Andrew Williams - The Poison Tide

‘I don’t know; “perhaps” to both.’

She turned towards him, small gloved hand on the rail, the Jersey shore at her back. ‘Then you’re sure to think me a fool. You see, I have faith in our journey. I’m an optimist. I believe in this…’ she lifted her arms like a vestal beseeching a goddess. ‘Think what you like. Naïve American if you like. I believe in progress.’

‘Why?’ He closed his eyes for a second and shrugged. ‘It isn’t inevitable. Here, read today’s newspaper.’ He tried to present it to her but she ignored the offer.

‘Horrible. They’re as bad as each other,’ she insisted, im-patiently sweeping a loose lock of hair from her face. ‘But when this madness is over, well, we’ll build something better.’

‘For the world or just for Ireland?’

‘Here and in Ireland; everywhere in time — for women too. Universal suffrage, liberty, equality; that’s our trajectory, our duty, isn’t it?’

She was trembling with passionate intensity, her green eyes indecently large. He wanted to kiss her. She didn’t give a fig what the other visitors thought of her. Perhaps they were like him and couldn’t see more from the balcony than the stains on Liberty’s copper skin.

‘You’ve risked your life for freedom.’

He shook his head a little, as if to say ‘what of it’.

‘Stop it,’ she commanded, letting go of the rail. ‘Cynicism is poison. You’re trying to provoke me.’

He smiled. ‘I wouldn’t dare. But you’re confusing me with Roger.’

But wasn’t that who he should try to be — if that was who she wanted him to be?

‘Is everything all right?’ It was the plump keeper of the flame in his green uniform. Perfectly all right, thank you. Goodbye, they said.

‘It isn’t attractive, is it? I mean, an old cynic.’ He plunged his hands into his pockets, drawing his coat tightly round himself like a rueful schoolboy. ‘Is it the world or me? Don’t you protect yourself from disappointment by expecting the worst?’

She smiled and stretched out her hand, checking the impulse before she touched his arm. ‘As long as there are, well, right-thinking people in the world, things will change — you’ll see. We have to take risks, don’t we?’ She paused, biting her lip for a second; ‘haven’t you ever been in love?’

He laughed. ‘What a question.’

‘Well, haven’t you? That’s a risk, giving so much.’

‘Have you?’

She shook her head. ‘Not yet, but you’re…’

‘Older?’

She blushed. ‘I’m sorry.’

‘Why?’ He frowned intently. ‘You know, I don’t know if I’ve been in love.’

‘You don’t know?’ She sounded a little shocked.

‘I’ve forgotten,’ he said with a fresh laugh. ‘Yes. Forgotten. Come on…’

They wandered round the balcony once more and this time she drew his attention to a finger of land on the Jersey shore.

‘That’s the Black Tom yard. Do you see? Yes, there. All of it for the British.’

Piers protruded at right angles from a main dock like flanges on a mace. Wolff counted eight, nine, ten ships alongside, cranes swinging boxes of shells aboard in rope slings. Look, she said, a freight train crawling on to the wharf with ammunition from the factories upstate, and millions more pounds of explosives in the yard’s sheds awaiting shipment. ‘Guns, bullets, oh, I don’t know, horses, food…’ Arms open wide as if she were ready to embrace him; ‘…whatever they need to fight their war. The docks along the river, in Boston, Baltimore, Newport News, Norfolk…’ she shook her head angrily; ‘that’s one way to change the world for the better.’

‘Stopping it?’

‘Yes. Look, can we go?’ She was struggling to hold down her hat. ‘I do believe it’s getting worse.’

Wolff didn’t move. He was still gazing across the narrow stretch of water.

‘We might have time for the next ferry,’ she prompted.

‘Do you think they’ll try to stop this?’ He nodded in the direction of the yard.

‘Stop it? Who? No. This is the land of the free, remember, free capital, free enterprise. A lot of people are becoming very rich. Our friends in…’

‘I don’t mean government…’ He glanced round to be sure no one was in earshot. ‘The Clan . Won’t Clan na Gael try?’

‘No,’ she bridled at the suggestion, ‘no’ — and shook her head angrily. ‘Don’t ask me about the Clan. Not here or anywhere — oh, now look what you’ve made me…’ she was tugging on the rim of her hat so hard it looked like a circus bowler, auburn curls breaking free and dancing in front of her face.

‘Come on, let’s find some shelter.’ He tried to take her arm, but she shook it free, ‘No…’, and stamped her foot in frustration. Hat pulled down over her eyes, head bent, she began to shake, and it was a moment before he realised she wasn’t crying but laughing heartily.

‘Very… unladylike,’ she managed to gasp.

He laughed too. ‘Nonsense, really.’ Yes, it was nonsense. He thought she was very fine. ‘And what kind of gentleman takes a lady on the water in a gale?’

‘You’re right,’ she said, ‘just what kind of gentleman?’

Only when she was in the cabin of the ferry, pinning up her hair, did she mention the Clan to him again. If there was something he wanted to know, she said as quietly as she could over the throbbing of the engine, he must speak to Mr Devoy, because the British have so many spies, Jan, you know how careful everyone must be. Wolff leant forward to gaze out of a port at nothing in particular.

‘I’m the girl who takes the notes, that’s all — you do understand, don’t you?’

He turned and bent his head to look sideways at her. She returned his gaze but with a hesitant smile.

‘I met a Mr Emile Gaché, do you know him?’ he asked, leaning closer. ‘His real name is von Rintelen. He’s a German spy.’

She frowned and looked away. ‘I don’t want to know.’

‘But you do, don’t you?’

She gathered her skirts to rise. ‘Excuse me, Mr de Witt…’

‘A minute, please,’ and he reached across to her arm.

Her jaw dropped in amazement, staring down at his hand holding her discreetly but firmly in her seat.

‘You need to know that I know.’ He took his hand away. ‘Friends must be honest and open with each other,’ he said earnestly. ‘Please don’t be offended but, well, I want us to be friends — it’s important.’

Biting her lip uncertainly, avoiding his gaze, she wasn’t used to being touched, that much was clear, but he sensed that she liked him, was intrigued, excited; she wasn’t going to waltz off in high dudgeon. He watched her struggling for something to say, her body turned stiffly away, loose strands of auburn hair at the nape of her long neck, eyes to the front and rows of polished benches. Before she could make up her mind the ferry drew alongside the pier, passengers crowding into the gangway between the seats.

‘I must be going,’ she said the moment she stepped on to the quay.

‘But you’re my guide.’

‘It has been interesting;’ her eyes were twinkling with amusement.

‘I’m glad.’ He hesitated. ‘Have I spoken out of turn?’

‘Yes, you have. Don’t pretend to be sorry, I won’t believe you.’

He offered to escort her home. She said she wasn’t going home, and no, she didn’t need a taxicab.

‘Will you be my guide again?’ he asked.

She looked at him coyly. ‘I don’t think you need a guide.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Perhaps, if I bring a chaperone.’ Turning to walk away, she checked and glanced back as if there was something she’d forgotten to say: ‘I’m sure we will be friends,’ and with a shy wave, ‘ Slán go fóill .’