Heathersleigh Homecoming (34 page)

 64 
A Letter and a Nightmare

Charles Rutherford awoke early. He had been doing so frequently these days, it seemed. It was still dark out. He turned on his light and glanced at his watch. Five-forty. That would make it between three and four in the morning back home.

It was nearly time to be up anyway. He needed to tell Jocie what had happened two mornings ago. He might as well get started on it now. The ship would be reasonably quiet for another hour.

He rose, dressed, and within ten minutes was seated at the small writing table in his cabin gazing at the small framed photograph of his wife in front of him.

My dear Jocelyn, he began,

I don't know when you will receive this—we have not put in since passing Gibraltar and entering the Mediterranean, and already we have passed Malta and expect to see Crete soon. I have begun at least ten letters since we last saw England's coastline, but as time passes I feel the constant need to begin anew, since what I may have written yesterday, or last week, no longer seems so immediate as the now. I shall probably post them all at the first opportunity, giving you a long string of letters begun . . . but all remaining unfinished!

Christmas was particularly difficult for me. I am certain it was for you and Catharine as well. How I missed you and longed to be home! I relived every Christmas we have ever had together, I think, and the day was filled for me with visions of trees and stockings and your delectable rice pudding . . . but mostly just with thoughts of you and wanting to be with you. I love you more than ever!

At least there were no enemy ships about, and we took the day to quietly remember our families. I led the men—I feel like calling them boys, as most of them are to my eyes—in the singing of some Christmas carols, which we concluded with sharing and praying together. It was quite extraordinary how men will open themselves to other men if given the opportunity, aided by a holiday and a little fear of what may lie ahead.

All in all, under the circumstances, I felt it was a good day, one that drew the officers and men closer together, an important component of ship life. But what am I repeating this for? It is all explained in great detail in the letter I began the day after Christmas!

In any event, George and I managed to have some time together as well and it was rich. We even squeezed in two epic games of chess—though I am no longer his match. He is so mild mannered, but ruthless with his bishops, knights, and rooks. I have never encountered so persistent and cunningly dangerous a queen! He is growing into a fine man to make both of us proud. His companions look up to him, and gradually I see leadership qualities emerging in him. I'm sure I have told you already that he is a petty officer now, in charge of all the radios on board, and second in command of his squadron. Though it is a severe grief to me to be away from you, to be close to him during this learning, maturing, critical time in his life makes it almost worth it. Nothing really makes it worth it, of course, but if there must be sacrifices, it is so good of the Lord to give us corresponding blessings along with them.

As if the intensity of his thoughts in her direction had forced themselves into her own brain, terrifying visions and images began to rise within Jocelyn's dreamy consciousness where she slept in her own bed at Heathersleigh. But they were not happy images of Christmas. . . .

A ship was slicing through dark waters, tilted to one side. The sky was nearly as black as the waters, the only illumination coming from occasional bursts of fiery explosions in the air . . . silent bombs that gave no sound, only brilliant, terrifying light. Aboard the vessel were what seemed ten thousand men running to and fro in confused panic, resembling more ants than men . . . they were trying to scream for help, but their voices made no sounds and there was no one to help them. The explosions overhead closed in around them . . . now crashing upon the ship itself and exploding it apart . . . some of the ants were thrown into the air and overboard into the black sea . . . others scurried over the sides . . . the ship was aflame now, engulfed in its own certain death . . . over the side poured streams of the ant-men, crawling down the sides of the ship by the thousand, clinging to its lurching sides like insects. Back and forth the ship rocked violently, as if it were trying to shake them loose . . . more explosions . . . fire, fire everywhere. Into the water the ants poured . . . swimming now like tiny fish, but not fish who could live in water . . . fish-men who
needed air and land . . . but without hope, for there was no land in sight, no land anywhere . . . only water . . . water. Gradually they began to sink, overcome by the turbulent black waters . . . struggling, gasping frantically for breath . . . sinking out of sight into the black—

Suddenly Jocelyn's own screams awakened her. Her head jerked off the pillow. Her brain was bewildered and flooded with confusion. She glanced about, panting, perspiring, her eyes unable to focus.

