The Cartographer of No Man's Land: A Novel

by P. S. Duffy

  What hubris, what lunacy had led Angus to think he could find Ebbin, to rescue him? He tried to imagine Ebbin’s last moments, but could not. What came to him was the image of Hettie getting the news. He had to get word to her before the War Department did. On his knees, rocking back and forth, he composed and recomposed the telegram until it, too, meant nothing

  LATE THAT NIGHT, long after he’d sent the telegram and checked on his men, long after he’d taught his classes with the fervor and precision of someone desperate to keep from thinking, he staggered back to the house, where he was met by Juliette. She caught her breath at the sight of him. “Ton frère?”

  “Frère-in-law. Le frère de ma femme,” he corrected her, as if it mattered.

  “Il est mort?”

  Angus told her the body had not been found. Only the tags. Ebbin was now officially declared dead. She leaned over slightly, arms around her waist. He took her elbows, then her hands, dry as paper, and lifted her upright and into his arms, rocking her in his embrace, staring over her head down the dark hallway. “Mort? I don’t know,” he whispered.

  She pulled away and searched his eyes.

  “Wishful thinking. Idiotic.” He let her go and rubbed his face and paced about in agitation, hands on his hips. “It’s just with no body, I keep thinking, which is the problem, I know, but I keep thinking he just walked away somehow. Left his tags. Maybe he’s a deserter, though it doesn’t figure. And how the hell would he have slipped away in the middle of a battle? Or maybe that’s the perfect time. But where would he go? And why didn’t he write for all those months before Courcelette?” He stopped when he caught her expression. “You must think I’m crazy,” he said. “You’re probably right.”

  She shook her head no, but in her eyes there was something—pity maybe, or no—compassion.

  THAT NIGHT, ON top of the too soft, too clean bed, fully clothed except for his boots, with Publicover curled like a baby against him and moonlight spilling a filigree of light and shadow through the lace, Angus thought back to Mitchell Finch, whose wife fell off a boat in Shelburne. Her body was never recovered, and for years afterwards, Mitch would say, “Jenny’s down to her folks in Shelburne. Back any day now.”

  Angus swung off the bed, walked soundlessly to the window and dug in the pocket of his jacket for the cross. ELH. Ebbin Langston Hant. After all those years of indifference, Ebbin had gone out and bought a cross. Had it inscribed. An expression of faith, or a hope that faith would follow? He put the chain around his neck and let the cross slip down his chest. The Ebbin he’d known nearly all his life had gone down a rabbit hole and vanished. Dead, yes, he was dead by all accounts. But his fate remained unknown.

  SEVEN

  February 21st, 1917

  Snag Harbor, Nova Scotia

  Simon heard the creak of the wheels before he saw George. George was pushing his wheelchair hard, back and forth, appearing and disappearing in the doorway to the kitchen. Simon felt a wave of nausea—maybe from the smell of cabbage boiling on the stove—but even from the hall, he could sense the menace in George’s wheeled pacing. George was raw-boned and broad-shouldered. People said he’d turned mean since he came back from the Front. Simon wished George’s mother would hurry up with the mufflers he was there to collect. Suddenly, George whipped around and faced him.

  “That Peg o’ My Heart you came on?” he rasped. Simon nodded nervously. As if in answer, Peg whinnied softly outside.

  “Heart-broke. Horses worked to shivering death.”

  “What?” Simon asked reflexively. He looked anxiously down the hall.

  “Flog them, lash them. Orders! Eyes bulging—pull our guns and shells through the mud ’til they’re too done-in to eat the oats we give them. Broke their hearts, is what.” George wheeled past Simon to gaze at Peg tied to the fence post. “Peg o’ My Heart,” he whispered, then stiffened and sat bolt upright. “Shoot them when they get like that. Wet flanks crying in the rain. None buried. No time for that. Flog more into action.” He clenched his fist and kept his eyes on Peg.

