Shoulder the Sky (42 page)

Joseph ached to be able to help him, but he could think of nothing else to say. Any hour, any minute now, Mason would be unable to hold the boat alone and it would go over, and they would all be in the sea, floundering, battered, struggling as long as they could until it overwhelmed them, and they swallowed water, it filled their lungs, bursting. Could it be as bad as being gassed? He remembered that with a sickening horror! And what about Prentice, drowned not in the clear sea, but in the filth of a shell crater? Sam had done that, Sam, that Joseph loved as much as a brother. He reached out his hand and grasped Andy's and felt his fingers respond, stiffly, too cold for more.

"I don't care!" Andy gasped. "I stand fast!"

Mason struggled with the oars. He was weakening. His face was tight with the strain, but it was in his mind as much as his aching body. He looked at Andy for another moment, then at Joseph. "It's in my pocket, inside my jacket," he shouted. "Take the oars from me, and I'll throw it overboard. You could be right, England might be full of suicidal idiots like you."

Joseph grinned hugely, even though he did not know how much the victory was really worth. They could well drown anyway. It was a triumph of the spirit at least. He fell forward on to his knees as the boat tossed and jolted again, swinging round and slamming against the waves. He took the oars from Mason and threw his weight and all his strength into pulling the boat straight, safe from the trough. It tore at the muscles on his back and shoulders, but he was rested, stronger than Mason now, and he could hold it, at least until Mason had thrown the papers away.

"Tear them up," he added aloud.

Mason made one more attempt. "It won't make any bloody difference! I'm not the only one."

"The only one what?" Joseph asked.

"Writing the truth, and who'll get published."

"You're the one writing about Gallipoli," Joseph responded. "You're the one who'll do the damage."

Mason gave a bark of laughter. "Don't you believe it! We've got a new young chap at Ypres. He was actually there for the first gas attack. He's got an almost photographic memory, but he took notes of it all the panic, the horror, the way the men died."

Joseph froze. "Notes?"

"You'll never find them, they're all in a code he developed when he was at school."

Suddenly the hard, white light and the waves were as clear as midsummer, burning from horizon to horizon. "Eldon Prentice," Joseph said aloud.

Now it was Mason who crouched as if turned to stone. It would have been impossible to deny that Joseph had spoken the truth -his face betrayed him.

"He's dead," Joseph told him. "Dead in no man's land, drowned in a shell crater full of filth. Don't even think to argue. I carried him in myself. Or to be more accurate, I dragged him most of the way. He's buried near Wulverghem. I don't know what happened to his notes, but I can guess."

Mason blinked, still without responding.

"I have a friend who was at school with him. He could read them. You're on your own. Put your papers over the side."

Slowly Mason took the carefully wrapped package out of its safety pouch and let the waves take it, then as if infinitely tired, he lay back in the stern and Andy passed him the bottle of water.

Mason moved back to the other oar and silently they pulled together. Joseph took count of time. The wind chopped and by midday the sun was high, but there was no sight of land.

Joseph sat back. He was exhausted. Every inch of his body hurt and he was so hungry he would have welcomed even the worst of trench rations, but there was very little left in the emergency store, and they must make it last as long as possible. It was the lack of water that worried him most. They were restricting themselves to a mouthful each, every hour or so. Even then, there was perhaps another twelve hours left.

Mason looked haggard, and Andy was so white his skin seemed almost grey, but the bleeding had stopped some time ago.

"There's no point in rowing," Joseph said quietly. "We might as well ship oars and take a rest."

Mason did not argue. Together they completed the stroke and lifted the oars in. They lay there along the bottom of the boat, careful not to knock the dead man.

"You should rest too," Joseph said to Andy. There was nothing on the horizon in any direction, no land to row towards, no ship whose attention to attract, not that that would be easy, lying so low in the water themselves.

Andy nodded, and carefully, to avoid bumping his arm, he slid down into the bottom more comfortably. He smiled at Joseph, then closed his eyes. Nestled a little sideways, as if asleep, it was easy to see in him the child he had been a few short years ago.

Joseph glanced at Mason, and saw the recognition of exactly that in his face. His eyes burned with the blame, and the challenge.

Joseph did not speak, but he was as sure of his answer as Mason of his question.

He made himself as comfortable as he could and must have slept for quite some time, because when he woke Mason was sitting up, and the sun was low and murky over the water to the west.

"There's a fog coming," Mason said grimly. "Do you want some water?" He held out the canteen.

Joseph's mouth was dry and his head was pounding. He took the canteen, and could feel by the weight of it that if Mason had drank any at all, it was not more than his rationed mouthful. He smiled, drank his own gulp, and passed it back. "No point in waking him," he said, nodding towards Andy. He checked that he was breathing, and then sat back again. "We should row," he said to Mason.

"Where to?" Mason glanced around. "America?"

"North-west," Joseph answered. "The storm blew us south. However far we've come, there should be the south coast of England to the north of us, and even if we were beyond that, which we aren't, there'd be Ireland?"

Mason silently unshipped his oar and put it in the rowlock, then in time with Joseph, begun to row.

It was the hardest physical work Joseph had ever done. His body ached with every pull, his hands were blistered and he was so thirsty it took an intense effort of will to keep from plunging his hands into the sea, even though it was salt, and would only make him sick. Its slick, smooth water was cold and, in its own way, mesmerizingly beautiful.

Andy woke and drank his mouthful of water. The sun was so low and the fog thick enough now that the west was barely discernible, but he understood what they were doing.

"There's no need to sit up," Joseph told him. "We'll just go as long as we can."

Andy smiled.

Joseph lost count of time. It grew so dim, the light so diffused, it was hard to tell anything but the broadest directions. No one spoke.

