Light Over Water (12 page)

          They wrote letters
and some played cards.  They told stories and listened to stories.  Sam spent
hours watching the water.  He was absorbing its sight, sounds and smells
against the future times when he knew these would only be a memory.  He was up
at dawn to see the sun rise in the east, casting long fingers of gold across
the water.  He watched to see how the water changed from gray to blue with the
movement of the sun.  He stood mesmerized by the water curling off the sides of
the huge liner, or the chop of the sea in a brisk wind.  As he moved further
away from his home and his land he was comforted in one thing…they were
connected by the water.  Rather than a barrier, it was the road home for him.

          Their eventual
arrival in France was cause for celebration, both on the part of the
beleaguered Allies and the weak and spent men aboard ship who were thrilled to
touch earth again.

          “Look at ‘em!” Tim
Cooper yelped in Sam’s ear from behind him as they filed down the walkway with
their gear on their backs.  “Never seen Cove girls lookin’ like that!”

          The crowd on the dock
waved American flags and played the American national anthem.  Girls waved and
smiled, but Sam could see no difference between them and his own sisters.  Not
one of them was as pretty as Alison, though he doubted Alison or his sisters
would greet perfect strangers quite so exuberantly.  But as all the division heartily
responded with waves and whistles as they formed ranks on the dock, Sam
couldn’t help a feeling of pride that they were there and they were going to
help.

          The welcome was
short-lived as they were quickly issued additional gear, including gas masks. 
Then they were loaded onto a train.  They suffered without the luxury of seats
this time.  Forty men were packed in each freight car meant for eight horses. 
The cars stank of manure and had narrow openings at the top, but no windows. 
Sam was separated from Tim and Robbie, but was pleased to see the chaplain in
his car.  There was grumbling about the tight fit but once their sergeant slid
shut the door after muttering, “We’re heading for the front, soldiers,” a
silence descended on them.  Sam felt hemmed in on all sides.  He peered through
the half-light to see if the door could be opened from the inside.  He couldn’t
make out a handle and his heartbeat quickened.  His stomach started churning
and he gulped two or three times.

          “A man I once knew,”
began Chaplain Hudson at his side.  Sam closed his eyes.  “Are you listening,
Eliot?”

          Sam nodded,
concentrating on the words.  “A man I once knew was riding on a train.  It was
a long ride he took, going back home to see his wife and baby.”

          Sam smiled to himself
as he listened.  The chaplain often started his stories with the words, “A man
I once knew.”  They all thought he was the man, but some of the stories were so
implausible they couldn’t believe them of the self-deprecating chaplain;
stories of men who learned pertinent lessons while involved in unusual or
interesting circumstances.

          “The man started to
get sleepy, and as it would be several hours until his stop, he took off his
shoes and made himself comfortable, unlike us at this very moment.”

          Sam could see the
flash of his smile in the dim light.  Several men groaned and a few laughed.

          “It was winter, so
this man’s shoes were muddy and not just a little stained.  They weren’t his
best shoes, but they were made of leather and had been fitted to his own feet
by a cobbler.

          When the man awoke
after a long nap, he noticed, after a time, that his shoes were missing!  ‘How
can this be?’ he asked himself.  He searched under his seat, up in the overhead
rack, and then stealthily looked around the car.  It was nearly empty, but
those in it were all asleep or reading.  Did he dare question the other
passengers?  Did he dare search among their feet for his missing shoes?  What
about the embarrassment of going about with only his stockings on?”

          The train jolted slightly
as they moved ahead.  Sam barely registered their movement or the long train
whistle as they gained speed.

          “The man stood up,
moving surreptitiously down the aisle, glancing side to side, trying to see
under the seats, which is very hard to do when one is trying not to attract
attention.  He wondered if his fellow passengers noticed that each step he took
was soundless.  He felt his face getting red, but he walked the whole length of
the car and back to his seat, coming finally to the conclusion that his shoes
had been stolen.”

