by Anne Perry
Mason was angry. “Of course they’re not going to do it anonymously!” he retorted. “What the hell kind of truth is that?”
“Are you sure?” Joseph let disbelief burn through his voice.
“Yes, I am sure!” Mason shouted. “I’ve known the owner all my life! He won’t let the editors take the blame, he’ll answer for it himself.”
Joseph believed it. The certainty in Mason’s face, the passion in him and his sense of honor and purpose, mistaken as it was, lit him with an intensity no lie could carry.
“I’m sorry,” Joseph said, and meant it sincerely. He liked Mason, indeed admired him. “I can’t let you do that.”
“You can’t stop me.” Mason smiled—a warm, unaffected expression.
Joseph shipped his oar. “Yes, I can.”
The boat jerked sideways until Mason lifted his oar out of the water also and the boat tossed and slapped without help at all.
“For God’s sake!” Mason shrieked. “We’ll sink! What the hell’s the matter with you?”
“I can’t kill you,” Joseph answered. “But I won’t help save you either.” He looked at Andy. “I’m truly sorry. But if this piece is printed it’ll be picked up by other underground papers, and will get round the country like fire. Well-meaning pacifists will pass it around out-side recruiting stations, and fifth columnists, pro-Germans will slip it through doorways and hand it out in meetings. In the end thousands of people will be affected by it. Fewer men will volunteer for the army, and our men in the trenches in France and in Gallipoli will be left to fight alone, until they’re beaten. I can’t let that happen, to save my life, or yours. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” Andy said quietly. “Maybe we wouldn’t have got home anyway. At least this is for a reason.”
Mason pushed Joseph violently, knocking him off the bench, and seized his oar, pulling on both of them and righting the boat to send it in front of the wind again.
Joseph settled in the stern, next to Andy. It was a relief not to be straining his aching back against the oar anymore. Drowning was supposed to be not too bad a way to die. He had heard that you lost consciousness pretty quickly. Not like being caught in the wires in no-man’s-land and left there for hours, even days. Prentice had died comparatively easily.
Pity Sam would not know. He would have appreciated the irony! Even more of a pity that he couldn’t tell Matthew where the newspaper editor was. He didn’t know the name, but it would be easy enough to find. Someone Mason had known all his life, who owned several papers, and was against the violence and waste of war.
He did not want to think of Matthew, or Judith or Hannah. It was too hard, too filled with pain. It hurt with a deep, gouging ache he could not control.
“You’re a fool!” Mason was shouting at him, struggling to keep the boat straight with the wind behind it. “Surrender could mean peace! A united Europe. Isn’t that better than this insane carnage, and the destruction of all our heritage, the poisoning of the earth itself? Europe’s becoming an abattoir! There isn’t going to be anything but ruin and madness left for the victor. Can’t you see that?”
“You want peace?” Joseph asked, as if it were a real and urgent question. They were being pitched sideways, one direction then the other as Mason fought to keep control, his face sheened with water, his muscles clenched.
“Of course I want peace!” he shouted furiously.
Joseph braced himself not to land his weight on top of Andy, who was watching him intently. “And you think that surrender will bring peace?” He allowed his own disbelief to ring through. “Maybe to us! But what about Belgium that we proposed to protect? We gave our word. And what about France?”
“We didn’t promise France,” Mason retorted.
“What the hell has that got to do with it?” Joseph demanded. “Do we only protect people if we’ve got treaties that say we must? Do we only do the right thing if we are forced to?”
“The right thing?” Mason’s voice rose in outrage. “It’s the right thing to crucify half the youth of Europe in a quarrel about who governs which strip of land, and what language we speak?”
“Yes! If the right to have our own laws and our own heritage goes along with it. If anyone conquers us and lays down the rules for us, then bit by bit anything that makes us free and unique will be taken away.”
The wind was still rising and Mason was finding it more and more difficult to hold the boat, even with the storm at his back.
