The piece of paper, one of tens of thousands like it, had become his talisman, his reminder that he had made a choice and had to fulfill it. Somehow, he had to get to the Americans, and the paper served as a reminder that there just might be a better life out in the great land beyond the trench lines.
Ludwig looked around at the men in the tent. Kessel was staring at him with a glowing hate burning in his one good eye. Did the man know about his intentions? It had long become obvious that Kessel was keeping tabs on him and doubtless hoped to exact some measure of revenge. The man was sick as well as evil, of that there was no doubt.
So why didn’t he just slip over the trench wall and out into the woods? The Americans were only about ten miles away and the rain would provide a degree of cover. He could be there by dawn.
He could, he realized with a chill that was caused by fear and not the weather, also be caught by one of the many German patrols that watched over the no-man’s-land. It was said they looked for deserters as much as they watched for the Americans. No, the straight way was not the best way. He would have to wait for an opportunity. He’d seen enough executions recently to keep him satisfied for a lifetime.
From where he sat, alone and disconsolate, Capt. Richmond Hobson could barely see a hundred yards of New York harbor, much less the familiar outlines of Manhattan and Brooklyn. It was so frustrating. Somewhere, only a scant mile or so away, were scores of German ships, mainly transports, but a number of warships as well, and he could not even see them, much less do anything about them. There were always several German ships in the harbor, but this situation was unique and, therefore, tempting. First, a large convoy had recently arrived and was still unloading and reorganizing for the return journey when the storm struck. Then a number of warships, including, he was told, a couple of capital ships, had sought shelter from the storm in the harbor. Somewhere in the mess there might be as many as a hundred German ships of all shapes and sizes.
The storm, they said, was starting to abate. If so, Captain Hobson could not detect it. The winds were a stinging fury and the rains came down not in sheets but in virtual clouds that rendered everything invisible. He looked upward to see the sky and found it a foot above his head.
What was most frustrating was that he was ready. All the weeks, all the plans, and all the work, and he was ready. His tiny force was assembled and ready to strike. It didn’t matter that many of his men were sure they wouldn’t live for more than a few minutes after he gave the signal to get on with it. He was confident they’d persevere. He’d had enough glorious failures. Now was the time for a glorious success.
A fervent and devout man, Hobson prayed for the storm to end soon. He also prayed that it would end at night, and he did that for several reasons. First, his tiny force needed every advantage it could get, and the darkness would help mask its actions. Second, the Germans could be counted on to remain in the harbor until daylight. With no sense of urgency to make them leave the harbor, they, or most of them, would logically wait until dawn in order to make the passage to the open seas a little safer.
Third, and perhaps most important, the darkness would reduce the likelihood of some traitorous New Jerseyite seeing what Hobson was up to and somehow warning the Germans. During the weeks he’d been assembling his little force, it had been kept as great a secret as if he were in a hostile land. Too many of the people of New Jersey were petrified that they might get involved in the war and have their comfortable lives disturbed. He knew this was an overharsh assessment. New Jersey had provided a number of men and units for the army, and many others wanted, like him, to destroy the Germans as soon as possible. But he had to contend with the reality that a small but significant percentage wanted peace at any price, and that price would include sacrificing him and his men. His handsome face wrinkled in a scowl. He would kill them first.
Rains, Trina informed one and all, do not stop weddings. They might stop armies and close businesses, but weddings will go on. Particularly hers. Damnit, hadn’t she waited long enough?
Upon arriving back at the cottage, she and Molly, assisted by Lieutenant Colonel Harris’s wife, had worked hard to arrange an early ceremony. First, a clergyman had to be found. Since neither she nor Patrick had any strong religious affiliation-she was Dutch Reformed and he wore his Anglican faith lightly-almost any minister would be suitable. Father McCluskey, a portly Catholic chaplain who had been discussing marriage plans with Molly and Heinz, was approached. He had demurred and seemed worried that the Pope might find out what he was doing, but he was mollified when Trina’s father promised to build him a new church in his home parish. It was in Kansas and far away from the Pope.
Getting food for a reception and a place to hold it were no problem. As Patrick reminded everyone, generals do have some power. Whereas clothing for the men simply meant dress uniforms, getting gowns was complicated. But the Schuyler money produced a small army of nimble-fingered seamstresses and dressmakers, seemingly from nowhere.
Thus, even though the weather was an utter ruin, the wedding went off without a hitch. Jacob Schuyler gave away his daughter, who, dressed in a simple white gown, was radiant. Molly-in a better dress than she’d even seen before, much less worn and owned-was the maid of honor. Her pregnancy was not evident, as it was still in its early stages. Patrick wore dress blues, and Ian Gordon, as best man, was resplendent in Imperial regimental scarlet. Along with a handful of staff and other friends, the fifty or so guests included Funston, Wheeler, and MacArthur. MacArthur stayed only a little while. Pershing and Lee sent regrets. There was, after all, a war on. Funston and Wheeler, however, made up for the others’ absence and raucously tried to outdrink each other. They didn’t even notice when Ian left with a woman guest, a recent friend of Trina’s who’d also been working in the refugee camps. She was a little overweight and rather plain, but Gordon treated her as though she were the Queen of England. Patrick whispered to Trina that he would soon be her king, at least for that night. Molly and Heinz left early as well. Unable to walk or stand for long because of the still-healing leg wound, and with his arm heavily wrapped and suspended, Heinz was forced to spend much of the day in a wheelchair and was clearly uncomfortable and a little embarrassed.
Both the ceremony and the reception were held in a school, and a handful of musicians from the brigade provided a fairly high level of musical talent. Harris had found them. They’d gotten together to help alleviate the boredom of an army camp and were really quite talented.
It was not very late when Patrick and Trina made it back to the cottage. Tonight it would be theirs alone. Molly had made other arrangements for Heinz and herself. Patrick and Trina would have only the night and the next day. Work for Patrick was piling up, and Trina was starting to feel guilty about the latest wave of refugees she’d missed helping.
A little before dawn, Trina slid naked from their bed and padded softly to the window. There wasn’t much to see of the world as the rivers of water coursed down the panes. They might as well be on the bottom of the ocean, she thought, and wondered whether she’d be surprised if a fish swam by. On the other hand, the rain did appear to be slackening ever so slightly. Well, it couldn’t rain forever, could it?
Behind her, she heard the deep breathing of the sleeping Patrick Mahan. She sat on a trunk by the window and drew her knees up to her chin. So this was marriage. No, this was just the beginning. She smiled. A very interesting beginning. She stood and stretched catlike by the window.