Maggie Bright (25 page)

“That would be my sister, and no, she ain’t,” Murray said.

The man consulted the clipboard. “
Maggie Bright
has been registered with the Small Vessels Pool for privately owned craft. Actually, she’s one of the few craft that
was
, only about forty, when the call went out.” He looked up. “I’m Lieutenant Wares, Royal Navy. We’re looking for any vessel with a shallow draft.”

“How shallow?” said Murray.

“Ideally, three feet. Capable of inshore ferrying work.”

“Her draft is closer to five.”

“At this point, I don’t care.”

“What’s this about?”

“Saving the British Army.” He tucked the clipboard under his arm. “With no guarantee she’ll make it back. Germans are already shelling the direct route between Dover and Dunkirk. We now have to take a long detour to get there
 
—makes an eighty-seven-mile trip out of what should be thirty-nine. We’re now rounding at the Kwinte Buoy.”

Heroic venture, Mrs. Shrewsbury had said. William looked to where Captain John’s trawler had been.

“What do you mean, saving the British Army?” Murray asked.

“They’re trapped on Dunkirk beach. Entire army. Including a lot of French soldiers, I’ve heard.”

“What’s Maggie got to do with that?”

“The destroyers cannot get in close enough to load from the beaches, even at high tide. It’s too shallow, a mile out. Motors get clogged with sand, propellers fouled by debris. We’re working only
from a flimsy mole in the Dunkirk harbor, nothing more than a breakwater, really, not built to take the weight of queuing men. So, there’s a call out for all the small craft that can be mustered. We were here the other day, but no one else was.” He nodded at the boat. “Mr. Elliott wouldn’t let us take it without permission. Of course, we’re a bit past that at this point. Things are quite desperate. Looking at conscription.”

“Not this one, you ain’t.”

“You mean to say they’re taking yachts like these?” said William. It was hard to believe. “This can only hold maybe
 
—forty, fifty men, tops?”

“A vessel this size, they’re packing in twice that, I’ve heard; and they’ll take anything that floats. Fishing trawlers. River tugs. Lifeboats. They’re all going over. Even holiday ferries, like the
Brighton Queen
and
Gracie Fields
. London fireboats, cockleboats
 
—you name it. Hundreds have gone over already, but they need more. Lots more.” Some emotion passed over the man’s face, a momentary interruption of naval competence. “We’ve already lost some, either by direct bombing or by mines in the water.” He looked at
Maggie Bright
. “She has a wooden hull; at least she won’t attract any magnetic mines.”

“Like I said
 
—she ain’t goin’ anywhere, pal. Not without my sister’s say. And she ain’t sayin’. She’s in the hospital.”

He looked at the clipboard. “I have here a Clare Childs who registered the
Maggie Bright
two weeks ago. I’m assuming she’s the owner?”

“You’re saying that’s some kind of permission?” Murray nodded at the clipboard.

Bluff called, he said with a trace of stiff reluctance, “Not exactly . . .”

Murray paced in a very small area, hands in his waistband, staring hard at the naval officer. “
A
, Clare ain’t here to say it’s okay.
B
, this boat is her
home
. It’s all she’s got.”

There came again a mild break with naval composure. “Look, I’ve been dealing with this all day,” he said testily. “You’d think people would actually jump at the chance to save human beings. They have
no
idea how bad things are.” He pointed the clipboard south. “Don’t you understand? If the army goes, so goes the country! Doesn’t anyone understand that?”

“You’re having trouble collecting boats, then?” said William.

The officer looked blankly at the clipboard, and sighed, dropping it by his side. He wearily rubbed his forehead. “Don’t get me wrong. Most are quite willing, and people like that brighten my day. They even want to go themselves. But some fuss about compensation, some fuss about their boats being crewed by the navy
 
—”

“Oh, she for
sure
wouldn’t be crewed by anyone but me,” Murray said, jerking his thumb at his chest. “I know her. I know that motor. I know how she runs, I know how she
thinks
.” He looked south. “But I only know the Med. I don’t know the Channel. Not them waters.”

