As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference. The middle part of this chapter is unbeta-ed since it got thrown in at the last moment.

Chapter Ten

As always, my thanks go to Marilyn, who makes all the difference. The middle part of this chapter is unbeta-ed since it got thrown in at the last moment.

Chapter Ten

"Hmm?"

"Sorry about that. Got lost in memories again. Now, don't you go worrying that fine head of yours, Benjamin. I'm all right. It's just that I've never talked to anyone outside of my mates about that night. And not like I am with you all now. Never was one for deep talking. No, no. I'm fine with the telling of it for you. Of course it's 'cause you're special, Benjamin. You're very welcome, as always. Gives me great pleasure to share our adventures with such an appreciative audience."

"That night holds a lot of memories for me. Real clear ones. Yes, Katie. Just like those handprints."

"What's that? Did you say 'most-est', Benjamin? You've gone and made a new word, there, little mate. Quite like it, I do. Teddy, leave off. He's talking just fine. Probably talk circles around you one day."

"The thing I remember the most about that night? How scared I was. Nothing wrong with admitting you're afraid, Teddy. But I wasn't afraid for me. I was scared for the guv'nor. Of losing him, Katie. Not actually LOSING him like you lost your favorite hair ribbon, no. Losing as in hearing him breathe his last breath, as in knowing he was . . . gone. That's right, Benjamin. Like when Floppsy went to sleep."

"Now Katie, stop fretting. I've been telling you Colonel Hogan's still among the living. You know I wouldn't say so if he wasn't, sweet. Maybe one day you lot will get to meet him. No and no. Not tomorrow. No, Benjamin . . . now. . . steady on! All right, all right! I've been meaning to ring him. I'll see if he's keen to visit. Been awhile. It'd be good to get together again. Might ring up the rest of the mates, too. Be like old times."

"Here, now! Katherine Elizabeth, stop hopping up and down on the bench! Sit down before you do yourself a mischief. Might fall right off on your head. Teddy! Be kind to your sister, mate.

My goodness, poppet. Haven't seen you so excited since your da bought you that pony – whatzisname. Gordo. Sorry. Don't know how I could have forgotten such a distinguished name."

"Hang about. Got some sleeve yanking go on. We've gotten off track again, haven't we, little mate? All right then. Let's get back to the tale."

"Teddy, remind me. Where were we? Oh, yes. Thank you. Losing the guv'nor. Well, that night . . . I started thinking that he wasn't going to make it. That maybe nothing I did would make any difference, that it had been too long . . . and that I'd have to say my good-byes to him out there in that woods."

HH HH HH HH HH

Cursing his clumsy limbs, Newkirk clawed at the ground, slowly pulled himself out from under Hogan's body. With the sound of his ragged breathing in his ears, he rolled onto his hands and knees, swaying dizzily from fatigue and pain. Once the wooziness had subsided and he was seeing only one of everything again, he crawled to Hogan's side.

He took one look at his CO's gray face and a single thought surfaced in a bubble of panic.

He's not going to make it.

Just as quickly as the panic had appeared, he shoved it away. That was the last thing either of them needed.

Newkirk got off his knees, carefully slipped his hands under Hogan's arms and started dragging him toward a nearby tree.

Once at the tree, he wrestled and tugged Hogan into a sitting position near the tree's base. Without a moment's embarrassment, Newkirk got in behind him, wrapped his arms around Hogan's stomach and pulled him close. It was the best he could manage and he knew it would not be enough. At this point, it would take more than the warmth of a single body to keep Hogan alive. Despair sent his spirits plummeting. Weary, he rested his chin atop Hogan's good shoulder.

His friends' faces suddenly appeared in the air before him, their voices popping one by one into his mind. His head came back up, his eyes locking in disbelief on their wraithlike forms.

You can do it, Newkirk! said the Carter vision, blue eyes at their most imploring.

You're doing fine, came Kinch's soft, supportive voice.

"'Fine'?" Newkirk hurled back at his friend. His eyes slid sideways to his CO's face. "Does he bloody well look like I've done 'fine' so far? He's dying!"

Talk to him, mon ami, LeBeau suggested, looking much healthier than the last time Newkirk had seen him.

Kinch floated in behind LeBeau. You were talking to him before. Why'd you stop?

