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  Praise for novels by Tracy Groot

  The Sentinels of Andersonville

  “Groot’s well-researched, inspirational historical tale . . . will be compelling and memorable for a diverse audience.”

  BOOKLIST

  “Groot has done good historical homework. . . . The pacing is page-turning. . . . This Civil War–era story grapples with fundamental moral questions about decency and conscience—questions that can be asked about all wars.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW

  “Richly detailed, engrossing historical fiction.”

  KIRKUS REVIEWS

  “If the truth hurts, this devastating story is like a knife to the heart. . . . This story of a Good Samaritan shines brightly as the characters place themselves in danger.”

  ROMANTIC TIMES, TOP PICK REVIEW

  “Fast-paced, with endearing protagonists and a thoughtful exploration of why some people do nothing in the face of evil and others risk everything to battle it.”

  CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  Flame of Resistance

  “Groot . . . does good historical work with details and subtle psychological work with her characters. WWII-era novels are popular; this is a superior, page-turning entry in that niche.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY

  “This well-researched novel is filled with intrigue and captivating characters that should please fans of World War II fiction.”

  CBA RETAILERS + RESOURCES

  “Groot ensnares readers with accurate historical detail and gripping prose. With complex characters, authentically reflecting good and evil . . . , this story overflows with intrigue, passion, sacrifice, and humanity.”

  RELZ REVIEWS

  “Scrupulously researched and lovingly written, Flame of Resistance plunges the reader into an exhilarating story of courage, grace, and one endearing woman’s leap of faith.”

  THE BANNER

  “Groot’s impeccable research lends credibility and depth to this riveting tale based on real-life history. . . . Betrayal, unexpected allies, suspense, and heroism share in the drama of the tale.”

  WEST MICHIGAN CHRISTIAN NEWS

  “Tracy Groot adds fine research on [D-Day] and [the] World War II environment, both of which make Flame of Resistance a powerful saga.”

  MIDWEST BOOK REVIEW

  “The suspense is great, the characters excellent, the romance held in check, and the spiritual elements are extremely encouraging.”

  THE CHRISTIAN MANIFESTO

  Madman

  “[A] well-paced, beautifully written historical novel. . . . Entertaining and compelling.”

  PUBLISHERS WEEKLY, STARRED REVIEW

  “Groot cleverly combines historical research, Scripture, and thrilling imagination to create an ingenious story built around the Gerasene demoniac described in Mark’s and Luke’s Gospels. It’s one of the best fictional adaptations of a biblical event I’ve had the pleasure to read.”

  ASPIRING RETAIL MAGAZINE

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  Maggie Bright: A Novel of Dunkirk

  Copyright © 2015 by Tracy Groot. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of woman copyright © Ladida/iStockphoto. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of boat copyright © TAGSTOCK1/Dollarphotoclub. All rights reserved.

  Interior photograph of map copyright © Alistair Scott/Shutterstock. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Ron Kaufmann

  Edited by Kathryn S. Olson

  Published in association with Creative Trust Literary Group, 5141 Virginia Way, Suite 320, Brentwood, Tennessee 37027. www.creativetrust.com.

  Psalm 107:23-24 epigraph is taken from the New American Standard Bible,® copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  Nahum 2:1, quoted in chapter 19, is taken from the Revised Standard Version of the Bible, copyright © 1952 [2nd edition, 1971] by the Division of Christian Education of the National Council of the Churches of Christ in the United States of America. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Maggie Bright is a work of fiction. Where real people, events, establishments, organizations, or locales appear, they are used fictitiously. All other elements of the novel are drawn from the author’s imagination.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Groot, Tracy, date.

  Maggie Bright : a novel of Dunkirk / Tracy Groot.

  pages ; cm

  ISBN 978-1-4143-8323-1 (hardcover)

  1. World War, 1939-1945—Naval operations, British—Fiction. 2. World War, 1939-1945—France—Fiction. 3. Yachts—Great Britain—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3557.R5655M34 2015

  813’.54—dc23 2014048845

  ISBN 978-1-4964-0670-5 (ePub); ISBN 978-1-4143-8478-8 (Kindle); ISBN 978-1-4964-0671-2 (Apple)

  Build: 2015-03-12 21:47:46

  For Alison, Annie, Cynthia, Lorilee, Sharron, and Shelly,

  Fellowship of the Gimlet Eye

  Contents

  Map of the Three Routes Across the Channel

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  May 15, 1940 Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  May 26, 1940 Chapter 19

  May 29, 1940 Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  May 30–31, 1940 Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Preview of Flame of Resistance

  A Note from the Author

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Those who go down to the sea in ships,

  Who do business on great waters;

  They have seen the works of the Lord,

  And His wonders in the deep.

  —Psalm 107:23-24

  SOMEWHERE IN BELGIUM

  MAY 1940

  There is nothing more disturbing than the sound of an animal in pain. Animals can be put out of their misery, but men, men cannot.

  “What in me is dark, illumine! What is low, raise and support!”

  “Will someone please shut him up?” shouted the British officer.

  Artillery shook the hut. Bits of dried earth rained down on the officer’s map. He flicked away a single lump. The British Army was in retreat. Had England ever met such a rout as this? How would they face those at home—if they made it home?

  The man in the corner howled. When he didn’t shout strange things, he howled, and not just any old howl; it came up in an eerie building groan and let loose at a peak, put the hair straight up one’s neck.

  At the peak of the latest unholy howl, a figure appeared in the doorway, hesitant, uncertain—just the person.

  “You there!” said the officer. “Yes, you. See the man over there? He’s yours.”

  The private looked at the bandaged man. “What do you mean, sir?”

  “Get him to Dunkirk. He’s done something heroic.”