          In the rocking and
jolting of the car, Sam could sense that everyone was listening now.  All the
chatter had grown quiet except for the chaplain’s voice.  “He told the
conductor, when he came into that section, that his shoes had been taken by a
thieving individual on his train and that he would hold the railroad
responsible.  Very vehement he was, even when the conductor assured him of
satisfaction.

          Finally this man
settled down to read the paper, but not before making a complaint to the Lord.
‘Father,’ he said, ‘Thou hast seen what just happened to me?’  He was on
friendly terms with the Lord and he felt he had God’s attention, so he
continued.  ‘Lord, I pray I’ll be able to replace my shoes.  Thou knowest that
money is a bit of a problem right now, as usual.’  And when he opened his eyes,
there was a dirty, skinny, pale young boy, holding out his very shoes.  The boy
had cleaned and shined them with a kit in a box he carried over his shoulders. 
He stared hopefully at the man I knew, with brown eyes that looked huge in his
tiny face.  Not more than seven or eight, the man figured, and probably dodging
the conductor the whole time.  But hardness filled his heart and he forgot his
so very recent prayer.  He took back his shoes, saying, ‘I neither asked you
for this service, nor will I pay for it.’  The boy remained a minute more,
finally questioning, ‘Please, have you any food?’  ‘No,’ he snapped, and the
boy scurried away while my friend put his shoes on.  He soon arrived at his
destination and forgot about it.  Then one day, perhaps two weeks later, he
received correspondence from the railroad, from the staff manager for the
district, in fact, apologizing for the inconvenience he suffered while on his
journey.  The letter explained that an investigation and search had ensued and
his shoes were never located.  But he enclosed a check in recompense for his
lost shoes, in an amount twice what they were worth.  After sending the check
back, explaining what had happened and apologizing himself, my friend was next
flabbergasted when his wife brought home a new pair of shoes.  ‘I entered a
drawing at the new F.W. Woolworth in town and look what we won!’  The next week
after church, an elderly lady approached him with a worn valise in hand.  ‘I’ve
been going through some of my late brother’s thing,’ she explained.

          Sam chuckled with the
others as Chaplain Hudson effectively imitated an elderly woman’s wavering
voice.

          “‘These are all in
good shape and I’ve tried to give them to others but haven’t found anyone who
wears the right size.’  My friend peered into the depths of the valise and knew
even before he looked what he would see.  Sure enough, shoes!”

          Everyone joined in
shouting out the last word with the chaplain.  “What do you think my friend
learned?” he asked, when the laughter faded away.  There was silence.  “Eliot?”

          Sam shrugged.  “I
don’t know, but it seems he’d sure feel kinda sheepish and maybe ashamed for
how he treated the boy.”

          “Oh, that he did
truly.  His embarrassment of blessings is another whole story.  No, no.  It
will keep for another time,” he said, as they pressed him to continue.  “But,
he also learned that God can do more than we even ask.  Put your faith in him,
boys.”

          Chaplain Hudson was
silent then, but his words repeated themselves in Sam’s head.  He himself felt
sheepish, remembering how he’d thought himself so superior to his fellow
soldiers on the boat.  Now he could barely control the fear he felt in this
enclosed place.  He’d never thought too much about God, except when there was
trouble; like the day when his foot got tangled in his gear and he was pulled
overboard.  Sam prayed God would help him get back to the boat.  Like the day a
hurricane threatened their livelihood, or the day his mother died.  He decided
then, in that boxcar, that it would be best to pray now, as he was heading for
the fighting, in the war to end all wars.

Chapter Ten

Beyond the Pale of Law

          Young William Eliot’s
shoulders strained as he heaved on the bag holding his clothes.  Aubrey Newell
shifted the weight of Henry’s clothing and held out his hand.  “Here, why don’t
you let me?”

          Willie scowled, his
cheeks flushed and he swung the bag back over his shoulders and grunted.

          Henry laughed,
running ahead.  He taunted his brother, “I’m gonna beat ya there!”

