Unknown - Heartsease

“Couldn’t we start to tow her down while you’re working on the engines?” said Margaret. “That would save time.”

“Not worth it. We’ve got to run the auxiliary for at least an hour before we can start the main engine, and if we try to do that while we’re towing through the countryside people will come swarming out and catch us helpless. Once we go, we must go fast, because of the noise. But you’ll still be useful, you two.”

She could hear from his voice that he was grinning in the dark.

“You’ll have to ride ahead and open the bridges,” he said.

“Yes, I think I can do that; nobody lives near them, except for the two at that village down at the far end.”

“It’s called Purton on the map. We might be able to stop and tow her past there. You’re going to have to ride fast, Marge — she does nearly ten miles an hour, flat out, Otto thinks.”

“That’s too fast. We could do it for a bit, but we’d never keep it up.”

“I’ll talk to Otto,” said Jonathan.

The tug lay still and lightless, a dull black blob on the shiny black water, but Davey yapped once, sharply, as they came along the quay. They heard a quick scuffle as Jonathan crossed the ladder — Tim, presumably holding the muzzle of a struggling pup.

“It’s all right,” said Jonathan’s cheerful voice, pitched just right for everyone to hear, “it’s me again.”

The scuffling started again, then stopped with the ludicrous gargle of a dog who has been all set to bark and finds there is no need. The hatch from the cabin, where Lucy slept amid Jonathan’s loot, rose.

“Forgotten summat, Master Jonathan?” said her soft purr. “Why, you’ve a body with you, Miss Margaret is it? There’s trouble then?”

“I think it’ll be all right, Lucy, provided we start tonight. Father found the letter I wrote to Mother.”

Lucy came swiftly out of the hatch and looked into his face.

“And I’ll lay he took it straight up to Mus’ Gordon,” she said.

“Yes, he did,” said Margaret.

“I must take Tim away, then,” said Lucy.

“You can if you want to,” said Jonathan, “but I’m going to try and start the engines and run down to Sharpness. It’s sixteen miles, so we should do it in three hours. If we get the engines going just before dawn I’ll be able to see to steer, and Marge can ride ahead and scout and open the bridges. You’ll be no worse off if you have to run from Sharpness than from Gloucester.”

“I’ve been looking at them maps,” said Lucy. “If they’ve a morsel of sense they’ll head to one of the bridges halfway down and catch us there.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that,” said Jonathan, “but it’s not their style. I said in my letter we weren’t going for two days, so they’ll wait for us to come home tonight, and when we don’t they’ll come blinding down here in the morning. If we get a start we’ll be far away by the time they reach here. You think it out while I talk to Otto; if you still want to leave us, you should go at once,

but we won’t need to start the auxiliary for another two hours.”

“I don’t like it, neither way,” whispered Lucy, and settled chin in hand on the bulwarks.

“You go and lie in her bed, Marge,” said Jonathan. “I shan’t need you until dawn.”

“What about the ponies?”

“Tie them up on the quay. I’ll keep an eye on them.” “Scrub’s all taut inside — he knows something’s up. He needs a roll.”

“Oh, goodness!” said Jonathan angrily. “He’ll have to roll on cobbles then.”

Margaret scrambled across the bridge, thinking so that’s why Caesar is such a broody and difficult character—Jo’s never understood him. All horses get tense, after any sort of expedition, and need to work it off, to unwind. She tethered them side by side to a rusty ring set in the quay, fetched Tim’s bailing pan and a bucket, and dredged up nasty oily water from the dock for them to drink. She fondled Scrub’s neck for a while to calm him, tried to be nice to Caesar (who sneered sulkily back) and crossed the ladder again. The blankets were warm and Lucy-smelling, but the boards beneath them were so hard that they seemed to gnaw at her hip — small chance of going to sleep; but in a minute she was in the middle of a busy dream, senseless with shifting scenes and people who changed into other people, all hurrying for an urgent reason which was never explained to her.

She was woken by clamor for the second time that night. But now it was not Uncle Peter roaring up the

stairs, but a noise which England hadn’t heard for five years, fuel exploding inside cylinders to bang the pistons up and send the crankshaft whanging round — the auxiliary engine pumping air into the big storage bottles, to provide the pressure which would start the main diesel.

On deck, light glimmered through the glass roof over the engine, a new light whose nature she didn’t remember. She knelt at the hatch and peered in: on top of each of the tall cylinders a roaring flame spread across the metal; the auxiliary clattered away; Jonathan was walking down the narrow gangway by the engine peering at the blowlamps — in their light she could see a smear of oil down both his cheeks, like war paint. He must have felt the cold air when she raised the hatch, for he glanced up and gestured to show that he was coming out in a moment. She still felt the repugnance against engines which had been half her thinking life, so she moved away and sat on the bulwarks, looking at the clifflike warehouses which at this chill hour loomed so black that even the night sky seemed pale. It was pale, too. The stars were fewer and smaller. Soon they would fade, and the tug would rumble out through that strange interworld between dark and day.

Jonathan, reeking of engines, came and plumped himself down beside her. She could feel his nerves humming with the happiness of action.

“All set,” he said. “Tim and Lucy are staying. They’ve brought a load of tins out of the warehouse, and a couple of sacks of corn for the ponies. Scrub won’t mind canal water, will he? It’s less oily outside the docks. And I’ve found four drums which we can fill for

the sea journey — it oughtn’t to be more than a day to Ireland.”

“What do you want me to do?” said Margaret.

“Two things, one easy and one difficult. The easy one is help start the engines. The difficult one is scout ahead and get the bridges open. That could be tricky. You see . . .”

“Must I help with the engines?” said Margaret.

There was just enough light flickering through the engine room roof to show how he looked at her, sideways and amused, but kind.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he said. “But we won’t be able to manage if you don’t do the bridges. I’ve just done the first one — it was different from the others — hydraulic — but I managed.”

“I’ll do the bridges.”

“I’ve got two good maps of the whole canal — they were pinned up in offices — so we can each have one. Otto and I are going to aim for about six knots — nearly seven miles an hour — because you won’t be able to keep ahead if we try to do more. That means we’ll have something to spare if we’re chased, provided we don’t pile up a wave in front of us down the canal. You’ll have to average a fast trot.”

“The towpath’s quite flat, except for one bit,” said Margaret. “We should be able to do that.”

“It’s not as easy as it sounds, because you’ll be stopping at the bridges. And you’ll have to go carefully round the bends, especially the ones just before the bridges, in case you gallop into trouble. I found a bolt of red flannel which I’ve cut some squares off for you to

take. If there’s something wrong you can go back a bit and tie a square to a bush by the bank, so that we’ve time to stop. If it’s something serious, Caesar will have to tow us through.”