by Tracy Groot
He picked himself up, and there was no getting out of this, no shrewd maneuver, no time to be indignant at the poor seamanship of whoever bashed into her. Her crushed stern took on water in seconds, and there it loomed, a great powerful barge bearing down on the little ketch, crushing it like dry crackers, soldiers tumbling from the barge, some into the drink, some onto Maggie, some thrown straight to the climbing net on the side of the destroyer—at that he could only think, How clever, how very efficient.
Get Murray, get Smudge, get out.
But curse the inconvenient sense of duty, he first helped those thrown onto Maggie because she wasn’t going down yet, as the barge pinned her against the destroyer, and he prayed the pilot wouldn’t do something as foolish as back away now. Let’s work together, man; this is going to be tricky.
He looked for Smudge and Murray as he helped men gain the net, but didn’t see them. Where could they be? I could use some help.
“Orderly, now,” he called hoarsely to men scrambling down to Maggie from the barge. He grabbed one, he steadied another, he dragged one up from the water and pushed him to the net. The barge ground against Maggie, kept her neatly propped as a bridge, and he looked to catch eyes with the pilot, but saw no pilot in the cockpit for there was no cockpit, and that’s when he realized the barge had been bombed.
The barge listed to port, and her grip on Maggie slipped. Maggie’s crushed stern slid several feet, and water began to pour in.
Then Maggie fell away beneath him, and William scrambled and leapt and caught the bottom of the net, climbed a few footholds, and frantically searched the area for Murray and Smudge.
“Murray!”
“Bobby! Bobby, up here!”
In the crowd of soldiers leaning over the rail, William finally picked out the anxious faces of Murray and Smudge. He’d sort out later how they’d managed that feat. He sagged against the net in relief.
“Come on, bobby, climb!”
“You can do it!”
“Oh, shut up,” William muttered. Why couldn’t they sail back to England this way? He was secure enough. He looked up. It was a long way up.
He saw a few soldiers swing legs over the rail, ready to sprint down for him like a couple of agile little monkeys just brimming with vigor.
“I’m coming!” he growled, waving them off.
Cursing the world and all that was in it, he began his ascent of the destroyer but, oh, oh, how tired he was.
One handhold, one foothold, up we go. One handhold, one foothold, up we go . . .
Murray and William sat on a . . . Actually, William didn’t know what they sat on, something uncomfortable and covered with a tarp. Smudge lay asleep at their feet, a neat bandage about his head.
It was a time for philosophical reflection, a moment Butterfield would have adored.
“Well, that woke me up,” said William hoarsely.
“Me too,” Murray whispered. His voice was gone.
“I hate to discover that I have reserves.”
“Me too.”
“I mean very deep reserves. I can be pushed far more than I ever imagined. It’s disturbing.”
“Yeah.”
“Let’s not tell anyone. A thing like that can’t get out.”
“I’m just tryin’ to care that we lost Mags. I don’t.”
“Neither do I.”
“Is that bad, bobby?”
A deckhand came by and put cups of hot cocoa in their hands. He knuckled his forehead, grinning a gap-toothed grin, and backed away.
“Thank you. There’s a good chap. It’s likely bad. Right now I suspect that I have poor judgment. I care only that I lost a piece of trim. I’d carved the number of each rescue on it. I wanted to show Clare.”
“How many did we save?”
“Oh, lots. Lots of little worlds.”
“That’s great. But right now . . . I don’t care. Is that bad?”
“Oh, that is bad. That’s definitely bad. But you can care later.”
“I can?”
“I give you permission to care later,” William said grandly.
“Gee. Thanks, bobs.”
“A nice little sleep for a night or two, you can wake up and care, care, care.”
After a moment, Murray said, “Care about what?”
“I haven’t the faintest.”
A few soldiers came by and said some nonspecific things, whacked William on the back and spilled his cocoa, moved on. He glared at the spot on his trousers, but then saw, amazed, many spots.
“I’m still trying to work out how you got to the deck so fast,” said William.
“They came down and got us. Wasn’t fast.”
