Jim and Wally

by Mary Grant Bruce

Julian Grenfell.

IN the little inlet, shadowed by the high rocks, everything was very quiet. The tide was running out rapidly: foot by foot the smooth boulders came out of the sea, to stand like sentinels until once more the heaving green water should swing back and climb gently until it rippled over their heads. Inch by inch the opening grew, forming the entrance to the cave under the rocks, and the water slid out as though rejoicing to escape from its dark prison within and to seek the laughing freedom of the sea that tumbled beyond the headlands. Overhead a half-moon sailed, now and then blotted out by drifting clouds; and in the East was the faintest glimmer of the coming dawn. But the water of the little bay lay black and formless, and though the sands showed, visible and pale, the shadows that lay about the great boulders were like pools of ink.

On the flat rock over the cave Jim and Wally crouched, now and then moving cautiously to keep their tired limbs from stiffening. It was very cold, in the silent hour before dawn. Two hours earlier they had climbed down from above, making use of the scant moonlight or clinging like limpets to the cliff when the clouds blotted out the moon’s faint radiance: glad to arrive at their destination with nothing worse than bruises and torn clothes.

Once on the rock, they had set about their preparations: crawling all over it, making sure of knowing every inch in the dark, and becoming acquainted with each boulder that lay upon its surface. They tested them with their crowbars in the darkness, and found it possible to move all but two or three. The great fragment that balanced near the edge they levered nearer still, so that only a little effort would be needed to send it crashing down; and then they moved others near it, working with caution that was almost painful, lest even a scratch of rock on rock should carry a warning across the dark water. Below them, the waves had at first rippled and splashed against the crags; but gradually they receded, and leaning over, lying flat on the stone, they could make out the position of the great boulder that marked the entrance to the cave, and so make sure that their balanced rock was in the right place. Then there was nothing to do but wait.

How the minutes dragged! Far up on the northern headland, Norah crouched among sparse furze and heather, unheeding the prickly branches that forbade comfort. The edge of the low cliff prevented her seeing the inlet; she could only watch the dim outline of the coast, stretching northward, and the stormy sky with its hurrying clouds. Before her loomed dimly the heap of petrol-soaked wood and furze which they had roughly piled in the darkness behind a boulder that hid it from watching eyes, should any be on the alert. She had expected to be afraid when at last they had all shaken hands with her and wished her luck before creeping away to their posts; but now she found that she had no sense of fear. Jim had stayed behind for a moment and kissed her, calling her “old kiddie” in the way she loved. In the agony of wondering if she would ever hear his voice again there was no room for fear for herself.

John O’Neill had had longer to wait before climbing down to the beach. He had lain on the edge of the high ground, motionless, taking advantage of every moonlit moment to learn by heart the scene below as the tide crawled backward. Jim’s plan was fresh in his memory: now he stared at each boulder, studying opportunities for cover and making out the path that the Germans must take to the cave. He knew where it was, though he could not see it: it relieved him, too, that he was unable to discern Jim and Wally, or to hear the faintest sound of their presence, although he knew they must be on the rock. Finally, he made his cautious way to the beach, and followed the tide out yard by yard, creeping from one shadow to another: a shadow himself, white-faced and frail, among the rugged boulders.

It was very cold, on the wet sand; he shivered, and his teeth chattered. He fell to rubbing himself steadily, chafing his wrists and ankles; but it seemed as though the long watch would never end. Once, when the clouds suddenly blew apart and the moon shone more brightly, he fancied he saw a dim shape outside the headlands: a shape that might have been a ship. But before he had time to be certain the dark masses overhead drifted together once more, leaving him in doubt as to whether it had not been his imagination.

The shadow of dawn came in the east, and O’Neill felt his heart sink. They were not coming, after all: soon it would be daylight and the tide would turn and come creeping back to hide the cave for another twelve hours. For a moment the keenness of disappointment made him shiver, suddenly colder than he had ever been; and then his heart thumped and the blood seemed to rush through his veins. Something, long, and grey, and very faint was showing on the water. It was not a dream: he heard a faint plash that he knew was an oar, muffled yet distinct in the deep stillness: and then a low mutter of a voice, coming across the sea to him. He drew a long, satisfied breath, and felt a hatchet that hung at his belt, as he had felt it a hundred times, to make sure that it hung where he could draw it easily. Then his hand closed on the revolver in his coat-pocket and clung to it almost lovingly. For the first time in his life it did not matter in the least that he was a hunchback.

The low sound of oars came nearer, and gradually, out of the darkness, a boat loomed upon the water and grounded softly on the strand. They were not half a dozen yards from where O’Neill crouched in a patch of black shadow, watching between two rocks. The men in her stepped out, quietly, but showing no sense of danger. They were more in number than he had expected; there would be a stiff fight if Jim and Wally failed to trap them. He crouched lower, scarcely daring to breathe. Then one who was evidently in command gave a low curt order and they filed off along the winding path between the strewn boulders, leaving two of their number in the boat.

The rocks hid the main body for a moment. The guards worked the boat round until her bow pointed outwards in readiness for the run back to the submarine; then they came out, stamping on the sand to keep warm. One of them, a thick-set fellow in oilskins, strode inland a few yards, pausing so close to O’Neill that the Irishman could have touched him, and for a sick instant he thought he was discovered; but the sailor strolled back to his companion with a muttered curse at the cold, and they stood by the boat, talking in low tones. O’Neill searched the rocks with his eyes, straining to see the entrance to the cave. Surely it was time for them to have reached it. Would the sound he longed for never come?