Leon Uris (19 page)

“. . . Let’s take a look at the Pacific. The British, Dutch, Germans, and Portuguese are all over the place. Japan is an emerging imperial power, casting her eye toward the Philippines and Hawaii. That means we will need forward bases, coaling stations, dry docks, and friendly treaties all over the planet.”

“Sir, what about our future relationship with England?”

“Yes, England. We’ve had our shakedown cruises with the British in the Revolution and the War of 1812 as well as dealing with much British sympathy with the Confederacy. We have evolved to realize that, in many ways, England is our most natural ally, as much or more so than the French, without whom we could not have won our independence. The bottom line is this: Both England and America will benefit far more from an alliance than from an adversarial relationship. We need them, they need us. You will see close cooperation in the future, and, we believe, we will never go to war with England again.”

“But, Mr. O’Hara, England is by far the greatest colonizer. Won’t we be just like them, sort of picking up some of their droppings?”

“We share a common language, common heritage, and many common bonds, but there is a difference. America is different from any nation created in the history of man.

“More powerful than fourteen-inch naval guns and stronger than any massive army is the unique place America holds in the minds of man. We won our freedom with ideas more powerful than arms. We set a precedent in the eyes of the world by daring to
engage in a bloody civil war because of an ideal. We enter the new world not so much to plunder, to crush people, or to rule . . . All mankind whispers our name . . . America . . . with reverence. So long as we maintain our basic human decency, the world will behold us as the keeper of man’s most noble flame.”

When all was said and done, Major Ben Boone gave the final lecture, and it was a rouser.

“. . . There is a national military imperative that separates the Marine Corps from all other services. We will need a unique body of men at the ready on both coasts, aboard our naval vessels and stationed wherever we fly a flag . . . a unique force, small, highly skilled, and enormously dedicated, that will be able to move on a moment’s notice to any trouble spot in the world. Further, this force will continue to develop a hybrid skill, establishing a doctrine for amphibious warfare. The United States Marines has grown into its future role. If we had no Corps today, we’d have to invent one tomorrow.”

All the lessons of the AMP seminar were brought to a delicious boil as the President’s Own Marine Band marched down the barracks parade ground before Captain Maple and the midshipmen.

Formed nearly a century earlier, at the end of the Revolution, from the remnants of the fife-and-drum lads, the band had inducted a group of Italian musicians to fill in its ranks. The commandant assessed every Marine officer ten dollars to buy instruments for the band.

The President’s Own debuted at the inauguration of John Adams, the second president, on the lawn of the new presidential mansion, later to be known as the White House. They played at Gettysburg when Lincoln delivered his famous address.

They played the hell out of it this day. John Philip Sousa and his lion-tamer-red-uniformed men struck up “Semper Fidelis” as they passed the review stand, a moment never to be forgotten.

In their grand lacquered, ebony-furnished home, with its mandarin-red-and-gold drapes, the Storms held an informal reception and dance where the plebes were seduced by their first experi
ence of Chinese cooking. Beer was served judiciously. Marines of the AMP came with their girlfriends, provided their girlfriends brought an extra girl for a middie.

Captain Storm held down a table on the garden lawn with Major Boone and Captain X.

“You have thoroughly charmed my men,” Maple said. “A number of them have already inquired about service in the Corps.”

“And what did you tell them?” Ben asked.

“I told them these past four days were pastry. Get up at four-thirty in the morning and drill with these sons of bitches till midnight just one day and you’ll need no further convincing to remain in the navy.”

Tobias and Ben smiled, cats licking their chops.

“Your instructors are pretty blunt,” Maple said. “Has Commandant Ballard attended any of these classes?”

Tobias scratched his jaw. “He kind of gives us a wide berth.”

“He should. Some of what was said was borderline treason.”

“He knows what we’re up to.”

“I must say I was impressed by that O’Hara kid,” Maple said.

“You know who he is,” Ben said.

“Yeah, I know, Paddy O’Hara’s son. Those words, I’ll remember them.” Richard Maple pressed his fingers together, closed his eyes, and tried to remember. “ ‘A great new emerging world power need not invoke fear among nations so long as it remains guided by a noble idea.’ “

“Fucking poetry,” Tobias said.

“He’s a pretty good kid,” Ben agreed cautiously, for he sensed a little quid pro quo coming up.

“Any chance that if I sent over two or three promising plebes to take your next AMP course in its entirety, I might chat with O’Hara?”

“Somewhat less than none,” Storm answered.

“We’ll shoot him first,” Ben added.

“How long before you complete this first AMP course?” Maple pressed.

“It’s our initial class. We don’t know exactly what our cutoff date is. A second group is being formed now, at least on paper.”

“Where are your people going to be stationed when they graduate?”

“About half of them haven’t had sea duty. They’ll automatically have to do a cruise aboard ship,” Storm said. “O’Hara hasn’t done sea duty yet.”

“And you know how hard we’re fighting to keep Marines aboard the ships,” Ben added quickly.

The near-empty gin-and-tonic glasses were given short shrift when reinforcements arrived. Maple realized he wasn’t going to budge them.

“All right, you bastards,” Captain X said, “I want to bring the entire upper class of midshipmen over here for the same seminar. Satisfied?”

“Are you satisfied?” Ben asked.

“You’re mavericks, both of you. Some of your zeal needs to be tempered, but your case is infallible. You see our future with clarity. You speak the truth and I have to support you. Try to make it a little easier for me.”

