Maggie Bright (16 page)

“The other.”

And she said it clearly and with all her heart to make the words sail home: “You try to make things right with your work.”

Murray shot up as if propelled by what Clare now saw in his face, excitement made golden by the sun’s waning rays. He paced a few steps and put his hands in his pockets, withdrew them and rubbed his fingers together, looked at them as if expecting to see something.

“I gotta draw.”

“But
 
—I have so much to tell you!”

“Tell me while I draw. I hear best that way.” He ran for the hatch and swung below.

Murray sat in the curve of the bowsprit with a drawing pad propped on the rail. He’d shimmied easily into the spot as if long accustomed to doing so, and Clare could easily see him younger, and sunburned, and could imagine a presence in the stern watching the boy draw, a man who was her own father.

The only presence behind her was that of Mrs. Shrew, who sat on the locker near the skylight of Murray’s cabin, holding a cup of tea. She was the one who watched Murray now.

“Murray,” Clare began.

“Hang on, hang on.” He finished some strokes, put in some shading, and pulled away from the drawing, tilting his head. A grin came. He stuck the pencil behind his ear, slid from the bowsprit to the deck and brought the drawing pad to Mrs. Shrew.

She studied it
 
—and gasped. “
That’s
how you intend to bring back Salamander?”

Murray stuck his hands in his waistband, grinning, while she carried on, flapping her hand and saying, “Oh, bravo!” Then he eased the pad from her grasp and climbed back into the bowsprit. He touched the pencil to his tongue, hesitated, then began to draw.

“Where
did
you come up with that?” said Mrs. Shrew, wiping tears.

“I think my editor’s gonna love it.”

“Perhaps Salamander is the one paddling the banana boat, and the ray gun is actually his paddle,” the Shrew suggested. “What do you think? And then
 
—no. No, don’t listen to me. I will
not
interfere. Worldwide implications, right here on this deck. I shall get my knitting, and remain calm. Everyone
 
—give him space.”

“Murray, have you heard of a place called Grafeneck Castle?” Clare asked.

The pencil hesitated.

It resumed.

“You hear of Hadamar?” Murray asked, not looking up from his drawing pad. “Brandenburg?”

“What’s this?” The Shrew looked from Murray to Clare. “What are they?”

“Killing places,” said Clare faintly.

“Oh, not just any old killing places,” Murray said, now making broader strokes. “They’re killing kids. Deaf kids. Retarded kids. Blind kids. Kids born with bad spines. Sometimes before they kill them, they do research on ’em, see. Can’t miss a chance for science.” He pulled back from his drawing, and tilted his head. He turned the pad about to face Mrs. Shrew. “Whaddya think?”

Mrs. Shrew stared at him, frozen. She glanced at the drawing. “Brilliant. What do you mean, they’re killing children? Who is?”

Murray resumed drawing. “Nazis.”

“It’s what the BV told me,” said Clare quietly. “And later, Mr. Percy and Mr. Butterfield, from Scotland Yard.”

Mrs. Shrew was speechless.

“Murray’s father sailed
Maggie Bright
four times from Holland, saving five of those children. Five lives, saved. One day I will carve that number on Maggie’s foremast as a record of her exploits.” She took hold of the locket. “Murray
 
—I have something awful to tell you. Your father was murdered by a man named Waldemar Klein.”

The pencil stilled.

“My old man died of a heart attack.”

“No.” She let go the locket. “He refused to give him that packet of documents. He was . . . tortured for it.”

“See, that’s what I’m sayin’, Clare. Rocket Kid can’t make that right.” He suddenly winged the drawing pad into the water, the pencil after it.

He slid to the deck and said brightly, “I’m starvin’. How ’bout I get cleaned up and take you girls out for dinner? You ain’t got Prohibition here, do ya? We’re still smartin’ over that.”

He made his way past, and went below.

The two women watched the drawing pad in the water. A gentle eddy caught it, turned it lazily about, and slowly bore it east.

“Tell me everything, my dear,” said Mrs. Shrew quietly.

AFTER A FEW DAYS IN
the company of these men, Jamie had a fair idea of who ran the group, and it wasn’t the ranking man by three weeks, Lance Corporal Grayling.

