His luck finally ran out on 28 June, when E-boats attacked a convoy of American landing craft waiting in Lyme Bay to cross the Channel. Jago arrived with dispatches from Portsmouth to find himself facing six of the best that the Kriegsmarine could supply. In a memorable ten-minute engagement, he sank one, damaged another, lost five of his crew and ended up in the water with shrapnel in his left thigh, the right cheek laid open to the bone.
When he finally came out of hospital in August they gave him what was left of his old crew, nine of them, and a new job: the rest that he so badly needed, playing postman in the Hebrides to the various American and British weather stations and similar establishments in the islands in a pre-war MGB, courtesy of the Royal Navy, that started to shake herself to pieces if he attempted to take her above twenty knots. Some previous owner had painted the legend Dead End underneath the bridge rail, a sentiment capable of several interpretations.
Just for a month or two, the squadron commander had told Jago. Look on it as akind of holiday. I mean to say, nothing everhappens up there, Harry.
Jago grinned in spite of himself and, as a rain squall hurled itself against the window, increased speed, the wheel kicking in his hands. The sea was his life now. Meat and drink to him, more important than any woman. It was the circumstance of war which had given him this, but the war wouldnt last forever.
He said softly, What in the hell am I going to do when its all over?
There were times when Rear Admiral Carey Reeve definitely wondered what life was all about. Times when the vacuum of his days seemed unbearable and the island that he loved with such a deep and unswerving passion, a prison.
On such occasions he usually made for the same spot, a hill called in the Gaelic DunBhuide, the Yellow Fort, above Telegraph Bay on the south-west tip of Fhada, and so named because of an abortive attempt to set up a Marconi station at the turn of the century. The bay lay at the bottom of four-hundred-foot cliffs, a strip of white sand slipping into grey water with Labrador almost three thousand miles away to the west and nothing in between.
The path below was no place for the fainthearted, zigzagging across the face of the granite cliffs, splashed with lime, seabirds crying, wheeling in great clouds, razorbills, shags, gulls, shear-waters and gannets gannets everywhere. He considered it all morosely for a while through his one good eye, then turned to survey the rest of the island.
The ground sloped steeply to the southwest. On the other side of the point from Telegraph were South Inlet and the lifeboat station, the boathouse, its slipway and Murdoch Macleods cottage, nothing more. On his left was the rest of the island. A scattering of crofts, mostly ruined, peat bog, sheep grazing the sparse turf, the whole crossed by the twin lines of the narrow-gauge railway track running north-west to Marys Town.
Reeve took an old brass telescope from his pocket and focused it on the lifeboat station. No sign of life. Murdoch would probably be working on that damned boat of his, but the kettle would be gently steaming on the hob above the peat fire and a mug of hot tea generously laced with illegal whisky of Murdochs own distilling would not come amiss on such a morning.
The admiral replaced the telescope in his pocket and started down the slope as rain drove across the island in a grey curtain.
There was no sign of Murdoch when he went into the boathouse by the small rear door. The forty-one-foot Watson-type motor lifeboat, Morag Sinclair, waited in her carriage at the head of the slipway. She was trim and beautiful in her blue and white paint, showing every sign of the care Murdoch lavished on her. Reeve ran a hand along her counter with a conscious pleasure.
Behind him the door swung open in a flurry of rain and a soft Highland voice said, I was in the outhouse, stacking peat.
Reeve turned to find Murdoch standing in the doorway and in the same moment an enormous Irish wolfhound squeezed past him and bore down on the admiral.
His hand fastened on the beasts ginger ruff. Rory, you old devil. I might have known. He glanced up at Murdoch. Mrs Sinclairs been looking for him this morning. Went missing last night.
I intended bringing him in myself later, Murdoch said. Are you in health, Admiral?
He was himself seventy years old, of immense stature, dressed in thigh boots and guernsey sweater, his eyes grey water over stone, his face seamed and shaped by a lifetime of the sea.
Murdoch, Admiral Reeve said. Has it ever occurred to you that life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury and signifying precisely nothing?
So its that kind of a morning? Murdoch wiped peat from his hands on to his thighs and produced his tobacco pouch. Will you take tea with me, Admiral? he enquired with grave Highland courtesy.
And a little something extra? Reeve suggested hopefully.
