In Distant Fields

by Charlotte Bingham

  ‘I suppose because they suspect we have broken certain codes, or might be as capable as they are in breaking certain codes.’

  ‘What sort of codes, Perry?’ Partita demanded.

  ‘It would be perfectly possible to carry arms and armaments bound for the war zone, let us say, in the holds of passenger ships. I don’t think the enemy simply wishes to target innocent civilians. The propaganda value of such a crime would tell against them too much.’

  ‘They might do that sort of thing,’ Partita said hotly, ‘but not us. Never.’

  ‘And certainly not a neutral country surely?’ Kitty asked. ‘What would be the point?’

  ‘There could be all sorts of points, Kitty, and all sorts of possibilities. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is hundreds of innocent people have lost their lives in the most terrible way, and whatever the reasons are for sinking the Lusitania, there cannot be one that could possibly justify such a wholesale murder.’

  ‘Gracious heavens!’ Circe suddenly exclaimed, rising from the table. ‘I have just had the most terrible thought. Please excuse me, everyone.’

  She hurried from the room without further explanation.

  Those she had left behind fell to silence, with no idea what the thought might have been or what it was prompting but were too tactful to ask. They all considered the latest grim piece of news. Partita watched Peregrine’s face as he finally broke the silence the news had engendered. He was still as handsome as ever, his voice still as measured and mellifluous as when she had first known him, and used to slide down the banisters to greet him in the Great Hall. It was not fair. Part of her had hoped, so hoped that he would come back from the Front a changed man, not as changed as Michael Bradley, of course, but changed enough for her to stop caring about him, because the truth was she no longer wanted to have feelings for him. She no longer wanted to have her pulse quicken uncomfortably when she saw him; she no longer wanted to hope that he would see her as something other than this childish brat that he still called Mischief. She had found a new purpose to her young life. She was needed, if not by him, by her patients, and yet seeing him expressing his thoughts, watching his handsome face assume a look of compassion and understanding, she knew that strong as her will was, she could not suppress her feelings. She still loved him as she always had, would still pray for him every night, as she always had. In short, she would always love him, despite knowing now that he would never love her the way she wanted.

  ‘Maude?’ Circe was asking into the telephone. ‘Maude dearest, this is Circe. I wonder, have you heard the news?’

  * * *

  Shortly after two o’clock that afternoon, just after the Old Head of Kinsale had been sighted on the coast of Cork, the first torpedo had been launched, hitting the liner right behind the bridge. It had caused an abnormally loud explosion for the impact of only one missile, followed almost at once by a very heavy smoke cloud, both the explosion and the cloud causing instant confusion and panic. The great ship listed quickly and began to sink at an angle that made a successful launching of the lifeboats all but impossible, the first loaded life crafts hitting the water far too hard and hurling all their passengers into the water.

  Like most gentlemen passengers on board, Hughie’s sole concern was to try to ensure that the women and the children got safely into the other lifeboats that were being prepared for launch, but the pandemonium and panic was so intense that he twice got knocked clean off his feet and only managed to save himself from plunging into the water by a last-minute rescue from one of the crew, who grabbed his hand as he was slipping down the decks to haul him back to safety. But his wellbeing was only temporary since the liner was sinking very quickly, taking with it hundreds of panic-stricken, screaming innocent people. Someone had thrown him a life jacket, but seeing a woman being loaded into a lifeboat without one, he sacrificed his last chance of redemption by insisting she took it.

  He and another man, an American his own age whom he had met on the voyage, then looked for something on to which they might cling or somewhere safe where they might shelter until perhaps some miracle happened that might save them, because they both knew that without any such miracle they were most certainly doomed. As they clung to a steel post that instead of standing at one hundred and eighty degrees to the sea now stood at right angles, both men hung on for dear life, lives so dear they had both prayed at the tops of their voices for the miracle that would save them, knowing there was no chance now that their lives would, be spared. As the liner plunged ever faster into the turbulent seas, he thought of two things, of the fact that he had only got a ticket on the liner at the very last moment, the holder of the passage being one of a handful of passengers to take heed of the anonymous telegrams many had received warning them not to embark on the liner, and of the fact that he had been anxious to avail himself of the opportunity simply because now that he had been freed by his employers he could get back to England as quickly as possible to enlist and go to fight, only now to drown helplessly and hopelessly before he could get in even one blow for the freedom of his country and of Europe.

