For a few seconds Gregory went dead-still, gathering all his remaining force together for one last effort. In his early struggles to free himself he had dragged first at one foot, then at the other; but as one had come up a little the other had only gone down farther into the clinging ooze. Fighting off his panic, he strove to think clearly, knowing now that his strength could not save him, but his wits still might. Almost instantly it came to him that if only he could get one foot out and place it on the dead German’s body he might be able to drag the other free.
Exerting his overstrained muscles to their uttermost and flinging his body sideways, he strove to wrench out his right foot, but the slime seemed a living thing, with the grip of a giant octopus. With despair creeping into his heart he knew that his strength was ebbing and that his effort had failed.
His lungs were bursting. He could no longer control his jaws. A big bubble came out of his mouth, and the muddy water gushed down his throat.
He had always heard that drowning was a pleasant death, but had no cause to think it so. The water brought no relief, and the pains in his chest were more agonising than ever. It was too late now to curse his own folly in preferring personal vengeance upon this brutish lout, who lay dead in the slime beside him, to life and all the glorious things it offered. The game was up. He would never again know the joy of Erika’s caresses, the thrill of a new adventure, the feel of a hot bath and a comfortable bed after a long hard journey, or the cool richness of a beaker of iced champagne. He was going to die there for the pleasure of having killed a stupid oaf and make food for fishes on the bottom of a little creek which was no more then twelve feet deep.
At that thought his wildly whirling brain conceived the notion that the Breton fishermen had seen him go in and that when he did not come up would try to find him; but in a flash he knew that such a thought was only the wildest of wishful thinking. They would find him all right when the tide went out, but the water was too cloudy for them to see him standing there, and they might drag the creek with anchors and grappling irons for hours before there was any chance of one of them catching in his clothes; by then he would long since be drowned past all resuscitation.
Although his lungs were rapidly filling with water he began to fight again, yet weakly now, and his efforts to free himself were no longer controlled, but just the spasmodic jerkings of a desperate dying man. It was dark down there, but through the turgid water he saw what seemed to be a darker patch slowly weaving its way towards him. The pain in his chest became unendurable, his head was splitting, stars whirled before his eyes, then blackness engulfed him, and he lost consciousness.
Up on the deck of the fishing-smack Kuporovitch was half-crazy with anxiety. He knew that Gregory in his weakened state was no match for the hefty Prussian, and as neither of them had come up to the suface felt certain now that they must be locked in a death-grapple on the bottom. As soon as the two Bretons with the boathook had dealt with the German soldier who had tried to climb aboard, he gabbled out to them his desperate fears for his friend, and the younger of the two took a header over the side to see if he could find the missing Englishman.
After a minute he came up gasping, dived again, came up again, swam back a little nearer to the place from which the smack had drifted, and went down twice more; but his efforts proved unavailing. He shouted that the water was so dark and muddy near the bottom that he could not see more than a yard in any direction.
In the meantime, Kuporovitch had kept one eye on the other smack which was pursuing the unwounded German. He saw the fishermen cast out two bundles of nets which enmeshed the swimmer, causing him to sink and drown. He saw them haul in the first net and pull up the drowned man’s body; then they began to heave in the second net. That too was taut from a weight that dragged it down, and suddenly a second body appeared on the surface.
It was the trailing-net which Gregory had seen coming towards him as a dark patch through the murk. Even as his consciousness was leaving him it had wrapped round his body, while he instinctively thrust his fingers through the spaces, clutching at it with the fierceness of a dying man. His unconscious grip had held, and the way of the heavy boat going under sail through the water above had wrenched him from the muddy death-trap.
As soon as the two boats could be brought together Kuporovitch boarded the second. The men had just cut Gregory clear of the net, and he lay there on the deck—a loose sodden heap, with water slowly trickling from his mouth. One of the bronzed Bretons, a tall bearded man, who appeared to be their captain, was examining him. He said that he looked pretty far gone, but they would do their very best for him, and turning him over on his stomach they set to work to give him artificial respiration.
For a long time Kuporovitch sat there on a coil of rope while the fishermen worked on Gregory in relays. He was still far too anxious to know whether life could be restored to his friend to bother about future plans, but the bearded captain gave him an outline of what they proposed to do.