“Yes it was fast,” William said peevishly. “The barge hit, I looked, you were gone.”
Murray stared at him. His eyes were inflamed, caked at the corners and rimmed with salt. His face was swollen and streaked with blood, grease, and grime.
“Good heavens,” said William, dismayed. “I hope I don’t look like you.”
“Wasn’t fast, bobby. Smudge got conked again. Had all I could do to keep him from goin’ in. Took ’em half an hour to get us up here.”
“Nonsense.”
A middle-aged uniformed officer came up, a younger uniformed man at his side. Though William was past bleary, he saw brass and bars and tried to sit up straight and make himself a bit respectable. He discreetly crossed his legs to hide the cocoa stain.
“I’ve seen many things this past week.” The older officer took off his hat. “Nothing like that.” He put out his hand.
William shook it. Poor man. He looked very tired.
“I’m putting you in for an order of chivalry,” he said.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” William snapped. “Help a man off a barge, they want to award you for it. It’s spectacle gone to seed. Next they’ll award you for getting up in the morning.”
“Bobby,” Murray whispered. “You was at it for an hour.”
William stared.
Murray jerked a thumb at the officer. “This guy knows his stuff—kept nosin’ this mammoth into Maggie and the barge so you could get ’em off. You was some team. Attaboy, Sailor Bob.” He nodded at the officer, then looked at the younger man. “Junior Bob—put him up for the same award.”
Junior Bob smiled brilliantly and gave a nod. “It will be a pleasure.”
Bits came prickling back, just bits . . .
William stared at the middle-aged officer. Wonderingly, he said, “You kept us together.” He shook his head. “That is seamanship. What is your name?”
“Phil.”
“Well done, Phil.” He would stand and salute, in the flush of admiration for this skilled and very tired man, but he couldn’t move.
“Mr. Vance . . . would you sign this, please?” The younger officer unfolded a piece of paper.
“Sure, Junior Bob.”
Junior Bob handed Murray a pen. He made an X on the paper.
“It’s all I can do,” he whispered.
“I quite understand.”
“What is that?” William asked. Junior Bob held it up for him to see.
“It’s you, bobby. And the guys you saved. And the last of Maggie. All they had was a grease pen and the back of a chart.”
William studied the drawing. “Why did you do it?”
“It hollered to be drawn.”
Junior Bob folded the drawing and said some nonspecific things—many men did, they kept coming by, kept coming by, kept shaking hands with the officer and William, and William tried hard to control the trembling in his body and wished they’d all go away. Their congratulations taxed and vexed; he found it more exhausting than sailing.
They finally left, and it was time for philosophical reflection once more. He thought of Mrs. Shrewsbury. He saw her on her knees, hands clasped, a Dundee cake nearby.
“Thank you, Mrs. Shrew,” he whispered. To Murray he said, “Is your face numb?”
But Murray was sleeping, and William took his cocoa before it spilled
. He patted Smudge, sleeping at their feet, and took a sip from his cup.
“Which hospital, mate?” the cab driver said.
“Can’t remember,” William said hoarsely. “Are we in London? Are we here?”
“We are.”
“Good.”
The Maggie Bright was gone. How could he tell her?
“I need a name, mate.”
“Hospital,” William said, irritated. He closed his eyes and stood in a clearing with ever-diminishing perimeters as unconsciousness came crouching in assertive gray billows. But not yet, not yet.
“Look at you. Can’t imagine what it’s like over there. Poor sod.”
The pity angered, just what he needed, and his eyes flew open. “I have to get to her before it . . . I can’t think of the word. Caves.”
“But I need a name, mate.”
One William battled the gray with a sword, while the William in the clearing said, “Whitehall.”
“Whitechapel?”
“Whitechapel! That’s it. London Hospital.”
“We’re in business, mate.” He wheeled the car into traffic.
“Don’t let me fall asleep.” Curse the trembling! He stared at his hand. He couldn’t stop it.
“When’s the last you slept?”
“Don’t know.”
