An affair of honor, p.35
An Affair of Honor, page 35
Admiral Geaugeard walked to the center of the ballroom and held up his hands. He spoke in French, then translated his words into English. “My dear friends, distinguished guests, colleagues, welcome to this honored occasion. It would appear that our guest of honor has been deceived completely—though benevolently, I can assure him. I now call upon Rear Admiral Case of the United States Navy to introduce our guest of honor.”
As the applause began again, Wake felt his knees go wobbly. He looked around him. Linda was shining with admiration. Rork was laughing. Case was calling him forward. The Royal Navy contingent, spurred on by none other than Wake’s friend Jackie Fisher who had arrived unnoticed, was cheering. The American officers were whooping and hollering. Wake walked unsteadily forward toward the French admiral.
Case bowed. “Admiral Geaugeard, we of the American Navy are honored to be here, guests of the Republic of France, humbled by our magnificent surroundings, and enchanted by your hospitality. And now, may I present Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy!”
Pandemonium broke out one more time. Wake stood there, confused over Case’s mistake on his rank, until he saw Linda walking forward with new epaulets. They were promoting him? He didn’t know why. This was a promotion party? A surprise promotion party put on by the French? That wasn’t logical.
But it was true. He was promoted. After all those years. Case, assisted by Rork, undid the pin clasps of his decade-old epaulets, tarnished from salt air and rough wear, and removed them from his shoulders. Linda handed the admiral the new ones with the golden oak leaf in the center. A moment later they were secured—Wake could have sworn they were heavier than a lieutenant’s—and Linda reached up and kissed him.
But he still wondered why all this was taking place at the French consulate? Nothing was making sense. Admiral Case whispered for Wake to close his mouth and stand up straight—he wasn’t a junior officer anymore. Geaugeard spread his arms and called for silence.
“And now that Lieutenant Commander Wake is properly attired, we may proceed with the most important—” he bowed toward the Americans, “from the French point of view—aspect of our gathering here this evening. Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, please step forward.”
A nudge from Admiral Case got him started, and Wake stepped two paces into the center of the room. Admiral Geaugeard’s tone deepened.
“Innocent citizens of the Republic of France, Christian missionaries who had ventured forth into the wilderness to bring healing medicine and knowledge to the world, recently found themselves victims of terror by merciless brigands in the wastelands of northern Africa. . . .”
As the admiral went on images appeared in Wake’s mind—that initial audience with Sultan Hassan, the whirling dance of Sokhoor in the firelight on the mountain, trudging across that empty shimmering desert, the eyes of that cobra during its dance of death, the suffocating heat of the slave crates, and the red-hot pain in his chest as he was shot by Falah’s men. He knew his hand was shaking and hoped it didn’t show, that Linda couldn’t tell. The French admiral mentioned his name.
“ . . . and when Lieutenant Peter Wake offered his services to assist in the search, little did he know what it would eventually cost him in blood, horror, and pain. He received grievous wounds while leading the captives’ escape and fight against the Devil-worshiping fiends that were transporting them into slavery. But the result was most certainly worth his sacrifices and travails. For most of the hostages, including two Americans, were rescued, and one of them, the lovely Madame Catherine Faber, is here today.”
Catherine came forward and kissed him on both cheeks, the guests gushing and clapping. Wake gritted his jaw, for he knew he was losing control, as he almost had at the goodbye at Rabat. Here were the two women of his life, one his love and the other his dear friend. It was almost too much for him. Henri came up with Rork, who put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Geaugeard continued. “So, by the authority of the President of France, I have the privilege of bestowing on a son of America—the republic which showed the people of France that liberty and equality were indeed the rights of man—the highest honor that France can bestow. This is the honor first established by that most sainted son of France, Napoleon Bonaparte, on the nineteenth of May, in the year eighteen-oh-two, and it is still the award to which many aspire and all respect.”
He paused for effect. “And now . . . I hereby proclaim that Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, is awarded the La Légion d’Honneur, rank of Chevalier!”
