The Wild Rose

by Jennifer Donnelly

  Seamie thanked him for the information, and shortly afterward the Exeter had left port. It almost didn’t leave at all. At least, not with Seamie at the helm.

  He’d only made it back to port by the skin of his teeth. He was due to assume command of the Exeter at 0800 hours today. He got back into town just before six A.M., on a camel. He rode the animal to Albie’s house and banged furiously on his door. When Albie opened it, rumpled and bleary-eyed, Seamie handed him the camel’s reins and rushed past him, saying he needed to bathe and shave. Luckily, he’d thought to leave his uniform with Albie. He was washed and dressed by seven. He ran back downstairs, told Albie that his sister was alive, if not exactly well. He explained what had happened, and where he could find her, and told him to take his camel to go fetch her. Then he slurped down a cup of tea, crammed a slice of toast into his mouth, and ran out the door. He made it onto the ship at exactly twelve minutes to eight.

  It had been an uneventful few hours since he’d left port, but now, as the Exeter headed north-northeast, Seamie felt uneasy. He wondered if the gunboat had truly cleared off, or if Giddings was right and it was trying to lure them into a trap. They would have to proceed cautiously.

  As he was about to leave the bridge to inspect his guns, the radio suddenly crackled and popped. He turned around. They were too far away from port to be receiving any messages from naval command in Haifa. This had to be a ship-to-ship communication, which told Seamie there was some urgency to it. Telegraphist Liddell, the radio operator, dove for his headphones. He started twiddling knobs and pressing buttons, and then suddenly he was scribbling furiously. He stopped writing once or twice to ask for clarification, and two minutes later, he signed off. He pulled his headphones off and stood up. Seamie saw that his usually ruddy cheeks had gone white.

  “Sir,” he said, “we’ve just received a message from the commander of the Harrier, which is currently southeast of us, approximately halfway between us and Haifa. Since naval command cannot reach us, they’ve asked the Harrier to relay the following message from London, from Sir George Burgess himself.”

  “Read it,” Seamie said tersely.

  “We are ordered to abandon our position immediately and return to port.”

  “What?” Seamie said. “We just bloody got here!”

  “The SSB has confirmed intelligence reports that a German fleet has moved into the southeast Mediterranean and is massing off the eastern coast of Cyprus, a fleet of—”

  “Fleet? What fleet? There isn’t one bloody boat here!” Seamie said. “Not one! This is madness! We can’t turn around now!”

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” Liddell said. “Allow me to clarify. Not a fleet of war ships … a fleet of U-boats.”

  The bridge went completely silent.

  “Mr. Ellis,” Seamie said, “Bring her about. Now. Set a course for—”

  He never got to finish his sentence. The first torpedo clipped the Exeter’s starboard bow. The second one broadsided her. She burst into flames, and ten minutes later she sank to the bottom of the placid blue sea.

  Part Three

  DECEMBER

  1918

  LONDON

  Chapter Ninety-Seven

  “Oi! Missus! If I was yer husband, I’d poison yer tea!” a drunken heckler shouted.

  “And if I was your wife, I’d drink it!” Katie Bristow shouted back, laughing cheekily.

  The heckler scowled; the crowd in the packed market hall erupted into laughter. She’d just proved to every man and woman present that she was one of them—tough, scrappy, able to take a jab.

  Joe, whose mouth had been set in a hard, angry line, whose hands had been clenched into fists, laughed, too. He’d wanted to wallop the bollocks who’d just shouted at her, but he knew that Katie would be angry with him if he so much as traded words with the man. She’d warned him about interfering at her speeches, no matter how unruly it got.

  “Listen, Dad, you can’t come if you’re going to get shirty every time some silly bugger opens his gob,” she’d said to him. “How will it look? Like I need my father to fight my battles for me, that’s how. That won’t go over well—not for Sam’s campaign, and not for my own one day. So if you do come, you’ve got to keep quiet.”

