Light Over Water Read online

  Light Over Water

  A Novel

  By

  Noelle F. Carle

  Light Over Water

  ©2012 Noelle Carle

  Cover Photos: Lighthouse, ©Rainer Plendl/Shutterstock.com; Poppies, ©bonsai/Shutterstock.com; Ornament, ©Karlionau/Shutterstock.com Book

  Book Design: Sandy Flewelling, True Blue Design

  Peace, Perfect Peace: Composed by Edward H. Bickersteth, Jr., 1875

  Abide with Me: Composed by Henry F. Lyte, 1847

  The chapter titles contain words or phrases from primary documents from World War One: in particular, President Woodrow Wilson’s address to Congress, 2 April 1917: from http://firstworldwar.com: Source Records of the Great War, Vol. V, ed. Charles F. Horne, National Alumni 1923

  This book is dedicated to the loving memory of Cortland Finch – a gentle man who went over the water and whose life was changed because of it; and to Sarah Finch, who waited for him.

  To Russell who never gave up even when I wanted to. I am for you…

  The voice of the Lord is over the waters;

  The God of glory thunders;

  The Lord is over many waters. Psalm 29:3

  Prologue

  September 1918

  Alison Granger shut the heavy office door behind her and leaned against it, trembling with weariness. She inhaled two great breaths and blew them out forcefully, trying to clear her mind and renew her energy, but even in here the air was stale and smelled of sickness. She held her hands out in front of her, staring at the red, chapped skin; surprised at how they shook. Sinking into her father’s large desk chair of smooth, worn oak and hearing the whisper of a groan it made when she settled was a familiar and comforting act in a room that was always alive with her father’s presence, even when he wasn’t there.

  The rest of her home was a strange and difficult place to be now. The once peaceful, well-ordered house had declined into chaotic confusion and at times a place of death, but to the best of purposes. To better accommodate his sudden influx of patients, Dr. Daniel Granger, Alison’s father, started bringing them to his home, if they could be moved. It began with the schoolteacher - Mrs. Reid, and her three charges, followed by two other children, whose parents both died, and then the storekeeper, Vernon Cooper, until every bed was filled, and the floors in the parlor and dining room were covered with makeshift pallets.

  Those moments not spent caring for the ill were taken up with cleaning everything from the dirty linens to her own hands. Her father insisted on this cleanliness, especially after helping the sick in their care. Their neighbor, Ida Gilman, stout of body and heart, spent hours at their home, cooking nourishing soups for her father and brothers and those recovering. Together, in an unlikely partnership, they soothed those struggling for breath and cried over the dead.

  Alison hadn’t slept a whole night for weeks, and neither had her father, who moved mechanically, his usual vibrant energy leached away by the demands of so many taken ill. Her eldest brother Remick, however, was curiously invigorated and purposeful, helping them wherever he could, unmindful, finally, of the loss of his arm. He read for hours to the two orphans, who had seemed on the verge of dying. They then strangely recovered and were well enough to be a nuisance now. He took the wagon and roamed the village, checking at the houses, along the wharves, or in the outlying fields for those who sometimes just collapsed where they stood, unable to move themselves. He was untouched by the disease, while their youngest brother succumbed in two days.

  Alison was driven on by pity and despair and fear; fear of what it would do to her if the enormity of this epidemic embraced her. No matter what the newspapers or pamphlets said about it, they were in the midst of the most sweeping epidemic since the Middle Ages, her father said. They’re trying to keep the public from panic, he told her. Or they don’t want the enemy to know how bad it is. But it was very, very bad. Her mind refused to ponder the death toll in the whole village of Little Cove, but she could not stop the litany of names - those closest to her who were dead. Her precious little brother Davey; three of Sam’s siblings, including the baby Caroline – but not, thank God, Esther, and not, please God, Sam. She always said it in her mind like that, in a small but desperate prayer. And there were only three in the village that knew that her own baby, who had no name, was lost.

