“Seven children, one young lady and fifteen able-bodied seamen.”
“And all because one little lady named Alice would not give up,” Dave
replied huskily.
Having watched them as they made their search and noted their landing,
the pilot of a huge four-motored bomber came circling back. By code
messages they made contact with their headquarters. Plans were made and
orders given. The big bomber that had turned back was to supply the
young Lord with extra gasoline, then was to pick up the seamen and bring
them to England. The young Lord and his crew were to carry Cherry and
the seven children to America.
“And after that,” the Squadron Commander’s voice boomed over the air,
“the young Lord Applegate and his crew are to have a two-weeks’ leave in
America. Good-luck and fine flying!”
“Cherry,” Alice teased, when their supreme moment was at an end, “you
have your voice now. You should go straight back to England.”
“Oh, no!” Cherry threw up her hands. “I—I started to America. I’m still
on my way. Beside,” she added soberly. “There are the children.”
Ah, yes, there were the children, Tillie, Peggy and five others. How
brave they had been through all the long hours, only Cherry could tell.
As they climbed aboard the plane, all undaunted, Peggy, the little alley
rat from the London slums, struck up, “Roll out the Barrel.” And they
all joined in.
“But, Cherry,” Dave asked when once again they were headed for America,
“how did your voice come back?”
“Oh!” Cherry laughed. “It was the night our ship was attacked. We had
been fired upon, the ship was sinking. Boats were being swamped by the
waves. But through it all we must keep the children calm and in line.
There’s nothing like singing in a time like that. I thought of a song, a
silly, terrible, glorious song. Its words were on my lips. I opened my
mouth. The words came out, “Roll out the Barrel.” ‘And we’ll all have
fun.
When we roll out the barrel.’
“The children sang. We all sang. We all remained calm. And we got away.
“Some of us got away,” she added soberly. “But my voice, that was a
miracle, I guess. God knew I needed it so very, very badly for that
trying hour.”
A week later Cherry sat in a great easy chair before a broad window. She
was looking out upon a scene of matchless beauty, the broad lawn to
Dave’s big old-fashioned, New England home in winter. The first snow.
They had decided upon this spot because there, of all places, they could
really find rest and peace.
As if dressed for a party, the hedge and great evergreen trees were
decked with white. “It is beautiful! Glorious!” She murmured. “And yet—”
Beside her on a small table lay a letter just finished. She had written
to her mother. Among other things she had said, “Mother, don’t be
troubled. We are going to win the war. We are not alone. More and more,
everywhere I go in America I am told that people are coming to feel
stronger about this war. They will send us guns, ships and planes. We
shall win. We are not alone.”
For some time she sat there quite alone looking away at the winter
landscape. Their journey to America had been a glorious adventure. They
were being royally entertained. Just now Alice was in the kitchen with
the children popping corn. Brand, the young Lord and the Lark had gone
hunting.
Yes, they were having a grand time. But her thoughts were far away. Only
that morning she had received a letter from her mother. It was full of
news. A flying repair squad had put their house back, good as new. “We
now have a home again,” was the word. “How good that seems! They are
asking for you at the subway. All England calls for their Singing
Angel.”
“All England,” she whispered softly.
Slipping in from another room, Dave took a seat beside her.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He spread his arms to include all out-of-doors.
“Yes,” she agreed. “So beautiful it makes your heart ache. But, Dave,
I’m eager to be back in England. I—I just can’t stand the silence.
There’s no excitement, no great cause. It—it’s strange. War is terrible!
But when you belong in it you want to be there. You just ache to be
there. It—it is very strange.”
“You’ll be on your way in a week. Your subway crowd will be waiting for
you. But a week, that’s soon enough,” he insisted.
“And you?” Her voice was low.
“I?” He looked into her eyes. “What do you think?”
“I have no way to know.”
“There are many people here in America,” He spoke slowly, thoughtfully,
“who say this is not our war. Perhaps it is not. Who knows? That
question must be decided by older, wiser heads than mine. But as for
me,” his shoulders straightened, “this _is_ my war. And I’m going back.”
“I’m glad,” she whispered.
“You’ll come to America again sometime,” he whispered after a while.
“Yes, I hope so.”
“Perhaps for good and all?” His voice was low.
“Who knows?” She was staring dreamily at the lovely landscape. Perhaps
she was seeing into the future. If so, what did she see? Dave dared not
ask.
Had he but known it, at that moment words from a very old book were
running through Cherry’s mind, “Whither thou goest, I will go; and where
thou lodgest, I will lodge; thy people shall be my people, and thy God
my God. Where thou diest, I will die, and there will I be buried.”
And so that bright day grew dim with the shades of night.
Transcriber’s Notes
--Copyright notice provided as in the original—this e-text is public
domain in the country of publication.
--Silently corrected palpable typos; left non-standard spellings and
dialect unchanged.
--Left unchanged the hopelessly confused quotation marks around the
quoted song on page 237.
--In the text versions, delimited italics text in _underscores_ (the
HTML version reproduces the font form of the printed book.)