Read Online Cate Campbell by Benedict Hall - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Benedict Hall
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eye was caught by the gleam of rain-blurred light on gray water, the slant of a fishing boat’s sails silhouetted against the cloudbank. Everything in Seattle was cool, with muted colors and soft sounds. Jerusalem had been very different. And Jerusalem had changed everything.
The strange thing about that day in Jerusalem was that he hadn’t wanted to go into the Old City at all. The crowds made him uneasy, those throngs of dark-skinned people with their sly glances and jabbering languages no one could understand. It was Carter’s idea. He had only gone along with it to show he wasn’t afraid.
The truth was that he was terrified. He was frightened of everything—the other officers, the horses, the bayonets, the guns, and the cannon with their great thumping blasts that shook the ground and knocked the gunners right off their feet. Preston felt as if things were exploding all around him, at meals, at teatime, even when he tried to sleep. He felt inadequate and inept, and he suspected the other officers of sniggering at him behind his back. More than once he woke up whimpering with fear, and Carter, who had been out in the East for months, would make some joke and bring him tea to calm his nerves.
But, as it turned out, fate had him in its hand. His destiny had drawn him into the Old City and guided him to the sapphire. It hadn’t really been Carter at all.
Benjamin Carter was a big, noisy Brit. He had the grossest tastes, in food and women and war, but not the slightest bit of embarrassment about them. And until that day in the Old City, though Preston was the officer and Carter his servant—his batman, as they said in Allenby’s army—Preston mostly did what Carter wanted.
Their relationship looked like a friendship, but Preston didn’t trust it. He feared that Carter secretly despised him, that he, too, was laughing at him with his mates. Carter didn’t give away his true feelings, naturally, but that was part of the system. He was as obsequious as all the other batmen, but when they were on their own, he dropped the “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” altogether. Preston didn’t know if he was supposed to order him to speak properly or assume that all the batmen did the same. Half the time Carter seemed to be hiding a smile, as if Preston were a child to be humored. Preston hated that, but he had no idea how to go about replacing him, and he was afraid that, if he tried to get rid of him, Carter would tell everyone his Captain Benedict was a coward who woke sobbing in the night like a frightened baby.
But all of that was before their day in the Old City.
They left their billet in the late afternoon to ford the bustle of the Damascus Gate and take a stroll in the Muslim Quarter. In the squares, crowds of veiled women and turbaned men mixed with uniformed soldiers and bearded Jews. Carter loved a sort of kebab he could buy straight from smoking grills, handed over with dirty fingers by men who bowed and nodded, then sneered at the fat Brit behind his back. Preston wouldn’t touch the kebabs, but Carter was always hungry. Soldier-Servant rations were never enough for him. He ate the meat as he walked, dripping grease over his cuffs as he led the way through noisome alleys lined with tiny dark shops. Preston felt anxious, and nauseated by the smells of unwashed people and suspicious foreign foods, but he followed. He wasn’t sure he could find his way out of the quarter on his own.
They came upon the antiquities dealer seemingly by accident. His windows were stacked with painted boxes, dusty amphorae, hookahs with long, twisting tubes, ropes of beads, flat cloth shoes with embroidered toes. Preston paused at the open doorway. It was dim in the shop, but it was quiet, and it smelled pleasantly of some sort of spice. Carter’s messy meal stank of rancid fat and made Preston’s nostrils twitch. He said, “Carter—I want to go in here.”
Carter, chewing, waved his thick hand. Preston stepped in through
The strange thing about that day in Jerusalem was that he hadn’t wanted to go into the Old City at all. The crowds made him uneasy, those throngs of dark-skinned people with their sly glances and jabbering languages no one could understand. It was Carter’s idea. He had only gone along with it to show he wasn’t afraid.
The truth was that he was terrified. He was frightened of everything—the other officers, the horses, the bayonets, the guns, and the cannon with their great thumping blasts that shook the ground and knocked the gunners right off their feet. Preston felt as if things were exploding all around him, at meals, at teatime, even when he tried to sleep. He felt inadequate and inept, and he suspected the other officers of sniggering at him behind his back. More than once he woke up whimpering with fear, and Carter, who had been out in the East for months, would make some joke and bring him tea to calm his nerves.
But, as it turned out, fate had him in its hand. His destiny had drawn him into the Old City and guided him to the sapphire. It hadn’t really been Carter at all.
Benjamin Carter was a big, noisy Brit. He had the grossest tastes, in food and women and war, but not the slightest bit of embarrassment about them. And until that day in the Old City, though Preston was the officer and Carter his servant—his batman, as they said in Allenby’s army—Preston mostly did what Carter wanted.
Their relationship looked like a friendship, but Preston didn’t trust it. He feared that Carter secretly despised him, that he, too, was laughing at him with his mates. Carter didn’t give away his true feelings, naturally, but that was part of the system. He was as obsequious as all the other batmen, but when they were on their own, he dropped the “Yes, sir” and “No, sir” altogether. Preston didn’t know if he was supposed to order him to speak properly or assume that all the batmen did the same. Half the time Carter seemed to be hiding a smile, as if Preston were a child to be humored. Preston hated that, but he had no idea how to go about replacing him, and he was afraid that, if he tried to get rid of him, Carter would tell everyone his Captain Benedict was a coward who woke sobbing in the night like a frightened baby.
But all of that was before their day in the Old City.
They left their billet in the late afternoon to ford the bustle of the Damascus Gate and take a stroll in the Muslim Quarter. In the squares, crowds of veiled women and turbaned men mixed with uniformed soldiers and bearded Jews. Carter loved a sort of kebab he could buy straight from smoking grills, handed over with dirty fingers by men who bowed and nodded, then sneered at the fat Brit behind his back. Preston wouldn’t touch the kebabs, but Carter was always hungry. Soldier-Servant rations were never enough for him. He ate the meat as he walked, dripping grease over his cuffs as he led the way through noisome alleys lined with tiny dark shops. Preston felt anxious, and nauseated by the smells of unwashed people and suspicious foreign foods, but he followed. He wasn’t sure he could find his way out of the quarter on his own.
They came upon the antiquities dealer seemingly by accident. His windows were stacked with painted boxes, dusty amphorae, hookahs with long, twisting tubes, ropes of beads, flat cloth shoes with embroidered toes. Preston paused at the open doorway. It was dim in the shop, but it was quiet, and it smelled pleasantly of some sort of spice. Carter’s messy meal stank of rancid fat and made Preston’s nostrils twitch. He said, “Carter—I want to go in here.”
Carter, chewing, waved his thick hand. Preston stepped in through
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