Dark Mirror (34 page)

Polly called, “Hard a’ port! There’s something nasty down there!”

Nick obeyed and the
Dream
moved to the left. Tory sensed danger averted. Maybe one of those horrible mines Nick had described.

Allarde said, “Tory, could you bring up the rope ladders? Time to secure them to the cleats.”

Silently she went belowdecks and returned with the armful of rope and bars. Allarde had already launched the skiff so it could be towed behind the
Dream.
Together they secured the ladders so that one hung over each side.

By then they’d reached the closest line of men, and Nick brought the vessel to a vibrating halt. Some of the soldiers could barely keep their heads above the low waves.

Nick halted the boat as Allarde called, “Use the ladder on the other side if you’re strong enough. If you need help, come to this side!”

The soldiers split, and the
Dream
rolled to port with the weight of a large man scrambling up the ladder. Allarde called again in a voice of easy authority, “Take it slowly! We don’t want the boat to capsize. We won’t leave until she’s full.”

The men took the ladders more carefully. When the next soldier got his head over the railing, he said in an amazed London accent, “Crikey, you’re all kids!”

“Yes, but we’re kids with a boat,” Nick barked. “Want a ride?”

“Too bloody right!” The man scrambled onto the deck and moved out of the way.

Allarde crossed to the side where men who needed help waited. He caught an up-stretched hand and helped lift an exhausted boy aboard.

Tory guided the men below and got them seated as tightly as possible. One ended up sitting on the toilet of the tiny water closet, and the main cabin had eight more, all jammed so tightly they could barely move. They murmured weary thank-yous, some staring when they realized she was a girl.

When the little cabin was packed to the limit, she collected the bandages and first aid kit and climbed onto the deck. Allarde had kicked off his shoes and stripped off the guernsey, and he was down in the water helping those who most needed aid.

She felt a buzz of magic around Allarde and guessed that he was using his lifting ability to make it easier to get the men on board. As he worked, he kept up a stream of soothing words, talking about how they were safe now and all England was cheering them on. A rough voice with a Scottish accent growled, “What about us bluidy Scots?”

Allarde laughed. “You’re getting cheered on, too, Angus.”

Polly was moving around the deck, dispensing water and hard candies to men who gulped both down thirstily. Tory summoned her modest healing abilities and called out, “Who needs some patching?”

“My mate here needs help,” one man said gruffly. “Head wound.”

Tory made her way through the press of bodies and set to work. “I’m so glad I’ll get a chance to practice my bandaging!” she said brightly.

That invoked laughter, but an older sergeant said disapprovingly, “Little girls shouldn’t be out here.”

She snorted. “Neither should big men.”

“The little miss has a point,” another voice said as Tory set to work cleaning the head wound. There were mutters of agreement. All too soon, the boat was so full that the crew could barely move. Allarde scrambled aboard again, calling, “We’ll be back!”

He pulled his guernsey on over his wet clothing as the
Dream
turned slowly, careful of the skiff packed with more men, and headed out to one of the large ships anchored beyond the shallows. The boat handled sluggishly as they moved away from shore, and the large waves made it roll unpleasantly. Tory and Allarde kept an eye on the loaded skiff, where men held on to the gunwales and each other for dear life. But they made it safely to one of the smaller naval vessels.

“Minesweeper,” Nick said tersely as he pulled alongside.

While navy sailors helped the evacuees aboard, Polly passed up her empty jugs and called up for more drinking water. By the time all the soldiers were on the naval vessel, the refilled jugs were lowered to her.

The
Dream
pulled away and headed back to the beach. Dusk was falling, but the flames of the burning town kept full darkness at bay. Polly took the wheel from her brother. “Get some rest, at least until we pick up our next load.”

Nick nodded tiredly and slumped on the deck against the wheelhouse. Tory realized uneasily that only Nick and Polly had enough skill to pilot the boat under such dreadful conditions. But Tory could help them keep up their strength.

She made a pot of hot, sweet tea, serving mugs of it with chocolate-covered biscuits. By the time they were ready to pick up their second load, they all felt stronger. Less shocked by the horrors around them and the numbing cacophony of sounds.

Day slid into weary night as they worked nonstop, yet still the beaches held masses of men. On the third return to the beach, Tory reached out to Elspeth, with whom she had the closest bond. She hated to admit they would be unable to help the weather mages, but they had no strength to spare. Elspeth seemed to understand and was unsurprised, but Tory could feel her worry.

Once Tory felt magic from one of the men she helped on board. Dutch, she thought, but he spoke French and she was able to ask him his name and assure him that soon he’d be safe. God knew there was no safety in this hellish place where the air stank of fire and fuel and airplanes roared overhead spitting death and mines lurked below the surface, devastation in waiting.

They took turns resting on the benches in the cabin during the quiet runs back to the beach. Tory found sleep impossible. War zones were so
noisy.

When dawn broke, the sky was dangerously clear and suitable for the Luftwaffe. Tory served a breakfast of cheese and crackers and more tea, knowing her ability to heat water would never be more useful. When and if she made it home, she’d fall on her knees and thank Alice Ripley for teaching her the trick of it.

Wearily, she sat and leaned against the wheelhouse. A beautiful morning in hell.

Polly, who had been leaning against the railing as she finished her tea, said, “Allarde, why not sit down and put your arm around Tory? Everyone knows you’re wild about each other, so you might as well enjoy a few minutes together.”

Tory wanted to sink through the deck and disappear. “And here I thought we were being so discreet!”

“Apparently not.” Allarde sat beside Tory and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “An excellent idea, Polly. Discretion doesn’t seem very important just now.”

Tory turned into him, draping her arm across his waist and burying her face against his guernsey. “You smell like a sheep,” she said, voice muffled.

