7th August 1945, Downton Abbey
"I heard there was a search." Joseph Molesley, in oilskin and galoshes, strode the deluged ground at the village end of Downton Abbey as he made to catch up with the half-dozen figures heading towards the hills.
"Please," Thomas told him, uncharacteristically accepting help without argument, and giving Mr. Molesley a nod. "I am most grateful you came."
"Daisy told Flora, who came to tell Phyllis," Mr. Molesley explained, "And, well, I'd come to help anyone, but she said it was young Ernst, so I couldn't not come,could I, considering - "
But what was, "considering", Thomas did not stop to find out. It was still raining, although not with the angry will of the last few days. Water poured from the sky, turning dry fields to mush, and they pushed on north towards the Davies Farm.
"He may be back, or he may be at the bothy," Master George had explained to all who had set out with them, his cousin Peter, and his friends James Bagot and Harry Uxbridge. Andy Parker was there too, with Larry, because the boy had insisted, and the other footman, Albert, tall and rangy, who said little but was entirely dependable. Striding beside George, but looking concernedly over to Thomas was Tom Branson.
Flora had tried to insist she come too, and Miss Sybbie, but both fathers had insisted they stay there. "We will need your help soon enough," Branson told his daughter. "We may need blankets and a bed; we may need your nursing skills. We may need Dr. Connell." He had kissed Sybbie on the forehead, Thomas had noticed, and looked at her earnestly, "I need to know you're here, because if we have to bring the boy back, and he is injured, you can do what I cannot."
"We'll be here," Lady Mary assured them, and she watched as the party set out on their grim task in the pouring rain.
Anna had kissed Johnny Bates too, fussing over his cheekbone where Thomas had landed the blow. He would pay for it in some way, even lose his job in the end, Thomas thought. But he didn't care. How could a person treat another like that? Admittedly, he had done some pretty despicable things in his time, but never attacked a person and left them for dead, overnight in a rainstorm.
And that little bastard is going to tell me exactly where he attacked him, Thomas thought to himself, for Johnny Bates was with them, at Master George's insistence. He always was a lazy boy, Thomas thought to himself, and now he was a lazy and arrogant young man who, through his mother's excuses, thought the world owed him a living.
Joseph Molesley picked up the pace and was beside Thomas, striding with him over the sodden earth. It was no easy task for a man in his seventies, Thomas considered, but Molesley, an example to all, and willing to always help someone else in need, was almost as fond of Ernst Scholtz as Thomas was.
"I was going to come over yesterday, but then we heard the news about Japan," Molesley told Thomas. "And talk to you, and Master George about Ernst."
"What about him?" Thomas asked. Molesley looked abashed.
"Dr. Hartree, at the Grammar, he has taken a position back at university on some mathematical research project, or other. But he has said he will continue to tutor Ernst by post should you wish it, and should Master George wish it." Thomas looked across to the current Lord Grantham.
"I cannot see why not," Thomas told Molesley. "Yes, as far as I am concerned, if it is his way of learning mathematics." Molesley felt a blush come to his cheeks.
"I...I just wish that I was...you know...good enough for him," Downton's headmaster stammered. "But, as you know, Mr. Dawes, the previous head, always sought work beyond the school for those who needed it."
"Like Milo," Thomas told him. "She worked with the wife of a university professor from Manchester, when Ernest was there, and then, when it was beyond that woman's skill to teach her anything, her brother taught her." He sighed. In his mind, some things seemed like they were yesterday, but then, Molesley had white hair now, and Thomas's face, last seen this morning in the mirror, was crinkled at the corners of his lips and around his eyes, grey hairs speckled his black strands above his ears.
"Milo was...unique, Mr. Barrow," Molesley told Thomas, and he looked across to Matthew Crawley's former valet, thence footman, road mender, delivery boy, footman and schoolteacher, knowing the years had raced through them all.
"Is unique," he told Molesley, as a white labrador picked his way through the muddy ground, delighted to be out on this jolly hike with George, his master.
