The Jalna Saga – Deluxe Edition: All Sixteen Books of the Enduring Classic Series & The Biography of Mazo de la Roche (485 page)

“Two. One missing. The other — in that hell!” answered Wake.

“I hope he knows we’re coming,” said Finch.

The girl turned her wide-open eyes to him. “Do you believe in that sort of thing?

“Yes. I think I do.”

“I imagine you’re pretty fond of that brother.”

“Yes. He’s older than we are. He’s been like a father to us. He was through the last war. Got the DSO.”

“I do hope he’ll be saved!”

“And your brother-in-law, too.”

“Yes. Jack’s a dear. He’s everything to my sister.”

“What about you? I guess you mean a good deal to her.”

“Well, this thing has drawn us together. We weren’t very good friends. She disapproved of me.”

Wake put up his hand. “Listen!” They could hear the deep thunder of the barrage from the French coast.

Finch thought of Jalna and the peace there. He could feel the peace as a physical thing, reaching up from the sun-warmed land. How far away and safe it seemed from war. What would the uncles say if they could see him and Wake at this moment?

On and on the strange raggle-taggle of the crusading flotilla moved. Another air attack came. A Messerschmitt fell into the sea not a mile away. When she hit the sea she exploded. Two small boats were overturned. Half their occupants were saved. The three felt that they were going through an initiation of horror for what lay ahead.

A slender new moon appeared on the horizon. The breeze fell and the sea was calm. In the distance they could see Dunkirk ablaze against the sky. Sometimes the blaze was low and sullen like smouldering hate. Sometimes it leaped upward in volcanic fury when a shell burst in its midst. As though to take part in some mad spectacle all the little craft hastened forward, little paddle steamers from the Thames, barges, wherries, lifeboats, motorboats. The moon, glancing between the clouds, revealed them to each other. The single purpose in the minds of those who manned them drew them onward like a compelling magnet.

Wakefield said — “You’d better lie down and sleep, Val. Finch and I can get on all right.”

“I’m not sleepy.”

“But you will be tomorrow — if you don’t sleep tonight. There’s a hard day ahead.”

“I couldn’t possibly sleep.”

“Then curl up and rest.”

She did, tucking a battered cretonne cushion beneath her head.

“Do you believe in dreams?” she asked.

“Yes. No matter how happy I have been my dreams were troubled.

Now all my happiness is gone. When I left Canada, I hoped I’d be killed over here.”

“Oh, you come from Canada, do you?”

“Yes.”

“But I’ve seen you act in London.”

“Yes. I’m an actor.”

“That was a lovely play. Where is the actress who took the part of Catherine?”

“She’s in Hollywood.”

“It must be a wonderful life. Shall you go back to it after the war?”

“How can I tell?”

“What was her name? That actress, I mean?”

“Molly Griffith.”

“Was she as lovely off the stage as on?”

“Quite.”

Finch interrupted — “Talking of dreams! I’d a queer one last night. I dreamed I had captured an enormous bird. It was shaped like a hawk but it was beautifully coloured. Its plumage was like a rainbow. My brother Piers came along and took it by the neck. I was glad because I was afraid of it. He said he was going to strangle it. But before he could do anything it flew high into the sky, with Piers hanging on to it. It flew out of sight.”

“Goodness, what a dream! Is it Piers who’s in France?”

“He is missing.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

The night was full of the sound of the exhausts of engines. The pale fingers of searchlights discovered the small, low-lying clouds. There was a thunderous explosion at Dunkirk.

“That was a bad one.”

“Yes. I suppose there are a lot of our soldiers right there.”

“God, if only we can save them!”

“Do you ever pray?” she asked.

“Are you asking me?” said Wake.

“Yes … Both of you.”

“Well — I have prayed — a good deal — but not lately.”

Finch did not answer. He sat staring at the blaze of Dunkirk, His face, at that moment, had a strange beauty.

“You look as though you were praying now,” said the girl.

After that she was silent and, after a little, she slept.

“It was luck coming across her, wasn’t it?” said Finch.

“Great luck.”

“Who is she?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“She makes a good boy.”

“Now that she’s asleep she looks a girl.”

