasm that my parents established a hunt in our town. It was most popular. I regret I have missed it this year.” He exhaled and sat again. “You cannot imagine the thrill of seeing such accomplished men and even women.” He talked for a while, volubly and knowledgeably, about hunting and other English sporting events. His admiration was both amusing and somewhat touching. “Are there many hunters among your cavalry?”
“I expect so. A few in my regiment at least. Or there were.” Jamie glanced down at the uneaten food and felt a mingled stab of sorrow and guilt.
“In every cavalry regiment, yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“You have more cavalry strung along West Flanders, I imagine.”
“They’ve been –“ Jamie bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and looked up at the young officer, who was staring at him intently from behind a cloud of smoke. “Ah. I see. Lulling me into complacency, is that the idea?” He stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet, furious with himself. He had been lulled, by Maier’s easy manner, by his conversation, by the luxurious breakfast. “To hell with you.”
Maier shook his head. “Major, please sit.”
Jamie stood at parade rest once more and kept his eyes fixed above Maier’s head.
The young captain stood with a sigh and walked toward Jamie. He stopped at arm’s length and spoke softly. “Major, I tell you something in confidence, because I do admire you English, and all I told you was true. It is best that you speak to me. Some of the other men in the battalions here are not so sympathetic to you. They may not treat you as gently. Do you understand me?”
Go and rot, Jamie thought.
“And they may not treat your men as gently.”
“Leave them be. They –“ Jamie clamped his mouth shut again. They know nothing, he’d been about to say, implying that information was his alone. Christ, how many more blunders will you make before all this is over? Keep your blasted mouth quiet.
Maier shook his head. “I understand your reluctance, Major Stewart, but I beg you to reconsider.”
Jamie stared straight ahead.
“Perhaps you need some time to think. I will grant you that, but mind you that time is passing rapidly. If you can help us, so much the better for you and your men.” Maier went to the door and opened it. “Come and collect him.” As the young soldiers re-entered the room and took him by the arms, the young captain shook his head. “I like you, Major. Perhaps in another life, we might have been friends, you and I.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Back to the cell.”
Jamie thought about demanding to see his men, but regretfully decided against it. His stubbornness would hardly inspire mercy or sympathy. He should have made the demand before listening to Maier’s endless nattering about hunting and cricket. Christ, you’re a fool, he told himself. You’re destroying everything you touch. The excellent breakfast roiled unpleasantly in his stomach.
They heaved him into the little room and locked him within once more. Jamie stood in the center of the dark, stuffy little chamber for a moment without moving. At last, he removed his tunic and folded it neatly, then sank to the floor, his back straight against the plaster wall, and waited for whatever would come next.
He had no other choice.
*
He waited for two days. The soldiers on guard duty occasionally let him out to use the toilet, and he marked the passage of time by the light or darkness in the corridor on those occasions. The guards brought him meals – not the relatively sumptuous viands that had been his breakfast, but plain bread and water, and once or twice a sausage or a piece of cheese. It was enough to keep body and soul together, and though he burned to know that his men were also receiving food and humane treatment, he kept silent, not speaking to his captors in English or German. He hoped that they would possibly grow careless and reveal some piece of information that might aid in his escape.
For he was determined to escape. He had no intention of compounding the gross strategic error he’d made by adding his own death and the deaths of his remaining men to the butcher’s bill. Something practicable had to come from all this. He knew that rescue was a forlorn hope, best not thought of, and even if he did escape there might be hell to pay at Whitehall for his stupidity, but he would take it as a richly deserved penance. Apart from his gaolers, though, no-one spoke to him, or came to interrogate him, and after two days he grew sorely puzzled and impatient.
His attempts to break out of his room had been laughable at best. They’d taken every useful object from him – his spurs, his jack knife, even the scabbard to his sword. The only potentially dangerous article left on his person was a stock pin he’d worn on his tie in the shape of a riding crop, with a tiny fox’s head at its tip. He’d tried to work it into the space between the door jamb and the latch and had only succeeded in bending the dashed thing beyond use. Swearing vilely, he’d hurled it into a corner and delivered a vicious kick to the door, budging it not one whit but bruising his toe rather badly. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he sank to his knees and covered his face, and it was in that abject state that the soldiers found him.
“Praying, Tommy? Good idea.” One of the soldiers grasped his arm and tried to pull him up.
Heartily sick of being treated like a child or a piece of luggage sent to the wrong port, Jamie struck at the man’s hand and stood up, groaning involuntarily at the pain in his toe. “I can stand on my own, damn your eyes!” He snatched up his tunic and shrugged into it, buttoning it as the young men snapped their fingers at him to hurry. “Oh, go to hell. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
They hustled him down the corridor and this time stopped at the set of double doors leading to the square. Flinging the doors open, they dragged him into the hot August sunshine and across the cobbles where a post had been erected and where a company of German soldiers and officers waited. His stomach roiled angrily, and fearing he would be sick and disgrace himself, he stood utterly still, planting his feet and bringing his jailers to an abrupt halt.
“Now he’s scared,” one of them said with evident satisfaction.
“Good.”