Their squad consisted of Grayling at the top, then Balantine as his right-hand man, then Baylor, Curtis, and Griggs, and now Jamie and Milton. If Grayling gave a direct order, he expected it to be obeyed, but he didn’t give those often enough. Balantine, in Jamie’s mind, had the sort of leadership qualities that made him the best soldier of the lot; but exactly because of this, he supported Grayling. Jamie discovered that Baylor, despite his lack of soldiering qualities, was the one he most liked to be around
 
—in part, because of the way he looked out for the captain. Curtis was the sort of guy with the unfortunate personality of admiring whoever dominated, and the person who dominated this group wasn’t Grayling; it was Griggs.

Because Griggs talked the most, because his annoying opinions
were always assertive, because he was handsome and sometimes funny and carried himself with supreme confidence, because he was often right in his assessment of situations (maddeningly so), all seemed to defer to him whether they liked it or not. But Griggs was finally challenged when Jamie and the captain came along.

Baylor had brought out this observation to Jamie when, the previous night, they’d found shelter in a barn, and Griggs went on first watch.

“He doesn’t like the captain because he’s afraid he’ll give us away,” Baylor had said. “Of course, the captain says things he can’t understand, and that provokes outrage because nobody can be smarter than Griggs. But he likes you even less, partly because you take care of the captain, partly because you don’t give way to him. I must say, Elliott
 
—it’s good to have someone knock him off his perch a bit. Arrogant twit.”

Today they moved through fields and meadows, taking as direct a route north as they could without taking the roads
 
—yesterday they’d had a narrow miss when a Stuka appeared out of the bright blue, diving with a hellish onrush of shrieking whistles, to pull up and strafe the road at car height. Bullets sprayed the area, and one shot through Curtis’s kit bag; it was as close an encounter with death as any of them had faced, and all agreed with Griggs that they should abandon the roads and strike cross-country for the sea. Slower, but safer.

“What in me is dark, illumine. What is low, raise and support.”

“I think that’s his favorite,” Baylor now observed, walking behind the captain. “He says it a lot.”

“That one, the most,” Jamie agreed. But today he didn’t like the way he’d said it. The captain’s voice had lost a lot of its pep.

“And I will place within them as a guide my umpire conscience,” the captain said thinly, “whom if they will hear, light after light well used they shall attain, and to the end persisting, safe arrive.”

“He really
says
something, you know?” said Baylor. “I read the book because I had to, but now, I want to.”

To the end persisting, safe arrive.
Jamie saw in his mind an insistent Captain Jacobs in a moonlit patch. A captain who was stronger than this.

The squad of seven men marched sometimes through fields of knee-high corn or waist-high wheat, sometimes through woods and meadows, often through the backyards of abandoned homes, and once through a potato field, where they dug up new potatoes and ate them raw. Bray Dunes, and the sea where they were supposed to find it, was much farther away than they had originally thought; they were two days out from the town where Jamie and the captain hooked up with the five.

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

“Oh, just shut it, will you?” Griggs called from the back. “Annoying sod.”

“Here it comes,” Baylor muttered. Over his shoulder he said, “I don’t know what your problem is. You can barely hear him from there.”

“I think he’s making it all up,” Griggs announced. “He’s probably an actor. This is his big chance to show off.”

“Just let him talk,” Baylor warned, for Jamie’s ears only.

“It’s brilliant, really. Make everyone think you’ve gone daft by quoting a bunch of fancy lines, and there’s your ticket home.” Curtis laughed.

“Why is he such an idiot?” Jamie said, not for Baylor’s ears only.

“He’s baiting you,” Baylor said.

“Yes, but why?”

“Because he knows you hate it when he goes after the captain.”

“Probably even faking that head wound,” Griggs said.

Jamie gripped the stock of his Bren.

“Don’t. You’ll upset the captain,” Baylor said. Jamie glanced at him.

Baylor pushed up his spectacles, and kept his tone low. “He gets agitated when Griggs agitates you. Always seems aware of the
climate
.
Aren’t you, Milton?” he said, a little louder, to the captain. “There’s a good chap.” To Jamie, “Remember when Grayling kept you from killing Griggs yesterday? You should have seen the captain. Whenever Griggs provokes you, I look to see how he reacts. I wonder if it means he’s getting better.” He reached to pat Milton’s shoulder, and said louder, “I really think you are, mate. I should say, sir.”

“He doesn’t look it,” Jamie said darkly. “He’s whiter by the day. He’s slower. And he’s not eating much.”

