· 4 June 1939 ·
AT THE GREYBEARD LIGHT
A cold, wet nose prying under his chin brought Nick McIver straight up in bed next morning. It was his reliable alarm clock, Jip, who lathered his cheeks with kisses, then bounded off the bed and down to breakfast as was his custom. Through sleepy eyes, Nick saw the dappled sunlight already at play upon his bedcovers. As was his own habit, he swallowed a deep gulp of the briny sea air pouring through the open window. The taste of the tangy air and the sight of the blue channel far below was like having life itself for breakfast. And life, for Nick, was now full of promise.
He had to believe that the view from his room high atop the lighthouse was probably the most splendid in all of England. How many other boys had complete command of the English Channel in all directions from their bedroom windows? From his towering crow’s nest, he could monitor seagoing traffic to all points of the compass. Wiping the sleep from his eyes, he was pleased to see the white-hulled French frigate Belle Poule out of Calais, steaming once more for her home port. He leaned farther out the window.
Glorious.
The morning sky had been scrubbed clean of all but a few puffy cottonballs and the sea stretched away far below, a rolling carpet of royal blue littered with whitecaps. In the air, great whirlwinds of terns and phalaropes and storm petrels wheeled about, barking at each other and diving straight and true at each flash of silver in the ocean below.
Nick craned his head out farther still, looking in all directions for anything unusual in the morning’s seagoing traffic. He saw the Maracaya, a rusty tub out of Cartagena, making her sluggish run up to Portsmouth or Devon, smoke drifting lazily from her stacks. Business as usual, he thought, oddly comforted.
Nick smiled, lay back against his pillow, clasped his hands behind his head, and considered the exciting turn his life had suddenly taken. Overnight, it seemed, he’d outgrown this little whitewashed room full of childish, boyish things. He now lived in a grown-up world of spies and secrets and submarines. He was pretty sure that spies didn’t get in trouble for being late for supper.
His eyes drifted up to the shelf on the wall beyond the foot of his bed. It was sagging with books and boyhood treasures. Nick’s ancient brass spyglass, bequeathed to him by his great-great-grandfather, the most prized of all.
In those days, Nick thought with a sigh, the McIvers had been sea captains. The old telescope was especially beloved because of the faint initials NM on the eyepiece focus ring. Running his fingers over the worn letters, he liked to imagine his salty old namesake heading into battle against the French, manning the helm of an English man-of-war. His ancestors had been men of the sea, real heroes, just like the great Admiral Lord Nelson himself! The sea, that’s where heroes were born and bred, and Nick longed for the salty life with all his heart.
Last night’s book was still splayed upon his bedcovers. It was an eyewitness account of Admiral Lord Nelson’s tragic death, standing on the quarterdeck of his flagship Victory at Trafalgar. Nelson, just forty-seven years old, had cruelly been brought down by a French sharpshooter, hanging in the topgallant crosstrees of a French man-of-war.
The four brightly polished stars on the English Sea Lord’s chest had made him an easy target. England’s greatest hero had fallen, his blood mingling with the tears of his comrades as he lay upon the deck, dying.
Reading and rereading the passage, Nick always felt his hero’s death keenly, with a sadness usually reserved for family.
There was a fleet of little wooden ships beneath his bed. Nick had fought and refought all of Nelson’s great sea battles. All except Nelson’s last, of course. Nick had decided Trafalgar would be the last battle fought with his wooden fleet, a final tribute to his boyhood hero before he put the toys of childhood away forever.
Nelson the Strong, Nelson the Brave, Nelson the Lord of the Sea.
Suddenly, Nick’s bedroom door swung inward with a bang, causing him to sit bolt upright in bed for the second time that morning. There stood his almost seven-year-old sister, Kate. She had one of her many raggedy dolls under her arm and Nick noticed this one had the same big blue eyes and bouncy red curls as his sister did. The little half smile on her face meant he was in some kind of trouble. He’d only had about six years of peace in his life, the ones before his sister had been born, and most of his waking hours were spent trying to keep just a half step ahead of her.