“Mother . . . Mother, wake up!” came Catharine's voice. But the sound was distant, along with the gentle shaking that went with it.

“But they're . . . the water is all around . . . sinking . . .”

“Mother . . . Mother, it's me,” came the voice again.

For a second or two Jocelyn probed the face. Her eyes were huge, searching for some correspondence between what lingered in her brain and this form in front of her. Gradually the dream faded. By degrees she realized she was sitting in her own bed with her daughter's strong arms around her.

“Oh . . . oh, Catharine . . . it's you. . . .”

“You've had a nightmare, Mother,” Catharine was saying in a soothing voice. “It's gone now . . . I'm here . . . everything's fine. . . .”

“Oh . . . oh, Catharine . . .”

Then the dream returned and Jocelyn began to cry. Catharine pulled her tight.

“I'm afraid, Catharine . . . afraid something terrible has happened.”

“It was only a nightmare, Mother. I'm sure everything is fine. We'll pray for them.—
Dear Lord,”
Catharine prayed,
“we ask for
your special protection on George and Daddy right now. Keep
them in your care, and in your heart. I pray
that you would take away Mother's fear. Thank you,
dear Father, that in all that happens we know you are good and care for all your children.”

As she fell silent, Jocelyn continued to cling to her, almost as if she were the child and Catharine were the mother.

“I'm still afraid, Catharine,” she whimpered tearfully. “I can't help it. It's like an awful premonition. I . . . I don't know . . . I don't think I could live without Charles. Catharine . . . I'm afraid.”

 65 
Revised Plans

The telegram delivered shortly after daybreak at Nr. 42 Ebendorfer Strasse in Vienna was brief. It aroused a wrathful response as Hartwell Barclay read it. He then shoved it across the breakfast table to Amanda's purported mother-in-law. She read it somewhat more calmly than her white-haired and red-faced companion.

ZURICH. SHE IS GONE. WAS CLOSE IN SWITZERLAND BUT ABSOLUTE DEAD END. SUSPECT FRANCE, THEN ENGLAND. WILL AWAIT REPLY HERE. R. HALIFAX.

The reply sent back by the waiting delivery to the Zurich hotel was equally terse.

MEET ME PARIS. L'ATELIER DES PRéS. WILL USE NETWORK TO GO TO ENGLAND. SHE MUST BE STOPPED. BARCLAY.

Ramsay set down the single sheet of paper. He could almost feel Barclay's annoyance in the very abruptness of the communication. But for once their mutual animosity had played right into his own hands.

Paris
—the very sound of the word was music to his ears!

His last conversation with Adriane a week ago was from Paris, where she still had another three weeks to play at the theater!

Wherever had that lunatic Scarlino disappeared to?

Not that Ramsay cared.

He hoped he never saw him again. He was a bad one. Barclay and his imbecilic contacts—the fellow had proved less than useless at finding Amanda and now had suddenly disappeared without a trace.

Well, good riddance. He wasn't about to hang around waiting for him to show up again.

Paris . . . he would leave immediately!

 66 
Sharing a Corner of God's Heart

Unaware of Jocelyn's fears concerning him, Charles paused briefly, sat back, and glanced at her face in his photograph again. He smiled to himself, then whispered, “God bless her . . . take care of her during this time, Lord.”

A moment or two more he sat, then began again to write.

I do not mean to make you sad, my dear Jocie, he continued, but I know you will want to know my heart during these times when we are apart. So I will share with you an experience I had two mornings ago. It was sad, I have to say, and I found myself nearly overwhelmed with grief. Yet I cannot help but think it was a significant revelation the Lord gave me through it.

We had been engaged the day before with a German U-boat. It was our closest call yet. We were actually hit by one of the torpedoes, but without sustaining damage. Shortly afterward we sunk the U-boat. It was an event which had a marked effect on many of these boys who are turning into men perhaps more rapidly than is desirable under normal conditions. War does that. These are not desirable conditions, and we are at war.

For a brief time there was great elation at the sinking of the U-boat. But then in some of the younger midshipmen the realization set in that, in saving our own vessel, we had actually sent a submarine full of German youths to their own deaths. For the first time since sailing from Scapa Flow, the war suddenly became very personal.