Newkirk just stared. His mind was slowing down like one of the tin wind-up toys he had once craved as a small boy. He would stand for hours in front of Tudbury's big window displays, watching the little tin wonders. The toys would spin, roll, tumble and march as long as tension remained in their springs.

"It's no good, mates," Newkirk sighed, laying his chin back down on Hogan's shoulder. "Me spring's done sprung." His eyelids lowered, feeling incredibly heavy.

Come on, Peter! the Carter vision begged, drifting closer. Don't give in! The colonel needs you!

Don't let him die, LeBeau's hazy form told him, sounding close to tears.

A spark of anger pulled Newkirk's head back up. "I bloody well said I wouldn't, now didn't I? I -" He suddenly stopped speaking as his words sunk in.

A small grin flashed across Kinch's face. That's right, you did. So stop feeling sorry for yourself and get back to talking to him.

It worked before, the Carter image reminded Newkirk.

He wasn't a bloody icicle then! Newkirk whispered back irritably. Still, he admitted to himself, their voices had once brought Hogan back from a coma-like state. He shifted, tightened his arms around Hogan's limp body; glared at his friends' hazy faces. Just blooming wonderful. Even my hallucinations argue with me

Hey, we're trying to help, protested Carter, who was presently hovering within a few feet of him.

C'est vrai! LeBeau agreed, his brown eyes looking fierce in his ghostly face.

Newkirk's scowl softened. "And you did just that. Thanks, mates. Guess I needed a goodtalking to, myself. Better get back to it, then." The visions threw him smiles and salutes – and then in the blink of an eye - disappeared.

Newkirk softly cleared his throat and started talking.

HH HH HH HH HH

Benson was not sure what he had expected. A bridge that they had not bombed yet, maybe. But not this.

"It's a boat."

"Wow, nothing gets by you." Tivoli tossed off the last of the branches that had concealed the rowboat.

"An old boat." Benson gave it another dubious look. Strips of brittle paint curled from its board sides, rust colored the oarlocks and he didn't see an anchor anywhere.

"Okay, it's old, but there aren't any holes and it has both oars, too."

"You sure don't."

Tivoli's face screwed up at the pithy observation. "What's the matter with you? It's a way across! Now help me get it in the water." He grabbed onto the side of the boat with both hands and started to drag it down the bank. Feeling a lack of assistance, he paused and looked back. Benson showed no sign of moving. Tivoli slowly straightened, his hands coming to rest on his hips.

"What?"

"I'm not getting in that thing."

"I told you, there's nothing--" Tivoli's eyes suddenly widened, comprehension flattening his tone. "You can't swim."

"A lot of people can't swim!" Benson returned too quickly.

"You're from Michigan, for crying out loud!"

"We lived seventy miles from the closest lake," Benson growled, shoulders drawing up as his tension level climbed a notch higher. He pointedly avoided looking at the boat again. "I just never got around to learning, is all. And how did you know that I'm from Michigan?"

"Oh, for--" Tivoli threw his hands into the air. "Italians have ears just like everybody else!"

Benson had the grace to look embarrassed. But he still refused to look at what he considered the poorest excuse for a boat he had ever seen.

Tivoli studied him; scowl deepening. "Here's another news flash for you. I'm from Michigan, too, and unlike you, I practically grew up on the water."

Benson stared at him in surprise. "You're from Michigan? Where?"

Tivoli showed his teeth in a cool, slightly mocking smile. "Quit stalling."

Benson casually glanced down at the elderly boat. "Who do suppose put this thing here?"

"Popeye!" Tivoli snapped with a frustrated look heavenward. He stooped, grabbed hold of the boat again. "Now help me get it in the water!"

"The current's too strong. We'll be swept downstream." Despite his pessimism, Benson bent down and reluctantly put his weight into pushing against the boat's stern. It parted from the mud with a wet sucking sound and started slowly sliding along the ground.

"My school had the best sculling squad in the state," Tivoli told him, muscles bunching from the effort of guiding the boat's bow into the water. With a grunt of satisfaction, he reached back, shifting his grip. "I'll get us there."

"I don't suppose you've noticed there aren't any life-preservers in this tub," Benson protested, hating the whine in his voice. With a last combined effort, the boat slid free of the bank and into the water. It bobbed and rocked upon the waves, anchored only by Tivoli's hands, which were locked upon the stern and side. Water slapped at the boat's sides, as if trying to pull it from his grasp. He looked up at Benson, who remained motionless on the bank.