“Oh. Hullo, Nicky,” she said, leaning against the doorway. “Are you still sleeping?”
“Tell me something, Kate,” he said through a yawn. “Seriously. Have you ever, ever, known anyone to sleep sitting straight upright? Think about it.”
“Um, well, yes, actually,” she said, “I have.”
“Oh, don’t be such a vexation,” Nick said, quoting Mother’s favorite word. “Who on earth sleeps sitting straight upright?”
“Father, that’s who. In church. Every single Sunday morning!” Kate said, eyes blue as cornflowers crinkling in total victory.
“Oh,” Nick said, frowning. “Right.” Christmas! Hardly awake for five minutes and already she’d gotten the better of him! It was going to be a long day. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs. “Well, for your information I am not still sleeping.”
“That’s good because Father wants to know something,” Kate said, swinging her doll lazily by the hair.
“What’s that?” Nick asked, covering another yawn with the back of his hand.
“Well, he’d like to know if you plan to sleep all day or if you’re coming down to—”
“Oh. Breakfast,” Nick said, and swung his legs over the side of the bed. Somehow, having gone to sleep without any supper, he’d managed to forget all about breakfast. “Right. Coming down, straightaway. I’m starving.” Pushing his hair out of his eyes, he tried to recall where he’d thrown his trousers.
“By the way, Nicky?” she asked, twirling the doll in a tight little arc. “Do you believe in Nazis?”
“Why, I guess I do,” Nick said, pulling his well-worn summer trousers on, two legs at a time. “Much as anything.”
“Do you know what Nazis look like?”
“I suppose I’d know a Nazi sure enough if I saw one up close, Kate,” Nick replied. “Why do you ask?”
“Well, we’re supposed to keep a watch out for them, that’s all,” she said with great seriousness. “We’re going to be birdwatchers, just like Papa. All of us. You, me, even Mummy. That’s what Father wants to talk to you about. He already talked to us about them. Mummy doesn’t believe in Nazis, I don’t think. And Father says Mummy shouldn’t go snooping about in his secret drawers looking at his big birdwatcher’s book if she—oh, race you to the bottom of the stairs, Nicky!”
She’d seen the stormy look on her brother’s face and decided to beat a hasty retreat down to the kitchen.
“Hold on,” Nick said. The birdwatcher’s book? “He, he thinks it was Mummy found the secret drawer and, what—hold on a tick will you!” But his sister was already halfway back down the twisting stairway. Nick charged out after her, pulling his shoes on as he ran. “Kate! Come back here! Wait! Don’t—” But she had too much of a head start on him and was already at the kitchen table when Nick burst into the sunfilled room.
And there, on the kitchen table, just where he’d feared it might be, was the faded red leather logbook from the secret drawer upstairs. On the table right between his parents, who sat staring at each other in stony silence above it. And look at little Katie with the big smile on her face.
“It was me,” Nick said simply. They all turned to stare at him.
“What do you mean, Nick?” his father asked, a puzzled expression on his face.
“I opened the drawer. I took out the book. I didn’t mean to look inside it, Father, I just, I couldn’t help it. I was looking for Mother’s spectacles and I pushed the little button and then the drawer just popped out. I didn’t mean to look, but—I’m sorry, Father, really I am.”
“Thank you, Nicholas,” his mother said smiling at him. “I’ve been trying to tell the old boy I wasn’t his culprit, but you know your father.” She delicately patted a spot of jam from the corner of her mouth and added, “Well, the cat’s out of the bag at any rate, isn’t it? At least we don’t all have to go on pretending to believe in this silly ‘birdwatching’ business! Isn’t that right, dear husband?”
Nick’s father gave his mother one of his looks and said, “Well, I certainly knew somebody had been looking at it because the log was put back in the drawer upside down and—well—” He stopped himself and looked at his wife with an embarrassed smile. “Sorry, old thing. I should have known it was young Mr. Curiosity Shop here and not—”
“No harm done, my darling,” Emily interrupted. She rose from the table and stood behind her husband, nuzzling his head with playful kisses. “In fact, quite the opposite!” Motioning to Katie, she added, “Come along, Katherine, and bring your berry basket. I’m going to need your help if I’m to get that strawberry pie into the oven in time for supper.”