“H-hm.”

Dawn came slowly and in its misty light they saw the quiet water with its burden of little boats. Dead fishes slithered along the side of the yacht. A thick black pall of smoke, now and again shot with flame, drifted above Dunkirk. Val was steering, her hat drawn over her eyes. She was following a motorboat that was towing a string of eight wherries. She could see that the man in command was about seventy and delicate-looking. Several other elderly men were with him. Suddenly she cried out in horror: —

“Look! In the water!”

She pointed and they saw the bodies of men in uniform slithering alongside, just like the fishes.

“It’s all right,” said Wakefield. “It’s all right, Val. Don’t be frightened.”

Finch’s gaze was riveted on the bodies. He could not look away.

When they had passed them he took a deep breath and pressed his fingers to his eyeballs as though to obliterate that image.

The East was growing pink. Now they could see what was going on. There was an air attack over Dunkirk, and shellfire. A black throng of men were on the beach. They could see enemy aeroplanes attacking them. They could see planes dropping bombs on ships which were loading troops alongside the jetty. Val steered the yacht in the wake of the motorboat, heading for a beach near Dunkirk.

All instinct for self-preservation, even all thought, was drained from them. They became mere empty vessels for the purpose of rescue. The girl felt mostly a dogged resolve to steer the yacht efficiently in these shallows, among the bodies of the men who had been machine-gunned while they were wading out into the water to safety. The bodies of the men looked strangely peaceful and remote. All their agony was over.

Finch had a desire to shout. He did not know why it was but he wanted to shout. He looked at the bodies in the water and felt an immense strength in himself as though there were nothing he could not do. A big hospital ship loomed near by. He saw a plane hovering above it, bombing it.

Wakefield’s eyes were on the foreshore, which was alive with men. There were shell craters among the sand dunes and the men came running, stumbling from among these, toward the boats.

Wake kept the engine working. They were in four feet of water. Soldiers were clambering into the wherries. Then, horribly, one of the wherries was struck by a shell. After the explosion, the moment’s chaos, the three in the yacht steadied themselves, held themselves ready for the soldiers who came splashing toward them. Their faces showed what they had been through but they came splashing through the water, heaving each other on to the yacht, packing themselves in as though they would sink her by their weight.

Finch and Wakefield searched every face, looking for Renny. Then the yacht staggered with her load to the nearest ship and delivered the men into it. Then back to the shallows where more men came running to meet them, plunging through the water, pushing aside the floating bodies of their dead comrades, holding out their arms to grasp the side of the yacht, begging for a drink of water.

The sun came out hot. There was a glare on the water that made Finch’s eyes ache. He was conscious of a pain in the back of his neck. But these did not matter. All that mattered was to load the little yacht, built to carry a dozen people, with fifty or sixty soldiers, till she was just able to stagger to the nearest ship. It filled him with a terrible rage to see that ship attacked by enemy planes. He could not understand Wake’s cold resolute calm. He worked like a machine and the girl with him.

So the day passed.

It was miraculous how you could go on and on, when you felt completely played out, when you’d given all the food to the soldiers, when your tongue felt like a dry sponge and your eyes like coals and you saw one horrible sight after another. Yet you could go on and on.

Wakefield now and again gave an anxious glance at Finch. “Better try to sleep,” he said. “It’s quieter now. Tomorrow you’ll need all your strength.”

“What about you and that girl?”

“We’re all right. You rest for a while.”

“Very well.” He fell, almost in a heap, in a corner of the cabin and slept.

“He looks awful,” said Val.

“He’s not very strong. He had a serious illness. Gosh, is there a drop in that teapot?”

She squeezed out half a cup of tea for him.

“Thanks. It tastes good. You ought to rest too. Please do.”

“Don’t worry about me. I’m tough.”

“You’re the bravest girl I’ve ever seen.”

“I could do anything with you beside me,” she said. “I don’t mean that I’m in love with you. I only mean that you’re that sort of man.”

He gave a short laugh and turned away.

Wakefield’s year of hard work on the farm, his year of regular habits and healthy routine in the monastery, now stood him in good stead. He had a resistance that showed no sign of giving out.

