centuries earlier and done so much to defeat the British, damn his eyes. And in that same crowded year the National Congress of American Indians had declared him a fully fledged heir of the Iroquois tribe in direct descent through his mother, Jennie. Churchill was half American, but eternally English.
Just occasionally during those lonely watches of the night he would wonder whether such things mattered in the afterlife, if there were an afterlife. He had long ago decided that if he found himself at the gateway to Heaven he would knock politely and hope to be greeted by an enormous number of family and friends, those he had loved and long ago lost, those who had gone before. His mother would be there, shining like a distant star, as she had throughout his childhood, and his brother Jack, along with his infant daughter Marigold. Death would answer so many uncertainties, soothe so many pains. Ah, but his father—would he be there, or was he to be found in what might be termed “another place”? Throughout the extended pain of their relationship the younger Churchill had managed to maintain an almost obsessive devotion for his father; he hoped that one day, perhaps, Randolph would do the same.
There would be his own time of judgment, of course, and the judgment upon him would take longer than most, balancing the many moments of his life, weighing them. When he had been younger—at least until he had been eighty—he had never bothered with self-doubt. Some things he had got right and others outrageously wrong, yet he had always insisted that the worst sin was not to have done what might prove to be wrong but to have done nothing at all. His motto had been simple, forthright. Keep Buggering On! So he had charged forwards. He had always suspected that History would judge him kindly, if only because he had written so much of it, but what about Eternity? What verdict would that pass upon him? “I am ready to meet my Maker,” he had once declared, “but whether my Maker is ready for the great ordeal of meeting me is another matter!” Yet now there was no longer any sense of challenge, only tedium, and the biggest ordeal was waking to face another interminable and pointless day.
His sleep was restless when he woke—or was this, after all, nothing but a dream? He couldn’t any longer be sure; it was so difficult to tell. It seemed that so much of the last few years had been imaginary, confused, his mind no longer obedient, playing tricks on him. Slowly the shutters of time were closing and would soon be shut tight, and if so much of what he still felt was real, like last night’s kick-about with Randolph, he would much prefer to spend what was left of his days in a state of illusion or outright intoxication. But whether dream or reality, when he next arrived at a point of awareness he found himself in a foul mood. He opened his eyes and was at first blinded by the brilliance of the light that cascaded from every polished corner of the deck and sea beyond, a little like he imagined he would find the entranceway to Heaven. His eyes began to water, his head to ache. He knew his cigar was cold and he found his champagne glass empty. Damn this life. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he saw the outline of a servant, one of the yacht’s crew, clad in white coat, hovering near at hand.
“Gimme a drink,” he repeated, his old voice rising.
Still nothing.
The old man’s hand went to his head, touching his brow, trying to dispel the fog of confusion. Dream? Reality? Or was he having another infernal stroke? It might be that he was now living only on the inside and had become merely an inert observer at his own death. Terrors such as these prosper in old age. But then again, perhaps the crewman was Greek, or French, spoke no English. He tried another tack.
“Je suis Churchill!”
Now the other man stirred. “Et je suis polonais.”
I am Polish . . . The words rushed at Churchill like a wind across the water, beginning to