by D. W. Buffa
‘He knows this…?’ she repeated in a gentle reminder.
Darnell nodded slowly. ‘You can’t tell by looking at him, you won’t hear it in his voice—but Hugo Offenbach knows his life is over. He was revered by everyone, and now … he knows what they think. He’ll never play again—I’m sure of it. I suspect the last time any of us will see him in public is when he testifies at the trial. He’s determined to do that now, to tell the truth about what happened—to do what he can to save Marlowe’s life. It may be the only hope Marlowe has. I suppose I should say the only hope I have, because Marlowe doesn’t seem to care.’
Sitting down, Darnell began to talk about where they might go that evening for dinner. Aware that what he had said must sound depressing, he made an effort to break the mood, to bring things back to normal,but a few minutes later he was talking about it again. ‘What happened out there, what’s happened to all of them, but especially Marlowe and Offenbach; the way that after the Evangeline went down everything else that happened seemed almost foreordained; the sheer necessity by which each thing followed another; the way all of it has ruined their lives—only someone like Melville could describe it all.’
Summer Blaine twisted her thin, angular face to the side and asked with her eyes for an explanation.
‘When I started this case, I read everything I could get my hands on about shipwrecks and survivors and what they did to stay alive. The most intriguing story, and the one that offered the most interesting parallel, was the sinking of the Essex, a Nantucket whaler, sunk by a sperm whale in November of 1820. That was what Melville used, the idea of the ship sunk by a whale, when he wrote Moby-Dick. But he did not use the rest of it. Three of the whaleboats got away. One of them disappeared, but in the other two, bodies were eaten. Eight people had been killed, each of them chosen by a method similar to the one used by Marlowe and the others. Eight people killed and only two survivors. There is another parallel, more eerie than the first. The captain of the Essex offered to take the place of one of the victims, a boy, but the boy refused.’
Chapter Fourteen
IN THE MOST IMPORTANT PART OF ITS CASE THE prosecution had led with its strength, Aaron Trevelyn, the only survivor willing to talk. But whom would Michael Roberts call next? He could not call Marlowe—only Darnell could do that— and after what the defence had claimed about Hugo Offenbach during Trevelyn’s cross-examination, there did not seem much likelihood that Roberts would call him. There were only three other survivors, only three other eyewitnesses to what Marlowe had done: the actor, James DeSantos, whose face was known everywhere, and two women, whose names had only become famous because of the trial. Cynthia Grimes had disappeared, gone into hiding somewhere in Europe. No one had heard from her; no one knew exactly where she was. That left DeSantos and Wilcox.Which would Roberts call first?
If you have three witnesses, you put the weakest one in the middle because the things that come at the beginning and the end are what most people remember. Roberts had started with Trevelyn and the jury had hated him; there was a chance that the jury would not have any greater love for DeSantos. Better to call him next and then finish with a woman who, whatever you thought about her religious beliefs, seemed not to have forgotten what it meant to be civilised. Trevelyn, DeSantos, Wilcox—that was the order Darnell would have done it. But Roberts did something else: he called Samantha Wilcox. Darnell wondered what Roberts knew that he did not.
There was no doubt that Samantha Wilcox was a devout Catholic; she had been educated in some of the best Catholic schools in Europe.With a husband she seldom saw, and then only on occasions which can best be described as ceremonial, she let herself be loved by other men—but always with the knowledge that divorce was unthinkable. Darnell was intrigued by her, and somewhat disconcerted by his own reaction. The claim that angels had come to her rescue, an idea he would have dismissed as a crazed delusion had it been made by some redneck Southern Baptist, carried a certain persuasive charm when it came from the mouth of an intelligent, mainline Eastern Catholic.
Tall and elegant, her every movement graceful and at times almost artistic, Samantha Wilcox had the well-bred habit of pausing before each answer to make certain there was not something Roberts wanted to add to the question.
‘Could you tell us, Mrs Wilcox,’ asked Roberts delicately, ‘what you remember about the decision that was made— the decision that someone would have to die so that the others could live?’
