TITANIC ROSE
Chapter Forty-One
April 1918
"…then up he rose, and
donned his clothes, and dupped the chamber door…" Rose strode across the
makeshift stage in the hospital recreation room, throwing her head back and
pulling at her hair as she recited one of Ophelia’s speeches from the
Shakespeare play Hamlet.
The wounded men assembled in the
room watched her, some not caring what she was doing, others enthralled. It
wasn’t often that a moving picture starlet came to entertain them, and Rose was
both beautiful and talented.
Rose had been volunteering at the
hospital for almost a month, doing dramatic readings, monologues, and even
scenes from her pictures, both past and present. More than one veteran had
vowed to see her pictures once he got out of the hospital.
Thomas had been missing for
almost three months, and Rose was beginning to accept that he wouldn’t be
found, that he wouldn’t come back. She still had hope, but it was growing
fainter every day. Nevertheless, she checked the faces of every bandaged or
disfigured man who entered the hospital, hoping that it was him. She didn’t
care if he came back badly wounded or disfigured; she just wanted him to come
home.
Finishing her monologue, Rose
stood frozen for three seconds, then bowed, smiling at the applause and cheers
from the men who had been paying attention. In spite of the situation, she
liked the attention and the applause. Her flair for the dramatic had appalled
her mother when she was a child, but now Ruth was proud of her daughter,
bragging to anyone who would listen about what a wonderful actress her daughter
was, and it had been Ruth who had encouraged her to volunteer at the hospital.
Rose was glad that she had done
so. She enjoyed expanding her skills as an actress, enjoyed cheering up the men
in the hospital, many of whom were far from home and had no family or friends
nearby. Making their lives better, even for a short time, helped her to forget
her own troubles. She had seen more than enough of pain and suffering in her
life, and it made her feel better to ease the pain of others.
"Mommy!" Andrew ran up
to her, clambering up on the stage and throwing his arms around her legs, raising
a few chuckles from the watching veterans, some of whom were reminded of
younger brothers or children or even grandchildren. The men in this wing of the
hospital were all veterans, not only of the current war, but also of other
wars, a few going back as far as the Mexican War, now some seventy years past.
Rose picked him up and hugged
him, then set him back on his feet. She occasionally brought the children with
her, and today was one of those days. Some veterans were cheered by the sight
of the children, though others ignored them or yelled at them for being there.
The children had quickly learned which ones were friendly, and gravitated
towards them.
"What’s going on,
Andrew?"
"Mr. Beaumont is talking
about the Battle of Bull Run!" Andrew told her excitedly.
Rose sighed. Thaddeus Beaumont
was seventy-five, a veteran of the Civil War on the northern side, and he never
tired of telling the children stories about that war, or of telling them about
how glorious it had been. Andrew had even expressed a desire to go to war
himself, and Rose was very glad that he wasn’t yet five years old, much too
young to go to war. She could only hope that those who said that this would be
the war to end all wars were right. It was hard enough for her to be separated
from Thomas, not knowing for certain whether he was alive or dead, but sending
her son off to war would be even harder.
She followed Andrew as he darted
back to Mr. Beaumont, who had a twin on each knee and was gesturing wildly and
making sounds, making the twins giggle in delight.
When Andrew ran up to him, he
picked him up, too, somehow managing to hold all three children in his lap. He
sighed when Rose walked up, glaring at him.
"Mr. Beaumont," she
said, her voice crisp, "how many times do I have to tell you not to tell
such stories to my children? It puts ideas into their heads—ideas that they’re
much too young for. Andrew wants to go off to war—and he isn’t even five years
old yet."
"Ah…don’t deny me my fun,
Mrs. Calvert." He winked at her, giving her a grin that made her soften in
spite of her annoyance. "I’m just an old man who hardly ever sees his
family anymore."
"But you don’t need to tell
them stories about the glory of war! There’s nothing glorious about it. My
husband—their father—is out there somewhere, fighting a war without a
reason."
"Of course there’s a reason!
There’s always a reason!" The children looked up as he raised his voice.
"Then what is that reason?
What reason does this country have for being in this war?"
He looked taken aback.
"Damned if I know." Rose cringed, wishing he wouldn’t use such
language in front of the three small children. "But I know there is one.
When I find out what it is, I’ll tell you."
"You do that." Rose
looked at the children. "It’s about time to go home."
"Mommy!" Three little
voices whined in unison.
"I’m done for today,
darlings. And Mr. Beaumont has told you enough stories."
"Mrs. Calvert!"
Beaumont puffed out his chest, offended. "Need I remind you that the war I
fought in freed the slaves and put this country back together? This country
wouldn’t be what it is today without that war."
"I know that, Mr. Beaumont.
But I don’t understand why you keep speaking of the glory of war. I know my
history, and war is a bloody thing, leaving no one it touches unscathed. Just
look at the men around you! You wouldn’t be here yourself if weren’t for an old
injury from the war you speak so fondly of."
"Mrs. Calvert, I do remember
all the blood and death. But I also remember the joy of winning and the
excitement. I’ve never been one to dwell on bad things, and I prefer to
remember the glories of past times."
"But you’re teaching my
children to long for something that could get them killed, that destroys lives
and families. I won’t deny that sometimes the outcome of war is a world better
than the one before, but the cost is…horrendous. My husband is over there
somewhere. I don’t know where, and there’s nothing glorious about not knowing.
Wars should be fought only when absolutely necessary, and teaching children
that war is something to look forward to only encourages them to grow up and
start unnecessary wars. You can tell them stories, but don’t glorify war to
them. I won’t have it, and won’t let you see them if you can’t stop telling
them such stories. Their father is out there fighting, and I don’t want any of
them to have to follow that same path."
Rose took the twins from him,
balancing them on her hips. A reluctant Andrew climbed down from Mr. Beaumont’s
lap, giving him a smile and a wave before following his mother out of the room.
Rose sighed. She knew that the
old man liked the children, and that the children liked him, but she didn’t
want them believing that war was something to be looked forward to. Not when
their father was out there in the midst of one.
Not when their father was
probably never coming home.