  She put her throbbing head down on her arms, as they lay folded on the desk in front of her. She felt their frailty and wondered why she hadn’t died too. She tried without success to keep out of her mind the picture of Davey’s skinny little chest, heaving for air, of the blood rimming his nose and pooling in his ear, of his eyes wide with terror, and finally, of his stillness.

  She must have slept. The room was dim and her neck hurt when she lifted her head. The door to the office was open, and Remick stood there, lamp in hand. He was so unmoving and hesitant that Alison immediately stood up, causing the old chair to slide back on its wheels into the bookcase. “What’s the matter? Is it Father?”

  Remick’s thin tanned face was in the shadows, but Alison could see his deep-set eyes gleaming with unshed tears. He licked his lips and said slowly in a voice that was hoarse, “Can you come with me? We have…” He didn’t finish his sentence but trailed off as he seemed to swallow hard.

  Assuming it was another patient, Alison’s shoulders fell and she sighed, and then moved to walk past him. “Who is it now?”

  She walked quickly through the back hallway and opened the door to the parlor, as Remick remained silent behind her. Irritated at his odd behavior, Alison strode into the room. It was as before; four patients on the pallets on the floor, the children together in one chair dozing, and the air heavy with the rank smell of sickness. Their father wasn’t here.

  “Alison, he’s upstairs. It’s Owen,” Remick said, gesturing with the lamp back out into the hall. “He’s bad,” he said in a strained voice. She could see Remick’s face clearly now and it was colorless, looking like gray parchment in contrast to his gleaming eyes and messy black curls. Those eyes held barely controlled fear behind them.

  “No!” An anguished grimace twisted her face as she lifted her skirts and took the stairs two at a time. At the top she headed down the hall to her brother’s bedroom. She pushed the door open to find their father slumped on the bed beside their fifteen-year-old brother. They could hear strangled breathing, but both realized it was their father, sounding like he was choking.

  “Papa?” Alison rushed over to the bed. Owen’s skin was tinged blue, his eyes were closed and he was still. Their father was holding him, crying into his chest, which was unmoving.

  The doctor peered up at his daughter and son through streaming tears. His eyes, already shadowed and puffy, were red with exhaustion. His face was contorted and his skin looked waxy and pale. “He’s gone. Owen is gone,” he sobbed.

  Remick set the lamp down onto the bed stand. He put his arm around Alison’s shoulder. She leaned against him and wondered if a person could die of heartache. The sobs started in his chest like a low throbbing next to her.

  Their father lifted his head and laid it against the bare wall behind him. “I can’t do this anymore,” he gasped. He reached over and caressed the still smooth cheek of his middle son. “He was fine this morning, and now…how can this be?”

  Chapter One

  April 6, 1917

  Lives of Peaceful and Innocent People

  Change came to the village of Little Cove, as it often did, on the tide. Emerson Beal’s mail boat arrived with its load of goods as the tide surged in. He always laid on his horn upon arrival and helped Vernon Cooper unload the mail, the various foodstuffs he’d ordered for the week and usually gave him the rundown of the week’s news, having taken the first paper off the top and per
used it as he made his rounds. Today, however, he unloaded quickly without saying a word. He only gestured silently as he threw the bundle of papers, sniffed eloquently and shook his head as he backed away from the wharf. The other deliveries were forgotten as the black headlines blared out their message to Vernon Cooper, owner and proprietor of Cooper’s Market. He spat into the water and gave a low grunt as he lifted the newspapers and bounded back inside his store as if his back was not tender nor his arms losing their strength.

  Young William Eliot, who delivered the papers before school, was ready to make his bundles and load them in his wagon, usually a solitary duty; but on this day Mr. Cooper helped him and hurried him on his way. He took two from the pile he sold at his store and shuffled in a hunching arthritic gait towards Mary Reid, their senior school teacher, as she crossed the road from her home to the school. Without a word he turned the paper so she could see the headline. He stared at her, his wooly gray eyebrows lifted high and his watery blue eyes alert with importance. “Big day, teacher,” he intoned. Then he handed it to her and headed for the church where he knew Pastor Whiting would be.