An honor guard of French naval officers marched out to the beat of drummers, wheeled right and stamped to a stop before Wake and the admiral. With a clicking of heels and a flourishing salute, the senior officer of the guard presented Geaugeard with a blue-satin-lined shadow box, then carried it for him as they both stood before Wake.
The admiral held up the medal for all to see, eliciting a hush from the crowd. The white-enameled cluster star, on the center of which was embossed Honneur et Patrie, was below a blue-enameled oak wreath, the entire medal suspended by a red ribbon. Linda held her breath at the sight and Catherine cried. Wake was speechless.
“This medal, long known for its value among brave men, hereby welcomes another to its brotherhood of honor.” Geaugeard pinned it on the left side of Wake’s uniform, above his medal from the sultan of Morocco.
The crowd thundered its approval. Wake knew he had to say something, but he wasn’t prepared, couldn’t even think straight. Besides, he felt that he didn’t deserve it. Sokhoor and Faber and Rork, yes, but not him. All he did was get shot.
He managed to get out, “Merci beaucoup. Merci.”
The musicians struck up an old French army marching song, La Marseillaise, since the Franco-Prussian War the new anthem of the republic, and the French in the ballroom sang it lustily as people closed in around Wake, shaking his hand, offering congratulations, patting his shoulders, asking questions in half a dozen tongues. Wake tried to be polite and answer, but there were too many people and his wounds began to ache, then throb. He became separated from Linda and the others, finally seeing her in the distance talking with Catherine. They were standing closely, speaking intimately.
Someone shuffled Wake over to a flag display where he was presented to a new dignitary and a photograph was taken. A moment later a champagne flute was put in his hand and he was expected to give a toast, but only said “Merci” again, to wild applause. Music started and a woman asked Wake to dance, a man asked him to dance with his wife, but he just wanted Linda. He needed to have her close. Then Admiral Case asked him to come to a quiet corner, for there was another matter they needed to cover.
Rork cleared the way with his body toward an alcove, where Wake and Case sat on a couch. The admiral was concise. “Your work is done with this squadron, Peter. You and your family are going back home to America. You’ve been overdue for shore duty for sometime. That’s being rectified by the powers that be in Washington. In fact, that’s where you’re heading, Commander—Washington Naval Yard. Seems that you’re wanted there.”
“Sir, all of this. I don’t know what to say, Admiral, except thank you.”
“No, son, it’s I who gets to thank you. You went into a terrible situation, endured unspeakable experiences, and came out with victory, making our country smell like a rose. You gained us prestige with those Moroccan Arabs, and gratitude with the French—not an easy outcome in the very best of times. Hell, Wake, you even made me look good on this.”
“Admiral, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. And now all this. And Linda. Did you know she was coming, sir?
Case grinned. “Of course I did! Why do you think we had to delay this shindig? She was late in getting here and that set us back. She’s been heading here for two months, since we got word you survived and were coming out of the desert. Hell, half the naval know-it-alls of France came here tonight, just to see the grand surprise. We did get you, though, didn’t we, son?”
“That you did, sir. That you did. I had no idea.” Wake abruptly remembered the snickering in the wardroom, Rork’s odd expressions. “Rork! The bosun knew too?”
“That he did, the old rascal. The Irish make great conspirators. I’m one too, you know. It’s in our bones.”
***
Linda’s arm was wrapped around his waist as they climbed up to the seat in the open carriage for the ride to her hotel. Wake had no clue as to how she had paid the way to Europe for herself and the two children, and he didn’t ask. That could come later. He just wanted to revel in the magic of her being there with him, on the other side of the world.
“Happy birthday, dear.”
Wake shook himself out of his reverie. “What?”
“Peter, it’s June twenty-sixth, your thirty-fifth birthday. Good Lord, you can’t have forgotten that!”
He had forgotten completely. “Thinking about everything else, dear. But it’s been a great birthday. Incredible.”
