Across a War-Tossed Sea (11 page)

A
month later Wesley learned exactly what the bus driver had meant by his story of the snapping turtle. He and Ron were walking home from school. Usually Ron ignored him, joking and parading with his buddies. Wesley would lag behind, waiting for Freddy to come up the road from his one-room schoolhouse. But this March afternoon, the sky was an unsullied robin's-egg blue, trees were just starting to green up, and Ron was in a strangely friendly mood.

Of course, there also was a history test the next morning, which probably accounted for Ron's suddenly being all buddy-buddy. He was pumping Wesley for all he was worth on facts about the Industrial Revolution. “What's the difference between Rockefeller and Vanderbilt?” he asked.

“Vanderbilt was railroads and Rockefeller oil,” Wesley answered dutifully, as Ron scribbled on the study guide Miss Darling had given the class.

“Wait.” Ron stopped. “I thought Carnegie was railroads.” He looked at Wesley suspiciously. “You trying to trip me up?”

“Carnegie started in railroads, but he switched to steel,” explained Wesley, refraining from saying something sarcastic, having learned now not to “worry a wasps' nest” as Mrs. Ratcliff termed asking for trouble. Besides, now that Wesley had Freddy as a friend, Ron's taunts didn't bother him quite as much. And helping Ron with his homework helped keep the peace around the Ratcliff house.

“Steel?” Ron asked.

Wesley sighed. “Yes. He actually is a Scotsman, you know. He…”

“Shut up.” Ron abruptly stopped him. Coming toward them were two boys on bicycles. Ron quickly folded up the paper and rammed it into his jacket pocket, as the pair swerved to a halt in a show-off shower of gravel.

“Hey, Ronnie.”

It was the boy from the bus! Wesley rammed his cap lower on his head to hide his blond curls. He looked down and started scratching the sandy dirt with his toe.

“Hey, yourself,” Ron answered.

“Miss you in class, guy.” The boy reached out and smacked Ron's arm in a friendly gesture. “It just ain't the same without you.”

“Yeah.” Ron sounded irritated, reminded that these boys had moved ahead in school while he had flunked a grade. “Whatcha up to?”

“We're heading to Fort Harrison, to ride the earthworks. If you really move going uphill, you get a good whoop and holler at the top.”

The boy was describing the ruined battlements of a Confederate fort. Wesley had ridden the earthworks himself, rattling his teeth as the bike climbed and fell on the moatlike ridges.

“Yeah, I know that. Think I'm a fathead or something?” Ron's aggressive tone somehow came across as friendly posturing with these boys, who grinned at him. “In fact, I bet I can get my bike to fly across the gap between earthworks.”

“Get out of town!”

“Seriously.” Ron puffed himself up. “Bet ya a nickel!”

“You're on! You can use my bike,” the boy from the bus said.

“Swell!” Ron turned to the rider's companion. “What about you, Roy?”

“A nickel? You do know, Ron, that's five whole cents, right?” He held up his fingers as he counted, “One, two, three, four, five.”

Ron's face turned red. “Yeah, I know.” Ron raised his hand, his fingers extended. “One, two, three, four, five.” With each number he rolled down a finger until he made a fist that he shook threateningly. “Ready to put your money where your mouth is?”

The boy from the bus laughed. “Good old Ronnie.” He slapped Ron on the back and elbowed his friend to follow. “Let's go.”

The trio started off, without Ron saying a word to Wesley.

“What about your pal?”

Ron looked surprised that Wesley was still standing there. So the rider called to him in friendly fashion, just as he had on the bus: “Hey, kid. Come on. Join us.”

Wesley ducked his head and shook it, fearing that as soon as he opened his mouth the boy would recognize him.

“Speak up, runt,” Ron snarled. Wesley knew that Ron was furious that he'd been caught walking with Wesley—as if they were friends.

“Thanks, but I need to nip home.” Wesley replied in his best American accent. But in his nervousness, he blundered into using an English saying.

“Nip?” Ron's friends laughed. “You got some bootleg whiskey on you, kid?”

Wesley didn't dare look up.

Even so, within seconds, the bus rider was onto him. “Wait a minute,” he turned to Ron. “Is that the Brit?”

“Yeah,” Ron answered with a sigh. “He's the limey. Let's go.”

Wesley heard the rider swing his leg over his bike and lower it to the ground.

“Hold up, Ron. This kid humiliated my dad on the bus from Newport News.”

“What?” Ron asked.

