Heathersleigh Homecoming

by Michael Phillips

  “Sisters, women of God . . . nuns, if you like,” he added, stretching the truth just a little, hoping it would dissuade them. He already had the uncomfortable feeling he may have been a little too straightforward. “Believe me, the last thing you will find at the chalet is a spy.”

  “We will be the judge of that. Where is this Wengen?”

  “There . . . on the mountain,” he answered reluctantly.

  The two followed his pointing hand.

  “Up there! But how does one get there? Is there a train?”

  Father Stein smiled.

  “I tell you, whoever it is you are looking for is not there. Even if they were, you will not get there at this time of the year. No, there is no train.”

  As a train whistle sounded behind them, Ramsay turned quickly toward it. A premonition swept through him. He had not realized the train was pulling out behind him on its return from where it had come an hour before. He stared after it for several seconds as it picked up speed and gradually disappeared down the valley. His thoughts were interrupted by Scarlino’s voice.

  “But I see a wagon that appears on its way up the mountain right there,” he said, still looking off in the opposite direction toward the mountain.

  “A few people make the trip,” said Father Stein. “But unless you found one of the villagers willing to take you by wagon or donkey, I do not think you will get there at all. On foot you would never make it. And unless I am mistaken,” he added, glancing over his shoulder toward where the peak of the Jungfrau would be had they been able to see it, “a storm is on the way.”

  “Then who is that there!” finally exclaimed Ramsay impatiently, pointing toward the wagon pulled by a single horse that was just disappearing into a thicket of trees.

  “From this distance, I really could not say,” answered the priest.

  59

  Strangers in Wengen

  As if the skies over Switzerland had been roused to blustery fury in response to Amanda’s departure from the Chalet of Hope, within a few hours—as she now rode northward toward Bern and Basel on a course that would eventually take her to France, and just as Father Stein had foretold—great black clouds continued to approach from the south.

  It was late in the day when two strangers, whose feet were nearly as cold as their hearts, made their way along Wengen’s deserted main street. They had arrived only a short while earlier on a hired donkey cart whose unbelievably slow pace had infuriated Ramsay nearly to rage. As yet they had not seen a soul.

  “This is a small enough village,” shivered Ramsay. “Surely we will be able to—”

  He glanced around as they reached a side street.

  “There is an old woman up ahead!” he exclaimed, pointing down the lane to his left. “—Hey, Hausfrau!” he called, running forward toward the bent form struggling against the wind with bag in one hand and walking cane in the other.

  She continued on, giving no reply or other indication that she had heard a thing, which in this wind she may not have. The ground was frozen enough, however, to make certain the footsteps running up behind her sounded clearly.

  Ramsay caught up and ran in front of her to block her way.

  “Get out of my way, you young—” she began.

  “Didn’t you hear me?” said Ramsay rudely. The long day, intolerable ride, and frigid cold had long since laid waste any patience he might have possessed, which even on his best days was not much. “I’m talking to you.”

  “I heard you and I didn’t like what I heard,” she returned in kind, brushing her way past him. But again Ramsay stepped forward and blocked her way.

  “Keep your temper, old woman,” he said. “All we want to know is where someone named Reinhardt lives.”

  “Mind your own business and leave me be!” she retorted. “The chalet concerns me no more than you do yourself. Now let me pass.”

  “What chalet?” said Ramsay.

  Bitten by a sudden whim of concern, not so much for the sisters themselves but for any inhabitant of her village over this rude stranger, the reply which now met Ramsay’s ears was more cryptic than he had patience for.

  “Ow, there’s chalets here and chalets there,” she said, still struggling to get by. “The Alps is full of chalets.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean nothing, only that you’ll get no more out of me.”

  She shoved past again, this time giving Ramsay a sharp whack with her cane.

