Shadows over Stonewycke

by Michael Phillips

  ———

  He first spotted the youth after he and Lise returned to the hotel late one day after a picnic and swim. Lise went up to her room for a rest, while Logan tarried in the lobby exchanging pleasantries with a clerk. The coarsely dressed farm lad looked badly out of place in a hotel lobby, despite all his efforts to appear casually interested in a Paris newspaper.

  The natural paranoia of his occupation, coupled with the fact that Logan thought he recognized the lad from earlier that morning, put him immediately on his guard. When he bid the clerk adieu, Logan exited the hotel, keeping his own casually camouflaged watch behind him. It seemed better to verify his suspicions sooner than later.

  As he expected, the youth followed him. Logan ditched him easily, circled around the block, and came up behind the boy as he stood puzzling over which way his quarry had taken. The moment Logan firmly grabbed his arm from the rear, he nearly cried out with fright.

  “Take it easy, young man,” said Logan as he propelled him into a recess between two buildings where they would not attract attention. “I don’t want to hurt you, but I do want to know why you are following me.”

  “They told me to be sure,” panted the lad, who looked to be about sixteen years old, and completely unaccustomed to his present calling. “Who you were . . . and . . .”

  “And what?” demanded Logan.

  “It’s . . . it’s so hard to tell, and they didn’t have a very good description,” rambled the youth, “and they said I had to be sure. And with the Nazis here, I didn’t want to—”

  “All right, lad,” broke in Logan, trying not to chuckle at the poor boy’s discomfiture. “You haven’t found a Nazi, and I doubt that I have either. Now let’s see just what we have found. I believe we both know Monsieur Carrel.”

  Carrel was the farmer and resister Logan had met briefly on his last visit to Vouziers.

  The boy nodded his head vigorously. “Oui!” he said, much relieved. “You are Monsieur Tanant, non?”

  “I am,” replied Logan. “Now, why did Monsieur Carrel send you after me?”

  “My father knew you were returning during the moon period,” said the young Carrel. “But you had both agreed not to contact each other unless it was an emergency. So he sent me into town every day to see if you had arrived.”

  “We’ve been here four days already.”

  “I did not look so hard when the Germans were here,” admitted the boy sheepishly. “And you were perhaps out in the country often?”

  “Oui, that’s true,” said Logan. “So what does your father want?”

  The boy glanced fearfully this way and that before speaking. “He has what the Boche were looking for.”

  “An escapee?”

  “Oui.”

  “And he’d like some help getting him out?”

  “Very much so, I think.”

  48

  The Escapee

  The first thing Logan noticed on stepping into the Carrel home was the warm, earthy atmosphere. He had been too rushed and disoriented the first time to pay much attention. But now, in a calmer frame of mind, he realized that he had not been in a place like this since the last time he was in Port Strathy and had visited Jesse Cameron’s cottage. Madame Carrel was busy kneading bread in the kitchen area, while a young girl of about ten or eleven was thrusting a log into the cookstove fire. In the corner by the stove a calico cat was lapping milk from a bowl.

  Mme. Carrel greeted Logan with a ready warmth, no matter that it was wartime and the enemy had occupied her country. She was, and would always be, a simple, open-hearted farm wife, and might well have greeted General von Graff in the same manner.

  “Come this way please, Monsieur Tanant,” said her husband.

  Logan regretted being led away from the friendly kitchen. Yet it remained in view, for the rest of the large central room—consisting of a dining and sitting area—was merely an extension of the kitchen.

  Now for the first time Logan’s eyes fell on the figure sitting toward the back of the room in a large rocking chair with his feet propped up, facing the brick hearth. The fellow’s back was to Logan and his first impression of the man was of a brilliant shock of red hair.

  “Monsieur le Lieutenant,” said Carrel to his other guest in faltering English, “I have brought a visitor.”

  “Wonderful!” said the man, also in his native tongue, turning in his chair. “Forgive me for na risin’.”

  Logan had stepped forward to shake his countryman’s hand—for from the accent he knew immediately Carrel’s guest was a Scot—but before the fellow had finished speaking and fully turned, Logan stopped and gasped.

