“Wozu.”
“Wozu.”
“My worst day,” said Spencer, “was when Raoul Lufbery fell out of the sky: May 19, 1918. I was there. I saw it. I was one of his wingmen.”
“You were friends?”
“I was one of his wingmen. Many, many times. We flew together with the French before the United States got into the war. He told me about his days flying in China. He’s why I later went to China. We weren’t really friends. We were comrades, we were wingmen, and I admired him very much.”
“Yes, like our Oswald Boelke. We were all devastated when he fell.”
“Raoul didn’t fall. He jumped. His Nieuport had been set on fire. We were not issued parachutes, as you were. Our Congress thought it would lead to our wasting aircraft. So Raoul, with seventeen victories, chose to jump instead of burn.”
“Our parachutes didn’t always work.”
The others were beginning to show signs of excessive stress. Nancy Cunard and her mother were still exchanging snarling insults. Mrs. Simpson was complaining bitterly to the prince about seemingly everything that had been inflicted upon her, as if it were all his fault—and none of hers. Diana, for the first time on the voyage, was talking of seasickness. With the calming seas, the waves had grown smaller and the troughs shorter. Consequently the motorboat was rocking with much more vehemence.
Duff ignored his wife. Chips Channon began to feel seasick himself. Fruity Metcalfe and Lord Brownlow were arguing about something, perhaps over which of them was to blame for this ultimate predicament.
Only Nora, embracing another human being in love and comfort, seemed at all happy now.
Edwina emerged from the wheelhouse and went to her husband, who was standing near Kees. Despite his ridiculous Hindu costume, Mountbatten had posed himself, head high, Brendan the Navigator, Leif Eriksson, Cristoforo Colon.
“Are you all right, darling?” Edwina said, shivering. She had a skirt and sweater on and a blanket over her shoulders, but her legs were bare to the wind.
“Of course, darling,” he said. “We’ll soon be out of this.”
The count smiled sadly. “The perfect couple,” he said quietly to Spencer.
“I don’t understand their marriage,” Spencer said.
“Their marriage is perfectly understandable,” von Kresse said. “It’s their relationship that’s not.”
“Any of her relationships.”
Spencer sought the other man’s eyes but was denied them. The count was staring at his sister.
“She’s drinking a lot of wine,” Spencer said.
“She’s very unhappy,” von Kresse said. “Perhaps the wine will be of some help.”
Kees fired off another rocket. It was amazing how bright the burst was in such a brilliant sky and in such shimmering sunlight.
“People are drinking everything they can find,” Spencer said. “Another night out here and there’ll be nothing left.”
“If we have to face another night out here, it will be a very good thing to have the alcohol gone,” the count said. “There is not much civilization remaining with these people.”
“My friend Chips Channon would disagree with you. He thinks we’re all the best humanity has produced.”
“He’s a fool. The world would be much better off if this motorboat were to sink. I would save some of the ladies if I could, but the rest of us are no treasure, including two or three of the ladies. We’re far from the best humanity has produced. I daresay we’re quite the opposite.”
“I’m not disagreeing. I’m just curious why you wouldn’t save yourself, or me.”
“You know why, Mr. Spencer.”
Spencer looked about the boat, as if the answer lay with someone else. He could provide his own reasons, but he did not know whether the count’s were the same.
“And your beautiful sister?”
The count turned his head to gaze upon her a moment. “She is a flawed thing. I love her very much, perhaps more than I have loved any other woman, including my wife. You have no idea what a wonderful woman she can be, what a wonderful woman she was.”
“But?”
“But she is one of Goethe’s villainnesses. It isn’t that she is evil. The awful thing is that she isn’t evil. She is herself, yet she is one of them. That’s inimical. Antithetical. Impossible. But the improbable truth asserts itself constantly. She’s sick inside. Vielen krank. The beautiful princess transforms herself into a monster. A self-imposed curse. What you must learn about the Nazis, what is most important about the Nazis, is that they are sane. They’re just ordinary people. You have to learn that. That’s why they’re so awful, and what they do is so dangerous.”
