“Right about here”—Bobby pointed to a stand of trees—“was a small group of Southerners, trying to hold their position. Over there”—Bobby pointed down the slope—“was an Irish brigade from the Union. Its captain saw that the Confederates were holding their ground because of the leadership of one daring boy. That Yankee officer called his best sharpshooter and told him he had to take that boy down.
“The sharpshooter raised his rifle and took aim, waiting until that brave Southern boy exposed himself again. Then he fired. BANG!”
All the brothers flinched.
“The boy fell over,” Bobby continued. “His company scattered. The Union took the hill. Then the Yankee officer told the sharpshooter to go find the boy because he was so courageous he deserved to get medical help if he still lived.
“Well sir, by and by, the sharpshooter found the boy. He turned the Confederate over onto his back, face up. The boy opened his eyes for just a moment to look at the Yankee sharpshooter. He whispered, ‘Father.’ Then he died.” Bobby paused dramatically, making sure he had his audience’s full attention before delivering the climactic sentences of his story. His voice grew sad as he told it: “It was the sharpshooter’s very own son, who’d run away to the South before the war. The sharpshooter had killed his own child, not recognizing him.”
The boys gasped.
Bobby nodded solemnly. “That poor sharpshooter set off howling up the hill, calling for a charge, straight into a line of Confederates. It was total suicide—they riddled him with bullets.” Bobby stopped once more. “People say on a still night, you hear the crackling shot of a rifle and then the most bloodcurdling outcry of grief and regret you can imagine. If we sit here long enough”—Bobby lowered his voice to a whisper—“we might feel him pass right by us, a-wailing and a-carrying on, reminding us to think twice about going to war.”
That silenced the boys.
Bobby gazed into the darkness and added in a voice hushed with thought, “Thousands of boys died here, and the battle didn’t decide a thing. I swear, man is a perplexing species.” He sighed. “You know, a bunch of the guys from last year’s football squad are shipping out soon. Bet they’re heading over for the coming invasion of France.” He turned back to the campfire and poked at it with a stick before looking back up to his brothers.
The twins’ eyes had expanded in fear to the size of golf balls.
“Oops,” Bobby murmured, recognizing that his ghost story had probably been a bit too much for them. He clapped his hands, changing the mood abruptly. “Who can spit into the fire from ten feet out?”
Long into the night, as the other boys slept by the campfire, Charles stewed over that ghost story and Bobby’s reaction to Bloody Mary. It was the first time he’d really thought about the ridiculousness of England’s Catholics and Protestants murdering each other, basically over how they said their prayers. And what about the American Civil War? How could a father and son end up on opposite sides of such an argument?
Would adults ever stop slaughtering one another? Well, at least this world war was a righteous fight, Charles told himself. Hitler was a monster, no question about that. He had to be stopped. Of course, Hitler should have been shut down before he gained so much power. So many people, including the British—if he were honest about it—had looked the other way for so long, hoping that what was happening, really wasn’t. And why hadn’t some good Germans spoken up against the prejudices Hitler was spewing, even if all their friends and neighbors bought der Führer’s racist and anti-Semitic baloney?
That thought drew Charles up short.
He looked over at Wesley, who was flopping about on the ground, probably having nightmares again. He’d let his little brother down, hadn’t he? Charles hadn’t spoken up when Bobby said Freddy couldn’t come to the party just because he was a Negro. He hadn’t because he knew it was an accepted prejudice, just like the Brits’ attitude about the natives of their colony India. Charles hadn’t wanted to rock the boat.
Suddenly Charles felt ashamed.
Out in the night, a fox yelped, sounding alarmingly like a woman screaming. Wesley flipped over again and whimpered.
Charles got up and sat himself down by Wesley. He put his hand on top his brother’s blond curls, just like their mother had done countless times during the night for Charles when he’d had bad dreams.
Wesley quieted, and slept. Under that big, open, starry American sky, Charles kept watch and thought of England and the changes the Allies themselves would have to make when they finally won the war.