“Yeah, he was sitting back in the colored section. When I heard him tell a joke with that accent, I recognized him from your Halloween party. Minding my manners, sweet as molasses, I invited him to join us up front. But he sassed us. He said there weren't no law against him sitting back there.”

Wesley gasped. “That's not what I said!” he cried, finally looking up, realizing for the first time that his innocent question about segregation laws sounded like a defiant American wisecrack. He'd gotten into hot water like this so many times since coming to the States, not speaking “American English” or knowing American sayings. “All I meant was…”

“You sassing me again, kid?” In three quick strides the teenager was toe-to-toe with Wesley, looming over him. “There was total hell to pay with my old man that night after we got off the bus.” The boy's voice was bitter. “As if what happened was my fault or somethin'. That's the thanks I got for being nice to you.”

Instinctively, Wesley looked to Ron for help. But Ron's face was all gnarled up. Just like it'd been on the day the mules had dragged Charles, and Bobby had helped Charles instead of helping Ron.

Still staring down Wesley, the boy from the bus threw a barb at Ron. “You should teach this kid the way things are done here, Ronnie. In the country that's saving his skinny ass and his little island. For Negroes in America it's separate but equal.”

“Equal?” It just came out of Wesley's mouth. “Are you kidding?”

It was Ron who shoved Wesley first.

L
ater that day, Patsy and Charles were walking home, their shift on the aircraft watchtower over. “Oh, Chuck, that's so funny!” Patsy's laughter lifted to the darkening sky. “Why in the world do they wear wigs of horsehair?”

Charles had been describing British courts and the fact that lawyers were still required to wear white, eighteenth-century-style wigs with tightly upturned curls as they argued cases. “What can I say, Pats. Tradition is very important to us. You should see those poor blokes bolting for air raid shelters clutching those wigs on their heads. I saw one old bald barrister lose his once. A good wind blew it off and a dog grabbed it and ran away, growling and shaking the thing like he'd caught a Thames rat.”

“Oh, Chuck, how terrible for the gentleman!” But she was laughing all the same.

“Aw, that ain't nothing.” Charles was on a roll now. “You should see the Buckingham Palace guards. They wear black bearskin hats that are a foot and a half tall. My favorite uncle is a Royal Guardsman. He says it's heavy as hell. Oh, sorry, as heck. But all that fur shields his eyes and helps him keep from reacting to the crowd when he's standing guard. That's a big game in England—trying to make palace guards notice you. Better yet, laugh, by doing junk like this.” He stuck his thumbs in his ears and wiggled his fingers while sticking out his tongue.

Patsy giggled. “They'd laugh at that for sure.”

“Nope. They're trained to stand stock-still. When Wes and I were young, Uncle Trevor used to pretend to stand post and let us try.” Charles snapped to attention. “Go ahead, Pats, see if you can get me to smile.” Charles fixed his gaze above her head.

“Oh no, that's silly,” said Patsy.

But Charles knew how to get her to play along. He'd seen Bobby goad Patsy into joining her siblings' games over and over again with three simple words: “I dare you,” he said.

“Okay, mister, you asked for it.” Patsy put down the large notebook and books she was carrying. Standing with her hands on her hips, she considered him a moment. Then she stuck her pointer fingers into her dimpled face and twisted, crossing her eyes.

Charles kept staring ahead.

“Oh my gosh, look at that.” She pointed behind him with a gasp. “Really, Chuck, look what's coming!”

Charles ignored her.

She faked a little soft-shoe dance.

Nothing.

Frowning, she stood with her arms crossed, tapping her foot, considering her next move. Charles's jacket was open. With a mischievous smile, she reached out and poked his ribs.

Charles caught his breath.

“Aha!” Patsy started tickling him in earnest, the way she did the twins. “Now I've got you!”

Charles burst out laughing, “No fair! You can't touch the guard!” He grabbed her hands and swung her around playfully. “You cheated!” he cried.

Swinging around like a child's game of ring-around-the-rosy, they tripped and fell into a laughing jumble. Patsy's head landed on Charles's chest and she lay there a moment, trying to catch her breath. She rolled over, face to the sky, gulping air to quiet her laughter.

The Ratcliff brothers tumbled all over one another constantly like this, somehow ending up in laughing heaps. Patsy, too. But this was new to Charles. Startled by the scent of her rose-water perfume, the wisps of her silken hair lying across his face, Charles's heart started pounding. He dared to reach up to stroke her head.

But before his hand touched her, Patsy sat up abruptly and pointed to the sky. “Oh look, Chuck, did you see? A shooting star, I'm sure of it. Make a wish, quick.” She clasped her hands and closed her eyes.

