Chapter Eleven
Washington, DC
JULIA
Lucy cheered with great enthusiasm when, after at least a dozen attempts, Victoria finally managed to stand athwart the rowboat, one foot on each gunwale. (Lucy knew no self-respecting pirate would windmill his arms as Victoria did, but one did not wish to be discouraging.)
FROM LIBERTY ISLAND, BY MISS CRANE
Julia headed home, her spirits low. As she left the school building, she had spotted one of her students, Dieter Hoffman, hiding behind a low wall, tears running down his face. She urged him back inside, led him to the empty classroom, and gently encouraged him to tell her what was wrong.
Poor Dieter had been coming in for much abuse from his fellow students.
His parents emigrated from Germany decades ago, and there was no reason to believe they were anything but loyal Americans, but life was difficult for little boys with German names these days.
Julia would speak with the boys, but the term was almost over, and she doubted she could do much good. She was so tired of this awful war.
When she got inside her building, however, a letter was awaiting her on the hall table that pushed all other concerns aside.
Her name was scrawled on the envelope, which had been delivered by hand, but she thought she recognized the handwriting.
When she turned over the envelope and saw Robert Seaborne’s seal, her heart froze.
She opened the envelope with shaking hands, terrified she was about to read the worst about Michael.
It was not the worst, but it was bad enough, and the worst could still come.
Dear Julia,
We have just gotten word that Michael was shot in France. We have little information at present, but I am going to the office to see what I might discover. If you have time, I feel sure Margaret would welcome your company.
Sincerely,
Robert Seaborne
The maid led Julia to the sitting room, where Margaret was pacing and twisting a handkerchief in her hands. She spun around, saw Julia, and immediately fell into her arms.
“Oh, Julia, dear…”
“Is he … Did you…?”
“Robert is at the paper, trying to find out what he can. We know nothing about the injury, and only a little about the circumstances.”
These she explained as best she could. The treaty with the new Bolshevik government in Russia enabled the Germans to move fifty units to the Western Front, and they had been pushing steadily toward Paris.
Michael was with the marines, who were making a valiant stand in Belleau Wood, a few miles from Chateau-Thierry.
He had attached himself to an intelligence officer and headed into the woods, despite a battalion commander’s warning that things were “awfully hot up there.” When they entered one of the oat fields that broke up the forest, they were fired on by a nest of German soldiers. Michael was hit. They knew no more.
Julia sat with Margaret throughout that long afternoon and evening, during which every hour felt like a day. Just after midnight, they finally heard the door and raced to the front room. Mr. Seaborne, ordinarily neat as a pin, looked rumpled and tired, as if he had aged a decade in an evening.
Julia took hold of Margaret’s arm. If her own legs felt weak, she was certain Margaret could not stand unassisted. Mr. Seaborne approached Margaret, his arms out. “He’s alive. And they think he will be all right.”
Now Margaret fell into his arms. “Oh, thank God. Thank you, God.”
“There is more,” Mr. Seaborne said, a note of warning in his voice.
Margaret pulled back. “What is it? You must tell me at once. I can bear anything if he will live.”
Mr. Seaborne held his wife by the shoulder with one hand, and with the other brushed a lock of hair from her face. He looked at her so tenderly, Julia felt a catch at the back of her throat.
“It seems he lost an eye.”
“Oh, an eye!” Margaret began to laugh and cry at the same time. “Who cares for an eye? I thought you were going to tell me he had lost his legs!”
Over the next few days, Mr. Seaborne was able to fill in a few more details, and they got more information in a letter from the intelligence officer who had been with Michael.
I am at the bedside of your son, who asked that I write to relieve what he imagines to be your great anxiety. He is recovering quite well, despite now being “cyclopic.” (As I assume is obvious, I use this word at his insistence.)
The censors prohibit my sharing details, but having relented on the matter of “cyclopic,” I will give myself license to relay what I am sure Michael will not: He proved himself as brave as any marine. I am certain his gallantry will earn him the Croix de Guerre. At some point you will know all.