“Your sister is dangerous?”
“Sehr richtig. But she is not mad. I keep saying this. The most terrifying thing about the Nazis is that they are perfectly sane, perfectly normal. You can find them in any country, on any street corner. Ordinary people.”
“I would like to think you’re wrong.”
“You’ve traveled, Mr. Spencer. You’ve been in Europe these last few years. You’re a journalist. You know I’m right.”
“How do you know I’m a journalist?”
Nora was staring at them. So were Mrs. Parker and Channon. The count pretended to uncoil some tangled line, a pointless effort because it so obviously pained him and he accomplished nothing.
Finally he dropped the rope. “Edwina told me about you.”
“Edwina is indiscreet.”
Von Kresse laughed, the first time Spencer had heard him do this. Several of the others looked at them, including Edwina. Then she returned her attention to Mountbatten, who was arguing with Kees. She was trying to intervene, though it wasn’t clear on whose behalf she was doing so.
“She is afraid,” von Kresse said.
“Of what I might write?”
“No. She knows what you’re going to write. She’s afraid of what may happen as a result. She feels it’s her fault you’ve come among us, not your friend Mr. Channon’s. She thinks you may serve to keep the good Prince Edward from his throne.”
“And so what? You’ve just said you’d be happy if he went down with this motorboat.”
“Jimmy!”
It was Nora. “Jimmy. Something’s wrong with Mrs. Parker. She’s shaking like crazy.”
Spencer motioned to Kees. “Get another blanket for this woman! And some brandy!”
Kees hurried forward, leaving the helm with the Oriental crewman.
“What are you going to write, Mr. Spencer?” the count said.
“I’m going to write about the prince.”
“That’s what Edwina thought.”
“I hope my story will bring him down. He’s a goddamn Nazi.”
“That’s what I think Edwina hopes, too. But she’s frightened about what will happen to her husband.”
“Then her concerns are trivial.”
“But my concerns about her are not trivial,” the count said. “What else are you going to write?”
“In my business, you write everything you know. I’ll write about all of us, everything that’s happened.”
“Is this a threat? A promise? Idle talk? What?”
“It’s simply a fact. Like Lindbergh.”
“Lindbergh?” The count seemed startled.
“Yes. The Lone Eagle. He’s aboard the Wilhelmina, or in one of the lifeboats. I’ve seen him, twice. The crown prince of England and the Greatest American Hero, together on a sinking ship. And some of the richest aristocrats America and England have ever seen, and some of the most beautiful women, certainly the most beautiful actress in Hollywood. And one of Germany’s greatest flying heroes, and his sister, the eminent party member. Hell, I’ll have everyone but the Queen of Rumania and Laurel and Hardy in this.”
“Now you know why I would make no exception for you, why I’d have you sink with the rest of us.”
“No, I don’t. Why?”
“Because you are a parasite, Mr. Spencer.”
>
“I write the truth.”
“And what good that does serve? Look at the prince and his married lady. What good does the truth do them?”
“Speaking of parasites.”
“You’re speaking of royalty, Mr. Spencer.”
“Royalty, nobility, aristocracy. Parasites. All the same.”
“You were once an aristocrat, Mr. Spencer. Yes, we live off our ancestors. You journalists, you live off the living.”
“And who does Charles Lindbergh live off? The great pathfinder conquers the Atlantic and then becomes rich endorsing wristwatches and automobiles.”
“Charles Lindbergh is not with us.”
“And we are here. On this little boat. This doomed little boat. Fuck you, Herr Markgraf.”
“I say!” shouted Lord Mountbatten, rising to his fullest height despite the poor footing. “A ship! It’s a ship!”
Duff Cooper turned to look in the direction of Mountbatten’s gaze. They all did. Few saw anything, at first. Then the slim pencil line of black became more visible on the horizon.
