She wanted to move on in life. In many ways she felt she had been moving on. But suddenly with the reminder of Timothy’s words came the realization that a huge roadblock lay in the middle of her path. That roadblock’s name was Ramsay Halifax.
If she was going to allow God’s forgiveness to enter her heart to enable her to forgive herself, she also had to forgive those who had wronged her. Ramsay most of all.
It was all she could do not to hate him. But forgive him! The idea was almost more than she could take in.
He had trapped her . . . used her. He didn’t deserve forgiveness, she said to herself. Even if he did . . . she didn’t want to forgive him.
Amanda walked into the heather garden. Immediately she felt enveloped in an attitude of prayer. The spirit of her father still hovered over this place into which he had invested so much of his time and energy. Little did she know that this had always been to him a special place of communion with both Father and wife on behalf of the wayward daughter whose life was now flowering with the fruit of those years of prayer.
As she went Amanda conversed with God, already resigning herself—willingly yet with the normal struggle of her flesh against the spirit—to what she realized was an inevitable necessity. She must forgive. She knew it. Yet she was not quite able to go so far all at once. She knew she would need help, for it was not an act she could carry out in her own strength. For now all she could pray was to be made willing to forgive. The prayer of willingness, however, is often taken into the heart of the Father as nearly as good as the act itself, for willingness at the beginning almost always leads to obedience in the end.
“God,” she said quietly, “help me forgive Ramsay, even though I am not sure I want to. Fill my heart with your forgiveness where I feel none of my own. Wherever Ramsay is at this moment, even if right now I cannot bring myself to say I love him or forgive him, I know that you do, and so I ask you to touch his heart with your love.”
As Ramsay stood in the cold, rainy dusk of the French port, his thoughts turned inexplicably toward the past, his years in England before the war, and finally to Amanda.
He remembered the first day he had seen her at the Kensington Lawn Tea, then their happy weeks together afterward.
Had he really cared about her, or only wanted to use her? Had his attraction at first been wholesome, or had deceit been in his heart even then? He would probably never know. Such questions were so far from the realm of his normal mode of thought that he quickly dismissed them. He and Amanda had had some good times, and that was as far as he could go with it.
He glanced around, trying to shake off thoughts of the past. The rain had stopped and the wind died down a little. He walked a few steps along the dock, then back, taking advantage of the lull in the weather to light a cigarette.
But he could not get Amanda out of his mind. Where was she now? he wondered. Had she begun a new life, or had she been swallowed up as one of a million innocent casualties of the war?
What if somehow they met again? Would anything be different? Did she hate him now? Or . . .
What was the use of such reflections, he tried to tell himself. He could never walk away from this life he had made for himself. He was in too deep.
Or was he?
Even if such a thing were possible . . . would he want to?
He kicked petulantly at a stone underfoot. Such reflections probed in unpleasant ways against his drowsy conscience. Might he have gone a different way? Maybe Amanda had been his chance, he thought. What could have been their life together had they remained in England and she been reconciled to her family? He could have become a gentleman, the son-in-law of an important man. Amanda might have given him a bright future.
He laughed morosely. Perhaps brighter than what he had to look forward to at present.
Was it too late for them to make a life together? Could he even find her if he wanted to . . . and what would she say?
A sound interrupted Ramsay’s thoughts.
He tossed his cigarette into the water and looked out toward the sea.
The low chugging of a boat’s engine had gradually intruded into his hearing. Ramsay peered through the wet dusk. Ahead of him faintly came into view through the mist the outline of a small vessel bearing straight toward him.
He watched as it slowed and closed the distance. Two or three shapes moved about on deck in readiness to tie onto the dock. It was not a large craft—probably thirty feet in length, and old. It had no doubt at one time been the handsome pleasure yacht of some Mediterranean aristocrat. It had seen better days, thought Ramsay as he watched its approach, and was now probably lucky to stay afloat at all.
This must be his contact. There didn’t appear another human being anywhere near this remote portion of the harbor where he had been told to wait.
Another two or three minutes he stood as the outline of the vessel’s shape slowly came into sharper focus.
Suddenly footsteps sounded behind him.
Ramsay turned.
Two dim figures approached through the thickening darkness. He stood waiting as they walked toward him, then stopped five feet away.
The brief illumination of a match being struck to a cigarette revealed a short, balding man with an evil glint in his eye.
“Scarlino—what are you doing here!” exclaimed Ramsay as the flicker reflected off the face.
“My employer this time is the Alliance,” replied his erstwhile companion. “They needed a delivery. Now that I’ve made mine, you’ve got to get this fellow to Vienna.”
“Why me?”
“That is your region, not mine. He must get to your safehouse.”
“Why?”
“I thought that was explained in the communiqué you were sent.”
“Nothing was explained.”
“No matter. From Vienna he will be seen to by central command.”
“How am I supposed to get him there?” asked Ramsay irritably.
Scarlino nodded to the boat now mooring behind them. “That is your transportation. You will be on the coast of Italy by morning. Reaching Vienna should not be a problem from there.”
“Who is he?” said Ramsay, nodding toward the tall shadow.