  Joe had promised her he would. He didn’t want to be banished. He didn’t want to miss a single word his daughter said. She was a dazzling speaker—quick on her feet and inspiring. But it was so hard for him to keep quiet. He had many campaigns under his belt—for himself and for other Labour candidates he’d come out to support—and he well knew the ugliness of which crowds were capable. But nothing he’d ever encountered in his entire career as a politician matched the vulgarities thrown at Katie.

  A general election had been called for December 10, and Katie, a popular figure in East London with her pro-Labour newspaper and pro-union activities, was spending her Christmas holiday stumping for Samuel Wilson, Labour candidate for the Tower Hamlets seat, which included Limehouse, where they were now. As soon as she’d started campaigning for Wilson, the newspapers had jumped on her—calling her unladylike and unnatural. Some of the people she’d hoped to pull to Wilson’s side called her far worse. Grown men catcalled and heckled and said things better suited to a barnyard than a public hall, things that would have made most women—and even some men—blush and falter and run from the podium.

  Not his Katie. She simply clasped her hands in front of her, waited for her antagonist to finish, then gave it back to him twice as hard.

  “Oh, Katie,” Fiona had fretted, after she’d attended her daughter’s first speech. “Those men were truly horrible. Doesn’t it upset you?”

  “I don’t let it, Mum,” Katie said. “I can’t. One day I’ll be campaigning for myself, and that will be even tougher. I’ve got a chance to learn how to deal with crowds now, during Sam’s campaign. It’s a good way to gain experience. I’ve got to be able to take what people throw at me and throw it right back at them.”

  Now, as Joe continued to listen to Katie, one bright spark pointed out that she was a woman and that a woman’s place was in the house.

  “Oh, I couldn’t agree more,” Katie said, smiling her impish smile. “That’s partly why I’m here, you see. Because I very much want to be in the house one day—the House of Commons.”

  There was a great deal of laughter, and she joined in, but then she turned serious.

  “Yes, I’m a woman,” she said, suddenly steely-voiced. “And very proud of it. The war is over now. Armistice Day has come and gone. But let us never forget that it was women who held their homes together while their men were away. It was women who worked in the munitions factories and then came home and scraped meals together out of rations, night after night. It was women who kept families of this country going single-handedly for four long years. So yes, I am proud, but proud as I am, I do not stand here before you today and ask you to vote for my candidate because I’m a woman, I ask you to vote for Sam Wilson because I’m a member of the Labour Party and he is, too.”

  Cheers went up—the first of the evening.

  “You women out there—your country called upon you in her time of need, and you answered that call,” Katie said, hotly. “You worked and sacrificed and went without, never knowing if you would see your sons, brothers, and husbands again. Some of you got telegrams telling you that you never will. Who will be there for you now? During your time of need?”

  A group of women seated near the front of the hall burst into applause.

  “You men—you did not ask for this wretched war, but you got it,” Katie continued. “You endured a living hell on the banks of the Somme and the Marne. In the Atlantic Ocean. The Mediterranean Sea. Hundreds of thousands … no, millions of your comrades died, leaving behind grieving mothers and fathers, wives, children. Many of you have returned to us injured, unable to work, sometimes too damaged to ever rejoin society at all. You fought for us—now who will fight for you?”

  A new cry went up—no catcalls, no in
sults, just one word, loud and strong: “Labour! Labour! Labour!” Katie did not hush the voices, but let them chant their battle cry until the rafters of the market hall shook with the noise.

  When the crowd had quieted again, she said, “Ladies and gentlemen, we are not the same people we were four years ago. We live in a changed world now, one of war’s making, and we cannot accept tired, old-world policies. Give Sam Wilson a chance, give Labour a chance, to represent you in this new world. You fought, you gave, you endured … now it’s Labour’s turn. Let Sam fight. Let him fight for better jobs for the men who’ve come back, for better pensions for the families of those who didn’t. Let him fight for more hospitals for the injured, for more schools for the children of our courageous soldiers and sailors. Ladies and gentlemen of Limehouse, let Sam Wilson fight for you.”

  A roar went up. Hats went up in the air. Voices, some five hundred strong, chanted, “Wilson! Wilson! Wilson!”