They rode along the bay front, dimmed gaslights across the city allowing the stars to show in the moonless night. The warm summer breeze and night sounds of the city accompanied by the horse’s lazy hoof beat. Linda snuggled close to him and was so soft. He breathed in her perfume, caressed her hair and let the awful memories of the ShaaTaan Taalib and its terror mastermind fade away.
“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Who?” he asked, but he understood her question.
“The lady you rescued, Peter. Your friend Catherine. Who else would I be talking about, silly? She’s very nice. We talked and she told me you met her in the West Indies, then she and her husband in Italy, and then you helped to track her down and rescue her in Africa. An amazing story, Peter. She’s quite an admirer of yours. Said I was lucky to have a gentleman like you. Described what you went through, but stayed sane and decent throughout it all. She called it ‘an affair of honor,’ but I got the feeling she meant more than the part in Africa.”
His mind went to that New Year’s Eve on Martinique. Was it only six months ago? It felt like a lifetime ago.
“Catherine’s a good person and a friend, and yes, she’s beautiful. We were lucky to be able to save her and most of the others. Her husband saved my life.” He saw Linda still looking at him quizzically. “And yes, our friendship was, and is, an affair of honor. No problem there, dear.”
She held him tighter, neither saying anything further. It was such a wonderful evening he didn’t want the drive to end, so when they reached the hotel he promised the driver an extra hundred lira to take a slow drive into the hills so they could overlook the city lights below, telling Linda that the children were surely asleep anyway and that he’d kiss them in the morning.
As they crested the top of one of the hills surrounding the city to the north, Linda pointed to the northwest sky. “Oh Peter, just look at that! Have you ever seen anything like that?”
Wake was awestruck. “No. I’m not sure anyone has, Linda.”
Low above the Maritime Alps in the distance, across the inky black void just to the right of Cassiopeia and the constellation Camelopardalis, was a brilliant blaze of amber fire covering fully sixty degrees of sky across the northern horizon. It was the most incredible comet Wake had witnessed or heard about—so bright and huge as to be unreal.
Then Sokhoor’s final words came to him. “Peter, you’re shaking, shaking badly. Darling, are you all right? What is it?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just remembering what a friend told me when I left Africa. He said that Allah would soon show me a cosmic celebration in gratitude and that everything would be better for me. Somehow he knew.”
Linda held his trembling hands and saw tears in his eyes as he stood and looked away to the southern horizon, over the dark Mediterranean—toward Africa.
“Shukran bezzef, Sokhoor. As-salaamu alaikum,” he murmured.
Wake sat back down and told the driver to take them to their hotel. Pulling her closer, he kissed Linda slowly, savoring her taste, her scent, the feel of her body.
“What was that you said, Peter?”
“Just a thank-you to my friend Sokhoor. I asked that peace be upon him.”
Wake decided then that Linda never needed to know the horrors he had seen and been through—she’d been through enough herself, trying to raise a family alone, wondering where her husband was and if he was even alive. He thought of Sokhoor again—Porro et Sursum. It was time to look forward.
Under the light of the comet Peter and Linda’s bodies molded to each other under the carriage blanket. There was so much he wanted to ask, to say, but it wasn’t the right moment. Stroking Linda’s soft auburn hair, holding her in his arms, he knew everything was all right now. They were going to make it.
Words weren’t needed anymore.
Acknowledgments
What an adventure it was to write this novel. After researching the background material for five months, I embarked upon an eleven-thousand-mile trek by ship, car, van, and plane, from the languid tropics of the New World to the urban complexity of the Old World—finally ending up in mysterious Africa. Many people on three continents, eight islands, two seas, and one very big ocean assisted me along the way in English, Spanish, French, Italian, Latin, and Arabic. Here are my thanks to some of those who really went beyond the call of duty.
Thank you to Calvin Kelly and Hal Ulrich, the can-do guys at Computer World on St. Thomas, for efficiently solving my cyber dilemma so I could get this book started.
My respects go to Caswall Richards, one of Antigua’s finest sons, for showing me his island and convincing that bus driver to wait for me. The ship wouldn’t have waited.
Merci to Audrey Jason, who led me back in time through the interior and along the coasts of enchanting Martinique—where so many cultures have blended so deliciously.