  Mary Reid held the newspaper to her chest and closed her eyes. Big day indeed! She drew in an uneven breath, and then slowly opened her eyes. She had been waiting impatiently for this day for nearly two years. She held the paper out in front of her and read the headline again, then savored each word of the main story. She almost laughed aloud, exuberant as she was, until the sound of the children’s voices arriving for school sobered her. She searched for and saw the older boys in a corner by the fence, laughing as they wrestled and kicked a ball around - except for Owen Granger, who naturally had his dark head bent over a pad of paper and was drawing and explaining something to Chester Gilman who sat cross-legged beside him. These boys - her boys, as she often thought of them, may never know such carefree days again. Then tears came to her green eyes and her face lost its high color, remembering Ian.

  She collected herself, pushing Ian Reid safely away, out of mind for now. She went inside to her classroom and set the newspaper on her desk, contemplating again its importance. After a few moments she rang the bell to convene classes for the day. Rena Mayhew, the other teacher at the tiny cove school, gathered together the young ones, assembling them in an orderly line to march into their separate room. Before they began, Mary drew Rena aside and told her of the news. Knowing Rena would be troubled by it, she spoke quietly with her. “I think it might be best if you speak nothing of this to your children. Let their own parents tell them, when and if they chose to.” She met Rena’s frank brown eyes. “Your young man has been waiting for this, hasn’t he?”

  Rena nodded, pinching her bottom lip fiercely to keep it from trembling.

  “Then make him proud. Don’t try to keep him out of it,” Mary insisted.

  Rena, an accomplished nineteen year old with her teacher’s certificate and a lifetime resident of Little Cove, drew her hand away from her mouth, sniffed lightly and blinked. “Will he have a choice?” she questioned, looking both curious and defiant at once. She turned back to her charges and smiled mechanically. “Come along, ladies and gentlemen, to our classroom.”

  Mary waited while the older children settled into their seats before she held up the paper. The headline was a gaudy slash of black against the whitewashed walls of the classroom: “AT WAR! Congress Makes Declaration”. The teacher could not resist the joyful whoops that spilled out of the boys and grinned as they began chattering, full of questions. Hushing them, she pulled down the map behind her and began the geography lesson, using the newspaper to supplement the lesson.

  Alison Granger, Owen’s older sister, as dark and single-minded as he, watched her teacher as she pointed out all the countries involved in the war in France and Europe. Mrs. Reid appeared feverish, with spots of color high on her cheeks, but the rest of her skin was pale, especially around her mouth. Her green eyes were shining and she spoke loudly. Her Irish accent, usually so melodic and appealing, sounded almost indecipherable and harsh. Her sturdy upright figure took on a military stance as she outlined the past weeks’ movements overseas. Then she read for them the summary of the president’s speech before Congress made four days earlier.

  Alison only half-listened as phrases like “plea of retaliation” and “lives of peaceful and innocent people” slid by her ears. Her brother Remick, gone now these ten months, was already over there. He left abruptly, after another futile argument with their father about his future. They’d expected him back on the weekend, but instead they had received a letter saying, “I shall not be home Sat or Sun because I am in Canada. I came to Montreal Wednesday and got a job driving a big army auto transport. I took the job and enlisted.” He went on to describe the trip there, and ended with his address with Battalion D Company in Quebec. Her younger brothers had studied the paper it was written on – the heading, which said “YMCA, with His Majesty’s Canadian Forces on Active Service”, and the scroll that declared “For God, For King and For Country.” They were especially thrilled with the picture of three men in uniform carrying rifles in one corner. It chilled Alison, and Aunt Pearl, who lived with them and cared for their household, cried surreptitiously. They both liked better the letters he had written since, on plain lined paper. He sounded contented and excited to be training as a signaler. His letters now came from a base in West Sandling, in England. In his latest he wrote of recovering from diphtheria, ironically contracted while in quarantine after his arrival there. Doctor Granger worried regularly and loudly about the state of his health, and they all wrote him often. At this point, as far as they knew, he had not seen battle. He wrote matter-of-factly about trips to London and about pretty nurses. Esther Eliot, Alison’s best friend, was especially hopeful that Remick would return unscathed. But he seemed oblivious to anyone’s feelings but his own, and made it his determination to prove himself a man in his father’s eyes without becoming a doctor.

