by Maureen Lang
The tug rumbled on.
Nothing for a full moment, nothing but the sound of the motor growing louder in the dim hours of morning.
Something hit the smokestack with a ping, like the sound of a marble hitting a target. Edward ducked flat. More spotlights lit and gunfire exploded into the night.
The captain shouted to the engineer to give it all they had. Sparks from the guard station flickered in the darkness, and Edward saw Rémy and another man Edward hadn’t seen before return fire.
Edward joined in. He knew how to handle the rifle thanks to a hunt he’d been on with Jan and his family during their university days, but that was the extent of his training. He hoped he wouldn’t waste too much ammunition. And he’d never shot at a man before.
Even if his shooting lacked skill, it was better than sitting still. Time suspended in the flurry of battle. It must have been only minutes but seemed like an hour.
Then, at last, they were out of range. Edward sank to the deck, relieved.
“That was number one,” Rémy said.
Edward wasn’t sure he wanted to know but felt compelled to ask anyway. “Number one?”
The man spared Edward by not answering.
Heading northwest as quickly as they were, they would hit the Scheldt and be across the border before long. It was, indeed, the quickest way out of Belgium.
Edward wished to go below—to be sure Isa and his mother were there. To be away from the sights. Away from gunfire, if more was to be had as he fully expected. They were well out of Brussels, and at this rate not very far from being out of Belgium. But it was hardly free sailing in between.
He couldn’t leave the deck, though, so he leaned closer to the man nearby. “Did any women board? One earlier, one shortly before you left the meeting place?”
He didn’t answer at first, as if conversing at all was absurd. “A woman? Yes, one more. That makes four.”
“Four?”
“And two children. Below. With the rest.”
Edward leaned back, eyes closed. He had no gauge, nothing but his own anxiety to guess how far they’d come. Every passing moment brought them closer to the border, but he couldn’t tell one moment from ten, one minute from an hour as he waited, prayed, for the sun to rise to prove time hadn’t stood still.
Even as he prayed to leave Belgium behind, he knew the closer they came to the border the more likely was a return of firepower.
Soon he sensed the boat went even faster, though the engine sounded no louder. A look over the side told him the current had picked up. God was pushing that strong little boat as fast as it could go, increasing its power, hurtling it toward safety.
Suddenly Rémy jumped to his feet, going to a trundle chest at the stern. The other sailor stood as well. Rémy returned and gave Edward what looked like wire cutters, keeping another set for himself.
“You’ll know what to do with these in a moment,” he said, the extent of his explanation.
“Have you another?”
Edward spun on his feet. It was the Major.
But the man shook his head and boldly pointed to the Major’s disability. “You wouldn’t have the leverage. You’d be more help behind that, if you know how to use it.” He pointed to the rifle Edward had put aside to accept the wire cutters.
Edward looked at the Major, who hadn’t bargained for his own escape, especially when that might include shooting at his own countrymen.
Max took up the gun.
Edward looked down at the tool in his hand. It was the length of his forearm and sturdy enough for serious cutting. Meant to chop wire or chain?
The tug hit something invisible beneath the surface, and it resounded with a thudding chime from the hull. The men rushed to the gunwales and Edward followed. The first man picked up a long, hooked stick from the deck. It looked like a staff from the little girl in the children’s poem with the lamb. He leaned over the prow and heaved. A chain came up with a jingle and a splash, and both Edward and Rémy started hacking away. Rémy cut through it in moments.
By the time they hit a second chain, another station was in sight, firing a hailstorm of bullets. Hauling in the chain left the one man most vulnerable, even leeward of the German storm. Edward and Rémy crouched until the last moment. Then cut, spurred on by the other to be the first to break through.
Another chain sank to the river’s bottom, this time from Edward’s slice.
From somewhere behind came rifle discharge, from another sailor—and from the Major.
At his comrades.
Edward hacked and hacked again with all his might.
The sailor with the hook wrestled with the fourth chain, yelling for help. Edward and Rémy dropped their cutters to lend aid; the chain was caught by something near the bank. On the count of three, the men gave it a heave-ho and it flew from its frozen restraints to swing directly around, broken from the embedded links. The three ducked at once. But the Major, still intent on the guardhouse, did not even turn.
“Major! Duck!”
But it was too late. The chain struck the Major’s helmet, winding comically around the spike on top. In a flash it pulled the helmet away, jerking the Major along with it. He hit the side of the boat and the helmet strap broke, sending it flying and the Major, obviously stunned, to the deck.
Edward started toward him, but the German shook his head as if to shake away pain and then, spotting Edward, held up a hand.
“I’m all right,” he said, then picked up his rifle and took aim again.
Seven times they hit a chain, pulled it in, chopped it through. Seven times one man risked his life leaning over the prow, providing the German soldiers with a living target while Max and the others covered for him. And seven times those Germans missed their moving target—or so Edward thought.
Until he saw the blood on Rémy’s shirt.
“Hey! You’re hit!”
But Rémy only shook his head, oblivious.
They were out of range again, beyond the last of the chains that had been scouted. Edward fell to the deck, breathing heavily.
