The sun was only thirty degrees above the level of the sea when Moss awakened. Late afternoon. He cursed himself for having fallen asleep. Precious hours had been wasted; he should have been on the lookout for a passing ship. He squinted into the distance, blinked, and squinted again. Was it his imagination or was that a ship coming out of due west? The sun was blinding him and he was light-headed with hunger, panic, and thirst, but he would swear on his life it was a ship. As the sun sank behind it, its silhouette began to appear. A superstructure, a smokestack, a gun mount. It was a destroyer and it was heading straight for him.
Throwing himself onto his belly and reaching into the water, Moss paddled himself forward, attempting to close the distance between him and the ship. Rescue was imminent. He stood in the raft, balancing himself on widespread legs, waving his white cotton undershirt. With a whoop of excitement he saw the white water boil behind the stern, saw the bow make a course correction. It was coming for him! A sheer solid wall of steel rising and falling with the ocean’s swell. Moss resumed paddling. A rope ladder was flung down to him. He grabbed it solidly with both hands and hoisted himself to safety. The prayer in his heart had been answered. A wide grin split his face—there was no beating the Coleman luck! He looked up, ready to shout howdy to his rescuers. His grin froze. The deck rail was lined with faces. All of them Japanese!
CHAPTER NINETEEN
March had arrived at Sunbridge like the proverbial lion and was leaving like a lamb. Seth watched Billie’s advancing pregnancy with a knowledgeable eye. This time it would be a boy, a grandson; he could feel it in his bones. Billie herself seemed pleased with the pregnancy. She was more confident, healthier. There was no nausea and sickness with this child as there had been with Maggie and Susan. Seth thought there was a peacefulness about Billie that had never been there before.
Agnes also watched her daughter. Although Billie was only beginning her fourth month, Agnes satisfied herself that the signs were there. Billie was carrying high and straight, instead of round and hippy as with the girls. It was definitely a boy this time. Seth would grunt whenever she mentioned it to him, but he believed every word.
Billie smiled. Neither of them could be one hundred percent certain. Only her. Billie Coleman would have her son.
Billie had announced her pregnancy only two weeks before, on the same day she’d written Moss telling him about their “little accident.” She’d hugged the letter to her breast before she’d mailed it. By now, Moss would know another child was on the way and that she was certain it would be a boy.
As Billie settled down to write to Moss, she looked at the calendar as she did every day and crossed off the date. It was six weeks and three days since she’d heard from Moss. Even Seth hadn’t had word. It worried her but it wasn’t unusual. Often a pack of letters would arrive at once. Moss was fine; she felt it. If something had happened to him, she would know.
The bedside clock read 11:20 when Billie decided to go downstairs for a glass of warm milk. As she was crossing the wide, central hall the doorbell shrilled, startling her.
“Telegram for Mrs. Moss Coleman. Sign here.” Billie’s trembling hands reached for the yellow envelope. The delivery boy’s face was a study in sympathy and pity. The return address was the War Department.
“Mother!” she screamed.
She experienced everything after that through waves of blackness, in slow motion. Agnes coming down the stairs. Seth stepping out of his study. She knew that in reality Agnes had flown down the stairs and Seth had exploded from his study.
Seth sat down on the cowhide-covered bench and stared at the rectangle of yellow paper. He seemed unable to move.
“Would you like me to open it, Seth?” Agnes asked quietly. He suddenly looked old and beaten. Two pairs of eyes watched as Agnes deftly slit the envelope. The words jumped off the page:
WE REGRET TO INFORM YOU LT. MOSS COLEMAN HAS BEEN LISTED AS MISSING IN ACTION.
Missing, not killed. Missing. Missing. It was all Billie had to hold on to.
“That’s all it says.” Agnes relinquished the telegram to Seth’s shaking hands. She straightened and belted her blue chenille robe more tightly about her. “I’ll make coffee. Follow me to the kitchen, both of you. We will not have hysteria. Moss is missing. It did not say he was wounded or dead, only missing. Until we know something definite we will carry on as before. Billie! Get hold of yourself! You have a baby to think of. We’re going to have coffee and even some cake and we’ll talk, all of us together. And then we’ll all go to bed because that’s all we can do.”