“Free and unique! You’re a madman! They’re just dead! Bodies piled on bodies; tread on the earth in Flanders and you’re standing on human flesh! Tell them the truth, and let them choose what they want! It’s an unpardonable sin to lead them blind to the slaughter.” He yanked at the oar, his face contorted with the strain. “You’re supposed to believe in good and evil—to deny knowledge is to deny freedom—that is evil. Who the hell do you think you are, you supremely arrogant bastard, to decide for the youth of Europe, whether it will fight your damned war or not? Answer me, Reverend Reavley.”
Joseph’s mind raced. Mason’s argument was the Peacemaker’s, and he was so nearly right, so close to pity and humanity.
“You told me I was naive,” he shouted back. “You want peace? Don’t you think we all do? But not at any price, no matter how high. Belgium was invaded, and France. If we give up, do you think that’s going to bring peace? Do you think the Belgian and the French people will simply lay down their arms and surrender?”
The wind tore Mason’s answer from his lips.
“The government might give up, even some of the people!” Joseph went on furiously. “But do you think the army will? The men whose brothers and friends have already died in the mud and gas, on the wires and in the trenches? The men who’ve frozen, drowned, and bled for what they loved! They’ve paid too much! So have we!”
Mason stared at him. His face reflected the pain of his tearing muscles as he strained against the oars. The boat bucketed and slid in the troughs. He was losing. He began to realize Joseph was going to die for his conviction, and take Andy, too, if that was what it cost. The knowledge woke admiration in him, reluctantly, angrily, but totally honestly.
“There’ll be mutiny,” Joseph went on, conviction growing in him. He was so cold now that he was not moving and he could hardly feel his legs below the knee. Andy must be beginning to suffer from exposure. It grieved Joseph to sacrifice him. “In the army, and at home,” he went on. “What could the government do? Arrest all those who want to resist? Hand them over to the German occupying force? You know human nature, Mason! The brave men will flee to the hills, the forests, anywhere they can hide and regroup. Those who can’t—the old, the sick, women with children—will pay the price. There’ll be mass trials for treason, if they’re lucky; if not, then just executions. There’ll be collaborations, of course, and betrayals, counterbetrayals, groups of vigilantes, informers, and secret police. . . .”
“All right!” Mason yelled. “There won’t be a bloody thing if you don’t help me keep this boat ahead of the wind! We’ll all be dead!”
“No, we won’t,” Joseph told him, leaning forward to make himself heard above the roar and crash of the sea. “You and I will be, and unfortunately Andy, but no one else. The other crewman is dead anyway.”
Andy struggled to sit up. His face was ashen white in the cold morning light. The hard gray sea was racing around them, waves spume-topped, foam flying.
“Do you agree with him?” Mason demanded, staring at Andy. “Is this what you want, really? Because if it isn’t, you’d better tell him.” He jerked his hand toward Joseph. “And quickly. I can’t hold this much longer.”
“It’s what I want,” Andy answered, his eyes screwed up against the wind, but unwavering. “You’ve got to fight for what you believe, an’ die for it, if that’s the way it goes. An’ you fight for your mate, same as he’d fight for you.”
“And is Belgium your mate?” Mason asked savagely.
Andy gave him a cr
ooked smile. “Yeah. S’pose he is. Your mate’s whoever’s beside you. The Germans’ve got no right to go through Belgium doing what they’re doing. Nor into France neither. We’d fight if it was England. It isn’t different, just ’cos it’s somebody else.” He said it simply, as if it were obvious.
Joseph felt a sting in his throat. It was the whole philosophy of the British “Tommy” he knew. Are you your brother’s keeper? Yes, you are, at the price of your life, if that’s what it takes. All his and Mason’s arguments were academic, deciding for others. It was Andy, and a million men like him, whose lives were the cost.
He looked at Mason’s face and saw the amazement in him, and the grasp after a new understanding.
“You throw that thing overboard and swear as you won’t write it again, or we’ll all go down,” Andy told him. “I reckoned I’d give up my life for my country, if I had to—well, this is having to, that’s all. Never thought it’d be to stop a traitor, but at least there’s some point in that.”