The gravest penalties for all concerned in the sabotaging of the Germans could only be escaped if the affair was represented as a genuine accident. Therefore it must be reported at once. It was for this reason too that they had been careful not to disfigure the two German soldiers while they were in the water. Their drowned bodies were being sent back by one of the smacks to be landed with deep expressions of regret and handed over to the mayor of the commune until the German authorities could collect them. In the meantime, the rest of the fleet would proceed to sea, so that no one on shore should see the escaped captives; they could be landed when the fleet returned that night, and darkness would give them good cover.
It was over an hour before the men working on Gregory could report that they had some real hopes for him, but his heart was strong, and soon after they announced that it was now only a matter of sticking to the job until they got him round. At last his eyes opened, and delighted Stefan was able to kneel down and give him a bearlike hug.
Now that he knew Gregory would live the Russian became acutely conscious again of his own hurts and extreme fatigue, which in his great anxiety for his friend he had almost forgotten. Gregory was carried below to be wrapped in hot blankets, and Kuporovitch was helped down after him. The fishermen made up two bunks, a steaming mug of cognac toddy was brought to each of them, and no sooner had they swallowed it than they fell into the deep sleep of utter exhaustion.
When they were roused it was night again. At first they were so stiff and ached so badly in all their limbs that they could hardly move, but the fishermen gave them another go of hot toddy, then helped them to dress and up on to the deck, where Gregory had his first chance of expressing his thanks to their captain and his concern that the Germans would take swift reprisals on account of the rescue.
The bearded Breton smiled in the starlight. ‘That is a risk we must take, but I don’t think you need worry overmuch. Our greatest danger was that one of the Boches might escape to give a true account of what happened; but all three of them are dead, so there is no one to contradict our story, which will be that they handled their boat badly and that its sinking was entirely an accident. The two bodies, which were landed at mid-day, bore no marks of violence, and by the time the third is recovered it will probably be hardly recognisable.’
‘But what about us?’ Gregory hazarded. ‘They’re certain to want to know what happened to their prisoners.’
‘As far as we are aware, you were both drowned too. The currents in the creek are tricky, and, as you know yourself, it’s very easy for a man who goes under to get bogged in the mud at its bottom. Out of a boatload of five there’s nothing very remarkable in the fact that only two bodies should have been recovered.’
‘They’ll think it odd, though, that not one of the five was rescued or managed to swim ashore.’
‘Yes, I fear they may, but as they cannot possibly prove anything it will be difficult for them to formulate a charge against us. At all events, that is a risk that I and my friends take willingly for the pleasure of having snatched two of Henri Denoual’s friends out of the clutches of these swine.’
‘What happened to Denoual?’ Gregory asked.
‘They arrested him when they first came to the island about ten days ago. I saw him when they brought him ashore, and the fiends had beaten him even worse than they beat you. His poor face was almost unrecognisable, and one of his arms was broken, but his torment was not over, as word reached us that they had taken him into Dinan and handed him over to the Gestapo.’
‘You know the work upon which he was engaged?’
‘Yes. A number of us used to help him in it by smuggling his visitors ashore at night and taking them to the old farmhouse where we are going to send you.’
‘How did you learn that they had caught us?’ Kuporovitch enquired.
The brown-faced Breton smiled again. ‘We saw the lights and heard the shooting on the island when we were out fishing last night, so we knew that somebody must have fallen into the trap. This morning I arranged with my friends that we should have our little fleet standing out in the creek all ready to intercept their boat when they came ashore, if they had any prisoners in it.’
As they had been talking the smack had been nearing the land under a gentle breeze, and now the sail was lowered, bringing her to rest in a small bay. A rowing-boat, which she had been trailing behind her stern, was pulled up alongside. Having thanked the captain and his crew from the bottom of their hearts, Gregory and Kuporovitch got into the boat with two of the fishermen, who rowed them ashore. On reaching the beach one of the Bretons remained with the boat while the other showed them the way to a steep track which led upwards through the darkness.
The going was slow, as Kuporovitch could not put any weight on his left foot, but the other two supported him. After ten minutes’ climb they reached flat, grassy ground on the top of the cliff, and turning east a little, headed inland. It took them over half an hour to cover about a mile, but they then struck a winding single-track road, and having made their way along it for a further five minutes they reached a lonely coppice, at the side of which a big hay-wagon could be vaguely seen in the starlight.
Their guide and a farm hand who was with the wagon exchanged a few brief sentences in Breton patois; then the fisherman handed over his charges, wished them luck and left them to return to his boat.