What soon would be Clare’s loss made heavy his heart and beckoned the gray all the more. His tricks to stay awake were failing. He smacked his face, he put his head out the window, sang a song as loudly as he could. He stomped his feet up and down, or thought he did, but found they did not move.
“Were you in one of the little boats we’re hearing about?”
“Her name was Maggie Bright. She went down.” Such a deep, hoarse, tired voice. William would pity it, were it not his own.
“Bad luck.”
“Yes.” He looked through the window. “Bad luck.”
Trees passed by, people, sandbags, buildings.
“What was it like over there? What did you do?”
A white glow came to William’s heart, phosphorescence in a dark sea. “Well, there’s a bright spot. We did something wonderful. I just can’t remember what it was.”
The cab driver pulled up to the London Hospital, and helped William out of the car. He held on to William and walked him into the building. When the receptionist gave them directions for Clare’s room and rose to watch them go, the cab driver helped William find the room. He was about to leave when William cried, “Wait!” and, stupefied, patted his trouser pockets.
“No charge, mate.” The cab driver smiled, winked, and walked away whistling.
William opened the door and staggered into the room. Clare was in bed, bright as a button, and on seeing him, sat up.
He held on to the doorknob. His hand twitched convulsively, moving it back and forth.
“You’re all right, then,” he said hoarsely.
“I am.”
“No infection.”
“None.”
He let go the doorknob, made it to the bed, lay down beside her. He pulled her close, as great gray billows crashed upon the clearing, and passed from consciousness.
He reeked of petrol and oil and fish and sweat. He was blackened and blood-smeared, scruff-faced and swollen-eyed, his hair stiff and spiky with sweat and salt. His detective inspector clothing, the office shirt and trousers, would have to be thrown away.
Clare looked about the room, taking note of little things—the leftover cake, the sunlight at the window. His right arm lay heavy across her. She took his hand and inspected his palm. It was blistered and grime-creased. There was the cut from the teacup at the restaurant, dirty and inflamed.
She kissed the cut and snuggled in beside him. She loved the weight of that arm.
A DAY HAD PASSED and William Percy had not yet woken, and his appearance had not changed. He still slept in Clare’s bed, with Clare beside him. It was a snug fit, but they managed.
Clare was pleased to see that any hint of impropriety that this might cause was completely ignored by all, hospital staff and visitors alike. The Hero of the Thames was now one of the many heroes of Dunkirk, and far more visitors came to peek in on William than they did Clare. William’s mother and father came with little Cecy, who brought another furry peppermint for Clare and flowers for her brother. Frederick Butterfield made an appearance, and the desk sergeant from the Westminster precinct.
Father Fitzpatrick came for a brief farewell visit and did something lovely before he left: he blessed them. She’d never been part of a blessing before. He stood at the door and raised his hand to them, and said something about the Lord blessing them, keeping them, causing his face to shine upon them. It was lovely, and glowing, and then he left.
Mrs. Shrewsbury arrived with a bag of things she’d collected for Clare from the Maggie Has Gone to War pile.
“How’s Murray?” Clare asked as she came in.
“Still sleeping,” Mrs. Shrew whispered. “He’s on a cot in the Anderson hut, snoring to shame a jackhammer. How’s our sailor?” She drew up a chair. “Gracious. I smelled him the moment I walked into the room. Very different from the soldiers.”
“We’ve tried to freshen him but gave up,” Clare whispered. “I can’t bear to wake him.”
“He’ll have a good long wee when he does. How do you feel, my dear?”
“A kitten could beat me up. But I am happy.” She reached for Mrs. Shrew’s hand. “Dear me, I am so happy.”
“Even with the loss of Maggie Bright . . .” Mrs. Shrew reached for a tissue from the bedside table and pressed it to her eyes. “I feel so terribly bad. I know how much she meant to you.”
“She went down for a child whose name I’ll never know. On the contrary, Mrs. Shrew, I do not feel sad. Perhaps that will come later when I stand beside Maggie’s empty berth. For now, all I feel is joy.”
