The 39 Clues: Cahill Files: Silent Night (2 page)

“I just haven’t had the chance yet,” said Rupert, lifting his chin. He glanced over at Albert, hoping for something, anything. Hoping that just this once, Albert would nod and agree and say, “Yes, Rupert. I think you could.” But Albert was steely faced; he looked offended that Rupert would dare to infringe on his war.

“We don’t wait for chances in this family,” said Father. “We make our own.”

“Fine,” said Rupert, pushing back his chair and scrambling to his feet. “Then that’s what I’ll do.”

“You’re not serious,” said Albert.

“I am,” said Rupert. “My talents are obviously wasted at school. It’s time I put them to good use. I’ll come back with
loads
of medals. You’ll see.”

“Don’t be stupid,” said Albert. He had a funny look on his face, one that Rupert almost mistook for concern. “You’re just a kid. It’s war, Rupert. It’s not a joke.”

“Which is why you’ll see that I’m not laughing.” Rupert took a deep breath. “Right, well, I suppose I should go pack, then.” He nodded at his parents and spun on his heel.

“Rupert.” Mother sighed as he strode toward the door.

“Let him go,” Father said mildly, as if he were speaking about a dog who’d wandered too far in the park. “He’ll be back before dinner tomorrow.”

“But what if he actually —”

“Then we’ll see if he’s a real Lucian” — Father cleared his throat — “or just an overly coddled embarrassment.”

Rupert’s shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around. The next time they saw him, he’d be a decorated officer. A hero they’d be begging to attend the council meetings. He stomped out noisily, hoping to obscure any further cutting remarks. But it wasn’t necessary. The clinking of china and the scrape of silver were the only sounds that pierced the heavy silence.

After a very quick stop in London for some necessities and a ferry ride across the Channel, Rupert enjoyed a beautiful train ride through the French countryside. Outside, it was lightly snowing, and inside he had hot cocoa and a comfortable seat and biscuits. From that first-class seat, Rupert could feel his anger and hurt give way to excitement as he sped toward glory. Albert had been half-right — he was a
little
young to be a soldier. But there were many ways to fudge things, especially if you were a Cahill.

His background only made it natural for him to succeed. He was grafted from the same tree as Napoleon, and countless kings and queens of not only England, but the whole world. And he expected the same rights and privileges as had been afforded to them — the officers’ camp, with a map spread over a huge table and pawn pieces to slide across it, pages in matching livery, and well-mannered horses with gleaming saddles. That’s how it was in books. He saw no reason that he should be denied a place in those pages as well.

All of their deeds and achievements, of course, were linked to the Clue hunt — that race across generations and around the world to piece together the key to ultimate power — a serum that would turn the drinker into the most creative, brilliant, cunning, and athletic human to ever walk the earth. Over four hundred years ago, Gideon Cahill had figured out the secret to that power, and his descendants had been fighting over it ever since. The Cahills were a cut above, of course, and the Lucians were the cream that rose to the top. Descendants of Luke Cahill, Rupert’s family branch, were cool and cunning and — if he did say so himself — altogether handsome and brilliant. Luke had done well to take the piece of the serum that had given him such gifts — had twined them into his very cells and passed them down to his children and his children’s children, all the way to Rupert. And Rupert was determined to be deserving of that legacy, no matter what his father thought of him.

The snow had stopped a while back, fizzling into a gray, misty drizzle as the train took him farther and farther into France. To the Continent, December had brought a chilling, persistent wetness that could barely be kept at bay by the comforts of a bright and heated first-class train ticket.

He went to the first-class water closet and changed into his uniform. He’d had one, and a spare, made up at a tailor in London — it fit perfectly and was lined in silk, which he felt was both practical and best up to his standards. He wasn’t exactly
in
the army yet — his plan, he thought, worked better if he handled all of the paperwork at a later date. And there were certain perks to breaking into the army on your own terms — he doubted that soldiers were regularly permitted to ride first class on their way to the field of battle. Besides, paperwork wasn’t the fun part, and Rupert only wanted to do the fun parts.

In his new and comfortable uniform, Rupert stepped off the train. He was ready to take over this war. But instead of being full of cheering villagers, the train platform was practically empty. And the people who were there walked with their heads down, their children tucked close to their sides. It was so quiet — like everyone was afraid to make sudden noises. Rupert straightened his collar, walked up to the ticket counter, and inquired as to where he might get a car to take him to the field.