They worked all night, in the illumination of Dunkirk, in the light of the young moon, in the chaos of bursting shells, in monotonous, deafening gunfire. The soldiers wading out to meet them seemed endless. Drenched with salt water, bloodstained, exhausted, they clambered over the sides of the yacht and begged for water. When daylight came the scene was revealed in all its dreadful activity. Many more small boats had arrived from England. They added their fresh vigour to the work. They were new targets for the planes. The launch and her train of wherries were hard at it, the old men and the young boys straining their loins side by side.

Finch had slept for four hours. Now he felt a new strength in him. He and Wakefield made the girl rest. She lay like a child, her head pillowed on her arm, and slept fitfully through the thunder of explosions, the roar of planes, and the shouts of men. It was as though some monstrous female were spawning them there, in endless monotony. The sun blazed out, hot and cruel, blistering their faces, bringing delirium to the wounded. The two opposing forces, the volunteers from England and the Germans, fought for the soldiers who had become passive objects of the struggle.

Wakefield seemed made of steel. Time ceased to exist for him. Once he wondered if his leave were up and what would be said to him when he went back. Val worked at his side, no one suspecting that she was a girl. Once, at some ghastly sight, she all but fainted. He steadied her in his arms.

“It’s all right,” he whispered. “Shut your eyes.” In a few moments she was at work again.

They asked the soldiers for news of Renny or her brother-in-law. None had heard of them till, late in the day, one said he knew Captain Williams and had seen him killed.

“Jack’s dead,” she said to Wakefield.

“I’m sorry for that.”

She answered, in an almost matter-of-fact voice: —

“Well, I shan’t have to worry about him any more.”

It was on the third day that they found Renny. They had almost ceased to think of him. Their senses were dulled by exhaustion. Then Wakefield saw an officer, supported by two soldiers, wading toward one of the wherries. One of the rowers was an old man whose face had become skull-like from fatigue. He looked like Charon at his task of rowing the dead across the River Styx.

Wakefield would not have specially noticed the wounded man but for the colour of his hair. It was a peculiar dark red. He and the two who supported him were up to their armpits in water. One of them was Rags.

“Renny!” shouted Wakefield, and leaped overboard and waded toward him.

Renny looked at him, dazed.

“Renny, don’t you know me? It’s Wake! Bring him to the yacht, men!”

Renny turned obediently and waded with difficulty to the yacht. They heaved him over the side and laid him on the deck. His bloodshot eyes looked inquiringly out of his sun-scorched face at his brothers.

“Hullo, kids,” he said.

“I told you I’d stick to ’im, didn’t I?” said Rags, and fainted.

Wakefield pillowed Renny’s head on his knee.

“Oh, Renny, are you much hurt?”

“I don’t know. Not killed, anyhow. Have you any water?”

They gave him the last of the water.

They had taken him to the hospital ship and were on their way back when a bursting shell made several holes in the yacht. She was no longer fit for the work. They turned her homeward, toward England. They could reach England safely if the sea did not rise. If it rose they would be lost. But the miracle of the calm waters continued. The sky clouded and a gentle rain fell. The three, looking old and worn in their youth, left the hell of bombing and machine-gunning behind and turned back toward the island fortress. They turned their faces up to the rain and their cars drank in the silence broken only by the crying of gulls.

AUTUMN
A
GAIN

I
T WAS
O
CTOBER
once more and once more Nicholas was taking his morning exercise in the kitchen garden. He found this the most sheltered spot when autumn came and he had got one of the men to make a seat for him in the sunniest corner, for his gouty leg needed frequent rest. But he was not going to sit down on it yet. He would take three more turns round the garden. He put back his broad shoulders and raised his head to drink in the pungent sweetness of the air. Dead leaves were being burned somewhere near by and there was the pleasant scent of herbs and the tang of the tomato plants. They had yielded a poor crop this season. The tomatoes were small and sour. Now that he came to think of it, none of the fruit had been as good as usual. A nasty fungus growth had ruined the plums. There had been few damsons for his favourite jam. As for the apples, they were a disgrace to Jalna. What would Piers have said to them!