The farm hand pulled aside some of the hay in the back of the wagon and showed his two passengers a large hole that had been hollowed out at the bottom of the great sweet-smelling mound of fodder, all ready for them. When they had crawled into it, feet first, he covered the entrance with enough hay to conceal them, but lightly packed so that they could get sufficient air to breathe through it. Then he climbed up on to the seat of his wagon, and set off at a slow but steady pace down the hill.
Enough hay had been left on the floor of the wagon to make a comfortable couch, and although Gregory and Stefan had slept all through the afternoon and evening they were still far from recovered from their terrible ordeal of the preceding night. The gentle jolting of the wagon proved soothing rather than irritating, so after it had covered a mile or two they both dropped off to sleep.
They were wakened by its halting with a slight jerk, and for a moment they wondered where they were. Then, as memory flooded back to them, anxiety came with it as they heard a guttural German voice and guessed that the wagon had been pulled up at some control-post, where any rigorous examination must result in their discovery.
During the next few moments they remained very still, not daring to move a muscle. The scent of the hay gave Kuporovitch an almost uncontrollable desire to sneeze, but he managed to suppress it. After what seemed an interminable time, but was actually no more than sufficient for a few questions and answers between the German sentry and the farm hand, the wagon-wheels creaked, and they moved on again.
For a further three-quarters of an hour they lay, rocking gently in the close, scented darkness, then the wagon halted once more; but this time they heard a cheerful shout from the wagoner, which was answered by other genial French voices. The screen of hay was pulled aside, and they saw that it was still full night, but a big red-faced man in corduroys was standing there holding a lantern, so that they could see to scramble out.
The red-faced man was accompanied by a plump apple-cheeked woman and a lad of about sixteen. They were evidently farm people, and as Gregory’s eyes got accustomed to the light he saw that the wagon had pulled up in a farmyard, three sides of which were enclosed by house and barns. The farmer introduced himself as Jacques Queraille and, with the wagoner helping Kuporovitch, led them over to one of the farm buildings. The lower part of it was a big barn, but the upper part, which they reached by a steep wooden stairway, proved to be an apple-loft, where the year’s crop was in process of being sorted, the larger fruit to be sent into market and the smaller to be made into rich red Brittany cider.
On both sides of the loft there were long tiers of what looked like shallow bunks, made of wire-netting, supported on frames of wood. It was on these that the apples had been laid out to dry, and in several places the bunk-like wire shelves were screened by pieces of sacking.
Mère Queraille exclaimed in horror when she got a proper sight of the battered faces of her two guests, which were still caked in dried blood, and she hurried off with her son to fetch basins of hot water and bandages. Meanwhile, her husband produced straw palliasses, coarse pillows and blankets from a small room at one end of the loft, and, pulling aside some of the sacking screen, proceeded to make up two beds on the wire-netting.
On Mère Querailles’s return the painful business of treating the injuries began. Like most good farmers, Queraille knew something of anatomy from his experience with animals, and, having examined Kuporovitch’s ankle, he declared that it was not broken but badly sprained. Cold compresses were put on the swelling, and it was tightly strapped up: Gregory’s fingers were set and bound in splints, their other cuts and abrasions were bathed, cleaned and bandaged, then they stretched themselves out on two of the wire shelves. The sacking screens were replaced, so that no one casually entering the loft would have any idea that two men were sleeping there, and the Queraille family wished them good-night.
Their sleep in the hay-wagon had been quite a short one, so they were ready enough for more, and very soon dropped off again, not to wake until full light of morning was filtering in on them through the screens of sacking.
As soon as they wakened they began to take a fresh stock of their injuries and found that they were in exceedingly poor shape. Apart from Gregory’s fingers and Stefan’s ankle, the faces of both of them were terribly cut and swollen, and they had the most hideous purple bruises on a dozen different parts of their bodies. They knew that they were very lucky to be alive at all, but even so it annoyed them to think that for some days at least they would be fit for nothing. To move at all was torture, and both of them were running temperatures.
They were still commiserating with each other when they heard footsteps on the wooden stairs, and peeping from behind their screens saw that it was Madame Queraille who had come to visit them. She was carrying a heavy tray with a steaming breakfast, but neither of them felt very much like food at the moment, although it was now many hours since they had eaten.
When they told her how wretched they felt she redressed their hurts and left them there in the restful semi-darkness of the loft to doze or sleep again.