  He winced in pain, his anger now roused to fury. He took yet another step forward, reaching out and grabbing hold of her shoulder. Momentarily, however, he had met his match. She spun around, fire in her eyes, and attacked him with her cane more vigorously than before. A volley of abuse poured from her lips. Before Ramsay knew what was happening, he had received two more blows, one to his shoulder, one to his midsection.

  Incensed, he lurched sideways, then grabbed at the swinging weapon. After two or three tries, he latched on to it, wrenched it from her grasp, and threw it across the street. Reacting on impulse rather than thought, the next instant a blow from the back of his hand slapped against the side of the woman’s face.

  She fell backward onto the frozen ground with a shriek, more of wrath than pain, unleashing a torrent of profanity at her assailant. Had she possessed the Luger that was inside Ramsay’s coat at that moment, he would have been a dead man within seconds. As it was, the rapid fire of her verbal assault met only Ramsay’s cruel laughter in the howling wind.

  “Let’s go, Halifax,” said Scarlino, pulling him away. “You are growing more mad by the second.”

  Already darkness had begun to set in. By now the entire Jungfrau region was blowing a tempest and the temperature had dropped ten degrees. The two returned in the direction of the main street.

  In the warmth of his own cottage, in spite of the wind Herr Buchmann heard his neighbor’s cry of pain. He glanced out the window, saw nothing, then grabbed his coat and hurried out the door.

  It did not take him more than a minute or two to discover Frau Grizzel’s form lying in the street halfway between their two cottages. The tussle with Ramsay, the blow to her face, combined with the wind and the cold, had rendered the poor woman powerless to regain her footing. Had not Herr Buchmann arrived when he did, she would certainly have frozen to death within the hour.

  “Frau Grizzel . . . Frau Grizzel!” he exclaimed, hastening forward and stooping down beside her. “What has happened!”

  Exhausted, well aware of her danger, and thus feeling an overpowering sense of what had not stirred her heart for years, that is thankfulness, Frau Grizzel was not inclined to hurl unkind and accusatory threats toward both attacker and rescuer altogether as might have been her inclination at any other time. For once she held her peace and allowed the strong arms of the schoolmaster and librarian to assist her.

  “It’s some gash you’ve got on your cheek, poor woman,” said Herr Buchmann, pulling her to a sitting position, then managing to get an arm under her shoulder. “We’ll get you to my cottage, where a warm fire and a cup of tea and a dab of salve will help get the strength back in your legs.”

  Remarkably, the old woman did not argue. When Herr Buchmann had her on her feet and began leading her away in the direction of his home rather than hers, with his arm still around her to steady her wobbly feet, even then she did not resist.

  In truth, for the first time in more years than she could remember, tea and a fire in the company of another human being sounded to her heart as a very balm sent from heaven.

  60

  Stormy Night

  Later that same evening, the mood in the chalet continued tearful and quiet. It was reading night. They gathered around the fire, though no one was talkative.

  “I don’t think I could bear to read Robinson Crusoe tonight,” said Sister Marjolaine. “It would remind me of Amanda and I would start to cry all over again. I am so afraid for her, that she may be embarking on her own season of shipwreck.”

  “Just th
e thought of her out on a night like tonight,” added Sister Luane, “on the train or in a lonely station somewhere, or in some lonelier hotel in Basel . . . I can hardly bear it.”

  “Especially when she could be here with us,” added Sister Agatha.

  “We mustn’t lose heart,” said Sister Hope. “Or stop praying. Though she is obviously still trying to run away from her problems, it may be that she is more homeward bound than she realizes. At least such is my prayer. She is on her way toward England, and I pray the Lord will use that fact for good.”

  Sister Hope’s words seemed at last to buoy their spirits and enable the sisters to see how good might yet come of Amanda’s leaving.

  “So . . . what shall we read?” Hope asked, herself in more hopeful spirits than she had felt all day.

  Just then a fierce gust of wind blasted against the windowpanes, nearly setting the whole house to shaking.

