“Keep well,” Daniel Sr. said, shaking Danny’s hand.
“Please bring my love to Mother and the others. I would write, but—” Danny gestured toward the city. “I don’t think there’s much of a post office anymore.”
Thomas and Lionel stood beside their father, looking miserable. Lionel wiped his nose with his sleeve and looked out to the sea, away from Danny.
“I shall pray for Audrey every day, son. I shall pray you find her.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Daniel Sr.’s eyes studied his oldest son, as if trying to see more, remember more, know more. “And I shall pray you find forgiveness for yourself. Blame and guilt do nothing to heal a man’s soul. Make yourself into the man Audrey would be able to forgive. Free yourself, Danny.”
Then he turned away, climbed into the wagon seat with his two younger sons and headed slowly down the snow-covered street. Danny watched them go, fighting the urge to chase after the rattling wagon. Wait for me! I’m coming! Johnny’s bare foot poked out from under his shroud. The wagon hit a bump, and the foot waggled back and forth, as if it were waving.
“Yeah,” Danny said with a wry smile that hurt so, so bad. “Goodbye, Johnny. You take care now.”
THIRTY-ONE
January 1918
Soldiers and sailors began to arrive, building temporary shelters as quickly as possible so people could get out of the lethal cold. Day by day the wounded began walking again, often with patched faces and bodies, trying to pull together what they could of their lives.
Danny didn’t know if his father was right, about earning forgiveness and all, but he did make a decision after their talk that day. Everything he’d been doing before was over, he decided, including the drinking. He’d made a mess of his life, just like this city was a mess. This was his chance to clean up both. He got involved in just about every aspect of the physical recovery of Halifax. It had started with rescue and cleanup, then followed with rebuilding. He joined the work crews, hammering and sawing through frozen January days, erecting walls to protect some eight thousand homeless people.
When he wasn’t building, he was stopping by the hospitals, checking name lists, always looking for Audrey. He had noticed Pierre Antoine’s name listed under “Known Living,” but it was a couple of days before he could work up the nerve to go see the man. Found it hard to admit that he’d chased his wife into that night and into the house of a better man.
Once in a while he paused at the beds of people who had lost limbs in the blast. He tried to reach them, to tell them life goes on, even on one leg. But it was hard to convince them of something he only partially believed.
He caught a job for sixty cents an hour with Thomson & Theakston, the big contractor and construction company around town, building new homes and the new orphanage, which, by necessity, would be larger than the original. Dozens of children had lost parents, siblings, aunts, and uncles and had nowhere else to go. The new building was still on Barrington Street but had relocated farther down, to where the Halifax Yacht Club had been.
Pierre Antoine appeared at the job site one day, his long black coat spotless, his narrow eyes just as dark and cold. Nearly shaking with restrained hatred, Danny watched the man as he spoke with the foreman, slapping his leather gloves against one palm, nodding emphatically, then shaking his head in turn. The hammer in Danny’s hand seemed the perfect weapon, but he held himself in check. The stuffed peacock might be his only link to learning anything of Audrey’s fate. He waited behind Antoine until the meeting came to an end, then he cleared his throat.
“Wondered if I might have a moment of your time, sir,” Danny said.
Antoine turned in a huff, clearly annoyed. He didn’t appear to recognize Danny.
Danny pulled off his cap and held it in his hands, giving the man a quick, obligatory smile. January immediately set in, biting at the newly revealed flesh of Danny’s brow.
“Danny Baker, sir. We met when my wife—”
“Audrey!” Antoine’s reaction was swift, as if he’d been slapped. He dropped his chin and shook his head slowly.
Danny’s heart sank. I will not cry.
“I am sorry, Monsieur Baker.” The dark eyes welled with sympathy, and for a moment Danny forgave the man for most likely being the last person Audrey had ever seen.
“You—” He cleared his throat, determined to know. “You were with her?”
“She arrived at my house the night before, but I left the city to go to Boston early in the morning. On the train, you see. I had a meeting there. But my family . . .” The men stared at each other’s chests, unwilling to see the pain in their eyes. “I’m sorry. Everyone in the house was killed.”
Yes, he’d seen the man’s family, slaughtered and stiff. He’d seen the damage done to the house. But he hadn’t seen Audrey there. Could she have gotten out? But why? What could have prompted her to get out of the house before nine o’clock in the morning?
“I didn’t see her name . . .”
One black eyebrow rose and fell, admitting fault. “I apologize. I have not had time to do so. I will speak with my secretary about that.”
Danny went back to work, staring at the nails in the boards, stopping only when tears obscured his vision. I am sorry, Monsieur Arnold. I’m sorry Fred’s not with me. Truly I am. I’m so sorry he isn’t here. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Mitchell. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t save him. I couldn’t—
He’d handed those boxes to his friends’ parents, given them what little was left of their loved ones so they could say goodbye. Letters from home. A Bible. Bits of nothing.
Antoine hadn’t handed him anything.
How could Danny ever say goodbye to Audrey? I’m so sorry, Audrey. I couldn’t save you. I can’t save myself . . .