  “That you, Simon? I’m coming!” George’s mother came in with a stack of mufflers. “Or, George, was that you?” To Simon she said, “Goodness. He don’t talk for a week or two and then just starts in straight out of the blue. And then we have a right good conversation, don’t we, George?” She put the mufflers down and shook out an afghan. George shoved her away when she tried to put it over his knees. Simon caught her hand to steady her. “Don’t talk much, but he’s strong. Eats like a horse,” she said, flushed and flustered. “George? This is Simon Peter MacGrath. Remember him?”

  George gave her a murderous glance and grabbed his crutches. He pulled himself to a stand and thumped back to the kitchen. At the door, he twisted around. “I’ve got fourteen coins in fourteen boxes for boys just like you,” he said.

  Mrs. Mather stood still as a statue, then shoved the mufflers at Simon. “Twenty-five years old and not a friend to his name,” she said. “You ask Lady Bromley what good are neck warmers when a decent boy comes back like that?” Simon backed out the door. “Ask her!” The words rang in his ears as he leapt over the steps and set Peg to a fast clip back along Owl’s Head Road.

  DUNCAN SNAPPED HIS napkin and then folded it with the care he’d apply to furling a foresail. “What news of Angus?” he asked, as he always did, as if inquiring about the fate of colonists in a foreign land.

  Hettie stared out the kitchen window. “Letters take two weeks,” she sighed.

  Simon stared at his plate and imagined horses too worn out to eat. He quietly scraped his cabbage into the napkin on his lap where it collected into a wet lump and drained onto his trousers. Duncan tapped his mouth with his fingers. Then he slapped his thigh and opened his arms. Young Fred slipped from his seat and hopped into Duncan’s lap. Simon dumped his sodden cabbage in the compost pail.

  “That’s my boy, Young Fred. Now, what do you have to say for yourself?”

  “Simon made me a sword to stab sea monsters. Plus, I don’t like slush.”

  “Lately hasn’t wanted to get his boots dirty,” Hettie said with a wink at Young Fred.

  “Ah. Well now, we’ll have to get you some good fishing boots to deal with that slush, eh?” Duncan pulled out his pocket watch and looked at Hettie. “And what do we hear of Turley?” Young Fred clicked the latch. The watch sprung open.

  “Hmmm?” Hettie said, straightening up. “What?”

  “Turley! Damn it, I’m asking you about Turley. Your cousin. Fred’s father. Have you heard from him?”

  Hettie swept up her plate and scraped the remains into a bowl at the sink. “No. Don’t expect to. He’s up in Labrador.”

  “Labrador? What’s he doing up there? Still no interest in what happens to the boy?”

  “For heaven sake, Duncan!”

  “What, you think the boy hasn’t wondered? My God, Hettie. His father’s a failure. You want him to grow up to be one, too? You need to be honest. Let him know what it takes to get along in the world. Backbone. Straight living, eh, now, Fred?”

  “He’s four, Duncan.”

  “Nearly five!” Young Fred piped up.

  “You just turned four last month,” Simon said.

  “See?” Hettie frowned at Duncan.

  Duncan sighed. “Doesn’t matter how old he is. At least he’s thinking along the right lines. Right, Fred?”

  “My pencil people need a new Dad,” Young Fred said, hopping down.

  Hettie patted his head and lifted him into her lap. “You have a father,” she said. “He’s just away right now.”

  Young Fred buried his face against her. “Not me. My pencil people.” He sat up and glanced longingly at the three pencils lined up next to his plate, then wriggled down and took them under the table.

  “Well, now,” Duncan said, leaning down at him. “Suppose you enlist your stick people to help with the dishes, eh? Hard work, that’s what stick people need. Gets their mind off things.” He grunted as he rose from the table.
“I’ll take my pipe in the parlor and a mug of this coffee, if we can call it that.” He winked at Hettie. “C’mon, Simon Peter.”

  “Pencil people,” came a voice from under the table. “Not sticks.”

  Simon hesitated. “Go on. It’s fine.” His mother dismissed him with a vague wave. Glad for the release, he followed his grandfather and slumped down in his father’s chair staring at the hearth. Horses flickered through the dancing flames. His grandfather zipped the letter opener through a stack of mail he’d brought with him—letters from Ottawa, from England, from the States. People he was in touch with about the war. “Profiteering,” he growled. “Makes my blood boil.”