  “Something stormy,” suggested Galiana.

  “Yes, yes—read us one of your stormy stories, Sister Marjolaine,” said Gretchen. “It will take our minds off Amanda and help us enjoy the tempest.”

  “What do you suggest, Sister Anika?” Marjolaine asked. “If I know you, you probably have another of the Scotsman’s on the tip of your tongue to fit the occasion that you could probably quote from memory.”

  “Not exactly,” laughed Anika. “But I do remember the openings . . . let me think . . .”

  Already they were feeling much better. Twenty minutes later, with fresh tea before them, and two new logs crackling in the fire, they again found seats. In the meantime, Anika had made her selection.

  “So here is another of the Scotsman’s stories,” she said. “Perhaps we shall not finish it all, but we shall at least enjoy it this evening.” She opened the book and began.

  On the night when my story opens, the twilight had long fallen and settled down into the dark. Presently there came a great and sudden blast of wind, which rushed down the chimney and drove smoke into the middle of the room. The howling wind could not shake the cottage, for it lay too low, neither could it rattle its windows—they were not made to open. But it could bellow over it like a wave over a rock, and as if in contempt, blow its smoke back into its throat.

  It was a wild and evil night. The wind was rushing from the north, full of sharp stinging particles, something between snowflakes and hailstones. Down it came, into the face of the solitary walker who was still out on the darkness of the moor in a chaos of wind and snow. The young man fighting against the elements did not despair. Rather his spirit rejoiced. Invisible though the wild waste was to him through the snow, it was nevertheless a presence, and his young heart rushed to the contest.

  As Anika read, the wind continued to beat upon the chalet, if anything with increasing force. It seemed as if the very words of the book were whipping up their own wind to correspond with the sister storm of the story.

  “I hope no one is out like that in our village tonight,” remarked Regina.

  “No one will be,” Agatha replied. “No one who lives in these mountains would venture out at this time of year at night with a storm blowing in.”

  Sister Anika went on.

  The walker fought his way along across the open moor, the greater part of which was still heather and swamp. Peat bog and ploughed land was all one waste of snow. Creation seemed nothing but the snow that had fallen, the snow that was falling, and the snow that had yet to fall.

  Back at the cottage, the snow was fast gathering in heaps on the windowsills, on the frames, and every smallest ledge where it could lie. In the midst of the blackness and the roaring wind, the tiny house was being covered with spots of silent whiteness, resting on every projection, every rough edge of wall and roof. All around the wind and snow raved. The clouds that garnered the snow were shaken by mad winds, whirled and tossed and buffeted to make them yield their treasures—

  Suddenly a knock sounded. Half of the listeners nearly jumped out of their seats.

  “What was that!” exclaimed Gretchen.

  “One of your cows again?” said Agatha, turning toward Galiana.

  Again came the sharp rapping.

  “Someone is at the door,” now said Luane.

  They all glanced around. Several shivered. The chalet seemed all at once to have grown very cold. For a moment it was deathly still.

  “Who could it be at this hour, and on such a night?” Gretchen wondered.

  Again silence fell.

  At last Hope rose and walked slowly to the front door. The eyes of the others followed her. Something about the strange knock on such a stormy night had filled them all with a sense of trepidation.

  Sister Hope opened the door. She saw two unlikely strangers standing before her in the darkness. The reflection of the light from inside revealed a few snow flurries beginning behind them. From where Gretchen sat in the big room, she could see one of the faces plainly. Her eyes opened wide in recognition.

  It was the man she had noticed in the train station in Milan!

  Instantly she realized the presence of these men meant danger. She knew just as surely that her friend was likely to reveal too much, and perhaps even invite the men in out of the storm. She was on her feet the next second and moving toward the door. Out of the corner of her eye, Sister Hope saw her approaching and turned.

  “Sister Gretchen,” she said, “these, uh . . . gentlemen are asking about you . . . and Amanda.”

