Read Chapter 19: The Signal

The German shell struck twenty yards off the port bow, dousing them in a curtain of black water. Arthur spat salt and wiped his eyes, the skiff bucking beneath him like a frightened horse. George lay across the thwarts, his face the colour of tallow, Fletcher's hand pressed over the wound in his side. The refugee woman clutched her children to her breast, whispering something in French that might have been a prayer.

Arthur had the lamp in his fist. Mac's lamp, heavy and battered, its lens cracked but intact. In the bag, beneath the coils of signal line and the tin of grease, he had found the battery. It was a miracle it still held charge. He had tested it once, a single flash, and the E-boat had answered with another shell.

"If I show them the light," Arthur said, his voice barely carrying over the wind, "they'll know exactly where we are."

Fletcher looked at him. The young man's face was streaked with smoke and blood that wasn't his own. "They already know where we are."

The E-boat was turning, its bow wave curling white against the dark. Arthur could see the gun crew moving on her deck, silhouettes against the flash of their own tracer fire. They were taking their time now. The skiff was sinking; the Perseverance had gone silent; the steamer was a dwindling shadow on the horizon. There was no hurry for anyone.

Except Arthur.

He looked down at George. His son's eyes were open, glassy, unfocused. His lips moved but no sound came. Arthur leaned close.

"Dad," George breathed. "The bridge. Did we—"

"We did it, son. Now shut your mouth and save your strength."

Arthur straightened. He held the lamp in both hands, the battery cold against his palm. He thought of Mac. The old Kentishman, stubborn as a barnacle, who had handed him this lamp and said *if you ever need a friend on the water, you call them in blue*. Mac had taught him the code years ago, in the snug of the King Billy, drunk on rum and nostalgia. Three long. Two short. Three long. *S-O-S*. And then the other one, the private one, the one Mac used to signal his brother's boat out of the fog off Goodwin Sands. Two long. One short. Two long. *A-B*. Arthur's initials. A private hello between friends.

Arthur raised the lamp.

"Get down," he said to Fletcher. "Everyone down."

He pressed the trigger. The lamp clicked. Two long flashes. One short. Two long. He paused, counted to five, and did it again.

The E-boat fired.

The shell screamed overhead, passing so close Arthur felt the wind of it on his cheek. It struck the water forty yards beyond, a white column rising against the grey pre-dawn sky. The children screamed. The French woman pulled them tight against her.

Arthur did not flinch. He held the lamp steady and signalled again.

Two long. One short. Two long.

"Arthur," Fletcher said, his voice tight. "She's turning."

He meant the E-boat. Arthur saw it—the long dark shape beginning its final approach, its bow swinging toward them. The gun crew had the range now. The next shell would not miss.

Arthur signalled again. And again. And again.

"In the name of God," he muttered, "you saw us all the way across the Channel. You saw the fires. You saw the boys on the sand. If you have any pity in you, you will turn around."

He did not know if he meant the steamer or the E-boat. He kept signalling.

Then the steamer stopped.

Arthur almost dropped the lamp. He blinked, certain he had imagined it. But the distant shape, which had been shrinking toward the horizon, now sat still in the water, a dark smudge against the paling sky. And from her side, a light blinked back.

One long. Two short. One long.

Mac's code. *Answer*. And then, impossibly, the same sequence Arthur had just sent. Two long. One short. Two long.

*Arthur. Confirmed.*

The E-boat was two hundred yards off and closing. Arthur could see the white foam at her bow, could hear the thrum of her engines through the water. He looked at the steamer, then at the E-boat, then back at the steamer. He saw a small shape detach from her side, a launch lowering into the water.

"Fletcher," he said. "Paddle."

They paddled. Arthur pulled at his oar with raw, bleeding hands, Fletcher grunting on the other side. The skiff was half full of water now, sinking beneath them. George lay motionless in the bottom, the French woman holding his head above the rising tide.

The E-boat closed. One hundred and fifty yards. One hundred.

Arthur heard the gunners shouting. He heard the click of ammunition being loaded.

Then he heard the other sound—a low, angry buzz, rising over the water like a swarm of bees. It was the launch's engine, winding out at full throttle, its bow lifting clear of the waves.

The E-boat hesitated.

The Germans were arrogant, not stupid. They knew what that launch meant, what ship it had come from. A hospital ship, white-painted, floodlit in the pre-dawn gloom. If they fired on a hospital ship's launch, they would face a tribunal in Berlin. Even now, even here, there were rules.

The E-boat swerved.

Arthur watched it go, its wake washing over the skiff's gunwales. Then the launch was there, a dark-haired sailor reaching out, hands gripping Arthur's arms, hauling him over the side.

"My son," Arthur said, his voice cracking. "My son—"

They brought George up gently, a dozen hands reaching for him. Fletcher scrambled aboard last, his boots filling with water. The French woman and her children came up weeping, wrapped in blankets that materialized from nowhere.

Arthur collapsed on the launch's deck. He lay there, chest heaving, staring up at the grey sky. The lamp was still in his fist. He had not let go of it.

"Arthur." Fletcher's voice was soft. "Arthur, we're safe. We're safe."

Arthur did not answer. He was listening to the silence. The Perseverance was gone. Mac was gone. The sea had taken them both, and there was not a thing he could have done to stop it.

He closed his eyes. The sky was paling. Dawn was coming.