Shoulder the Sky_ A Novel - Anne Perry [137]
“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 onto 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,” he said aloud.
Now it was Mason who crouched as if turned to stone. It would have been impossible to deny it—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 Wulvergem. 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 gray, 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 laid 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 toward, 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 floorboards 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