Charles sat up slowly as he made his own devout wish. Would he ever have the guts to tell her what it was? he wondered.

As they scrambled to their feet, Charles scooped up her notebook and handed it to her. Without thinking, he said, “You know, after the war, Patsy, you should come to London to see the works in the National Gallery. There are paintings by Leonardo da Vinci, Monet, Rembrandt, van Gogh. You're such a good drawer. All artists should see the masters as inspiration for their own work.”

“You know about my drawings?” she asked in surprise. For a moment, they both held an end of her notebook.

Uh-oh. He was caught in his snooping. Charles would have come up with some lame fib, like he'd just happened to see them when her notebook had fallen open or some such rot, but he caught the wistfulness and hope in Patsy's question. It demanded honesty. He gave up trying to play it cool. “Yes, I know about your drawings,” he admitted. “Why do you hide them? They're beautiful.”

“Really?” she asked.

Charles nodded.

“I dunno.” She dragged out the words. “I suppose I feel stupid thinking a farm girl can dream about being an artist. Maybe if we lived in London or somewhere like that it might be different. I read that in New York City some girls who can draw well become commercial artists or work for ad agencies.” She looked at Charles's face intently as if to gauge his sincerity. “You really think my sketches are beautiful?”

“Oh yes!” he exclaimed.

Patsy looked up at him with such gratitude for his compliments that Charles was totally entranced. “Absolutely, you should dream about becoming an artist, Patsy. I've seen famous art in London, so I know what I'm talking about. Your drawings are beautiful.”

Beaming, Patsy gave him a smile that took his breath away. Mesmerized, his own hopes taking over, Charles felt his face slowly lowering toward that smile, those lips, as he spoke. “Beautiful,” he whispered, “like you.”

HONK! HONK! HONK!

They jumped apart. Patsy stared at Charles with startled bewilderment before she darted away toward the honking car. Charles felt the loss of her nearness like a kick in the stomach.

It was Dr. Thompson in the two-toned Packard he drove to make house calls. He'd stopped in the middle of the road. “I thought that was you, Patsy,” he called into the field. “Hop in, you two. I'll give you a lift. I'm on my way to your house. Your family sent word they needed me to stop by. Sounds like there were some shenanigans this afternoon on the way home from school. Ron's arm might be broken.”

“Y
ou should have seen me, Charles. Oh, it was smashing!”

Charles gaped in amazement at his baby brother. Wesley's blond curls were matted with dirt, his face scratched, his lower lip split. His trousers were ripped and his knees scraped and bloody. Yet he bubbled with excitement.

“I hit him!” Wesley crowed. “Pow! Right in the old kisser!” He swung his arms at an imaginary punching bag. “Ouch!” He stopped and rubbed his arm.

“Slow down, Wes.” Charles put his hand on Wesley's shoulder. “Tell me what happened.”

“I'd like to know exactly what happened too.” Mr. Ratcliff stood beside Charles. He'd been watching Dr. Thompson mold sticky plaster of paris on Ron's arm.

“Well.” Wesley looked over to Ron before answering. “Well.” He looked back to Charles. “Well.” He scanned the room and realized everyone was hanging on his words.

Wesley took a deep breath. Before that evening he might have told on Ron, exposing him as a bully. It'd be spot-on payback for all the torment Wesley had endured from him. But now? After this afternoon?

He glanced back to Ron, who eyed him defiantly, waiting for Wesley to speak, along with everyone else. “Well, it's like this,” Wesley began. “Ron and I were walking home from school—”

“You were? Together?” Both Bobby and Charles interrupted him, surprised.

Wesley hesitated.

“Yeah, we were,” snapped Ron. “Want to make something of it?”

“Shush, son.” Mr. Ratcliff silenced him. “You may already be in a heap of trouble as it is. No need to dig your hole deeper.”

“Oh no, Mr. Ratcliff, it's not like that at all!” cried Wesley. “Ron saved me.”

“He did?” Mr. Ratcliff seemed astonished. So did Bobby and Charles.

“Indeed he did!” Wesley hurried to explain in a torrent of words. “You see, I didn't know that Negroes have to sit in the back of the bus. And that I wasn't supposed to be back there. All I was doing was sitting with Freddy.”

“Hold on, Wesley. What in Sam Hill does that have to do with Ron?” asked Mr. Ratcliff.

“Oh, right-o. That's doesn't make sense, does it?” Wesley giggled.

Charles exchanged a quizzical glance with Bobby.

