“Herr commander,” called the young lieutenant as he removed his heavy headset.
“Ja, Lieutenant,” replied the commander of the Admiral Mannheim wearily. It was already midnight, and he had been up since before dawn maneuvering his submarine to its present locale some three miles off the coast of Scotland in the North Sea. He hadn’t liked the assignment from the first. It was dangerous in such shallow water. But his superiors had made it clear: This man is worth keeping happy. Do whatever he says. And the commander was one who could follow orders, whether he happened to like them or not. That was how one got ahead in the German navy. So he would carry out his duty and ask no questions.
“It’s been half an hour, mein Herr, and I have not been able to raise our contact again. Shall I continue to signal?”
Commander Von Graff sighed and, as if he planned to ignore his officer’s query, ordered the periscope up. Leaning heavily on the horizontal bars, he scanned the storm-tossed seas above. On nights like these he was thankful for submarine duty. The other-worldliness of traveling fifty fathoms below the turmoils on the surface never failed to thrill him. And to do so in this craft, one of the Fatherland’s finest, equipped with all the newest technology as part of the newly revitalized German military, only added to the dreamlike dimension. Of course, even if Hitler were elected and, as some predicted, poured three or four times as much into more sophisticated equipment, that would still not enable him to see more than a few yards on a night like this.
Von Graff stood back from the periscope and turned toward his subordinate. “The wind is blowing twenty to thirty knots up there,” he said, “and he probably has nothing but a fishing radio. But . . . you had better keep up the signaling, if for no other reason than we shall have trouble from our guest if we don’t.”
“Ja wohl, mein Herr,” replied the lieutenant obediently, but there was a smirk on his lips that the commander could hardly miss.
“You do not approve?” asked Von Graff with a knowing smile.
“Are you asking my opinion, mein Herr?”
The commander nodded.
“Then I would candidly say,” the young officer went on, “that the German Reich could do well enough without American financiers getting involved in it.”
Von Graff laughed, though without making a sound.
“Someday that will be so,” he said, turning suddenly serious. “But in the meantime we will have to suck in our pride and kiss the boots of men like our guest. We are still paying for the foolishness of 1918, but it shall not be so much longer.”
“What were you saying?” came a caustic voice from behind the two men.
The commander swung around. “Ah, mein Herr,” he said with an air of cool politeness, “we were discussing the status of your associate.”
“Which is?”
“We have had no radio contact for the last thirty minutes. In this storm . . . anything might have happened.”
“Well, you just better find him,” retorted the newcomer. “I’m paying you good money for this excursion.”
“The Reich is paying me,” rejoined the commander with just enough emphasis on the word Reich to give it added, sinister meaning.
“I’m pumping enough money into the Reich to make it all one to me,” said the American.
“Be assured that we will do everything possible to reach your friend, Herr Channing.”
———
Jason Channing turned sharply and strode from the bridge. Those arrogant Germans! You’d think losing a war would have taught them some humility. But fourteen years later they were still strutting around as if they owned the world. Well, maybe this time they’d make it—at least that’s what Channing was banking on.
When he had lost nearly everything in the crash three years ago, he had been despondent. It was not easy for a man of sixty to think about starting over. But he’d never been the type to jump off a ledge because of a little setback. Thus he hung on to a hope that something would come along. And it had, during a trip to Munich at the invitation of some friends. While in Berlin he had heard Adolf Hitler speak to a crowd of union workers. Channing had found himself almost caught up in the frenzy of the gathering—the man was mesmerizing! Admittedly some of the things he said, if you listened closely enough, bordered on insanity. But Hitler himself had such a depth of charisma that he could get away with it. After the speech, Channing met the upcoming Nazi leader at a cocktail party. He was again struck with his absolute command—here was a man, he had little doubt, who could carry out his wild schemes. And since Channing was tired of his recent defeats, and the system that had brought them about, he decided to hitch his wagon to the brilliant rising star of Adolf Hitler.
It took Channing a year or so to recoup his losses, which, when he began liquidating his properties, proved to be less disastrous than at first report. Soon he was again able to wield the kind of power he craved. It didn’t quite compare to the old days yet. But it was a start.
This business with Sprague had taken him off course for a time, but it was a long past-due debt. And after all, revenge was as sweet as power. The moment the name of Stonewycke had surfaced in his life again, he knew he would not be able to let it go. He did not like to lose.
He had lost only twice in his life. The crash had been the most recent loss, and he had switched national allegiance because of it. The other had been some twenty years before, when a pretty little bit of nothing by the name of Joanna Matheson had denounced him to his face. He had lost to a frail, stupid woman, and that fact had goaded him all these years far more than the loss of any fortune.
Now it was beginning to seem as if he may have been defeated again—this time in his attempt to settle the debt with Stonewycke. But he’d bury them for this—he’d not rest until every one of them was a dispossessed pauper.
Channing came to his cabin door, kicked it open and went inside. Lying on the small desk was the flimsy paper, Sprague’s last communication. It wouldn’t acquit the Duncan clan in his mind, but Channing reread it nonetheless. “Am aboard boat. Our package is secure. Rendezvous at midnight.”