  Now, as the waters began to close around his feet, he closed his eyes and prepared himself for his death.

  ‘God bless you, pal!’ he heard his American companion yell. ‘See you up there!’

  And then they were gone, gone to the unforgiving waters of the ocean, gone to their graves with nearly twelve hundred other innocent souls, couples and lovers, single folk and hopefuls, old and young, civilians and merchant seamen, the rich and the poor, twelve hundred of them sacrificed for the bellicosity of one nation and the foolishness of its enemies, a number of souls, which, though horrific at the time, would hardly merit consideration when the final tally was told.

  Maude had only known that Hughie was about to return home and that he had been unable to get a first-class berth due to the lateness of the application he had made for his booking. She had been unaware that he was in fact already under way until she got a cable sent on his behalf by an American friend: ‘Surprise. Put out the flags. Sailing into Liverpool tomorrow. Hughie.’

  And then Circe telephoned her.

  ‘Have you heard the news, Maude?’ Circe asked.

  ‘News? What news, Circe dearest? I have been working day and night at Sister Agnes’s nursing home, as you no doubt know.’

  ‘The Lusitania has been sunk off the coast of Ireland. They believe she was torpedoed.’

  ‘The Lusitania?’ Maude repeated, trying to make sense of why Circe of all people should think it necessary that she be told this piece of news. ‘The Lusitania is the pride of Cunard’s fleet, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes, my dear,’ Circe said gently and carefully. ‘She is. But—’

  She’s a very safe ship, fast enough to outrun any possible danger,’ Maude continued quickly, while in the back of her mind a terrible possibility was forming.

  ‘So they said,’ Circe agreed. ‘I just thought I should tell you because I wasn’t sure on which ship Hughie might be making the crossing.’

  Maude was silent quickly realising, dread possibility having become an all too terrible probability, that Hughie might have been a passenger on the stricken ship.

  ‘She sailed from New York, of course?’ Maude asked suddenly.

  ‘Of course, dearest. And was due into Liverpool tomorrow. I do so hope—’

  But the telephone had gone dead. Hughie had to have been on board, or else why did the telegram say that he was due in at Liverpool tomorrow?

  The reality spun round her and she gazed at the telephone that she had just dropped, and picking it up, she started to dial Circe’s number at Bauders.

  ‘Forgive me, Circe,’ she said, sotto. ‘The shock.’

  ‘Do you want me to come to you, Maude? I can’t bear the thought of you being alone,’ Circe offered.

  ‘No, I am all right, thank you, Circe. For the moment. Do you have any idea of the number of casualties?’

  ‘The first reports are of several hu
ndred dead, dearest,’ Circe replied. ‘The numbers have yet to be confirmed but it is understood the ship sank quickly, which leads everyone to suppose the casualty list will not, alas, be small.’

  But no one knew with certainty until the following day, and those with relatives or friends on board had to wait even longer to have news confirmed or denied. Maude received the tidings by telegram, directly from the Cunard office.

  ‘Deeply regret your son Hugo Milborne lost in Lusitania tragedy. Cunard representative to call.’

  As she sat in her London house holding the rectangle of off-white paper that bore the strips of typewritten telegraphed information announcing in cryptic terms the death of her beloved boy, one of the maids came through to where she was sitting and placed the post in front of her on a silver salver. Maude gazed at it dully, and then her eyes caught sight of the American stamp. She turned the letter over and saw Hughie’s postscript written in his generous hand.