“Those Jap bastards have him. They torture, they—”
“Not another word, Seth,” Agnes said sharply. “I don’t want you upsetting Billie. She’s pregnant, or have you forgotten? We’ll have no more of that kind of talk. And you, Billie, you have to believe that Moss is well and will come back. He promised he would come back and we must believe he will. Now, that’s good enough for me and it has to be good enough for both of you.” Billie nodded miserably as she dabbed at her eyes with the cuff of her dressing gown.
“All right, Aggie. Where the hell is that coffee you said you were making?”
“It’s right here. What did I tell you about swearing in front of me? I know you’re upset now but don’t let it happen again. It has to perk. Five more minutes. Tita had the pot all ready for morning. I can’t seem to find any cake, so we’re having cornbread with butter. And some blackberry jam would be good.”
Billie noticed the slight tremble in her mother’s hands as she set the table. Busy. Always keep busy so you don’t have to think. Agnes would keep busy and she and Seth would eat. They would chew and swallow. Then when Agnes dismissed them they would go to their respective rooms and cry like babies. Seth for his son, she for her husband, and Agnes for the good life.
They carried on; it was all they could do. Agnes prodded and poked at them to busy themselves. Her tongue was sharp and they obeyed.
Billie managed to fill her days with the girls and writing letters to Moss which she hid away in her lingerie drawer. It made no difference if she could mail them or not. It was something to do. She didn’t cry; she didn’t know why exactly. It had nothing to do with her mother, more with Moss’s conviction that he would return. She hung on to that thought. It was the letters that arrived from Thad Kingsley that bolstered her sagging spirits. They arrived weekly and were full of nonsensical news that made her smile. He always mentioned Moss at the end, expressed certainty that he was safe somewhere and would manage to make it back home.
It never occurred to Billie to question how Thad’s letters managed to be delivered weekly, with no in-between skips. He was fighting the same war as Moss, flying in the same squadron, serving on the same ship. It was enough that he wrote.
In a month’s time Billie knew every member of the squadron and all about their personal lives. She knew about the girls they’d left behind and the pets they had grown up with. She learned about the inside of the planes and what made them fly. She learned Thad’s middle name and what New England looked like in autumn. Her mouth watered for some Vermont maple syrup. The letters were long, written in a close, cramped style with many, many words to the page. Billie treasured the man’s thoughtfulness. Someday, she would find a way to make it up to him. The comfort his letters gave her, the hope, could never be measured.
Seth stomped into the house late one afternoon, his shoulders bent and his face filled with misery. Billie’s heart almost stopped. “What is it, Seth? Have you had word about Moss?” she asked anxiously.
Seth shook his head and wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Nessie died.”
“Your horse?” Billie said stupidly.
“Yes, my horse, Nessie. She died. Just now. I have to call the vet.”
“If the horse is dead, why do you have to call the vet?”
“Because I do,” Seth snarled. “Because I do.”
It was as if the horse had been a flesh-and-blood person. It was almost mo
re than Billie could bear.
Agnes’s summary of the situation was simple: She and Billie didn’t understand because they weren’t born-and-bred Texans.
But Billie did understand. Nessie had been more important in Seth’s life than his wife. There had been no tears for Jessica. She watched him make daily pilgrimages to the place where the horse was buried, and he always returned with red-rimmed eyes and a surly tongue. This, too, shall pass, Billie told herself. And it did. Seth, though, hovered over Billie after that. This child was his last hope—nothing must go wrong. It was all he had left. God help me, Billie thought, if this baby fools us all.
Moss was flung against the cold, damp bulkhead. The sea was rough tonight. He’d been blindfolded when they’d thrown him down here, but he could tell from the sounds of the engines and the slick sliding behind the steel wall that he was below the waterline in the hold of the Japanese transport ship. The hold was blacker than a cave and twice as cold. For mates he had several other Americans, a few Australians, and a rat.
Shortly after being rescued from the sea he’d been questioned mercilessly and then hoisted over to this passing transport. The poop had it that they were on their way to Japan. That had been eight days ago—he’d kept count by moving the end of his bootlace into successive holes and knotting the end. Once a day the forward hatch would open and uniformed soldiers, armed and at attention, would bring in a pail of water and rice balls for each of them, eight in all.
