Drowning in the East River (21 page)

Around him, there was lots of running and shouting as the men came under the realization that they were once again under attack. Boys scrambled to grab the helmets and muskets vital to keeping them alive for another few minutes.

Above him, the sky was pitch black. Dense cloud cover must have  rolled over the countryside, blocking out any useful light from the moon and stars. The air smelled of rain, which would only complicate the already tricky conditions.

"Doing okay Dave?" James Caryle asked, taking cover next to him in the trench. The boy, who was probably a few years younger than himself, dropped his helmet on his head. His eyes were wide with adrenaline; he white-knuckled his musket tightly in front of him. Every few seconds, he would pop up over the trench and take a quick shot across no man’s land.

This is what everyone was doing. It was all they could do. They didn't have long enough to light really see, let alone aim at anything. There was a German trench obscured somewhere in the sea of blackness, the only hope was that your aimless bullet would hit one of the bad guys.

"Still alive," David replied, listening to the gunshots whizzing just above their heads. He exhaled sharply, his eyes shooting up and down the trench, not sure what exactly he was searching for.

A mood of restrained panic had set in. Boys were lined up and down the trench, some were taking quick shots over the top in a vain attempt to save their own lives . David felt his eyes drawn to a young private. The boy, who could not have been much older than seventeen, had anxious tears streaming down his face. He kept his back firmly against the wall of the trench, too afraid to stick any part of his body over the top. He clutched his musket tightly between his fingers in a white knuckled grip.

An explosion from an artillery shell rang out, the blast throwing everyone off their feet into the thick layer of mud lining the ground.

His ears ringing, David looked up, his eyes scanning the bloody carnage surrounding him. Smoke poured from one of the shelters. Soldiers were slowly pulling themselves to their feet, grabbing their muskets from the mud.

"Gas!" A voice cried out from somewhere nearby. Reacting to the word, David rolled, grabbing his gas mask, which was laying near him. There was another close blast, and there was an explosion of panic as a cloud of dense yellow smoke enveloped them.

The men not quick enough to their gas masks dropped, and were writhing on the ground  as another barrage of shells slammed into the trench.

David pushed himself up, his hands and feet sliding awkwardly in the bloody mud under his feet.

David sucked in quick, shallow breaths until he was able to get the gas mask around his head and shut out the toxic gasses sweeping in from other corners of the trench.

Collecting his musket, he gave James' prone figure a pat on the back. When his friend didn't respond, David rolled him over. The boy's wide eyes stared back at him, with the same look of anxious, but now lifeless terror. Pulling his hand back, David's hands were coated with blood, James’ throat had been cut in the blast.

David leapt back, sucking in a sharp breath of air. "Fuck!" He said, hearing his voice shoot up an octave inside his mask.

David stood up and took deep centering breaths inside of the gas mask. He kept his musket held tightly to his body, the air around him felt hot and the smoke stung against his skin.

"Over the top!" Came the call David was dreading. Structures in the trench were smoldering.

The wood used to construct the buildings fueled the flames, as well as created a toxic mixture of smoke and gas in the once breathable air.

Wrapping his fingers around the trigger of the musket, David took three steps toward the closest ladder. He took the rungs two at a time, a silent prayer running through his head as he pulled himself up and over the top of the trench.

The wave of men coming over the wall didn't have a chance. David took three steps, and felt himself blown back as a bullet tore through his abdomen, sending him flailing into a sea of blackness.

David was snapped back into reality as he heard a thud on the pavement. Opening his eyes, there was a girl, not much older than ten or twelve, sprawled on the cobblestones next to him. Blood pooled from a bullet wound in her chest, covering her white seamstress smock in vivid crimson.

"Fuck!" David said, pulling himself across the two feet which separated them. It felt like the expanse of the Western front. Trying to keep himself low, to the ground, he looked down on the girl.

"Come on, sweetheart," David said. He brought his hands down over the hole in the girl's chest, trying to put pressure on the wound. Looking down at his hands, he could see her blood gushing up between his fingers. It was rhythmic, matching her heartbeat. "Hon, stay with me." David continued, the urgency of desperation weighing down his voice. His heart  throbbed loudly in his chest as the adrenaline of loosing someone else pulsated through his body. "Hang on.”

She was still alive, as he tried to crouch over her and stop the bleeding. Her face quickly turning a stark shade of white. She was a million miles away, as her eyes searched above her. Any recognition was absent from her eyes, except for a tear which overwhelmed her eyes and dripped down her cheek.

Focusing on the girl, the action playing on the street seemed to fade into the background for David. The pops of the gunfire slowly became more gradual as a group of British troops took off after a mob of working class men brandishing their bayonets in front of them violently.

"Come on," David said, pushing harder on her chest. He had to stop the bleeding. Her eyes gradually slowed, and he watched as what was left of life fade from her eyes. Her head lulling to the side as her body gave in to the blood loss. "Fuck!" David said, searching for any sign of a pulse.

The telltale throbbing was absent. David pulled his hand back. The blood coating his hands left his fingerprints on the girl's neck.

