Those in Peril Read Online Free Page A

must have carried him several miles to the east. No matter. So long as he continued due north he would make landfall somewhere along the south coast of England. He kept himself awake during that night by talking to the invisible cat – keeping up an absurd, one-sided conversation through the hours of darkness until dawn finally came. We are both completely mad, little one. We are very lucky, you know, not to find ourselves at the bottom of the sea. If we had any sense between us we would both have stayed in France – Germans or no Germans. On the other hand, perhaps you, at least, made the right choice. You will certainly be welcomed in England. They like animals there – even a French cat – whereas they are not so likely to welcome me, a Frenchman.
    Within two more hours he had sighted land ahead – a long dark smudge low on the horizon. He could see a lighthouse blinking and then, as he gradually drew nearer, a gap in the cliffs where a river flowed out to meet the sea. Not Falmouth, though. Fowey perhaps? Or even Plymouth? His tired brain declined to make any sense of the chart. What did it matter, anyway? It was somewhere in England.
    As he steered the boat towards the tall cliffs and the mouth of the estuary, the sun came out and lit the scene for him. He could see two ancient-looking forts guarding the river entrance – one on each side. Most probably English defences against the marauding French in years gone by. In a moment of triumph, or maybe defiance, he rummaged for the tricolore kept in the locker and attached the flag to the Gannet ’s stern. He went between the two headlands, flying his country’s flag, and entered sheltered waters. The riverbanks were steep and thickly wooded, the trees growing down to the water’s edge. Further on, as the estuary narrowed, the woods gave way to houses – whitewashed cottages built of stone and clinging to the hillsides in much the same way as those built on the river valley slopes of Pont-Aven. He passed some naval launches moored at buoys in midstream; further upstream, he could see larger vessels. He cut his speed and steered the Gannet gently towards a quay on the east side of the river, aiming for a flight of stone steps. As he reached them, a man in fisherman’s clothes, smoking a pipe, leaned over.
    â€˜Morning.’
    â€˜Good morning.’
    â€˜Nice day.’
    â€˜Yes, indeed.’
    â€˜Reckon it might rain tomorrow, though.’
    I have come all this way, risking my life, he thought wearily, to find myself discussing the weather. ‘ Vraiment? ’
    The man came down some of the steps – a big man with a chest shaped like a barrel of English beer. ‘Want a hand?’
    â€˜Thank you.’ He threw the painter and it was made fast to an iron ring. But when he climbed ashore, staggering on the unaccustomed dry land, he found his way up barred and he realized that the reception was not so amicable, after all. The tricolore had been noted.
    â€˜French, are you?’
    â€˜Yes, indeed. I have come from Brittany.’
    â€˜That so?’
    â€˜From Pont-Aven on the south coast. Perhaps you know of it?’
    â€˜Can’t say I do.’
    â€˜What is the name of this port, please? I have no idea where I am.’
    The man took hold of his arm without answering the question. ‘You’d better come along with me.’
    He went along – there being little alternative. Other people had gathered on the quayside – also fishermen, by the looks of them, and some women who stared at him with hard eyes. He was marched past them under an archway and round a corner to the entrance of a building guarded by a naval rating with a bayonet tied to the end of a broomstick. My God, he thought, is that really all they have left after Dunkirk? A shove in the shoulderblades propelled him forward for inspection.
    â€˜This foreigner’s just arrived by boat. Says he’s come from