  As Joe looked at his daughter—her cheeks flushed, her blue eyes shining, her head held high—he thought he would burst with pride. He didn’t know many twenty-year-old girls who were pulling down excellent grades in their final year of university, publishing their own newspapers, and campaigning on behalf of a would-be MP during their school holidays.

  “Looks like the acorn doesn’t fall far from the tree,” a man beside him said.

  Joe turned toward him. He knew his voice very well. “Why, if it isn’t Jimmy Devlin,” he said.

  James Devlin was the editor and publisher of the Clarion, an East London newspaper. Katie printed her paper, the Battle Cry, on the Clarion’s presses.

  “She’s a brave one, Joe. I have to give her that. I’ve seen men—seasoned politicians—turn tail and run when confronted by crowds like this.”

  “She’s the bravest woman I’ve ever known. Besides her mother, of course,” Joe said.

  “She’s read this crowd right,” Devlin said admiringly. “Telling them how the war’s changed things. It certainly has. And not for the better. But not every candidate’s coming out and saying that. Armistice Day was a month ago, but a lot of them are still beating the drum, talking about honor and glory and all of that. Not a lot of glory in death. Is there?”

  Joe shook his head. Devlin was right. The war was over, and the world, weary and heartbroken, was grateful for it, but it had changed things forever. Nothing was the same. No family was untouched. His had certainly suffered its share of losses. Poor, damaged Charlie was still battling shell shock. His progress was painfully slow. Jennie was dead. And Maud. Seamie, too. His ship had gone down in the Mediterranean and his body had never been found. They’d had nothing to bring home, nothing to bury. His little son, James, nearly four years old, was now an orphan. Joe and Fiona had taken him in immediately, loving him every bit as much as if he’d been one of their own. He had no one else. Jennie’s father, the Reverend Wilcott, had succumbed to the Spanish flu shortly after his daughter. The man behind Maud’s death, and Jennie’s tortured conscience, and likely Seamie’s death, too—Max von Brandt—was thought to be dead. But Joe didn’t believe it—no one had been able to confirm or disprove the reports from Damascus—and he doubted that anyone ever would.

  India and Sid had returned to California. The Harrises, who’d ridden out the war in Inverness, had followed them. The hospital India and Sid had started at Wickersham Hall continued to take in war veterans and rehabilitate them. India had handpicked her successor, Dr. Allison Reade, a young woman whom Harriet Hatcher had recommended. India and Sid, together with Joe and Fiona, continued to fund the hospital.

  “You finding time to campaign for your own seat?” Devlin asked.

  “Just barely,” Joe said. He’d been appointed leader of his party and, as such, was busy traveling the country, supporting candidates for seats in constituencies far away from London.

  “Well, see that you don’t lose it,” Devlin cautioned. “This time out, Labour really does stand to make gains. I’ve seen the proof of it. At rallies all across London.”

  “I think the best we can hope for is that Labour gains and the Liberals win,” Joe said. “It will still be some years before we see one of our own in Number 10. Very likely it won’t happen in my time, but I’m hoping it will happen in Katie’s. Perhaps I’ll still be alive to see it.”

  “You’re going to stay in the fray for some years, then?” Devlin asked. “No nice, peaceful retirement for you?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing, Jimmy,” Joe said.

  “Why not? The war’s over. Haven’t you heard?” Jimmy joked.

  “I have, but I wonder sometimes if the war—the one we’re fighting, the same one we’ve always fought—will ever be over. It’s hard, Dev. It tires a body after a while.”

  “Yes, it does,” Devlin said. “Especially old bodies. Like ours.”

  Joe laughed. He was now fifty-three years old, and though there were days—many of them—when he felt his age and longed to linger in his bed with a pot of tea and the morning papers, there were many more days when he felt every bit as passionately committed to the cause of social reform as he ever had. In fact, even more than he ever had. In addition to becoming head of his party, he’d also taken on the leadership of several government committees, on veterans’ affairs, education, and unemployment. Fiona had had mixed emotions about his taking on all this extra work at his age. She’d asked him if he could maybe just take up stamp collecting and had wondered, as Devlin had, if he would ever live a peaceful life. But Joe knew that he wouldn’t, because there was no peace to be had.

