The House at Mermaid's Cove(45)

“Fusillés?” I could hear the tension in Ferdinand’s voice.

We learned that all four had survived the attack, but they needed urgent medical attention.

“Je m’en occuperai.” I’ll take care of them. It felt strange, speaking the language again. “Je suis infirmière.” I’m a nurse.

Six heads turned my way.

“Not here,” the man said in terse French. “There are Germans everywhere.”

I replied that I could treat them on the fishing boat if they were able to walk.

He said that they could, with help.

The others followed him up the beach while I crouched beside the dinghy. I said a silent prayer for them, my eyes fixed on Miranda until she melted into the darkness. After what seemed like an eternity, Ferdinand and the other men reappeared, each supporting one of the wounded escapees. I held the rope as they helped them aboard.

“None of them is in a fit state to row,” Ferdinand whispered to me. “Can you do it?”

“Yes—of course.” I sounded more confident than I felt. The last time I’d handled a pair of oars had been on the River Liffey in Dublin, when I was sixteen years old.

“Good luck—stay safe.” And with that, he pushed the boat into the water. One of the men groaned as a wave lifted the bow. I pulled hard on the oars, afraid that if I didn’t get out of the surf quickly, the boat would flip. Somehow, I got us beyond the breakers. I tried to keep a straight course, heading out, I hoped, to open sea. I had no idea how Jack was going to find us.



I was panting for breath, the muscles in my arms burning from the effort of rowing. I hoisted the oars out of the water, desperate for a rest but terrified of stopping for more than a few moments.

“I wish I could help you.” The voice was American. It came from the man nearest to me. He was half sitting, half lying in the bottom of the boat. There was a crude bandage bound around the top of his right arm. It was too dark to see how bloody it was.

“It’s okay,” I replied. “I’ll be fine—just resting for a moment.”

“Jeez! No disrespect—I didn’t realize you were a woman.”

“Well, that’s good,” I grunted, as I took up the oars again. “I’m supposed to fool the Germans into thinking I’m a fisherman.” I glanced over my shoulder, searching for the silhouette of La Coquille. I strained my ears for any sound other than the lap of the waves. What would I do if I heard the distant thrum of an engine? How would I know if it was Jack coming, or the enemy? Every time I pulled the oars, I felt the pistol Jack had given me pressing into the flesh of my arm. I prayed I wouldn’t have to use it.

“You’re doing great. Want me to watch for the boat?” He made a muffled groaning sound as he shifted his weight, pulling himself up so that his head was above the oarlocks.

“Be careful—don’t put any strain on that arm.”

“I’m okay.” He huffed out a laugh. “Leastways, my eyes still work.”

I wanted to ask his name, but I didn’t know whether I was supposed to. We went on in silence until he reached out with his good arm, tugging urgently at the fabric of my trousers. I stopped the oars and twisted my head round. The shape of a boat loomed out of the water. There was no sound. Whoever it was had dropped anchor.

“Is it ours?” the American whispered.

“I’m not sure,” I murmured back. It was too dark to make out the name on the side of the vessel. I tried to suppress the feeling of panic rising from my stomach. We were so vulnerable—four wounded men and a woman who had no idea what to do.

Please, God, help us. I fired the words like a silent arrow into the vast, inky sky. A heartbeat later, I heard the splash of a rope hitting the water.



It took nearly an hour to get the men on board La Coquille. Three had upper-body wounds and the fourth had been shot in the leg. None were up to climbing the rope ladder. We had to make a harness and haul them up, one at a time. Jack tried to do it unaided, but it soon became clear that he was going to need help. By scrambling up the ladder once I’d secured the harness, I was able to add my weight to his. It was a struggle, even then—especially when it came to the American, who was the tallest man I’d ever seen.

“We need to get away.” Jack glanced at the sky as he pulled up the rope ladder. “Will you be able to cope on your own? The medical kit’s down below, inside one of the benches.”

“Is there a hospital on Tresco?” There hadn’t been time—or enough light—to assess the men’s injuries. I’d never had to remove bullets. But I knew enough to realize that it would be dangerous even to try on my own, in these conditions.

“No,” he said, “but there’s one on the main island—St. Mary’s.”

“We need to get them there, then.”

“You don’t think they can make it back to Cornwall?”

“I wouldn’t like to risk it. They’ll be safe, won’t they, once we reach the Scillies?”

He hesitated a moment. Then he nodded. “You’d better go to them.”



It was getting light by the time I went back up on deck. The men were all sleeping, helped into oblivion by a few sips of the brandy I’d found when I located the medical kit. I’d had to tourniquet three of them, including the American, who’d been shot just above the elbow. The fourth man—a Scot with an accent so strong I struggled to understand him—had gashed his head.