“That is not for you to know.”
Ramsay pulled out another cigarette and took a step toward them as he now struck a match of his own. He held it out slightly where it lit up the face of the man beside Scarlino.
A sharp intake of breath registered his shock.
“Put that out, Halifax,” said a voice Ramsay recognized as clearly as he just had the face. “Don’t try to get cute.”
Ramsay threw the match to the ground.
“—You didn’t tell me our contact was a Brit,” the man added to Scarlino.
“You two know each other?” said Scarlino in surprise, glancing back and forth.
“Let’s just say our paths have crossed,” replied Ramsay in a tone of irony.
“All right, so now you know, Halifax,” said the Englishman. “It changes nothing.”
“But I thought—”
“You and your mum and Barclay aren’t the only moles coming out of hiding,” interrupted the man in anticipation of his question. “So can you get me to Vienna?”
“I can get you there. But why you, Forsythe? You helped Churchill break up the lighthouse operation.”
“I had to keep my cover intact. I had no choice at the time, when Barclay’s security broke down. I couldn’t save the operation.”
“That still does not answer why.”
“We all have our reasons, Halifax,” replied Colonel Forsythe, “and mine are my own business.”
61
Happy Departure
The scene this time at the Milverscombe train station was much different than at Sister Hope’s previous departure. Betsy was flitting about hardly able to contain herself. She and Catharine were running down to the end of the platform like two energetic youngsters to see who could be first to spot the approaching train, who
se slowing engine and giant white puffs of smoke they could already hear and see in the distance.
“Timothy will meet you at the station,” Jocelyn was saying.
“Yes,” nodded Hope almost absently, checking their tickets again, uncharacteristically nervous now that the moment of her departure with Betsy had come.
“He should have all the necessary papers when you arrive,” Jocelyn went on. “If not, he says it will be another three or four days at the most.”
Her statement seemed to bring Hope to herself.
“Imagine, Betsy and me in London for three days!” she laughed. “What have I got myself into? I will have my hands full!”
“You will love it,” smiled Amanda. “Betsy won’t let you do anything but have a great time.”
“Perhaps everything is already in order,” added Jocelyn. “Timothy sounded optimistic when I spoke to him last evening.”
“The train is coming!” came Betsy’s excited shriek into their ears as she pounded down the wooden platform toward them, Catharine on her heels.
It did not take long now. The train slowed and stopped. A few smiling glances followed. The beginning of tears, then suddenly the four grown women rushed forward into a solid bundle of arms and whisperings, kisses and farewells, while Betsy impatiently grabbed one of the bags and ran to the conductor who had just stepped from an open door of the nearest coach.
“I will never forget any of you,” said Hope, eyes glistening as she glanced at all three of them one by one.
“Nor we you,” rejoined Jocelyn.
“Don’t forget your promise to visit.”
“I doubt Amanda will let me,” laughed Jocelyn.
Hope and Amanda found one another’s eyes.
“Amanda . . .” began Hope.
But there were no words.
Of one accord they embraced and held each other tight.
“Thank you, Hope,” whispered Amanda. “Thank you for everything . . . I love you.”
“’Board!” came the call from the conductor behind them. Hope pulled away, smiled into Amanda’s face one final time, then turned.
“May the Lord bless and prosper you,” she said. “All the sisters will keep you in their prayers.”
She and Betsy boarded the train and found seats. Soon Betsy was eagerly leaning out the window.
“Good-bye, Betsy!” called Catharine.
“Write us a letter, Betsy,” added Jocelyn.
The train began to move. Betsy shrieked with glee. Catharine, Amanda, and Jocelyn lifted their arms and slowly began walking along the platform in the direction of the motion, continuing to wave until the train was out of sight.
Gradually the metallic clattering of the train’s wheels along the steel tracks receded into the distance. In another minute it had faded altogether from their hearing. The three women turned and walked quietly back through the station and to their car.
“Suddenly everything is so still,” said Catharine.
“I hadn’t realized how much Betsy had changed Heathersleigh,” smiled Jocelyn. “You’re right—it is quiet. Perhaps the Lord sent her to remind us that even in death there can still be life.”
“As much as we have lost,” added Amanda, “think of poor Betsy. At least we have each other. She has no one.”
“Except for Hope,” her mother reminded her. “Who knows but that this may be the beginning of a wonderful new life for them both.”
————
Later that evening Amanda went to her father’s study on the first floor, sat down at his desk, and telephoned London.
“Hello, Timothy,” she said when the minister answered. “It’s Amanda. Did Betsy and Hope arrive all right?”
“Yes, and both are in fine spirits. They should be on their way to the Continent within two or three days.”
“Well, give them our love again.—I called, Timothy,” Amanda now began more seriously, “to say that I have decided to follow your advice and file for an annulment. I would like you to look further into the legalities, if you don’t mind, and tell me what I should do.”
“Of course, my dear. I will be only too glad to help.”
62
Shootout at Sea
The HMS Livingstone, a frigate of the British Royal Navy, ploughed through the waters of the Mediterranean, growing calmer now after the night’s brief squall.