David sat back heavily against the hard granite facade of the general store. He looked down at the girl again. He needed to see her eyes alive and moving, but as he worked over her, he realized she was gone.

David shifted his eyes above him; the sky was a drab gray. Another band of rainclouds crawled over the city.

Looking back out over the street, the cobblestones were lined with bodies struck down in various stages of fight or flight. Blood oozed from the corpses and streamed down the slight incline of the street, collecting in the gutters.

David looked down at his hands, which were coated in the girl's blood. He rubbed his hands violently on his pants, trying to wipe the drying blood from his hands. He felt it crack on his hands every time he moved his fingers.

David tucked his hands into his pockets and started down the street. He needed to put some distance between himself, and what was turning into a bustling crime scene in the middle of the town square. It was easy to blend into the surroundings as the panic of the shooting morphed into chaos as people attempted to get the survivors to medical care.

"We need to get off the street." The voice was female, and lightly British. David looked around, meeting the eyes of a polished woman who was keeping pace at his elbow. Her young face was lined with tension as she scanned the buildings ahead of them.

"Excuse me?" David asked, his voice quiet. He felt like he would have to shout to be heard over his heartbeat which was pounding in his ears. He brushed a strand of hair out of his eyes as he glanced over his shoulder at her.

The girl spoke again, "Trust me, it's safer for us to get off the street right now." She placed a hand on his elbow and guided him towards a brick archway further down the block. "Once those soldiers backtrack in this direction, they'll start running in whoever they can find. It won't matter who you are, or what you're doing.”

Feeling physically and emotionally numb, David let her take the lead, steering him into a small dive bar just off the block.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"What's your story?" the girl asked, walking back over to David, a small glass of whiskey in her hand. She sized him up, an unmistakable air of confidence in her body language. The sparkle in her eyes said that she found him intriguing as she slid onto the barstool next to him. She took a moment to demurely tuck her wide skirt underneath her. She slid the drink across the bar, "Here you go.”

Looking her over, she was a surprisingly petite, almost unassuming woman. Her light London accent stood out to his ear against the sea thick, native Irish voices surrounding them. She seemed completely out of place.

"Thank you," David said, taking a small sip of the drink. He looked up at her, "Nothing exciting, I guess." He shrugged, and turned his attention back to the drink sitting in front of him. He swirled the thick brown liquid in the glass before tossing it down his throat. He winced slightly, the warmth slowly spreading through his system. "I'm really no one.”

"Well, I'm Jacqueline." She turned in her seat, looking over him with intense blue eyes as she offered her hand. There was an intelligence behind her look, David could tell she was processing and analyzing every inch of him. She cracked a small smile as she continued matter-of-factly. "You're American. We get plenty of sailors through here, but usually no one takes any interest to what's going on.”

"Look but don't touch," David said, looking around the subdued bar. He found the glance of the bartender and pointed at his drink.

"Essentially." She took a long sip her own drink. Judging by her smooth, well-maintained skin, she was young, barely twenty-five years old. Her emerald green, satin dress said she also had money. Her chocolate brown hair was piled above her head in a carefully styled up-do. Her tone was playful as she continued. "I think there's more to you than you're saying…"

“I’m David," he said. He grabbed the glass the bartender slid in front of him and told another sip. He kept his eyes in front of him, staring at the drink between his fingers. "And I'm just an ignorant sailor.”

"I somehow doubt that," Jacqueline said, reaching behind her to tuck a strand of hair back into her up-do. The bartender sat another pint down on the counter in front of her as well. She ran her fingers over the delicately crafted glass mug. "I've seen career sailors. That's not you.”

"I just try to do what's right." David said, setting his drink down on the bar. He glanced over at her. He paused, his chest was tightening by the minute.

"So it's a personal thing," she responded quickly, holding his gaze. She swirled the drink in front of her, taking anther sip.

"You could put it that way." David pulled off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. He looked in the direction of the door, debating whether to stand up and end the uncomfortable conversation.

"I saw you on the High Street today. I saw what you did for that girl.”

"Absolutely nothing," David said, taking another drink. He could feel a cloud of drunkeness starting to hang around his head. "It should've been me instead of her.”

"How old are you? Twenty-seven, twenty-eight? You talk like an old man.”

David took a drink and looked over at her out of the corner of his eyes. He chuckled as he put his glasses back on, smoothing his flyaway hair. "The last year's felt like a lifetime.”

"What are you trying to escape from?" Jacqueline asked. She spoke quickly, as if she had finally cracked his puzzle in her head.

"Mistakes, I guess." David replied, reaching into his pocket for a cigarette. As he pulled out the pack, she was already holding offering him a lit match.

"Are you a criminal?" Jacqueline's voice lilted in excitement as her eyes pressed him for answers.

"No... Why are you so interested?" David paused,  hearing his tone spike in frustration.

"Do you owe someone money?" Jacqueline dug in her clutch, and pulled out a pack of her own cigarettes. She leaned over, lighting one on the match he held out  for her. She smiled as she took a light drag. After a moment of silence, she continued, "I really don't mean to pry…"