“It’s a fishing boat,” Duff said.
“There’s no mast,” said von Kresse. Spencer had read that the count had better eyesight even than that perfect hunter von Richthofen.
The Oriental crewman pulled out a pair of binoculars from a box by the wheelhouse. Kees snatched them up, then handed them to Mountbatten, while reaching for the Very pistol. Another flare went up; then another.
“It’s a submarine!” Mountbatten said.
“English?” asked Duff.
“No.”
“American?”
“Not American,” said the count. “German.”
Mountbatten looked back at von Kresse, amazed, for the man hadn’t even the use of the binoculars.
“That red flag,” von Kresse said. “You’ll find a white circle with a swastika in the center.”
“We are saved!” Dagne said. She was ecstatic, but there was a craziness in her eyes.
Kees gave orders to the crewman, who hurried back to the wheel-house. The engine started.
The submarine had stopped. Kees gave more orders, and the sailor spun the helm, turning the motorboat toward the larger vessel. It occurred to Spencer how absurd they all must look in their blankets and sodden costumes. He wondered if he might pass himself off as an actual Legionnaire.
“If it is German,” Diana asked, “what will they do with us?”
“We’re not at war,” Mountbatten said. “At least I shouldn’t think we are. If you wish to worry, be glad she’s not Italian. Abyssinia, don’t you know. Who can say whether we’ve declared war on Rome?”
“I’m quite sure she’ll take us to the nearest port,” Channon said. “Though I haven’t the foggiest as to where that might be. The Azores? Iceland?”
“Newfoundland,” Kees said. “We’re the closest to Canada. Given the importance of some of you, though, they might take us directly to England.”
“What a catastrophe that would be,” said Metcalfe.
“Nothing could be more catastrophic than this,” Emerald said.
“You see, Mother,” Nancy said, an odd calmness to her voice. “We are going to live. You’ll get to be old. Truly old.”
The submarine appeared to be moving. It’s silhouette narrowed. It was turning. Apparently toward them.
Kees again spoke in Javanese. The crewman increased their speed. The motorboat’s bow began to kick up spray as they cut more rapidly through the water.
“My God,” said Duff. “An embarrassment of riches.”
“What?”
“Look!”
There was smoke on the western horizon.
“What’s that?” asked Diana. “What could be burning out here?”
“A ship could be burning,” Duff said. “If I may remind you of the circumstances under which we so disagreeably parted from the Wilhelmina.”
“It’s not burning,” Kees said. “It’s a ship under steam.”
“Well, for God’s sake let’s not press on toward that submarine,” Channon said. “They’re the most uncomfortable craft afloat, I’m told.”
“As cramped as coffins,” said the count.
Kees shouted a command, and the crewman put the boat into neutral. Their headway ceased immediately. They floated at idle, the boat’s motor bubbling and snorting. Everyone was staring at the increasing smoke on the horizon. In a moment, a dark shape appeared beneath it. It grew to be several times the size of the submarine.
“It’s a passenger liner,” von Kresse said.
Spencer marveled at the man’s eyesight. He would have been terrified to have come upon the count in combat in the skies over France. He would have been dead before he knew it.
“We’ll be sipping stingers in a trice,” Channon said. “And munching the good Beluga.”
“No!”
It was the countess.
“Go the other way!” she said to Kees. “Go on to the submarine!”
Kees once more gave orders in Javanese to the seaman, but, instead of carrying out Dagne’s commands, the crewman continued to turn the motorboat toward the approaching liner. He pushed the throttle forward. They began to pick up speed.
“No!” said the countess. “The submarine!”
“Dagne! Stop it!”
“The submarine!”
Kees ignored her, but then could not. She had taken out her pistol. She aimed it at the seaman, jabbing her arm in the direction of the submarine. The Oriental man looked terrified, turning his wide eyes to Kees, who violently shook his head and repeated his command.
