November 19, 1916
Lislea jabbed the end of a syringe into a vial, pulled the plunger back slowly, and then tapped the shaft with her index finger to remove air bubbles. Done, she sat the vial on the bedside table and looked down at her charge, a young man, twenty, whose gauze-wrapped face pointed up at the ceiling, a long, narrow slit about the eyes revealing a steady and disquietingly unwavering gaze. His name was Charles, and he'd been a private in the 21st London Brigade stationed on the island of Malta. At the Battle of the Somme, he took a bullet to the shoulder whilst going over the top, and lay in the mud for an hour, during which time a cloud of German mustard gas swept across the field, blistering his unprotected flesh. He would have died had he not the presence of mind to roll onto his stomach and cover himself the best he could. Living, however, can be just as tragic as dying, Lislea had learned, and his was a prime case. He passed his unmedicated moments in excruciating agony, and, if infection didn't take him, he'd emerge horribly disfigured.
He, and a dozen others, were admitted on Friday the seventeenth, at the port of Naples, for Britannic's usual coalling and water refueling stop. None of them were over the age of twenty-three, and all of them presently occupied beds in the open ward on B-Deck, off the promenade, a mixed assortment of woe and misery, the very thought of which made Lislea's stomach clench and her heartbeat race. Since their embarkation, she greeted each day with drawing desperation, quiet dread building within as she forced herself into the ward. The worst part of it all was that some of the men were well enough to be conscious and in their right minds - they were the ones who stared off into space as though reliving the horrors they saw in France; they shook when the ship's whistle blew, and woke weeping unashamedly from nightmares like small boys. The first day they were aboard, she sat with one, a Major, through the night, holding his hand because he was too frightened to be alone.
Like most of the British public, she'd been lead to believe that men who went to war were brave and steely, and always came home full of interesting stories and humorous anecdotes; she was shocked, then, to find most of the boys returning from the front were just that, boys, scared, hurt, and unable to even smile. Perhaps owing to her gender, the deeper aspects - the mental wounds, tears, and abiding dread - impacted her just as greatly as the physical trauma. War had, to her, always seemed an adventure, something to be gone into lightly, but after her time on Britannic, she'd come to believe that nothing save for direct defense of the homeland from an enemy invasion was worth fighting for. Nothing justified the barbarism she had witnessed, and, were it her decision, she would end it all this moment.
It was not, however; she could not stop the bloodshed, she could only pick up behind it like a dutiful yet long-suffering mother. The effect of being round the boys was inexplicable - it made her want to flee just as strongly as it made her want to care for them. Conflicting emotions vied for dominance in her chest the way German and British armies vied for control of French soil. She wished to tenderly nurse them, but at the same time, she wanted nothing to do with them or the sleepless nights they wrought.
Presently, a frown creased her tired face. Charles - his surname - peered at the fashionable timber joists running cross the ceiling. She joined her gaze to his, and sighted in his eyes the first gathering clouds of torment. The morphine she administered to him that morning had begun to wear off, and the agony of his condition was returning. As any typical Englishman, he weathered his pain in stoic silence, and always had.
She took a deep, calming breath, bent, and circled her fingers around his wrist, turning his arm so that his palm faced up. She sought a vein, found it, and sank the point of the needle in, whereupon she pushed the plunger, sending a rush of morphine into his system. He shifted his eyes in her direction, providing her a quick glimpse into hell, then back to the joists, his chest rising and falling under the blanket in a sigh of resignation. "The storm finally ended," she commented as she carefully withdrew the needle from his arm. She did her best to talk to the men as the idea of simply jabbing them and rushing off, as though they weren't human beings in need of the same love, compassion, and comfort she herself required, disturbed her to no end. "We left Naples while you were out."
Britannic docked Friday afternoon and was scheduled to depart that evening, but a nasty storm blew in and detained the vessel at port until today, Sunday. The weather was still off, sky gray and swell heavy, but Captain Bartlett was apparently taxed by the wait. Having the patients aboard, as few in number as they were, occupied Lislea's time. Nurse Forsythe put her on overnight watch Friday, and she passed the long, lonely hours sitting in a chair between two beds, reading by soft lamplight and listening to the howling of the wind, getting up when one of the men needed her.
