Lifting them to my eyes, I made out a tall, thin shape in the distance, apparently rising out of the waves. As we drew closer, I saw that it was a lighthouse, perched on a rocky ledge that protruded from the sea.
“That’s the Wolf Rock,” Jack said. “Normally you’d be able to see the light from the Cornish coast—but they switched it off when the war started.” He turned the wheel slightly, steering the boat away from the lighthouse. “Sometimes you can hear it, though.”
“Hear it? How?”
“There are big cracks in the rock and when the weather’s rough, the wind makes a howling sound like a wolf.”
I gave silent thanks for a calm sea. “What’s that?” I pointed to a collection of gray bumps up ahead. They looked just like a school of whales I’d spotted on the voyage back from Africa.
“Those are the Eastern Isles,” Jack replied. “They’re the smallest of the Scillies—no one lives there, apart from seabirds and a few goats. In a minute you’ll see a bigger island: St. Martin’s. The one we’re going to—Tresco—is a few miles west of that.”
I soon realized what a competent sailor Jack was. As we approached the Scillies, he had to navigate through shoals of rocks to get us safely through the wild, deserted archipelago that guarded the main island group. The sky was just light enough for him to see the hazards and avoid them. Clearly his timing of the voyage had been critical—leaving Mermaid’s Cove while it was still dark, but at the last possible moment, to catch the dawn before we reached dangerous waters.
“Just that one off the port bow, now, and we’ll be through.” Jack nodded toward a group of rocks piercing the waves on the left side of the boat. “That’s New Grimsby Sound, up ahead.”
The rising sun had turned the sea a coral pink. I could see two humps of land, shrouded in a milky mist, with a narrow channel in between. I glanced at the wicked-looking rocks Jack had pointed out as we glided past them. I spotted a rusty mast sticking out of the water—the remains of a boat that had come to grief there. I wondered how long it had taken Jack to acquire such expert knowledge of the sea between England and France. I had a sudden image of him racing across the waves in his yacht, Firefly, the wind in his hair and the girl, Morwenna, at his side. I felt a gnawing ache below my ribs—a feeling I didn’t want to admit to, whose name hovered in the shadowy margins of my mind.
“Can you see the castle?” He passed the binoculars back to me.
Rising out of the mist was the top of a round tower. The pale walls were pockmarked and crumbling.
“It looks very old,” I said.
“It dates from the seventeenth century. They call it Cromwell’s Castle.” He pulled the throttle back, slowing the boat as we entered the narrow channel between Tresco and the neighboring island of Bryher. The mist was beginning to clear. I could see stretches of white sand on either side of us, deserted apart from seabirds scattered along the water’s edge. The deep blue of the ocean turned to a translucent turquoise where the waves lapped the shore. As we glided past a granite outcrop, I caught sight of the harbor nestled below the castle.
“That’s our boat—the one at the end.”
Half a dozen fishing trawlers were moored in the harbor. The one Jack was looking at was painted blue, with a narrow red stripe. As we got closer, I could read the name on the side: La Coquille. The Shell.
“The others will be up and about in a minute,” Jack said. “Remember—it’s code names only when you talk to them. But keep conversation to a minimum: the less you know about them, the better.” He rubbed the dark stubble on his chin. “Once we get the other boat onto open water, you and I are fishermen. If anyone stops us and asks you to identify yourself, you’re Jean-Luc Piquemal. You’ve got your papers?”
I patted the pocket of my oilskin trousers.
“You’ll need to get some sleep before we get to Brittany; otherwise you’ll be of no use at all. There are hammocks belowdecks on La Coquille—they’re quite comfortable when you get used to them.” He turned away from me in answer to a shout from the quayside. A white-haired man in a striped jersey was waiting to tie our boat to a docking post.
“Good morning.” A woman’s voice behind me made me jump.
“Good morning,” Jack replied, as he tossed a rope over the side of the boat. “Did you sleep well?”
“Not very—one of the others was snoring like a steam train.”