Free Sailors on the Inward Sea by Lawrence Thornton Page B

fell into place. The loss of the son and the shadow son, the replacement son, had doomed the Germans. The whole tragic episode seemed clearly plotted, about as perfect an example of cause and effect as Conrad knew. He used the word inevitable, as I recall. For Fox-Bourne’s sake, he tried to find some justification. There was none, just the overwhelming need for revenge.
    Edward, Fox-Bourne went on, had objected to the war on moral grounds. He was willing to go to prison for his beliefs and would have done so except that he knew he would have brought disgrace on his father and likely hobbled his career. Fox-Bourne then asked Conrad if he had any idea how he had felt when he learned of Edward’s death. Conrad imagined a thunderous crack inside his head like a huge tree makes when its trunk splits.
    â€œI should think it was unspeakable,” he said.
    A good half hour had passed since the lifeboats were lowered. Throughout their conversation Fox-Bourne had sounded the foghorn at one-minute intervals, precise intervals, his eyes darting toward the large, round-faced clock mounted between the windows, the heated words of one or the other of them momentarily obscured by the sorrowful baying. He had just let off another blast and begun a halting description of his state of mind that seemed less for Conrad’s benefit than his own, as if he were trying to recapture the moment the news came to him—he had been at home with his wife—when one of the lifeboats appeared off the bow, or rather a gray, impressionistic version of a boat that slowly came into focus. Scorsby stood at the tiller. Ahead of him, on the plank seat, sat two Germans like glistening black cameos. As the boat came alongside, a sailor on deck threw a rope ladder over the port rail that unfurled like a fern. The second lifeboat came out of the fog, three black apparitions huddled side by side. When it was closer Conrad could see another man stretched out on the bottom, his orange life vestbright against his blackness. The third boat, commanded by Higgins, was empty.
    Once the boats were up against the minesweeper’s hull Scorsby sent his prisoners up the ladder. As each went over the rail and stepped on board he was handed a blanket by one of the Brigadier ’s crew. The man in the bottom of the second boat was lifted by two sailors while a third tied a rope beneath his arms and signaled to the men on deck, who hauled the German up, his body spinning and banging several times against the hull.
    As soon as the lifeboats were brought aboard, Fox-Bourne gave the helmsman a heading and ordered him to proceed at “slow ahead.” The debate with Conrad, the argument was over, neither of them having made a dent in the other’s position. Fox-Bourne wandered over to the chart table and picked up a compass, which he twirled absently, his double loss evident in his wide, searching eyes. The dead Germans must have had a place in his thoughts, but Conrad could not guess what it might be. He did not want to. He felt an urgent need to get away from the man and announced that he was going down for a walk.
    â€œWe should reach Lowestoft in two hours,” said Fox-Bourne. “You’re welcome to use my cabin.”
    Given their feelings about each other it was a bizarre offer, but Conrad accepted. Neither looked at the other as he went out. On deck the men were quiet, the officers having wisely put them to work cleaning and swabbing. On the way out there had been the usual banter, the kind of thing you hear on any ship when things are going well. Now they spoke in whispers and fell silent altogether when he approached. If he had been in their shoes he would have felt the same way. He respected those men, Ford. They had not drifted onto the ship looking for an easy berth. They were not conscripts. They were sailors in the Royal Navy representing a hoary tradition that dictatedthe decent treatment of the vanquished enemy. He was a guest of