Thank you to the charming Martineve Browne and the imperturbable Steve Bryan, for sharing their love of Barbados’ past, its people, and its beauty.
To Susana Pérez, one of Spain’s most delightful daughters, mil gracias, mi amiga, for immersing me into the magical world of the ancient Alcázar and the cathedral, in the heart of one of my favorite cities in the world—Sevilla.
Señor Tony Muñoz, el historiador of Palma de Majorca, gets a thank-you for teaching me who was doing what to whom in 1874 at that fascinating junction of Mediterranean peoples.
My amazing friend, writer Pat Brogan, PhD, gets a huge thank-you for helping me do the eyeball recon, decipher Andalusian dialect, and work out the scenes in Tenerife, Palma, Cadiz, and Sevilla.
Thank you to my multinational shipmates aboard the M/V Opera who became wonderful friends and made every day enjoyable. See guys, I really was writing a book!
Anecdotal information on the Royal Marine Light Infantry was graciously given to me by Lt. Peter Sharp Allen RMLI, (WWII), of Great Britain. It is an honor to call him friend.
In Italy, Oswaldo Balicco helped me in Santa Margherita, and Minnesota’s Catherine Rose motivated me (and therefore Peter Wake) to climb that damn cliff to the castle at Porto Fino. Mille grazie.
Casablanca, Morocco—that chaotic and intriguing crossroads of Africa, Arabia, and France—is the home of Mourad Djelleb, who knows everyone, and Ouaziz Mostafa, who can arrange anything. Bogart would’ve loved these guys. Merci pour l’ assistance, mes amis.
Shukran bezzef to El Harras Hassan, who took me into the secretive labyrinth of the medina in Fez, where it’s still the year 1059 a.d. Someday I will be back, ensha’llaah.
A sincere shukran to some other impressive men in that part of the world who helped me: Historian Noureddine Mrani in Meknes, Sidi Mabab Abdul at His Royal Highness King Mohammed VI’s palace in Rabat, Mawad Mohammed in the Kasbah of Rabat, and Elouane Aziz in the medina of Marrakech.
Sidi Goudimi Ahmed helped tremendously with Moroccan history, language, and culture. Shukran bezzef, sahbi.
This trek involved daunting logistics in Europe and Africa—but Teresa Lioce of Pine Island Travel planned and implemented them all with calm efficiency. If you’re heading out into the unknown, she’s the one you want to plan your op. Well done, Terri.
The fascinating celestial information was a treasure discovered by the lovely Nancy Glickman, gifted astronomer and dearest of friends, who patiently explained it all to me. She amazes me. Latin phraseology was provided by Michelle Glickman, 13-year-old Florida State Latin Champion, and her dad, Ron. Father Bill Loughran, Jesuit Vatican linguist, helped on Italian, Latin, and Church hierarchy.
I was graciously assisted in the Paris balloon information by none other than Julian Nott of Great Britain, the premier authority on ballooning in the world, and LTC Mike Woodgerd, US Army, the lighter-than-air expert for the DoD. In addition, Mike entered the title contest for this novel and beat out 376 other entries from around the world, gaining him the role of a character in the book.
I was given additional understanding of Montague Yeats-Brown by Mr. Abe Marrache of England, an accomplished writer who is married to a descendant of that remarkable diplomat.
French culture and language was explained with gentle patience by Denise Couturier. Merci beaucoup, ma cherie. En avant et ascendant!
A sincere thank-you goes to June Cussen, a writer’s dream editor; to Randy White, the premier novelist of Florida and my mentor; and to the other members of the Parrot Hillian Writers Circle: KDN Wehrle, the best critical reader in the world; Roothee Gabay, spirited novelist; and Sheba the Wonder Dog (RIP).
Peter Wake has a support crew in the islands where I live that all sailors would envy: Punkee Moe, Bill and Patti Standing, Annie Wenz and Larry French, Randy and Chris Briggs, Marianne Paton, the Yard Dogs, and Marc and Chris Strom.