As was routinely the case, she fell into meditation during her time alone. Rather than her shortcomings, however, she thought quite often of the officer she met the other night. She was too shy to look him full in the face for very long, but from what she did see of him, he was handsome, his features rugged and distinctly masculine. His brown eyes, though, were soft and kind, and when she first noticed that fact, her heart jigged queerly against her breast. His voice, too, was tender, and as she lie in bed at night, she summoned it as best she could, listening to it again and again on a loop the way one might listen to a favorite song on a gramophone.
She was not unaccustomed to being smitten, but she'd not felt it in years, and she though she strove to get her head about her and forget him, she quickly came to relish indulging in them. Of course, she was smart enough to realize that it was rash and improper, but she could not help being a lonely woman at sea who wished to be married and held. She noticed men more, perhaps, than she should, and often imagined herself wed to them - and all that that entailed. She could tell herself any number of things about Officer Marshall , but the simple fact of the matter was that she was akin to a hungry soul, and when one is hungry, they make no distinction between fare. They see food and want it. That's to say: Her budding infatuation was centered not round him as a person, but him as a man, interchangeable with any other. That unnerved Lislea because such courses of thinking belong to strumpets and women of loose morals, of which she was neither. As desperation grew, however, she could not ensure that she would not act as such.
The greatest lie to ever be told, Lislea was coming to believe, was that each person who conducts themselves in a certain way does it for all the same reasons. Immoral women who delighted in sins of the flesh existed, to be sure, but how many women take a man to bed not because she is a Jezebel, but simply because she was lonely and could no longer bear yearning for touch, intimacy, and affection but not receiving it? How many couldn't stand to be unmarried any more and bowled headlong into something the wrong way? A sizable number, she reckoned, and she feared that she would become one of them. In her state, all a man had to do was show her a modicum of kindness and be passably attractive, and she'd be reduced to a schoolgirl and, mayhap, even worse.
Even still, Officer Marshall had been much on her mind in recent days, and there were times when she would go out on deck hoping to encounter him...then near doubling over with cramps when she actually did. Yesterday, during the storm, their paths crossed on the grand first class staircase, she going down and he going up, trailed by a yammering Nurse Forsythe. Lislea's heart sputtered to a stop and she ducked her head, hurrying her step and sparing him a sidelong glance. He nodded politely, but the marked twitching at the corner of his lips betrayed him, and, she thought, signified his pleasure at seeing her.
How pathetic a wench was she!
Now, she laid the syringe on the nightstand and smoothed out the front of her apron. "The weather should be warming up some," she said and averted her eyes from Charles's upturned face. "We'll be able to open the windows and have fresh air."
The battered man hummed beneath his dressings and turned his head to the right, away from her, which was his way of saying he wished to be left alone. He was the most melancholic of the patients and it broke Lislea's heart to see. He needed a woman to love and care for him, a wife who'd do whatever it took to bring him back from the awful things done to him.
Her frown deepened and she forced her eyes to the floor, ashamed of herself for thinking such a thing. What pitiful creature can't make it past a man without wishing for his touch and to touch him in return? Physical touch, emotional touch, it was the same, constantly yearning for one of the other - or both - makes for a wretched, desperate woman.
Heaving a sigh, she collected the syringe and turned to go. At the end of the ward, by the exit opening onto the promenade deck, Colleen Kennedy, a thin, mousy woman with black hair tucked under her cap, save for a harried strand that fell across her pale face, attended to a man missing both arms. Of all the nurses, Lislea got on with Colleen the best - they were the same age, from the same part of Ireland, and of similar disposition. They were not particularly close, but enough that they were friendly.
As Lislea passed, Colleen joined her, and together they went onto the promenade deck, a light, cool breeze blew. "This day is killing me," Colleen said, her accent thick. She served the night shift then, at Nurse Forsythe's whim, the morning and afternoon ones as well. Dark bags hung under her tired eyes and her clear skin appeared thinner and grayer than normal.
"When are you off?" Lislea asked. Though the sky was ashen and shot through with ominous patches of black, the air was far warmer than it had been before they crossed into the Mediterranean.
Colleen hanged her head in exhaustion. "Five O'clock," she said.
It was presently half past three. In an hour and a half, dinner would be served in the dining hall on D-Deck; the patients who were able would be wheeled down in chairs via the elevator and sup in a massive banquet area. The others would take their repast in bed.
"Buck up, it's only a bit longer," Lislea said, as though she knew anything about bucking up. Perhaps she did, but she didn't feel it.
"That's easy for you to say," Colleen said, "you've not been awake thirty-six hours."