While Moss had been flying the Ranger, he’d thought of the Japanese as faceless robots of a corrupt government, enemies to the American way and all it stood for. Now the enemy had a face, yellow and flat and menacing, and he hated them, not just their government, not as a nation, but each and every one of them individually.
The prisoners’ lives had become an eternity of blackness, of sensations of cold and filth. One marine, wounded on Iwo Jima, had died two days before. His body lay somewhere in the dark. One of the Aussies knew a bit of Japanese and had told the soldiers of the marine’s death. Instead of removing the body, they’d merely withheld a rice portion, and tossed a dipper of precious water onto the metal plate floor. When an Australian infantryman had hauled himself to his feet and begun shouting at the Japs, he’d received a solid blow from a billy club as his reward. No one had spoken after that for a very long time.
Hours were endless, time meaningless; yet each day, after their one poor meal was served, Moss moved his bootlace into another eyelet. Now he was working on the holes in his left boot. He wondered if he would still be alive by the time he reached the top. He wondered if he wanted to be.
One cold gray dawn the transport ship’s engines were cut and the ship rolled with the tide. The eight beaten, sick, half-starved prisoners came out on deck, into the fresh offshore wind, and saw that they were part of a larger group than they’d realized. There were sixty other prisoners. Word spread that they were all going ashore to a place named Muishi. Moss tried to remember his geography but he couldn’t place it. Muishi, as it turned out, was a coal-mining camp deep in the hills of northern Japan.
Life became a living hell. Each dawn, shirtless, shoeless, the prisoners were herded into Muishi’s coal mine, half walking, half crawling for almost two miles underground where the air was stale and noxious and the temperature dropped nearly thirty degrees. Each night they were herded out again, more dead than alive.
Nearly four hundred men slaved in the mines, working to their last breaths to dig and haul the coal from the earth for their Japanese masters....
Food became an obsession in Muishi. The hard rice balls and an occasional watery stew and hard biscuits were hardly enough to keep the men alive.
The Japanese were ruthless and cruel taskmasters, but they respected religious ceremonies. So when the prisoners told their captors that it was the custom when a man died to leave food by the body and that the living smoked cigarettes and prayed and spoke praise of the dead, they were believed. And from then on, whenever a man died, the guards would provide bowls of rice, which they placed at his head, and a basket of fruit, which they rested by his feet. And cigarettes were given to the mourners.
In time, the prisoners’ appetites faded; the mindless work anesthetized them; hope became a dim memory. But home was something shared by all, remembered by all, even though to each it was a different place and different people.
The desire to live strengthened in Moss. He wanted to see his children again, to hold his wife in his arms. Each day became a battle to hold on to his mental agility and to his toughness. And the only way he could do this was to hate, hate the enemy, hate the Japs. Hate.
Those who gave in to hopelessness soon died, believing the Japanese braggarts who insisted the war would last a hundred years. There was so little information coming from the outside that there were moments when Moss almost believed them, too. Those were the moments he nearly broke, nearly gave up. But he would remind himself he was a Coleman. Colemans never stopped fighting. Colemans were tougher than beef jerky and more stubborn than mules. He clung to his heritage and dreamed of his children. Maggie. Susan. The son that would never be if he gave in to despair. . . .
Early during the heat of August, Moss and the others noted that something was happening. Food became more plentiful, drinking water more available. No one was punished or beaten for being too sick to go down in the mine. Something was happening.
President Harry Truman had given the go-ahead. The ultimate weapon was dropped on Japan. On August 14, 1945, the Japanese government agreed to an unconditional surrender. Muishi was so far north that word didn’t reach them until two weeks later.
On September 2, 1945, Japan surrendered formally aboard the USS Missouri. V-J Day. Victory over Japan. Moss and his fellow prisoners were brought aboard an Australian troop transport and into the arms of the victors.
Early that same day, as his missing father was being welcomed by the jaunty Australians, Riley Seth Coleman was delivered into his mother’s arms. Billie had finally achieved her victory.
