Maggie Bright (27 page)

“Do you know, the word
exodus
is actually Greek,” Baylor said weakly. “It means a departure. You’d think it would be a Hebrew word. It should be, shouldn’t it? I wonder what the Hebrew is for
exodus
.”

Milton sat beside Baylor, watching the medic work.

Baylor looked up at him. “You’d probably know the Hebrew. Locked up in that head of yours.” He winced, and looked down. “I’m not dying, man. Let’s keep it that way. It passed right through.”

“Passed right through, and took a chunk of you with it,” said the medic.

“Baylor?” Balantine appeared, carrying a box. He set it down. “What happened?”

“Ah. There you are. I thought Griggs was going to take me out, but at least it was an enemy bullet. There’s an understatement
 
—feels like an orange went through me.”

Balantine took off his helmet and went to a knee beside him.

“Where have you been?” Baylor asked crossly. His face was very white. “We were worried. You’ll never guess: Milton said something new. Go on, Milton, say it.”

“I got lost coming back,” said Balantine. “Then someone pulled up with a load of bully beef.” He looked at the medic. “How is it?”

“Come on, Milton, say it. He said a full sentence. Come on, old boy. Ouch.”

“Bully beef?” the medic said, pressing a thick pad against the wound. “Where did they get that? Haven’t eaten in two days.”

Eyes on Baylor, Balantine felt in the box for a tin and held it out to him. The medic took it with bloodied fingers, and dropped it down the front of his shirt.

“How is it?” Balantine asked.

“It did miss the vitalities, but he’s lost an impressive amount of blood. He’ll be all right
 
—under normal circumstances, that is.” The medic threw a dark look at Griggs. “King Brutus here won’t let me take him to the aid station.”

Griggs shrugged, and said to Balantine, “You said to keep us together.”

The medic gave Milton a nod. “Come on, chap, let’s sit him up.
I need to wrap the bandage. Sorry, mate, this is gonna hurt and I’m out of morphine.” He and Milton gently pulled Baylor to a sitting position. Baylor groaned. “Easy there. Right, hold him steady.” Milton kept his arms about Baylor’s shoulders while the medic finished wrapping the bandage. He tied it off firmly, checked its sturdiness, and ignored Baylor’s protest that it was too tight. They eased him down. The medic sat back on his heels and took up a handful of sand. He rubbed it vigorously between his hands to get rid of the blood.

“Did you see that, Balantine?” Baylor, taking shallow breaths, nodded at Milton. “He did as asked. Well done, Milty. Elliott, he’s coming around.”

“My name is Captain Jacobs,” the captain offered. When the men chuckled at Balantine’s amazement, the medic glanced at them all, puzzled. He shook his head, and got to his feet. He said to Balantine, “Look, if you’re in charge, you should know they’re not taking any wounded, not on stretchers.” He nodded at the loading ship in the harbor. “Stretchers take up too much room. Best get him to the aid station. There’s a temporary one set up over at the church, St. Eloi. Middle of town, south of the quay.”

“He stays with us,” said Griggs.

“We won’t leave him for the Germans,” said Jamie. His attention kept going back to Milton. He was his best yet. The expressions, the little things, like waving off a fly or rubbing sand from his eye; there was a new ease about him, and except for the new sentence from which he did not deviate, he looked and acted like any other bloke around.

“Suit yourself,” said the medic. “But if you keep him here, he’ll have a long wait, no water, no food, and he needs both. He’d at least have that at the aid station. Thanks, by the way,” he said to Balantine, and tapped the tin through his shirt. “Well, carry on, lads. Off to save mankind.” He came to attention, snapped a comical salute, and clicked his heels. “Wish me luck.” He picked up his medic bag and left.

“‘He stays with us,’” Baylor said. “I will treasure that speech.
Griggs, it appears
you
are the pansy for at last, we know you are in love with me.”

Laughter from most, but not from Griggs. “I should have shot you.”

Baylor chuckled, and then winced. “Oh . . . oh . . .”

“My name is Captain Jacobs.”

“You couldn’t manage a little more Milton, could you?” Baylor asked. “For old time’s sake?” He closed his eyes. “I’m tired.”