To my readers around the world, thank you for your wonderful enthusiasm and support. You keep me motivated and strong.
As the applause began again, Wake felt his knees go wobbly. He looked around him. Linda was shining with admiration. Rork was laughing. Case was calling him forward. The Royal Navy contingent, spurred on by none other than Wake’s friend Jackie Fisher who had arrived unnoticed, was cheering. The American officers were whooping and hollering. Wake walked unsteadily forward toward the French admiral.
Case bowed. “Admiral Geaugeard, we of the American Navy are honored to be here, guests of the Republic of France, humbled by our magnificent surroundings, and enchanted by your hospitality. And now, may I present Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy!”
Pandemonium broke out one more time. Wake stood there, confused over Case’s mistake on his rank, until he saw Linda walking forward with new epaulets. They were promoting him? He didn’t know why. This was a promotion party? A surprise promotion party put on by the French? That wasn’t logical.
But it was true. He was promoted. After all those years. Case, assisted by Rork, undid the pin clasps of his decade-old epaulets, tarnished from salt air and rough wear, and removed them from his shoulders. Linda handed the admiral the new ones with the golden oak leaf in the center. A moment later they were secured—Wake could have sworn they were heavier than a lieutenant’s—and Linda reached up and kissed him.
But he still wondered why all this was taking place at the French consulate? Nothing was making sense. Admiral Case whispered for Wake to close his mouth and stand up straight—he wasn’t a junior officer anymore. Geaugeard spread his arms and called for silence.
“And now that Lieutenant Commander Wake is properly attired, we may proceed with the most important—” he bowed toward the Americans, “from the French point of view—aspect of our gathering here this evening. Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, please step forward.”
A nudge from Admiral Case got him started, and Wake stepped two paces into the center of the room. Admiral Geaugeard’s tone deepened.
“Innocent citizens of the Republic of France, Christian missionaries who had ventured forth into the wilderness to bring healing medicine and knowledge to the world, recently found themselves victims of terror by merciless brigands in the wastelands of northern Africa. . . .”
As the admiral went on images appeared in Wake’s mind—that initial audience with Sultan Hassan, the whirling dance of Sokhoor in the firelight on the mountain, trudging across that empty shimmering desert, the eyes of that cobra during its dance of death, the suffocating heat of the slave crates, and the red-hot pain in his chest as he was shot by Falah’s men. He knew his hand was shaking and hoped it didn’t show, that Linda couldn’t tell. The French admiral mentioned his name.
“ . . . and when Lieutenant Peter Wake offered his services to assist in the search, little did he know what it would eventually cost him in blood, horror, and pain. He received grievous wounds while leading the captives’ escape and fight against the Devil-worshiping fiends that were transporting them into slavery. But the result was most certainly worth his sacrifices and travails. For most of the hostages, including two Americans, were rescued, and one of them, the lovely Madame Catherine Faber, is here today.”
Catherine came forward and kissed him on both cheeks, the guests gushing and clapping. Wake gritted his jaw, for he knew he was losing control, as he almost had at the goodbye at Rabat. Here were the two women of his life, one his love and the other his dear friend. It was almost too much for him. Henri came up with Rork, who put a steadying hand on his shoulder.
Geaugeard continued. “So, by the authority of the President of France, I have the privilege of bestowing on a son of America—the republic which showed the people of France that liberty and equality were indeed the rights of man—the highest honor that France can bestow. This is the honor first established by that most sainted son of France, Napoleon Bonaparte, on the nineteenth of May, in the year eighteen-oh-two, and it is still the award to which many aspire and all respect.”
He paused for effect. “And now . . . I hereby proclaim that Lieutenant Commander Peter Wake, of the United States Navy, is awarded the La Légion d’Honneur, rank of Chevalier!”
An honor guard of French naval officers marched out to the beat of drummers, wheeled right and stamped to a stop before Wake and the admiral. With a clicking of heels and a flourishing salute, the senior officer of the guard presented Geaugeard with a blue-satin-lined shadow box, then carried it for him as they both stood before Wake.