“I do.”

Murray looked at William. “Yeah? So?”

“I can go with you.”

“She ain’t goin’ anywhere without
 
—”

“I have no time to run to a hospital for permission,” said the officer. “There isn’t time for protocol, there’s only time for action. Those men are
dying
. I’ve seen some of the destroyers come into Ramsgate
 
—those soldiers have been through hell. Look, just
 
—both of you talk it out. Arrive at some conclusion, will you?” He looked at Murray. “If you’re her brother,
you
decide, but be warned: I’m a hairsbreadth from conscription, and I can do it.” Less severely, he said, “I’ll be back later, but if I’m not, if you should choose immediately to do the
right
thing, then strip her down of anything that can make room for a man, and get her down to the Tower pier. Boats are rendezvousing there, and then it’s on to Sheerness, where they’ll be taken over by tug to save fuel for the ferrying work. They’re mostly crewed
by the navy, but . . . look
 
—” he paused to scratch his head
 
—“we
are
low on men. They’re reporting in spurts from all over the country, but . . . if you know the engine, you’d be a
 
—”

“Thornycroft. Six-cylinder. Starts up with gas, switches to paraffin, and I know how to keep her from starting fire when she does.”

The officer looked at Murray appraisingly. “They will need a man aboard each vessel strictly to keep the engine running. If you’re game, report to the Port of London Authority, down by the Tower.”

“They take Americans?”

“They’ll take anyone and are grateful. Talk to Lieutenant Sanderson, tell him Lieutenant Wares said you’ll crew this one for the engine
 
—that is, if you decide to go.” He made a mark on the clipboard. “Right. Onward. Good day, gentlemen.”

He started to leave, then snapped his fingers and said, “Bandages. If you decide to go, take everything out but what can be made into bandages. Towels, tea towels, curtains, sheets
 
—whatever you’ve got. Ample dressings are needed, but ambulances in Dover and Ramsgate are running low. Good day.” He turned to go.

William called out, “Good luck, then.”

The officer paused, and said, “We need all we can. The truth is, we need a miracle.” They watched him go.

“Easy for him to say, do the right thing. Ain’t
his
boat. Ain’t
his
home. It’s all she’s got.” Murray paced. “
A
, she’s gonna circumnavigate the globe someday, bobby, single-handed. She’s got vision and purpose and other stuff and I for one believe she’s gonna do it.
B
, I don’t know what I’m gonna do if she
 
—Because
C
, I just met her. And
D
, this ain’t fair! What kinda decision
is
this?”

He ran for the bowsprit. He shimmied out and sat at its peak, hooking his feet around the lower brace. By the set of his face he looked like a thunderous male version of a clipper ship’s figurehead.

William felt for the packet of cigarettes, and crushed it in his fist. Then he cursed
 
—fat lot of good
that
just did.

He went to the bow.

“I wanna get Clare outta here, I wanna take her to the States. I want her to know my ma.” The young man stared at some distant spot. “My ma could be her ma, you know? She ain’t got one. I wish Ma was here. I wish the Fitz was here. Came down in cement for me. I could kill him for makin’ me that kid’s godfather, but it was the proudest day of my life, you know? These are the ones who help me figure things out.” He shook his head, staring at the distant spot. “’Cause I ain’t got the heart to take this boat from her.”

William folded his arms and leaned on the rail. “Look. Mrs. Shrewsbury will be back soon. And Father Fitzpatrick
will
be here, along with my associate, Frederick Butterfield
 
—what do you say we have a council of war on Clare’s behalf? We’ll talk it through and give it our best to sort out what Clare would want.”

“You know what she’d want.”

“Perhaps. But it’s not my decision.”