Lislea winced. "That long then?"
Major Harrison, supreme commander of the RAMC detachment, appeared from a doorway ahead and started in their direction. A tall, stately man with graying hair and a mustache, he wore a brown uniform with a cap, a belt across his chest and a white armband with a red cross around his left arm. His stern, wrinkled face belied his jovial nature, and as he strode past, he nodded to them. "Afternoon, Miss O'Rourke, Miss Kennedy."
They both nodded back and offered their own greeting. Major Harrison made it a point to know the names of everyone under his command and to treat them with a respect and dignity his station did not enjoin. A small courtesy though it may have been, Lislea appreciated it - a touch of warm and personable familiarly in the sea of stilted professional standoffishness. As was her way, that tiny bit of kindness lead her to imagine herself married to him. Not seriously, mind you, but idly and with a lack of profundity, the way a woman imagines herself in a nice hat that she either cannot afford or is unwilling to actually purchase.
That analogy summed her up perfectly. Browsing, as it were, with no intention of buying. At least at the present moment. She would one day if an agreeable sort made an honest try for her heart, until then, she'd other things to worry about, like the men under her care, and the ones being picked up tomorrow from the port of Catania, a full thirty, which would bring the total of wounded onboard to over fifty. Those poor, blighted souls - the whole lot of them - deserved her full and attention, thus her girlish flights of fancy would simply have to wait.
Someone somewhere, maybe Old Scratch himself, heard her vow and tempted her. Ahead, who should descend a set of stairs to the boat deck but Officer Marshall , Officer Wright at his left elbow. Lislea's stomach clutched and her throat instantly ran dry. They were both clad in dark blue uniforms - slacks, short waisted suit coats with gold buttons, and caps. Her eyes went to Marshall 's strong, manly jaw and an unnameable quiver rippled through her midsection. She urged herself to look away, but he held her gaze like the tide, pulling her inexorably closer. He glanced at Wright, flashed a wan smile at something the man said, then turned and spotted her, a flash, as of recognition but different, flickered through his eyes, and the simper he still wore brightened ever so slightly.
She felt rather than saw Colleen tense, and that broke the spell. She came alive and whipped her face to the deck, heat spreading across her cheeks and her heart slamming faster. As they passed, she was powerless to keep from stealing a sidelong look. His lips were turned up more sharply in a small but unmistakable smile, the beauty of which made Lislea's already overtaxed heart pitter-patter stupidly. Wright cracked a boyish grin of his own and tipped his hat. "Afternoon, Miss'n'Miss. Lovely day."
Lislea mumbled that it was, and Colleen choked out something that may have been "Indeed is." Once they were past, Lislea's neck muscles strained to turn so that her gaze could linger on Marshall , but she successfully resisted it.
"That's the one you fancy, isn't it?" Colleen asked. They were climbing the stairs to the boat deck now, Lislea in front and Colleen behind, as the passage was not wide enough to accommodate two people walking abreast.
Lislea's stomach knotted and her step faltered. Her first instinct was to deny the charge, but it was true, she did fancy him. "He's very dashing in that uniform of his," she said, and surprised herself by giggling like a girl. Colleen did as well, her face blushing as red, if not redder, than Lislea's.
"They're both very handsome," Colleen said with a forthrightness that Lislea had rarely seen from her. She smiled dreamily and tilted her head back, a breath of wind flipping the loose strand of hair from her face. "I fancy Officer Wright myself," she said. "He's always so bouncy and chipper. It's endearing."
To the right, the sea stretched off to the horizon, where a line of golden sunlight marked the end of the ill weather. Lislea swallowed thickly and toyed with the bun of her hair purely to give her hand something to do. "Officer Collins strikes me as a very kind man," she said shortly, her blush deepening. She was not accustomed to discussing matters such as these aloud, and being so open made her a touch uncomfortable.
"He does, what I've seen of him," Colleen said thoughtfully, then: "I'd rather like it if Officer Wright chatted me up, though I might turn to porage." She laughed airly.
A laugh that died when Nurse Forsythe stepped sternly from the first class entrance, her eyes narrow and her hands on her hips. "There you are, you Irish slags; just when I thought you couldn't get any worse, you tarry about as though you're on holiday."
All the good, warm feelings in Lislea's breast went the way of Colleen's laughter.
Some days, she thought she outright hated that old woman.