  Alison felt a tug on one of her long braids, and she shrugged her shoulders twice. It was her and Esther’s signal that they needed to talk. When the long day in the classroom finally ended, the children rushed out of the schoolhouse, released at last to share their excitement over the day’s news. Alison and Esther linked arms, one figure dark, short and energetic, the other lanky, blonde and laconic. They spoke soberly on their trek to the Eliot’s huge old home that stood at the top of the hill on the south side of Little Cove harbor. “What does it mean, Allie?” Esther questioned. “Will all the boys have to go now? What about our fathers?”

  “I don’t know,” Alison replied. “Mrs. Reid said there’s going to be a draft, but all the boys talk as if anyone could go. Owen’s only fifteen and all we hear at home is how he wants to join up like Remick did.”

  Esther’s lips tightened and her brown eyes shimmered with tears. But then she smiled brightly. “I got a letter from him, thanking me for the socks I made for him.”

  Alison nodded, thankful that she had reminded Remick in a recent letter to write to Esther. As they approached the hill, they saw Olivia Eliot, Esther’s mother, standing at the end of their dock, watching her husband, son and hired hand row in from their mooring. She held her youngest child Caroline, who slept on her shoulder. Alison could hear her humming quietly as they approached.

  “You want me to take the baby, Mum?” Esther asked.

  Olivia shook her head and smiled thinly. “Thanks, sweeting.” She had picked up the term of endearment from Mary Reid, her best friend in the village and had always used it to address her children. “I’m fine. Hello, girls, and my William. How was school?”

  Steps sounded quickly behind them, and Will’s friend Darren ran the length of the wharf with a newspaper in his hand. “Hey, Will,” he said, panting in his haste, “have you told your father yet? Does Sam know? He’ll prob’ly get to go, won’t he?”

  William looked solemnly at his mother, whose arms tightened around the sleeping baby, and whose careful smile faded. He shrugged, but jostled with his
friend to get the most advantageous spot on the dock.

  Alison clutched Esther’s arm, her heart thumping in her chest suddenly with a strange, fearful rhythm.

  Sam Eliot was weary, wind-burned and frustrated after his day on the water. He had argued with his father about the war off and on today and Sam rehearsed it over again as they went home after the long work was done.

  “It’s not our business,” Reg Eliot stated emphatically, then went on to wonder again at all the Little Cove boys’ eagerness to get themselves killed. “It’s not a game,” he declared. “You go and you’re in it until they let you out, or you die.”

  “I know,” Sam replied. “I know Uncle Alpheus died in a war we had no business fighting. But what about the U-boats? What about Ian Reid and all the others who died on the Lusitania?”

  Aubrey Newell, the third man, listened to them while he carried on filling pots with bait, attaching the buoys, lowering them in the water and letting out the line. He looked bemused but not particularly moved by either argument.

  Reg nodded regretfully and said, “Ayuh. That was real bad.” He stopped long enough to heave another trap over the side and straightened up, his hand on his back. Then he asked the question he asked each time they had this argument. “How would your mother feel if it was you never coming back?” And Sam had nothing to say to that.

  Now Sam wondered idly how Aubrey could row with such vigor from the mooring to the dock, his energy unabated even after a hard day of work. His face, a broad tanned cheerful face, was alive with interest as they approached the dock where a crowd had gathered to meet them. Esther and Cleo, Sam’s sisters, were there with Alison Granger, his brother Will and Will’s friend Darren. His mother was standing near them, clutching baby Caroline over her swelling belly.