“You see, I ran into a spot of trouble with a man and his son on the bus. You know, the day Freddy took me to see the launching of the
Ticonderoga.
Oh, that was super, that was. It's so enor—”

“Wesley!” Mr. Ratcliff interrupted. “You've already told us all about the big ship, son. Can we stick to tonight, please?”

“Oh! Sorry. Right. But it is connected, Mr. Ratcliff, really. You see, they'd given me a hard time on the bus for sitting with Freddy in the colored section. But the bus driver stopped them. I think the father had been drinking. Anyway, they weren't very happy about it. And then when we were walking home from school today, that very same boy rode up on his bicycle.” Wesley hesitated, not sure if he should say that the boy was a friend of Ron's.

Mr. Ratcliff turned to Ron.

“Tommy,” Ron muttered.

“Oh,” Mr. Ratcliff said shortly. He frowned. “I know the boy…and his father. Please continue, Wesley.”

“Well…he said that I had made trouble for him. I honestly hadn't meant to, Mr. Ratcliff. They just didn't understand what I said.”

Mr. Ratcliff couldn't help smiling. “Yes, that can be a bit of a problem. But go on now. Tell me what happened…
today.
”

“Well…” Wesley pressed his lips together, hesitating about how much to reveal. Then he knew: he would never tattle and tell the Ratcliffs that Ron had been the first to shove him to the ground. That Ron had stood by as the boy from the bus kicked Wesley in the gut. And just watched as the boy's companion pulled Wesley to his feet and slugged him hard in the mouth.

No, Wesley would only tell the Ratcliffs what Ron did next. The part where Ron saved him.

“The boy's friend was holding my arms back so that the boy from the bus—Tommy—could punch me.” Wesley choked on the words, remembering the shock of the pain, the look of hate on the boy's face. “Things were going rather black. I thought I might die! But then Ron…” Wesley paused and nodded toward Ron. “Ron pulled them off me. He must have thrown Tommy ten feet.

“Thanks to Ron, the two of them left me alone. But they went after Ron because he'd helped me. I couldn't just stand there, since Ron had saved me. Soooooo…I tripped Tommy's friend!” Wesley said proudly. “And, and, and…when he got up I hit him. I actually hit him!”

Charles's mouth dropped open. So did Bobby's. So did Patsy's.

“Hold on a second, Wes.” Mr. Ratcliff interrupted. “Are you telling me that Ron stopped those boys from beating you up?”

“Yes!” Wesley exclaimed.

“And that
you
got into fisticuffs?”

“I did!” Wesley exclaimed again. “Tell them, Ron.”

Ron was gaping at Wesley like everyone else. But as it became clear that Wesley wasn't going to rat on him, he slowly smiled. Wesley smiled back.

Charles looked from Ron to Wesley to Ron again, not quite believing what he was witnessing.

“Yup, he did,” Ron finally confirmed, adding a “what-of-it” shrug when he saw that his family was looking at him with such surprise.

“So, that's the story,” Wesley ended. “Ron saved me. Then…oh my…I guess it can be said that I…” Wesley stopped and pulled himself up tall. “Yes, I saved him!” He giggled in delight with himself.

Everyone waited for Mr. Ratcliff to speak again. Wesley's story was such the opposite of what they all had expected to hear that it took Mr. Ratcliff a moment to find words. “Normally your mother and I don't approve of fistfights. You know that, boys, right?”

They nodded. Wesley knew Mr. Ratcliff was obliged to say so.

“But, Ronald.” He paused. “I have to say I'm mighty proud of you, son.”

“Me too, little brother,” added Bobby.

“Really?” Ron's face completely changed as it lit up. Like when a shaft of sunshine managed to break through England's thick gray cloud cover, thought Wesley with amazement. Ron's face was suddenly that different.

“Awww, I guess he's sorta kinda part of the family, right?” Ron addressed his question to his father and Bobby, but didn't wait for an answer. “Nobody messes with my family when I'm around. Besides”—he glanced at Wesley and a playful smile spread slowly across his face—“nobody gets to punch the limey except me.”

Wesley laughed.

Ron laughed back.

Bobby sat down beside Ron and tousled his hair. The brothers grinned at each other. At that moment, Wesley noticed for the first time how Ron was simply a younger, slightly more rugged image of Bobby, almost handsome even.

“When it dries, I get to sign your cast first,” Bobby announced. “I'm gonna write ‘Ron to the rescue. Brothers in arms forever.' Ha-ha, right? Get it? In arms?” He elbowed Ron, who flinched in pain. “Sound good, little brother?”

