Edward leaned back, eyes closed. He had no gauge, nothing but his own anxiety to guess how far they’d come. Every passing moment brought them closer to the border, but he couldn’t tell one moment from ten, one minute from an hour as he waited, prayed, for the sun to rise to prove time hadn’t stood still.
Even as he prayed to leave Belgium behind, he knew the closer they came to the border the more likely was a return of firepower.
Soon he sensed the boat went even faster, though the engine sounded no louder. A look over the side told him the current had picked up. God was pushing that strong little boat as fast as it could go, increasing its power, hurtling it toward safety.
Suddenly Rémy jumped to his feet, going to a trundle chest at the stern. The other sailor stood as well. Rémy returned and gave Edward what looked like wire cutters, keeping another set for himself.
“You’ll know what to do with these in a moment,” he said, the extent of his explanation.
“Have you another?”
Edward spun on his feet. It was the Major.
But the man shook his head and boldly pointed to the Major’s disability. “You wouldn’t have the leverage. You’d be more help behind that, if you know how to use it.” He pointed to the rifle Edward had put aside to accept the wire cutters.
Edward looked at the Major, who hadn’t bargained for his own escape, especially when that might include shooting at his own countrymen.
Max took up the gun.
Edward looked down at the tool in his hand. It was the length of his forearm and sturdy enough for serious cutting. Meant to chop wire or chain?
The tug hit something invisible beneath the surface, and it resounded with a thudding chime from the hull. The men rushed to the gunwales and Edward followed. The first man picked up a long, hooked stick from the deck. It looked like a staff from the little girl in the children’s poem with the lamb. He leaned over the prow and heaved. A chain came up with a jingle and a splash, and both Edward and Rémy started hacking away. Rémy cut through it in moments.
By the time they hit a second chain, another station was in sight, firing a hailstorm of bullets. Hauling in the chain left the one man most vulnerable, even leeward of the German storm. Edward and Rémy crouched until the last moment. Then cut, spurred on by the other to be the first to break through.
Another chain sank to the river’s bottom, this time from Edward’s slice.
From somewhere behind came rifle discharge, from another sailor—and from the Major.
At his comrades.
Edward hacked and hacked again with all his might.
The sailor with the hook wrestled with the fourth chain, yelling for help. Edward and Rémy dropped their cutters to lend aid; the chain was caught by something near the bank. On the count of three, the men gave it a heave-ho and it flew from its frozen restraints to swing directly around, broken from the embedded links. The three ducked at once. But the Major, still intent on the guardhouse, did not even turn.
“Major! Duck!”
But it was too late. The chain struck the Major’s helmet, winding comically around the spike on top. In a flash it pulled the helmet away, jerking the Major along with it. He hit the side of the boat and the helmet strap broke, sending it flying and the Major, obviously stunned, to the deck.
Edward started toward him, but the German shook his head as if to shake away pain and then, spotting Edward, held up a hand.
“I’m all right,” he said, then picked up his rifle and took aim again.
Seven times they hit a chain, pulled it in, chopped it through. Seven times one man risked his life leaning over the prow, providing the German soldiers with a living target while Max and the others covered for him. And seven times those Germans missed their moving target—or so Edward thought.
Until he saw the blood on Rémy’s shirt.
“Hey! You’re hit!”
But Rémy only shook his head, oblivious.
They were out of range again, beyond the last of the chains that had been scouted. Edward fell to the deck, breathing heavily.
“We’ve made it.”
But the man who’d brimmed with bad news so far offered no hope now. What could be next? And not for the first time Edward wished he’d chosen to go by foot.