It did not seem possible to have come so close to such wealth and lose it so quickly. Had Sprague’s boat indeed gone down in the storm? Sprague was too cold and calculating not to have covered all his angles. Was there a hidden meaning in the message? First of all, the specific use of the word our was not in keeping with their boss-employee relationship. Being a calculating man himself, Channing was well able to guess his intent. He was no doubt planning to cut himself in on the action. His lackey had seen the wealth and had decided that his boss should share it. What did he mean by “secure”? If he was planning on striking a deal, had he only brought aboard part of the loot, to insure his own continued safety? If so, what had he done with the rest of it?
Of course, he didn’t want to give Sprague too much credit. He was not exactly a brilliant man, Channing noted. Before, he had always done what he was told. Perhaps the message meant nothing more than it said.
Channing refused to admit complete defeat.
If Sprague had gone down with his boat, so be it. But it didn’t mean all was lost. Channing might still get his hands on the treasure. The only obstacle was to figure out just what Ross Sprague might have done with it.
A knock came to the door.
Channing rose and answered it.
“We’re unable to reach your colleague,” said the commander. “What would you like us to do?”
Channing thought for a moment, then replied. “Hold your position for another hour, and keep trying the radio. If there’s no contact by then, head back out to sea.”
57
The Legacy Continues
Three weeks passed.
The first had been agony for Allison as Logan semiconsciously struggled against death. Fever, delirium, and pain marked the slow passage of days, while Allison attended him faithfully, leaving his side only when she herself could ward off sleep no longer. She had been stretched and tested in her
new faith beyond the capability of her tender years. The strength of the bloodline of her ancestors rose up from within her, and both Ian and Alec marveled silently at the resemblance she had suddenly taken to their own two wives—in both the look in her eyes and the depth of her character. She had indeed, in a short period of time, stepped fully into her heritage as the next in the proud line of Ramsey women.
Even more significantly, through her late-night vigils of prayer next to Logan’s bed, she stepped fully into her heritage as God’s child, as his woman of valor. More clearly and personally than ever did she at last grasp the truth of the words she had heard since infancy: “Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for thou art with me. . . .” Never had a darker valley loomed before young Allison MacNeil and when it was over, a lasting glow of maturity flashed in her eyes from within.
At last came the morning when Logan awoke from his travels in the netherlands. Allison had nodded off to sleep where she sat. He looked up, saw her, and closed his eyes again, content to know that she was near him. When she awoke she saw that a change had passed. He seemed to be breathing easier, and the trace of a smile remained on his lips. With her heart beating anxiously within her breast, she rose and approached him. Her presence awakened him again. He smiled up at her. Though welcome beyond words, the sight accentuated all too clearly his pale, drawn complexion and his thin, wasted frame. She saw more clearly than ever what a terrible ordeal had passed.
“Oh, Logan . . . !” she said, weeping tears of joy.
“It seems I am a patient here once more,” he said softly.
“Yes, but this time I think you’ll remember which foot to limp on,” she replied, laughing through her tears. She felt such an exuberant joy she could not contain herself.
“I wish it were only my foot that hurt.” He winced as he tried to move. “I thought for a while I was going to receive new life and eternal life all in the same package.”
“Logan, I’m so happy for you. Mother and Daddy told me about their talk with you, and the prayer you prayed. I’m so sorry I ran away.”
“I think we’ll both be learning about this new life for a long time to come,” he said. “I tell you, Ali, on that night I didn’t think I had much of a life to give to God. But I learned something since—God knows a man’s heart, and you can’t fool Him. And when you think you’re dying, you don’t want to fool Him any longer.”
“I’m so thankful for all that’s happened.”
“Yes,” he agreed. “But I’m afraid I’ve just caused more trouble for your family.”
“Oh no! You are already like a son to them. You know how they are—it gives them pleasure to serve you. It does me too, more than you know!”
As the first week had been agony, the following weeks were bliss for Allison. Logan was strictly charged by the doctor to remain in bed, and had not the strength to argue the admonition. Allison was with him most of the time. She read to him, often from the Bible, frequently, too, from the old Scottish poet whose poem about the man-boats so tugged at his heart during his days of indecision. Usually they wound up discussing what they’d read. Sometimes Lady Margaret or other family members would join in, gently opening new insights to both of them concerning their new faith. Dorey quipped that he had a captive audience and likened the atmosphere, more philosophically, to that of his greenhouse. God was providing them a time of respite through which to grow and become strong and extend their roots down. But soon, like Dorey’s precious plants, they would be transplanted into the harsher elements of life outside the greenhouse, where wind and rain and snow and sun would beat upon them, helping them to grow stronger yet.
As wonderful as such discussions were, even more memorable were the long talks between Allison and Logan when they were alone, sometimes lasting until late at night. They poured out their beings to one another, as each had never done to another before. Both, in their own way, had hidden their deepest selves for so long. Suddenly there was so much to say, so much to share, so much to try to understand. Their spirits linked together inextricably and the love that had begun between them solidified upon the strongest foundation of love a man and woman can have—the love of God.