Jamie swallowed and forced his feet into motion. Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen. His heart trembled as they drew close to the assemblage, but he forced himself to stand straight and proud despite his fear and his unwashed, bedraggled state. He looked into the face of one of the officers, recognising the colonel who had harshly berated him at the battle’s conclusion. The man recognised him as well and gave him a cold smile. Jamie said nothing, though his whole soul cried out in protest. If this was his punishment for refusing to betray his comrades, then so be it.
“Get your frigging hands off me, God damn you!”
Jamie turned at the shout and saw three soldiers dragging a bound and blindfolded man in a British uniform toward the assembled group. They tied him to the post, deaf to his curses, and stepped away, clearing the square. Four Germans with rifles moved forward and readied their weapons.
Horror closed Jamie’s throat. He stared at the captive soldier, then at the German colonel. “What –“
“We requested information, Major Stewart,” the colonel replied. “You refused to comply. Witness now the result of your obstinacy.”
“Oh, God almighty,” Jamie whispered. “No.”
“Proceed,” the colonel said shortly.
“No!” Jamie threw himself at the man, but found himself caught and pinned in the blink of an eye. He thrashed violently, desperately, all to no avail. The soldiers holding him twisted his arms brutally up toward his shoulders, stilling his struggles and wrenching a cry of pain from his aching throat.
“Ready!” someone called. The riflemen shouldered their weapons.
“Aim!”
“Fire!”
Acrid smoke drifted past his nostrils, and the noise of the shots resounded in his ears. His eyes blurring with furious tears, Jamie sagged in his captors’ grip and would have sunk to his knees had they not pulled him up to face the German colonel, who stood close to him, anger sparking in his eyes.
“There are still fifty living prisoners, Major. Tomorrow I shall execute two.” He surveyed Jamie closely. “Unless you wish to share your knowledge with me.”
Jamie glared at him with all the defiance he could muster, though he believed every word the man said. He refused to speak. To lose two more of his men – God, no. And the next day three, or four, and the next, and the next? But to speak might mean the death of hundreds more. Nothing had prepared him for this – the irascible or bluff instructors at Sandhurst had never told him that one day he might be personally accountable for the lives of his men. Battle was one thing; this was another entirely. Was his knowledge so valuable?
God help me. I don’t know what to do.
They marched him away and threw him back into the cell. He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms round them, and gave himself up to silent misery. He prayed in desperation, sending up an inarticulate petition: Help me. Please help me.
There was no answer.
*
The next day, as promised, there was another gathering on the public square. This time the execution was witnessed by a group of villagers – women, mostly, and children and old men, a congregation of the powerless, too cowed and frightened to fight back. They watched in silence as the soldiers took aim and shot the prisoners one by one. Afterward, a small band of citizens was allowed to retrieve the bodies. They wheeled them away in an open cart, their bodies covered with rough linen sheets, stained red here and there where the fabric had settled.
The colonel lit a cigarette, given to him by the young cavalry captain, Maier. “Still stubborn, Major.”
Maier met Jamie’s gaze and shook his head, his eyes troubled.
“It has been quiet,” the colonel said. “Surely there must be another battalion approaching. Another band of mounted fools, do you suppose? Or something else?”
Jamie turned away so the colonel would not see how his chin trembled.
“Very well,” the colonel sighed. “Tomorrow, four.”
*
This time the rest of the prisoners were assembled on the square under heavy guard. Jamie scrutinised them surreptitiously; they looked battered and weary, but still fairly clear-eyed. They had been receiving adequate food, at least; none of them appeared to be fainting with hunger.
Jamie’s guards, accompanied by the colonel, forced him to walk to the company of prisoners. They had fettered his hands behind his back and bound his ankles with a set of old-fashioned, rusting chains that allowed him enough movement to walk in short, awkward strides. Hard fingers dug into his shoulders, forcing him to his knees in front of his men.
“I think,” the colonel said softly, “you should apologise to these men for putting them through such a terrifying ordeal.”
Jamie could scarcely lift his eyes to meet those of his men. He knew damned well that his captors were visiting deliberate humiliations upon him, but kneeling before them, restrained, taunted, powerless – the sensation cut deeper than he had thought possible.
“Jamie,” a soft voice said.
Shocked, Jamie looked up and saw Charlie Waverly, a clumsy bandage wrapped round his head, supported between two men. “Charlie – good God, we thought we’d lost you.”
“Almost did,” Charlie grinned. “I’m tougher than I look, Jamie.”
He looked dreadful, Jamie thought anxiously. “Have you lot been getting medical attention?”
“Some. There are some lads back in the prison – it’s a storehouse, Jamie – they can’t walk, and I keep asking for someone to get a dispatch to the Red Cross, but I’m ignored quite roundly.” Charlie shook his head.
Jamie longed to stand. He looked up at the faces of his men, once so hopeful, bright and clear, and now drawn with fatigue and a fast-fading hope. “Gentlemen…there is no way I can possibly express my sorrow at this debacle.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “You have all acted with the utmost bravery, and I ask you to hold fast a little while longer. There must be some way –“
“What he would like to say,” the colonel said, overriding Jamie’s words, “is that you are dying because this man refuses to give up the most trivial information to save your skins. You are worth less to him than the mud beneath his feet. You die, and he stays in the most commodious rooms and dines from silver plate. He is a coward, and you will die for him.”