I noticed a marked change in George the next time I saw him. I think he felt it acutely, as he was in charge of the radio in the torpedo command room itself where they actually launched the weapon. I could see it weighing heavily on him. Had we been at home, I think he may have fallen into my arms and wept manly tears of youthful confusion and uncertainty and grief. But he must be a man too. And
though I sensed a slight quiver in his lip as we looked one another in the eyes, I knew they were feelings he had to keep inside for the present.

I immediately went to my cabin, however, and wept in his stead. That brief quiver of his nearly grown-up lip, as I remembered holding him in my arms when he was no more than two, nearly broke my heart. . . .

As he wrote the words Charles could not prevent renewed tears. He had no choice but to set the letter aside and briefly turn away. He picked up his pen again the moment his eyes would allow him to see and resumed.

A child never knows a hundredth of the things a parent feels on his behalf, or the depths of love that swell the heart, sometimes over the tiniest things. How quickly they grow, how fond do those childhood reminders become in the parental storehouse of treasured memories.

Does a child ever know? Perhaps not. Did my own father and mother feel the same things I now feel for our three dear ones? It is hard to imagine. Yet perhaps that is part of the eternal parental sacrifice—to love a hundredfold more than that love will ever be known.

I wax philosophic! Forgive me, my dear Jocie. When a man is alone like this, feelings rise that can only be relieved by attempting to put them to paper.

Perhaps it was in part the tears I shed for George on the afternoon of the U-boat sinking, and the stab in my heart every time the image of that quiver of his mouth came back to me, followed by his having to force the anguished feelings inside rather than release them, that kept me near tears all the rest of the day. The feeling persisted that night. I slept poorly and awoke as dawn was just about to break.

An overpowering sense of what I can only call sadness nearly engulfed me. I don't remember ever being so sad in my entire life. Everywhere I ached, with almost the physical sensation of pain, for sheer dejection and utter despondency. My heart was so heavy that I literally did not think I could pull myself out of bed.

But I did. For activity of any kind was the only possible relief. I thought that if I could just feel the wind and salt spray on my face, and take a few deep breaths of it, perhaps I could allay this melancholy that had so filled me and made me feel as if I were just going to give up and expire from it. Is it possible literally to die from sheer sadness? I do not know. But after this experience I wondered if there may actually be such a thing as a “broken” heart capable of crushing the very life out of a human soul. I do not say that I was close to that point. Yet I can say that never have I felt such abject despondency.

I dressed and went up on deck, where a thin light was just beginning to make the Mediterranean visible. Even before I was standing at the bow I knew what had caused the sadness, though it had only just come to my conscious mind.

It was this—I had the overpowering sense that I would never see Amanda again. And it was just too much to bear. The agony of the thought was like a thousand knives piercing my heart. How much I loved her, and love her still. The thought of never again holding her in my arms and feeling her arms around me, and hearing her tell me that she loves me too . . . the idea of it was more than I could bear.

I burst out crying like a baby, right there on the bow of the Dauntless as we ploughed through the sea and as my burning face rushed through the cold, damp, dark morning air. I was thankful for the early hour. I felt such hope for Amanda only a short time ago. I had the sense that her homecoming had begun. Now this. I did not understand why.

How long I wept, I have no idea. I don't even exactly know what I thought about. But when I came to myself and realized that my eyes were drying, it was fully daylight and I could hear voices about me in indication that the ship was coming to life.

Then came the revelation which prompted this letter. I found myself thinking about the cross, about the agony of what it must have been that our Lord suffered. The thought of the pain he felt as he hung there brought tears to my eyes again. For I realized how minuscule was the pain I had just been feeling moments earlier in comparison with the agony of his suffering. For a moment I felt in a small way privileged to have felt the anguish I had on that morning, for it caused me to reflect on that far greater anguish he felt on our behalf.

Then further came the realization that the Father himself suffered, too, on that crucifixion day—suffered in a way perhaps even greater than the physical torment of the Son. For the Father had to suffer the loss of a Son whom he loved. And perhaps my losing of a daughter—though I pray it is but temporary—is a price I should be willing to pay, maybe even be glad to pay, that I should rejoice to suffer, that third portion of my fatherly dreams and ambitions gone—in order that I might be able to identify with one tiny corner of God the Father's heart.

