William Forstchen - Down to the Sea

Richard hesitated, looking not at Pat but at Andrew. “Go on, son,” Andrew said softly.

Richard shifted, coming almost to attention as he turned back to face Pat. “Your son is alive, sir.”

“My God!” Pat cried. He bolted up from his seat and began to pace furiously. “I knew it. I just knew the lad was still alive!

“How? Did he escape, too?”

Richard shook his head.

Pat seemed torn with emotions. He was relieved of the horrible anxiety that had controlled his life since Andrew had told him that the Gettysburg was destroyed and a lone survivor had escaped. Now, to suddenly discover that his boy was still alive, but a prisoner, was all but overwhelming. Pat looked at Andrew, desperation in his eyes.

“Could we arrange an exchange? Remember, the Tugars did it with Hawthorne. We did it with the Merki and Bantag. Damn it, Andrew, I’ll go myself.”

Andrew extended a calming hand, his gaze still locked on Richard. “I think Mr. Cromwell here has more to say.” Richard nodded his thanks and took a deep breath. “Out with it, boy. Come on,” Pat snapped anxiously.,“Sir, I offered your son the chance to escape with me. He refused.”

“What?” Pat roared. He advanced menacingly on Richard, but Richard didn’t flinch.

“Are you calling my son a traitor?”

“No, sir, I didn’t say that. On the night I escaped, I asked Lieutenant O’Donald to come with me. He refused.”

“The weight,” Pat interjected, grasping for answers. “He must have realized how desperate your plan was. A hundred and fifty pounds more and you might not have made it.”

“That’s not what decided the issue, sir,” Richard replied, and Andrew realized that Cromwell had brushed over a point. Taking Sean would have meant dumping nearly thirty gallons of precious fuel, but he’d been willing to do that anyhow.

“Out with it then, damn it!” Pat shouted.

“Sir, I hate to be the bearer of this news. Your son, something happened to him.”

“They tortured him, didn’t they, the filthy bastards.”

“Pat, would you please let Mr. Cromwell explain,” Andrew said quietly but his voice was hard, the tone expecting compliance.

Richard looked over at Andrew with the slightest flicker in his eyes. It was obvious that he hated what had to be done, but would go through with it regardless.

Pat sat down, pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped the sweat from his brow. “Go on then, Cromwell.”

“Yes, we were tortured.”

“That’s rather evident,” Andrew interjected, for the wounds on Richard’s face were still evident, lips still puffed up.

Richard started to say more, but fell silent.

“They broke him, didn’t they?” Pat asked.

“It wasn’t just the torture, it was something they put in our water. It was a drug. I have heard about how morphine affects men who were wounded.”

Andrew looked at Cromwell unflinchingly. His own addiction to morphine after being wounded at Capua was one secret of his life that only those closest to him knew. It was frightful as well that after twenty years he still thought of it at times and had to fight the craving. Emil had told him that it would be like that for the rest of his life.

“Was it morphine?” Pat asked.

“I don’t know. It made you feel like you were floating, the pain was gone, but you could still see and think clearly. It also made what Hazin said terribly persuasive. It was a horrible thing to fight against.”

“Yet you resisted.”

Pat looked over at Andrew, ready to make an angry comment, but a gesture stilled him.

“Yes, sir. At least I think I did,” Cromwell replied.

“And my son?” Pat asked.

“Hazin seemed to single him out for special attention,” Richard replied.

Andrew could sense that Cromwell was skirting the truth, but knew it was best, at least with Pat in the room, to not press for any further details.

“What do you mean, ‘attention’?” Pat asked warily.

“After the torture we were separated, and I didn’t see Lieutenant O’Donald again until just before I left. I assume Hazin talked to him as he did to me.”

That information set in motion a disturbing thought. Perhaps, Andrew wondered, Cromwell was unwittingly a pawn in some sort of power game. Perhaps everything he had learned about their plans was false.

“My son, damn it,” Pat interrupted. “Get on with telling me.”

Richard exhaled noisily and quickly finished his cup of tea and set it down.

“I’m sorry, sir. There was another factor, a woman. Sean became involved with her and didn’t want to leave her.”

Pat’s temper edged back slightly.

“This woman, was she a slave of Hazin’s?” Andrew asked.

“Yes, sir. She was a member of the cult.”

“She was assigned to seduce Sean-” Andrew offered.

“That’s what I assumed,” Richard interjected hurriedly.

“So you are telling me that now my son is in the ranks of this Hazin.”

Richard hesitated again.

“Go on.”

“Sir, he accepted rank,” Richard replied softly, as if the words were too distasteful to be spoken aloud. “He said that the only hope for the Republic was to have someone from our side in their ranks, so that when we were defeated he’d be in a position to help what was left. He said that Hazin was the future.”

Andrew sat back, forcing himself to compose his features, to not show shock or anger.

“And this news comes from the son of a traitor,” Pat cried, coming back to his feet.

“Pat!”

“It’s a damnable lie.”

“Pat, there’s no purpose to him telling us this if it was a lie.”

“It’s to cover his own tracks, to cover leaving Sean behind.”

“If he’d done that, it would have been best to say nothing at all.”

Throughout the exchange Richard remained impassive, even though Pat was within striking distance, hand half raised.

“Mr. Cromwell,” Andrew asked, his voice hard, “why did you not communicate to Admiral Bullfinch, or to anyone else, that there was another survivor? Why did you wait till now?”

Richard lowered his head slightly. “Sir, I felt I should first tell this to Senator O’Donald. That it was better to hear it straight from me first rather than read it in Gates’s paper.”

Richard looked back up at Pat.

“I’m sorry, sir. I thought about saying nothing at all, but in the end I figured it was best to let you know that at least your son is alive. I’d like to think that in his own way he is following an honorable path, that he hopes in the end to help somehow.

“And, sir, no one other than the three of us knows of this. I swear that to you, and frankly, I would prefer if it stayed here and was never spoken of again.”

Pat looked stricken, features so pale that Andrew thought for a moment that his friend was about to collapse. Pat sat down heavily.

“I’m sorry, sir.”

Pat held his hand up, motioning for him to say no more.

“Mr. Cromwell, I think you need a good rest.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir, I am rather tired. It was impossible to sleep on the train.”

“You’re staying here in the White House tonight. My wife is just down the hallway. Tell her that I want you to have a decent meal and a good night’s sleep. She’ll see that the staff takes good care of you.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“You are to share with no one what we’ve discussed here. I’ll ask as well that after you have your dinner, you remain in your room. I don’t want other folks, particularly some congressmen visiting tonight, to see you. Someone might recognize you and questions will start to fly.”

“Sir, believe me, I plan to be asleep within the hour.” Andrew offered the slightest of smiles. If not for Pat’s presence, he would come around the desk to shake Cromwell’s hand.