A shocked hush fell over the ragged company of men.
Jamie struggled for words. He could not tear his gaze from the faces of his company as they stared at him. “I –“
“Choose four, Major.”
“What?” Jamie stared up at the colonel in consternation.
“Did you not hear me? Choose the four you wish to sacrifice today.”
The breath suddenly left Jamie’s body. He felt as if he would faint, and remained upright through sheer force of will. “You – you cannot ask me to make that decision. I will not.”
The colonel shrugged. “If you cannot choose four, it will be eight.” A rustling gasp came from the prisoners.
“No! For God’s sake – you cannot ask me that. Have pity, I – I implore you.” Jamie’s cheeks burned with shame. To be reduced to begging was intolerable, but there was no question of him choosing who among his men would die. He would die first. A gasp escaped him. It was the only possible solution. “Kill me instead, if you must kill someone. Make an example of me.”
The colonel merely snorted and turned away.
“Don’t tell him a bleeding thing, sir!” a voice called. “Sod ‘im!”
A ragged cheer went up among the prisoners.
“Tell him where he can stuff his trivial information!” another voice cried.
“And his mother, too!” Another cheer sounded, louder and more defiant.
Jamie’s heart swelled with pride. “God bless you, lads,” he shouted hoarsely. “They will never defeat us.”
“Eight!” the colonel shouted above another rally of cheers. He pointed at Charlie. “Start with this one!”
Jamie felt himself dragged backward, pulled away from his men, who seemed on the verge of revolt, but the soldiers streamed in with bayonets and the butts of rifles, pounding and thrusting, and all too soon the prisoners were contained and marched back to their gaol as Jamie watched helplessly, fighting against the soldiers who held him back. Eight men, Charlie among them, were unceremoniously pushed toward the stone wall of the courthouse. A low buzzing sounded from the townspeople who watched with accusing eyes. There were too few of them to effect the least change.
Sixteen riflemen gathered in front of the wall.
Charlie’s face was whiter than the dirty bandage around his head, but he met Jamie’s eyes and saluted briefly, then smiled.
“Murderers,” Jamie gasped, still twisting and thrashing in the soldiers’ grip. “God damn you all –“
The shots rang out, and the stone walls ran red.
*
He scarcely knew he was weeping when they hauled him back to his cell. Unable to kick, he smashed his head into one of the soldier’s chin, prompting the man to reel back with a curse. He backhanded Jamie hard enough to send him crashing to the floor. Apparently unsatisfied with that simple retribution, he kicked Jamie in the stomach, aggravating old bruises and driving the breath from his body. Jamie writhed on the floor, gasping like a fish.
“You little bastard,” growled the soldier. He was even taller than Jamie and twice as broad. “You damn near made me bite my tongue off.” He kicked Jamie again. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Emil!” The second solider caught the arm of the first and wrenched him away. “You will kill him if you don’t stop.” He heaved his companion away from Jamie and shoved him up against the wall. “Colonel Weber will have your head on a plate if you kill him.”
Emil, panting for breath, spat, then wiped his mouth. “Little shit.”
“All right, all right,” his friend said soothingly.
“I’m going to fix you,” Emil muttered. “Just wait.”
*
They hadn’t bothered to release his hands or feet, and Jamie spent hours trying to find a comfortable position on the floor that didn’t wrench his shoulders out of joint. He finally found relief simply sitting up against the wall, though it wouldn’t help him sleep. Not that it mattered – he’d given up sleep as a loss some time ago, with Charlie’s brave smile burned into his memory. Now and then he closed his eyes in an attempt to drive the horror away, but it lingered stubbornly, a spade struck against frozen ground.
Charlie.
And Hallam, and Mitchell, and Talbot, and Bradford, and O’Meara, and Benchley, and Fawcett. Their names lay heavy upon his heart, each a thorn of remembrance. Casualties of war, harsh, appalling, no consolation whatsoever in the thought. Jamie could no longer pray; he merely waited in numb silence for whatever was to come next.
The door opened, and a tall figure was silhouetted on the threshold.
“English pig.”
Jamie stared in blank defeat at the hulking figure. “Go away,” he whispered.
“I can’t kill you,” the figure said in an equally soft tone, advancing into the room. “But I can make you wish you were never born.” The man crouched beside Jamie and placed a huge hand around his throat. “You make one sound and I’ll cut your tongue out.” The man’s other hand slipped down and lay hot and heavy on Jamie’s thigh.
With a sudden sour taste of fear sharp in his constricted throat, Jamie realised exactly what the man intended. “Get away from me, you bastard.” He surged forward, but Emil, the soldier he’d injured earlier, slammed him back into the wall. The back of his head struck hard plaster, and stars whirled in his vision. He gasped for air as Emil shoved him brutally to the stone floor and forced him to his belly. Oh, God, not this too –
“Soft little bitch, aren’t you? You –“ A choked sound emerged from the man’s throat, and there was a sudden heavy thud. Jamie found himself rolled onto his back. He opened his mouth, and a strong hand clamped over it, silencing his outcry.