***
"Which one's caught your eye, Mr. Collins? I know it's one of 'em."
Marshall and Wright strolled leisurely along the promenade deck, their steps unhurried; they were both on duty and engaged in separate tasks on the boat deck, but Wright grabbed Marshall from his post for a spot of courtship - which is what he called dilly-dallying. The fifth officer's philosophy was that "a man needs to come up for air in the middle of his working day," an outlook that Marshall was slowly, and begrudgingly, coming to share. During the storm that kept Britannic docked at Naples, one of the crane davits was damaged by the wind, and Marshall had been working on it, along with Boatswain Thomas, since morning. Marshall was not normally a man to take leave, no matter how temporary, before completing the work before him, but he needed a respite, and walking the deck with Wright whilst smoking sounded like just the thing.
Then his path crossed with Lislea's, and his momentary vacation turned into something more vexing. Since the night he spoke to her on the deck, he thought of her quite a lot, an ailment that was exacerbated by meeting her several times on deck in the days following and letting his gaze wander about her. She was short and slight, her figure decidedly feminine, and one of her brown eyes was slightly askance, a flaw that he found strangely winsome. Her features were what one might consider ordinary, even homely, but to Marshall , they were wholly enticing, from her freckled cheeks to her pale pink lips, thin but alluring all the same, inviting him to lean in and taste them…
Something jammed into his side and he jerked like a man waking from a deep sleep. "Eh?" Wright pressed, a knowing twinkle in his eye. "She got you balmy on the crumpet, hasn't she? Who's the unlucky gal, then? The brunette? The black-headed one?"
Marshall hesitated. He got on with Wright fairly well, but not well enough that he was comfortable confiding something so personal in him. He didn't want to lie either, so he settled for a compromise. "They're both very lovely."
With a snort, Wright said, "You're holding back. You're sweet on one of 'em, I can tell it. Nothing the matter with that, mate, it's natural. You've ever...known a woman?"
Shock and outrage burst through Marshall 's center like a bomb. "That's not something you ask a man," he spat coldly.
"Blind me," Wright drew, "forget I asked."
"With pleasure."
His reaction to that question was based entirely on his principles of conduct, not upon the fact that he had not known a woman. He was still a boy when he put off to sea, at a stage in life where his opinion of girls was one of indifference. He grew into a man on a freighter in the South Pacific, far removed from women. Since then, he'd been to consumed with his work to stop long enough for romance. A courtship, like a flower, requires time and constant nurturing. You cannot wantonly snatch a woman from the street and drag her to the altar - and God, why would you? Marshall had not given much serious consideration to holy matrimony, but it seemed the sort of thing one shouldn't go into lightly. Marriage, as he understood it, was a lifelong proposition, a union that could be entered into but not backed out of. You get one shot and the way he saw it, you should know full well what you're doing before you do it - and know exactly who you're dedicating your forever to.
As for primal desires of the flesh...he certainly had them but he did not nourish them. The men to whom he looked, men like Captain Bartlett, were, in his mind at least, above such crass longings. They were like Christ - beyond lowly vulgarities, a being that was human but more. From the time he was a lad, he made every effort to be as they were, and when he encountered a problem in life, he asked himself what they would do. On the topic of women, they would not engage in the shameful practice of onanism no matter how badly the demons of lust tormented them. They would endure with the quintessential stiff upper lip, and that is how Marshall intended to face the sometimes incessant call of nature...a call he'd felt several times over the past three days.
He liked the idea of marriage enough, he felt earthly temptations, and he was taken with Lislea. Under other circumstances, he would give thought to pursing her, but given the state of things, doing so was impractical. Again, he resolved to forget her. Deep down, he knew that was unlikely to work, but he would give it his best try.
Momentarily, he and Wright returned to the boat deck, both of them resuming their prior affairs. When Marshall took his leave, Boatswain Thomas had just gone below to search up a replacement motor for the crane. Now he was back and knelt beside the contraption, a battered red tool box open at his right hand and parts strewn about like the debris field of a shipwreck. "Have we got it?" Marshall asked.
The older man rocked back on his knees and, pressing his lips tight together, gave a sad shake of the head. "No, sir. We've none in stock. We'll have to wait 'til Southampton."
Marshall creased his brow in worry. "Can't we rig it some way? Just so it'll work if needed?"
"Not without a motor, sir."
Rubbish.
