Читать книгу: «The Blooding», страница 2
Why hadn’t she done as she was told? he thought bleakly. Why hadn’t she stayed inside? His slow crawl through the dirt came to a halt as a shadow fell across him.
“Don’t move,” a voice said gently.
He looked up and found himself face to face with one of the uniformed rifle bearers.
A firm hand touched his shoulder. “Lieutenant Gil Wyatt, Ranger Company.”
“Rangers?” Archer blinked in confusion and then, as the significance of the word hit him, he made a desperate grab for Wyatt’s arm. “My wife; she’s hurt!”
“My men will see to her,” Wyatt said. He flicked a glance at Donaldson, who crossed swiftly to the cabin. “Let me take a look at your wound.”
“No!” Archer thrust away Wyatt’s hand. “She needs me!”
He tried to push himself off the ground, but the effort proved too much and he sank down. “Help her,” he urged. “Please.”
Wyatt looked off to where Donaldson was crouched over the fallen woman. A grim expression on his gaunt face, the Ranger shook his head. Laying his hand on Archer’s shoulder once more, Wyatt helped him sit up. “I’m so very sorry. I’m afraid we’re too late. She’s gone.”
The wounded man let out a cry of despair. Knowing that nothing he could say would help, Wyatt scanned the clearing. Twenty minutes ago, he had been up on the hill, admiring the tranquillity. Now the ground seemed to be strewn with bodies. As Donaldson covered the woman’s face with a cloth, Wyatt turned back to her husband.
Archer made no protest as Wyatt prised his hand from the wound, but he could not suppress a gasp of pain as the Ranger opened the bloodied shirt.
One glance told Wyatt all he needed to know. “We must get you to a surgeon.”
The nearest practitioner was in Johnstown, but to deliver the wounded man there would be asking for trouble. An army surgeon and a brace of medical assistants had accompanied the invasion force. They were the farmer’s best chance.
Although, given his current condition, Wyatt doubted whether the wounded man would survive the first eight yards, let alone the eight miles they’d need to traverse across what was, in effect, hostile country.
He looked off towards the paddock, where the horses were staring back at him, ears pricked. Wyatt could tell they were skittish, no doubt agitated by the recent skirmish, but it gave him an idea.
“Is there a cart or a wagon?” he asked.
“The barn,” Archer replied weakly. He tried to point but found he couldn’t lift his arm.
“Easy,” Wyatt said. Cupping the farmer’s shoulder, he called to his men. “Jem! Billy! There’s transport in the barn! Hitch up the horses! Smartly now!”
As he watched them go, he heard a murmur and realized the farmer was speaking to him. He lowered his head to catch the words.
“You’re Rangers?” Archer enquired hoarsely as his lips tried to form the question. “What are you doing here?”
“We came for you,” Wyatt said.
“Me?” Puzzlement clouded the farmer’s face.
“You and others like you. We’re here under the orders of Governor-General Haldimand. When he learned that Congress was threatening to intern all Loyalists, he directed Colonel Johnson to lead a force across the border to rescue as many families as he could and escort them back to British soil.”
Archer stared at him blankly. “Sir John’s returned?”
“Two nights ago. With five hundred fighting men, and a score to settle. Scouting units have been gathering up all those who wish to leave, from Tribe’s Hill to as far west as the Nose.”
“There’s not many of us left.” Archer spoke through gritted teeth. “Most have already sold up and gone north after having their barns burned down and their homes looted, or their cattle maimed or poisoned.” Sweat coating his forehead, he winced and pressed his hand to his side until the wave of pain subsided enough for him to continue. “All for refusing to serve in home defence units. This wasn’t the first visit I’d had but this time they were threatening to throw me in prison and take my farm.”
“Those men were militia?”
“Citizens’ Committee. They were under orders to take me to Johnstown to pledge allegiance to the flag. I told them to ride on.” The farmer bowed his head. “I should have gone with them.” He looked towards the cabin and his face crumpled.
“You weren’t to know it would end like this,” Wyatt said softly. “If I’d realized who they were, I’d have given the order to intercede sooner.”
His face pinched with pain and grief, Archer looked up. “How many have you gathered so far?”
“A hundred perhaps, including wives and children and some Negro slaves. They’re all at the Hall. It’s the rendezvous point.”