  “Privateering?” Simon asked without real interest.

  “Profiteering. War profiteering. I’ve told you about that—weapons, food, clothing and all the rest of it—making a fast buck off the suffering of others. Not all that different from privateering, come to think of it. Sending men off to war with shoddy equipment. The greed of man knows no bounds, Simon. And what’s got you so sullen? You look sick.” His grandfather peered at him over his glasses as he sliced through the next envelope. “Understand you were at Hennigar’s so-called recruitment office again. Don’t look so surprised. Got my ear to the ground, boy.”

  Again, the enlistment card. “I was just hanging around with Zenus. Talking with Zeb.”

  “Um-hmm. Have you thought about what Mr. Heist would say about that ape?”

  “Mr. Heist would know it wasn’t him.”

  “Oh? How’s that, now?”

  “Because he’s here. He’s one of us. Besides, it’s the Prussians who are to blame. And he’s not Prussian. He said so.”

  Duncan removed his glasses. “I ask myself how a boy as bright as you can be so dull-witted. Why do you suppose Mr. Heist is so keen to make that distinction? The longer this war goes on, the more dangerous it is for him.” He picked up his letters again.

  “What do you mean? Everyone knows him.”

  “You have a few more boys coming back like George Mather, and I wouldn’t be surprised at anything that happens.”

  Simon sat up. “George—he’s crazy, right?”

  “He’s broken. That’s what war does. Breaks people. He may be dangerous. Probably best to stay clear of him until he gets set right again.” His grandfather shook a letter out and stared at the fire.

  “He says crazy things.” Simon went to the window and looked for his little friend, the fox, but darkness engulfed the field and the fox was nowhere to be seen. Just before supper it had raced halfway across the snowy yard. Third day in a row. It had lifted one black paw and jerked its head toward Simon—the white of its chest against the red fur shoulders, its pointed snout, the black eyes looking right at him.

  But there was something. A black shape coming up the road, almost to the house. Even in the dark, Simon could make out his labored walk. “Zeb Morash!” he said. “Coming up the hill!”

  “What? This time of night?” Duncan strode to the window. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly.

  Zeb stared at the house, shook his head, and then continued, slow as molasses, as if the snow were knee-deep and the path wasn’t clear.

  “Zeb? Zebulon!” Duncan called out, opening the door to a cold rush of air.

  “It’s me,” came the response.

  And then Simon knew. The telegraph office at the back of Hennigar’s. Never had a man walked so slow.

  “Come on, come on. Come in!” Duncan dragged him over the doorstep and slammed the door hard. Zeb coughed and wheezed and stamped like an old horse. He pulled off his gloves and clapped them together. Then he reached in the inside pocket of his jacket and said, “Duncan. Glad you’re here, boy. Right glad of that.” He withdrew a thin envelope.

  Duncan looked at it, but did not take it. Color drained from his face, but he stood ramrod straight. Stood like iron.

  “Telegram from Angus. For Hettie.”

  Hettie stood at the kitchen entryway. Young Fred ducked around her and raced up to Zeb.

  “From Angus, you say? From Angus?” Duncan laid a hand on Zeb’s shoulder.

  “That’s right. From him. Sent by him.”

  “Thank God.” Duncan took the envelope and ushered Hettie into the parlor, saying, “We don’t know, now. We don’t know anything.” But Simon knew. One look at Zeb’s face and anyone would. His mother knew. His grandfather, too.

  “Here, Hettie. Sit down. Shall I open this?” Duncan said gently. She did not sit. She stared unblinking at the envelope. Simon’s mouth went dry. Zeb pulled off his hat and clutched it as if in prayer, his face red with the cold, as sad a face as Simon had ever seen.

  Duncan turned the envelope over and withdrew the telegram. He fumbled with his spectacles, dropped them, picked them up.

  Zeb coughed and looked panicked. “Best be getting on. Wanted to bring it up myself. I’m right sorry. Right sorry.” He pulled on his cap and nodded at them.

  “Not a bit of it, Zeb,” Duncan said without looking up. “You get a mug up before you trek back to town. Some rum. I’d take you back myself, but . . .” He almost tucked the telegram in his pocket.