15 November 1943
Dearest Mumsy,
Things are finally looking UP! I have a friend! His name is Freddy. He loves books nearly as much as I do. But he has hardly any, so I am lending him mine. He has started with Treasure Island. Now we have such fun talking PIRATES! Did you know there was a horrid pirate named Blackbeard who used the Outer Banks just south of here as his hideaway cove? Now the Yanks call it Torpedo Junction because of all the ships Hitler’s U-boats sunk there last year. Some of my classmates go to those beaches, but I think I would rather not. Sometimes pieces of blown-up ships and dead sailors wash up.
School is better now that we are past the War of 1812 and focusing on Thanksgiving. At an assembly for the lower grades about the Pilgrims’ feast with the Indians, I am to recite a Longfellow poem about Hiawatha. ‘By the shores of GITCHE GUMEE’ is how it begins. I do so love Indian words. They are ever so much more interesting sounding than our British names, and I think it is brilliant to call men ‘braves’ instead of ‘boys’ or ‘lads.’ I wish I could meet a REAL Indian, though, one wearing an eagle feather and carrying a tomahawk like Tonto.
I hope you are well. Are you safe?
Your loving son,
Wesley Bishop
Chapter Eleven
“Freddy knows how. Why can’t you show me?”
“’Tisn’t mine, Wes,” Charles whispered irritably, holding a shotgun just out of his little brother’s reach. “That’s why.”
They stood in the back porch mudroom with the Ratcliff boys, pulling on their coats and boots at five A.M. Despite the early hour, the boys chattered happily about going hunting. Mr. Ratcliff was letting them make some pocket money by hunting wild turkeys and quail off Curles Neck to sell for Thanksgiving dinners. Most Richmond city residents wouldn’t be able to find traditional turkey to buy because farm-raised domestic ones were mostly being sent to troops overseas or on military bases in the United States. The Ratcliffs had a good stash of birdshot left even though shotgun shells were rationed. Mr. Ratcliff was a crack shot, able to take down crows sitting in trees with a .22 rifle. So the boys were hoping to make a bundle of cash to use for buying Christmas presents for one another.
The twins were chanting, “Turkey, turkey.” They didn’t seem to mind that they and Wesley had been relegated to manning the dogs and carrying the kill.
Wesley, on the other hand, was mortified to be lumped in with seven-year-olds. “I’m big enough to hold a shotgun, you know,” Wesley whispered back.
“Look, Wes, a gun is dangerous,” Charles answered. “You shouldn’t handle it unless you’ve been taught. Like Bobby’s taught me.”
Despite their lowered voices, Ron overheard. “It’s not like your stupid set of toy six-shooters, old chum,” he sniped. “What’s that game you still play? Cowboys and Indians?”
The twins stopped chanting. Johnny looked like he actually might be interested in a Wild West game. But Jamie mimicked Ron’s sneer.
Wesley felt his face flame up in embarrassment. Charles sighed. Wesley knew what Charles’s raised eyebrows meant: Come on, Wes, stand up for yourself so I don’t have to this time.
But Mrs. Ratcliff interrupted the tense moment. “Boys,” she called from the kitchen, “come get your bag lunches. Don’t want to get hungry out there on Turkey Bend, do you?”
Propping their guns beside the screened door, Bobby, Charles, and Ron shooed the twins inside and entered the kitchen behind t
hem. Wesley lingered. He couldn’t help himself. He reached out and picked up the shotgun Bobby had lent Charles.
It was heavy and cold, just a foot shy of being as tall as he was. Wesley hoisted the gun, resting the wooden butt against his shoulder. He struggled to balance it, gripping the well-oiled wooden body that supported the long steel barrel. The steel ring that encircled the trigger was oddly elegant and beckoned Wesley to wrap his fingers through it. He looked into the gun’s small sight. Imagining he was a movie cowboy hiding in rocks from marauding Apaches, Wesley slowly pulled back the gun’s hammer as if ready to shoot.
Oh, right, better make sure the safety latch is on, Wesley cautioned himself. Still holding the gun up—aimed, cocked, and ready to fire, with his finger on the trigger—he slid his thumb up and down until it found the small safety lever. Not really knowing which direction was on, which off, he pushed it. As he did, he bobbled the gun a bit, his finger tightening on the trigger.
KABLAM!