There was no response. Wyatt thought the farmer had passed out until he saw his eyelids flutter open, the eyes casting about in confusion before suddenly opening wide. As Wyatt followed his gaze in search of the cause, the breath caught like a hook in his throat.
Ephraim Smede came to with blood pooling along the rim of his right eye socket. He blinked and the world took on a pinkish sheen. He blinked again and his vision began to clear. He was aware that the gunfire had ceased but an inner voice, allied to the pain from the open gash across his forehead, told him it would be better to remain where he was so he lay unmoving, listening; alert to the sounds around him.
A few more seconds passed before he raised himself up. He did so slowly. His first view was of his brother’s corpse. Beyond Levi, he could see the bodies of their companions, along with the two dead horses. Pools of blood were soaking into the ground, darkening the soil. Flies were starting to swarm.
He could hear voices but they were low and indistinct. He couldn’t see who was speaking because the rump of Isaac Meeker’s dead nag blocked his line of sight.
It occurred to Smede that he was probably the only one of Deacon’s party left alive. From the looks of Axel Shaw, he must have bled to death. There was no sign of Kidd, but Smede doubted the youth would have survived the ambush – or stuck around if he had.
Which meant he was on his own, with a decision to make. Inevitably, his eyes were drawn to his brother’s glassy stare and a fresh spark of anger flared within him.
As his gaze alighted on Levi’s pistol.
A low moan came from close by. Smede dropped down quickly. He held his breath, waiting until the sound trailed off before cautiously raising his head once. Will Archer was propped some twenty paces away. One of the green-clad men was with him; he shouted something and two of the attackers ran immediately towards the barn.
Another movement drew Ephraim’s attention. A second pair was rounding up the horses. One of them, Ephraim saw to his consternation, was an Indian. His startled gaze took in the face paint and the weapons that the dark-skinned warrior carried about him. There was also what appeared to be a lock of hair hanging from his breechclout.
Bile rose into the back of Ephraim’s throat. Escape, he now realized, wasn’t only advisable; it was essential.
He watched through narrowed eyes, nerves taut, as the two Rangers pulled open the barn door and disappeared inside. Quickly, his gaze turned back to the pistol lying a few feet away. He looked over his shoulder.
Now, he thought.
Concealed by Meeker’s horse, Smede inched his way towards the unguarded firearm until he was able to close his fingers around the gun’s smooth walnut grip.
He took another deep breath, gathering himself, waiting until the Indian’s attention was averted. One chance at a clear shot; that’s all he would get.
And then he would run.
He knew the woods like the back of his hand; if he could just make it to the trees, the forest would hide him.
Maybe.
His main fear was the Mohawk, because the pistol, with its single load, was all he had. But his brother’s killer came first. An eye for an eye, so that Levi could go to the grave knowing that his brother had exacted revenge. So …
In one fluid motion, Smede snatched up the gun, rose to his feet, took aim, and fired.
As the blood-smeared figure tilted towards them, Wyatt, caught between supporting the wounded Archer and reaching for his weapon, let out a yell. Alerted by his cry, Tewanias and Donaldson both turned.
Too late.
The ball thudded into Archer’s chest and he collapsed back into Wyatt’s arms with a muffled grunt.
Whereupon Ephraim Smede, who was about to launch himself in the direction of the woods, paused, his features suddenly distorting in a combination of shock, pain and disbelief. Mouth open, he uttered no sound as his body arched and spasmed in mid-air.
As Wyatt and the others looked on in astonishment, Smede’s legs buckled and, one hand clutching the spent pistol, he pitched forward on to his face.
It wasn’t until the body struck the ground that Wyatt saw the stem of the hatchet that protruded from the base of Smede’s skull and the slim figure that, until then, had been blocked from view by Smede’s temporarily resurrected form.
“No!” Coming out of his trance, Wyatt threw out his arm.
Tewanias, whose finger was already tightening on the trigger, paused and then slowly lowered his musket. A frown of puzzlement flickered across the war-painted face.
Wyatt felt a tremor move through Archer’s body. It was obvious from the uneven rise and fall of the wounded man’s chest that death was imminent.
The eyes fluttered open one last time and focused on Smede’s killer with a look that might have been part relief and part wonderment. Then his expression broke and he grabbed Wyatt’s sleeve and pulled him close.
Wyatt had to bow his head to catch the words:
“Keep him safe.”