“Go to the submarine!” Dagne shouted.
“Dagne! Stop this! You’re going to cause trouble for everyone! Including your stupid Führer!”
The gun went off. Whether it was deliberately or accidentally fired was irrelevant. The bullet’s impact slammed the seaman against the wheelhouse wall. It passed through his body, putting a large hole in the rear window. His body slumped to the floorboards, leaving a bloody smear. Mrs. Parker screamed. Several others began to cry.
Kees moved. The countess jerked the pistol around to confront him, but he moved past her, to the helm. He kept the motorboat on a course for the liner.
Dagne fired again. Kees, spinning around, clutched his thigh, then fell.
The countess shifted the pistol once more, aiming it directly at Mrs. Simpson’s head. Unshaken, the American woman stared back with cold fury. Spencer was surprised and impressed.
“Dagne!”
The count was on his feet. A man without his infirmities could barely stand in a boat moving so fast through such water, but von Kresse was perfectly erect. He moved forward and to the side, interposing himself between the pistol and Mrs. Simpson.
The bullets that had struck the crewman and Kees had passed just alongside Olga’s head. She was scared and angry, but sat quietly. Her own revolver was at hand in her long skirt. She would probably have opportunity to shoot the countess without the woman’s even seeing her movements. But that would of course be a ridiculously stupid thing to do. Whatever was going to happen to them in this little boat, Olga would have to be passive, to await another opportunity.
Of course, there was always the chance the countess might do her work for her—a chance bullet, perhaps a deliberate one, eliminating Olga’s target with no effort, and no risk, on her part. The von Kresse woman was waving the pistol back and forth, trying to sight at Mrs. Simpson again.
But her brother was coming for her. When he got too near, Dagne lifted the weapon to aim at him. Lifting it a few inches farther, she fired a bullet over his shoulder.
He came closer. She raised herself in the seat, lifting herself onto the gunwale, thrusting the pistol at him, her eyes full of her desperation and hate. She fired again, once more missing him, intentionally.
Von Kresse struck her with great violence. Spencer was startled by the man’s strength. There was a splash. He had knocked his sister overboard. Her legs flew into the air and
then she was gone. She was not wearing a life jacket. She had been one of those who had defied Kees’s orders despite young Parker’s death.
Mountbatten, Spencer, and Duff Cooper rushed to the side of the boat. With no one at the controls, it sped on, leaving the countess farther and farther behind. They saw her wet blond head, wide angry eyes, gasping mouth. She was shrieking in German.
Kees struggled to reach the controls.
“No!” shouted Count von Kresse. “It’s too late!”
“She’ll drown!” Kees said.
“My God, man, that’s your sister,” said Duff.
“She is already dead!” von Kresse said.
All sat staring in horror as in a brief moment the blond head disappeared in the dark-blue water.
The count gripped the gunwale, his face and hands ghostly pale. Then he collapsed in the seat behind him and began to sob. Edwina rushed to his side, holding him close.
“Christ,” said Diana. “Why didn’t we stay in the Paris riots?”
The prince was comforting Mrs. Simpson, saying, “Wallis, Wallis, Wallis.” But she needed little comforting. Her face bore the same irritated expression it had before the incident. It was he who seemed the most distraught. He was uncertain whether the German woman meant to kill him or Wallis. The thought of possibly being assassinated had never entered his mind before and he could not come to grips with it.
But then he found a way. They’d been spared. He and Wallis were alive and the countess dead. It was a sign. He and Wallis were meant to be.
The submarine came no nearer. It stood off as the big liner approached, its blue-and-white colors clear. Smoke was coming only out of the first two funnels.
“Good God,” said Duff. “It’s the Wilhelmina!”
“The ever reliable Dutch,” said Diana.
“We have to decide something quickly,” Metcalfe said. He looked about the boat, glancing into people’s faces, his eyes settling the longest on Spencer.
Dance on a Sinking Ship Page 39