  ‘I might be home before this!’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dawn Mourning

  ‘It seems now that everything is sinking,’ Partita said to Kitty as they walked around the grounds, trying to make sense of what they had learned, for once barely able to contain their emotions. ‘That somehow everything we know and love went down with that poor ship. I keep imagining the terror of all those innocent passengers.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred people,’ Kitty said in a low voice. ‘Fifteen hundred.’

  ‘Fifteen hundred souls including poor, lovely, gentle Hughie Milborne.’

  ‘Poor, poor Hughie.’

  ‘Oh, Hughie, Hughie!’ Partita cried out suddenly, leaning forward and clutching herself. ‘Why didn’t you stay in America? Why did you have to come home? You didn’t have to fight! You of all people, Hughie! You who was always so frail! They’d never have let you fight! They’d never have passed you fit!’

  She collapsed into Kitty’s arms, and started to sob, her arms clasped round her tightly, Kitty’s arms holding her up as best she could.

  ‘Poor Maude,’ Partita moaned. ‘Poor Bertie.’

  ‘Poor Hughie,’ Kitty whispered, as Partita straightened up, getting a hold of herself.

  ‘No,’ Partita said, wiping away her tears. ‘This will never do. This won’t do at all. We have patients; they must come before our feelings.’

  She detached herself, almost violently, from Kitty, walking away from her and from the house while she composed her emotions, Kitty remaining where she was for a moment before following her.

  ‘What do you think, Kitty?’ Partita asked as her friend joined her. ‘What do you think everyone did to deserve this? This – this mayhem.’

  ‘Nowadays I am afraid I think a great deal less of what we all did to deserve it, and more of what we all did to cause it,’ Kitty replied, just a little tersely.

  ‘You think we’re to blame as well?’ Partita regarded her with some wonder. ‘But we didn’t do anything.’

  ‘Exactly, Tita. As a country we didn’t do anything at all, not when we should have done, and now we are paying the penalty. Everyone intelligent is saying so; whatever nonsense is being put about, we all know it.’

  ‘I can’t even begin to understand what’s happening. First of all it was all so exciting – and you can’t deny it, because it was. Everyone was so excited by what was happening as if it was our chance to beat the bad men and reform the world. Our army was going to do it, and so easily. They were just going to march over there, fire a few shots, the enemy would put their hands in the air and that would be that. What fools we all were – what absolute dunderheads. And now we’re going to lose everybody – and for what?’

  ‘Don’t say that, Tita. Don’t.’

  ‘Why not, Kitty? We know it’s true.’

  Partita looked with defiance at Kitty, challenging her to contradict her and knowing that she couldn’t.

  ‘Even if it were true …’ Kitty shrugged her shoulders and stopped before starting again. ‘Even if it were true, saying it isn’t going to help anything at all, not one bit, and especially not at this time. How can we possibly go on if we start talking like defeatists? This is just the sort of thing the enemy wants. They want us to be demoralised because demoralised people start to wave white flags and then everything really will be lost.’

  Partita regarded Kitty for a moment, then once more walked away from her, onwards towards the lake.

  ‘I wonder what’s happened to Harry?’ she said once they reached the lake’s shore, as if the lake had all at once reminded her of his absence. ‘I doubt that anyone’s heard from him in an age. You haven’t had a letter from him, have you, Kitty?’

  ‘No, of course not, why should I?’ Kitty stopped. ‘Although I heard his father saying to your mamma that he’d had a letter recently, but his handwriting was so bad he could hardly make out a word except that bullets appeared to be bouncing off his ambulance so effectively he thinks it must be made of rubber!’

  ‘Sheer Harry,’ Partita smiled. ‘Impudence in the face of the enemy. Now come along, Kitty – back to our front, back to our party, shoulder to the wheel and all that.’

  ‘Me come along?’ Kitty retorted. ‘You’re the one who was just about to cave in.’

  ‘Oh, I know, I apologise from the bottom of my heart. I was just feeling sorry for myself. Unforgivable.’