The admiral held up the medal for all to see, eliciting a hush from the crowd. The white-enameled cluster star, on the center of which was embossed Honneur et Patrie, was below a blue-enameled oak wreath, the entire medal suspended by a red ribbon. Linda held her breath at the sight and Catherine cried. Wake was speechless.
“This medal, long known for its value among brave men, hereby welcomes another to its brotherhood of honor.” Geaugeard pinned it on the left side of Wake’s uniform, above his medal from the sultan of Morocco.
The crowd thundered its approval. Wake knew he had to say something, but he wasn’t prepared, couldn’t even think straight. Besides, he felt that he didn’t deserve it. Sokhoor and Faber and Rork, yes, but not him. All he did was get shot.
He managed to get out, “Merci beaucoup. Merci.”
The musicians struck up an old French army marching song, La Marseillaise, since the Franco-Prussian War the new anthem of the republic, and the French in the ballroom sang it lustily as people closed in around Wake, shaking his hand, offering congratulations, patting his shoulders, asking questions in half a dozen tongues. Wake tried to be polite and answer, but there were too many people and his wounds began to ache, then throb. He became separated from Linda and the others, finally seeing her in the distance talking with Catherine. They were standing closely, speaking intimately.
Someone shuffled Wake over to a flag display where he was presented to a new dignitary and a photograph was taken. A moment later a champagne flute was put in his hand and he was expected to give a toast, but only said “Merci” again, to wild applause. Music started and a woman asked Wake to dance, a man asked him to dance with his wife, but he just wanted Linda. He needed to have her close. Then Admiral Case asked him to come to a quiet corner, for there was another matter they needed to cover.
Rork cleared the way with his body toward an alcove, where Wake and Case sat on a couch. The admiral was concise. “Your work is done with this squadron, Peter. You and your family are going back home to America. You’ve been overdue for shore duty for sometime. That’s being rectified by the powers that be in Washington. In fact, that’s where you’re heading, Commander—Washington Naval Yard. Seems that you’re wanted there.”
“Sir, all of this. I don’t know what to say, Admiral, except thank you.”
“No, son, it’s I who gets to thank you. You went into a terrible situation, endured unspeakable experiences, and came out with victory, making our country smell like a rose. You gained us prestige with those Moroccan Arabs, and gratitude with the French—not an easy outcome in the very best of times. Hell, Wake, you even made me look good on this.”
“Admiral, I thought maybe I’d done something wrong. And now all this. And Linda. Did you know she was coming, sir?
Case grinned. “Of course I did! Why do you think we had to delay this shindig? She was late in getting here and that set us back. She’s been heading here for two months, since we got word you survived and were coming out of the desert. Hell, half the naval know-it-alls of France came here tonight, just to see the grand surprise. We did get you, though, didn’t we, son?”
“That you did, sir. That you did. I had no idea.” Wake abruptly remembered the snickering in the wardroom, Rork’s odd expressions. “Rork! The bosun knew too?”
“That he did, the old rascal. The Irish make great conspirators. I’m one too, you know. It’s in our bones.”
***
Linda’s arm was wrapped around his waist as they climbed up to the seat in the open carriage for the ride to her hotel. Wake had no clue as to how she had paid the way to Europe for herself and the two children, and he didn’t ask. That could come later. He just wanted to revel in the magic of her being there with him, on the other side of the world.
“Happy birthday, dear.”
Wake shook himself out of his reverie. “What?”
“Peter, it’s June twenty-sixth, your thirty-fifth birthday. Good Lord, you can’t have forgotten that!”
He had forgotten completely. “Thinking about everything else, dear. But it’s been a great birthday. Incredible.”
They rode along the bay front, dimmed gaslights across the city allowing the stars to show in the moonless night. The warm summer breeze and night sounds of the city accompanied by the horse’s lazy hoof beat. Linda snuggled close to him and was so soft. He breathed in her perfume, caressed her hair and let the awful memories of the ShaaTaan Taalib and its terror mastermind fade away.
