Gwinnett, Kessler, and Cornelius began running down the beach, following Margaret’s general direction in the water but remaining on land.
Margaret was maybe ten feet away from the foal, whose ears were all that were visible as the rip current dragged her from the shore. As a wave approached, Margaret inhaled deeply, then dived into the sea, extending her arms as far forward as possible until finally her fingertips, then her full palms, touched the pony, covered in soft, silky hair. She slid her arms around the sides of the foal’s body, clasped her fingers under her barrel, and tried to stand. As she straightened her legs, the depth of the water surprised her. She was able to stand, but barely, on the balls of her feet, with her head and mouth just reaching the air above. She found herself trapped in a tug-of-war with the undertow as she and the foal battled against the current.
It was then that she thought, for just a split second, of Charlie and his stories from training for D-Day.
She could hear the men yelling from the shore, but she didn’t know what they were saying and she didn’t care. The foal couldn’t have weighed that much, and given natural buoyancy, Margaret thought she should have been able to quickly float the pony to the shallows, but it proved more difficult than she’d anticipated. The foal’s thrashing complicated her attempts to hang on to her as the ocean dragged her out to sea. Soon Margaret could no longer touch the bottom of the ocean. She was athletic enough to keep holding the foal’s head above the water, the scissor kick of her legs preventing them from drifting farther, but the result was essentially stasis.
Then suddenly the burden of the foal was partly lifted, and the mass of their bodies was successfully resisting the undertow. Though the inky black sky and dark ocean had all but merged into one ominous void for Margaret, she could sense that someone else had joined them. At first in her panic she imagined some giant fish or dolphin, some magical sea creature arriving deus ex machina, but after she regained her footing and she and the foal edged their way to a shallower patch where she could stand, she saw that it was a man with them, and he had the foal by her head and forelegs and was helping to carry her while also bringing both of them to safety, and she thought maybe it was Gwinnett but then the man raised his head to look at her and she was stunned to see that it was Charlie.
Chapter Twenty
Wednesday, March 10, 1954
Maryland Rural Route 32
His sudden trip to Nanticoke Island had been the most impulsive action Charlie had taken in a decade. Behaving erratically energized and emboldened him, allowing him to cast off the chains of predictable adult behavior amid the chaotic swirl of his life these past three months. He had gotten off the train in Baltimore and hired a taxi to take him to the end of Maryland Rural Route 32, the tip of the isthmus, although he had to try eight different cabbies before he finally found one who agreed to do it, for twice the normal rate. Charlie had the cash on hand; part of him must have known he was going to make this rash journey. He told the hack he’d give him fifty bucks if he waited an hour in that same spot.
He arrived at the tip of the isthmus just after eight p.m. There was a narrow footbridge from there to Susquehannock Island, but to get to Nanticoke he would need a boat. The local live-bait store was not yet open for the season, but a young man doing inventory on new rods and reels, nets and lures agreed to rent him a motorboat. He took it to Nanticoke Island and disembarked at the small, shabby dock.
From there, Charlie had walked through a thicket of trees, then to the campsite, which cast the only light he could discern on the island, from a still-crackling fire around which stood four tents. No one was there, but he heard noises from beyond some bushes, past a dune, so he headed to what he presumed would be the beach.
From the dune he saw Margaret in the distance running into the water; he wasn’t sure why. He watched in disbelief as the three men made their way to the closest spot to her on the sand but never went into the water. Charlie began running toward his wife and saw her head disappear beneath the waves. Next thing Charlie knew, he was sprinting into the sea, gasping at its frigidity, racing toward Margaret and what he now saw was a thrashing pony. He grabbed the pony around her barrel behind her front legs and eased her and Margaret to shallower water until the two of them were together carrying the pony to the safety of the sand.
Margaret and Charlie locked eyes and gently laid the foal on the beach away from the waves before they collapsed on hands and knees, gasping for breath and shivering in the cold. At last the other men sprang into action; Cornelius tended to the foal, covering her with a towel while he checked her pulse and breathing; Kessler draped blankets over Charlie’s and Margaret’s shoulders, while Gwinnett checked their pulses. Margaret, in an adrenaline-fueled daze, kept looking at Charlie and shaking her head, whether in disbelief that he was really here or that they had just pulled off this unlikely rescue, he couldn’t tell.
After a few more minutes of silence, Margaret stood and approached Cornelius, still ministering to the wet foal. The pony lay on her side with her head in the grad student’s lap; he was scratching her chin groove with one hand, patting her muzzle with the other. She had a teardrop-shaped pattern on her forehead, recalling the stallion from weeks before. Her flank was expanding and contracting at a rapid clip, her eyes staring dolefully at nothing in particular until they flickered to Margaret. Against all her scientific training and instincts, Margaret felt a connection, almost an understanding, pass between them.
“She’s going to be okay, I think,” Cornelius said.
“Well, she’s going to live,” Margaret said. “But I don’t know that she’s going to survive without her parents. Maybe we can get her to a local farm.”
“Why don’t we go to the camp?” Gwinnett suggested. “Warm up by the fire.”
Charlie put a tentative arm around Margaret’s shoulders and the two headed to the warmth of the fire that Kessler was now feeding with kindling. It was agreed that Margaret and Charlie should get out of their wet clothes, so Margaret went into her tent, and Charlie accepted Gwinnett’s offer of a loan to replace his soaking-wet pants, shirt, and socks.
The group stood around the fire warming themselves, and finally Charlie spoke. “With Margaret’s permission, I’d like to take her home. She can come back after a little rest, I think. Yes?” He turned to Margaret and she nodded.
“You sure about that, Mags?” Gwinnett asked. She nodded again.
Charlie shook Gwinnett’s hand with a firm grip and looked him in the eye. The message was clear, he felt: I’ve got it from here, fella.
“Okay, we can leave your camp set up,” Gwinnett said. “We’ll be here until the first week of May. Come back as soon as you can.”
“We can move your tent and gear to Susquehannock in two weeks,” Kessler added, “or bring it to you in DC in a month.”
The Marders walked through the brush and to the dock. Charlie guided Margaret into the motorboat he had rented, and they headed to the mainland, where the cabbie was waiting. They were spent, so they asked him to take them to the local motel, Polly’s Lodging. The two barely spoke as they were driven through the dark, though Charlie’s hand eventually found its way to Margaret’s.