  The pain of what had happened to Charlie made sure that there never would be. Not for him. Peace and contentment went out the bloody window every time he saw his damaged son, and the other poor ruined young men who still lived at Wickersham Hall and probably always would, because there was no other place for them. Peace and contentment went out the window every time he rode through the slums of East London, and the slums in Liverpool, Leeds, Glasgow, and Manchester, and saw that the war that had changed everything had changed nothing—not in those places.

  “How about you, Dev?” Joe asked. “You’re hardly a spring chicken. Are you going to give it up anytime soon? Leave your typewriter and take up fishing?”

  Devlin snorted. “And leave London’s news in the hands of Fleet Street? Certainly not. Somebody’s got to put the truth out there.”

  Joe smiled. James Devlin had, in his own way, been fighting the good fight, too. He liked his blood and thunder—the murders and robberies, all the blood and gore that sold newspapers—but he’d run countless stories about dangerous working conditions at the docks and the sweatshops, and threats to the public health from unsanitary and crowded living conditions in the slums. In his own way, Devlin had done as much as Joe had to bring the public’s attention to the appalling privations suffered by the poor of East London, and Joe knew that a strong sense of social justice was what got James Devlin up in the morning.

  “Tell you what,” Joe said, offering Devlin his hand, “when we’ve won our war—that one that’s still raging—then we’ll worry about the peace. Not before. Do we have a deal?”

  Devlin smiled. “We do indeed,” he said, taking Joe’s hand and shaking it.

  Another huge roar went up from the front of the market hall. Both Joe and Devlin turned in time to see several members of the crowd surge up to the podium and lift Sam Wilson, who’d just finished his own speech, onto their shoulders. When they’d got him, they reached for Katie and lifted her up, too. Then they marched through the hall and out the door into the streets, where even more people were cheering.

  “Should be quite a contest,” Devlin said, watching Sam and Katie disappear down the street. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, groaning a bit. “Arthritis,” he said, shaking his head. “Plays up a lot more now than it ever did before. Glad it’s the young ones fighting it, I must say.” He pushed his hat back on his head. “Wouldn’t miss it, though.”

  Joe smiled. “Nor I,
Dev,” he said. “Not for all the world.”

  Chapter Ninety-Eight

  “Hold still, Oscar,” Willa said. “Just a few more and I’ll let you get up. I promise. The light’s so amazing right now and it won’t last much longer. The days are far too short in December. Look out the window, will you?”

  Oscar Carlyle, a musician, crossed his hands over his trumpet, turned, and gazed out of the window.

  “That’s it … perfect!” Willa said.

  His eyes widened, just as Willa knew they would. A smile played upon his lips. The light from the sunset, streaming in through the giant windows of Willa’s west-facing atelier, did that to people. It captivated them. Enchanted them. It softened them, made them drop their guard, opened them up for a few seconds, just long enough for her to capture the breathless surprise, the sense of wonder, on their faces. Just long enough for her to snatch a tiny bit of their souls and affix it to film forever.

  “The sun going down over Paris. What an incredible sight,” Oscar said, in his hard Brooklyn voice. “How do you get any work done here? I’d be staring out of the windows all day.”

  “No talking!” Willa scolded. “You’ll ruin the picture.”

  She took shot after shot, working as rapidly as she could in the last few minutes of light left to her. She wanted something magical out of this sitting, something extraordinary.

  The sitting had been commissioned by Life magazine; they were doing a piece on Oscar, a young, avant-garde composer, and they wanted an equally avant-garde photographer to shoot him.

  The war had ended a month ago, and the world was beginning to pick itself up and dust itself off. Already people were starting to clamor for news of something other than death, disease, and destruction. Some of Willa’s recent assignments had included portraits of the Irish writer James Joyce and of the fiery Spanish painter Pablo Picasso.

  When Life’s editors heard that Oscar was traveling from his home in Rome to Paris to perform there, they immediately wrote Willa to schedule the sitting. She’d only been in Paris about two months—since early November—and already she’d made a name for herself.