The farmer’s head fell against Wyatt’s arm. Wyatt felt for a pulse but there was none. He looked up.
The boy, though tall, couldn’t be much more than eleven or twelve years old. For all that, the expression on his face was one that Wyatt had seen mirrored by much older men when the battle was over and the scent of blood and death hung in the air.
A shock of dark hair flopped over the boy’s forehead as his eyes took in the scene of devastation, his jaw clenching when he saw the body on the porch. Running across the clearing to where Wyatt was crouched over the farmer’s body, he fell to his knees.
Close to, Wyatt could see tear tracks glistening amid the grime on the boy’s face. A trembling hand reached out and gently touched the dead man’s arm.
“Aunt Beth told me to hide in the cellar, but I came back up.” The boy looked to where Ephraim Smede’s corpse lay in the dirt. “I saw that man shoot her. Then he fell off his horse and I thought he was dead. But he was only pretending.”
The boy’s voice shook. “I wanted to warn you, but there was shooting out front, so I went round the back by the woodpile. I saw the man pick up the gun. I was too scared to call out in case he saw me. I picked up the axe thinking I might scare him. Only I was too late. He …” The boy paused. “He shot Uncle Will, so I hit him as hard as I could.”
The boy’s voice gave way. Fresh tears welled. Letting go of the farmer’s arm, he lifted a hand to wipe the wetness from his cheeks and looked over his shoulder, his jaw suddenly set firm. “He won’t hurt anyone again, will he?”
“No,” Wyatt said, staring at the axe handle. “No, lad, he won’t.”
An equine snort sounded from close by. Wyatt, glad of the distraction, saw it was Tewanias and Donaldson returning with the captured mounts. Behind them, Billy Drew, flanked by Jem Beddowes, was leading one of the two farm horses, harnessed to a low-slung, flat-bed cart.
As they caught his eye, Wyatt gently released the farmer’s body, stood up and shook his head. “Sorry, Billy. We won’t be needing it after all.”
“He’s gone?” Drew asked.
“Aye.”
“Son?” Drew indicated the boy.
“Nephew,” Wyatt said heavily. “Far as I can tell.”
“Poor wee devil,” Drew said. Then he caught sight of the axe. “Jesus,” he muttered softly.
“What’ll we do with them?” Donaldson enquired, indicating Deacon and the other dead Committee members.
“Not a damned thing,” Wyatt snapped. “They can lay there and rot as far as I’m concerned.”
“Seems fair.” Donaldson agreed, before adding quietly, “And the other two?”
“Them we do take care of. They deserve a decent burial, if nothing else. See if you can find a shovel. It’s a farm. There’ll be one around somewhere.”
“And then?” Beddowes said.
“And then we report back.”
“The boy?”
“He comes with us,” Wyatt said. “We might as well take advantage of the horses, too.” He turned. “Can you ride, lad?”
The boy looked up. “Yes, sir. That one’s mine. He’s called Jonah.” He indicated the horse that Billy Drew had left in the paddock. It was the smaller one of the two.
“There was tack in the barn,” Beddowes offered.
Wyatt turned. “Very well, saddle him up and take this one back. Make sure he’s got plenty of feed and water. We’ll see to the rest.” Wyatt addressed the boy. “You go with Jem; show him where you keep Jonah’s blanket and bridle.”
Hesitantly, the boy rose to his feet. Wyatt waited until he was out of earshot, then turned to the others.
“All right, we’d best get it over with.”
They buried Archer and his wife in the shade of a tall oak tree that grew behind the cabin, marking the graves with a pair of wooden crosses made from pieces of discarded fence post. Neither one bore an inscription. There wasn’t time, Wyatt told them.
Donaldson, whose father had been a minister, was familiar with the scriptures and carried a small bible in his shoulder pouch. He chose the twenty-third psalm, reading it aloud as his fellow Rangers bowed their heads, caps in hand, while the Indian held the horses and looked on stoically.
The scalp had disappeared from the Mohawk’s breechclout. When he’d spotted it, Wyatt had reminded Tewanias of the colonel’s orders: no enemy corpses were to be mutilated. It was with some reluctance that Tewanias returned to the river and laid the scalp across the body of its original owner.
“Let it act as a warning to those who would think to pursue us,” Wyatt told him. “Knowing we are joined with our Mohawk brothers will make our enemies fearful. They will hide in their homes and lock their doors and tremble in the darkness.”