“Yeah.” Ron's voice was raspy as he answered. “Sounds great to me, brother.”

With so much going on, it wasn't until after dinner that Mrs. Ratcliff remembered she held a letter for Charles. “I'm so sorry, sugar, we've had so much excitement this afternoon, I plumb forgot to give you this.” She pulled a transatlantic envelope from her apron pocket.

“Who's it from?” Wesley asked, hoping it was from their parents. Oh, but wouldn't he have grand news for them in his next letter! he thought proudly.

“William,” Charles answered as he tore it open and read. His face fell. “Oh, he's cricket captain now.”

Wesley knew that if he were home, Charles would probably have that honor.

Then Charles's face turned white. “Wes, the school got a direct hit last month.”

“What?”

Charles passed him a newspaper clip from the
London Times
. “They ran a photo. Look, there's William, helping to clean up the mess.” He pointed to several boys wading through scattered bricks, beams, and hunks of glass. Charles stood up from the table. He was trembling. He skimmed the letter again. “There's a crater in the cricket pitch, shrapnel all over the rugby field. The library's plaster ceiling collapsed. The entrance gates and their statues are destroyed. Remember those jolly old stone lions?”

Wesley nodded.

“Gone. Obliterated.”

“Was anyone…Was anyone hurt?”

“No, by some miracle, not seriously. Just some nasty cuts from the glass. The bombs missed the dormitories. No one was in the library that late at night, thank God.” Charles dropped his arms and the letter fell to the table. “William's saying it'll take weeks for them to clean up because so many chaps have left, chicken about the Blitz.” He looked at his little brother, shame on his face. “I should be there helping.”

A knock on the door interrupted.

“Land's sakes, what a day we've had,” Mrs. Ratcliff said as she went to the front door. “What on earth could it be now?”

At the kitchen table, the family heard the door pop open and Mrs. Ratcliff's surprised, “Clayton!”

Now Patsy's face turned white. It was their cantankerous neighbor, Clayton Forester, Henry's father. He'd never come over to pay a friendly visit. He barely spoke to anyone. Charles and Bobby exchanged a knowing glance. Mr. Forester would never come over unless there was…

“Bad news, I'm afraid, girl.” Mr. Forester stood in the kitchen doorway, hat in hand. “Lilly would have come to tell you herself, but she's tore up. I thought you should know, given his being so sweet on you.” His gravelly voice broke and he swallowed hard. “We received a telegram. Our boy's missing in action. Henry's plane went down somewhere over France. That's all we know right now.”

Mr. Forester put his hat back on and tugged its brim down so his eyes were hidden. Awkwardly, he attempted to reassure Patsy. “Henry's a smart boy. If he made it to the ground alive, he'll figure things out. I just hope I toughened him up enough.” With that, he turned abruptly, grunting a “good night,” and left. Mr. Ratcliff saw him out the door.

Frozen to her seat, Patsy sat shaking her head. “No,” she whispered. “No.”

Charles reached for her hand to comfort her. But Patsy jerked it away, shooting him a glance that he could read easily. She'd almost let Charles kiss her while the boy she loved was shot down, maybe captured, maybe on the run, maybe dead in a comet of flames. She'd never let him that close ever again.

Putting that hand to her heart, Patsy rushed out of the room. Her mother followed.

That's it, Charles told himself. Who was he kidding? Patsy would never love him. And it was dishonorable for him to even hope for it. Her beau was off fighting the Nazis, partly to liberate his and Wesley's country from terror. How ungrateful could he be?

More to the point, it felt to Charles as if his school chum's letter had implied that he was a coward for not being in London when the city desperately needed every able hand—a sense of guilt that had dogged Charles ever since he had walked up the gangplank of the ship evacuating him to America.

Wesley finally seemed capable of taking care of himself. There was no longer an overriding big-brother responsibility tying Charles to Virginia. England needed him more.

Charles was going home. He wasn't going to waste any more time negotiating the matter with his father, hoping for permission from overseas. No, Charles would wait until the Ratcliffs had fallen asleep. Then he would find that canoe Wes had told him about, float down the river like he'd been imagining for months, and stow away on a freighter bound for Great Britain.

Dearest Mummy,


I have had such a WONDERFUL day! I hope you will be proud of me. I am sure Charles is and that Dad would be as well. I got in a FISTFIGHT, just like in the Westerns! I SAVED Ron! Now he and I are going to be FRIENDS like the Lone Ranger and Tonto! I think I finally fit in here
—
isn't that
bully
swell?


Your loving son,


Wesley Bishop