“She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?”
“Who?” he asked, but he understood her question.
“The lady you rescued, Peter. Your friend Catherine. Who else would I be talking about, silly? She’s very nice. We talked and she told me you met her in the West Indies, then she and her husband in Italy, and then you helped to track her down and rescue her in Africa. An amazing story, Peter. She’s quite an admirer of yours. Said I was lucky to have a gentleman like you. Described what you went through, but stayed sane and decent throughout it all. She called it ‘an affair of honor,’ but I got the feeling she meant more than the part in Africa.”
His mind went to that New Year’s Eve on Martinique. Was it only six months ago? It felt like a lifetime ago.
“Catherine’s a good person and a friend, and yes, she’s beautiful. We were lucky to be able to save her and most of the others. Her husband saved my life.” He saw Linda still looking at him quizzically. “And yes, our friendship was, and is, an affair of honor. No problem there, dear.”
She held him tighter, neither saying anything further. It was such a wonderful evening he didn’t want the drive to end, so when they reached the hotel he promised the driver an extra hundred lira to take a slow drive into the hills so they could overlook the city lights below, telling Linda that the children were surely asleep anyway and that he’d kiss them in the morning.
As they crested the top of one of the hills surrounding the city to the north, Linda pointed to the northwest sky. “Oh Peter, just look at that! Have you ever seen anything like that?”
Wake was awestruck. “No. I’m not sure anyone has, Linda.”
Low above the Maritime Alps in the distance, across the inky black void just to the right of Cassiopeia and the constellation Camelopardalis, was a brilliant blaze of amber fire covering fully sixty degrees of sky across the northern horizon. It was the most incredible comet Wake had witnessed or heard about—so bright and huge as to be unreal.
Then Sokhoor’s final words came to him. “Peter, you’re shaking, shaking badly. Darling, are you all right? What is it?”
“Nothing’s wrong. Just remembering what a friend told me when I left Africa. He said that Allah would soon show me a cosmic celebration in gratitude and that everything would be better for me. Somehow he knew.”
Linda held his trembling hands and saw tears in his eyes as he stood and looked away to the southern horizon, over the dark Mediterranean—toward Africa.
“Shukran bezzef, Sokhoor. As-salaamu alaikum,” he murmured.
Wake sat back down and told the driver to take them to their hotel. Pulling her closer, he kissed Linda slowly, savoring her taste, her scent, the feel of her body.
“What was that you said, Peter?”
“Just a thank-you to my friend Sokhoor. I asked that peace be upon him.”
Wake decided then that Linda never needed to know the horrors he had seen and been through—she’d been through enough herself, trying to raise a family alone, wondering where her husband was and if he was even alive. He thought of Sokhoor again—Porro et Sursum. It was time to look forward.
Under the light of the comet Peter and Linda’s bodies molded to each other under the carriage blanket. There was so much he wanted to ask, to say, but it wasn’t the right moment. Stroking Linda’s soft auburn hair, holding her in his arms, he knew everything was all right now. They were going to make it.
Words weren’t needed anymore.
Acknowledgments
What an adventure it was to write this novel. After researching the background material for five months, I embarked upon an eleven-thousand-mile trek by ship, car, van, and plane, from the languid tropics of the New World to the urban complexity of the Old World—finally ending up in mysterious Africa. Many people on three continents, eight islands, two seas, and one very big ocean assisted me along the way in English, Spanish, French, Italian, Latin, and Arabic. Here are my thanks to some of those who really went beyond the call of duty.
Thank you to Calvin Kelly and Hal Ulrich, the can-do guys at Computer World on St. Thomas, for efficiently solving my cyber dilemma so I could get this book started.
My respects go to Caswall Richards, one of Antigua’s finest sons, for showing me his island and convincing that bus driver to wait for me. The ship wouldn’t have waited.
Merci to Audrey Jason, who led me back in time through the interior and along the coasts of enchanting Martinique—where so many cultures have blended so deliciously.