All he could do was work. He put everything he had into those nails.
The city had put together a relief committee, and they supplied all the furniture for the orphanage as well as for other places. The building was put together quickly, and children began moving in. Three of the orphans were well-known to Danny: the twins Eugene and Harry and their baby brother, Norman. Danny tried to visit the little boys as often as he could and found the routine suited him well. He enjoyed their innocence, no matter how scarred it was.
It was during one of those visits that Danny heard a familiar voice. “Well, I’ll be. If it ain’t Danny Baker himself.”
Danny swung around and ended up face to face with Mick. Or rather, face to cap, since Mick was a foot shorter than Danny. Mick didn’t seem to have changed much since the war, other than a brand new line of stitches across one cheek which disappeared beneath a black eye patch. How ironic. To survive so much, then end up getting torn apart on your own home soil.
“Mick! Jeez, I never thought I’d see your ugly mug again!”
“I’ve been back about a month,” Mick told him. “You know a newsman couldn’t miss a story like this. I got here just in time for the fun.” Both men smiled grimly. “You’re looking good, Danny my boy.”
“So are you. Hey, am I glad to see you.”
Mick gave him a familiar, toothy grin, and the new scar lifted with it. “I’m glad to see you too,” he said, then winked his remaining eye.
“Suits you, that patch,” Danny said. “Makes you look more like the pirate you are.”
Mick threw back his head and laughed, though not with quite as much energy as Danny’d seen him do before. “Yep. And now I’m here to uncover buried treasure, I guess.”
“You’re working?” Danny asked. He spotted the paper and pencil in Mick’s hand. “What are you writing about?”
“Oh, this whole thing has made national—even international—headlines, you know. This is a great opportunity for someone in the middle of everything to get himself known. I’m writing all about this, then sending it around the world.”
“Jeez. Go
od luck with that, Mick.”
“Yeah. We’ll see.”
They stared at each other for a moment. As usual, it was Mick who spoke first. His voice, though, was uncharacteristically soft.
“Not sure if I’d rather be here or there, you know?”
Danny nodded. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and really looked at Mick. “At least there’s something we can do to help here, instead of just waiting for the next bullet.”
“Is that what you’re doing?” Mick asked.
“Yeah. Building. You know.”
Mick nodded toward the twins. “You know those boys?”
Danny gave the boys a pat on their slender shoulders, then led Mick toward the door, out of their hearing. “A bit,” he said. “I found them in their basement right afterwards.”
“They got a story?”
Danny snorted. “Yeah. Four-year-old twins with a baby brother, three dead sisters, and a dead mother. The end.”
Mick shrugged. “Can’t blame a guy for trying. Hey, want a smoke?”
“I don’t have any.” Danny grinned. “That was the funniest thing. When the explosion happened, everything blew out of my pockets. My brother lost just one boot. Just one boot, his hat, and his coat. Imagine that? What kind of explosion does that?”
Mick was nodding. “Tore a lot of people’s clothes off. I’ve seen far too many birthday suits lately.” He chuckled, then reached into his coat pocket. “Well, you may not, but I still have cigarettes. You can bum one off me. Nothing new about that.”
They stepped outside, and Mick handed Danny a little white cylinder that fit like an old friend between Danny’s lips. He leaned forward, and Mick lit the end of it behind his cupped hand as Danny inhaled, long and slow. He closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation as the smoke curled through his body. Danny had always thought the best part of smoking was how the moment seemed to slow as he breathed in. He used that time to ponder what he was about to say. The action calmed him, settled his thoughts. Not for Mick, though. Mick was a talker. Danny knew that well. He enjoyed the differences between him and Mick.
“Quite a thing, this,” Mick said, giving him an uncertain smile. “I don’t even remember what happened, you know? Started off standing outside the Chronicle office, ended up in some woman’s garden a block away. Wish I’d been awake for that. Now that’d be a great story.” He puffed on his cigarette as if it were a pipe. “They’ve found over a thousand people dead, you know. All dead in under a second. Think of that. I bet more Nova Scotians died that one day than in the whole damn war.”
“What are you doing here, Mick? Why aren’t you up front?”
Mick lifted one sardonic eyebrow. “Came home for leave.”
Danny nodded but waited. Mick got a look in his eye when he wanted to say something. He had that look now.
“I ain’t going back,” Mick announced.
“But—”
“Nope, I ain’t. I had thought about that for a while, you know, considered making a break for it. And there were all those worries about getting caught and all that. But this—” Mick spread his hands apart, indicating the disaster. “This makes everything so much easier.” He jabbed his thumb toward the eye patch. “They’re not going to want me back now.” He flicked off the spent ashes on the end of his cigarette. “Trust me, Danny. This explosion’ll be the best thing to happen to me and to a lot of other people too.”
Danny thought that over. “Huh. Well, I can’t really agree with that.”
“Well, no. Of course not. Not the way you’re thinking, anyway. But what about the construction boys? All the building right now is being done for free, right? After everyone’s got their emergency homes built, they’re going to want real houses, right? Not just tarpaper, but brick and mortar. And the companies that get those contracts are going to go through the roof. Imagine window companies! Just you watch. Plenty of people are going to do well as a result of this tragedy.”