“Not that there’s much to eat. I can sort of
feel
the captain’s rank. Can’t you? Wounded or not, deranged or not. Maybe it’s because I admire his Milton, but he does seem to have an air of quiet authority. I would have liked to have known him sane.”

Jamie did not respond. He was tense for whatever Griggs would say next. He always was, and hated it. Not for the first time he wondered if things weren’t better when he and Milton were on their own.

They kept to the same formation as the day before. Balantine walked ahead with Grayling. The captain followed them, with Jamie and Baylor behind the captain, and Griggs and Curtis bringing up the rear. Jamie felt best right where he was, between Griggs and the captain.

“Yet once more he shall stand on even ground, against his mortal foe, by me upheld . . . while by thee raised, I ruin all my foes.” He stumbled, nearly fell, and regained his footing.

“Oy, Grayling
 
—old Captain Show-Off is slowing us down,” Griggs called ahead.

Balantine, who rarely spoke when walking, said over his shoulder, “We’re not leaving him behind, Griggs. You want to take off on your own, have at it.”

“And good riddance,” Baylor muttered.

The day was clear and warm. Lovely, really. The only thing they missed was a decent breakfast and boots that wouldn’t blister. Jamie tried to think of sore feet and an empty stomach, instead of Griggs.

“That thou art happy, owe to God; that thou continuest such, owe to thyself, that is, to thy obedience: therein stand.”

“Rather heartening, isn’t it?” said Baylor.

“He’s utterly bladdered,” said Griggs.

“Good he made thee, but to persevere he left it in thy power
 
—ordained thy will by nature free; not over-ruled by fate.”

“The whole Victoria Cross thing is probably a myth. They just wanted a babbling lunatic off their hands. ”

Jamie turned and headed straight for Griggs.

“Grayling!” Baylor shouted.

Jamie shoved Griggs. “Mind who you’re calling a lunatic! He outranks you.”

Griggs shoved back. “I see no stripes.”

“You and I are gonna have some words pretty soon.”

“Why don’t we have them now?” He unshouldered and dropped his kit bag. Griggs was half a head taller than Jamie, and seemed to inflate. “Little pansy.”

A firm hand clamped on Jamie’s shoulder. It wasn’t Grayling, because Grayling showed up alongside with a bellowed though barely heard “Knock it off, you two!” Jamie heard instead firm and quiet words from the one who restrained him, words aimed not at himself but at Griggs:

“Thyself not free, but to thyself enthralled.”

The captain’s authority came unmistakably through.

“Oh, well done! You want me to explain that one to you, Griggsy?” said Baylor.

Griggs turned on Baylor. “Shut it!”

“Griggs, I’m warning you.” Grayling put himself between Jamie and Griggs. “You keep up all this needling, and you’re gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?” Griggs demanded.

“You’re out. You’re not with us anymore. Is that clear enough?
You will not endanger this group. This stupid bickering means less watching.”

“Oh, really? Look who’s endangering the group!” Griggs pointed at the captain. “Every night that loony bin is up and barking at the moon!”

Jamie reached around Grayling to shove him. “Mind who you’re calling loony bin!”

Grayling rounded on Jamie. “And why do you let him provoke you? You should know better.” He looked Griggs up and down. “You too.”

“That’s right,” said Baylor, and spat.

Griggs sneered at him. “Since when have you got so bold?” He looked at Jamie. “Since your boyfriend came along?”

“Close your mouth and fall in line. Both of you.” Grayling went back to his position.

Griggs snatched up his kit. “If any of us should go, it’s not me,” he muttered. “I was here first. It’s not my fault I got separated from my men. Any one of them is better than this entire lot.”

“What about me?” Curtis protested.

“Oh, shut it.”

The squad of seven took up the march to the sea once more.

“You don’t back down from Griggs,” Baylor presently observed, after the sting of the encounter had died down. “You haven’t from the first. It’s put some sand back in the rest of us, but I warn you
 
—because of it, he won’t go after you. He’ll go after the captain.”

“Then that’s his mistake.”

After a moment, Baylor said, “I think Griggs is a good soldier. But he does have a hateful streak.”

Jamie said suddenly, “Baylor, listen. If anything should happen to me
 
—”

“Nothing will,” Baylor cut in. After a moment, he said, “And if it does . . .” He looked at Milton. “I’ll get him home.”