He lost a son. And perhaps blessed are those who are called in this life to experience such a loss, that they might yield the anguish and sadness of that parental loss up into his Father's heart even as Jesus, the perfect and sacrificing Son, yielded up his own anguish into his Father's heart, that the world might be saved.

Not only that, the Father lost his only Son. We have not suffered near so great an agony. We still have our dear George and Catharine—God bless them!—and pray daily that our dear Amanda will be
restored to us as well—and God bless her! So how tiny, really, is our suffering compared with his. Were we to suffer even a millionth the pain man's sin causes the Father-heart of God, we would surely die! Yet by such glimpses as our own suffering affords us of that greater divine suffering of eternal Love do we perhaps apprehend God's heart a little more directly.

Periodically I recall that sermon I preached in Timothy's church so many years ago about intimacy with God and the universal need to become children and return to our Father. I suppose in a way Amanda is only living out a microcosm of that universal human prodigality of which we are all a part. In my own way I am just as in need as she of learning to be my Father's child. It is the one thing we are put on this earth to learn—childness—yet the one thing we most resist submitting to. It is curious, is it not, that God made our greatest need that which we strive most fiercely against?

After all these thoughts had gone through my mind, I then tried to find comfort in the fact that in the Father's heart is nothing ever lost—not one of a mother's tears, not a second of a prodigal-father's grief as he waits gazing down the empty and silent road. I resolved, whenever I am in any kind of pain or mental anxiety, to remember the suffering Jesus endured for us, and to thank God for the privilege he allows us to suffer, that we might in this small way partake in the reality, and the ultimate victory, of the cross.

And I tried to give my own heartsick condition over to him, to place in his Father's heart—remembering that I am his son too, and a prodigal one at that as I suppose we all will remain to some degree while in this life—to hold in his heart until that day—

A knock sounded on Charles' cabin door. He glanced up. How long had he been sitting at his desk? It was light out.

He rose to answer it. There stood Captain Wilberforce.

“A private communication for you, Commander Rutherford,” he said. “It was relayed by wireless and received only minutes ago. It is from the First Lord of the Admiralty.”

He handed Charles the envelope, then turned to go.

“Just a moment, Captain,” said Charles. “There may be something here we need to discuss.”

Charles opened it.

To Charles Rutherford.

For your eyes only.

Dauntless not to participate in Dardanelles offensive. Captain will be ordered to put in at Salonika. You will be met and taken
ashore. Major defection to Allied cause has occurred to be placed in your care. When secure, set sail for Scapa Flow immediately. Imperative top secret. Information in his possession could end war within months. None aboard must know mission. Keep identity and presence absolutely unknown. Security breach feared. Must remain isolated from all crew. You must be only contact until I see you. Give my apology to Wilberforce. All for his safety and that of crew. He will be fully briefed at Scapa. Be assured all being done by my direct order. You will be given further orders onshore.

W. Churchill

Charles folded the paper and glanced up at the captain.

“Mr. Churchill asks me to apologize personally to you,” Charles began, “for keeping you in the dark. He says it is a matter of your safety and the crew's, and that he will brief you fully at the first opportunity.”

“What's it all about, Commander?” asked Wilberforce.

“Actually,” smiled Charles, “I don't know much more than you. The message is rather cryptic. Apparently you will shortly be receiving orders to put in at Salonika—”

“Yes, they came at the same time as this communication to you.”

“I see—well, apparently once we dock, I am to meet a liaison onshore from Mr. Churchill who will give me further instructions. I believe at the same time you will be given new orders as well.”

Captain Wilberforce nodded.

“Well, it does appear to be something of a mystery,” he said. “I suppose we shall know more when we reach Salonika day after tomorrow. And putting ashore,” the captain added, “will allow us the chance to collect all the men's mail and get it on a transport back home.”

“Right,” rejoined Charles. “I shall have a whole sheaf of letters for the packet myself! I am just finishing up another right now.”