Maple looked up to see Zachary O’Hara approaching with Beth Shaughnessy between him and Corporal Varnik.

“Excuse me, sirs,” Zachary said.

“Yes?”

“My best buddy, Corporal Varnik, and his sweetheart, Beth Shaughnessy. Varnik and I don’t waltz very well, Captain Maple, and she wondered if you would do her the honor of a dance.”

“The honor would be mine,” Captain X said gallantly.

The band resumed and Maple whisked Beth to the dance floor with dash.

“O’Hara, how the hell did you know waltzes were coming up next?” Storm asked suddenly.

“I requested them from Warrant Officer Sousa,” Zach answered.

•
17
•

When shadows crossed Emily’s apartment, it gave Horace a bit of the shivers. A purplish hue and blinking lights from the dancing aspen leaves outside and the medicinal smell, not unlike an undertaker’s, all made him uneasy.

Emily sat in the purple light, hair knotted tight, pallid, grown spinsterishly ugly. The eyes were glazed now. She wandered,
pit-pat,
this that. A giggle.

The nurse indicated to Horace that Emily was very tired from the visit and he’d best go.

“Good-bye, Emily,” Horace said.

She looked at him curiously, then held up her hand to be patted and kissed.

“We will see each other again soon, Emily.”

“Yes, it’s Mother’s birthday, or is it Upton’s . . . I have a new dress. Miss Lowry thinks I’ll be quite able to attend the party.”

When Horace closed the door behind him, he leaned against the wall and wiped the perspiration from his upper lip, then scrambled to get a cigar going. Its aroma followed him out of the seldom-visited north wing.

He found his way to his upstairs parlor, slumped into his leather armchair, and one more time sailed through the litany of justifications.

No one could accuse him of being an unloving or indifferent father. Emily was his firstborn. She had come at a splendid time, although, truth be known, and he never showed it openly, he was miffed that the firstborn had been a girl. No damned way to start a dynasty, but what the hell, this was only the beginning of child siring.

Horace was a jolly father, joker, bearer of gifts for Emily. Dinners were pleasant, as were social engagements. The family, bumblers though they were, could be great fun.

When did the drift begin? With Daisy? With Emily? Horace and Daisy were an exemplary couple, altogether civilized, settling into both married life and times apart, in the traditional mold. They continued to share a bed, and soon enough, Daisy was pregnant again.

She lost that one, and another, before his prince was born. A male was on the scene and the Kerr name secure.

Yet sweet Emily was a precious child to be fussed over. However, it was soon apparent that she would be exceedingly plain and even dull-witted. The Kerrs were all handsome people, sturdy blond Scottish Celts. There was mumbo jumbo in the Blanton line. Yes, Daisy’s mother and grandmother were rather plain women. That would certainly account for Emily.

Emily’s plainness seemed to express itself by a growing shyness. The more shy she became, hiding behind the skirts, the more shovels full of attention she required. It was a bottomless pit, with attention barely soothing her hurt of the moment.

Horace grew fidgety over the whole business and tried to bully his way through to her, while Daisy heaped on the art of coquetry, obedience, and awareness of the splendor of her family and her
itage. Emily played the piano fairly well, her only smidgen of talent. The one place she could communicate as the center of the family was at a sing-along.

But Horace Kerr wanted more lively songs and not all those Stephen Foster moanings about ‘tater fields and dead massahs.

Emily’s fingers began to strike off notes, which never failed to bring a remark of displeasure. “God, child, you’ve played it a thousand times. You’d think you’d be getting it right.”

Sing-alongs about the piano, no matter how well intended the participants, always ended now with sour notes. With each new endeavor, the girl felt it was going to end in failure . . .

As when Emily fell off her pony three times in the practice ring and Horace slammed her back into the saddle and only stopped when Laveda Fancy carried off the child, who was screaming hysterically, while Daisy said nothing.

. . . And Emily’s tutoring went slowly, nerve-rackingly. She developed a stutter, triggered most often by her finger-pointing father.

Daisy remained passive and compliant, even as she knew her daughter was going to be a limp limb on that proud family tree.

Daisy created a daily routine that would satisfy Horace, mainly through permitting him to avoid Emily. When Emily’s weeping and Horace’s outward frustrations had been dulled, one and all made themselves believe that Inverness was in shipshape.

Required to attend a minimum of social events, the girl used calculated loneliness as a shield from all that bouncing business out there beyond her apartment and beyond Inverness. Loneliness meant peace among dolls who could not talk back.

When Emily’s fifteenth birthday clicked on past, Daisy Kerr came face-to-face with the unpleasant truth: In another year, her daughter’s cotillion was coming up. It would be no easy task to obtain an escort of note or rank, or any escort, for that matter.

Nonetheless, the cotillion had strong meaning, far beyond the walls of Inverness, and Daisy, in order to save unbearable humiliation, had to fish around at the bottom of the barrel.

The Sheldon Jollys were a family of tattered aristocrats who had fled Georgia after the Civil War, settled in Baltimore, and were able to get in, just on the fringe of proper circles.

The melody of the Old South flowed from Sheldon Jolly’s mouth, as did the scent of bourbon. As a lawyer he served a useful role in the movement of funds of questionable origin and cargoes of goods that had circumvented customs taxation. Whatever a man had to do to live a proper life, he did. By God, he even elbowed his way into a number of clubs, to find kindling for his fires.