The grey of dawn had just come to the horizon. The officer standing at the prow with binoculars scanning the distance for sign of their quarry only hoped they were not too late.
How much better had they been able to get to them before Marseille. Once out to sea, finding them became nearly impossible. But they had to stop the escape vessel before it reached Italian shores—or before encountering an Alliance warship themselves—otherwise many high-level military secrets could reach enemy hands.
Suddenly the faint outline of a vessel appeared in the distance against the grey light of morning.
The officer squinted and adjusted the focus of the lenses. It was a boat, all right, and bearing almost due east.
He turned and ran to the bridge to alert the captain. Within a minute the Livingstone’s course had changed by fifteen degrees, which would exactly intercept the boat as they reached it.
Forty minutes later the frigate pulled alongside the small yacht. The latter had given no response to repeated messages and commands.
“Stop or be fired upon,” called a voice over the loudspeaker. “This is the British Royal Navy. This is your final warning.”
Still no response was evident.
Captain Logan turned to his second in command. “Mr. Briscoe, send a shot across their bow.”
Thirty seconds later a small torpedo fired out from the Livingstone. It sped through the water just below the surface, missing the bow of the yacht by a mere thirty or forty feet.
At last the smaller craft cut its engines and began to slow.
The captain gave the stop-order to his engine room. On deck the crew made preparations to board the yacht. Still they had seen no one.
“All right, Lieutenant,” said Captain Logan, turning to the officer at his side who had spotted the escape craft. “I suppose it’s your operation now. Tell us what you want us to do.”
“Thank you, Captain,” replied Lieutenant Langham. “Lieutenant Forbes and I will climb down to see if the man is indeed on board.”
“You still cannot tell me who it is?”
“We may be wrong, Captain. If he is here, you will know soon enough.”
The two naval officers on special assignment from the headquarters of the First Lord of the Admiralty prepared to finish the job they had been sent to do. Several petty officers tossed the rope ladder over and secured it. Langham immediately climbed over the rail and made his way down the side of the frigate. Lieutenant Forbes stood in readiness a moment, then followed.
Suddenly a figure appeared at the stern of the yacht below.
“That looks like . . . Colonel Forsythe . . . of the army!” exclaimed the captain where he stood at the railing.
“I’m afraid you’re right, sir,” Forbes called behind him as he climbed over the ship’s side. “We hoped we were wrong. But intelligence reports said that the colonel might try to make a run for it. It appears we were just in time.”
Lieutenant Langham was nearly down by now. He jumped to the yacht’s deck, losing his balance briefly, then stood and began walking calmly toward Forsythe.
“It’s over, Colonel,” he said. “You have no place to go. Give it up, and perhaps—”
“You’re not taking me alive, Langham!” shouted Forsythe, suddenly pulling a gun. “I’ve come this far . . . I’m not going back now!”
Langham froze. On the deck of the frigate a dozen or more officers immediately pulled their weapons and trained them downward. For a second or two, everything stood still.
Behind him, Langham heard Forbes’s booted feet now thudding onto the deck.
Forsythe glanced toward the noise. Langha
m took the momentary diversion as his opportunity and rushed forward to disarm the traitor.
But Forsythe saw the movement and reacted instantly. Any thought that he was bluffing immediately disappeared when two shots rang out, one followed by the ricocheting ping of a miss against the steel hull of the frigate. But as the second died out Langham fell with a groan on the wooden plankway. The same instant Forsythe turned and ran for below.
Forbes sprinted after him.
“Get down there!” shouted Captain Logan to his men. “Briscoe . . . take the colonel alive!”
Half a dozen more forms scurried down the rope ladder. In several seconds the would-be escape yacht swarmed with the white and blue of the Royal Navy.
Langham pulled himself slowly to his feet. His vision was blurred and pain seared his body. He staggered forward, trying to pull his own gun. Three or four uniformed officers ran by.
“Stop, Forsythe!” Forbes cried. “—You others . . . to the bridge!”
Langham’s senses were dulled. He could barely see clearly. Everywhere men were now running and shouting. More shots rang out. Forbes returned the fire as he ran.
Langham grabbed at a rail and tried to steady himself and focus, but with difficulty. In the midst of the commotion, a man stepped from behind a steel pillar. Langham recognized him vaguely, but in his blurry confusion could not place the face. The man had a gun and now aimed to shoot. Langham lifted his pistol. His arm was heavy. He staggered a step or two. Behind him someone returned the fire. He heard a cry of pain and the sound of a fall. Bullets were screaming and ricocheting everywhere, the air filled with gunshots and metallic, pinging echoes.
Langham struggled a step or two, then stumbled over a body.
“There are two dead,” he heard one of the officers say.
Gradually the gunfire died down.
“We’ve got the control room,” shouted one of Logan’s officers, running out and signaling up to the frigate.
“Drop your weapons!” came the captain’s voice over the loudspeaker.
Langham shook his head to clear his vision, then saw Lieutenant Forbes emerge from below, gun poised on Colonel Forsythe. He tried again to walk toward them. A wave of pain surged through his limbs. Suddenly his vision faded and he fell senseless.
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