“We’ve made it.”
But the man who’d brimmed with bad news so far offered no hope now. What could be next? And not for the first time Edward wished he’d chosen to go by foot. Even if the Germans had doubled the electric lines at the border, it surely would have been easier than this.
Nothing for a blissful few minutes. Or perhaps it was hours; time was still foggy.
“Holland.” Rémy, at his side, whispered the word as if he were looking at God Himself.
Edward gazed in the same direction. The sun . . . so it hadn’t disappeared after all. There it was, finally shedding light on the eastern horizon. When had the light first appeared? Edward couldn’t recall. He saw a windmill in the distance and his heart lightened. Holland—only minutes away!
Then Edward saw something else. A thick wire was strung just above the width of the river, straight in their path at the approximate height of the prow. Edward dropped the wire cutter, eyeing the origin of the wire. There was no cutting that.
It was bare electric. If the voltage was high enough, the dampness permeating the metal and wood boat would be enough to destroy them. If it hit the steel smokestack, it wouldn’t even need the dampness to conduct its deadly current.
Orders from the tug’s captain showed no cowardice. The engine blasted and in a moment shouts sounded from the right bank. Edward ducked, preparing for gunfire that always accompanied German cries. And yet it didn’t come. He looked at the bank. Soldiers were there, all right, and they were armed. But they simply stood there. Watching the boat approach the wire.
And so did Edward; so did everyone else on that deck.
The wire disappeared below the line of the prow. Edward closed his eyes, preparing at the very least for a jolting shock.
But it didn’t come.
The wire struck the boat and acted like nothing more than a rope holding back the powerful little tug. The engine raced and the bo
at slowed. It raced again and the wire pulled them to one side—to the left, away from the suddenly erupting bullet fire—but suddenly it didn’t seem to matter. They hit a shallow spot and scraped the river’s bottom. For one breath-catching moment, Edward thought they were lost in spite of the inadequate electric line. They were stuck in icy muck like a soldier caught in the mud of no-man’s-land.
He saw a pair of soldiers run to the box from which the wire emerged. They must have been as surprised as those aboard to see the wire hit and do no damage.
But the tug still floundered, listing to the side. The engine chugged as the tug tried to reverse while the muck held fast. Then the tug reeled and they were wondrously free—headed into the line of German fire. The boat’s pilot steered starboard, headed to Holland, the harmless wire caught beneath the tug’s prow.
Edward looked back at the pair of soldiers bending over the voltage box. If they found the sabotage of the voltage box and repaired it before the boat pulled free of the wire, that would be it. He spotted the wire cutters: metal from tip to grip. The voltage might be too low to conduct through the damp wood of the prow, but he wasn’t sure a direct hit with metal would be as ineffective. Yet, if that would save them . . .
The tug engine still churned, struggling against the taut wire. He started toward the prow, but just as he picked up one of the wire cutters, something else caught his eye. The pole holding the wire tottered in its place, and the two soldiers below were already looking up. The tug kept swaying against the wire attached to that shivering beam and in a moment it crashed down, barely missing the two soldiers below.
The suddenly unconfined wire sprang upward in a mad dance across the river, away from the prow. Abruptly the engine of the tug roared with freedom, with one last burst and a rapid pitch forward.
Then the clink of bullets hit the smokestack again and everyone plunged to the deck. But it ceased in seconds.
Dutch guns protecting their side of the border covered them now.
“Full speed ahead!” Never had a captain’s yell been so heady, so full of gusto.
Unabashed cheering rose from every corner of the ship, then from Edward himself—and the Major. Only when they burst into song did Max grow quiet beside him, perhaps not knowing the words of the Belgian patriot hymn “La Brabançonne.” Still he smiled, leaning against the rail.
The deck flocked with people; men’s strong voices lifted the song ever higher. Edward sang but his eager gaze sought just one face.
First he saw his mother, smiling and crying. But even as she waved at him, he saw her gaze drawn to the Major as he stepped forward, using the Allied rifle now as a crutch.
At last Edward spotted Isa and fought his way through the celebrating passengers to grab her to him, holding her tighter than he’d ever held her before.
“Come with me,” he said but knew she could barely hear him over the joyous singing echoing from every direction.
He took her hand and led her to his mother’s side and, without a word, directed both of them portside of the small tug. The Major followed.
Hands still joined with Isa’s and his mother’s, his mother holding the Major’s, Edward dropped to his knees. Needing no further invitation, they sank to worship beside him. With the victory songs accompanying their prayers, the four paid homage to the God who had saved them.
Edward barely noticed the songs fade away. At last he opened his eyes and looked to see the other refugees aboard.
Each one on their knees.
44
On this day, the 27th of January, Germany celebrated the birthday of His Imperial Majesty, the Kaiser. In their newspapers, German propagandists proposed the reason there was not a single shot fired in Tir National this morning to be the sympathy and affection the Kaiser holds for the Belgian people. Even for those Belgians who, like errant children, have yet to learn not to test German leadership.