Then suddenly Andy stiffened and pointed with his good arm.

Mason swivelled around, oar out of the water. "A ship!" he yelled. "A ship!"

Joseph turned to look as well. Out of the gloom to their left there was a high, darker shape.

Mason pulled his oar in and started to climb to his feet.

"Sit down!" Andy cried shrilly. "You'll capsize us in their wash!" He started forward as if physically to restrain Mason, but he was too weak and fell forwards on to the floorboards.

"Ahoy!" Mason bellowed, standing upright now, waving his arms. "Ahoy!"

"Sit down!" Andy screamed.

Joseph lunged for Mason just as the wash hit them. The boat bucked, the bow high and sideways. Mason lost his balance and fell just as the boat slapped down again and pitched the other way, throwing him backwards. The side caught him behind the knees. He folded up, hitting his head on the gunwale, and slid into the sea.

Without waiting, Andy went in after him.

The boat swivelled and tossed on the wake and Joseph grabbed after the oars, desperately fumbling as Andy and Mason slipped astern. He got them both at last and turned the boat, heaving with all his strength, his muscles burning, to get back to them. It seemed to take for ever, stroke after stroke, but it must have been no more than a minute or two before he was there. A hand came up over the side and he shipped the oars and reached to pull Mason up and on board. He was almost dead weight, streaming water, and gasping.

Then he turned for Andy. He saw him for an instant, just the pale blur of his face, then he was gone.

"Andy!" Joseph shrieked, his voice hoarse, piercing with despair. "Andy!"

But there was no break in the grey sea, nothing above the surface.

He was sobbing as he flung himself on the oars again and sent the boat lurching forward, all his weight behind each stroke. He called out again and again. He was aware of Mason clambering up and going into the bow, peering ahead, calling as well.

It was Mason who finally came back and sat down in the stern. Joseph could see no more than an outline of his body in the darkness now.

"It's no good," Mason said, his voice raw with pain. "He's gone. Even if we found him now, it wouldn't help."

Joseph was weeping, the tears running down his face and choking his throat. There was no point in telling Mason he was a fool he knew it. The guilt would never leave him.

"That's what he meant," he said, struggling to speak, even to get his breath. "You give your life for your mates whoever they are. It's nothing to do with them, it's to do with you."

Mason bent his head in his hands and wept.

Chapter Thirteen

Joseph lost track of time altogether. There was no point in rowing, but he was too cold and thirsty to sleep. He drifted in and out of a hazy unconsciousness, grieving for Andy, touched with guilt that it was his decision not to row with Mason that might have cost them a possible landfall, although it was unlikely.

More than that he was worried for Mason, who was not only wet, and therefore suffering far more from exposure than Joseph, but also because of the guilt that tormented him.

Joseph felt a terrible pity for him. He could not get out of his mind the memory of Mason on the beach at Gallipoli, struggling up and down the gullies with the wounded, under fire when he did not need to be, working through exhaustion when every muscle hurt, to rescue others. He worked for the Peacemaker, but he did it because he honestly believed what he was doing was for the greater good. No man could do more than the best they understand, the utmost they believe.

But the Peacemaker was responsible for the deaths of Joseph's parents, and indirectly of Sebastian's, and now that of Cullingford as well.

Yet Joseph could not hate Mason personally. And alive, Mason might lead them to the Peacemaker, intentionally or not.

He sank back into a kind of sleep, too cold to be aware of discomfort, only of thirst and a gnawing emptiness inside himself.

He work with a jolt to feel hands lifting him and he heard voices, cheerful and urgent. Someone forced a cup between his lips and the next instant the fire of rum scalded down his throat, making him cough and then choke. He was too stiff to help them as they carried him up into the trawler and wrapped him in blankets.

"Mason?" he asked between cracked lips.

"Oh, he'll make it!" a voice assured him. "I reckon."

The next hours passed in a haze of pain as circulation returned to his limbs, the blessed sensation of warmth and food, blankets at first, and then clean sheets.

When he finally awoke to sunlight shimmering through a hospital window, Matthew, white-faced, was sitting beside him. "God, you gave me a fright!" he said accusingly.

Joseph managed to smile, but his skin still hurt. "I'm all right," he said huskily.

Matthew poured him a glass of water from the jug and lifted him up with intense gentleness to help him drink it. "What the hell happened to you?" he demanded savagely.

Joseph sipped the water, then lay back again. "Ran into a German U-boat on the way back," he answered, his throat easier. "I found Mynott. Decent chap. He told me about Chetwin in Berlin. It wasn't him. I'm sorry."

"Damn!" Matthew swore. "I thought we had the bastard." He was still regarding Joseph with profound concern. "What else? Was Gallipoli hell? Surely it couldn't be worse than Ypres."

"No, about the same," Joseph replied. "But I met a journalist out there, brilliant fellow Richard Mason, actually. Matthew, he was going to write a hell of a story about Gallipoli, tell everyone the truth of what it's really like." He saw Matthew's face darken and his body tense. "I tried to persuade him what it would do to morale, but I failed before we left. I think I tipped my hand too far." The chaotic beach was in his mind as if he had barely left it the Australian voices, the smells of blood and creosol and wild thyme, the light across the high, wind-stippled sky and the sound of water.

"He was going to write about it, tell everyone at home what a senseless slaughter it is." He looked at Matthew's blue eyes. "It would have been worse than someone like Prentice going on about the gas attack at Ypres. He's a better writer, a far bigger name. And we couldn't help the gas. Gallipoli's our fault." The words choked in his throat, though they were true. He longed for someone to trust, not just with facts and the things that words could frame easily, but with the grief inside him for all the broken men he had seen, the pain, and for the fear inside himself. He had been prepared to die in order to take Mason with him.