His sister slid by him, obviously a bit disappointed there hadn’t been more of a row and that Nicholas hadn’t gotten into more serious trouble. Kate didn’t necessarily try to cause trouble herself, but she was always quite happy to see it come along. Provided, of course, that it was her brother, and not Kate herself, who was the focus of it. Luckily, that was usually the case.
Nick McIver never looked for trouble, it seemed to look for him.
“Sit up straight and eat your porridge, Nicholas,” his father said sternly. “I want a word with you, young man.” Nick saw his sister’s expression brighten instantly. She imagined he was really in for it now, and she was probably right. She gave him a knowing smile as she rose from the table and was shocked to see the pink tip of her brother’s tongue dart from his mouth.
“Mother! Nicky stuck his tongue out at me and—”
“I did not! I was only getting a bit of porridge that—”
“Nicholas, behave yourself! Oh, Angus, by the way,” Emily called to his father, as she waited by the kitchen door for Kate to collect her basket.
“Yes, dear?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll sound the alarm if we discover any Nazis hiding in the strawberry patch! Won’t we, Katie?” She laughed and sailed out the door, her big straw basket dangling gaily from her arm. Nick could hear her laughter all the way down the garden path.
Nick’s father looked at him. For a second, Nick feared the worst. But then Kate flew out the door, basket on arm, singing about Nazis in the strawberry patch and Angus’s face broke into a broad grin. But his father’s grin soon faded and he pushed the red logbook across the table toward his son.
“You’ve read what’s in here, I suppose,” Angus said.
“Yes, Father,” Nick admitted. “Some of it. Enough to know what it is.”
“As amusing as your dear mother seems to find all of this, I assure you it is no laughing matter.” Angus paused to relight his pipe and sat puffing it, regarding Nick thoughtfully. “I may need your help, son,” he said finally.
“Anything, Father,” Nick replied, his eyes shining. “Anything at all!” A trill of excitement was flowing through him, unlike anything he’d ever experienced. His life, he knew, was changing before his very eyes.
“There is a war coming, Nick,” Angus said. “A terrible war. Your mother doesn’t believe it because her brother’s in government and the government believes there’ll be no war. Most people feel that way and I understand Mother’s feelings. But I think war is imminent, Nick. The Germans have fooled us all. Mr. Churchill alone seems to understand England’s desperate situation. He has no power, no authority at all, but he is single-handedly trying to sound the alarm throughout England before it’s too late.”
“Not quite single-handed though, is he, Father?” Nick asked, placing his hand on the Birdwatcher’s logbook.
“No, I guess he’s not quite single-handed, Nick,” Angus said, with an appreciative nod to his son. “Since he’s not in government, he must rely on a group of private citizens like me for any little scrap of news about the German naval and air buildup. We’re not all one-legged lighthouse keepers tracking the sea lanes, either. There are scores of British businessmen traveling inside Germany who watch the rail lines. I know a group of schoolteachers in Dorset who watch the coastal skies every night. We’re a loose confederation of lookouts, Nicky. We work in total secrecy and report our findings directly to Churchill at his home in Kent.”
“Why won’t the government listen to Mr. Churchill, Father?” Nick asked, his eyes wide as he imagined himself part of a vast network of spies.
“Oh, it’s politics, son, of the worst kind,” he said, leaning back in his chair and letting a thin stream of smoke escape his lips. “Like most politicians, the Prime Minister is telling the people only what they want to hear. You see, most people are like your mother. They hate war, and rightfully so. As you know, we lost an entire generation of boys not much older than yourself in the last war. And that memory is very strong and very painful. Everyone is afraid of it happening again. Everyone wants peace so desperately that the Prime Minister and His Majesty’s government are burying their heads in the sand, pretending that if they give Hitler what he wants, he’ll go away and leave us alone.”
