“The war, aye,” Rory said. “But it all seems so far away, does it not, on such a splendid morn as this?” From his place near the wooden schooner’s wheel, he took a deep breath of heathery land fragrance. “It’s glad I am that I ain’t lookin’ out upon all this from the bridge of a warship.”
“It’s glad I am they ain’t seein’ us neither,” McGonagill answered, keeping up his watch.
“And what would they be wantin’ from the likes of us, pray tell?” Rory rambled on. “We carry no guns, powder, pikes or bayonets, an’ no battle troopers seethin’ for the kill. None but the fruits of Kerry and Killarney are aboard, innocent country eggs and butter for the market. A few harmless potatoes and carrots…and the eggs’ mothers, too.” He took one hand from the wheel and waved it at the overflow cargo lashed on deck, the chickens in their crates, clucking and ruffling their feathers in the morning sun. “No war contraband here.”
“True enough, and they can be well assured of that,” McGonagill said. “Assumin’ they don’t shoot first and ask questions after.”
“Well, I’m not goin’ to worry about it,” Rory declared, “not on such a day as this. I reckon we’ve cleared Kinsale now, so our course is to be set due east.”
“I reckon,” the Mate said with a glance down at the compass card in the binnacle. He raised his speaking trumpet. “Hands ready to adjust sail!” he called forward to the other idlers on deck.
The men barely stirred at his order. Slow to react—no, worse than slow. They were staring dumbfounded off ahead and to starboard. One of them, Seamus O’Donnell, pointed to where something was coming up out of the water
“Slacken sail,” McGonagill called at once through the speaking trumpet. “Ahoy, you spalpeens, hop to it! Loose the main sheet!”
Going astern himself, he untied the mizzen sheet of the two-master and let the rear sail flap free in the wind. As the mains’l flew out to leeward, the schooner rapidly lost way and began to wallow, rocking in the mild swell.
Off their starboard quarter, a wedge-shaped bow cut through the sea’s surface, spraying foam. Behind it a blunt turret had emerged, a tower topped with vents and pipes. Now suddenly the whole craft rose up onto the surface, its scuppers streaming white foam. Even as it leveled, it slowed to a halt alongside the Earl of Lathom, a mere hundred meters off the old ship’s bow. Judging from the emblem on the side of the tower, a broad-bladed Maltese Cross on a circular field of red, the craft was German.
“Begorrah, ’tis a sea monster!” young Gavin of Limerick cried out, having run from the rail and taken shelter behind the crates of chickens.
“Nay, ’tis a soob—a soobmarine,” said Brian of Ballinskelligs, the more savvy in naval affairs. “An undersea boo-at. They proobly just want some fresh booter an’ eggs from oos.”
“Maybe ’tis the patriot Roger Casement returning home,” Seamus said. “I hear that over in Germany, he’s raised up an army of Irish war prisoners to invade the homeland and cast out the British for sure.”
As the motley, barefoot crew stood gaping in awe, hatches were flung open in the top of the strange craft and uniformed men swarmed out onto the narrow deck. Two went to the main cannon on the foredeck and cranked it around toward the Earl. A captain and mate stood in the conning tower, and slender black-clad crewmen filed out along the narrow stern with rifles and pistols at the ready.
The captain raised his bullhorn and announced in the King’s English, harshly accented:
“In the name of the Kaiserliche Marine von Deutschland, the Imperial Navy of Germany, I claim your ship and cargo as a legitimate prize of war. All shipping of any kind, foreign or neutral, is subject to seizure in the war zone. You will leave your ship and surrender your papers without delay, and without interfering with my crew in any way. If you act swiftly and do not resist, you will be allowed to go unharmed.”
To drive home the point, the sub’s deck gun fired a shot across the Earl of Lathom’s bow. It screamed through the air overhead and raised a plume of water a thousand yards to port. Simultaneously, the U-boat’s men cocked their rifles and raised them to their shoulders. The response of the schooner’s crew, without any further orders from their own officer, was to scramble for the ship’s launch amidships, roll it upright, and ready the tackle to sway it over the side.