He gave a soft laugh. “So do you, my lady.” He brushed his fingers over her braids, which had come unpinned. She knew she looked like a pigtailed street orphan, and at the moment, it didn’t matter.

It didn’t matter at
all.

CHAPTER 35

Annie’s Dream
and her increasingly exhausted crew worked through an endless Friday, and the even more endless Friday night that followed. As Saturday dawned and the boat turned from delivering another load of soldiers to a navy corvette, Polly emerged from the engine room to say, “Time to go home. We’re running low on fuel.”

Tory felt them give a collected sigh of exhausted relief. Except for Nick. He hadn’t mentioned his father again, but Tory had felt his desperate tension as he continually scanned the beaches every time they returned for another pickup.

“One more run,” he said, his eyes bleak with the knowledge of failure. “A smaller batch because I’m not crossing the channel with more than maybe fifteen passengers, and we can’t use the skiff safely.”

Polly frowned. “We should go now. As it is, we’ll be on fumes by the time we reach Lackland. If we get that far.”

“One more run,” Nick said flatly. “It would be a pity not to take a few more evacuees all the way home when we have the space.”

“Don’t be stupid!” his sister snapped, her temper as frayed as his. “Sloppiness like that could get us killed.”

“There are so many ships going back and forth that we should be able to get a tow if we run out of fuel.” His voice dropped. “Please, Polly. For Dad’s sake.”

Her eyes spasmed shut, her exhaustion and grief written on her gray face. “All right. One more run. But that will
have
to be the last.”

Nick nodded and turned the boat toward the beach for the last time. Too tired to care if they ran out of fuel before they got home, Tory leaned against the wheelhouse just below the smashed corner where bullets from a Messerschmitt’s machine guns had taken out chunks of wood. More bullets were buried in the deck. There were even ragged holes ripped through the Union Jack.

The crew wasn’t looking any better. Nick and Allarde had developed shadow whiskers, which were particularly noticeable on dark-haired Allarde. Polly had oil smudges beyond counting and Tory was glad there were no mirrors on board because she didn’t want to see herself with ragged braids and bloodstains from some of the wounded.

The worst moment of the endless day had been when the fighter had buzzed them. For a ghastly moment Tory had wondered if this was how Allarde would receive the mortal wound he dreamed about, but miraculously no one was hurt. They’d just dropped off a load of passengers, so the
Dream
was almost empty. If the decks had been packed, there would have been serious casualties.

Her spirits lifted at the knowledge that they were about to leave, and boat and crew were intact. She didn’t take that for granted, not after seeing ships sunk or blown apart around them.

Nick sighed as they cruised toward the beaches, where countless men still waited for rescue. “It was pretty jolly foolish of me to think I would be able to find Dad here.”

“But a noble foolishness,” Allarde said. “If you hadn’t decided to join Operation Dynamo, that’s several hundred fewer men evacuated.”

Tory got to her feet and moved behind Nick in the wheelhouse, placing a hand on his shoulder. “For your own peace of mind, do one last search for your father. Maybe my energy will help.”

“You’re a sport, Tory.” He scanned the beach, using both eyes and magic—and halted as he looked north. “Wait! Allarde, can you link in?”

Allarde obliged, one hand on Tory’s shoulder and the other on Nick’s. The power increased, and Tory felt Nick’s muscles tense. “Damnation!” he exclaimed incredulously. “Dad’s right there.
He’s right over there!
”

Polly darted up from the engine room, her face ablaze with hope. “Are you sure? This isn’t wishful thinking?”

“He’s there. To the north. His unit only just got here. They had to fight Nazis the whole way.” Nick turned the wheel and they headed toward the upper end of the beach. Tory could barely breathe with excitement. If Nick was right, what a gift to take home to Mrs. Rainford!

As the masses of troops thinned out, Nick said, “I think he’s in that group of soldiers there, at the end of that jetty made by running army trucks into the water. See?”

Tory squinted and saw a dozen or so men hanging on to the truck that was farthest out into the water. As they neared the jetty, a hoarse voice called, “It’s a boat from home, the bloody
Annie’s Dream
! Hey, over here! We’re from Lackland!”

“Damned if you aren’t right!” another man bellowed excitedly. “It’s bloody well our turn!”

“Dad!” Polly screamed as she raced to the front of the boat. “Dad, you’re here!”

As the
Dream
drifted up to the bedraggled cluster of soldiers, Allarde said, “I’ll take the wheel, Nick. You help them board.”

Nick didn’t stop to argue. He bounded across the deck and started helping wet, tired soldiers aboard. Most of them greeted him by name.

In the babble of voices, Tory deduced that this group from Lackland had enlisted together, and watched out for each other on the long march from Belgium. They must have been one of the last BEF groups to reach Dunkirk, because most of the other troops still waiting for evacuation were French soldiers.

Tory had no trouble picking out Tom Rainford. Not only was the family resemblance strong, but he was the last one in line, making sure that every one of his dozen men was safely on board. He had a filthy bandage on his left forearm, just as Mrs. Rainford had seen in her scrying bowl. Tall, blond, and indomitable, he was Nick in another thirty years.

The last man to board was Captain Rainford. Wearily he took Nick’s hand and scrambled onto the deck. He looked ready to collapse, but he managed a smile. “What took you so long, Nicholas?”

Nick threw his arms around his father with rib-bruising force. “Mum is really, really angry with you, Dad!” He held on to his father as if he couldn’t quite believe that he had really succeeded in finding the one man he most wanted to save.

“I’m furious, too!” Polly hurled herself into the embrace.

Her father stared at her in shock even as one arm locked around her shoulders. “What the devil is my little girl doing here?”

“Saving lives,” she said, tear tracks running down her oil-stained cheeks.