"Get in the boat," Tivoli said with marked patience.

Benson held up an index finger, mouth opening to speak. Tivoli's black brows drew together, his patience slipping.

"Get . . . in . . . the. . . boat."

Benson dropped his hand to his side. "I swear, Tivoli, if I drown, I'm coming back to haunt you." He sucked in a breath and with a great deal of trepidation, stepped forward and lowered one foot into the boat. It lurched under his weight, listing badly in the water. Benson's hand shot out, fingers clamping upon Tivoli's shoulder. His other hand waved wildly in the air, straining for balance.

"It's all right," Tivoli assured him in a surprisingly gentle voice. "You're not going to fall."

Trying to ignore the dark water on either side, Benson gingerly shifted his stance, transferring his full weight onto the rocking boat. He took a moment to get his balance, then lifted his other foot off the comfort of solid ground and into the boat. Straddle-legged and stiff as a board, one hand still locked on Tivoli's shoulder, he tried to adjust to the strange feeling of the boat constantly shifting on the waves.

"Okay?" Tivoli asked, his voice still gentle.

"Yeah," Benson breathed, appreciating the Italian's support. Tentatively, expecting to tip headfirst over the side, he slowly released Tivoli's shoulder. The boat remained relatively steady beneath him. He flashed a grin at the Italian, hugely relieved.

Tivoli's answering grin was genuine. "Okay. Real slow, go forward and sit down. I'll keep hold of the boat. Take it easy."

Arms out to his sides, Benson did as ordered, breath whooshing out in relief the moment his rump hit the board seat. Fearing splinters from the worn wood, he stayed perfectly still. With slow, careful movements, Tivoli stepped off the bank and into the boat, taking the other board seat. Without anything anchoring it, the boat immediately pivoted with the current and started drifting downstream. Benson glanced over at the other bank, then down at the water buoying them along with impressive speed.

"Uh . . ."

"Don't worry," Tivoli grunted, seating the boat's oars in their oarlocks. They shot home in the rusty cradles, creaked and squealed as he set them in motion. Shoulders and arms dipping and straining, he expertly worked the oars, slowing the boat's forward progress. Benson watched in silence until it suddenly registered that his feet were wet. Alarmed, he looked down at the bottom of the boat. Water was trickling in at a steady rate from between the boards. Benson clamped his hands on the boat's sides, lifted his feet out of the water, and glared across the boat at Tivoli.

"You said there were no holes!"

"There aren't," came Tivoli's quiet, level reply. "But the caulking isn't all that great."

"I hate you," Benson sighed, staring mournfully at the rising water level. Rub-a-dub-dub, two fools in a tub, he thought, already planning inventive ways to haunt Tivoli.

Still rowing with steady, even strokes, the Italian took his gaze off the far shore and made eye contact with him. "Hold on."

Benson blinked, ice seizing his spine. "Wh--"

The boat jerked, scraping rock and sand, throwing Benson forward on his seat and sending his feet back into the water with a splash. If not for his death-grip on the boat's sides, he would have ended up face down between Tivoli's boots.

"All ashore who's going ashore," Tivoli quietly sang out, grinning. Saving the urge to throttle the Italian, Benson twisted on the seat, looked behind him. They had gone aground - on the other side of the river - not in the middle of the river as he had feared. He glanced back, into a pair of laughing eyes.

"You –"

Tivoli flicked the fingers of one hand at him, shooing him off the boat. "A-vast and away with ye, me hearty. Thar's savin' to be done."

"It's a good thing 'I have but one concern'1, Mr. Christian." With studied grace, Benson eased himself off the seat and – proudly displaying not a bit of his former awkwardness or trepidation – stepped out of the boat and onto the bank.

Tivoli stowed the oars, joined Benson on solid ground and with his help, dragged the rowboat out of the water. Once it was concealed in the undergrowth, Tivoli turned to Benson, gestured expansively to the trees at their backs.

"After you, Captain Bligh."

"I liked you better without a sense of humor," Benson muttered sourly under his breath. Ignoring Tivoli's soft chuckle, he entered the woods by way of a well-used deer path.

1 Captain Bligh in Charles Nordhoff and James Norman Hall's 1932 novel Mutiny on the Bounty. "I have but one concern – our mission."

To be continued. Thank you for reading and your reviews!