“Now, that seems hardly fair, does it to you?” Rory McCray said, keeping his place by the wheel. “Can’t you inform them that we carry no contraband?”
Mate McGonagill deferred to Captain Hardy, who had just come up from below. His first look of consternation at feeling his ship go dead in the water had, upon seeing the U-boat and hearing the gunfire, transformed to wide-eyed recognition.
His response to the wheelman’s question was a helpless shrug. “Do as they say, boys,” he said to the pair. He then turned and called out to his crew, quite unnecessarily, “Abandon ship!”
As he hurried below to salvage money and personal effects, the others manhandled the launch to the rail and hoisted it over. As it struck the water, a prize crew from the sub was just rowing up in an inflatable boat to take possession. Seven leather-clad Germans swarmed nimbly aboard like pirates into the waist of the ship. They carried weapons and metal canisters, with what looked like detonators and coils of fuse.
Pushing past the Irishmen they headed below, unreeling slow-match fuse as they went. Evidently they did not intend to sail the Earl of Lathom back to Germany.
“Should we loose the chickens?” Young Gavin called, standing beside the crated birds, which squawked and fluttered in the excitement. “Looks like they’re going to blow us up.”
“Don’t be an idiot, lad,” Rory called from the rail, where he stood ready to climb down into the launch. “Those poor creet-ers cannot flap or swim ashore from here. Nor can you! Come and join us, and we’ll be away.”
As Captain Hardy came last into the boat with his logbook, and the crew shoved off using their oars, Germans were already emerging from below carrying tubs of butter, cheeses and egg baskets. Rowing briskly away, the Irish crew watched the marauders snatch up pairs of chickens by the neck and carry them off to their rubber boat. In moments the captors had shoved off as well.
“By Mary and Joseph, there she goes!” Mate McGonagill called out. “They’ve sunk her.”
As the inflatable craft was rowed to the sub, twin fountains of water erupted from either side of the schooner, the scuttling charges having detonated. The wooden Earl began to list, its loose sails thrashing in the stiffening breeze.
“’Tis a sorry thing to do,” Rory remarked. “And all for a paltry few hen-fruit we would have given them for nothin’!” He felt truly glum at the loss of the old ship…how was he now to find another seaman’s berth outside of the Royal Navy?
He rowed with the others toward the emerald hills visible over his shoulder, just past the cliffs and the lighthouse. Then with a start he heard the U-boat’s deck gun open fire again.
But it was not at the survivors, praise be to the Almighty. It pounded away at the listing hulk, sending chickens flapping in the blue as it hastened the watery demise of the old Earl of Lathom.
Chapter 23
Unrequited
Alma heard the two men return to their stateroom in the hour before dawn. After making sure that they were well, she couldn’t trust herself to speak to Matt. She didn’t dare to focus her thoughts on him too pointedly. While trying to behave as normal, she remained silent and found herself avoiding his gaze.
After all, she still felt indebted to him,—dependent as ever, hiding from one man’s ownership by the grace of another. Robbing Peter to pay Paul, it now bitterly seemed to her. Yet it would be unwise to lash out at Matt with her injured feelings. And unfair too, since he owed her nothing. All that she really ought to feel was relief, a profound thankfulness at avoiding the same dreadful mistake she’d almost made…again.
Winnie seemed to s
ense her deep disturbance. In their early hours alone, while the weary men snored in the parlor and they tried to catch up on their own ruined sleep, the younger woman offered counsel.
“I wouldn’t be so upset about it, Alma. After all, they came back all right.”
“Yes, in the wee hours of the morning, smelling of gin.” Alma had to restrain her voice to keep it from veering into a sob.
“They said that was just a ruse.”
“Men are full of ruses.” She turned her back on Winnie to discreetly blink aside a tear.
“Well, even if it wasn’t quite true,” Winnie said, “they were trying to spare our feelings.”