PART THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY
The land and the place known as Sunbridge had changed little in the fourteen years since Billie had first arrived from Philadelphia. The grazing lands were lush this year, thanks to plentiful rain, and the winter’s tumbleweeds rolled silently along the miles of white rail fencing. The shrubbery surrounding the house was taller, but the rose garden was still perfectly tended, a living memorial to Jessica, now more than twelve years buried on the little hill behind the house. The house itself had mellowed to a softer hue, bleached by its years in the sun, now paler than the prairie rose.
But the seemingly unchangeable stability of Sunbridge halted at the front door. Inside, time had made its mark. Seth Coleman, righteous monarch, leaned more heavily on his cane and his shaggy mane of hair was more grizzled. But his tongue was just as sharp as ever, his watery blue eyes just as piercing. His only interest in life was his ten-year-old grandson, Riley. When Moss’s look-alike wasn’t flying, strapped to the seat beside his father, he was riding the hills with his grandfather. Riley had just given up his pony for a mare, a descendant of old Nessie, which Seth had given him.
Riley had been made a part of Sunbridge since the day he was born. As heir apparent to the Coleman throne, he was taught to love his heritage and was schooled with one aim: to someday take the reins of the Sunbridge empire. Riley was a lanky boy with soft, shining blue eyes and gently rounded cheeks. Despite the attention lavished upon him, he was unspoiled, a loving child who never demanded anything. Not that he had to demand anything; whatever he asked for was promptly given, whatever seemed to interest him was his—within the hour. But young Riley Coleman was a sensitive, responsible boy and his growing surplus of possessions alarmed him; he was beginning to learn to disguise his interests, to force his glance away from a new attraction. With his every wish anticipated, his every dream fulfilled, there was too much to see to, too much to care for. It overwhelmed him.
To Riley, it ju
st wasn’t right to own a complicated German-made camera and not know how to use it (he would have been more than satisfied with a Brownie Hawkeye, anyway), so he spent long, tiresome hours poring over the directions and studying books on photography, and what should have been fun became a chore.
Riley was just as conscientious in his personal relationships. He loved his sisters and took his role as brother to Maggie and Susan seriously. He knew just when to stop teasing and he could be counted on to keep secrets, any secret, especially Maggie’s. With Billie, Riley was both boy and baby, warm and loving, seeking an extra little smile or a tender kiss at bedtime. With Grandmother Agnes, Riley was polite and always gentlemanly—although conversation was mostly limited to “Yes, ma’am,” “No, ma’am,” and “Thank you, ma‘am.” Agnes was satisfied.
But it was with Moss that Riley was all boy, all noise and vitality, whooping and hollering, rambunctious. It was with his father, too, that he shared his hopes and dreams, his hurts and wounds. He never cried, this Coleman child, because it was unmanly. The girls, though, who seemed more their mother’s children than their father’s, were permitted to wail or whimper at will.
Riley tried not to show favoritism, but Susan was his favorite sister. She didn’t shriek and yell and call him names. She was soft and gentle, like Mam, and played beautiful music on the piano. Susan always did as she was told and no one ever needed to punish her.
Maggie, on the other hand, was willful and rebellious, and found more ways to get into trouble than he could ever dream. Sometimes he lay in bed at night and tried to figure out why Maggie was the way she was. There were times when he actually believed she hated him, hated everyone. She drank beer in the barn with the cowboys, and when Pap and Grandpap were off on the range or in town on business, she drove their cars around the ranch. She had ugly friends, friends who only wanted to be with her because she had money to spend and could steal wine and beer and cigarettes. Riley always included Maggie in his prayers. He should tell on her—he knew he should—but he didn’t. He couldn’t. He’d come upon Maggie one day in the new barn, where his horse was stabled. She was snuggled down in the sweet-smelling straw crying great, hard sobs. He’d never seen anyone cry that way and it bit at him, making him run away. Maggie would have felt terrible if she knew he’d seen her—she felt bad enough already. That was why he didn’t tell her, or anyone. He’d seen her take boys into the barn, but so far he’d never said anything about that, either. The boys would come out smiling and furtive, but Maggie always looked surly and miserable. Someday, though, he was going to talk to Pap about Maggie. Pap would know what to do. Pap knew everything about everything, so the troubles of a thirteen-going-on-fourteen-year-old girl wouldn’t stump him. Not Pap . . .
Texas Rich Page 37