Thank you to the charming Martineve Browne and the imperturbable Steve Bryan, for sharing their love of Barbados’ past, its people, and its beauty.
To Susana Pérez, one of Spain’s most delightful daughters, mil gracias, mi amiga, for immersing me into the magical world of the ancient Alcázar and the cathedral, in the heart of one of my favorite cities in the world—Sevilla.
Señor Tony Muñoz, el historiador of Palma de Majorca, gets a thank-you for teaching me who was doing what to whom in 1874 at that fascinating junction of Mediterranean peoples.
My amazing friend, writer Pat Brogan, PhD, gets a huge thank-you for helping me do the eyeball recon, decipher Andalusian dialect, and work out the scenes in Tenerife, Palma, Cadiz, and Sevilla.
Thank you to my multinational shipmates aboard the M/V Opera who became wonderful friends and made every day enjoyable. See guys, I really was writing a book!
Anecdotal information on the Royal Marine Light Infantry was graciously given to me by Lt. Peter Sharp Allen RMLI, (WWII), of Great Britain. It is an honor to call him friend.
In Italy, Oswaldo Balicco helped me in Santa Margherita, and Minnesota’s Catherine Rose motivated me (and therefore Peter Wake) to climb that damn cliff to the castle at Porto Fino. Mille grazie.
Casablanca, Morocco—that chaotic and intriguing crossroads of Africa, Arabia, and France—is the home of Mourad Djelleb, who knows everyone, and Ouaziz Mostafa, who can arrange anything. Bogart would’ve loved these guys. Merci pour l’ assistance, mes amis.
Shukran bezzef to El Harras Hassan, who took me into the secretive labyrinth of the medina in Fez, where it’s still the year 1059 a.d. Someday I will be back, ensha’llaah.
A sincere shukran to some other impressive men in that part of the world who helped me: Historian Noureddine Mrani in Meknes, Sidi Mabab Abdul at His Royal Highness King Mohammed VI’s palace in Rabat, Mawad Mohammed in the Kasbah of Rabat, and Elouane Aziz in the medina of Marrakech.
Sidi Goudimi Ahmed helped tremendously with Moroccan history, language, and culture. Shukran bezzef, sahbi.
This trek involved daunting logistics in Europe and Africa—but Teresa Lioce of Pine Island Travel planned and implemented them all with calm efficiency. If you’re heading out into the unknown, she’s the one you want to plan your op. Well done, Terri.
The fascinating celestial information was a treasure discovered by the lovely Nancy Glickman, gifted astronomer and dearest of friends, who patiently explained it all to me. She amazes me. Latin phraseology was provided by Michelle Glickman, 13-year-old Florida State Latin Champion, and her dad, Ron. Father Bill Loughran, Jesuit Vatican linguist, helped on Italian, Latin, and Church hierarchy.
I was graciously assisted in the Paris balloon information by none other than Julian Nott of Great Britain, the premier authority on ballooning in the world, and LTC Mike Woodgerd, US Army, the lighter-than-air expert for the DoD. In addition, Mike entered the title contest for this novel and beat out 376 other entries from around the world, gaining him the role of a character in the book.
I was given additional understanding of Montague Yeats-Brown by Mr. Abe Marrache of England, an accomplished writer who is married to a descendant of that remarkable diplomat.
French culture and language was explained with gentle patience by Denise Couturier. Merci beaucoup, ma cherie. En avant et ascendant!
A sincere thank-you goes to June Cussen, a writer’s dream editor; to Randy White, the premier novelist of Florida and my mentor; and to the other members of the Parrot Hillian Writers Circle: KDN Wehrle, the best critical reader in the world; Roothee Gabay, spirited novelist; and Sheba the Wonder Dog (RIP).
Peter Wake has a support crew in the islands where I live that all sailors would envy: Punkee Moe, Bill and Patti Standing, Annie Wenz and Larry French, Randy and Chris Briggs, Marianne Paton, the Yard Dogs, and Marc and Chris Strom.
To my readers around the world, thank you for your wonderful enthusiasm and support. You keep me motivated and strong.