  “Nathaniel!” he exclaimed.

  “The Lord be praised!” said Nat, now making a concerted effort to stand. “Confound this leg,” he muttered.

  But Logan had reached him in an instant, and, bending over the chair, gave his brother-in-law an exuberant embrace. How good it felt to be so close to someone from home—to family!

  “I see you two know each other,” said Carrel, this time in French, grinning at the happy scene. Briefly Logan translated his words. Then, almost in unison, both men exclaimed—one in English, one in French:

  “Indeed we do!”

  “Then I’ll leave you to yourselves, while I finish up my chores.”

  Carrel went outside and Logan pulled a stool up next to Nat.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I was jist goin’ to ask ye the very same thing!” said Nat.

  “It’s a long story, Nat,” replied Logan. Suddenly he felt very uncomfortable, and his smile faded. He looked away, pretending interest in the fire.

  “Listen here, Logan,” said Nat. “Ye dinna hae to be that way wi’ me! I’m Allison’s baby brother, remember . . . the wee tyke who worships the ground Logan Macintyre walks on!”

  Logan smiled and faced Nat again. “I’m sorry,” he said. “So much has happened . . .”

  “But never so much that we’d stop bein’ brothers,” replied Nat. “And ye ken, Logan, that no matter what, that’s hoo I’m always goin’ to think o’ ye.”

  Logan laid his hand on Nat’s shoulder. “Thank you,” he said, not without a great deal of emotion in his voice.

  “Noo,” continued Nat in a lighter tone, “let me get my story over wi’ so I can hear yers—which’ll nae doobt be the more interestin’ tale.”

  Logan nodded his agreement with the plan, though he wasn’t so sure he wanted to get into his own story. But Nat was talking.

  “I was transferred frae the 51st Highlanders after Dunkirk and got into a commando unit. Dinna ask me why I did it—I suppose on account o’ my C.O.’s sayin’ I’d be good at it. But he’ll nae doobt change his mind when he hears hoo this assignment went. I was off trainin’ Partisans in Italy—quite a trick wi’oot kennin’ a word o’ Italian! But we managed pretty weel, and I think we had a good outfit. That was, what, about three months ago—just after seein’ Allison and Mother in London. As I was sayin’, it went weel enough, until this new fellow joined us. ’Twas my fault, ’cause I liked him and wasna so careful as I should hae been. The bloke wound up betrayin’ the whole lot o’ us to the Germans. They had me in San Remo prison for a while; then they were plannin’ to transfer me to Buchenwald. On the train I kept lookin’ for me chance to escape. But we got to Germany before that chance came. Then the train was derailed, and in the mayhem, five o’ us slipped away. We’ve been on the run for a month, though by the time we got here, we was doon to three. We ran into a German patrol aboot a week ago, and all took off in separate directions. That’s when I took this bullet in the leg. I dinna ken what’s become o’ the other two—an American pilot frae Texas and a lad frae British intelligence.”

  “I heard the Boche caught two escapees about four days ago,” put in Logan.

  “’Tis a shame,” said Nat. “They were good lads. I suppose they’ll jist hae to start o’er again.”

  “How bad is your leg, Nat?�
��

  “It’d feel a lot better if that bullet weren’t still floatin’ around in there—”

  Nat winced in pain, even as he said the words. When the spasm passed, he went on with a wan laugh—

  “But I had more pain when I was a lad o’ ten and got a fishhook caught in my shoulder!”

  “What does the doctor say . . . or have you seen one?”

  “Carrel doesna trust the local fellow, but Mme. Carrel has been keepin’ it clean. I can walk, wi’ a crutch we made—that is, if ye hae plenty o’ time to wait for me.”

  He paused, then said, “And what aboot yersel’, Logan?—Though I think I can guess at some o’ it.”

  “Well,” said Logan, deciding that some story must be given. “For openers, I suppose you ought to use my code name, especially when there’s anyone about. My comrades in the underground have never even heard the name Logan Macintyre. So when you hear the name Michel Tanant, it’s me they’re talking about.”