Danny felt a little sick at the thought, but he didn’t say anything. Mick took a long drag on his cigarette, then looked down at the snow by his feet and blew out the smoke.
“You know me, Danny. I’m not a bad guy. But I see opportunity. And with opportunity comes so many things—some good, some real, real bad. The next few years are going to be interesting ones.” He grinned again and his scar stretched tight across one cheek. “Just you watch, Danny. Stick with me, huh? We’ll take an interesting ride, I’m sure.”
Danny shook his head, smiling. “You know, I told my little brothers about you,” he said. “I told them you never really took the war too seriously. And we all thought you were a loon, but you kept us going when we’d had more than enough of it all. I told them about that Christmas Eve. Do you remember when you—”
“Yeah, yeah,” Mick said.
“Well, I thought about you, you know. After I was back here. You were really the only one I thought about. You and Tommy Joyce. I figured the rest of them were probably blown to bits along the way, but you’d pull through. At least I hoped you would.” He lifted an eyebrow. “But I never thought I’d see you again, Mick.”
“Ah, Danny. There’s too much living to be done, I figure, for them to get rid of me that easy. Too many stories to be told that wouldn’t see the light of day if I wasn’t here to write ’em.” He smiled carefully. “And yeah, Tommy was alive when I left. He wasn’t . . . the same, but he was alive.”
“Are you going to write about the front?”
“Already started on that. It’s gonna take a whole book to cover it all. So many things to write about. Maybe now you’re here we can write them down together, huh?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I’m not good at thinking about that.”
“No?”
“Can’t remember much, really,” Danny said. “And when I do, I’d rather not.”
“Yeah, I guess that’s about right. Maybe it’s just me. I see it all like a great big bunch of stories that need to be told. Kind of like this one, only longer.”
“I wish you luck, Mick.”
“Luck ain’t got nothing to do with success, Danny. It’s imagination and stubbornness that’ll get you there. Just never give up. You remember that if you remember nothing else.”
Danny grinned. “Okay, Dad.”
“That’s right,” Mick said, returning the smile.
A man trudged slowly past, pushing a wheelbarrow along the uneven road. Two children sat inside the bucket. One was missing an eye and everything below one elbow. The other child stared off somewhere no one else could see. The father, or so Danny assumed him to be, used the wheelbarrow as a crutch as well as a carrier. He limped past, headed toward the hospital.
The sight prompted Mick to ask a question Danny’d been waiting for. “How’s your leg?”
Danny gave him his standard response. “No idea. Haven’t seen it in almost a year.”
“Hmm. And how’s that been?”
Mick had always been the one to ask questions no one else dared ask. Danny figured that was probably what made Mick such a great newspaperman. He wanted to know stuff, so he just asked.
“You gonna write about me?” Danny asked.
“Only if it’s a good story,” Mick assured him. “You got a good story?”
Danny snorted. “Not much of one.” He dropped the butt of his cigarette and twisted his peg on top to extinguish it. “I got home, felt useless . . .” He shrugged. “Maybe was less useless than I thought, but I felt like it anyway. I couldn’t figure what to do with myself. Couldn’t really fish. You need two hands, two feet for that. Couldn’t hunt because I kept getting caught up in the woods. Ended up working the docks here. Got married to a real queen, you know? But I started feeling so sorry for myself, even she couldn’t stand me by the end.”
“By the end? Where is she?”
“I got no idea,” Danny replied
, deciding not to mention what Antoine had said. He still couldn’t quite say it out loud. “She left me the night before the world blew up. And I haven’t found her on any of the lists.”
Mick steepled his fingertips together, like they were formed over an invisible ball. Danny recognized the position. Mick was “formulating thoughts,” he had told them once. Formulating thoughts. Who talked like that? Mick did. The whole battalion would be in the trench, knee-deep in mud and shit, and Mick would be formulating thoughts.
“So you did some dock work?” Mick apparently had decided to leave the discussion of marital issues for the time being.
“Yeah. Good money.”
“I hear it’s dangerous work.”
“Can be, I expect. But me and Johnny always pulled through.”
“Johnny. He’s your brother, right? I remember you talking about him.”
“Yeah.”
“Did he come to the city with you?”
“Yeah.”
Mick gave him a half smile. “What’s the story? Why so quiet all of a sudden?”
Danny shoved his hands into his pockets and spat into the snow beside him. “Because Johnny got blown up a few weeks ago.”
“Oh,” Mick said quietly. “Sorry.”
Danny nodded. “Yeah. Me too.”
“You have a house here?”
Danny suddenly envisioned Audrey as she had been when they moved into that house in Richmond. She was smiling, standing in their doorway, looking so pretty in her yellow flower-print dress, her curls soft and sweet where they tickled down her neck. She had still loved him then. Now she was dead, and the last memory she’d carry of him would be the slap of his hand on her face.
“Had a house,” he said.
“Ah. So where you living now?” Mick asked.
Tides of Honour Page 24