She took a tissue from Mrs. Shrew, and they wept, and blotted, and composed.
“I have William, who will never be more handsome to me than he is right now—I clipped a piece of his shirt to remember this beautiful filth forever. I have you. I have Murray, who happens to be my brother. I have Captain John, who has his son back. I have the knowledge that my birth father was a good man, and I have a new friend in an American Burglar Vicar. It’s as if Maggie Bright brought our hands together to touch, and now she’s slipped off, but look what she’s left behind. I’m the richest woman in the world. Oh! And I’ve been blessed!”
“You’ve been what?” said the Shrew, startled, mid-blow on the tissue.
“The Burglar Vicar did it before he left. You would have loved it. He is somewhere between Catholic and Protestant, so it was nice middle ground, and he raised his hand right there at the door and said the loveliest words I’ve ever heard. Something about blessing, and keeping, and shining.”
William suddenly sat up. He looked about, confused. He seemed ready to say something, then fell back to the bed, instantly asleep. His slightly altered position revealed a cut on the back of his neck. Clare touched it.
“The wee will have to wait,” Mrs. Shrew said regretfully.
“Oh, goodness . . .”
The Shrew sighed. “My dear . . . I can’t help but think of the jar with your coins. I found it in the Maggie Has Gone to War pile. I confess I wept.” She sniffed. “Your dream to circumnavigate the world sank in the English Channel.”
“But I’ve already done so! I’ve come full circle. I’m back to real people once more, and I’ve been blessed.” She lightly brushed crusted salt from William’s eyebrow, and smiled when the eyebrow twitched. “I have a new dream, you see. This man and I shall round Cape Horn together one day. Lashed to the foremast for fun.”
ON JUNE 2, JUST BEFORE MIDNIGHT, Captain Bill Tennant of His Majesty’s Royal Navy signaled Dover Command: “BEF evacuated.” Then he boarded the Motorized Torpedo Boat-102 and headed home, under enemy fire, for England.
In the nine-day siege of Dunkirk, Churchill and the Admiralty hoped to
save 30,000 to 45,000 men through the efforts of the Royal Navy, the Royal Air Force, and any available civilians.
They saved 340,000.
At 10:20 a.m. on June 4, a swastika was hoisted on the eastern mole of the harbor.
Dunkirk had fallen.
War would change him, and so it did.
His boy was older, wiser, and heartbroken. He never said a word to tell it, but John Elliott knew. He’d been there, twentysome years ago.
They sat on the old whitewashed bench in front of the bait shop, watching the boats go by on the Thames.
“Dad. I met a man.”
He got no further than that, and John Elliott put an arm around his son.
“It’s all right, lad. We’ll get through it together. So we will.” He took out a cloth and blew mightily.
Jamie chuckled at that old, familiar sound, and wiped his face.
He looked about the boatyard. He looked where Minor’s old tug used to be, and he looked at the Lizzie Rose. She came into Ramsgate with never a scratch. Dad had taken off four loads of men.
This dear, familiar place. He’d not see it again for a long while. He had to meet in twenty-four hours for reassignment. They were sending them off to camps all over England to prepare for invasion. He wondered where Griggs and Curtis would go. Baylor was in the hospital at Dover. They’d send him when he was ready.
“I’ll miss old Minor,” said Jamie.
“I will, too. Dodgy old sod.”
“What happened?”
“Took off three loads before a torpedo sank a paddle steamer, and Minor was too close.” He blew his nose again. “You never know about a man.”
“No. You don’t. Dad, when I come back I want to open a pub. I want to call it Milton’s Men.”
Jamie told Captain John all he saw in his mind, and when he was done, the worried old man was at peace. His boy was going to be fine.
It was a lovely day, and Mrs. Shrewsbury wanted to be alone, and she wanted to be alone at Maggie’s empty berth.
She slipped off her shoes and sat on the edge of the dock. She tried to put her toes in the water but they did not reach. She squinted at the sky.
“What did you see from your glorious vantage when we prayed?” she asked Cecil. “When the shatterer went forth, and prevailed not?”