“Jamie!”
Jamie twisted as hard as he could, trying to bite the offending hand. A body pinned his to the floor, stilling his frantic struggling.
“Ouch! Jamie – Jamie, for God’s sake, be quiet!” a voice whispered in his ear. “Shh!”
Can’t be. Oh God, I’m going mad.
“Jamie, hush. Hush, please. It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s Jim.”
*
Author: Alex
Fandom: War Horse
Rating: Varies, G to NC-17
Pairing: Jamie Stewart/Jim Nicholls
Disclaimer: No money made, no harm intended. Michael Morpurgo owns War Horse and its characters.
Summary: Captured in battle, Major Jamie Stewart faces an uncertain fate.
Warnings: Violence, explicit sexual content.
Notes: Canon divergent [see pairing]
Additional note: Brief attempted sexual assault in this chapter.
Can also be read on AO3
*
Chapter 2
Do you remember that hour of din before the attack–
And the anger, the blind compassion that seized and shook you then
As you peered at the doomed and haggard faces of your men?
Do you remember the stretcher-cases lurching back
With dying eyes and lolling heads—those ashen-grey
Masks of the lads who once were keen and kind and gay?
Siegfried Sassoon, Aftermath
One of the soldiers who’d captured him had taken his watch (a gift from his grandfather; he’d treasured it and no heartfelt entreaty could induce the wretch to return it to him) and hovering between uneasy consciousness and fitful sleep, Jamie had no idea how much time had passed in the windowless and increasingly airless room until the door opened, revealing a bright wash of sunlight. He held his arm up, wincing against the sudden brilliance, and before he had a moment to orient himself, two uniformed figures blocked the light, shouldering their way through the door, grasping him by the arms, and hauling him to his feet.
Here it comes, then – the end. Chin up, you fool. Face it bravely. He’d not suffered a scratch in the melee, and he counted the beating he’d received in the square as nothing at all. There was no excuse to stumble along like an invalid. The effort that it took to stand straight and tall, to get his feet moving without dragging, shocked him, but he managed – just. There was, he supposed, still a part of him that clung fiercely to life, even as its end loomed terrifyingly near. It would be a firing squad, most likely, in the square to deter insurrectionists. They would parade him out, bind him to a post, blindfold him, pin a square of cloth over his heart, and then –
He must have made some small noise of distress, for the two soldiers pulling him along gave him a curious look. Mortified, Jamie clenched his teeth and walked on, planting his feet firmly enough to make his steps ring out in the stone hallway. Your dignity’s all you’ve got now. Hang on to it, for Christ’s sweet sake.
They stopped before a featureless wooden door, and one soldier turned the knob and pushed Jamie over the threshold. He glanced round, puzzled, at the little washroom and enclosed water closet.
“Go on,” the soldier said in German. “Hurry up, though.” Jamie hesitated, and the soldier gave him a shove. “Well, go on! I haven’t got all day.”
Jamie closed the door behind him and slipped into the water closet. It was an unexpected kindness, allowing him some rudimentary hygiene before being shot; it would prevent further humiliation after his death. Not that he would care much, but still, it was more than he’d expected. He finished and washed his hands and face at the little pedestal sink, illuminated by a pretty fluted gaslight, and stared at himself in the mirror. He was unshaven, his hair was awry, the blow to his face had caused a black eye, and his mouth was swollen, but otherwise he looked perfectly well, whole and hearty. He wetted his hair, damping down the worst of the cowlicks, and thought of Jim, who’d complained about the troublesome nature of curly hair.
---Damned silly nuisance. I can never get it to lie one way or the other.
---Like as not that’s because you’ve got any number of girls queuing up to rumple it.
---True, true. I’m a six-foot, two-inch Little Lord Fauntleroy, Jamie. God help me.
---Doubt that’s how they see you, old man.
---You don’t believe me?
---Not a jot’s worth. Come off it, you know you’re a handsome devil.
---Flattery, my dear chap, will get you everywhere.
Jamie pressed his hands to his face, ignoring the pain of his bruises. He’d never given much thought to an afterlife, he’d had no use for the notion, but now – he hoped Jim was in Heaven, and if there was any justice, he might see him once more. There wasn’t much to keep either of them out. Jamie had had longings, to be sure, but when it came right down to brass tacks, he’d been chaste. And Jim had been as good and sweet, as deeply conscientious, as it was possible for any man to be. It wasn’t fair, God damn it all, it wasn’t fair –
“Hey! Get your arse out here, Tommy!”
Jamie straightened his tunic, then opened the door and stepped out, coldly meeting the gazes of the two soldiers. They were boys, neither of them any older than the subaltern who’d been shot yesterday.
“Better,” one said to the other.
“I think he can walk on his own.” The second soldier stepped back respectfully and swept a hand out, indicating that Jamie should precede them. Jamie gave no indication that he understood what they were saying, and moved forward with a disdainful glare for both of them. Boys, he thought despondently, doing a man’s job. God help them all.