“Don’t go to sleep just yet,” said Balantine, patting his shoulder and rising. “We’ve got to join a group west of here for our spot in the queue. They’ll call us down to embark when our number’s up. They say things are speeding up, with the smaller craft. They’re now loading from the beaches as well.”

“We’ve seen it.”

“Surf’s kicking up,” said Curtis, looking down to the water. “Unless it changes, won’t be loading there for long.”

“Yes, and that’s why I was thinking of the word
exodus
. We could use a parting of the Red Sea, couldn’t we? We could use a miracle.” Baylor’s eyes were still closed. “Pharaoh’s army, bearing down upon the entire nation of Israel. Milton? How about you play the part of Moses, Balantine can be Aaron, and maybe Griggs could be God. Acts like him, at times.”

Balantine motioned with his head to Jamie, and they stepped a few paces away. “How is he, really?” he asked quietly.

“You heard the medic. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

“How do you think he’ll do? Do you think he can
 
—?”

Griggs joined them at that moment, and Balantine looked less ready to talk. It was a little odd, really; technically, Griggs was in charge by order of enlistment. But it came clear to all of them where Griggs’s skill lay, and it had to do with leading men in combat, but not in other ways. He seemed to look to Balantine for those other ways much as Jamie did.

“Do you think he’ll manage?” said Balantine.

“He’s a pansy, but he’ll manage,” said Griggs.

“I heard that,” Baylor said.

Jamie said, “I think he’ll be all right. We’ll help.”

“Yes, but you heard what he said.” Balantine rubbed the back of his head, thinking hard. “They won’t be able to lay him out. If they see that he’s wounded
 
—”

“We’ll prop him between us.” Griggs said over his shoulder, “You
can
suck it up for a
small
amount of time, can’t you, Baylor?”

“Now that I know you care, I’ve got something to live for.”

Even Griggs cracked a smile. But Balantine looked out at the sea.

His shoulders came down. He looked at the other two. “Look, it’ll be a hard crossing. If he’s already lost a lot of blood, how will he stand it? What’s better: risk it and lose him, or
 
—”

Jamie grabbed his arm and pulled him a few steps farther away, Griggs following. “Do you really want to leave him for the Germans?” Jamie tried hard to keep his tone low. “How do we know how our men will be treated? Will there be a prisoner exchange? We don’t know. We have no idea! Balantine, listen: when I first met you, you said you’d never leave a man behind.”

“That was before this!” Balantine hissed. “If it comes to wondering if he’ll even
survive
that passage, there’s a choice to be made!”

“We’ve lost Grayling,” said Griggs. “No more.”

That came closest to deciding it.

After a long moment, Balantine nodded.

He called Curtis over. “You and Griggs scrounge up some water, as much as you can. I don’t care what you have to do, just get it. We’ll stay put ’til you get back, and then we’ll head for our group. See if you can find something to lay Baylor on to get him down there. Mind our position as you go; I got lost coming back.” He looked about, and pointed inland. “Look
 
—we’re straight out from . . . whatever that is. That bombed redbrick place with the yellow canopy.”

Curtis and Griggs collected canteens, and started off.

“‘We’re gonna hang out the washing on the Siegfried Line . . . ,’” a few men sang nearby with gusto, one raising a bottle to the sky.

“Bring us back some of what they’ve got,” Jamie called after Curtis and Griggs, and Curtis called back, “We’ll do our best!”

“Too late, mate!” one of the singers roared. “This is French champagne! We got it all, and we ain’t sharin’!”

“Oy!” one of his compatriots remonstrated. “That ain’t fittin’. Where’s the manners yer muvver raised you wif? We share with the wounded.”

“We do?” said the first, perplexed.

“Oh, aye! It’s fittin’! It’s noble! You, there
 
—rouse up a bottle and share wif the man what’s spilled his blood for England.” He held up his bottle to Baylor. “To the man!” Then he resumed leading the men in song: “‘We’re gonna hang out the washing on the
 
—’” he cupped a hand to his ear, while the others roared, “‘Sieg-fried Line!’” One came unsteadily over with a bottle of champagne and handed it to Milton, sitting next to Baylor. “Cheers, mate!” he said to Baylor, raising his own bottle, and then he staggered back to his group.

Balantine and Jamie went back to Baylor.

“From imposition of strict laws to free acceptance of large grace,” Milton was telling Baylor. “From servile fear to filial, works of law to works of faith.”