Uisgebeatha? Murdoch said in Gaelic. The water of life. Why not indeed, for it is life you need this morning, I am thinking. He smiled gravely. Ill be ten minutes. Time for you to take a turn along the shore with the hound to blow the cobwebs away.
The mouth of the inlet was a maelstrom of white water, waves smashing in across the reef beyond with a thunderous roaring, hurling spray a hundred feet into the air.
Reeve trudged along in the wolfhounds wake at the waters edge, thinking about Murdoch Macleod. Thirty-two years coxswain of the Fhada lifeboat, legend in his own time during which he had been awarded the BEM by old King George and five silver and two gold medals for gallantry in sea rescue by the Lifeboat Institution. He had retired in 1938, when his son Donald had taken over as coxswain in his place, and had returned a year later when Donald was called to active service with the Royal Naval Reserve. A remarkable man by any standards.
The wolfhound was barking furiously. Reeve looked up across the great bank of sand that was known as Traig Mhoire Marys Strand. A man in a yellow lifejacket lay face-down on the shore twenty yards away, water slopping over him as one wave crashed in after another.
The admiral ran forward, dropped to one knee and turned him over, with some difficulty for his left arm was virtually useless now. He was quite dead, a boy of eighteen or nineteen, in denim overalls, eyes closed as if in sleep, fair hair plastered to his skull, not a mark on him.
Reeve started to search the body. There was a leather wallet in the left breast pocket. As he opened it, Murdoch arrived on the run, dropping on his knees beside him.
Came to see what was keeping you. He touched the pale face with the back of his hand.
How long? Reeve asked.
Ten or twelve hours, no more. Who was he?
Off a German U-boat from the look of those overalls. Reeve opened the wallet and examined the contents. There was a photo of a young girl, a couple of letters and a leave pass so soaked in sea water that it started to fall to pieces as he opened it gingerly.
A wee lad, thats all, Murdoch said. Couldnt they do better than schoolboys?
Probably as short of men by now as the rest of us, Reeve told him. His name was Hans Bleichrodt and he celebrated his eighteenth birthday while on leave in Brunswick three weeks ago. He was Funkgefreiter, telegraphist to you, on U743. He replaced the papers in the wallet. If she bought it this morning, we might get more like this coming in for the rest of the week.
Probably as short of men by now as the rest of us, Reeve told him. His name was Hans Bleichrodt and he celebrated his eighteenth birthday while on leave in Brunswick three weeks ago. He was Funkgefreiter, telegraphist to you, on U743. He replaced the papers in the wallet. If she bought it this morning, we might get more like this coming in for the rest of the week.
You could be right, Murdoch crouched down and, with an easy strength that never ceased to amaze Reeve, hoisted the body over one shoulder. Better get him into Marys Town then, Admiral.
Reeve nodded. Yes, my house will do. Mrs Sinclair can see him this afternoon and sign the death certificate. Well bury him tomorrow.
I am thinking that the kirk might be more fitting.
Im not certain thats such a good idea, Reeve said. There are eleven men from this island dead at sea owing to enemy action during this war. I would have thought their families might not be too happy to see a German lying in state in their own place of worship.
The old mans eyes were fierce. And you would agree with them?
Oh no, Reeve said hurriedly. Dont draw me into this. You put the boy where you like. I dont think it will bother him too much.
But it might well bother God, Murdoch said gently. There was no reproof in his voice, in spite of the fact that, as a certificated lay preacher of the Church of Scotland, he was the nearest thing to a minister on the island.
There was no road from that end of Fhada, had never been any need for one, but during the two abortive years that the Marconi station had existed, the telegraph company had laid the narrow-gauge railway line. The lifeboat crew, mostly fishermen from Marys Town, travelled on it by trolley when called out in an emergency, pumping it by hand or hoisting a sail when the wind was favourable.
Which it was that morning, and Murdoch and the admiral coasted along at a brisk five knots, the triangular strip of canvas billowing out to one side. The dead boy lay in the centre of the trolley and Rory squatted beside him.
Two miles, then three, and the track started to slope down and the wind tore a hole in the curtain of rain, revealing Marys Town, a couple of miles further on in the north-west corner of the island, a scattering of granite houses, four or five streets sloping to the harbour. There were half-a-dozen fishing boats anchored in the lee of the breakwater.