Her voice was magical, a whispered breath that entered your mind like the memory of a lost romance, the girl you always wanted, the one you knew you could never have. For a moment Darnell had the uncanny feeling that he was looking at someone he used to know.
‘I remember that no one really wanted to, that it only happened when there seemed to be no other way.’
Samantha Wilcox looked at Roberts, her gaze steady, unwavering, unafraid of the truth.
‘Was everyone in favour of doing this, or did some of you oppose it?’
‘Some of us opposed it—that’s true.’
‘And what about you, Mrs Wilcox? How did you feel about this? Did you oppose it?’
A look of despair came into her eyes. With her right thumb she began in a slow, methodical way to rub the back of her other hand. ‘I was against it, yes.’
‘Could you tell us why? Wasn’t everyone near death from thirst and starvation? Did you think it better that all of you should die than that one of you be killed?’
A smile, rueful and forgiving, crossed her fine, straight mouth. She raised her chin.
‘I thought everything should be left in God’s hands.Whether we lived or died, whether we were rescued or abandoned to the sea—that was God’s decision. No, I didn’t think anyone should be killed; I didn’t think we should do anything that we shouldn’t.’
Roberts nodded sympathetically and moved quickly to the next question. ‘Did you, or did anyone except Vincent Marlowe, kill anyone?’
She seemed shocked by the suggestion.‘No, I couldn’t have … Did any of the others? No, I don’t think so, I…’
‘You don’t think so? Are you saying it’s possible that someone other than Vincent Marlowe killed some of the people whose bodies…?’
‘I didn’t see anyone—Mr Marlowe or anyone else—kill anybody. I couldn’t have watched a thing like that. I didn’t. You don’t know what it was like out there,’ she added with a shudder. ‘I could barely keep my eyes open; I could barely move my arms or my legs. All I could do was pray, and most of my prayers were that God would take me next.’ With a searing, anguished look, she added, ‘My first prayer, when it started, was that He take me first. But instead, He took the boy. To spare him any more fear and torment, I suppose.’
Roberts was confused.‘But the boy was killed because he was about to die anyway.’
‘No, Mr Roberts, the boy was killed because that’s the way it came out.’
‘The way it came out?’ asked Roberts, more confused than ever. She seemed surprised that he did not know. Then she understood that none of them knew, that no one sitting in that courtroom knew. Or almost no one. She looked at Marlowe. He had not forgotten the grim ritual they had gone through together.
‘I didn’t think we should do it; I didn’t believe we had the right to decide who should live and who should die. God, in His infinite wisdom, takes us when and how He pleases. We didn’t know what was going to happen next. There might be a ship just over the horizon, about to come into view. Mr Marlowe believed that, too. He kept telling us not to give up hope, that the worst thing we could do was stop believing that somehow we were all going to survive, that somehow someone would find us. He kept us alive, Mr Marlowe did. If it had not been for him, there would not be a trial, because all of us would be dead.’
‘But you were against it,’ Roberts quickly reminded her. ‘You did not think anyone had to be killed, or should be killed. No one could know when a ship might appear.’
She gave him a dark look. ‘But we know now,
don’t we? We know that the ship that finally came, the ship that rescued us, wouldn’t have found anyone alive if…’ She stopped herself. ‘You asked about the boy. He was chosen in the same way as the others. I didn’t want it to happen—I told you that—but once it was decided, we had to let God choose who it would be. There were some who thought we should choose, that we should make that decision ourselves, but Mr Marlowe agreed that if it were going to be done, there was only one way to do it. It was done by lot, Mr Roberts, that was how it was decided, that was how that boy was chosen: we drew straws. I hoped—I prayed—that I would go first.’
‘So it was a drawing? A matter of chance who was selected, who the next victim would be? But then why would one of the other survivors say that the boy was chosen because he was sick and dying?’
