Across a War-Tossed Sea

by L. M. Elliott

  Quail-lee.

  Wesley waded through briars and pushed past dangling grapevines to emerge onto a wide field tangled with dried-out wildflowers, tall grasses, and thistles.

  Quail-lee.

  The dogs plunged into the grasses. Wesley waded after them.

  Quail-lee.

  The call was farther away now. Maybe his thrashing through the field had scared off the quail. He stopped. Bobby and the brothers could actually call back and forth with quail, especially in the spring when the males looked for mates, whistling bobwhite, bob-bob-white. This autumn call was harder to imitate, the first part high and long, lifting and falling in pitch, the second lower and short, anxious-sounding.

  He whistled.

  After a moment, a quail called back. Quail-lee. And then another. Quail-lee.

  Wesley smiled, thrilled to be talking with birds. “Just like Doctor Dolittle,” he whispered to Buster and Flynn, who had now slowed to a stealthy creep.

  The calls became closer and closer, seeming to surround him. Wesley had to be conversing with at least a dozen quail now. They were definitely converging on him. He tried not to think about the fact that the gentle little brown birds with their delicate white markings were destined for a Thanksgiving dinner table.

  He’d been paralleling Turkey Island Creek. Now ahead of him, shimmering in silver reflections of the low rising sun was the James River oxbow. He paused to watch an eagle lift off from a tall snag on the riverbank and torque its white tail like a rudder to navigate the winds. So strange that both the Americans and the Nazis had the eagle for their symbol, he mused.

  Quail-lee.

  Wesley frowned. That call was really close. And funny-sounding. Wispy, not sharp and clean like the birds’. More like…like a human imitation.

  Before Wesley could realize the danger he was in, he heard a rushing through the grasses and, in a flurry of panicked flapping, two dozen quail surged into the air right in front of him.

  KABLAM! KABLAM!

  Dead birds showered down around him.

  Terrified, Wesley stumbled backward. He clutched his left arm where he felt a sudden horrendous burning. He tripped and landed on his back, whacking his head, hard. He reached up to hold his throbbing skull, and Wesley realized his fingertips were bloody.

  “Good God,” he cried, as a whirling sickness overcame him. “I’ve been shot!”

  Then he felt nothing.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Here,” said a commanding voice. “Drink this.”

  Wesley felt a cold tin cup pressed to his mouth, then a metallic-tasting liquid stung his tongue and throat. He coughed, his eyes popping open.

  “That’s better.”

  “Where am I?” Wesley tried to focus. He was laid out on a blanket near a low campfire, thick with embers. An old man knelt beside him, holding the cup and a bottle of something golden.

  “In my hunting camp.”

  Wesley sat up and looked around. There were Flynn and Buster, happily chewing on bones, lying beside another dog. On a lean-to shed hung a dozen shot quail. He could hear water gently lapping against shoreline nearby. The sun was now bright and warm against his face. And whatever that liquid was had burned his insides warm, too.

  “What happened?”

  “You stepped into my line of fire. The sun was rising and in my eyes. I didn’t see you.”

  “What?” Wesley was so confused. Then he noticed another burning sensation and reached for his left arm. It was bandaged tightly above his elbow.

  “Some birdshot winged you,” the man explained. “Just scratches. I’ve cleaned them. You are lucky it wasn’t more.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Wesley, beginning to remember. “You shot me?”

  “Yes,” the man answered, sitting back on his heels.

  Wesley stared, for the first time noticing how different the man looked. He was deeply tanned, with high, pronounced cheekbones and a large, long nose. His graying hair was black and straight, cut blunt, hanging just below his ears. His eyes were large, a black-brown, and almond shaped. It was a rugged, slightly exotic face.

  Wesley gasped with a thought. Recently the navy had displayed a captured Japanese submarine in Norfolk, and the Ratcliffs had gone to see it. This man looked a tiny bit like the photographs of Japanese officers displayed on the wharf near the sub.

  “Are you…” Wesley lowered his voice to a nervous whisper. “Are you a Japanese sailor on the run?”

  The man burst out laughing. “No.”

  Befuddled, Wesley murmured, “But you’re not Negro like Freddy.”

  “No.”