"That's the spirit," Molesley told Barrow, clapping his hand onto his shoulder. "You never know, with the upheaval that war brings...heaven knows, we saw that with the last one, and - "
And Thomas would have told him there and then, probably told them all that he had been told that Milo lived, had it not been a shout from behind him. Master George and his friends had stopped - they had flanked Johnny Bates, which was probably for the best, all things considered, and he had stopped a ridge.
"Here," he told them, looking around as if it were no concern of his whatsoever.
"You are sure?" It was Branson talking now; he sounded as angry as Thomas felt, and he took the boy by the shoulder. "Just a friendly chat, George," he told his nephew, "We are just going for a little chat." And Johnny Bates staggered along with Tom Branson, his hand still on the young man's shoulder, speaking words that no-one could discern.
"He says so," Tom Branson called back, his face red from the rain that had howled into his face as they got to the edge of the ridge.
"And there's the bothy," George called. "Thomas, you try there, take Molesley with you, in case the lad is still with Davies."
"No!" called back Thomas, ignoring a shout from behind him of, "Good God, man!" For Thomas was now climbing down the ridge. He had seen something, or rather, someone. And he was determined to find out whether that someone was Ernst.
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It had been a terrific rainstorm, but Ernst had decided he must finally leave the cosiness of this little sheep house that he had managed to get to.
It was Mr. Davies who had seen him, out in the rain, who had seen Johnny Bates throw a stone at him, and climbed down a little way to haul Ernst up, which must have been a lot of effort for a man Davies's age.
He had said something in a language Ernst did not undersand, but gleaned that Davies was having rant at something or someone. It didn't seem to be Ernst, for Davies had wrapped a blanket around the boy's shoulders and given him a mug of hot something - perhaps tea. The rant had ended with Davies exclaiming, "Twp! That child is twp, and always has been! His mother - " and he had continued for another five minutes in Welsh, huffing and puffing like a steam engine, although one that ran out of puff five minutes later. Davies then came to a halt beside Ernst, and they sat together, looking out of the bothy window, at the rain and the sheep, exchanging nouns in one another's languages, very slowly, until evening came, and then darkness.
"I do have to go," Ernst had insisted the next morning. It was still raining, but he must get to Hull, if he was going. He had his belongings in his bag and the lump on his head was going down. Davies glanced at that, and then began his tirade of Welsh insults again, finishing with "Bates Twp!"
So, while Davies could not dissuade Ernst from leaving, he accompanied the boy through the fields, inspecting the sheep as he went, heading south east, which would take Ernst to the road and south to Thirsk. A train would take him to York, and then Hull, quite a straightforward journey.
Or, it would have been. For, as Davies made to say goodbye, Ernst noticed a group of people climbing in the valley below, through the clumps of heather and around the swollen stream. A body lay at the bottom. He tapped Davies on the arm and pointed.
And then, a shout went up. A person from the group had got themselves into the stream, and was being carried downwards towards the fell. Under normal circumstances, this would not be a problem, but the volume of energetic water thrashing and roaring along would make the drop deadly. And no-one, Ernst could see, had noticed the figure disappear.
He thrust his bag to Davies' feet, and began to climb down the ridge on the side he was on. It was not nearly as steep or as far as one the others must have climbed down, even so, Davies was calling at him to stop and come back.
The figure was flailing now, and someone had seen. It was Harry Uxbridge, and he pulled George Crawley's arm bringing his attention from the body lying prone yet further down the valley to the man who had fallen into the river. George jerked his head around, and then saw something else: towards the panicking person in the water someone was running.
"I do belive it's...Ernst Scholtz!" George exclaimed, and began to hurry towards the man in the river and Ernst, both Harry and James beside him, and he looked at the distance that the man was from the twenty foot drop. They would not make it in time.
Ernst had not discerned the people who were there, however, instead he focused on the man in the water, who was thrashing his arms around, either unable to swim, or unable to try because of the force of the water.
Not thinking about his own safety, Ernst hurried a little way down stream, dragging with him a branch which had broken off in the three-day storm. He lay on his stomach, as he remembered his neighbour, Mr. Mueller doing when a young girl had fallen through the sea ice two winters before, and he called to the figure to catch it.
A hand came up, as the man bobbed up and down, grasping for the branch, and then another, but neither could fasten a grip onto it. Quickly, Ernst pulled the branch back towards him, and ran with the river flow, ran faster, so he could try again. There wasn't much time - the lip of the fall was coming quickly.