“I want peace, too, Father,” Nick said softly. “Don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Nick,” Angus said. “But peace at any price is the most dangerous course of action we could take. England is weak, with little stomach for a fight. But fight we will, and sooner rather than later. Right now, today, Germany’s Luftwaffe fighters and bombers outnumber our own ten-to-one. Germany’s got millions of men in uniform, all highly trained. And they’re building the mightiest warships and submarines the world has ever seen. Including some kind of ‘super U-boat’ that we’ve only heard rumors about. Highly experimental. I’ve promised Churchill I’d find out everything I could about her.”
“Why are U-boats so important?” Nick asked, making a mental note to tell his father about the bomber squadrons he’d seen off Hawke Point.
“Food, Nick,” Angus said. “England is a small island. She can never raise enough food to feed herself. In the first war, German submarines almost succeeded in cutting off our food supply by sinking all the convoys bound for England. That’s why, after the Great War, the Germans were forbidden from building submarines by the Versailles Peace Treaty. Hitler is ignoring that treaty, and my weekly reports to Chartwell prove it. We can’t let the U-boats gain control of the Channel or the North Atlantic again. If they do, this time we will starve. Understand all of this, Nick?”
“Y-yes, Father, I think I do,” Nick replied. He was thinking of his mother’s brother, his uncle Godfrey, and his wee children who lived in Cadogan Square in the very center of London. He was thinking, too, of skies over the capital black with thundering bombers like those he’d seen off Hawke Point. And the idea of all England and Europe ablaze. Was it a blaze, he wondered, that could spread all the way to little Greybeard Island? “But what can I do, Father?”
“I’ve only got two eyes, Nick, neither of them as strong as they used to be,” Angus said. “I could use a good pair of eyes alongside mine up at the top of the lighthouse every night. Watching for submarine tracks in the moonlight. And, when you’re out sailing on Petrel, you could keep an eye out for anything that might be important. Periscopes. Any large convoys of German shipping. Any unusual naval activity you might see. Anything at all, son, just jot it down and I’ll include it in my weekly report to Chartwell.”
“How do our reports get to Mr. Churchill, Father?” Nick asked, enjoying the chill he got imagining the great man himself reading one of Nick’s own reports.
“Ah. I have a contact called ‘Captain Thor.’ Not his real name, probably, but a code. A former naval man, I believe, and highly experienced at this sort of thing. He’s rather the ringleader of our little group of ‘birdwatchers,’ as we call ourselves. Captain Thor crosses to Portsmouth each week on his sixty-foot motor launch. Delivers the reports to an old fisherman who waits just outside the harbor. Gets them over there in fairly short order, he does, too. Twin V-twelve Allisons below, aircraft engines. She’s called Thor, in fact. Perhaps you’ve seen her about?”
“Thor! How could I miss her? She’s a real beauty,” Nick said. “And I’ve seen this Captain Thor, too, I guess, at her helm.” Nick looked at his father in dead earnest. “I’ll do anything I can to help the birdwatchers, Father. You can count on me.”
“I knew I could count on you, Nick. One final thing. This effort of Churchill’s is a matter of the utmost confidentiality. Even King George doesn’t know about it! I must swear you to absolute secrecy. What I’m doing is completely against the government’s wishes. I’d lose my job if the Ministry ever found out I was helping Churchill. And another thing. When war does break out, the fate of anyone who falls into enemy hands while spying is death. And you’re a spy now, son, just like me. Remember that. Can you keep such a big secret?”
“Yes, Father. I swear it,” Nick said, but he wasn’t really thinking about Father losing his job or anybody dying before a Nazi firing squad. He was trying to make himself believe that a mere twelve-year-old boy was in on a secret so great that even the Prime Minister and the King of England didn’t know about it!
That night, as he drifted off to sleep, an amazing notion occurred to Nicholas McIver. Maybe he was only twelve years old, a boy who’d probably never amount to any kind of real hero, but how many other boys did he know who could claim to be living, breathing spies, for goodness’ sake?
None, that’s how many!