‘Trevelyn?’ she said with contempt. ‘Is that who you mean? I imagine because he would like everyone to think that so long as the boy was going to die anyway, it was not really a killing, that it was not really a sin—when he’s the one who first suggested that some of us should die so the others could live.What he meant, of course, was that others should die so he could live. He told Mr Marlowe—I heard him say it—that the members of the crew had to stick together, that the passengers were expendable, that without the crew to handle the boat none of the passengers could survive anyway. Mr Marlowe would not hear of it.’
Roberts seized on this. ‘Would not hear of it for Trevelyn— only for himself!’
‘That isn’t quite true in any sense, Mr Roberts, and in one sense it isn’t true at all. When the boy was chosen, Mr Marlowe wanted to take his place. No, it’s true—I swear it! You didn’t see the awful look on his face when it happened. I did, and I can assure you, Mr Roberts, that I’ll never forget it. He would have taken the boy’s place, all right—there isn’t the slightest doubt— and done it gladly.Why he didn’t, I’m not quite sure I understand. The boy wouldn’t let him, but that wouldn’t have been enough to stop him. I think perhaps, despite all the encouragement he kept giving us, that he had given up, that he didn’t believe that there was any chance of rescue, or that any of us would survive. Perhaps he decided finally that he should spare the boy more suffering. I don’t know.What I do know is that Mr Marlowe was not afraid of death.’
‘Whatever Vincent Marlowe did or did not think,’ said Roberts, eager to move on,‘this drawing you described—was this the method used each time someone new was selected?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘And you drew along with the others?’
‘Yes, but each time I lost.’
‘Lost? Oh, yes, you wanted to die,’ said Roberts in a voice that seemed troubled and remote.
‘I wasn’t brave like Mr Marlowe and some of the others,’ she said with a modest, faraway glance. ‘All I could do was pray for deliverance.’
Roberts stood at the end of the jury box. The fingers of his right hand rested lightly on the railing. He looked at Samantha Wilcox as if he owed her an apology.
‘I have to ask you something that I know will be difficult. The last time this was done, the last time another person was chosen— how long was that before the White Rose came? How long before you were rescued?’
There was no response. The silence became profound. With each passing moment she seemed to slip further away, vanishing inside herself to a place where no one could follow.
‘Mrs Wilcox?’ said Roberts gently.
‘One day,’ she said finally. ‘We drew lots the day before.’
‘And would that person—the one chosen—have lived another day and been rescued with the others?’
‘Yes, I imagine he would have been.’
Roberts stared at the floor, nodding solemnly. ‘Nothing further, your Honour,’ he said, and then walked slowly to his chair at the counsel table.
Homer Maitland peered down from the bench. ‘Mr Darnell, do you wish to inquire of the witness?’
With his legs stretched straight out in front of him and his chin sunk on his chest, Darnell appeared to be making up his mind.‘Mrs Wilcox,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on a point somewhere on the floor between them.‘At the risk of labouring the obvious, you had no reason to believe on the day before your rescue that the White Rose or any other ship would suddenly appear the next day—or, for that matter, any day—did you?’
‘No, of course not.’
Darnell’s gaze slid across the floor. ‘So the fact that you were rescued a day later changes nothing about what would have appeared to a reasonable person in those same dreadful circumstances to be what necessity required, does it? It was no different— except for what, after the fact, appears to add just one more lamentable dimension to what everyone admits is the tragedy of the Evangeline—than what was done, what had to be done, each time before?’ he asked as his eyes finally met hers.
As soon as she agreed, Darnell got to his feet. ‘Each time this was done, each time another person was chosen by lot, you had to have hoped—you all had to have hoped—that it would be the last time; that before you were once again reduced to starvation, rescue would come?’
‘Yes, of course.We all prayed for that.’
Darnell nodded his belief that she was right, that everyone had done what she said, as he moved around the counsel table and came closer.‘Mr Roberts did not ask you, so I will,’ he said as he stopped in front of her. ‘Captain Balfour—I’m sure you remember him— testified that you said two angels had come down from heaven and that you had been rescued by them. Is that true, Mrs Wilcox? Is that what happened?’