Alma refused to answer further. Whether the men had been night-catting about, merely drinking or, as the coal smudges on their clothes and camera bag seemed to prove, creeping though some secret part of the ship, the fact remained: they were not dependable.
Having been through everything she had with Jim–the late nights, the liquor, the foul companions and murky underworld doings, and the ultimate cruelty–she needed some stability in her life. She had thought she’d found it in Matt, with his calm air, his confident and reassuring focus on her, and what seemed like his sensitivity. But if she was going to be put second to this other life of his, could she risk that? Was she just another news assignment, to be abandoned at night, and left defenseless, without even knowing!
What if he never came back! Or if his exploits dragged her into the spotlight, a ship’s inquiry or even a spy drama? Was he himself a German spy, could she really say for sure? Or perhaps one of those anarchists who’d blown up Wall Street?
Even if his intentions were of the purest, she shuddered to think of the consequences—not so much for her as for Matt himself! How could she ever imagine being emotionally tied to such a man? If he behaved this way here, on a genteel pleasure cruise, what would he be like in the trenches?
Did he have the slightest chance of surviving his war assignment? And his young henchman Flash, leading him further into danger…Alma had seen plenty like him in Big Jim’s criminal outfit.
* * *
As the day resumed, Matt sensed the change in her. At lunch they kept up appearances, conversing with Chuck and Mary Plamondon and some of the usual set; but as he waited for his Lamb Pot Pie to cool, he wholly failed to get her to look up from her Lobster Mayonnaise.
Later, returning from the Grand Saloon, he tried to engage her.
“My dear, are you feeling quite well?” It came out in his best British manner, doubtless picked up from their dining companions, that had become a joke between them.
“Fine, thanks,” she minimally replied without looking at him.
“Oh, good,” he said, still trying to engage her. “But I should apologize for keeping you up last night—you and Winnie both, and worrying you, needlessly.”
The last word came out by itself. He knew it was a mistake, and she was quick to seize on it.
“I’d hardly say it was needless, since anything could have happened.” At least she now shot him a brief glare.
“But Alma, nothing did! See here,” he added to her as they came up to their door. “The room isn’t cordoned off by ship’s police.”
Ignoring their protocol of sneaking about, he gallantly opened the door and followed her in. Once inside he pleaded, trying to corner her. “I’m sorry, Alma, really,”
Still seemingly unconcerned, she remarked, “You could at least have told us you were leaving the cabin, the two of you.”
“We didn’t think you’d even notice,” Matt sighed, trying out petulance. “We were back well before dawn, as you know.”
“And that makes us safer? You didn’t worry about leaving two women unprotected?”
“We were protecting you, by not telling you,” Matt explained in weary patience. “This news reporting business has an unsavory side to it, especially the muckraking part. We thought it best you knew nothing at all, in case there was some kind of alarm or questions asked later.”
She clearly wasn’t buying it. “You mean, if they came chasing after you and wanted to throw us all in the brig?”
She had remained standing, ready for a fight. No chance for him to sink down next to her and ply her with his masculine charms.
Now she continued, “We thought you must have sneaked off somewhere, taking pictures you weren’t supposed to. The camera bag was the first thing we looked for.”
From her fighting stance, she now seemed to draw back into simple appeal. “You could have taken me, or the two of us with you…did you even think of that? Where did you go, anyway?”
Matt took a breath, feeling the need to be stubborn. “Alma, the same reasons for secrecy I mentioned just now still apply. You’ll be better off not knowing anything.”
“Oh, really, just an ignorant female?” His remark had obviously stung. “Well, I can guess where you two were…looking for guns, or hidden troops, or poison gas bombs stowed aboard this ship! It’s fine being protected, but not from the truth!”
“It’s strictly business, dear, to be kept confidential between me and my employer. You weren’t even supposed to know.”
Seeing her lips tighten, Matt hid his exasperation and tried to retrench his position. “What made you come looking for us so late, anyway? Was there something you needed?”
A hurt look flashed in her eye. He’d obviously hit a nerve. But then came a knock at the door, followed by Winnie’s brisk entry, with Flash trailing in after her a few moments later.