“For God’s sake, man, I just want to stop the bloody slaughter!” Mason shouted back at him. “Do you know how many men are dead already, and the war isn’t a year old yet?”
Joseph ached to be able to help him, but he could think of nothing else to say. Any hour, any minute now, Mason would be unable to hold the boat alone and it would go over, and they would all be in the sea, floundering, battered, struggling as long as they could until it overwhelmed them, and they swallowed water, it filled their lungs, bursting. Could it be as bad as being gassed? He remembered that with a sickening horror! And what about Prentice, drowned not in the clear sea but in the filth of a shell crater. Sam had done that, Sam, whom Joseph loved as much as a brother. He reached out his hand and grasped Andy’s and felt his fingers respond, stiffly, too cold for more.
“I don’t care!” Andy gasped. “I stand fast!”
Mason struggled with the oars. He was weakening. His face was tight with the strain, but it was in his mind as much as his aching body. He looked at Andy for another moment, then at Joseph. “It’s in my pocket inside my jacket,” he shouted. “Take the oars from me, and I’ll throw it overboard. You could be right, England might be full of suicidal idiots like you.”
Joseph grinned hugely, even though he did not know how much the victory was really worth. They could well drown anyway. It was a triumph of the spirit at least. He fell forward onto his knees as the boat tossed and jolted again, swinging round and slamming against the waves. He took the oars from Mason and threw his weight and all his strength into pulling the boat straight, safe from the trough. It tore at the muscles on his back and shoulders, but he was rested, stronger than Mason now, and he could hold it, at least until Mason had thrown the papers away.
“Tear them up,” he added aloud.
Mason made one more attempt. “It won’t make any bloody difference! I’m not the only one.”
“The only one what?” Joseph asked.
“Writing the truth, and who’ll get published.”
“You’re the one writing about Gallipoli,” Joseph responded. “You’re the one who’ll do the damage.”
Mason gave a bark of laughter. “Don’t you believe it! We’ve got a new young chap at Ypres. He was actually there for the first gas attack. He’s got an almost photographic memory, but he took notes of it all, the panic, the horror, the way the men died.”
Joseph froze. “Notes?”
“You’ll never find them, they’re all in a code he developed when he was at school.”
Suddenly the hard, white light and the waves were as clear as midsummer, burning from horizon to horizon. “Eldon Prentice,” he said aloud.
Now it was Mason who crouched as if turned to stone. It would have been impossible to deny it—his face betrayed him.
“He’s dead,” Joseph told him. “Dead in no-man’s-land, drowned in a shell crater full of filth. Don’t even think to argue. I carried him in myself. Or to be more accurate, I dragged him most of the way. He’s buried near Wulvergem. I don’t know what happened to his notes, but I can guess.”
Mason blinked, still without responding.
“I have a friend who was at school with him. He could read them. You’re on your own. Put your papers over the side.”
Slowly, Mason took the carefully wrapped package out of its safety pouch and let the waves take it, then, as if infinitely tired, he lay back in the stern and Andy passed him the bottle of water.
Mason moved back to the other oar and silently they pulled together. Joseph took count of time. The wind chopped and by midday the sun was high, but there was no sight of land.
Joseph sat back. He was exhausted. Every inch of his body hurt and he was so hungry he would have welcomed even the worst of trench rations, but there was very little left in the emergency store, and they must make it last as long as possible. It was the lack of water that worried him most. They were restricting themselves to a mouthful each, every hour or so. Even then, there was perhaps another twelve hours left.
Mason looked haggard, and Andy was so white his skin seemed almost gray, but the bleeding had stopped some time ago.
“There’s no point in rowing,” Joseph said quietly. “We might as well ship oars and take a rest.”
Mason did not argue. Together they completed the stroke and lifted the oars in. They laid there along the bottom of the boat, careful not to knock the dead man.
“You should rest, too,” Joseph said to Andy. There was nothing on the horizon in any direction, no land to row toward, no ship whose attention to attract, not that that would be easy, lying so low in the water themselves.