  Wesley kept searching his mind for the image that matched this man. “Wait!” He gasped again. “Are you—oh my!—are you an Indian?”

  The man smiled. “I am Chickahominy.”

  Wesley couldn’t believe it. He was actually, finally, in the presence of a real live Indian! He sat up and raised his hand in salute. “How!”

  “How what?”

  “That’s what Indians say, isn’t it?”

  The man laughed again. “Only in Hollywood. I should introduce myself. My name is Paul Johns.” He bowed his head. “And I must apologize for shooting you.”

  “Oh, that’s all right.” Birdshot was a small price to pay to meet a real live Indian! “Do you live near here?”

  “Not far.”

  “In a tepee?”

  “No,” the man answered with a patient smile. “In a regular house, like yours, with a vegetable garden and flowerbeds. Besides, my people never lived in tepees. We lived in long houses, made from trees and bark.”

  “Oh, I would have loved to have seen one.”

  “Me too,” said the man. “Where are you from, son, that you ask all these questions?”

  “From England.”

  “Ah.” The man nodded. “That’s the accent. Then you are one of them.”

  “Them?”

  “Them that began our ruin. Thanksgiving is coming, right? Well, we have a different perspective on the holiday. My people taught you about corn and tobacco. You English brought disease and stole our lands.”

  Now Wesley frowned. He hadn’t ever thought of that, just about Captain Smith’s dashing explorations and the romance between Pocahontas and John Rolfe. He changed the subject. “What’s that?” He pointed to a large ivory-colored disk hanging around the man’s throat. It was the size of a teacup saucer, and its center was pinched, making it look like a dragon’s scale.

  “This?” the man reached for his necklace. “It’s a boney plate from the back of a sturgeon, the giant ocean fish that swims up the James to spawn. This came from one that was eight feet long.”

  “For real? I’ve never seen one,” Wesley said.

  “Come spring you may see one leap out of the water and shake itself in the air, before landing with a crash. They say long ago our young warriors proved their manhood by setting nets and then wrestling the sturgeon until they wore out.”

  Wesley’s eyes grew round. “Did you do that?”

  Once more the man laughed. “No. But I’ve caught a few sturgeons in my life. Would you like a boney plate for your own?”

  “Yes, please!” said Wesley.

  The man walked toward the water’s edge. Wesley followed and spotted a duck blind and a canoe tied up in a labyrinth of marsh grasses. “Oh, oh, oh! Is that canoe yours?”

  “Do you always ask this many questions?”

  Wesley blushed and stopped himself from asking why it was an ordinary-looking canvas boat and not a dug-out log like he’d seen in books.

  “Let me ask you a few,” countered the man. “What are you doing out alone with hunting dogs but no gun, flushing a covey of quail?”

  Wesley explained.

  Suddenly, the man seemed uneasy. “You need to go back. They’ll be worried about you.” He sifted through a large pile of empty oyster shells and fished out a sturgeon plate to hand Wesley. It was thick and hard, like a piece of a knight’s armor.

 
“Blimey! Thanks, Mr. Johns. I can’t wait to show my brother.”

  “Since you are so interested in my people,” the man said, “let’s pretend we are making a peace pact—like Powhatan and Captain Smith. Instead of smoking a peace pipe like in the movies, I’ll give you this sturgeon bone and some of the quail you flushed out.”

  “Oh yes, please. Thank you ever so much.”

  The man walked back to his campfire and put six quail in a bag. He held the bag just out of Wesley’s reach as he said, “And you won’t call the sheriff, will you?”

  “Why would I do that?”

  “Not everyone around here feels as you do about native peoples. Some folks might take a Chickahominy winging a white child in a hunting accident as proof that we, as a people, are careless and dangerous. Do you understand?”

  Wesley didn’t, but he said, “I won’t tell. I promise. My arm feels fine.”

  “Then we have our peace pact,” the man said with a smile. “Come back this spring with your brother. I will take you two out in my canoe to see the sturgeon.”

  Later that day, when the Ratcliffs came out of the woods, carrying five large turkeys, Wesley explained that he’d been walking the dogs and accidentally flushed out quail that a hunter shot and then shared with him. He didn’t mention getting peppered himself. The sun was setting, and in the gloom no one noticed the tear in his jacket. Plus the Ratcliffs were tired and ready to go home, perfectly happy to accept a bag full of quail already provided. They didn’t ask questions.