Jamie paused at the double doors leading outside, but the soldiers shook their heads and pointed further down the corridor. His heart sank. Not a simple death, then. He feared torture – not only because of the likelihood of agony, but because as an officer, he was privy to sensitive information, and he had heard from his father, who had fought in the Boer War, that eventually, everyone talked. Courage counted for nothing when the soles of one’s feet were slowly roasting thanks to a white-hot iron poker.
He was surprised, then, to be escorted to a small but handsomely appointed room, where a table had been set for breakfast. The first young soldier pointed to the food. “Eat,” he said, “but if you get sick, you’ll clean it up.” When Jamie didn’t move, the boy rolled his eyes and made gestures of scooping food into his mouth. “Eat!”
“Or don’t,” the other boy said. “I don’t give a damn. Come on, Eber.” He pushed Jamie toward the table and left the room with the first soldier, closing the door firmly.
Jamie stared at the food, which looked utterly delectable and was emitting the most exquisite aromas. He hadn’t eaten for at least twenty-four hours, and his stomach was making plaintive noises. Perhaps it was poisoned, though.
Does it matter, if I’m going to die? Might as well die on a full stomach.
He sat at the table and spread a fresh linen napkin on his lap. There was ham and boiled eggs and fresh bread with butter and jam, and a pot of coffee. He ate, tentatively at first, then with intense appetite. The condemned man’s last meal, he thought with grim humor, but his gallows wit failed to stop him. Only when he was halfway through the excellent breakfast did it occur to him that perhaps his men were not faring so well. He set down his fork, laid the napkin on the table, and got to his feet, feeling ill.
The door opened, and a young man strode in, wearing the uniform of a German cavalry captain. “Major James Stewart?”
Jamie stood at parade rest and lifted his chin. “Yes.”
The captain took off his cap and gave a brief, courteous bow. “Good morning to you.” He spoke in excellent English. “I am Rittmeister Christian Maier, First Württemberg division.” He held out a gloved hand, which Jamie ignored. A faint blush spread over his already pink cheeks, and he shrugged. “Have you enjoyed your breakfast? The residents here have been most hospitable.”
“Not by choice, I’ll wager.”
Maier smiled. “Major Stewart, they are a sensible people and understand that they are as free as is possible at the moment. But I have interrupted your meal – please, sit down.”
“I shall stand if it’s all the same to you.”
“As you like. I, however, will sit.” The young captain strode to the table, took the seat opposite Jamie’s plate, and helped himself to a slice of bread. “Yesterday was a most devastating loss for you. Please believe my most heartfelt sentiments when I express my sorrow.”
“You weren’t there yourself,” Jamie said. The German battalions had been infantry only.
“No.” Maier buttered his bread and spread a spoonful of jam onto it. “No, Major Stewart. As you no doubt witnessed, there is a decided time and place for cavalry action, and it is no longer on an open field of battle. Your charge was undoubtedly brave, but foolish.” He took a bite of bread, chewed, and swallowed. “I have seen your horse. A magnificent animal. Some of the officers were looking upon him with a covetous eye.”
Jamie’s heart thumped dolefully for the loss of Topthorn. “Don’t mistreat him. He’s a splendid creature.”
“It is not for me to say, alas, but I will pass the word. Major, please – do sit down. You are giving me a twinge in my neck.”
Reluctantly, Jamie resumed his seat, perching stiff-backed on the edge of his chair.
“Finish your breakfast.”
“I want assurance that my men are receiving fair and decent treatment.”
“Naturally they are. You may speak to them later, if you wish.” That was a surprise. Jamie stared warily at Maier, who poured himself a cup of coffee and added cream. He sipped and closed his eyes as if in ecstasy. “God. After the horrors of field coffee, it is delightful to taste the real thing, is it not?” He smiled ingenuously at Jamie. “I am a great admirer of the English. I spent many summers in your Yorkshire Dales. A beautiful place. Most beautiful. And the Bilsdale hunt – perhaps the most exciting thing I have ever witnessed.”
Jamie had hunted in the Bilsdale twice. “Indeed?”
“Oh, yes. A triumph. I have devoured Horse and Hound more intently than the Bible.” Maier spoke effusively about fox hunting for a few moments. “You have the look of a hunter to me, Major.”
“Yes.” Jamie felt himself unbending in the presence of this friendly young man. “Not much recently, but…in my youth.”
Maier leaned back and took a little box from his pocket. He extracted a cigarette and offered it to Jamie. “Please.” Jamie took the cigarette, and Maier stood and walked round the table with a lighter. He leaned close and cupped the flame with a hand, then straightened to light his own cigarette. “So great was my enthusiasm that my parents established a hunt in our town. It was most popular. I regret I have missed it this year.” He exhaled and sat again. “You cannot imagine the thrill of seeing such accomplished men and even women.” He talked for a while, volubly and knowledgeably, about hunting and other English sporting events. His admiration was both amusing and somewhat touching. “Are there many hunters among your cavalry?”
“I expect so. A few in my regiment at least. Or there were.” Jamie glanced down at the uneaten food and felt a mingled stab of sorrow and guilt.
“In every cavalry regiment, yes?”
“I suppose so.”
“You have more cavalry strung along West Flanders, I imagine.”