He will be in the hospital for some time, after which he will likely be sent home. He says to prepare yourselves for his distinctly piratical appearance. He also requested that I pass along his apologies to Miss Demarest for “accidentally appropriating her childhood ambition.”
Michael was in the hospital for more than a month, after which, to Margaret’s dismay, he promptly returned to the front.
As the weeks wore on, however, the American interest in the marines’ bravery at Belleau Wood grew so keen, both the army and the paper agreed that Michael would be of the most use returning to America on “convalescent leave” and commencing a lecture tour.
In September, he sailed to New York on a military transport ship. Margaret, who had been at the pier when he arrived, later told Julia he was surprised by the honor guard that met him, and even more so when a reporter informed him that he had indeed been awarded the Croix de Guerre for his bravery.
“He seemed embarrassed by it all,” Margaret said. “But he looked marvelous, and rather handsome with the patch over his eye.”
Margaret also learned a bit more about what had transpired (though not, of course, from Michael).
Michael entered the field behind the commander, who was hit as soon as the nest of soldiers began to fire on them.
Armed only with his pencil and notepad, Michael had crawled forward to help him.
A bullet ricocheted off a rock and hit him in the eye.
Julia thought it would be ages before she saw Michael, since he was leaving directly from New York to begin his lecture tour.
But in October, the Spanish influenza epidemic hit.
When Washington schools announced they would close for two weeks, Julia thought she would go out of her mind with boredom.
Two days later, however, her telephone rang, and to her delight, she heard Michael’s voice on the other end.
“Michael! Is it really you?”
“It is, and I’m back. My tour was cut short because of the epidemic.”
“I’m sorry. You must be disappointed.”
He barked out a laugh. “Not even a little. It’s horrible of me, because I know people are suffering from this terrible disease, but I could not be happier.
I enjoyed talking about the marines, but audience members invariably wanted me to talk about myself.
Not my cup of tea. And speaking of tea, I’ve called to invite you to one… ”
The First Lord of the British Admiralty had just arrived in Washington, and Vice Admiral Sir William Lowther Grant and his wife, Lady Grant, were hosting a reception for him the following afternoon.
“It’s on their houseboat. I’m sure it will be dreadful, and we won’t be able to hear each other talk, but I can bear it if you’ll come with me.”
“Of course!” Julia laughed at his referring to the HMS Warrior as a “houseboat.” The Royal Navy had requisitioned the yacht, formerly owned by Frederick Vanderbilt, and sailed for Washington in March.
It had been docked near the Washington Barracks ever since.
That Lord and Lady Grant had made it their home struck Julia as a rather good answer to the housing shortage. She had been dying to get a peek at it.
The next afternoon, when Julia heard the knock and threw open her door, she felt as if her heart might burst with pride.
“Oh, Michael. Look at you!” As he was still ostensibly on convalescent leave from the correspondents’ corps, in addition to his white eye patch, Michael wore his army-issued dress uniform, khaki breeches, and a belted jacket. “You’re so dashing!”
“You are a feast for sore eyes yourself, no pun intended.” He laughed. Julia had put on a blue brocade gown and a smart hat. Suitable for a diplomatic event, she thought, but cheerful.
“Is it hard adjusting to having only one eye?” Julia asked, as they headed outside.
“If I wink, I’m blind,” Michael said, feigning sorrow.
Julia lifted a hand in front of her own eyes. “Just go like this,” she said, smartly tapping her index finger to her thumb.
“An excellent plan,” he said, and gave it a try.
The leaves in Washington turned later than in New England, but there was an autumn briskness in the air, and when they reached the “houseboat,” Julia reveled in the breeze from the river.
She had grown used to Washington, even the climate, but the city was not oriented toward the Potomac as Boston was to the Charles, and she missed the centrality of the water.
It was a pleasant novelty to be at the confluence of the Potomac and Anacostia Rivers.
And on the deck of the grand old steam yacht, too, while a band played from the dock.
The party was a colorful affair, with French, British, Italian, and even Brazilian diplomats, many in uniform. Spirits were high, as it seemed the tide of the war had truly and finally turned, and they had begun to believe that an Allied victory was imminent.