Sighing deeply, Marshall put his hands on his hips and looked off toward the bridge. He detested the idea of bringing bad news to Captain Bartlett - an extra motor not being onboard couldn't be helped, but Marshall still felt it a failure on his part, as though he were somehow responsible instead of fate.
"Right, then," he said, his mood souring. "Close her up."
Boatswain Thomas nodded. "Aye, sir." He shut the compartment door, locked it, and got to his feet. Marshall left him to it and walked to the navigation bridge, stepping over a length of chain with a placard reading CREW ONLY hanging from it. Officer Mason stood on the bridge wing, his back to Marshall and a pair of binoculars to his eyes; he carefully swept his gaze back and forth over the sea ahead. That morning, before leaving Naples, a message came across the wireless that a German U-Boat had been spotted in the area. Captain Bartlett increased the watch and ordered the boats uncovered and swung out so they could be loaded and lowered more quickly in the event something should happen. He decided against alerting the passengers for fear of causing a panic. Major Harrison and Sergeant-Major Rigby were made aware, but no one else.
In the bridge, Captain Bartlett stood by one of telegraphs, his hand resting absently on its top and his gaze, like Mason's, dead ahead, eyes squinted almost indiscernibly. Some of the crew called him "Iceberg Charlie" owing to his peculiar ability to smell bergs from miles away. Marshall wondered if that knack extended to submarines as well...and would not have been surprised if it did.
Marshall clasped his hands behind his back and stood up straighter, waiting for the old man to acknowledge him. When he didn't, Marshall hazarded a soft, respectful, "Sir?"
For a moment, Bartlett continued his vigil, like a statue, then turned his head. "Mr. Collins," he said by way of greeting. He let his hand drop from the telegraph and faced Marshall . The pilot of Britannic was much shorter than Marshall , but his masterful presence lent him a far larger air. "Has the davit been repaired?"
"No, sir," Marshall said regretfully. Had he let his emotions show, his visage would have resembled that of a boy disappointing his father. "The motor was damaged and there is no replacement onboard. Boatswain Thomas checked the hold. We'll have to wait for Southampton."
Exhaling a blunted sigh, Bartlett nodded. "Very well. The others are functional?"
"Aye, sir."
"The boats are ready to launch in case?"
"Aye, sir."
Bartlett's scrutiny returned to the sea beyond the windows. Seamen bustled about on the bow securing riggings and such, and Marshall glimpsed one of the lookouts climbing down the forward mast from the crows nest, perhaps to use the lavatory. "Alright, then. Relieve Mr. Mason at the watch."
"Aye, sir."
Marshall dithered a tick to see whether the Captain would issue further instruction, then went back on deck. Mr. Mason stood at the wing wall, oscillating left and right. "Captain Bartlett's sent me to relieve you, sir," Marshall said.
"Alright," Mason said and handed Marshall the binoculars. "I haven't seen anything. I doubt you will either."
While Mason went off to do what Marshall didn't know, Marshall lifted the binoculars to his eyes and peered through, the world shrinking and rough, white-capped swell swimming into focus. The choppiness of the sea made detecting U-Boats a difficult proposition - the only way to spot one in this eventuality would be if you happened over a periscope jutting from the surface. Like a shark fin. Marshall knew little about submarines, but the notion of being locked in a glorified tube below the ocean, where the chance for survival in the event of emergency was next to none, gave him the heebie jeebies. He was no coward and had long been prepared to die at sea, but he'd rather not do it trapped deep in the darkened bowels of a vessel, panicking as the water rose around him, as like a coffin.
A shudder raced down his spine.
He could stand drowning, but not like that.
Never like that.
***
Lislea stood in a queue before the counter in the dining hall, a segmented metal tray clutched in her hands and a tingle pricking across the back of her neck. The vast mess was nearly deserted save for a few patients and their attendant nurses, the majority of the space deserted and eerie, unnatural silence hanging over the proceedings like a shroud. Later, the staff would sup and life would briefly enter the room, but for now, the place put her in mind of a crypt.
When her turn came, she held the tray out to a man in white who filled it with food from a pan: Roast, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a buttered roll that looked stale to Lislea. She nodded her thanks, crossed the room, and went out into the hall, a long, utilitarian corridor that terminated in a set of stairs. Raised in Ireland and steeped in lore and Catholicism, she believed wholeheartedly in the existence of wraiths, specters, fairies, and demons, and the long, desolate passageways of Britannic stirred disquietude in the pit of her stomach. She could not say how many men died onboard during its tenure as a hospital ship, but she did know that the number was many, and the nature of their deaths - violent, premature, and painful - was the stuff of which restless spirits were made.
