Betsey Culp

For Jamie, too, the army had been a salvation. Despairing of ever making a decent living in Ireland, he had left Limerick seven years earlier and traveled to San Francisco with his wife and two-year-old son. A series of temporary jobs had allowed the family to survive, but the army provided more security than he had ever known before. Jamie was the opposite of Simon — dark where Simon was fair, handsome and easygoing where Simon was pinched and suspicious. Jamie loved a good story. He delighted in plying Simon with questions until his silence broke down and the words poured out, telling tales of love in Shanghai or aborted mutiny on the South Seas. On several Sundays, Jamie took Simon home with him. In the morning, they all trooped into St. Francis Church, where the three adults and five children squeezed into one pew. Simon watched the light from the stained-glass windows tint the white arches red and blue. As Father Cotter murmured the ritual, Simon remembered how, long ago, he used to sit on a similar wooden bench, wedged between his brothers and sisters. To his surprise, the familiar Latin phrases brought with them a great feeling of peace. The mood continued at dinner. The little Fitzgeralds saw “Uncle Simon” as a heroic figure, and as he joked with them, he felt the events of his past life become less real and more romantic.

The sun was growing warmer in the sheltered corner of the island where the soldiers sat. The smell of hot oil rose from the base of the revolving turret. Jamie pulled his cap down over his eyes and settled his head against the embankment.

Simon poked him on the shoulder.

“Are you going to sit dozing all afternoon? Let’s take a quick swim to cool off.”

Jamie grunted.

“You and Rob go on ahead, and I’ll come down later, after I’ve had a wee nap.”

The other two men got slowly to their feet and made their way along a narrow path that traced the western rim of the island. Rob chattered on about how he would become a millionaire after the war was over. With the money he saved from his pay, he was going to buy a clothing shop on Steuart Street, not a large shop, but big enough for a start, and in a couple of years, he would sell it and buy a string of riding horses and open a stable and a riding school for young ladies. Since he had noticed that many girls were interested in riding but shied off at the thought of appearing foolish in public, he planned to build a special private floor in the school where they could take their lessons without being seen by curious onlookers. He would also have horses for hire, so that men and women who could not afford horses of their own could ride along the coast and out into the country. When the stable began to make money, he might invest in a racehorse or two. And then, he said, his blue eyes gleaming, Simon would be able to boast to his friends that he knew the owner of a champion like Flora Temple or the son of Patchen.

The path ended abruptly at the edge of a cliff. The men climbed down a steep flight of wooden stairs. They removed their uniforms and laid them on a large rock set well back from where shallow waves were breaking. The sun overhead picked up the white of their bodies as they stepped gingerly over the rough stones covering the beach. Just across the bay, the barracks and officers’ houses on the bluff at Black Point gleamed white and green.

In spite of the warmth of the sun, the water was cold. They both hesitated, allowing the waves to swirl around their feet. With a whoop, Simon dashed forward and dived into the icy water, sending out an arc of spray as he surfaced. Ever since he was a boy in St. Joseph, he had loved the water, and he and his friends had spent long summer afternoons swimming across the river and back. Perhaps that was why he had gone to sea. Even in storms where waves splintered the masts and shredded the sails, he had never been afraid. It was only human aggression that terrified him.

Simon swam lazily from the shore. Just beyond the middle of the cove, the current suddenly grew swift and the water began to pull at his chest and legs. He turned back. Although he was probably strong enough to compete with it, he had no desire to exert himself. He looked toward the beach, where Rob still stood with his legs bent awkwardly. When Simon shouted in encouragement, he waded into the water and began to swim. Suddenly he jackknifed, his white buttocks glistening just before he disappeared. As he bobbed up at Simon’s side, he propelled himself forward, leaping onto Simon’s back and pushing his head under the water. The two men struggled and splashed. They separated and eyed each other, blowing menacing bubbles as their eyes danced in amusement.

Simon raised his head. Tiny drops of water clung to his red fringe of a beard.

“Race you to shore!”

He started back, followed by a wake of churning foam. When he reached the little beach, he slapped both palms against a rock and looked back. Rob was still in the middle of the cove. An expression of pain contorted his face. While Simon watched, Rob thrashed his arms and slid under the surface. Seconds later he reappeared, several feet closer to the invisible line where the water of the cove collided with the water of the bay.

Simon called out to be careful. He pushed himself away from the side and pulled himself through the water with all his strength. Rob disappeared again. This time he was submerged longer. When he came up, he had been carried well into the channel outside the cove. He began to float swiftly away from the island. Once more he disappeared.

Simon swam furiously toward the spot where Rob had gone down. The current tugged at him so hard that he soon had to devote all his energy to maintaining his course. For one frantic moment, he peered across the waves, searching. He could see nothing but water. He pulled his body against the current until he felt the calmness of the cove. Mechanically, he swam to shore.

Continued…

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