          Willie just bent his
head lower.  His jaw was working and he fumed mutinously.

          “Be glad the
Spencer’s are taking you in,” Aubrey intoned.  “You’ll be just across the cove
from your father.  Mighta gone to an orphanage instead.”

          William’s footsteps
slowed.  He glanced sideways at Aubrey. ”You been to an orphanage, Aubrey?”

          “Maybe, visiting
somebody.  Anyways, it’s just for a while, right?”

          “But I want to go out
fishing with you and Papa!”

          “You’ve got to grow a
little stronger.  And go to school.  Your father told you already.”

          William stopped. 
“But you’re leaving too!  I saw your stuff all packed.”

          Aubrey stopped also
and grabbed Will’s arm.  He shook it lightly and asked seriously, “You didn’t
tell no one?”

          Young William, who
was shaping up to be a replica of his father, pulled away, a negligent look on
his face.  “No, but who cares anyway.  Except you’ll leave my father with just
Henry to help. I’m stronger’n him!”

          Aubrey smiled. 
“That’s my plan!  When I leave, he’ll see how much he needs you and let you
come work on the boat too.”

          A grin lit up Will’s
face, all thoughts of his education laid aside.

          A shout from Henry
urged them on to the Spencer’s where the boys were going to be living.  A
similar arrangement had been worked out with the Cooper’s.  They would be
caring for the two younger boys, Richard and Peter.  The twins, Ivy and
Isabella and baby Caroline were going to live with Mary Reid, with the baby
going to Pastor and Mrs. Whiting’s care during the school days.

          When the community
learned of Reg’s plans to send the children away through Pastor Whiting, he had
to turn people away who wanted to help.  It was decided not to separate the
young ones completely, so they were taken in pairs.  Mary was so attached to the
baby that she decided to take care of her and the twins.

          Reg was relieved. 
Esther was distraught.  But he had firmly answered each of her protests.  When
she assured him that she was capable of taking care of the household, he said
she was meant to finish school, that it was her mother’s dearest wish that all
the children be educated.  When she protested that it wasn’t right to take the
children away from their home, he asked her how she’d have felt with them going
to Boston or Waldoboro.  When she asked how long this arrangement would be in
effect, his volume raised a notch and he shortly replied, “Until I say it’s
done.”

          He was torn by it
though.  As kindly as many in the village felt, there were others who thought
it was too much to ask, that the world was too muddled with the war and
rationing and modern contraptions coming to their very village without having
to care for someone else’s children.  Reg felt a sense of helpless frustration
and fallen pride that he was unable to cope with his own children.  He felt it
when the girls clung to him after he carried their things to the teacher’s
house and helped her set up a bedroom for them.  He felt it when he stopped in
at Cooper’s store and saw little Richard come skipping down the stairs with his
arms held out.  And Peter, his little scholar asking in his precise voice,
“Shouldn’t we be returning home now, Father?”

          On this day, he felt
it most piercingly when it was time for Henry and William to move up to the
Spencer’s.  Not wanting to separate them, as Mary had advised, he asked the
Spencer’s to take the boys together.  Henry took it, as he took everything, as
a grand adventure, but William was angry.  He asked that Aubrey help them move
their belongings and barely met his father’s eyes as they left the house.  He
understood the need for help with the little kids, but he wasn’t little any
longer.  He was thirteen, nearly as tall as his father, and strong enough to
lift himself up on the apple tree branch in their back yard.  This is what he
told his father the night before, while his chin bunched and his eyes gleamed
with tears.  “It’s for their good,” Reg told himself.  “It’s for Esther’s
good.”

          Alison had walked
home with Esther and Cleo to the strangely silent house.  She stayed awhile
with them, watching Cleo defiantly cut four inches off her braid and throw it
triumphantly into the woodstove.  But as she watched her hair burn in the
stove, Cleo grew somber and her mood soon soured.  Esther began preparations
for supper, complaining that she hardly knew how to cook for four people. 
Alison hurried home ahead of the darkness.