  Only to Charles did Wesley show the sturgeon plate. Excitedly, he explained that Paul Johns was Chickahominy and had promised to take them out in his canoe to look for sturgeon. “He’s a real live Indian,” Wesley whispered excitedly. “But you can’t snitch, Charles. I promised him.”

  “I won’t,” Charles answered stoutly. “Did you say a canoe?”

  Charles listened carefully as Wesley described the canoe and how Paul Johns had tied it up in the marsh. “I’ve never seen a canoe myself,” he commented thoughtfully. “Did it look seaworthy?”

  “Oh my goodness, rather,” answered Wesley. “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, because.…” Charles rubbed his chin. “What would I tell our father if I let you go out on some rickety canoe that got in trouble?”

  “No worries there, Charles! It was tip-top!”

  “Hmmmm,” Charles murmured, then abruptly changed the subject. “Want to hear ’bout the turkey shoot?

  “Oh yes!” Wesley answered.

  Charles described it in such gory detail, Wesley was sorry he asked.

  1 December 1943

  Dear Dad,

  It is strange to say this so far ahead of time but Happy Christmas! The Yanks are now letting people ship five-pound packages, so Wes and I hope our presents make it to you. If no one nips anything you should receive: soap, matches, writing paper, typewriter ribbons, and coffee. We know it is nearly impossible to get any of that back home these days.

  Coffee is not tea, of course, but it is released from rationing because South American cargo boats are making the run into Norfolk regularly again since the Yanks are doing better at finding old Adolf’s U-boats. Wish we could get you some of the bananas they bring.

  I have also included a very droll American novel I read in school—Adventures of Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. Do not tell Master Whitten I say so, but it is far more interesting than Trollope. The Negro dialect might be hard going for you, but it is quite poetic when you get the hang of it. Twain’s depiction of the Mississippi River is wonderful. It will give you a slight idea of what the James River is like, although unlike the Mississippi, the currents shift every six hours or so.

  I see now why you always say that geography can affect the mindset of a man. I must say I feel the pull of the James to the sea. It must have been the way the Thames worked on Sir Walter Raleigh to send him here so long ago.

  We just had Thanksgiving. I actually ‘bagged’ the turkey we had for the holiday dinner. Bobby taught me to shoot. So now I can help the Ratcliffs ‘bring home the bacon’ when they hunt. Plus, I shall be prepared to shoot at the Jerries—hint, hint.

  I will miss our annual feast of Christmas leftovers and bubble and squeak on Boxing Day. Wes was so young when we left he does not even remember Boxing Day, which I think sad. Here’s to our seeing one another in the New Year.

  Yours, Charles

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Wesley,” Patsy called up the stairs, “can you come help crack these walnuts, please?”

  Reluctantly, Wesley closed his book. He’d been completely absorbed reading about Sitting Bull and the Sioux.

  Charles looked up from his chemistry notes. He knew he should stay put, but downstairs there was a warm fireplace and company and plenty of ways to avoid molecular formulas. “I’m coming too,” he announced. “It’s almost time for the CBS news roundup.”

  They stormed the stairs together.

  On the first floor, the house was filled with the scent of buttery biscuit dough rising in a bowl atop a radiator for the next morning. Mrs. Ratcliff hummed in the kitchen, cleaning up dinner dishes. Mr. Ratcliff sat in his wingback armchair by the fireplace reading the Richmond News-Leader. At his feet, the twins played war, grabbing cards back and forth from each other.

  “Looks like Santa Claus will be coming to Miller and Rhodes this year after all, boys,” he said to them as he turned a page.

  “Goody!”

  “What are you hoping Father Christmas will bring you?” Wesley asked as he flopped down on the couch beside Patsy. Balanced on her lap was a huge bowl of walnuts the boys had gathered from the yard for Mrs. Ratcliff to use in the apple-walnut bread she baked for Christmas presents. Patsy threw her hands over it to keep Wesley’s flop from sending the walnuts flying.