  “Maybe it’s good news! He, he found him! Right?” Simon said. The words, once out, rang with lunacy, but it didn’t matter because now his grandfather had finished reading and was holding the slip of paper to his chest and looking just like Zeb.

  “Ebbin,” his mother whispered. “Not . . . ?”

  The log Simon had laid fell in and set off a flurry of sparks. No one spoke.

  “Read it,” she said.

  His grandfather again hooked the gold frames of his spectacles over his ears, looked at her for confirmation and read:

  “EBBIN’S IDENTIFICATION TAGS FOUND AT COURCELETTE

  WITH REMAINS OF HIS PLATOON.

  APPARENTLY SHELLED. ALL DEAD. EBBIN’S BODY NOT FOUND.

  SORROW REIGNS.

  I LONG TO BE WITH YOU. ANGUS”

  His mother slowly began to shake her head no, holding her hand out and backing away. Simon grabbed the telegram. Under the lamplight the typed words gathered into phrases. All dead. Apparently shelled. Body not found. “Grandpa? What does it mean? Grandpa?”

  “Sorrow reigns,” his grandfather whispered hoarsely. “That’s what it means.”

  EIGHT

  February 24th, 1917

  Arras Sector, France

  It was late. The estaminet was quiet. Most of the men were at a YMCA production aptly titled, “In Harm’s Way.” Behind Conlon, the thin-haired proprietor slowly pushed a mop back and forth across the floor. Angus folded the telegram from Duncan and considered what it must have taken for him to write it.

  Conlon placed an order and sat down. “News?” he asked.

  “Telegram from my father. Said Ebbin’s family got the official word and my wife is with her parents. Memorial service next week.” He imagined Hettie, ashen-faced, in his father’s arms. It was the only picture of the scene he could conjure up. He should have been the one holding her. “First time I’ve heard from him since I left. He wasn’t too happy about my joining up.”

  “Tell me it wasn’t just to find Ebbin Hant.” When Angus gave no reply, Conlon added, “Men join up for all kinds of reasons—to be with their pals, find adventure, avoid prison, run from something. Not to find someone.”

  “Must have been mad.”

  “Must have been some kind of pal.”

  “More like a brother. Met him when I was a boy, not long after my mother died. He brought me out of it, you might say.”

  “And so you married his sister. She the one talked you into coming over?”

  Angus almost tried to explain before he realized Conlon was joking. What wife would want her husband to join up? And yet. He remembered her flannel nightgown, folded on the bed, a single sleeve askew, the night he told her he was joining up to be a cartographer, behind the lines where he could search for Ebbin. When he finished, her silhouette against the window had straightened, like a pluck
ed string. She’d pulled the curtain back ever so slightly. And in that silent gesture, agreement. For all her protestations afterwards and all his reassurances that he’d be out of harm’s way, the truth lay in that moment. And he’d understood.

  How utterly unhinged it seemed now.

  “Neither of us had any idea what this war was like. Never thought I’d be in combat. And there were her parents, her father. He was good to me as a boy. Guess I wanted . . . well, doesn’t much matter now, does it?” He slipped the telegram into his pocket.

  Conlon gave him a long hard look. “Maybe it does. Your old man—he against war in general or just this war, or just you in it? A pacifist or—”

  “Yeah. He is. Maybe not with a capital P.” Angus shifted uncomfortably. “He’s not your idea of a pacifist anyway. He’s a tough son of a bitch. He was captain of a Banks fishing schooner for years, and he’s never gotten over it. One of his stronger opinions is that the British Empire can fuck itself. He has a way of making his points.”

  “So you were running after all.”

  Angus downed the last of his drink, irritated at Conlon for so handily making him see things in a way he hadn’t before. “Maybe so,” he said to Conlon. “But still, I loved him. Ebbin, that is. Never knew how much until he went missing.” Angus leaned forward and cupped his glass with both hands. “When someone’s gone, gone for good, a piece of yourself goes missing—who you were with that person and maybe who you thought you once might be.” His throat tightened. He sat back and looked away.