“Is that how you like your bedtime stories, Baylor?” Jamie asked, settling down beside him. He took the bottle from the captain. “Here’s your warm milk.”

“Those thousand decencies that daily flow, words and actions,” Milton said. He gazed at the sky. “Love leads up to heaven
 
—is both way and guide.”

“You hear that?” Baylor opened his eyes. “He almost sounds happy.” He looked up at Milton. “Do you know, Captain? I wish I had served under you.”

It was a shame that he closed his eyes before he saw the look on
Milton’s face. Jamie couldn’t wait to tell Baylor later.
You should have seen it, Baylor. He looked like you were one of his men.

Milton laid his hand on Baylor’s arm. “Be strong, live happy, and love. Thou to mankind be good and friendly still, and oft return.”

“Will do,” Baylor murmured. “Wish I had paper to write this down.”

Jamie worked the cork off the champagne with his teeth, and watched a ribbon of mist curl from the bottle. He went to take a drink, and then handed it to Milton. “You first, Captain Jacobs. Cheers.”

Milton took the bottle, turned it in his hands, seemed to read the label, and then looked to the sea. He watched the waters and then the sky, and absently handed the bottle back without taking a drink.

Jamie received it with a sigh, glanced at Balantine, who was looking at him. He gave a little shrug and took a sip
 
—and then made a face. “Oh, that’s nasty! How can anyone drink that?” He wiped his mouth and handed it to Balantine. “What I wouldn’t do for a good stout from Evelyn’s. I’d eat her soggy chips, too.”

He suddenly felt a dizzy wash of fatigue, and wondered when he’d lain down last. He stretched out on the ground for the first time in what seemed like days, and groaned for the pleasure. Felt like he was melting into the sand.

“I could sleep for a week.”

He had no sooner covered his face with his helmet, than a drone of the next bank of planes came, and with it men shouting, “Incoming! Incoming!”

MURRAY AND WILLIAM MILLED ABOUT
the lobby of the Port Authority building near the Tower with dozens of other volunteers. Most had come when they heard from those with family and friends in the Royal Navy that volunteer crews were needed; others learned from coworkers or neighbors whose crafts had been requisitioned.

“Clare’ll be mad she missed this,” Murray said.

William sipped his coffee. He wished he had time to change his clothing. He still wore his suit for the office, and his shoes could not be more unsuitable. He looked around, peeved to see men outfitted exactly the way he wanted to be: deck shoes with sailcloth trousers and warm jerseys beneath rain slickers. One chap wore the gear of the Royal London Yacht Club, topped by a yachting hat with the club’s insignia; contentedly smoking a pipe, he looked as though he were ready for a pleasure cruise.

He kept an eye out for John Elliott and Minor Roberts but
didn’t see them in this crowd. They’d likely already gone over. He wished them well and hoped Mrs. Shrewsbury did them justice with her prayers.

Men from every walk of life crowded the lobby, waiting for assignments and doing the same as he, sipping coffee or tea and looking about. He recognized some from the Royal Yacht Club, and nodded to an old instructor from the first yacht he’d crewed when he was in his teens. He smiled a little, recalling that first lesson in how to tie a bowline. Something about a rabbit chasing round a tree, jumping into the hole . . .

“Glad I’m not the only one dressed for Whitehall.” A man who looked like he had stepped off Savile Row stood next to William, sipping coffee from the same sort of paper cup. “I didn’t dare run home. Terrified I’d miss out.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” William sized up a few men nearby. “I think we could take those two
 
—I fancy that one’s shoes.”

“I like the other’s slicker. Shall we give it a go?”

“Hmm. Perhaps not. That one’s got more muscle in a single nostril than I do in both biceps.”

They shared a chuckle, and the other said, “I’m Peter Goodson. Someone told me you’re William Percy. Hero of the
 
—”

“Complete bollocks. Every word. I should know, I wrote it.” William put out his hand. “Very long story.”

Amused, the man shook his hand. “Sounds like an interesting one.”

“Not half as interesting as this.” They looked around at the milling volunteers. “So what do you do for a living?”

“Typographical designer. My friend over there is an advertising exec with Montblanc. He’s my weekend sailing mate
 
—my wife gets seasick just walking on a dock.” He gestured with the paper cup. “He’s talking with a car salesman, and that other bloke is a garbage collector. All walks, eh?”