  “That new board game Chutes and Ladders.” “No, Uncle Wiggily.” The boys bickered.

  Charles had seen Patsy sitting on the sofa’s flowery chintz slipcovers a thousand times and never thought much about her appearance. But something about that night drew him up short, the glow of the firelight on her face maybe. She looks like a human blossom, he mused, sitting on a cloth garden. Oh for pity’s sake! Charles gagged on his icky-sweet simile. What a besotted dope!

  Patsy noticed him staring at her. She frowned, glanced down at the bowl, then at her dress and collar, as if checking to make sure she hadn’t spilled dinner all over herself or something, which would explain Charles’s looking at her that way.

  She’d caught him! Charles cleared his throat and stretched, then pretended to check for lint on the back of the couch.

  Patsy cocked her head quizzically as she asked, “Don’t you need to study for that test you were telling me about, Chuck?”

  “Naw. It’s in the bag, no sweat.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have passed chemistry without Henry tutoring me.”

  Charles knew Patsy didn’t care for science. Her favorite classes were English and art. In fact, she was an amazing sketch artist. She kept a notebook full of her own drawings—of songbirds, wildflowers, her mother ironing, the twins paying hide-and-seek. He’d seen her slam it shut when her brothers came near. Curious, he’d snuck a look. She was really talented. But he never said anything, since she seemed shy about them.

  Charles started to admit that he, too, wasn’t that good at science, that his strengths were sports and political history. But he knew Americans seemed to expect boys to love math and science and want to be engineers or builders of some kind. He didn’t want to seem like he didn’t fit the proper male mold.

  So he changed the subject instead. “May I turn on the news, Mr. Ratcliff?”

  “Sure thing, Chuck.” Mr. Ratcliff checked his watch. “I’m glad you kept track of the hour. I would have missed it reading up on Christmas happenings.” Mr. Ratcliff closed his newspaper and picked up his pipe, stuffing it with loose tobacco before lighting it. “About time you two went to bed,” he said to the twins.

  “No,
Daddy! We want to hear the radio too!” they chimed as Charles turned the radio’s knob on with a loud click.

  From the wooden, Cathedral-arched box a crackly voice announced: “CBS World News now brings you a special broadcast from London. Columbia’s correspondent, Edward R. Murrow, was on one of the RAF bombing planes that smashed at Berlin last night, in one of the heaviest attacks of the war. Forty-one bombers were lost in the raid and three out of the five correspondents who flew with the raiders failed to return.”

  With that, worries over bedtime stopped. Patsy froze, nutcracker in hand. Everyone shushed one another to listen.

  Charles crowded onto the sofa beside Patsy and Wesley, and leaned forward to concentrate on the report.

  “This is London,” Murrow began, in a deep voice that resonated over the static and feedback whistle of a transatlantic broadcast. “Last night, some of the young gentlemen of the RAF took me to Berlin.”

  “As far as Berlin—think of that,” said Mr. Ratcliff, puffing, smoke swirling around him.

  “All I can think about, Daddy,” Patsy countered, “is that forty-one planes didn’t make it back. Forty-one. That’s four hundred and ten boys, isn’t it?”

  Charles nodded.

  Murrow set the stage—telling that his pilot’s name was Jock, that he was the squadron leader, and that the big, black, four-motored Lancaster plane he flew was named D for Dog. Right before takeoff, Murrow added, a small station wagon delivered a thermos of coffee, chewing gum, an orange, and a bit of chocolate to each crew member.

  Pulled in by Murrow’s voice, Mrs. Ratcliff entered from the kitchen. “Poor lambs,” she murmured. “Only that to eat during a whole night of flying?”

  “Shhhhhhh.”

  Bobby drifted into the room now too, a trigonometry textbook in hand, as Murrow described the takeoff. The Lancaster planes—“Lancs,” Murrow called them—climbed “for the place where men must burn oxygen to live.”

  Patsy put down the nutcracker. Charles noticed her hands had started to tremble.

  “Soon we were out over the North Sea,” Murrow continued. “Buzz, the bomb aimer, crackled through…‘There’s a battle going on the starboard beam.’ We couldn’t see the aircraft, but we could see the jets of red tracer being exchanged.”