  “Then I’m right—ye’re wi’ Intelligence.”

  Logan nodded.

  “There’s really not much more I ought to tell than that,” he continued. “I got into it almost by accident, recruited by a friend for one simple assignment that only lasted an hour or two. They needed someone and I happened to fit the bill. But it was at a time when I was floundering—you know, Allison and I weren’t doing too well, I hated my job. So when the chance to get more deeply involved came along, I took it . . . and here I am.”

  “How long hae ye been in France?” Nat asked.

  “Quite a while, I suppose,” replied Logan, then paused reflectively. “Longer than I ever expected to be, that’s for sure.”

  He stopped again, reticent to talk about himself. “I don’t know, Nat,” he went on at length. “Suddenly none of it seems so important. Right now, you don’t know how good it is to see you! I’ve felt so lost lately, but seeing you—”

  He stopped and shook his head slowly. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I never used to be this downcast.”

  “I imagine we’ve all hae to do a fast job o’ growin’ up in these last few years,” said Nat. “I’m sure it’s been no easier for ye than me.”

  “What I’d really like to know is, how is . . . everyone back home?”

  “Ye’re meanin’ Allison, o’ coorse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didna ye tell her aboot what ye was doin’?”

  “You know how it is—security . . .” Even as he spoke, Logan could see by Nat’s pointed look that he would never accept that pat answer.

  “All right,” he continued resignedly. “I didn’t tell her because I wanted her to believe in me—just in me. It seemed, to me at least, that the only way I could live down my past was knowing at least one person—Allison—trusted me completely, even without knowing every detail. I suppose maybe I was wrong. But that’s how I felt then.”

  “She’s only human, ye ken.”

  Logan nodded.

  “’Twas a lot o’ pressure ye put on her, Logan. And she felt it more’n she let ye see.”

  “I know that . . . now. I put so much on her. I tried to validate my whole existence through her. I’m surprised she didn’t walk out on me first. She would have had every right.”

  “Are ye, Logan? Are ye truly surprised?”

  Logan hesitated. “No, I suppose I’m really not. Allison was always strong . . . never a quitter.”

  “I saw her jist afore I left on this assignment,” said Nat.

  “What did she say?”

  “That she loved ye.”

  “I never doubted that.”

  “She’s changin’, Logan. Changin’ wi’ the kind o’ changes God makes—as I think maybe ye are yersel’.”

  “I only hope it hasn’t come too late,” sighed Logan.

  “Allison said the exact same thing.”

  “Did she?”

  It was such a small thing—the two of them making the same statement. Is it foolish to place a hope in it? Logan wondered. Have I come to the place that I can let myself hope again, let myself believe that I might somehow fit once more into a life with Allison? Part of him yearned to be able to answer yes. That same part of him longed for her, and for all the things in his existence she represented—all the things he had repudiated in his own mind the day he left Stonewycke.

  It had all come upon him again suddenly the moment he laid eyes on Nat. How desperately he wanted to be part of that life again! Yet at the same time he was afraid he had already gone beyond the point of no return.

  “I don’t know anymore, Nat,” Logan said after a long pause. “I’m not afraid to tell you the whole thing confuses me more than a little. I’m so—”

  He stopped again, suddenly feeling uncomfortable pouring out his innermost feelings to the younger brother he had always striven to impress with his maturity and worldly wisdom. Anyhow, he reasoned to himself as he tried to bring his emotions back under control, it’s not right of me to burden him. He’s got enough troubles of his own right now.

  But Nat had little concern for his own problems, for he knew the Lord was in control of them. Instead, his focus remained zeroed in on the struggles of his brother-in-law.

  “Ye dinna hae to be afraid,” he said sincerely, reading in Logan’s eyes what his pride could not express, “when ye belong to God.”

  “Who said I was afraid?” asked Logan defensively.

  “I can tell.”

  “How did you know?”