The shotgun roared. The kickback threw Wesley backward against the wall.
“Gawd Almighty!”
“What the blazes?”
“Hell’s bells!”
Shouting, the Ratcliffs crowded into the room that for Wesley was swimming with stars. He rubbed the back of his head and tried to focus. Mostly he saw knees. Then Wesley looked up and realized the shotgun explosion had blasted a hole right through the screened door. “Oh no!” he cried.
Everyone seemed to talk at the same time.
“What a dope!” said Ron.
“Lord a’ mercy,” cried Mrs. Ratcliff. “That could have gone through the wall into the kitchen.”
“Are you all right, honey?” Patsy asked.
“Bloody hell!” Charles grabbed his brother, pulled him to his feet, and patted him up and down, searching for bullet holes. He exhaled with relief and for a split second he and Wesley smiled at each other. Then Charles’s attitude turned furious. He shook Wesley by his collar. “Didn’t I tell you not to touch the gun?”
“Hold on a minute, Chuck. Give him some air.” Mr. Ratcliff reached out and propped Wesley up. “Mary Lee, look at his eyes. Seem kind of crossed to me. Think the boy’s all right?”
Mrs. Ratcliff checked his arms and hands, assessed his face again, and then patted it gently. “He’s fine, just shaken up a mite.” She smiled at Wesley. “Would have hated to send you home in a box, sugar.”
“We best get going, then. Time’s a-wasting.” Mr. Ratcliff leaned over and picked up the shotgun. “Good thing it wasn’t a double-barrel,” he joked.
“What? That’s all you’re going to say?” Ron pointed at the hole in the screened door. “That will cost a pretty penny to fix, Dad.”
“Hush up, Ron,” Bobby snapped.
Mr. Ratcliff examined the door. “I have more screening in the shed. We can repair that wood and paint it. Considering what could have happened there’s not much damage done. Give you a chance to practice your carpentry skills, Ron.”
“But…But…” Ron sputtered.
“Son, I saw many a boy—gentle ones, bookish ones like Wesley here—make the exact same mistake in the Great War. They just shouldn’t have been around guns to begin with. However, I do, as a matter of fact, have more to say.”
Mr. Ratcliff turned to the two oldest boys. “Why was that gun loaded in the house? Chuck, isn’t that the gun we gave you to use?”
Charles’s mouth dropped open and his face flushed red. “I…I…”
“It’s my fault, sir,” Bobby spoke up. “I loaded it to show Chuck how. I wasn’t thinking.”
It was a lie—a wonderful, selfless lie for friendship. It’s why Wesley and all the boys admired Bobby so much. But Charles wouldn’t let Bobby take the fall for him. “Bobby is trying to cover for me, Mr. Ratcliff. I did it myself.”
“Humph.” Mr. Ratcliff considered the pair a moment. “You know a loaded gun in the house is dangerous? And plain old stupid?”
The two boys nodded.
“You’re the oldest. I count on you two to be sensible, to set an example for the younger ones.”
The boys nodded.
“Never do that again.”
“We won’t, sir,” Charles and Bobby replied in unison.
“See that you don’t,” he finished sternly. “Let’s go. We’re going to miss our gobblers if we don’t hurry.”
As the boys piled into the truck’s flatbed, neither Charles nor Bobby would look at or speak to their younger brothers.
Mr. Ratcliff drove fast toward Curles Neck and the oxbow loop the river made around Turkey Island. The road’s speed limit had been lowered to thirty-five miles per hour to conserve gas, but he pushed the rattletrap truck faster. It was critical for them to be in position before complete daybreak, when the turkeys could see them and flee.
Wesley hunkered down against the cold wind. The two setters, Flynn and Buster, lay down beside him, as if they anticipated the day’s plan. The Ratcliffs would hunt turkey in the morning and quail in the late afternoon. Wesley was to keep the dogs quiet during the turkey hunt, then help them track quail later.
“Well, if I’m in the doghouse,” he whispered to them, “you’re good company.” Wesley stroked the dogs’ heads and watched the landscape whiz by. Raised in the crowded, bricked streets of London with its miniature, manicured flower-box gardens, Wesley was still entranced by the wild, overgrown beauty of Tidewater Virginia.