Andy nodded, and carefully, to avoid bumping his arm, he slid down into the floorboards more comfortably. He smiled at Joseph, then closed his eyes. Nestled a little sideways, as if asleep, it was easy to see in him the child he had been a few short years ago.
Joseph glanced at Mason, and saw the recognition of exactly that in his face. His eyes burned with the blame, and the challenge.
Joseph did not speak, but he was as sure of his answer as Mason of his question.
He made himself as comfortable as he could and must have slept for quite some time, because when he woke Mason was sitting up, and the sun was low and murky over the water to the west.
“There’s a fog coming,” Mason said grimly. “Do you want some water?” He held out the canteen.
Joseph’s mouth was dry and his head was pounding. He took the canteen, and could feel by the weight of it that if Mason had drank any at all, it was not more than his rationed mouthful. He smiled, drank his own gulp, and passed it back. “No point in waking him,” he said, nodding toward Andy. He checked that he was breathing, and then sat back again. “We should row,” he said to Mason.
“Where to?” Mason glanced around. “America?”
“Northwest,” Joseph answered. “The storm blew us south. However far we’ve come, there should be the south coast of England to the north of us, and even if we were beyond that, which we aren’t, there’d be Ireland. We’d better row while there’s still light.”
“What the hell do we need light for?” Mason said bitterly. “We’re not exactly going to hit anything!”
“Fog,” Joseph replied. “We’ll only know which direction we’re going as long as we can see the sun in the west.”
Mason did not reply. Silently he unshipped his oar and put it in the rowlock, then, in time with Joseph, he began to row.
It was the hardest physical work Joseph had ever done. His body ached with every pull, his hands were blistered and he was so thirsty it took an intense effort of will to keep from plunging his hands into the sea, even though it was salt, and would only make him sick. Its slick, smooth water was cold and in its own way, mesmerizingly beautiful.
Andy woke and drank his mouthful of water. The sun was so low and the fog thick enough now that the west was barely discernible, but he understood what they were doing.
“There’s no need to sit up,” Joseph told him. “We�
�ll just go as long as we can.”
Andy smiled.
Joseph lost count of time. It grew so dim, the light so diffused, it was hard to tell anything but the broadest directions. No one spoke.
Then suddenly Andy stiffened and pointed with his good arm.
Mason swiveled around, oar out of the water. “A ship!” he yelled. “A ship!”
Joseph turned to look as well. Out of the gloom to their left there was a high, darker shape.
Mason pulled his oar in and started to climb to his feet.
“Sit down!” Andy cried shrilly. “You’ll capsize us in their wash!” He started forward as if physically to restrain Mason, but he was too weak and fell forward onto the floorboards.
“Ahoy!” Mason bellowed, standing upright now, waving his arms. “Ahoy!”
“Sit down!” Andy screamed.
Joseph lunged for Mason just as the wash hit them. The boat bucked, the bow high and sideways. Mason lost his balance and fell just as the boat slapped down again and pitched the other way, throwing him backward. The side caught him behind the knees. He folded up, hitting his head on the gunwale, and slid into the sea.
Without waiting, Andy went in after him.
The boat swiveled and tossed on the wake and Joseph grabbed after the oars, desperately fumbling as Andy and Mason slipped astern. He got them both at last and turned the boat, heaving with all his strength, his muscles burning, to get back to them. It seemed to take forever, stroke after stroke, but it must have been no more than a minute or two before he was there. A hand came up over the side and he shipped the oars and reached to pull Mason up and on board. He was almost deadweight, streaming water, and gasping.
Then he turned for Andy. He saw him for an instant, just the pale blur of his face, then he was gone.
“Andy!” Joseph shrieked, his voice hoarse, piercing with despair. “Andy!”
But there was no break in the gray sea, nothing above the surface.
He was sobbing as he flung himself on the oars again and sent the boat lurching forward, all his weight behind each stroke. He called out again and again. He was aware of Mason clambering up and going into the bow, peering ahead, calling as well.
