The watertight box was tucked behind his seat with its rope tied to the eye on the bow, his supply box rested in the stern, and his fishing pole and oars lay inside.
He grabbed the stern and Thorup the bow, and they carried the scull down to the pier and set it in the water.
Henrik buttoned his black coat up to the neck and wrestled on the black balaclava Janne Thorup had knit for him, concealing hair and beard and neck—all but his eyes.
Thorup helped Henrik into the scull. “No moon tonight, and you only have five and a half hours until sunrise.”
Short summer nights made for hurried crossings with little time to talk to Svend. And nautical twilight lasted all night during the summer, which aided navigation for Henrik—and detection for German patrols.
Henrik set his oars in the oarlocks. A cough barked up, wet and wracking.
Kneeling down, Thorup steadied the boat. “Are you sure—”
Henrik gave the oars a mighty pull. “I’m fine.”
He was not fine. He’d filled all his handkerchiefs, and exertion had compounded the deep exhausting ache of illness. Each stroke grew weaker on the row back to Denmark, and coughing fits broke his momentum.
The scull skimmed past the island of Hven, half an hour behind schedule. He had to pick up the pace, not to win a medal but to avoid capture.
Henrik leaned back in the familiar rhythm of legs and arms and torso. Harder. Harder.
A cough burst out, rattling, gurgling, shattering the rhythm. He had to push himself, push past the illness.
That was how Mor had died, exerting herself, pushing bronchitis into pneumonia.
He grimaced and tugged the oars through the waves. Margrethe and Kristiane said Far had insisted on hosting the dinner party despite Mor’s illness. But they also said Mor had declared she could do it and had even turned down their offers to help.
In his rush to blame Far, Henrik had brushed that fact aside.
What if Mor’s stubbornness and love of entertaining had driven her to continue with the party plans? She was capable of standing up to Far. That time she hadn’t.
For the first time in over a decade, the situation seemed grayer. Everything did since he’d seen Far at the shipyard.
The scull thrust through the choppy water, and Henrik readjusted his hands on the oars, as if he could feel Far’s hands over his.
His father had taught him much about rowing, business, and integrity. In the past few weeks, Henrik had recalled the sound of Far’s laughter, his off-key bass singing Christmas carols, his strong arms swinging his son high in the air.
Far was a hard man. But not an evil man.
Chilly air penetrated the balaclava. Henrik was back in Danish waters, where German boats and aircraft patrolled. Usually he slowed his pace at this point to reduce the sound of the oars. Tonight he couldn’t afford to.
Henrik threw his all into his stroke, and for about fifteen minutes, he kept up the pace.
Then a coughing fit convulsed him and brought the scull to a bobbing standstill. Henrik leaned over his knees, dizzy and depleted, his limbs shaking, each breath rasping over mucus in his lungs. “Lord, help me get home.”
He pushed himself upright. In the gray-blue light, the Danish coast beckoned. He had at least half an hour to go and barely half an hour until the rising sun would reveal him.
Henrik wiped his mouth, pulled his balaclava back up over his nose, and wrapped trembling hands around the oars.
A rumbling sound pulsed in his ears. A motor.
Henrik bit back a curse. He rarely saw patrol boats. Why tonight?
After he tucked the oars inside the boat, he yanked out the watertight box full of secret documents from Svend’s contacts in London to freedom fighters in Denmark, and he eased it over the side.
He pulled his pistol from his supply box and picked up the fishing pole.
It would be best not to be seen. But if seen, he had to look like a fisherman.
