They were a great contrast as they sat at table, their faces lighted by the amber glow from the table lamp. Finch’s movements were hesitating, often awkward. He slumped in his chair or raised himself suddenly, straightened his shoulders, and turned his eyes toward the black-curtained window as though he longed to see the sky. He was obviously hungry and ate what was put before him without a discriminating glance. Yet there was something arresting about him that made people turn to give him a second look. Wakefield sat as though unconscious of his body. His movements were swift and sure, with the studied assurance of the actor. He ate less than Finch but ate it with more relish. His eyes saw everything that went on in the room. Taciturnity and melancholy seemed to have left him. He looked lively, hard, and reckless.
An orchestra was playing and there was some desultory dancing. There would be much more later. A strained excitement was in the air.
“There’s a very attractive girl over there,” said Wakefield. “I’ve met her. Would you like to dance?”
Finch shook his head. “Gosh, no! I’ve no heart for anything like that. Not since we heard about Piers.”
Wakefield’s eyes darkened but he gave a little laugh. “Well — we may as well enjoy ourselves while we’re here. It probably won’t be for long.”
“Do you think there’s a chance that he’s living?”
“Not the slightest. As far as I can find out his unit was practically blown to pieces. Let’s have a liqueur. What would you like?”
“You choose. I like anything.”
Wakefield ordered Benedictine with their coffee. He was really grown-up, Finch thought, with more poise than he himself would ever have. He sipped the liqueur and then said, in a low voice: —
“It was a terrible time at Jalna. Pheasant is heartbroken. The uncles took it very hard too.”
Wakefield moved uneasily in his chair. “I know. I know. Let’s not talk about it.”
Finch persisted — “Piers was always the strongest of us all. I just can’t believe in this.”
“I tell you I don’t want to talk about it!” exclaimed Wake. “I’ve got to keep my nerve for flying. I’ve no time for worry about Piers. I worry more about Renny. God knows where he is! Somewhere — in that ghastly retreat! To think of four hundred thousand of them — cut off over there — fighting for their lives! They’ve no chance. They’ll be annihilated.”
Finch raised his glass in a shaking hand and took a gulp of the liqueur. Wakefield’s swift change from reckless liveliness to this passionate outburst of apprehension for Renny had made Finch almost lose his self-control. The lights in the room shook. The music became a frightening drone.
But the liqueur steadied him. He was able to answer quietly enough — “Perhaps something will happen. A miracle —”
Wakefield interrupted — “I’m done with miracles. One happened to me. Wasn’t it a miracle that Molly and I should come together? A hell of a miracle! No — nothing can save them. They’ll be blown to pieces. We’ve seen the last of Renny.”
The girl Wakefield had pointed out rose from her seat and, passing through the dancers, came to their table. She was strongly made, with waving dark hair, wide-open hazel eyes, and a rich colour in cheeks and lips. Her voice was deep and rather husky but agreeable.
The brothers rose and Wakefield introduced Finch to the girl.
“But I can remember only your Christian name,” he said to her. “It’s Val, isn’t it?”
“Yes and that’s enough for tonight. May I sit with you? I’ve something terribly important in my mind.”
They all sat down.
“Have a liqueur?” asked Wakefield.
“Thanks. Now you know this appalling retreat that’s going on in France. I’ve an idea. I thought of it as soon as you came in and I’ve been working it out in my mind ever since.”
“Yes?” Wakefield’s eager eyes were on her face.
“The Admiralty has sent out an order for every sort of craft on the South Coast. They’re going to save these men. Not just a few thousand of them but as many as is humanly possible. My brother-in-law is over there. Well, he owns a yacht. It’s a motor yacht. It’s at his summer place near Ramsgate. What I want is to go on it myself and help with the rescue work. But I need a couple of men with me and I wondered if you —”
“I’d like nothing better,” said Wakefield. “What about you, Finch?”
“I’m your man,” said Finch. He rose, a little unsteadily, to his feet.
“But will they let a girl go into this?” asked Wakefield.
“I’ll put on some of my brother-in-law’s things. I make a first-rate boy. What about you? How long is your leave?”
“Three days.”
“Can we go now? I’ve a car outside.”
In ten minutes they were on their way.
It was dark in the cottage. Val went in and turned on the light in the living room.
“Wait here,” she said, “and I’ll tell my sister.” She ran upstairs.
“The miracle’s beginning,” said Finch.
“God, I’m glad to be able to do something!”
After a little Val came down with her sister, Mrs. Williams, who bore no resemblance to her but was small and delicate-looking. She carried a bundle of clothes.
“These are old yachting things of my husband’s,” she said. “You’d better change into them and have some sleep and get an early start. I’ll have breakfast for you.”
They changed and lay down in two small rooms next each other. They could smell the sea and hear its low murmur. The liqueur had had its effect on Finch and he dropped off quickly. But Wakefield lay thinking for a long while. He felt that he had had only a short sleep when a knocking on the door woke him. Val was there, wearing a pair of duck trousers and a dark blue jersey and tweed jacket. She had cropped the hair from about her face and pulled a soft hat low over her eyes.
“How do I look?” she asked.
“I’d never have guessed you were a girl,” said Wake. Then he added — “But you shouldn’t do this. It’s going to be terribly dangerous. Do you understand that we’ll be under fire? I think Finch and I —”
She interrupted — “What do you know about the yacht? Or the coast?”
“I’m afraid — nothing.”
“Besides, I want to go. I want it more than anything on earth. Come down and have breakfast.”
They collected Finch and went downstairs. Mrs. Williams had bacon and eggs waiting. She fluttered about them nervously and, when they left, followed them to the beach, a fragile but courageous little figure. They rode out to the launch in a dinghy and set about preparing it for the voyage down Channel. Finch had a strange feeling of hilarity, mingled with a sinking at the stomach. Val had a chart open in front of her. She was self-possessed, wasting no words. They found themselves joining craft of all sorts. Yachts, fishing boats, tugs, even canoes, all bound on the same mission.
There was a terse intimacy among the three as though every bit of their energy must be conserved for the work in hand.
There was almost a crush at Ramsgate. Owners of all manner of craft were crowding about, getting directions. They were given rifles and life belts, shrapnel helmets and first-aid outfit. They were told to go to La Panne, to arrive there the next day at daybreak if possible.
Across the Channel the motley flotilla set out. For a while it was peaceful and they had a strange holiday feeling, mingled with a piercing sense of great adventure and impending tragedy. Finch felt light and strong, as though he never could be tired again. Wakefield sat beside Val, learning how to handle the yacht. Suddenly she exclaimed: —
“Look!”
In the distance they saw planes fighting, two falling into the sea but too far away to make out their nationality. A little further on a British fighter streamed above them toward England, with smoke pouring from her, enveloping her. Then a German bomber flying toward France pursued by British planes unloaded her bombs. The bombs fell in front of the yacht. It rocked
horribly. The three clung to their seats with frightened grins on their faces. Finch was tumbled to the deck.
“Gosh!” he got out as he picked himself up. “It’s really beginning.”
All about them dead fish, big and little, rose and turned up their bellies. Millions of fish were on the surface of the sea, glistening in the pale sunlight. The planes disappeared and there was quiet again. Then they saw a launch overturned in the distance but they could not go to her help.
“Are you much frightened, Val?” asked Wakefield.
“Terribly. But I’d not turn back for anything.”
Mrs. Williams had well provided them with food and drink. The sea air was fresh. They were hungry.
“Did you say you had one brother over there, or two?” asked Val.
“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, th
e 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.”
Books 9-12: Finch's Fortune / The Master of Jalna / Whiteoak Harvest / Wakefield's Course Page 146