Epilogue

Many miles away from the exciting—and champagne-fuelled—celebrations taking place at Forest Grange, a man tossed feverishly on a makeshift bed.

“ Merde ,” swore a rough voice. “ Il va mour ir…”

“No, he’s not going to die, dammit. He can’t…”

Two roughly-dressed sailors stared at each other, one shrugging helplessly, the other frowning.

“Look,” said the one who was clearly not a native Frenchman. “There has to be a boat leaving soon.” He paused, his mind whirling. “ Le bateau. N'importe quel bateau …”

It really didn’t matter which boat, as long as the destination was north, across the English Channel.

“ Vite, mon ami. Nous devons le ramener vivant en Angleterre .” He couldn’t think of another way to stress enough how important it was to get him home alive.

And so, beneath the cover of growing darkness and heavy storm clouds brewing over the water, the two men manhandled their roughly-wrapped friend along the deserted wharf to the only barge that was showing signs of life. It was, after all, Christmas, and almost all who would usually have strolled beside the waters were home with family.

The scant few sailors aboard the barge weren’t pleased to add a man to their cargo, but since they already had some other items that they preferred to keep private, they accepted the additional bag of coins and tucked the bundled-up, shivering man into their small hold.

“ En Angleterre ,” they were ordered, “ à la c?te, Little Witham, oui ?”

Shrugging, one sailor untied the mooring rope. “ Oui, si la mer le permet. Mais à partir de là, il est seul .”

The tall man nodded. Men in their line of work were always on their own, and if they could get him back on British soil, to the port at Little Witham, he’d be able to look after himself.

He hoped.

It was the best he could do, and he prayed it wouldn’t fail. Because this man was keeping secrets that few knew, but many needed. If he died, too much could be lost. But if he survived, so much more would be gained…

He watched as the little boat set out into the darkness of the cold English Channel, and sent a little prayer flying after it.

“Dear Lord, please keep watch over my friend Harry Chalmers.”

THE END