Wyatt wasn’t sure that Tewanias was entirely convinced by that argument, but the Mohawk nodded sagely as if he agreed with the words. In any case, both of them knew there were likely to be other battles and therefore other scalps for the taking, so, for the time being at least, honour was satisfied.
The boy stood gazing down at the graves with Wyatt’s hand resting on his shoulder. The dog, Tam, lay at his side, having been released from the cabin when, under Wyatt’s direction, the boy had returned to the house to gather up his possessions for the journey.
Donaldson ended the reading and closed the bible. The Rangers raised their heads and put on their caps.
“Time to go,” Wyatt said. “Saddle up.” He addressed the boy. “You have everything? You won’t be coming back.” The words carried a hard finality.
Tear tracks showing on his cheeks, the boy pointed at the canvas bag slung over his saddle.
Wyatt surveyed the yard – littered with the bodies of Deacon and his men – and the blood-drenched soil now carpeted with bloated flies. It was a world away from the serene, sun-dappled vision that had greeted the Rangers’ arrival earlier that morning.
He glanced towards the three cows in the paddock and the chickens pecking around the henhouse; the livestock would have to fend for themselves. There was enough food and water to sustain them until someone came to see why Archer and his wife hadn’t been to town for a while. There would be others along, too, wondering why the members of the Citizens’ Committee hadn’t returned to the fold.
Let them come, Wyatt thought. Let them see.
The Mohawk warrior handed the boy the reins of his horse and watched critically as he climbed up. Satisfied that the boy knew what he was doing, he wheeled his mount and took up position at the head of the line. With Tewanias riding point, the five men and the boy rode into the stream, towards the track leading into the forest. The dog padded silently behind them.
Halfway across the creek, the Indian turned to the boy and spoke. “Naho:ten iesa:iats?”
The boy looked to Wyatt for guidance.
“He asked you your name,” Wyatt said.
It occurred to Wyatt that in the time they’d spent in the boy’s company, neither he nor any of his men had bothered to ask that question. They’d simply addressed him as “lad” or “son” or, in Donaldson’s case, “young ’un”. Though they all knew the name of the damned dog.
The boy stared at Tewanias and then at each of the Rangers in turn. It was then that Wyatt saw the true colour appear in the boy’s eyes. Blue-grey, the shade of rain clouds after a storm.
The boy drew himself up.
“My name is Matthew,” he said.
1
Albany, New York State, December 1812
BEWARE FOREIGN SPIES & AGITATORS!
The words were printed across the top of the poster, the warning writ large for all to see.
Hawkwood ran his eye down the rest of the deposition. Not much had been left to the imagination. The nation was at war, the country was under threat and the people were urged to remain vigilant at all times.
He glanced over his shoulder. There were no crowds brandishing pitchforks or torches so he assumed he was safe for the time being. He recalled there had been similar pamphlets on display around the quayside in Boston, presumably the preferred port of entry for an enemy bent on subverting the republic. He wondered how many people read the bills and took note of their content; probably not as many as the government wished.
Fortunately for him.
The bill was stuck on the inside of a hatter’s shop window. Under pretence of casting an eye over the merchandise on display, he studied his reflection in the glass, wondering what a subversive might look like and if he fitted the bill. From what he’d seen of the country and its citizens so far, he thought it unlikely that he’d be stopped and asked for his papers, though in the event he was, the problem would not have been insurmountable.
He was about to walk on when movement in the window caught his attention: another reflection, this time of the scene behind him. A man, dressed in an army greatcoat similar to his own was making his way along the opposite side of the street. He was walking with a cane and Hawkwood could see that he was favouring his right leg.
There had been a rainstorm during the night, which had transformed Albany’s thoroughfares into something of a quagmire. The fact that the capital was built on an incline didn’t help matters and even though the rain had stopped, trying to negotiate the sloping streets on foot was, in some areas, as precarious as wading through a Connemara bog. Quite a few folk were having difficulty maintaining their balance. Though not the two characters walking on firmer feet some fifteen paces or so behind the man with the cane.
Over the years, his duties as a Bow Street officer had brought Hawkwood into contact with criminals of every persuasion and his ability to spot miscreants had been honed to a fine edge. From the way the two men were concentrating on the figure in front, Hawkwood was left in no doubt they were intent on mischief.