In the afternoon she returned with some hot broth and a fat, shrewd-faced Roman Catholic priest, who introduced himself as Father Xavier. While they were sipping the broth he told them that he had heard about the frightful manhandling they had received and their subsequent rescue, and he congratulated them upon having got away with their lives. He then asked if they were willing to tell him their reason for landing in France.
Kuporovitch said: ‘We both have a special devotion to Saint Denis, Father, and wish to kneel again before his shrine in Paris.’
‘I thought that might be the case,’ smiled Father Xavier, ‘but it was possible that you had private reasons for landing on Henri Denoual’s island. I, too, have a special devotion to Saint Denis, so it will be a pleasure for me to make arrangements for your journey.’
‘We’re very anxious to reach Paris as soon as possible…’ began Gregory eagerly.
‘No doubt, my son, no doubt,’ the priest cut him short in a soothing tone, ‘but Mère Queraille here tells me that neither of you is fit to travel. With the help of the good God I think that I can get you safely to Paris, but it is only sensible that before you face new exertions you should have regained at least a reasonable degree of your strength. Therefore, for the time being, I have decided you will remain here, where there is little danger of your being discovered, and you can be well looked after.’
He spoke with such quiet firmness that they knew argument was useless. They knew, too, that, anxious as they were to see Lacroix, they would be little use for anything until they had recovered from the worst effects of the mauling they had been through.
Father Xavier went on gently: ‘You will stay here for a week at least, but more probably it will be ten days before I consent to your removal. Now, while you remain lying down we will offer up a short prayer of thanksgiving for your deliverance and for your speedy recovery.’
With Madame Queraille beside him he knelt down on the floor of the loft and for several moments prayed most earnestly for France, for all who served her, and that God might strengthen the hearts and the limbs of all those, wherever they might be, who were striving for freedom from the emissaries of hell who had brought such misery and oppression upon the peoples of Europe.
Having finished, he produced two little holy medals and hung these round the necks of the invalids. Then he left them.
For the next week the two sick men did little but sleep and rest. The jovial but slow-spoken farmer looked in occasionally to see how they were getting on; his wife, who was much more talkative and a dear, motherly soul, brought them plain, well-cooked meals each morning and evening and treated their hurts.
By the eighth day of their stay in the apple-loft all their minor injuries had ceased to trouble them. Gregory could use his fingers again, provided he was careful not to strain them, and only Kuporovitch’s ankle remained as a serious handicap to any new activity, although he could now get about quite swiftly with the aid of two sticks. Much as they liked each other’s company, both of them were beginning to get distinctly bored with their enforced confinement, and knowing the urgency of the work that there was for them to do they were most anxious to proceed on their journey. It was, therefore, with considerable relief that on the afternoon of the 24th they heard the voice of Father Xavier as he came up the wooden stairs behind Mère Queraille.
He greeted them kindly, examined Kuporovitch’s ankle and gave them a good looking-over, immediately after which Gregory asked him if it would be possible for them to be sent on to Paris that night.
The Father said that he would now delay them no longer than necessary, but a couple of days would be required to make adequate arrangements before they could set out.
At first, Kuporovitch had thought that, just as the Little Father of the Vieux Logis had turned out to be Colonel Lacroix, so Father Xavier was another secret agent who was using the cassock as a disguise; but the prayers with which the Father had terminated his first visit had clearly shown that he was actually a Catholic priest. To the Russian it seemed strange that any man who was so deeply religious should concern himself in worldly affairs which at first sight had no bearing on religious matters, and he asked the priest what had caused him to take an active part in the anti-Nazi conspiracy.
Father Xavier looked a little surprised and said: ‘For you to ask that, my son, shows that you cannot be fully aware of the evil thing which we are fighting. This war is not like the last, or any of the old wars, where one country fought another only for territorial gain and self-aggrandisement. It is a vast civil war, in which the people of all countries have taken sides and each group is seeking to force an ideology and way of life upon the other group, which is unwilling to accept it.