“They’ve been –“ Jamie bit his lip hard enough to draw blood and looked up at the young officer, who was staring at him intently from behind a cloud of smoke. “Ah. I see. Lulling me into complacency, is that the idea?” He stubbed out his cigarette and rose to his feet, furious with himself. He had been lulled, by Maier’s easy manner, by his conversation, by the luxurious breakfast. “To hell with you.”
Maier shook his head. “Major, please sit.”
Jamie stood at parade rest once more and kept his eyes fixed above Maier’s head.
The young captain stood with a sigh and walked toward Jamie. He stopped at arm’s length and spoke softly. “Major, I tell you something in confidence, because I do admire you English, and all I told you was true. It is best that you speak to me. Some of the other men in the battalions here are not so sympathetic to you. They may not treat you as gently. Do you understand me?”
Go and rot, Jamie thought.
“And they may not treat your men as gently.”
“Leave them be. They –“ Jamie clamped his mouth shut again. They know nothing, he’d been about to say, implying that information was his alone. Christ, how many more blunders will you make before all this is over? Keep your blasted mouth quiet.
Maier shook his head. “I understand your reluctance, Major Stewart, but I beg you to reconsider.”
Jamie stared straight ahead.
“Perhaps you need some time to think. I will grant you that, but mind you that time is passing rapidly. If you can help us, so much the better for you and your men.” Maier went to the door and opened it. “Come and collect him.” As the young soldiers re-entered the room and took him by the arms, the young captain shook his head. “I like you, Major. Perhaps in another life, we might have been friends, you and I.” He nodded to the soldiers. “Back to the cell.”
Jamie thought about demanding to see his men, but regretfully decided against it. His stubbornness would hardly inspire mercy or sympathy. He should have made the demand before listening to Maier’s endless nattering about hunting and cricket. Christ, you’re a fool, he told himself. You’re destroying everything you touch. The excellent breakfast roiled unpleasantly in his stomach.
They heaved him into the little room and locked him within once more. Jamie stood in the center of the dark, stuffy little chamber for a moment without moving. At last, he removed his tunic and folded it neatly, then sank to the floor, his back straight against the plaster wall, and waited for whatever would come next.
He had no other choice.
*
He waited for two days. The soldiers on guard duty occasionally let him out to use the toilet, and he marked the passage of time by the light or darkness in the corridor on those occasions. The guards brought him meals – not the relatively sumptuous viands that had been his breakfast, but plain bread and water, and once or twice a sausage or a piece of cheese. It was enough to keep body and soul together, and though he burned to know that his men were also receiving food and humane treatment, he kept silent, not speaking to his captors in English or German. He hoped that they would possibly grow careless and reveal some piece of information that might aid in his escape.
For he was determined to escape. He had no intention of compounding the gross strategic error he’d made by adding his own death and the deaths of his remaining men to the butcher’s bill. Something practicable had to come from all this. He knew that rescue was a forlorn hope, best not thought of, and even if he did escape there might be hell to pay at Whitehall for his stupidity, but he would take it as a richly deserved penance. Apart from his gaolers, though, no-one spoke to him, or came to interrogate him, and after two days he grew sorely puzzled and impatient.
His attempts to break out of his room had been laughable at best. They’d taken every useful object from him – his spurs, his jack knife, even the scabbard to his sword. The only potentially dangerous article left on his person was a stock pin he’d worn on his tie in the shape of a riding crop, with a tiny fox’s head at its tip. He’d tried to work it into the space between the door jamb and the latch and had only succeeded in bending the dashed thing beyond use. Swearing vilely, he’d hurled it into a corner and delivered a vicious kick to the door, budging it not one whit but bruising his toe rather badly. Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, he sank to his knees and covered his face, and it was in that abject state that the soldiers found him.
“Praying, Tommy? Good idea.” One of the soldiers grasped his arm and tried to pull him up.
Heartily sick of being treated like a child or a piece of luggage sent to the wrong port, Jamie struck at the man’s hand and stood up, groaning involuntarily at the pain in his toe. “I can stand on my own, damn your eyes!” He snatched up his tunic and shrugged into it, buttoning it as the young men snapped their fingers at him to hurry. “Oh, go to hell. You’ve kept me waiting long enough.”
They hustled him down the corridor and this time stopped at the set of double doors leading to the square. Flinging the doors open, they dragged him into the hot August sunshine and across the cobbles where a post had been erected and where a company of German soldiers and officers waited. His stomach roiled angrily, and fearing he would be sick and disgrace himself, he stood utterly still, planting his feet and bringing his jailers to an abrupt halt.
“Now he’s scared,” one of them said with evident satisfaction.
“Good.”
Jamie swallowed and forced his feet into motion. Our Father, which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done in earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen. His heart trembled as they drew close to the assemblage, but he forced himself to stand straight and proud despite his fear and his unwashed, bedraggled state. He looked into the face of one of the officers, recognising the colonel who had harshly berated him at the battle’s conclusion. The man recognised him as well and gave him a cold smile. Jamie said nothing, though his whole soul cried out in protest. If this was his punishment for refusing to betray his comrades, then so be it.
“Get your frigging hands off me, God damn you!”