She tossed a wary glance over her shoulder, but she was alone, the hall standing empty behind. At the steps, she hurried up, the bare floors turning carpeted at the top, and the bland white painted walls giving way to oak paneling that gleamed in the light. A nurse pushed a man in a wheelchair to the elevator flanking the stairwell, and an RAMC doctor rushed by with a clipboard in his hand.
Lislea ascended another stairway and emerged on B-Deck. She entered the ward off the promenade and carried the tray to Charles's bedside. Previously, the doctors had disallowed him solid food, but, after an afternoon examination, Doctor Prentiss, B-Deck's attending physician, declared him well enough to have it - a slit was made in his dressings over his mouth, and, presently, he sat up in bed, staring sightlessly at the facing wall, his bandaged hands resting impotently in his lap. Doctor Prentiss cleared him to get out of bed, walk, and go to the dining room, but the boy refused, saying his legs hurt. Lislea suspected that he simply didn't have the spirit.
He did not look at her as she sat the tray on the nightstand with a soft clink. "I've got your dinner," she said and nervously smoothed the front of her apron. "It's roast and mashed potatoes.
The smell is making me hungry." She forced a laugh that was supposed to lighten the mood but sounded stilted to her own ears.
Charles surprised her by speaking, his voice a rattling whisper. "You can have it then."
Though he'd made noises under his bandages, Lislea was convinced, given his obvious mental trauma, that the power of speech was beyond him. She was knocked off balance but quickly recovered. "Oh, I'll have mine later,' she said. "Plenty to go around." She sat in a straight back chair, put the tray on her lap, and commenced cutting the roast into small, bite sized pieces.
"I don't want it," he said, his eyes never leaving the wall.
Lislea's hand faltered. "Why don't you?" she asked.
"I'm not hungry," he mumbled.
She doubted that. As far as she knew, he hadn't had a decent meal in weeks, all of his substance being liquid. "Nonsense," she said lightly and went back to cutting the beef.
"I don't want it," he said again.
"You have to eat," she encouraged, "build your strength up so you can get out of this blasted bed." She laid the fork down, the meat as small as she could get it, and picked up the roll, tearing it to manageable bits. "The weather's turning nice and it'd be a shame to stay cooped up in here." She leaned forward, lidded her eyes, and added, in a conspiratorial whisper, "there's also a swimming pool. I hear it's very therapeutic." She didn't know whether or not he would be able to make use of the bathing facilities due to the character of his injuries, but she was concerned more with enticing him out of his melancholia than anything else.
He hummed disinterestedly and turned his head to the side, away from Lislea and his dinner. She frowned and took a deep breath through her nose, her eyes traveling about his megar frame. What his build was before he boarded Britannic, she did not know, but the man sitting before her now was a veritable bag of bones held together by thin, sallow flesh and force of habit. If he didn't take food, he'd waste away before they got back to England. She glanced down at the tray on her knees and then at Charles with a heavy sigh. "Could you please eat? Just a bit. I'd be happy if you did."
Charles did not reply for a long time, then he, too, sighed. "Fine," he said in a somber tone and turned his head. "Not much, though."
Lislea dug the tines of the fork into a shred of beef and leaned forward. "Not much," she confirmed, "just enough to keep you living."
He snorted as though he found the idea of living distasteful, and that single sound twisted like a knife in Lislea's heart. The urge to comment upon it, in hopes of getting him to open up about what happened to him and to work him through his emotions, came over her, but instead she lifted the fork to the slot in his bandage. He did not meet her eyes as he took the meat between his teeth, but she glimpsed shame, and imagined that his pride was wounded by having to be fed like a baby. "There we are," she said supportively. "It's good, isn't it?"
Chewing and swallowing, he replied: "It's dry."
"I'll make sure to get more gravy on this one," Lislea said and forked another piece. She swiped it through a glob of brown liquid, turning it over to evenly coat both sides, then shook it off a little. Holding her hand underneath to catch any excess, she brought it to his mouth, and he bent forward slightly to catch it with his teeth. "How's that?" she asked expectantly.
He chewed and seemed to think a moment. "Better," he said, and from his tone she surmised that his first instinct was to find another thing to complain about but changed course at the last moment to spare her.