There was not the slightest scepticism in his voice, certainly none of the scorn of the unbeliever. Darnell was simply providing her the opportunity to give her own account of what she had seen. Samantha Wilcox was more than willing to offer testimony to her faith.
‘I know that many of you don’t believe—that you think that it was just an accident that we were rescued, that the White Rose just came along by chance. But just what chance is there that in all those thousands of miles, in all that trackless sea, that ship—any ship— would find our small boat, a speck on the horizon, nothing more? I believed; I’m alive. There is a reason—there has to be. There is a meaning in all of this.Yes, I saw two angels, radiant in the sun. Did I see them the way I see you, a physical presence in front of my eyes, or did I see them only in my heart? Does it matter? Are you going to tell me that only one sense is real?
‘There is a meaning in all of this, if you’ll only grasp it.We are more than just animals; we’re not just part of dumb creation. We died for each other out there.We drew lots—we let God decide. But we did it willingly—or they did, the ones who were chosen to die for the others. Doesn’t that tell you that there must be something god-like in each one of us, each one of you?’
Her face glowed with an inner light that conjured up visions of things cloistered and medieval. Only someone as lost and bitter as Trevelyn would have doubted that she had meant it when she said she had prayed each time that the next one chosen would be her.
Darnell held her gaze in his own, taking comfort from it and trying to give some comfort back. ‘Would you tell us please, Mrs Wilcox, something about the boy? Do you remember him from before the storm—what he was like while he was working on the Evangeline?’
‘Yes, I remember him. He was fine, intelligent—quick as a whip. He seemed to idolise Mr Marlowe. He followed him everywhere, just waiting for whatever Mr Marlowe asked him to do next. That isn’t so surprising; a man who knows what he is doing, a man everyone admires. That is who boys are drawn to— men they want to be like. Poor Mr Marlowe! When the boy was chosen … I’ve never seen a look like that.’
‘Could you explain to us why, if he was willing to allow the boy to die—a boy for whose life he would have given his own— he would not let Hugo Offenbach be included among those whose names were drawn?’
She looked at him as if she was not sure whether he was serious.‘It was not just Mr Marlowe. Mr Offenbach kept us alive.’ S
he quickly corrected herself. ‘No, Hugo Offenbach gave us a reason to live.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t quite understand. Mr Offenbach—in his condition—what could he do?’
She gave him another look of incredulity.‘What could he do? The greatest violinist in the world? He played, Mr Darnell—he played! Every day, for hours, whenever there was not a storm. That’s when I lost whatever doubts I may have had that we were all in the hands of God: when I heard that music. It was like angels singing.’
‘He had his violin?’ asked Darnell, astonished. ‘But it was not with him when he was rescued; it was not found in the boat.’
Darnell shot a glance at Marlowe, hoping to find the answer in his eyes. Marlowe stared straight ahead, his face as enigmatic as a sphinx.
Chapter Fifteen
DESPITE HER OWN OBVIOUS SYMPATHIES, THE testimony of Samantha Wilcox had been devastating to the defence, and no one knew it better than Darnell. This was a case that hung on perceptions as much, or more, than it did on facts. The defence of necessity was the only defence Vincent Marlowe had, and the jury had now been told that the last survivor killed would have been alive with the rest of them had his death been postponed by even one day. The point that Darnell was quick to make, the question he had immediately put to the witness—that no one could have known when, or even whether, a ship would arrive—might, as he later came to understand, have actually worked to Marlowe’s disadvantage. It seemed to raise in a new and doubtful way just how narrow were the range of circumstances that could ever be thought to justify the taking of one life to save the lives of others. Forget what Marlowe knew, or thought he knew; forget how little life the others still had in them—they surely could have held out one more day. But if that were true, if they could have gone one day longer, there was no necessity for what Marlowe did, and what he did was murder.