Page 114 of Valour

Valerie set to work amputating the worst of Tom’s frostbitten toes, five all told, while Charlotte cringed at the crunching of bone and held the dish for the surgeon to drop the offending digits into. She almost regretted volunteering to play nurse, but she felt so responsible for everyone. Poor Tom was only eighteen and had suffered frostbite worse than any of them.

When it was over, she left the upturned lifeboat and wandered down the desolate shore. It was far too soon for Hester to return yet, she knew that, but it didn’t stop her scanning the horizon on a regular basis.

She pulled the ragged, folded piece of paper from her pocket and opened the list of rousing phrases she had brought from Havenport. It was nearly falling apart, the creases where she’d folded it a hundred or more times flimsy and thin, the ink smudged and barely legible, but she knew every word by heart anyway. She breathed a sigh and folded it back up, the fresh ink on her wrist bold and bright as she pocketed the paper. She rolled her sleeve back, admiring Mei’s latest work. Across her wrist were the words, HOLD FAST.

Southern Ocean

The water was above her, below her, to either side.

Hester clung to the gunwale of the Tempest, her lungs bursting, her grip slipping.

And then there was air.

Cold, sweet air.

She staggered to her feet, crashed into Septimus, and dropped to the floor for a bucket to start bailing, water swirling around her.

Her mother hovered over the bow, wings beating slowly, face drawn. Hester ignored her, tired of the presence that reminded her of the pain she was trying to be rid of. There was a war inside her. She wanted to feel love for this person, but that was difficult when she only showed briefly, when she dodged her questions. Let her hover there, proclaiming doom. It hadn’t befallen her yet.

Hester coughed out saltwater and threw bucket after bucket of water over the side. Beside her, Septimus did the same.

Peggy’s voice was urgent, “Hester. It’s Winston—he’s⁠—”

Frank ripped the bucket from her hands and took over bailing. Peggy pulled her to the floor of the boat. Winston was lying there, limbs at the wrong angles, eyes closed.

Hester gripped his face. “Winston.” She shook him. It couldn’t be. “Winston!” She wouldn’t have it. She raked her gaze over his face, landing on a bruised lump on his forehead. “He hit his head. Winston, wake up.”

She dug her fingers into his neck, searching for a pulse. Her own heartbeat was racing. She dragged her fingers up his neck, pressing harder, desperate to feel something. He had to be alive.

There.

Slow, but there.

She collapsed her head onto his chest. “He’s alive.” She let out a sob.

Peggy stifled a relieved wail. “Thank God.”

Winston stirred, his eyelids fluttering. He vomited. Hester turned his head. It wouldn’t do to have him choke.

“Concussion. At least it’s only that.” Hester pressed the heels of her palms into her eyes. The ocean was reminding them that they were a second from disaster, from death. She threw a withering glare to her mother.

Peggy helped her drag Winston under the deck and cover him over as best they could with the mouldering reindeer sleeping bags, soaked as they were. Next, she checked the harpoon was still safely stowed. She had a sinking feeling she’d be needing it.

Her mother had vanished yet again.

8th May 1916, Elephant Island

The wind shrieked around the grey cliffs as Charlotte hurried towards the hut. Over the past week the crews had been working to make a more permanent shelter using the lifeboats Death and Thirteen. Large rocks had been dragged and carried to make a base to prop the upturned boats on, smaller stones, coats and canvas from the tents used to patch the gaps.

It was in the construction that Charlotte realised how weak everyone was. Rocks that would have been lifted easily before took two or three of them to shift. Reduced rations and the lingering effects of the journey to Elephant Island had clearly taken their toll.

She crawled through the tube of canvas that they used as a door to the hut and surveyed the scene, or what she could see of it in the darkness.

“A whole chocolate cake,” Fliss said from her sleeping bag, perched up high on the mezzanine layer they’d constructed so there was space for everyone.

Emlyn groaned next to her. “Dumplings. Really large dumplings.”

Charlotte laughed and stepped over the rows of half-asleep crew in sleeping bags along the floor. She climbed up to join Arnold, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “I’d give my right leg for boiled eggs and hot buttered toast.”