"Would you like some potatoes?" she asked.
"Not particularly," he said.
Lislea scooped some onto the fork. "Where I come from," she said and stretched it out, "that means yes."
He took the fork into his mouth and swallowed. "And where might that be? I'd like to avoid it."
Lislea chuckled. "County Cork," she said and.
"Hm. My father was Irish."
"Oh? Where from?"
"Dublin," he replied.
Lislea stabbed another bit of roast with the fork. "I've never been there. I hear it's lovely."
"It isn't," Charles retorted.
Though she imagined he said that only because he was in a mood (or because he simply didn't like the city of Dublin), Lislea's chest twinged with hurt. The Irish had long been relegated to second class citizens in the British Empire, and the treatment leveled at them by the English was one of strained tolerance at best and outright loathing at worst. Nurse Forsythe was fond of saying In America they have niggers, in England we have the Irish, an attitude that she was not alone in. Many thought the Irish lazy, drunkards, untrustworthy, or, more often than not, all three of those things. Before joining the RAMC, she had never been outside of Cork so had never experienced it for herself. Afterwards, she did, though she could not honestly claim it was a daily occurrence. Even so, being called awful names and likened to rubbish simply because she came from Ireland pained her, and was a sore subject, as it were.
"I'll take your word, then," she said, then, honestly, "I don't like cities very much. They're too crowded. All the people and buildings about. Always noisy and filled with smog. I prefer open space."
"I like neither," he said sourly. "I've had enough. Thank you for bringing it."
Lislea looked down at the tray. There was still a lot left. He ate a bit as promised, though. "No trouble at all," she said and got to her feet. "Would you like some water?"
"Yes, please" he said.
"Right. I'll fetch it now."
Leaving the tray on the table, she went off to get him water.
***
Long past sundown, Marshall left the wheelhouse, removed his cap, and raked his fingers through his sweaty hair. Before dark, the clouds parted and the sun came out, the air rapidly heating. It was forty-seven degrees now, but the temperature peaked at sixty-two before dusk.
Wright stood at the wall along the bridge wing, hands resting on top and back bowed. Captain Bartlett ordered two men to each shift because of the threat. Wright passed most of the watch smoking and bothering Quartermaster Hutchens with jokes and talk of football. "I'll be back," Marshall said curtly as he passed.
"Aye," Wright said without turning.
Returning his cap, Marshall strolled down the deck, past the officers' quarters, and stepped through a doorway marked WIRELESS. Inside, a brief hall brought him to a counter beyond which a man in a white shirt, the cuffs rolled up his forearms, sat at the Marconi, a set of headphones over his ears and his finger incessantly tapping the lever, which, through the magic of modern technology, transmitted a signal in Morse Code to other wireless devices inside of a certain range. Marshall did not understand how it worked nor did her overly care to - he was a sailor, not a wizard.
After the fresh breeze outside, the air was stuffy, and Marshall began to perspire. Leaning against the counter's edge, he removed his hat and dropped it on. A second man, clad in black trousers, a long-sleeved white shirt, and thin black suspenders, emerged from a room, consulting a piece of paper with his head down. He started toward his comrade, saw Marshall from the corner of his eye, and switched direction as smoothly as a schooner at sail. "Evening, Mr. Collins," Harold Phillips said with a cordial smile. A short, slight man with rust colored hair and open, amicable features, Harold was the senior of the the two wireless operators onboard, Jack Bride being the junior. From what little he knew of them, they were great friends, a strange alliance that never ceased to bemuse Marshall . They were polar opposites, Bride being tall, lanky, and dour, his thin lips turned down in a perpetual frown that left him looking severe and unapproachable. He was polite enough, but not effusive like Philips. They reminded him of himself and Wright a bit, Marshall wasn't quite as gloomy as Bride though.
Was he?
"Evening," Marshall said briskly, "any new warnings?"
They'd received several messages from other ships in the area over the course of the afternoon in regards to the U-Boat. The RMS Rockford, a passenger rig converted to a troop transport, dodged it northwest of Palermo. It was last spotted by the minesweeper HMS Amethyst sailing in the direction of Tunis, away from Britannic. The possibility remained that there were others in the general vicinity, hence Captain Bartlett's continued caution.
Splaying his hands on the desk, Phillips shook his head. "No, sir. It's been quiet. If we're lucky, she struck a sandbar and went down with all Huns on deck." He laughed and slapped the wood. "Get it?"