Tall trees stretched over the road to just barely touch one another, like the fingertips of dancers. In the summer, they made a wondrous choreography of swaying, light-dappled green. That early morning, however, only a few oaks clung to their autumn-brown leaves. The carrot-colored maples, golden hickories, and crimson dogwood had already shed most of theirs in windswept pirouettes of color.
Now the bare trees created a bleak latticework of black branches over the road. Wesley shivered and looked away to the roadside as the truck hurried past a bog with broken tree trunks rising out of it like rotted teeth. In warm months, those mini-swamps teemed with wild blue irises and pink water lilies, dragonflies and green turtles basking in sunlight along sticks protruding from the water. Now the bogs, like the trees, were barren nightmare material. They gave Wesley the creeps.
He’d be glad when the sun came up.
Mr. Ratcliff turned off the road and shifted into neutral to let the truck coast silently to a halt. There was the slimmest shard of golden light low on the horizon. Quickly and quietly, everyone scampered to the ground, pushing the doors closed to avoid giveaway slams. They were heading for a thick stand of oak trees Bobby had scouted the previous week. A large flock of turkeys was roosting in the gnarly trees at night, then eating fallen acorns in the early morning before moving to fields to look for insects. Bobby had explained to Wesley and Charles that it would be far easier to shoot the turkeys before they reached open ground, where the birds could run as fast as twenty-five miles per hour or fly away.
“Don’t let those dogs bark,” Mr. Ratcliff whispered to Wesley as he, Bobby, and Ron turned to tiptoe into the woods, trailed by the twins carrying burlap sacks.
“Try not to make a fool of yourself again,” Charles added before following Bobby into the darkness.
Keeping two good hunting dogs quiet in woods salted with all sorts of animal scents was not easy. Wesley clung to their collars to keep them from leaping out of the flatbed to follow the Ratcliffs.
“I can’t help it, boys,” he told them. He broke off the crusts of his PB&J sandwich to reward them for staying still. Wesley had seen foxhounds in the English countryside when his family went on holiday, but he knew very little about hunting dogs until coming to the States. Flynn and Buster were working dogs, trained to sniff out quail. But they never rushed in once they found their prey, no matter how much they trembled with excitement. They’d freeze, front paw lifted, their nose pointed straight toward the birds to show their human master where his quarry was. The hunter would scare the quails into flight, shooting them in the
air. Only then would the dogs rush forward to find the fallen birds and carry them gently back, dropping them at their master’s feet as other dogs might a ball, hoping for a game of fetch.
Trying to adopt their self-discipline, Wesley sat quietly, listening to the woods wake up. Leaves rustled as squirrels busied themselves collecting their final treasures for winter. Wheat-eater-wheat-eater-wheat, Carolina wrens called back and forth. A pileated woodpecker hammered a tree trunk. Landing on the truck’s roof, a cardinal cocked its head to eye Wesley and then flitted away, alarmed, chip-chip-chip-chipping to warn his mate of intruders.
Finally, he just had to stretch, so Wesley hopped off the truck. He and the dogs headed for the woods in the opposite direction from where the Ratcliffs had disappeared. As they padded through the forest, Buster and Flynn suddenly pricked up their ears. Wesley strained to hear what they did.
From a long way away a sharp whistle cut through the air: Quail-lee, quail-lee.
Quail! The birds were calling to one another to group in a covey for the morning.
The dogs whined and looked expectantly at Wesley as if to say, You stupid bloke, let us do our jobs.
“We’re supposed to stay here, boys,” he reasoned with them.
But the dogs quivered in anticipation of a hunt.
Quail-lee.
Wesley knew the call meant quail were gathering to search the field for seed. By midday the quail would fall silent and head back into the forest’s brambles, in a feeding pattern that was the exact opposite of turkeys’. The quail wouldn’t call to one another again like this—making it easier for the Ratcliffs to find them—until evening. Maybe Wesley could make up for his shotgun gaffe by locating the covey now and saving Mr. Ratcliff the time of searching them out later.
“Come on, boys.” Wesley struck out, following the quail’s morning revelry.
Across a War-Tossed Sea Page 8