The man at the counter raised his eyebrows at the question.
“Je suis désolé,”
said the man. “No cars. All of the cars are in use for the armies. No cars.
Désolé, désolé
. So sorry.”

“Pardonnez-moi,”
said Rupert, taking a step back from the window and gesturing to his pressed khaki shirt. “But who do you think I am?”

“I am
désolé
,” said the man again, “but they are not here. No cars here. Soldiers — you walk.”

“Walk? To the front?” said Rupert. And the ticket man nodded.

“You follow the road
à l’est
and you will find it.” Rupert thought the old man shuddered.

“There has to be another way,” said Rupert.

“I am afraid not,” said the ticket man, and he looked so sad when he said it.
“Vous savez,”
said the ticket man, “this is the last train going north. After that, all trains will carry only soldiers and food for armies. There will be no more tickets to sell.”

Rupert looked at him askance. Was he implying that Rupert should go back on the train? He couldn’t do that.

“The war will be over soon,” said Rupert, not knowing what else to say.

“Oui,”
said the ticket man. “Let us hope.
Bonne chance.
”

Rupert lifted his rucksack onto his shoulder and turned away, feeling unsettled. He didn’t know what the ticket man had been implying, but he had other problems to solve. Like how to get himself to the battlefield, and how to save his pride in the process.

Rupert did not end up walking. He managed to catch a ride on a cart full of sheep and cabbages, being driven by an old farmer and a wheezy gray horse. It was a cranky journey, and the thought of being spotted by a fellow Cahill made his cheeks burn. He was banged about on the back of the wagon like he was the cabbage, and the smell of it all lodged itself so firmly in his nose that he didn’t think he’d ever get rid of it. But it wasn’t walking. He had said he would not walk, and that was the sticking point.

“Ici, ici,”
said the farmer, whom Rupert had paid to carry him in his cart.

“We’re not there yet,” said Rupert. He could see the beginnings of the front ahead — what looked like a huddle of tents and piles of supplies. “It’s still up there.”

“Vous marchez,”
said the farmer, miming a march.

Obviously, this was a language-barrier issue. Rupert leaped down from the back of the cabbage cart, his rucksack over his shoulder.

“Look,” he said, gesturing out toward the camp. “There. That’s where I’m going.”

“Marchez,”
said the farmer, nodding.
“Bonne chance!”
And then he flicked the reins and the horse began to amble away.

“Hey!” Rupert yelled, dropping his rucksack onto the road and waving his arms. “Stop! Come back here! Come back here this instant!”

But the farmer ignored him, and Rupert was left standing on the freezing road. The camp looked even farther away now than it had before. He looked behind him, to see if another farmer was leaving the town and headed down his way. But there was no one. And a feeling of isolation, like a cold snake, slipped under his skin. He was alone, in a field, in the middle of war-torn France.

Which at least meant there was no one to witness his humiliation. Rupert picked up his sack and stepped off of the road. His boot gave a sick, wet
squelch
as it sank into the cold mud. Thunder boomed in the distance, and the last thing he wanted was to get caught in the marsh in a rainstorm. He’d probably drown or get sucked down into the bog. So he squelched his way across the mud fields as the thunder grew louder. What had once been a field that grew wheat or lavender or had pastured cows and sheep had been mashed into the gateway of a war. It was depressing. Rupert was sure better things lay ahead. He would walk into camp and present himself as an officer, and destiny would take its course. His natural leadership skills would reveal themselves in no time at all. It would be, as his nanny Pat always said, easy as porridge and pie.

Night was falling quickly, and so Rupert hurried. As he drew nearer the camp, the thunder grew louder, but still there was no rain, and no lightning.

“Who’s that there?” came a voice from the camp. “Oi! Get on in here! You there — get the lead out of your pants and get on in.” It was a young private, waving his cap in Rupert’s general direction. Rupert picked up his pace and trotted over to where the tents and hasty buildings were huddled together. He didn’t quite understand — he was already dirty enough. There was no need to worry about the rain. In fact, he thought it would probably do his uniform some good.

But what he heard was not thunder.

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

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

“What is it?” asked Rupert.

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

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

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

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

“Indeed,” said Rupert with a smile.

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

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

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

Rupert stepped inside. And promptly felt himself deflate.

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

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

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

He did not resemble the Duke of Wellington.

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