  “I’ve battled enough fear mysel’ lately to be able to recognize it in another—it’s ne’er far frae ye when ye’re crouched doon on the battlefield. But I hae a feelin’ yers is a more difficult kind o’ confrontation because the source o’ yer fear comes frae within’ yersel’. But ye dinna hae to fight alone, ye ken that, dinna ye, Logan?”

  “I want to know—” he replied, before his voice broke off suddenly. Tears rose to the surface of his eyes, and his voice became strangled.

  He jumped up, turned away, and strode to the stone hearth, keeping his back to Nat.

  “Listen,” he went on after a moment, “it’s too bad this war doesn’t leave us the luxury of mulling over the complexities of life. In the meantime, we’ve got too many more urgent things to talk about than all my woes.”

  “I dinna agree, Logan,” countered Nat with resignation in his tone, looking and sounding more like the battle-worn soldier he was.

  “Well, I don’t want to talk about it now,” said Logan, “or I’m liable to turn into a blubbering fool.”

  “There’s nothin’ wrong wi’ a few tears if they bring healin’ to yer heart.”

  “You sound just like Lady Margaret.”

  “’Tis nae wonder. Her blood runs through me, and she gave o’ her great wisdom to all o’ us. And the blood runs through you o’ one frae whom she learned a great deal o’ what she told the rest o’ us. So I ken ye understand what I’m sayin’.”

  “In this case, however,” said Logan stubbornly, “there’s everything wrong with that particular bit of wisdom about tears and healing. It’s different out here. There’s no healing to be had on the front lines, Nat.”

  “The front lines o’ life are exactly where healin’ must begin,” urged Nat. “When everythin’s easy and there’s nae tryin’ o’ yer faith, life takes nae inner strength. When it’s all easy, ye can manage yersel’. But when things are tough, when ye are on the front lines, that’s when yer true need shows itsel’. Ye’re right—it’s different here. But here ye need God more, not less!”

  “Out here control is life—and that’s one thing I can’t lose, Nat: control . . . of myself.”

  He turned to face Nat, almost as if in unconscious challenge.

  But Nat had learned something else from his great-grandmother, and that was when to leave off and allow the Spirit to perform its surgical work inside the heart of another.

  The tense moment passed.

  Logan immediately regretted the severity of his response. He hadn’t meant to
direct it toward dear Nat at all. Somehow he sensed that his brother-in-law understood. When Logan spoke again, it was in a lighter tone, as if announcing his intention to forget all that had gone before. But Nat’s brow remained creased for some time, with a deep ache for his brother-in-law.

  “Now,” said Logan, “why don’t we begin talking about how we’re going to get you out of France?”

  In the days that followed as they met together and began to formulate a plan, the conversation never again touched upon such personal ground. It would take a still greater tragedy than his own personal need to bring the full thrust of Nat’s words, and their deeper implications, back into Logan’s troubled mind.

  49

  Aborted Shortcut

  Two more nights passed without word from the BBC. But on the third evening after Logan’s visit with Nat, the message finally came through:

  “On ne fait pas d’omelette sans casser des oeufs.”

  They could expect the Lysander sometime tonight between ten p.m. and three a.m.

  Logan ate dinner at the hotel with Claude and Lise, and somehow the three managed to pass the time until the hour when they would at last embark upon this long-awaited mission. Since the Carrel farm lay in the opposite direction from the airfield, they decided that Claude and Lise should go directly to the field, just in case the plane was early. Logan would retrieve Nat from the farm and take him with him to rendezvous with the others, in hopes that he could get him on the plane and safely on his way back to England.

  It was nine o’ clock when Logan arrived at the farm.

  “Are you ready to go, Nat?”

  “It’s tonight, then?”

  Logan nodded, and Nat flashed a grin through his pale features. Pulling himself painfully up from the chair, with Logan’s assistance he hobbled to the corner where his pack lay ready and waiting.

  “It is still amazin’ to me,” he said, “hoo my arrival in Vouziers could hae been timed so perfectly—jist in time to catch a plane ride back home.”

  He attempted a soft laugh, but it only ended in a painful cough. The festering wound was clearly taking its toll on his body’s strength.