‘In the last war all Frenchmen were for France, all Italians for Italy, and all Germans for Germany—the German clergy, for example, both Catholic and Protestant, were wholeheartedly behind their Government—but that is by no means the case today. The Nazis and the Fascists have started a new religion, in which there is no God but the State. It had already been accepted in peace-time by varying proportions of the population in every country, and now, by force of arms, the Dictators are endeavouring to secure its acceptance throughout the whole world. If they succeed mankind will not only lose their political liberties, but also their right to worship God in the manner of their own choosing. It is not only the Jews that Hitler persecutes, but men of every creed who refuse to bow the knee before him. Should he ever succeed in achieving final victory the reign of Antichrist will ensue. The Nazis’ state has no place for Christianity in any form, and if Hitler once became all-powerful he would close every church and chapel in Europe, as he has already closed the synagogues.
‘For eight years now German children have been deprived, as far as it lay within the Nazis’ power, of proper religious instruction. In a Hitler-dominated world there would be no baptism in the name of God, no confirmation, no Holy Communion, and Mein Kampf would be the new Bible. How could I, or any right-thinking priest, remain a pacifist knowing that my faith, and the faith of all Christian men and women, whatever their creed, must die unless Hitler-Antichrist can be destroyed?’
‘Of course, you’re right, Father,’ Gregory agreed; ‘but the pity of it is that so comparatively few people seem to realise that. Many of our clergymen at home in England are splendid fellows and have done magnificent work during the air raids; but many more particularly among the higher-ups, don’t seem to have the faintest idea yet what we’re really up against.’
Father Xavier shook his head sadly. ‘I am grieved to hear that. Here, praise be to God, it is very different. Our Breton people have always been stalwart children of the Church, and all of them know that not only their liberty but their Faith is at stake in this hideous conflict. In the whole of Brittany, outside the towns, I’m certain that there’s not a single man or woman who would betray you, and when you were rescued by the fishermen of Saint Jacut you must have seen for yourself how gladly they were willing to risk anything for the sake of helping the enemies of Hitler. The people here look to their priests for leadership, and of what use is a priest to his flock in times like these if he does nothing but stand in his church on Sundays to celebrate a few Masses? It is only proper that we should not only comfort the people in their afflictions but use any wits which God may have given us to direct the fight for the overthrow of the legions of Evil.’
‘We’ve been terribly worried about those good fellows at Saint Jacut,’ Gregory said. ‘I do hope the Germans haven’t carried out any reprisals on them.’
‘No,’ smiled the Father. ‘The Good God does not leave those who pray to Him for protection unanswered. There are many drownings at sea in these days, and the morning after your rescue the bodies of two sailors were caught by the fishermen in their nets. They were able to take these ashore and, as they were past recognition, pass them off as the bodies of you two, saying that they had dredged them up from the creek. The Germans were very suspicious about the “accident” and meant to hold a full enquiry, but they had no real evidence, and on the production of these two bodies they decided to consider the affair as closed.’
They talked on with Father Xavier for a little about the war, then, promising to arrange for their journey to Paris as soon as possible, he left them.
Two afternoons later, on Saturday 26th, they were warned by Mère Queraille that they were to leave that night. Soon after dark Father Xavier arrived with a tall, thin, grey-haired woman dressed in a dark blue uniform, whom he introduced as Madame Idlefonse, explaining that while France was in the war she had driven an ambulance for the Army, and that now she still drove her ambulance upon more secret business.
She was a quiet, practical woman, and she told them at once that one of them would have to play the part of the patient and the other of the hospital orderly who would sit inside the ambulance. It was best that whichever of them spoke French the more fluently should act as orderly. That fitted in very well, as Gregory’s French was almost good enough for him to pass as a Frenchman, and, since Kuporovitch’s ankle was still bound up, he was already equipped for the role of patient. Madame Idlefonse provided the one with an orderly’s white linen suit and the other with thick flannel pyjamas; then they were left to change.
When they had done so, carrying their own things made up in bundles, they followed the others downstairs. In the barn they all knelt in prayer, and Father Xavier asked a blessing on their journey; then the goodbyes were said, the two friends expressing the deepest possible gratitude to the Querailles for having hidden and taken such good care of them.
It was not until some days later that they learnt that on October the 20th, three days after they had reached the farm, an order had been promulgated throughout the length and breadth of Occupied France that the death penalty would be imposed upon any French subjects found harbouring British nationals; but these stouthearted Bretons had never breathed a word about it lest they might embarrass their guests.
The sky was overcast, and the moon, now a week past full, not yet risen. Kuporovitch was thinking only that with luck he would soon see Madeleine again. Gregory had known Paris in its heyday and he had not seen it since its fall, so his thoughts were a little sombre as the ambulance took the dark road to the dark city.