  “I see,” said Gretchen, coming forward. “What can I do for you? I am Gretchen Reinhardt.”

  “The priest from down in the valley sent us,” began the shorter of the two.

  “Father Stein?”

  “Yes, yes . . . of course—Father Stein. He assured us that you might be able to help us.”

  He smiled a toothy, insincere smile. Gretchen knew he was lying.

  “We understand you were traveling with a young woman called Amanda,” now said Ramsay, squeezing forward, “and that she might still be with you.”

  As he spoke he peered behind her and into the chalet.

  “I am sorry, gentlemen,” Gretchen answered, realizing it would probably be useless to deny it. “I did meet a girl by the name of Amanda when I was in Italy and brought her home with me for a while. But she left us some time ago.”

  “Where was she going?”

  “I don’t know exactly—France, I believe.”

  Ramsay eyed her menacingly. Sister Gretchen returned his gaze.

  “You had better be telling the truth,” said Ramsay. “The woman is a spy, and it will not go well for you if I find out you are lying.”

  “She is not here, I can promise you that,” said Gretchen. “You are welcome to come in and search if you think I would lie to you.”

  “That will not be necessary,” now said Scarlino. “Come, Halifax—she is not here.”

  They turned and departed. Quickly, before they could change their minds and before Sister Hope could offer them refuge from the cold, Gretchen shut the door behind them.

  As she turned back inside, a look of question on Hope’s face greeted her.

  “They are bad men,” said Gretchen. “They were lying about Father Stein. I only pray they did not harm him. One of them I have seen before. I believe he is the one who is after Amanda.”

  “But, Sister Gretchen,” said Hope, “you did not tell them the truth.”

  “I did not exactly lie,” she returned. “I said she had been gone for some time, which is true. Twelve hours is some time, is it not? And none of us knows exactly where she is going either, and she is going to France.”

  They walked back into the room, where the eyes of all the other sisters were wide. They had heard every word of the dangerous exchange.

  “It appears that it is more important than ever that we keep Amanda in our prayers,” said Gretchen. “That man has been following her since before she came to us. I doubt very much if he will give up now.”

  “We must bolt every door and window securely tonight,”
added Hope.

  61

  Attack

  An explosion only a few feet off the port bow sent a plume of white spray into the air.

  The HMS Dauntless rocked slightly. It was the nearest miss yet.

  Even a British battle cruiser was no match for the German U-boats. Every man on board knew it. If they didn’t knock this one out right now while it remained a little too near the surface and was visible, it would dog them underwater and out of sight until it found the mark and they were on their way to the bottom. On the main deck, midshipmen and officers were scurrying together making lifeboats ready and breaking out the supply of life vests. On the bridge, Captain Wilberforce and his officer corps kept watch with binoculars and waited. There was nothing much they could do now except zigzag between their own firings and hope for the best. The sub was out of range for their large surface artillery.

  At the torpedo station, the headset crackled with the coordinates relayed from the tower above into the ears of the radioman.

  “Port torpedo two, heading two-nine-three,” called out Petty Officer George Rutherford at the radio controls, passing the information along to the gunnery crew.

  “Heading two-nine-three . . . locked,” barked back the confirmation.

  Commanding the torpedo squadron, Lieutenant Forbes quickly checked chamber and heading and then gave the order. “Torpedo two . . . fire!” he called.

  “Torpedo away.”

  Even as new torpedoes were being prepared for chambers one and two by other of Forbes’ men, and as the lieutenant was moving on to chamber number three, from the lookout above now came another frantic message to the bridge.

  “Incoming . . . incoming torpedo!” sounded a frantic warning.

  “All hands—” cried the captain into the address system. But it was too late.

  Another explosion rocked the ship. This time it was obviously more severe.

  “Damage?” shouted Wilberforce into the microphone.

  “Minimal, sir,” came the answer from below.

  “Are we hit?”

  “Checking, sir.”