“All walks.”

“It’s rather heartening, you know, this pulling together. Glad for a chance to do our bit. I get tired of inked fingers as my red badge of courage.” He raised a brow, and took a sip. “I do hear things are interesting over there.”

“I hear they’re bombing the route to Dunkirk. And that some boats are blown up from beneath. That is interesting.”

“Do you know anything else?”

“Nothing more than that. It’s all a bit vague and terrifying.”

He nodded. “No one seems to know much. Well, we’re in for a bit of an adventure, then. Can’t remember the last time I dodged a bomb with a yacht.”

William smiled. “Nor I.”

“Good luck, then.”

“The same.” They shook hands, and William watched the man walk back to his friend.

“You see Cap’n John and the creepy recluse guy?” asked Murray.

“No.”

“Hey
 
—how far is that hospital? We got time to drop in on Clare?”

“Not likely. I don’t want to risk it. Look
 
—there’s the fellow who told us to wait.”

Lieutenant Sanderson, the man they’d met an hour ago, appeared at the door to an office. “Percy and Vance?” he called.

William raised his hand. “Here.” They made their way over to him.

“Right. I’ve sorted your paperwork and got you assigned. I’ll need signatures.” He handed them each a clipboard and a pen. “Per Lieutenant Wares, you’ll be crewing the
Maggie Bright
. She’s been taken down to Sheerness, where they’ll assign her a naval rating who will outfit her for the journey. She’ll go over tonight around 2200 hours. Pulled by tug to save fuel.”

“What’s this?” Murray asked of the paper.

“This is the T.124, because we are desperately fond of paperwork
and even more fond of giving it names. Makes you a volunteer for one month in the service of His Majesty’s Royal Navy
 
—welcome aboard, Yank.” He gave Murray a wink and a grin. “You’re the second American I’ve signed. The other’s an accountant. Well done
 
—glad
some
of you won’t listen to your ambassador.” He pointed across the room. “You see the man over there with the ridiculous hat? He’ll get you down to Sheerness with the others. Your ride leaves in about an hour. Right? Thank you, gentlemen.” He shook their hands. “God bless, keep safe, and come home.” He consulted his list. “Randall? Goodson?”

They didn’t leave in an hour; they left in two. And by the time they finally made it to Sheerness and were reunited with the
Maggie Bright
, they hardly recognized her.

They were dropped off at a quay with several other men, where a great tug stood off in the harbor. Several automobiles positioned at various angles along the quay and headlands trained their headlights on the docks to illumine the bustling work; many vessels were tied to the dock, and naval men moved swiftly at their work, loading vessels with stores, painting fixtures, checking lines and engines, sometimes talking with boat owners or crewmen.

They found the
Maggie Bright
only because an officer led them to her, not because they recognized her.

“Oh no,” Murray groaned. “What’ve they done to you, Mags?”

A young naval rating, who couldn’t be more than twenty years old, looked up when they came aboard and gave a nod.

“Welcome aboard, shipmates. Smudge is the name. What do we call you?”

“Smudge, what’ve you done to my girl?” Murray jumped down from the boarding plank to Maggie’s deck.

“I’m William Percy. This is Murray Vance,” William said, grabbing hold of a line as he stepped down to the deck. He shook Smudge’s hand, then took off his suit coat and tossed it on a bench. He rolled up his sleeves and looked around.

Oh, Clare. No, it won’t do for you to see this.

All of Maggie’s beautiful brass fittings had been painted black, including the lovely brass bell. The salon windows and portholes had been taped over with brown paper. Any area of steel or chrome
 
—grommets, railings, rings
 
—had been darkened with paint. And unfortunately, some of that paint had ended up on the deck and the wood trim. Worst of all, her beautiful white transom with
Maggie Bright
spelled out in such artistic lettering had disappeared beneath a still-shining sheath of black.

“Anything that catches light has to be doused,” said Smudge. “Otherwise, we’re nothing but a bright shining target for the night bombers. They drop magnetic mines along the routes at night, and see what other havoc they can manage when they do.”

“Looks like she’s goin’ as the grim reaper for Halloween,” Murray muttered. “What kinda name is Smudge?”

“Smith, in some parts.”