A small voice inside his head began to whisper.
Not here, not now. Let them go. It’s not your city. It’s not your problem.
Hawkwood looked around him. There was plenty of traffic about, both vehicular and pedestrian and the street was far from deserted, but everyone else was too intent upon their own business to have noticed anything amiss, including the man in the greatcoat who appeared oblivious to the pair on his tail, despite two sets of eyes burning into his back.
Hawkwood watched as the men’s target turned into a narrow side lane. Immediately, the pair quickened their pace. As they disappeared into the lane after him, Hawkwood sighed.
Damn it, he thought, as he crossed the street, narrowly avoiding being run down by an oncoming carriage. Why me?
Twenty paces into the alley, the man in the greatcoat was down on one knee, with his back to the wall. The cane was in his right hand and he was trying to rise while wielding the stick like a sword to ward off his attackers.
It was a pound to a penny the man’s disability was the reason he’d been singled out. A cripple would be considered easy pickings for a couple of rogues. Hawkwood could see that one of the attackers held a knife, while his companion was brandishing a short cudgel.
There wasn’t as much mud here as there had been on the street so the traction was better and Hawkwood’s boots gave him the grip he needed. He felt disinclined to give the pair fair warning.
Only when they saw their victim’s eyes flicker to one side did they turn. Their eyes were still widening as Hawkwood slammed the heel of his right boot against the cudgel man’s left knee cap. The man yelped and went down, the cudgel slipping from his grasp as he clutched his injured limb. His companion immediately dropped into a crouch, the knife held in front of him. He scythed the blade towards Hawkwood’s throat.
Throwing up his right hand, Hawkwood caught the knife man’s wrist and twisted it to lock the arm before slamming the heel of his left hand against the braced elbow. The man yelled as the bone broke and the knife joined the cudgel on the ground. Hawkwood released the arm and stepped back.
“Your choice, gentlemen,” he said calmly, already knowing the answer. “What’ll it be?”
The two men turned tail. At least they’ve one good arm and one good leg between them, Hawkwood thought as he watched them hobble away. He kicked the discarded weapons into the shadows and reached down to the kneeling man who stared back at him with a mixture of shock and disbelief. Gripping Hawkwood’s hand and using his cane as support he rose to his feet and brushed himself down, allowing Hawkwood a glimpse of a uniform jacket beneath the coat.
“Well I don’t know who you are, friend, but I’m damned glad you were in the neighbourhood. The name’s Quade. Major Harlan Quade, Thirteenth Regiment of Infantry.”
The major held on to Hawkwood’s hand.
“Hooper,” Hawkwood said. “Captain Matthew Hooper.”
“I’ll be damned. Well, in that case, Captain Hooper, I hope you’ll allow a major to buy a captain a drink.”
Hawkwood ran a quick eye over what he could see of the major’s tunic and smiled. “Happy to accept, sir. It’s the best offer I’ve had all day.”
Major Quade was currently on medical furlough from wounds sustained on the Niagara Frontier. Watching him stare into the depths of his whiskey glass, Hawkwood wondered if the major’s invitation might not have been born out of a desire for companionship rather than as a gesture to thank him for coming to the man’s rescue.
Not that it wasn’t gratifying to be appreciated every now and again, but Hawkwood suspected it was the rye that was doing most of the talking and he’d already asked himself: if the major had been in civilian dress and had he not identified himself as a ranking officer, would he still have accepted the offer of a drink?
Probably not, but the greatcoat and a glimpse of the uniform beneath it had made Hawkwood’s decision for him. A military man would likely have information about the disposition of local troops, and given Hawkwood’s current status as a foreign combatant on enemy soil it could prove useful to know which areas were best avoided.
They were seated at a table in the Eagle Tavern, less than a stone’s toss from the Hudson River. It was a comfortable enough establishment, with a generous selection of liquors, a moderately civil staff and, more importantly, a welcoming fire in the hearth.
The major had ordered whiskey and stuck to that throughout. Hawkwood had chosen brandy. The breeze that was coming off the water and eddying up the city’s streets was a bracing reminder that it was already winter. A stack of blazing logs and a warming drink were as good a way as any of keeping the chill at bay.
The taproom was enveloped in warmth. With the combined smells of ale, tobacco and victuals and the subdued murmur of conversation permeating the tavern Hawkwood could easily have shut his eyes and imagined, if only for a few brief seconds, that he was back in London, enjoying a wet at the Blackbird Inn.
