Free Sailors on the Inward Sea by Lawrence Thornton Page A

hinting at what was to come. When he had described Whelan’s murder an hour or so later, I thought that I understood why he had appeared so mournful. He had obviously been taken by the young chap, too. But the business with the telegraph—I can still hear the chiming, Ford, clear as a bell—the backing away of the minesweeper, those piteous cries, most of all Fox-Bourne’s blinking disabused me of a naive and sentimental notion. Whelan’s death was merely the beginning, the first consequence of that malicious act by the German captain, which had spread like the spilled oil from the U-boat, coating not only the men floundering in the water but also Fox-Bourne and Conrad. Even I, a mere listener, was not immune. I had the feeling that if I were to look down at my boots I would see traces of that green and violet oil.
    Conrad’s dilemma was something I could understand, a situation not every sailor has actually faced but all have pondered: wondering what would we do if we were faced with a captain’s decision that went against the grain of common decency. How far had Conrad let himself go? That a guest does not lightly question the actions of a captain may sound anachronistic to those who haven’t made a career of the sea. For those of us who have, it is a dictum you learn from the start, encrusted with tradition, part of the code you agree to honor no matter what that carries over to situations in which you are not legally bound. It shouldn’t surprise you to learn that as soon as he caught his breath I asked how things had played out between them.
    â€œUnexpectedly,” Conrad answered. “There was another current running beneath the surface I wasn’t aware of.”
    At the time, on the Brigadier, he was fairly seething. Unable to keep his thoughts to himself, he blurted out to Fox-Bourne, “This is unconscionable!”
    â€œWe’re at war!” Fox-Bourne thundered.
    â€œThis isn’t war,” Conrad said. “It’s slaughter. My God, man, they’re helpless.”
    â€œWhat about yesterday?” asked the captain. “What about today if we hadn’t rammed them? What about tomorrow?”
    â€œThey’re out of it,” Conrad said. “Out of the war, damned near out of life even before you backed away.”
    â€œWhich makes them innocent in your eyes?”
    â€œIt makes them not count as a threat.”
    â€œYesterday doesn’t count, is that it? And all the other days they’ve been at sea, they don’t count either? What about the ships they sank, the men who died? You saw the kill signs on the tower. They’ve been in it up to their necks—naval vessels, merchantmen, ocean liners. Aside from that, they were laying mines.”
    â€œThat doesn’t change anything,” Conrad told him. “We had a moral duty to pick them up as soon as possible.”
    â€œA moral duty?”
    â€œYou know it.”
    â€œThey don’t.”
    â€œWhat they do or don’t do makes no difference.”
    Fox-Bourne gave him an incredulous look.
    â€œIt makes all the difference in the world,” he said. His face had gone slack and he stared at Conrad out of the blankness. “All the difference,” he repeated. “Do you have children?”
    Before Conrad could answer, Fox-Bourne let go a nerve-jangling blast of the foghorn.
    â€œA son.”
    â€œSo did I. His name was Edward. He was a rating on a frigate that was sunk three months ago next Wednesday. A torpedo. It could have come from the Valkerie.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Conrad said.
    â€œYes, I suppose you are. But that’s not all of it, not nearly all of it. Edward and Whelan had a good deal in common. The fact is, whenever I looked at Whelan I thought of my boy.”
    Fox-Bourne challenged Conrad with a bright-eyed stare, silently asking what he would have done. What only minutes earlier hadseemed utterly senseless now