And then the boy realised there was no time - he would not be able to rescue the person with the branch at any rate. But, he noticed, a tree which must have come loose in the bad weather was overhanging the river. If he could get across there perhaps he could get him out.
Ignoring the shouts around him, Ernst raced on towards the tree. As he approached, he saw something else: the stream forked a little a small islelet had been made, water flowing either side of it in their temporary courses. The man was flailing now, his head bobbing up and down him. If he could just get to the island, he would have a better chance of getting to him.
Bringing the branch with him, Ernst threw it onto the little island, then climbed over the fallen tree, oblivious to the shouts from George Crawley, Andy and Tom Branson.
It was foolish, in hindsight - Ernst told himself later. If he had mistimed the leap, he would be no better off than the drowning man. Up stream, however, the man seemed to have stopped moving and, worse, he seemed to be floating face down,
He had slowed, at any rate, and he was bigger than Ernst had originally thought. And, he was floating down the lesser channel, which meant that if Ernst blocked it with the branch he might be able to get a hold of him. It was worth a try.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the stream, Tom Branson had inched over the fallen tree.
"What's he doing?" called James Bagot to George, as his friend held Branson's leg. Andy on the other one, turned to him. He was just about to speak, when Tom Branson leaned over and caught the other end of the branch, effectively creating a dam. But it wasn't over yet. Behind the body another rush of water came, and the person in the water, no longer fighting, bobbed upwards.
"Ernst!" Andy called, and Ernst looked up. Branson, meanwhile, had managed to pull the branch nearer. But it wasn't going to stop him.
Then George made a leap. Past his uncle, he managed to just about get to the land between the two rivers, and crouched beside Ernst, holding onto the branch with him.
"He'll be stopped by this," George told Ernst, assuredly. He nodded back to the Earl of Grantham, but without much enthusiasm - the charge of water was coming towards the body, and he did not have the words to explain.
"Look!" he told George and pointed upstream, where now another person was racing. And there was no time for a plan: no time to help this person, other than...
Ernst Scholtz jumped in. The body was heavy, heavier than he expected, dragged down by the weight of his clothes, dense with unconsciousness, too heavy to lift. Ernst wrapped his arm around the fallen tree branches - lifting was not the plan: just to be there to stop the body going over the fall when the water torrent finally met them.
"Pull him here!" Tom Branson called. But Ernst ignored him. They'd not get this person out alive - they'd not get -
- Ernst turned moved to turn the head of this person out of the water - if he were alive, he did not want him to swallow any more water -
- it was Johnny Bates. Not that it meant anything to Ernst now; all he wanted was that this person, evidently Johnny, was not dashed to pieces falling over the edge. Ernst dived under Johnny's body, and turned him over, holding him with both legs around the young man's waist as the rush of water came. Cold and shocking, Ernst clung on, until he thought he could hold on no longer.
And then a lightness came to him. Hands were on him, around his arms, around his legs, and he was hauled onto land - not dry land, but firm at least.
"Thought you were going over, my lad!" Tom Branson told Ernst cheerfully. Ernst could do nothing but nod, however, and he saw another body beside his.
"Dead?" Ernst heard a voice call over. "Is he dead?"
"No." It was Thomas who had replied, and he was kneeling beside the young man. "Just unconcscious. If Ernst had not raised his head - " Thomas Barrow raised his head and his eyes met Ernst's, "- he would have drowned.
Then the Downton butler was on his knees, giving chest compressions and Ernst wondered whether that what he had done in the first war; Daisy had told Ernst he had been in the medical corps. He looked at ease giving the procedure, pressing on his chest, listening to breathing, that the panic in the faces of the men, both noble and not, eased with Thomas's cool handling of it.
And then eventually, Johnny Bates began to move, jerking involuntarily at first, and throwing up, leaning over to one side and regurgiating a lot of water onto the already sodden earth.
But a hand was at Ernst's shoulder too, and at his elbow, and he was being helped to his feet.
"It was a grand thing you did today," Tom Branson assured Ernst.
While not looking, over to Davies, who patted on back,
Noone was atching, he lefy.
