Thomas Keneally - The Daughters of Mars

Through lack of memory or life force he ceased.

Thank Christ, yelled someone from the far side of the raft. Don’t need that papist shite!

For the Inniskilling Fusiliers, it was known, were from a divided Ireland—though the sea was willing to accommodate them all equally.

She could not separate herself from the cold. It seemed determined to be her. The idea of being incarnate cold put her in a panic she was hard-pressed to manage. She felt cheated that—with all it was cracked up to be—the Mediterranean could prove so bitter in the early or midsummer. Best not to say a word about it, though the useless words about the shivers pressed against her lower lip like a sneeze. Nor did she think that climbing aboard would help. She believed it would exhaust her more than give her warmth.

Are we all here then? called Naomi. She made a graceful reconnaissance over the side. No doubt over all four sides. She was the authority. Yes, Naomi could be heard, checking the unseen side of the raft. Five handsome soldiers and a sailor this side. Are we holding on? Are we downhearted, boys?

That was the stupid thing the troops always called: Are we downhearted? As their troop ships took them off to get minced.

Two of them at least replied. We’re still having a committee meeting on the downhearted business, Nurse.

Ragged half-witticisms.

You’ve got the tay going there, have you, Miss? And, What time’s the shuffleboard start?

A copper tank—a cube of about a yard each way—came cruising unevenly along. Two men held on by some sort of railing soldered to two of its sides. It seemed likely to roll at any encouragement but was kept steady by its two passengers’ life jackets.

Holding one of its handles was Sergeant Kiernan and, grabbing the other, an orderly whom Sally had seen but whose name she did not know. They were twinned. Each relied on the other to keep their cube steady.

Honora called to him. She seemed pleased to be able to make her complaint in person. This is nothing like what you told us, Sergeant Kiernan. All that Greek god claptrap. Never this cold at Clifton Gardens!

Kiernan was actually smiling! Keep angry with me, Nurse, he suggested. Angry people have a lot of staying power.

He made the water more habitable. A sort of hope floated up with him and raised the temperature for the moment.

He asked who was aboard and Naomi told him. Two wounded men. And Sister Nettice. And our three soldiers here.

Naomi—not quite in Sally’s line of sight from her position in the water—was doing a census for Kiernan. Apparently she inspected the young man with a steel fragment now.

This young fellow… he’s dead, I’m afraid.

The man’s sergeant roused himself, combating the decree. Are you right sure of that, Miss? he asked, sounding half hostile.

Feel the pulse, Naomi suggested. There is none.

Oh, Jamie, said the sergeant, doing his own assessment. Oh, Jamie.

Ease him down then, said Kiernan. That’s my suggestion.

Yes, said Naomi. I’ll take his life preserver first.

“He will swallow up death in victory,” intoned the sergeant in a grievous voice, “and the Lord God will wipe away tears…” He’s my fookin’ nephew.

What would you like me to do then? asked Naomi.

Let him go, said the sergeant with resignation. Let him go.

They could feel the jolting of Naomi and perhaps the sergeant dealing with the body. Naomi persuaded him to help her turn it over the rubber gunnels. A young body—but the face erased by a wedge of steel deck. Naomi and the sergeant operated on the reverent principle that he should not be simply dumped. Soldiers who knew him and who hung from the raft helped his descent into the sea. There for a number of consolatory seconds he floated, upright, face down, arms out. He waited until a decent space developed between him and the raft to raise his lower body and float in the posture of death. Then he gave up the surface and fell from sight. There was more discussion between Naomi and Kiernan. The ice now forming in Sally’s brain prevented her from grasping what was said. A delirious boy from further down the side of the raft was lifted aboard and Kiernan and his orderly abandoned their copper cube and took his place on the ropes.

Chafe him a bit, Miss, one of his friends called. He hit his head when we jumped.

They could feel rather than see Naomi rubbing the boy’s upper body as Mitchie, in shock, murmured half musically, “Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket, and bury me deep down below…”

Naomi was so busy and so much in command. She leaned over the squat rubber bulwark and said, Sally, we’ll change places now .

Sally desired it above all. But, No, she said, furious. Honora should go!

Come on now, said Naomi, with a commanding testiness. This isn’t a game of tea parties.

I’m here for good, said Honora, with stark blue-green eyes and clinging to her loop of rope. It was her pony or even her parent.

Honora, Sally insisted. And so Honora was hauled aboard and chafed. But the rubberized sides of the raft now threatened by a squeak to fold it up like a closed book, and so Naomi slid into the water, her bare feet pointed to make the entry as accommodating as it could be to everyone around the craft. There was no gasp from her, no sense of the shock of the sea.

So, are all you chaps awake? she asked after shaking the water from her hair. Their wakefulness had become her business.

Around the raft there were strange and weary cries. Yes, Nurse. Yes, Nurse. They sounded so much like a ward that they evoked the idea in Sally of the steel plates of the Archimedes and its decks crowded with cots. There was in their voice the expectation of orderlies arriving with trays of cocoa.

To Sally, her sister seemed above nature. Naomi conversed with Kiernan in tongues Sally could no longer grasp. They made their way around the raft to investigate the state of its passengers. On the raft, Matron Mitchie began singing again—this time in a finer contralto:

Once she had made the mountains run down to the sea, a few soldiers gave her a raggedy cheer.

Oh, God, she groaned artlessly.

Kiernan—floating free of the raft—frowned as he surveyed Sally. He reached out with the sort of force allowed only here and lifted her into closer connection with the rope loop. Now, don’t daydream, Nurse Durance. The current would love to take daydreamers. You should be atop, you know.

He turned in the water to see if Naomi was in reach to consult. There was no doubt at all that Naomi must be party to decisions. And it was not many seconds later that—as if to confirm Kiernan’s adage about daydreaming—a soldier simply let go of the side of the raft. He floated away a little with his head back and his face skywards. What are you doing? she heard Naomi call to him.

I’m just… he called. See!

He half raised a finger to the sky. That other one…

No! Back here! Naomi called. But not even she had the strength to retrieve him.

Indeed, there were other rafts but removed now by hundreds of yards from them. An upright boat could be seen—but too far away. Another—upside down—was further removed still.

There is no other one than this one, called Kiernan. Come back!

No, the other one, he called out in cheery exhaustion.

Come back now, Ernie, one of his fellow soldiers called. But the current cooperated with the man’s intention. He spun in the water. His face grew smaller and it had a mutinous serenity on it. He laid his head back and his naked feet rose. He adopted the posture of resignation to the waters.