“No! It’s mine.” Murray scrubbed his hair with both hands, and then looked with sudden hope at William. “Say
 
—any chance one of them nurses could sneak us in?”

“Not likely. And you heard the man
 
—there’s no time. We’ll wait for the others, we’ll put our heads together, and we’ll do our best. All right?”

“Yeah.” This small plan for action seemed to calm him. “Yeah, okay, bobby.”

And then a thought came creeping. William slowly turned, staring to where the naval officer had left.

“Whatsa matter?”

“I do know what she wants,” he breathed. “Small Vessels Pool.”

“Say what?”

Clare was in her morphine fit. Or spellbinding fit. “I know what she wants.” It was what
he
wanted, before he exploded to bits, before he tore things apart from this helplessness.

“What’re you talkin’ about?”

He looked at Murray. “Before she went into surgery she said something about Maggie meeting them. Or him. I thought she was talking nonsense. But she specifically mentioned the Small Vessels Pool. And she said this: Maggie must go.”

Murray unhooked his legs from the bottom brace. “Maggie must go?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“Cut it out, you’re giving me goosebumps all over. Look at that.” He scratched his arms. He slid to the deck. “How could she know to say something like that?”

William paced the bow. “I don’t know, she was in a state. She was in a
strange
state. Something about a shatterer. I thought she was delusional. She’d gone spellbinding.”

“Spellbinding?”

“Spellbinding, prophesying . . . You had to be there. But it didn’t feel like a delusion, and she didn’t say it once, the part about Maggie
 
—she said it twice.”

He gripped the rail. Then he turned, looked at the carved
5
, looked up the foremast to the flag fluttering in the wind, a Union Jack.

Clare, would you lose it all? Would you lose your home? Would you lose your dream?

Maggie must go.

It wasn’t spooky or metaphysical or prophesying or anything like that. It was simply what she said, and that was good enough for him.

“We have her answer.” He looked at Murray. “I want you to believe me.”

He jerked a shoulder. “Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because I want to sail this boat. Now.”

“Why, bobby?”

“Because it’s all I can do!” He stepped back from the rail.

He couldn’t save Erich von Wechsler. And Klein got away. But he could sail.

It cleared away the last bit of uncertainty.

“She’d haul things out of this boat in an instant. She’d tear it apart to make room, she’d crew it herself, she’d do anything she could. And she’ll tear
us
apart if we don’t help her. I can’t do anything. But I can sail for her.”

A spasm of emotion crossed Murray’s face. He went and picked up his drawing pad, flipped through it, laid it down. He shoved his hands in his pockets. After a moment, he said thickly, “You shoulda seen her with Klein.”

And then, a change came to his face. Tension flowed out. He looked at William. “That’s how
I
know what she wants. She was gonna die for that packet.”

Murray looked at the number
5
on the foremast. He looked at William. “Let’s get out of here.”

When Mrs. Shrewsbury came humming around the corner of the boathouse with a freshly baked Dundee cake,
Maggie Bright
was not there. But piled high at the end of the dock was all manner of things. The dinette table. Fishing equipment. Stacks of books. Clare’s pots of herbs and flowers, the red and yellow Chinese paper lanterns, the little grill, the deck chairs, the foldout table that went with the deck chairs, and boxes and boxes of Clare’s things from Murray’s cabin and the back cabin.

She certainly hoped to find things from her own cabin in that pile, and she hoped they didn’t wreck that priceless treasure trove of a newspaper collection,
Rocket Kid and Salamander
. She’d collect
that
from the pile straightaway, and store it in the Anderson shelter.
Someone
had to look out for things.

“What am I going to do with you?” she asked the cake. “They’ve gone to war.”

Later, when Frederick Butterfield arrived at the deserted Elliott’s Boatyard with Father David Fitzpatrick, he found a Dundee cake sitting on a note in the middle of the walkway to the dock, directed to, of all people, himself.

Dear Detective Inspector Butterfield,