Cracking a polite smile, Marshall nodded. "Indeed." He wouldn't say aloud to a man fond of them, but he found puns to be the lowest form of humor. Wright was fond of them too; stuck inside during the storm, he endured an entire weekend of them. By the end of it, Marshall 's nerves were frayed and he nearly slugged the blimey bastard. "That's all? Nothing else of import?"
"Nothing, sir," Phillips confirmed.
"Alright, then," Marshall said. He picked up his hat and situated it on his head. "See you tomorrow."
Outside, a cool gust of wind blew over him and dried the sweat on his forehead. He looked aft and forward, then started toward the bridge. Wright was where he'd left him, standing at the wing wall and staring off toward the horizon; now a cigarette smoldered between his lips, the thin, grayish smoke billowing over his shoulder in the tepid breeze. "No word over the wire," Marshall said and stood next to him. Captain Bartlett ordered all unnecessary deck lights extinguished to make the ship harder to see, and the bow was a pit of darkness outlined only by the pallid illumination of the tropical moon.
"While you were off dallying," Wright said, "I saw a sea serpent, a ghost ship, and a school of mermaids with their floppy bits out. No U-Boats, though."
Marshall snorted. "I doubt you saw any of those things."
"I most certainly did," Wright retorted with faux indignation. "The Flying Dutchman himself waved to me. Said he had a message for you."
Reaching into the hip pocket of his suit coat, Marshall brought out his cigarette case and removed one, then his lighter. The moon reflected on the silvery surface, revealing his initials. "What was that?" he asked and lit his fag.
"He said he's got you a special place in Davy Jones Locker. Right next to the head."
Marshall took a deep drag and blew it out. "Can't be much worse than bunking with you."
"Well," Wright said, and this time Marshall couldn't tell if his indignation was real or in jest, "if that's how you feel, you can always switch spots with Mason. I'm sure he'd appreciate me."
Officer Mason, being the first mate, roomed with Stone in the second to largest suite after Captain Bartlett's. Marshall had never been inside, but Wright told him once that it was the fastest place in all the ship, which, given the context in which it was said, Marshall took to mean it was very nice, perhaps even unto the point of extravagance. Sharing a room with Stone, however, was not worth it. "I think I'll pass," he said and took a puff. "I think I can talk my way out of pummeling a common ragger like you, but probably not the chief officer."
Later, after they were replaced at the watch by officers Davis and Marlow, Marshall sat on the edge of his bed and untied his shoes. It occurred to him that he hadn't thought of...well...her...since passing her on B-Deck before dinner. For that, he was proud of himself. Self-control was important to him, as it was a trait that men like Captain Bartlett exemplified, and was, thus, something he wished to master as well. He made the conscious decision to stop thinking of her and he followed through.
Why?
That question struck him like a crisp slap.
Why not think of her? Or even pursue her? There was really no reason not to. His work was not conductive to matrimony, he believed, as he spent long periods at sea, but other men had wives. And if that didn't work, well...would not love and companionship be worth leaving the ocean?
Cold horror dropped into his stomach at the prospect of abandoning his career. The sea was all he had ever known and all he'd desired since boyhood. He knew nothing else, had nothing else. If he walked away, what would he do? Where would he go? He'd be lost, cast adrift. Was a woman really worth that? Practically speaking, no. His pragmatism, however, was often challenged by dumb, nonsensical desires of the heart. It was unreasonable to leave a life and a career simply because, at times, he longed for the love, touch, and tender affection of a woman. To feel emotions and yearnings is not wrong nor is it abnormal, but letting them govern your choice making was one of the most foolish things you could possibly do.
Peeling his socks off, he drew a heavy sigh and rested his forearms on the tops of his thighs. He barely knew this women, yet she'd thrown him into something of a life crisis, and right now, he sensed that he was standing at a crossroads: One path lead into the unknown, and the other kept steady toward his one day piloting a ship of his own. Both of were appealing in their own ways. He pictured himself at the helm of a vessel much like Britannic, the master of his domain, and it pleased him. Next, he envisioned himself married to a woman (Lislea playing the part since she was the one he'd been thinking of recently). That, too, pleased him.
For now, he resolved, he would let the matter lie and approach it later.
Some other day.
Undressed and in bed, lying in the gloom, he struggled to sleep, but did not for a very long time.