The young investigator rapidly sized up the situation. He heartily announced, “Well, gang, I hate to interrupt, but fun and games are over! Time to develop some pictures.”
* * *
Then the two women were alone, barred from the darkened bedroom where the men worked in private. Alma gave her friend a final summary of her woes.
“He’ll always be that way, searching out trouble and putting his job first. He’s drawn to danger for the thrill of it, and he’s never going to change. So you see,” she resolutely finished, “I just can’t feel safe with him.”
“Oh, Alma, that’s so sad!”
“Yes, life is sad,” she said, refusing to dab at her moist eyes. “Well, what about you? Would you still take Flash into your bed?”
“In a minute,” Winnie proclaimed, bright-eyed in her girlish bravado. “Just try me.”
Chapter 24
Camouflage
Steward Jeremy Smyte moved down the corridor with watchful pride. He was the authority here, he told himself—he had the run of the whole ship, didn’t he? And this stern section in particular, the second-class cabins, set off in their three-story island behind the mainmast, were his domain, his little England. Here he ruled and kept close watch on his subjects.
Still, he didn’t want to appear nosy. Certain persons shouldn’t suspect that they were being spied on. Else they might find grounds for complaint, and make things difficult. He had to be discreet. But if challenged, he would be firm in his authority.
The nurses were out, some of them anyway. The tall old battleaxe and the two snippy sisters…he’d seen them on the promenade just minutes ago. But according to the roster, there should be two more. It was a four-bed cabin, and his tally told him that a folding cot for a fifth occupant had been delivered. He’d seen them all together that first day out. And who could miss them, the fair-haired lass and the flirty-eyed brunette, along with the other three, all showing themselves off so brazenly at departure. That tall blonde was the one, he was certain of it. Knucks had been willing to pay real money for her.
But since then she’d managed to disappear, she and her dark-haired sidekick. Where’d they gone, overboard? Not without a fuss, that was sure. And there’d been no opportunity to jump ship. They were stowed away somewhere out of sight, weren’t they? After a couple of days at sea, most of the mal de mer sufferers below decks had gott
en over it. And those who didn’t were more of a nuisance than the regular passengers, always asking for service in their cabins, and for slop-ups when they couldn’t hold it in.
Well, now was the time to find out, wasn’t it? Jeremy rapped firmly on their door, and after a moment announced, “Cabin service, coming in!”
There was no answer, and no stirring from within.
“Comin’ inside.” A few more sharp raps and he applied his passkey to the lock. Slowly pushing open the door, he found the room empty.
Too empty. There in the middle was the unfolded cot, artfully mussed but not truly slept-in. Three of the four bunks were disordered too, in true slovenly American style; but the fourth was barely touched. And the luggage…stored on the closet shelves, and floor, and under the bunks. No five Yankee maidens, Smyte told himself, ever traveled with so few trunks, satchels, cases and bandboxes. At least two of the five were gone, bag and baggage. Their toothbrushes were still there on the sink, perhaps, but little else of the lasses remained. Even the trash basket wasn’t overflowing as he would have expected.
Hmm, the trash. Kneeling and inspecting it item-by-item, he came to something at the very bottom, a small bottle with square corners. “L’Oreal—Safe Hair Dye Company of France—US Patent 1909,” so the label read in English. An export product, well on its way back now to the home continent. The color wasn’t indicated on the label, but from the unused bottle dregs it was obviously noir, jet black.
That suggested much. Who in the nurses’ little group, then, would be using black hair dye? The old biddy? No, Jeremy had seen her just lately, under an iron-gray bun resembling a war helmet. The raven-haired young sisters, then? Or the lush brunette, not likely. It was the blonde, most certainly, to disguise her pale hair that flew like a distress flag in the Atlantic breezes. The slippery sly one, who seemed to be entered on the passenger list as Alma Brady, but whom the gangster Knucks had described to him as a faithless little hustler named Maisie Thornton.
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