Thus, when Logan was at last given leave for an outdoor excursion, the turn of the conversation was not altogether unexpected by either of them.
They walked to the wild and tangled walled garden at the back of the house which Ian and Maggie had loved so much. Summer, as early as the spring had been late, had come full force to Stonewycke. The great old birch was heavy with fresh green foliage, and the untrimmed rhododendrons and azaleas lent splashes of vivid orange, red, and lavender to the woodsy surroundings. Tangled ivy wound around the feet of the bench where Logan and Allison sat. No more perfect setting could have been dreamed for what followed.
“Ali,” began Logan when they had finished talking about the lovely garden and the warmth of the weather the past several days, “now that the direction of my life has changed, I’ve tried to think what I will do with myself. I have no education, no money, and very few talents that could be marketed in an honest world.”
“You have more to offer than you think,” said Allison. “And I know your position here will always be open to you.”
“Yes . . .” Logan said, drawing out the word thoughtfully, “and I am grateful to your father for it. But there’s not a great deal of future in repairing another’s tools and equipment. I had hoped to have more to offer—that is . . . were I ever to settle down, it would be nice to have better prospects.”
“Settle down?” Allison cared nothing for prospects. Those days were past for her. All she wanted was the man she loved.
“You know I’ve never been one to worry about position,” Logan went on. “I never thought any nobleman was better than me in any way. But now I’m seeing—”
“Logan, I’m not making you feel awkward about your background, am I? That part of me’s dead and buried. I don’t care about class or distinctions anymore.”
“I know. But still, opportunities for someone like me are . . . well, limited. What can I do other than work with my hands for a few quid a month? That’s no way to . . . I mean, I could hardly expect . . . well, that would hardly be a suitable life for a man with a wife . . . like you.”
“Oh, Logan!” exclaimed Allison in tearful and joyous frustration, “you dear, dear fool! I love you! Do you think that matters? It’s different with us. We don’t need position. Besides, there is a family precedent we have to keep up, you know. Such things did not stop my mother and father.”
“Your father is a different man than I,” replied Logan. “I have things hanging over my head. Things which make me far less worthy.”
“I love and respect my father,” Allison replied passionately. “More than ever in my life, now that I truly see him for the man of truth and integrity and courage he is. But you are every bit the man he is, Logan Macintyre.”
“Oh, Ali, I don’t know how you can say that . . . how you could believe such a thing. But I thank you, and I love you from the bottom of my heart for it. I do so want to marry you . . . if you’ll have me. I will wait . . . or you can have me as I am.”
She threw her arms around him. “I would not take you any other way, Logan, than just how you are. Because that is how God made you. And it is the person you are that I fell in love with!”
He winced with pain at the exuberance of her embrace, but quickly recovered and drew her to him, kissing her tenderly. “Thank you, Ali,” he whispered in her ear. “Thank you! Thank you for accepting me. Thank you for loving me.”
“God has been good to us, Logan—seeing us through all that has happened and bringing us to this.”
They were silent a moment. Then Logan spoke again; this time his voice registering concern. “But your parents—” he began. “What will they say?”
“Oh, Logan, they love you! Social barriers mean nothing to them. I should know that better than anyone. Remember, they’ve
been through it themselves.”
“Then I should talk to your father,” said Logan.
“My parents will be happy for us,” said Allison gleefully; “I know it!”
“I wish I had your confidence just now.”
“They love you already—as I do,” she replied.
“Logan,” she went on, “we will always be together—imagine it!”
“That brings up another matter,” Logan began, then hesitated. He had not been looking forward to this part. “As soon as I’ve recovered, I must go to Glasgow to see my mother and give her a personal invitation.”
“Of course.”
“And after that, to London.”
Allison frowned. “I’ve told you about Molly,” Logan went on. “She’s been like a mother to me, and I must see her—I want to share with her . . . well, all the changes in my life. And especially tell her about you.”
“Are you certain you have to go to London?” asked Allison, her voice quivering. “I don’t think I could keep from worrying about you.”
“This is not the sort of thing you tell a dear friend in a telegram or a letter. But I will be very careful.”
“I want to go with you, then.”
“Your parents are gracious and perhaps progressive,” he replied, “but that would be asking too much. Besides, I won’t be gone long.”
“I’ll hate every minute of it.”
Logan took her hand in his. “I still have a few more days to recuperate,” he laughed. “And I’ll need you beside me every minute!”
———
Later that evening, when Logan was alone, he heard a gentle knock on the door. His welcome was followed by the entrance of Dorey, looking more solemn than Logan had ever seen him. He walked in, clearly with some purpose on his mind, and sat down next to Logan’s bedside.
“I want to talk to you, Logan,” he began.
“Certainly,” replied Logan.
“Alec has told me of your conversation with him. I want first to offer you my congratulations, and to say—on behalf of Lady Margaret and myself—welcome to the family. We could not be more happy for you and Allison.”
Stranger at Stonewycke Page 43