Only he wasn’t. He was in Albany, New York, half a world away from Bow Street, trying to find some means of getting home.
Still, he thought, at least there was one advantage to being here.
He didn’t have to speak French.
The voyage from Nantes to Boston had taken thirty-two days, one more than Larkspur’s skipper, Jack Larsson, had forecast and thirty-two days too many, as far as Hawkwood was concerned.
Getting out of Paris in the wake of his last assignment had been achieved without too much difficulty but there had always been a weakness in the plan’s second stage, which had been reliant on Larkspur being intercepted and boarded by a British vessel on blockade duty, whereupon Hawkwood would have revealed his identity and secured safe passage back to England.
Regrettably, no one had allowed for the formidable seamanship of Larkspur’s wily skipper. During the five years the blockade had been in place – which required all neutral ships to submit to a cargo inspection at a British port or be seized as an enemy vessel – Jack Larsson had accrued valuable experience in the art of outwitting the Royal Navy’s squadrons. Now that Britain was actually at war with America, he had become even more adept at avoiding detection.
Thus Larkspur had slipped past the British patrols with ease, presenting Hawkwood with the uncomfortable realization that he was America bound.
The one advantage of the month-long voyage was that it had given him time to gather as much information as he could on the fluctuating state of British–American hostilities.
In Paris, up-to-date intelligence had been impossible to glean. Even though European newspapers carried accounts of skirmishes between the two sides, by the time news from the other side of the Atlantic reached the French newspapers or English ones smuggled in from London, it had to be at least six weeks out of date, if not more; which had left Hawkwood with no option but to tap Captain Larsson and his crew without arousing their suspicions.
First he had to gain their confidence. Aided by fraudulently obtained boarding papers which confirmed his identity as one Captain Hooper – an alias he’d used to good effect on previous missions – Hawkwood had been able to pass himself off as an officer in the First Regiment, United States Riflemen, on recent detachment as an observer to a French Regiment of the Line in Spain.
To his relief, Larsson had accepted ‘Captain Hooper’s’ patchy knowledge of the war as a legacy of his months serving with Bonaparte’s army in the Peninsula; which had left them, at least as far as Larkspur’s skipper was concerned, as fellow Americans, united in their patriotism, desirous of fresh news and looking forward to a safe return home from foreign climes.
But while Larsson was cognisant with American naval exploits, he knew little of the land campaign; what meagre information he had on military activity on the western and northern fronts lacked credible detail. The last dispatch he’d been privy to had been dated mid-September, a week before Larkspur had sailed from Boston.
And anything could have happened since then.
And so, on the cold, misty morning when the dark smudge of the Massachusetts coast finally materialized over Larkspur’s larboard bow, while Hawkwood felt the relief surge through him at having made landfall, he knew he was still a long way from salvation.
He’d accepted from the outset that another sea voyage would be an inevitable consequence of his arrival in America, but the thought of trawling the docks in search of a berth on an east-bound merchantman in the vain hope that this time the vessel would be stopped and boarded by the Royal Navy was not an option he’d been prepared to consider; once bitten, twice shy in that regard.
The only viable alternative was to try to reach the British lines. If he could manage that, he would surely be able to secure passage to England.
To achieve that goal, however, he’d first needed to confirm the whereabouts of the most convenient battlefront; short of enlisting, the easiest way of obtaining that information without drawing undue attention to himself was to consult the newspapers. Thus after disembarking and spending a night in a dockside tavern recommended by Larsson, his first objective had been to find the nearest reading room.
At the Exchange Coffee House, arming himself with a selection of journals – archive copies as well as the latest editions – and securing a seat in a corner with his back to the wall, he’d spent the morning familiarizing himself with the state of the nation. The Boston Patriot and the Washington Intelligencer had both carried a variety of dispatches, ranging from accounts of skirmishes and copies of letters from front-line commanders to the Department of War, to lists of the dead and wounded, notifications of promotions, requests for militia volunteers and even reward notices for deserters. More informative, by far, however, had been The War, the aptly titled New York broadsheet, published specifically in order to cover the conflict.
Concentrating on the latter’s editorial, the first thing that struck him was that the tide of war had taken a much grimmer turn since he’d left France, resulting in grave consequences for both sides of the divide.