“Smudge. Like ink. I like it. What’s this?” Murray asked, nodding at a barrel in the stern.

“That’s oil.”

“For what?”

“Dousing phosphorescence. A clever lad aboard a destroyer came up with it, a bloke who serves with my best mate.” He pointed to other barrels and boxes. “There’s petrol, paraffin, and rope. We’ve got rations below for three days. Here
 
—you’ll wear these once we’re under way.” He gave them each a tin navy hat.

Murray held it out from him. “I ain’t wearin’ that. I’ll look stupid.”

“Um . . . yes, you
will
wear that. Those are orders.” A challenging flicker came to the young man’s eyes; he looked ready to put down any rebellion, and seemed to welcome the chance.

“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, Murray,” said William in a bored tone. “You’ve officially signed on with the RN, remember? I assume a
signature in the States means the same in England? Rather oath-like?” To Smudge, he said, “Have you been there yet?”

Smudge finished staring down Murray, and turned to William. “No. But my mate has. He says it’s worse than we can possibly imagine.”

“I can imagine a lot,” said Murray unhappily, idly swinging the tin hat by the strap.

William looked around. “What’s to be done?”

“You can go below and tear up anything you can for bandages
 
—apparently some of the fellows are in quite a state. My mate said he’s seen it all. Other than that, all is ready. We’re just waiting for the others.” He looked about. “There wasn’t much to do, readying this one, she’s in very good shape. Her engine hasn’t been run much. Cleaned out some sludge and now she’s tip-top. You should see some of the other craft. They’re desperate enough to take anything.” He consulted his watch under the light of a dock lamp. “Shouldn’t be long now. We’ll tie on to that Leviathan out there, along with three or four other vessels, and then we’ll rendezvous at Ramsgate to join up with an armed convoy.”

“Armed convoy,” William murmured, shaking his head.

“Hopefully we’ll get our orders at Ramsgate, as far as what we’re supposed to be doing on the beaches. And then
 
—” he looked at them, excitement and apprehension and old-fashioned naval superiority on his face
 
—“well, then we’re off for Dunkirk.”

Ten minutes out of Ramsgate and William put his suit coat back on. Half an hour, and he huddled behind Smudge in the cockpit, wrapped in a stiff piece of deck carpet. Why didn’t they think to save some of Murray’s clothing when they emptied her?

Maggie Bright
followed behind a great powerful tug to which three others had tied on: a Thames fireboat which had never been to sea, another yacht similar in size to Maggie, and a beamy coastal fishing
boat made for the mud flats, which had also never been to open sea. They traveled in the company of six other boats not pulled by tugs, though shepherded by an armed tug on one side, and an armed vessel on the other, one that William didn’t recognize
 
—someone called it a Dutch ‘scoot.’ Silly word.

Everyone should have a chance to look evil straight on.

Conversation with Clare went round and round in William’s head, snatches from when they sat together at Westminster Abbey, the cab ride to the hospital, the day he met her when they sat at the restaurant and he had no clue that the girl he’d knocked over in the street would come to be . . . the sort whose words he would replay.

She took the things he felt and packaged them into sentences and spoke them aloud. She spoke them bitterly, or with joy, or with the sort of
feeling
that made William want to look away in distaste, only to listen keenly for what might come next.

Let him find us holding high the picture of Erich von Wechsler as proof that
his own people
would not have his ways.

It was the reason he carried Erich’s picture next to Cecy’s. Clare put it into words. When she had done so, it solidified what was already there into iron. Her spokenness made stronger his unspokenness.

“I’m sick,” Murray said from where he’d wedged himself in the companionway. “She’s gonna need a squad of carpenters when we’re back. Thank God Clare can’t see this.”

William, too, had a hard time not wincing every time one of the accompanying boats missed one of Maggie’s rubber fenders and thumped her hull.

From various delays, the little convoy didn’t leave Ramsgate for the Kwinte Buoy until nearly 1 a.m. They were told of three different routes mapped out by the Admiralty to Dunkirk, and theirs was called route Y. It was the longest route, stretching northeast until it doubled back toward Dunkirk at the Kwinte Buoy
 
—but, as the skipper of their towing tug had informed them when they first set out,
it was so far the safest route; easier to navigate and, so far, unseeded with magnetic mines.