Jamie turned at the shout and saw three soldiers dragging a bound and blindfolded man in a British uniform toward the assembled group. They tied him to the post, deaf to his curses, and stepped away, clearing the square. Four Germans with rifles moved forward and readied their weapons.
Horror closed Jamie’s throat. He stared at the captive soldier, then at the German colonel. “What –“
“We requested information, Major Stewart,” the colonel replied. “You refused to comply. Witness now the result of your obstinacy.”
“Oh, God almighty,” Jamie whispered. “No.”
“Proceed,” the colonel said shortly.
“No!” Jamie threw himself at the man, but found himself caught and pinned in the blink of an eye. He thrashed violently, desperately, all to no avail. The soldiers holding him twisted his arms brutally up toward his shoulders, stilling his struggles and wrenching a cry of pain from his aching throat.
“Ready!” someone called. The riflemen shouldered their weapons.
“Aim!”
“Fire!”
Acrid smoke drifted past his nostrils, and the noise of the shots resounded in his ears. His eyes blurring with furious tears, Jamie sagged in his captors’ grip and would have sunk to his knees had they not pulled him up to face the German colonel, who stood close to him, anger sparking in his eyes.
“There are still fifty living prisoners, Major. Tomorrow I shall execute two.” He surveyed Jamie closely. “Unless you wish to share your knowledge with me.”
Jamie glared at him with all the defiance he could muster, though he believed every word the man said. He refused to speak. To lose two more of his men – God, no. And the next day three, or four, and the next, and the next? But to speak might mean the death of hundreds more. Nothing had prepared him for this – the irascible or bluff instructors at Sandhurst had never told him that one day he might be personally accountable for the lives of his men. Battle was one thing; this was another entirely. Was his knowledge so valuable?
God help me. I don’t know what to do.
They marched him away and threw him back into the cell. He drew his knees up, wrapped his arms round them, and gave himself up to silent misery. He prayed in desperation, sending up an inarticulate petition: Help me. Please help me.
There was no answer.
*
The next day, as promised, there was another gathering on the public square. This time the execution was witnessed by a group of villagers – women, mostly, and children and old men, a congregation of the powerless, too cowed and frightened to fight back. They watched in silence as the soldiers took aim and shot the prisoners one by one. Afterward, a small band of citizens was allowed to retrieve the bodies. They wheeled them away in an open cart, their bodies covered with rough linen sheets, stained red here and there where the fabric had settled.
The colonel lit a cigarette, given to him by the young cavalry captain, Maier. “Still stubborn, Major.”
Maier met Jamie’s gaze and shook his head, his eyes troubled.
“It has been quiet,” the colonel said. “Surely there must be another battalion approaching. Another band of mounted fools, do you suppose? Or something else?”
Jamie turned away so the colonel would not see how his chin trembled.
“Very well,” the colonel sighed. “Tomorrow, four.”
*
This time the rest of the prisoners were assembled on the square under heavy guard. Jamie scrutinised them surreptitiously; they looked battered and weary, but still fairly clear-eyed. They had been receiving adequate food, at least; none of them appeared to be fainting with hunger.
Jamie’s guards, accompanied by the colonel, forced him to walk to the company of prisoners. They had fettered his hands behind his back and bound his ankles with a set of old-fashioned, rusting chains that allowed him enough movement to walk in short, awkward strides. Hard fingers dug into his shoulders, forcing him to his knees in front of his men.
“I think,” the colonel said softly, “you should apologise to these men for putting them through such a terrifying ordeal.”
Jamie could scarcely lift his eyes to meet those of his men. He knew damned well that his captors were visiting deliberate humiliations upon him, but kneeling before them, restrained, taunted, powerless – the sensation cut deeper than he had thought possible.
“Jamie,” a soft voice said.
Shocked, Jamie looked up and saw Charlie Waverly, a clumsy bandage wrapped round his head, supported between two men. “Charlie – good God, we thought we’d lost you.”
“Almost did,” Charlie grinned. “I’m tougher than I look, Jamie.”
He looked dreadful, Jamie thought anxiously. “Have you lot been getting medical attention?”
“Some. There are some lads back in the prison – it’s a storehouse, Jamie – they can’t walk, and I keep asking for someone to get a dispatch to the Red Cross, but I’m ignored quite roundly.” Charlie shook his head.
Jamie longed to stand. He looked up at the faces of his men, once so hopeful, bright and clear, and now drawn with fatigue and a fast-fading hope. “Gentlemen…there is no way I can possibly express my sorrow at this debacle.” He swallowed past a lump in his throat. “You have all acted with the utmost bravery, and I ask you to hold fast a little while longer. There must be some way –“
“What he would like to say,” the colonel said, overriding Jamie’s words, “is that you are dying because this man refuses to give up the most trivial information to save your skins. You are worth less to him than the mud beneath his feet. You die, and he stays in the most commodious rooms and dines from silver plate. He is a coward, and you will die for him.”
A shocked hush fell over the ragged company of men.
Jamie struggled for words. He could not tear his gaze from the faces of his company as they stared at him. “I –“
“Choose four, Major.”
“What?” Jamie stared up at the colonel in consternation.
“Did you not hear me? Choose the four you wish to sacrifice today.”