  ‘No, you weren’t. That’s not you. You were feeling sorry for everyone else, as you always do.’

  They both started to walk briskly back to the house and as they went along Partita explained that Michael was yet again in danger of being taken from Bauders and put in an institution.

  ‘So what do you intend to do, Tita? Have you an idea?’ Kitty asked, catching her by the arm to stop her walking so fast and furiously. ‘Hide him in a priest hole?’

  ‘No – it’s much simpler than that, Kitty,’ Partita replied. ‘I’m going to marry him.’

  She continued to walk on, but Kitty caught her by the arm yet again.

  ‘That is simply not amusing, really it isn’t.’

  Partita shook off her arm, trying to continue to walk, defiance seeming to emanate from every part of her, before she finally turned and faced her friend.

  ‘Why isn’t it amusing, Kitty? You are engaged already, so you can’t marry him. I am not engaged, so I can become engaged. Besides, why would it not be amusing for me to become engaged to Michael Bradley?’ Partita’s expression changed from defiance to compassion.

  ‘Because, as you very well know, Partita Knowle, poor Michael Bradley is already in love with you, and it would be cruel to lead him on.’

  ‘Oh, you don’t think so, really? You don’t think he’s really in love with me?’

  ‘Of course. Gracious me, why wouldn’t he fall in love with you? You’re beautiful, patrician, and have given him your sole attention for days on end. He is bound to fall in love with you, as so many on the ward have.’

  Partita sighed. ‘Yes, but it is not love they are feeling, is it, Kitty? It’s schoolboy crushes, that’s all. At any rate, a kind of grown-up version, because they are so far from everything they know and love, as I imagine people at school must feel when they are locked away from everything they know and love.’

  ‘Maybe, yes, maybe, but it is none the less felt keenly for all that, Kitty. Truly there is so much of which we must be careful, and people’s emotions are of the most tender. Remember Michael has already made one attempt on his life.’

  ‘I know, and that is why I am trying to think up some plan to help him before they come and get him. If he could pretend to be engaged to me, nothing more, or if I just said to the authorities that he was, that would mean they couldn’t take him away and put him in some ghastly institution where he certainly will want to take his own life. He is not mad, Kitty, truly he isn’t. He has just gone away from life because of the terrible, terrible thing that happened to him. He has gone away, and we could get him back, we should get him back. We can’t stop this terrible war, which I somet
imes feel will never, ever end, but we can stop anything more terrible happening to men like Michael Bradley. Not only can we, I feel it is a sort of – well, duty to do so. Really, it is our duty.’

  ‘But – but what will your papa and mamma say? They will never believe that you want to be engaged to poor Michael, never.’

  ‘No, I know,’ Partita admitted. ‘But I think I can get Mamma to agree to my idea, and I think once she has agreed to it, it will have an effect on Papa.’ Partita’s mouth set in a stubborn line. ‘If Papa thinks I am so desperate to help Michael Bradley that I will even marry him to stop the authorities taking him over – perhaps even taking him not into a mental institution but to some awful place where they experiment with gases and drugs on people whose minds have been destroyed – then he will act to pull the necessary strings to stop it happening. I am quite determined on it, Kitty.’

  ‘I can see that.’ Kitty smiled suddenly. ‘And whatever you say about the war, with people such as you on our side, I don’t think that finally the enemy have a chance!’

  Nevertheless Kitty considered the plan wayward, to say the least, but she also realised there was nothing she could say to dissuade Partita. The only people who could possibly have talked her out of taking such a course would be Almeric, and even perhaps Peregrine. She determined to write to him at once on the matter, but no sooner had she done so than she found herself hurrying out to the front drive to greet a new influx of patients.

  She stopped and stared first at the men climbing from the ambulances, and then at the other nurses.

  ‘What in heaven – what in all that is merciful have we here?’ Kitty’s eyes met those of Nurse Rose.

  ‘Shell shock, that is what we have here, Nurse Rolfe, shell shock,’