But La Libre Belgique has it on reputable authority that it was Belgian ingenuity and bravery that stopped the executions this morning. Perhaps this very newssheet will be held in the hands of at least one of the formerly condemned, who escaped yet another of the injustices the German army attempted to perpetrate.
La Libre Belgique
* * *
Land had never felt so good, although Max hadn’t made enough voyages to give him the means for comparison.
Holland.
Neutral ground. Neither Allied nor Central.
His gaze shifted southward, where a while ago occupied Belgium had disappeared. Around him refugees hugged and cried, and some still sang.
Edward had taken Isa ashore ahead of him, and Genny was with them now. The three of them clutched one another, unashamed of their tears. Dampness clung to his own eyes, too.
But as glad as he was for them, something else pulled at his heart.
“Max,” Genny said, holding out her arm to invite him into the group embrace.
He joined them but kept both hands on the wooden handle of the rifle at his side.
“There are soldiers there,” Edward said, shading his eyes from the sun. He pointed to a tent, outside of which sat a table and Dutch soldiers, obviously taking information from those who had just disembarked from the tug.
“Go,” Max said.
“They’ll help,” Edward said. “All of us.” He started to lead their little group forward, and Max watched them take the first steps.
Max stayed where he was.
Isa turned to him. “You—you’re not coming with us?”
She was shocked, he could tell, but even with only a peripheral glance, Max could see that Genny was not. She knew him better than he knew himself.
“I will see you again, all of you. Someday, God willing.”
“But where will you go now? You’ll need help! You need us!”
He smiled at Isa, at this young woman whose roof he’d shared, who because of his army had suffered so much. Max touched the hand she extended, one he was sure she would have used to pull him along if he’d let her. “No. I’ll say good-bye now.”
“But—”
Instead of joining her protest, Edward touched her arm. Max had been sure in the last few days that he’d earned the young man’s acceptance. Perhaps he’d believed what Max had said about the difficulty of good-byes and didn’t want to extend the argument or the good-bye. Max himself had only suspected the truth before; now the reality sliced through him.
“You’re a brave girl, Isa Lassone. A brave young woman, I should say. Edward is fortunate to have your love.”
Edward stepped closer. “That’s certainly true.”
Then she had her arms around Max’s neck. “I would have liked to know you better, Major. And now I’m afraid I won’t have that opportunity.”
He patted her back and pulled away. “Maybe someday. I hope so. Finding the Lassone family in Belgium will be easy enough, if Belgium is ever free again.” He stole a glance toward Genny, and he was sure he saw her nod. “And if . . . if Belgium is annexed by Germany, then I will look for the Lassone family in America, should I ever travel so far.”
“Baltimore, Major. The Lassone family of Baltimore. You won’t forget?”
“No, I won’t forget. Baltimore.”
Edward stepped forward, extending a hand. Max grasped it.
“I don’t know how to thank you, Max.”
“No need. I did what I had to do.”
But Edward shook his head. “No, you did more than that, and I’m grateful. I’ll be grateful for the rest of my life.”
Then he put his arm around Isa again and started to lead her away.
Though he barely let himself a moment ago, Max looked at Genny fully now and couldn’t take his eyes from her. If Edward spoke again, or if Isa made a last farewell, he did not hear them.
“Genny.”
“Max.”
“I cannot go with you; you know that.”
“But you can’t go back. You mustn’t.”
“No, not yet. But when I can.
Somehow.”
“And in the meantime?”
He once again looked toward the distant border. “I’m a traitor, Genny. A traitor to Germany.”
“But you aren’t! You fought against injustice. You did what you thought was right.”
He stiffened. “I shot at men wearing my own uniform.”
“Yes! To save us—all of us! How could you have done anything else?”
“I could have stayed. I should have.”
“And been arrested yourself.”
He would have admitted that was what he deserved but knew she would only challenge that, too.
“It won’t be easy, going off on your own,” Genny said. Somehow he knew she wasn’t referring just to facing the German army again, but to all the rest. To Käethe. To his own disappointment over all he’d once served and believed in.
“I’m not sure life is supposed to be easy, Genny. After a life of ease, one might be surprised to find God’s there at all.”
She nodded, tears catching light in the corners of her eyes, a tremulous, brave smile on her lips. She’d never been lovelier.
“Genny,” he whispered, “there is much left unsaid between us. But it must be this way. I shall have to return home eventually. Or send for Käethe. I don’t know which, subject to what charges I may face.” He attempted a smile but felt only half his mouth obey. “I suppose that depends on who wins, doesn’t it?” He touched Genny’s chin with his thumb, looking at her intently. “I admire you greatly. I hold you dear. I’ll not say more because I’m not free to do so. I ask only one thing.”
She said nothing, gazing at him.
“That if I am ever free, I have your permission to find you.”
She offered a laugh that sounded more like a sigh, nodding her consent. “Max, I won’t ever forgive you if you don’t find me. Promise me that you will.”
He nodded, then placed a kiss on her forehead, not daring anything more.
He knew he would have to walk away because it was he who couldn’t have her, he who wasn’t free. He who needed to settle and mourn not only this, but the death of his allegiance to the country of his birth. Time alone could resolve all of that.
