He read in a precise, deliberate way. The succinct phrases took on a quality of fate and of irrevocability. ". . . and on perceiving a distress signal we changed our course. . . . Eight passengers in a lifeboat from the S.S. Lerida out of Lisbon; one of these passengers was dead. . . ."
The grim and twisted strands of the story picked themselves out, stripped of anything but fact. "Luther Cates having been secretly a Nazi collaborator in a very important way, killed Alfred Castiogne because the latter had accidentally discovered Cates' collaboration and attempted to blackmail him. Cates did this while in the lifeboat, and, we believe, after he saw that the rescue ship was American and bound for the United States. Unknown at the time to Cates was the fact that Castiogne had already in his scheme two partners. One was Manuel Para, and the other was Michel Banet (see next paragraph for further reference to Michel Banet). Once on board the Magnolia, Para appears to have secretly approached Cates with a view to blackmail. We have no witness for this interview but we believe Cates promised to pay and extracted the information from Para that Banet also knew of his collaboration. Later, Cates, by assuming the disguise of a patient, succeeded in getting close enough to Para to take him by surprise and murder him. Later Cates murdered Banet for the same reason. Luther Cates tried in various ways to throw suspicion upon other people and to clear himself and finally made an unsuccessful attempt to drown the bona fide patient, Jacob Heinzer (later rescued from the sea; please see page 3). Cates' intention apparently was to take the patient's place in the hope of later making an escape. Cates died of a heart attack after making a partial confession which follows. . . ." It followed, and then patiently yet tersely all the details, with the Captain pausing between sentences as if to permit a dissenting or correcting voice. Then he went on: "Also in the lifeboat was Michel Banet, a former pianist and a member of the Nazi party, who, wishing to escape possible punishment as a war criminal (we believe him to have been only a minor official but that fright and guilt strongly influenced his actions) assumed a false name and identity. Having no money, he induced his former fiancee, who knew nothing of his Nazi activities, to accompany him"—The Captain paused here, coughed and continued elliptically—"also Miss Gili Duvrey—let me see, now; oh, yes." He resumed: "Miss Duvrey informed Banet of Luther Cates' collaboration with the Nazis and of Gastiogne's knowledge of it and possible intention; apparently Banet forced himself upon Gastiogne as a partner. He, too, however, was in grave danger when the rescue ship proved to be American as his former fiancee would (and later did; see below) insist upon revealing his true identity. Also he no longer needed money from her as he proposed to get much larger sums of money from Luther Cates. He attempted to murder Miss Colfax on at least two occasions as follows . . ." He coughed again here, but continued doggedly, recounting the ugly details. He resumed at last: "Banet, however, was murdered by Cates."
He stopped there as if struck by a thought. He looked hard at the paper. Finally he took up a pencil and wrote, slowly, reading the interpolation as he wrote it: "They were Nazis. They destroyed each other. This was their destiny."
"Why, yes," said Daisy Belle suddenly. "Their destiny—our destiny on this ship, our meeting with fate. Our rendezvous . . ."
The ship ran out of the fog the next day.
And finally, steadily, came into Charleston harbor.
That was very early one morning. The sea was gray, the sky was gray and tranquil. The ship glided evenly along with the rosy radiance of the Red Grosses around her like a gentle blessing. The decks were lined with soldiers who could walk, leaning out to get their first view of home, shouting through the ports to others who were in their bunks, "I see land . . . I see lights . . . There's a tender. . . ."
It was a tender, streaking busily out to meet them, bringing the boarding party. The public-address system carried welcoming words from the port transportation officer—straightforward, sincere, deeply moving. It was to be the Magnolia's last trip from Europe. She was to go now to the Pacific and there continue her high and faithful task of mercy.
Josh and Marcia stood at the railing and listened.
The U.S.A.H.S. Magnolia went on slowly along the broad and gracious river, past the lovely old city, her gracious houses dimly outlined in the dawning light.
The sun came up and the river turned to gold. They drew slowly and evenly up to a long pier, and the flag waved against the blue sky. The sun glittered upon the shining instruments of the welcoming bands. Long lines of ambulances and busses stood in waiting. Companies of corpsmen, trained and skilled, were at attention. Music burst upon the ship like a warm embrace. The port commander, a general's stars on his shoulders, came himself to meet the ship. A boy, carried from the ship in a litter put both hands flat upon the pavement and smiled as if he said: "This is America."
Watching the swift precision and care with which the whole shipload of patients was unloaded it seemed to Marcia that the whole kaleidoscope of war—of hatred and suspicion and terror, of pain and fear, could somehow in the end be shaken down into a firm design of love and mercy.
Josh said suddenly: "I'm going to kiss you." That deck, far above the gangway, was deserted. Josh held her for a long moment. "I love you," he said. "I'll always love you."
The band played and the sun shone. A boy on the gangway threw his cap in the air and caught it and gave a loud shout of happiness. "Home," he yelled above the band, above everything. "Home."
And Marcia thought, but this is home, close to Josh, like this, forever.