Murdoch was standing, one hand on the mast, staring out to sea. Would you look at that now, Admiral? Theres some sort of craft coming in towards the harbour out there and I could have sworn that was the Stars and Stripes shes flying. I must be getting old.
Reeve had the telescope out of his pocket and focused in an instant. Youre damned right it is, he said as the Dead End jumped into view, Harry Jago on the bridge.
His hand was shaking with excitement as he pushed the telescope back into his pocket. You know something, Murdoch? This might just turn out to be my day after all.
When the MGB eased into the landing-stage a woman was sitting on the upper jetty under an umbrella, painting at an easel. She was in her early forties, with calm blue eyes in a strong and pleasant face. She wore a headscarf, an old naval-officers coat, which carried the bars of a full captain on the epaulettes, and slacks.
She stood up, moved to the edge of the jetty, holding the umbrella, and smiled down. Hello there, America. That makes a change.
Jago went over the rail and up the steps to the jetty quickly. Harry Jago, maam.
Jean Sinclair. She held out her hand. Im bailie here, Lieutenant, so if theres anything I can do
Bailie? Jago said blankly.
What youd call a magistrate.
Jago grinned. I see. You mean youre the law around here.
And coroner and harbourmaster. This is a small island. We have to do the best we can.
Im here with dispatches for Rear Admiral Reeve, maam. Have you any idea where I might locate him?
She smiled. We have a saying in these islands, Lieutenant. Speak of the devil and youll find hes right behind you.
Jago turned quickly and got a shock. When hed received his Navy Cross from Nimitz at Pearl, Admiral Reeve had been one of those on the platform, resplendent in full uniform with three rows of medal ribbons. There was no echo of him at all in the small, dark man with the black eye patch who hurried towards him now wearing an old reefer coat and sea boots. It was only when he spoke that Jago knew beyond a doubt who he was.
You looking for me, Lieutenant?
Admiral Reeve? Jago got his heels together and saluted. Ive got a dispatch for you, sir. Handed to me by the Royal Naval officer in command at Mallaig. If youd care to come aboard.
Lead me to it, Lieutenant, the admiral said eagerly, then paused and turned to Jean Sinclair. I found Rory. He was with Murdoch at the lifeboat station.
Her eyes were lively now and there was a slight amused smile on her mouth. Why, Carey, I thought you were going to ignore me altogether.
He said gravely, I found something else down there on Traig Mhoire. A body on the beach. A German boy off a U-boat.
Her smile died. Where is he now?
I left him at the church with Murdoch.
Id better get up there then. Ill pick up a couple of women on the way. See the lads decently laid out.
Ill be along myself later.
She walked away quickly, her umbrella tilted to take the force of the rain. Quite a lady, Jago remarked.
The admiral nodded. And then some. As a matter of interest, she owns the whole damned island. Left it by her father. He was a kind of feudal laird round here.
What about that naval greatcoat, sir? Jago asked, as they descended the ladder.
Her husbands. Went down in the Princeof Wales back in forty-one. He was a Sinclair, too, like her. A second cousin, I believe. He laughed. Its an old island custom to keep the name in the family.
The crew were assembled on deck and as the admiral went over the rail, Jansen piped him on board. Reeve looked them over in amazement and said to Jago, Where did this lot spring from? A banana boat?
Chief Petty Officer Jansen, sir, Jago said weakly.
Reeve examined Jansen, taking in the reefer, the tangled beard and knitted cap. He turned away with a shudder. Ive seen enough. Just take me to my dispatch, will you?
If you follow me, Admiral.
Jago led the way down the companionway to his cabin. He took a briefcase from under the mattress on his bunk, unlocked it and produced a buff envelope, seals still intact, which he passed across. As Reeve took it from him, there was a knock at the door and Jansen entered with a tray.
Coffee, gentlemen?
Reeve curbed the impulse to tear the envelope open and said to Jago as he accepted a cup, Hows the war going, then?
It was Jansen who answered. The undertakers are doing well, Admiral.
Reeve turned to stare at him in a kind of fascination. You did say Chief Petty Officer?
The best, sir, Jago said gamely.
And where may I ask, did you find him?
Harvard, sir, Jansen said politely, and withdrew.
Reeve said in wonderment, Hes joking, isnt he?