remarked on it; and, as Harry stood at the man’s side, he had turned to him and held out his hand. “Joshua Bellstock,” he had said. “I hear you’ve written a book.”
“Yes,” John had replied. “On English houses.”
“Travel there much?”
“Yes, last year. There, and Europe.”
“Know the English?” he had asked. “Know how they think?”
John had had to stop himself laughing out loud. He was afraid it would come out rather bitterly. “Some,” he had replied.
“Anyone in government? Anyone who could get you into France?”
John had frowned. “Well, I guess we can all travel there if we want. We’re neutrals, after all.”
Bellstock had considered him, assessing him. “I want a man to go there and give a view.”
“Why is that?”
Bellstock had smiled. “There’s a few of us who think opinion needs directing.”
“You mean to enter the war?”
“Perhaps.”
John had nodded. He knew why he was being asked at this particular time. Just a day or two before, on March 28, the British merchant ship
Falaba
had been sunk by a German submarine. New York was buzzing with the news. Over a hundred people had been killed, including one American, a mining engineer from Massachusetts. As a matter of fact, the incident hadn’t surprised John; merchant vessels were regarded as auxiliary navy, and the German Admiralty had already said a month before that they would attack any merchant ship they could find in the water surrounding England and Ireland. And their point had been soundly proved when the
Falaba
’s end was hastened by the thirteen tons of high explosives that she was carrying.
Five days later, the
New York Times
had an editorial. “Shall we go further, and let loose the sympathies we have labored to repress in the struggle against barbarism?” it had asked. John could feel his own countrymen being whipped up and into the Allied cause. At the same time, the agriculture minister was soothingly saying that the war in Europe would be over by October, and the new Cape Cod magazine wrote lyrically about the spirit of the Cape calling, and softly lapping waters and gentle breezes.
Like most of the men of his generation, John felt himself pulled this way and that. He didn’t like Germans—at least, he didn’t like the couple of Germans he had met recently, the unpleasant preening military attaché Von Papen and his sidekick Karl Boy-Ed. They always managed to ingratiate themselves into society galas, but they made his flesh crawl. It didn’t help that one of his father’s diplomatic friends had overheard Boy-Ed calling them all “idiotic Yankees.” There was a rumor too, that they were whipping up opinion in the Irish dockworkers against American shipping—causing strikes, disputes, and bad feeling.
He didn’t know if that were true, but one thing he did know. He didn’t want to go to war. He felt that it would stain his country. And then he would think of Octavia, and her son in France. He supposed Harry must be in the thick of battle by now—he couldn’t imagine him sitting on his hands while the flower of England, its gilded youth, flocked to the recruiting stations. And yet, Harry . . . He couldn’t begin to imagine Octavia and William’s anxiety. He had already read heartrending stories of only sons, heirs to businesses or estates, dying in France. And so he had looked at Bellstock with mixed emotions. “You want what, someone banging a drum?”
“No, no,” Bellstock had assured him. “But personal views. What England’s really thinking? How things really are.”
“And out in France?”
Bellstock had shuffled his feet. “The fact is, the Canadians are there. And Indians and Australians. They’re coming from all over while we stand back.”
“We ship them arms,” John observed.
Bellstock laughed rather too heartily. “Well, to quote yourself, we’re neutrals,” he said. Then the smile left his face. “I don’t want to ship arms and do nothing else,”
“Yes,” John had replied. “On English houses.”
“Travel there much?”
“Yes, last year. There, and Europe.”
“Know the English?” he had asked. “Know how they think?”
John had had to stop himself laughing out loud. He was afraid it would come out rather bitterly. “Some,” he had replied.
“Anyone in government? Anyone who could get you into France?”
John had frowned. “Well, I guess we can all travel there if we want. We’re neutrals, after all.”
Bellstock had considered him, assessing him. “I want a man to go there and give a view.”
“Why is that?”
Bellstock had smiled. “There’s a few of us who think opinion needs directing.”
“You mean to enter the war?”
“Perhaps.”
John had nodded. He knew why he was being asked at this particular time. Just a day or two before, on March 28, the British merchant ship
Falaba
had been sunk by a German submarine. New York was buzzing with the news. Over a hundred people had been killed, including one American, a mining engineer from Massachusetts. As a matter of fact, the incident hadn’t surprised John; merchant vessels were regarded as auxiliary navy, and the German Admiralty had already said a month before that they would attack any merchant ship they could find in the water surrounding England and Ireland. And their point had been soundly proved when the
Falaba
’s end was hastened by the thirteen tons of high explosives that she was carrying.
Five days later, the
New York Times
had an editorial. “Shall we go further, and let loose the sympathies we have labored to repress in the struggle against barbarism?” it had asked. John could feel his own countrymen being whipped up and into the Allied cause. At the same time, the agriculture minister was soothingly saying that the war in Europe would be over by October, and the new Cape Cod magazine wrote lyrically about the spirit of the Cape calling, and softly lapping waters and gentle breezes.
Like most of the men of his generation, John felt himself pulled this way and that. He didn’t like Germans—at least, he didn’t like the couple of Germans he had met recently, the unpleasant preening military attaché Von Papen and his sidekick Karl Boy-Ed. They always managed to ingratiate themselves into society galas, but they made his flesh crawl. It didn’t help that one of his father’s diplomatic friends had overheard Boy-Ed calling them all “idiotic Yankees.” There was a rumor too, that they were whipping up opinion in the Irish dockworkers against American shipping—causing strikes, disputes, and bad feeling.
He didn’t know if that were true, but one thing he did know. He didn’t want to go to war. He felt that it would stain his country. And then he would think of Octavia, and her son in France. He supposed Harry must be in the thick of battle by now—he couldn’t imagine him sitting on his hands while the flower of England, its gilded youth, flocked to the recruiting stations. And yet, Harry . . . He couldn’t begin to imagine Octavia and William’s anxiety. He had already read heartrending stories of only sons, heirs to businesses or estates, dying in France. And so he had looked at Bellstock with mixed emotions. “You want what, someone banging a drum?”
“No, no,” Bellstock had assured him. “But personal views. What England’s really thinking? How things really are.”
“And out in France?”
Bellstock had shuffled his feet. “The fact is, the Canadians are there. And Indians and Australians. They’re coming from all over while we stand back.”
“We ship them arms,” John observed.
Bellstock laughed rather too heartily. “Well, to quote yourself, we’re neutrals,” he said. Then the smile left his face. “I don’t want to ship arms and do nothing else,”
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