The breath suddenly left Jamie’s body. He felt as if he would faint, and remained upright through sheer force of will. “You – you cannot ask me to make that decision. I will not.”
The colonel shrugged. “If you cannot choose four, it will be eight.” A rustling gasp came from the prisoners.
“No! For God’s sake – you cannot ask me that. Have pity, I – I implore you.” Jamie’s cheeks burned with shame. To be reduced to begging was intolerable, but there was no question of him choosing who among his men would die. He would die first. A gasp escaped him. It was the only possible solution. “Kill me instead, if you must kill someone. Make an example of me.”
The colonel merely snorted and turned away.
“Don’t tell him a bleeding thing, sir!” a voice called. “Sod ‘im!”
A ragged cheer went up among the prisoners.
“Tell him where he can stuff his trivial information!” another voice cried.
“And his mother, too!” Another cheer sounded, louder and more defiant.
Jamie’s heart swelled with pride. “God bless you, lads,” he shouted hoarsely. “They will never defeat us.”
“Eight!” the colonel shouted above another rally of cheers. He pointed at Charlie. “Start with this one!”
Jamie felt himself dragged backward, pulled away from his men, who seemed on the verge of revolt, but the soldiers streamed in with bayonets and the butts of rifles, pounding and thrusting, and all too soon the prisoners were contained and marched back to their gaol as Jamie watched helplessly, fighting against the soldiers who held him back. Eight men, Charlie among them, were unceremoniously pushed toward the stone wall of the courthouse. A low buzzing sounded from the townspeople who watched with accusing eyes. There were too few of them to effect the least change.
Sixteen riflemen gathered in front of the wall.
Charlie’s face was whiter than the dirty bandage around his head, but he met Jamie’s eyes and saluted briefly, then smiled.
“Murderers,” Jamie gasped, still twisting and thrashing in the soldiers’ grip. “God damn you all –“
The shots rang out, and the stone walls ran red.
*
He scarcely knew he was weeping when they hauled him back to his cell. Unable to kick, he smashed his head into one of the soldier’s chin, prompting the man to reel back with a curse. He backhanded Jamie hard enough to send him crashing to the floor. Apparently unsatisfied with that simple retribution, he kicked Jamie in the stomach, aggravating old bruises and driving the breath from his body. Jamie writhed on the floor, gasping like a fish.
“You little bastard,” growled the soldier. He was even taller than Jamie and twice as broad. “You damn near made me bite my tongue off.” He kicked Jamie again. “I’m going to fucking kill you.”
“Emil!” The second solider caught the arm of the first and wrenched him away. “You will kill him if you don’t stop.” He heaved his companion away from Jamie and shoved him up against the wall. “Colonel Weber will have your head on a plate if you kill him.”
Emil, panting for breath, spat, then wiped his mouth. “Little shit.”
“All right, all right,” his friend said soothingly.
“I’m going to fix you,” Emil muttered. “Just wait.”
*
They hadn’t bothered to release his hands or feet, and Jamie spent hours trying to find a comfortable position on the floor that didn’t wrench his shoulders out of joint. He finally found relief simply sitting up against the wall, though it wouldn’t help him sleep. Not that it mattered – he’d given up sleep as a loss some time ago, with Charlie’s brave smile burned into his memory. Now and then he closed his eyes in an attempt to drive the horror away, but it lingered stubbornly, a spade struck against frozen ground.
Charlie.
And Hallam, and Mitchell, and Talbot, and Bradford, and O’Meara, and Benchley, and Fawcett. Their names lay heavy upon his heart, each a thorn of remembrance. Casualties of war, harsh, appalling, no consolation whatsoever in the thought. Jamie could no longer pray; he merely waited in numb silence for whatever was to come next.
The door opened, and a tall figure was silhouetted on the threshold.
“English pig.”
Jamie stared in blank defeat at the hulking figure. “Go away,” he whispered.
“I can’t kill you,” the figure said in an equally soft tone, advancing into the room. “But I can make you wish you were never born.” The man crouched beside Jamie and placed a huge hand around his throat. “You make one sound and I’ll cut your tongue out.” The man’s other hand slipped down and lay hot and heavy on Jamie’s thigh.
With a sudden sour taste of fear sharp in his constricted throat, Jamie realised exactly what the man intended. “Get away from me, you bastard.” He surged forward, but Emil, the soldier he’d injured earlier, slammed him back into the wall. The back of his head struck hard plaster, and stars whirled in his vision. He gasped for air as Emil shoved him brutally to the stone floor and forced him to his belly. Oh, God, not this too –
“Soft little bitch, aren’t you? You –“ A choked sound emerged from the man’s throat, and there was a sudden heavy thud. Jamie found himself rolled onto his back. He opened his mouth, and a strong hand clamped over it, silencing his outcry.
“Jamie!”
Jamie twisted as hard as he could, trying to bite the offending hand. A body pinned his to the floor, stilling his frantic struggling.
“Ouch! Jamie – Jamie, for God’s sake, be quiet!” a voice whispered in his ear. “Shh!”
Can’t be. Oh God, I’m going mad.
“Jamie, hush. Hush, please. It’s all right. You’re safe. It’s Jim.”
*