&nbs
p; “I only came to tell you—”

  “Yes, yes, we’re overrun!” A boom shook the hut. “Bronson!” he shouted over the private’s head. “Get over that canal and tell McIntire’s unit to pull out. God, have mercy!” He stared at the private. “Still here?”

  “But, sir—”

  “Let me be clear: You are no longer part of any unit. You’ve been plucked from your lovely little fraternity, you now have an independent commission, and he is yours. Move!” Then, bellowing, “Bronson!”

  Private Jamie Elliott went to the bandaged man making the horrible sound. A medic finished the last of his dressing, and looked at Elliott with some sympathy.

  “All yours, mate. At least he can walk.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” said Elliott.

  “Shell went off, right by his head. When he’s not howling, he quotes Shakespeare.”

  “Milton, actually,” said another medic, bandaging another man.

  “Who cares? It’s poetry, and it’s awful.”

  “I think it’s rather interesting. I like to listen to him.”

  “That’s because you’re a pansy, aren’t you?” said the first medic. He looked at Jamie and shook his head. Then he looked at his charge, who had quieted at last, and said, gentler, “He’s a captain. Lost all his men, poor sod. Risked his life to bring a message to another unit, saved their lives, came back to his own and they were blown to bits. Last one died ten minutes ago. A brigadier put him in for the Victoria Cross.”

  A boom, and earth rained down.

  “Their fatal hands no second stroke intend!” shouted the bandaged captain.

  “Well, that was relevant.” The medic grabbed the captain’s rucksack and stuffed in rolled bandages. “Change it as often as you can; keep it clean as you can. It’s a great rotten hole, but I have no time to stitch it. Keep the bandage tight. He’s lost a lot of blood. He’ll need water as often as you can scrounge it.” He thrust the rucksack at Elliott. “Go.”

  The ground shuddered, earth rained, and Elliott grabbed the captain’s arm.

  “Which way to Dunkirk?”

  “That way, mate, twenty miles or so. You can’t miss it—it’s burning.”

  ELLIOTT’S BOATYARD

  BEXLEY-ON-THE-THAMES

  LONDON

  No topic has more lurid appeal than when one is nearly murdered in one’s bed by a member of the clergy.

  Clare Childs did not begrudge Mrs. Shrewsbury the right to pick the incident down to atomic particles. It was the most exciting thing to happen in the old tweedy’s life, and Clare was convinced the Shrew was grateful it had; but it had occurred weeks ago.

  “More tea?” Clare offered.

  “In a blink, your life changes. You are sixty-seven. Retired. Prepared to serve out the rest of your days in good deeds and usefulness. Yes, dear. Thank you.” She paused before taking a sip. “I can still see his eyes. They glowed red.”

  They were brown. And frightened.

  “Going to the Home Front meeting this afternoon?” Clare said brightly, though she knew it was fruitless to try and change the subject until Mrs. Shrew played it out to the bitter end.

  “We’ll see him at Madame Tussauds one day,” she said with grim relish, eyes glowing a bit disturbingly themselves over her teacup. “Right next to Jack the Ripper. His clerical collar will be a chilling counterpoint. I wonder what name they’ll give him.”

  “As he hasn’t committed any murder—”

  “That we know of . . .”

  “I don’t know that he’ll grace an exhibit anytime soon.”

  “What would they call him?” Mrs. Shrew mused. “He’s an American. He’s a vicar.”

  “I don’t think they call them vicars in America. Not from the novels I’ve read. He is an Episcopal priest. Perhaps it’s Father something or other.”

  “Father . . . Slasher. Father Maim. The papers called him the Thieving Priest—such an insipid moniker for such gruesome potential. They got it all wrong.”

  “The papers also said he had made off with ‘a mysterious package.’ Where did they get that? Nothing whatsoever is missing.” Clare scowled.

  “‘The tearful owner of the Maggie Bright . . .’”

  Tearful! Oh, why did the Shrew have to remind her?

  “I’ve got it! The Reverend Yankee Maimer.”

  “Really, Mrs. Shrew . . . sbury.” Clare had to stop calling her Shrew in her head. “You must put the matter out of your mind. It isn’t healthy.”

  “What I wonder is why there hasn’t been an inquest. I have longed to give testimony. At the very least we should have been thoroughly questioned.”

  Here was the one point upon which they agreed. Why hadn’t someone come? The night the incident took place didn’t count, as there had been no one from Scotland Yard to question them, only the arresting constable. No one from the Daily Mirror had questioned them, either; no wonder they got their facts wrong. “Well, things are a bit busy just now. War and all. Perhaps—”

  “Yes, but do you see, that is exactly my point. He could be a German spy! I didn’t buy that trite New York American accent for one moment. Neither should you. A girl of your sensibilities. Offering tea while we waited for the police. If it hadn’t been for that man to subdue him, I don’t know what we should have done.”

  “You did all right with the kettle . . .” It was a wonder the poor man’s skull wasn’t fractured. “And the shrieking.”

  “It was a distractionary move,” Mrs. Shrew said modestly. “I occasionally employed the tactic on my students. Did you notice the staccato cadence of the shrieks?”

  “I did.”

  “Puts the perpetrator off center.”

  “It did that.” Poor fellow probably thought he was in a Tussauds exhibit—as a victim.

  “Hail the ship!” came a call from outdoors. “I have news!”

  “It’s that man,” said Mrs. Shrew disapprovingly, because it was proper to disapprove of men, though she smoothed her hair and brushed toast crumbs from her bosom.

  Clare slid from the tiny dinette and ran up the ladder.

  “Good morning, Captain John!” She smiled at the man on the dock. “Any news from your son?” She dared to ask because he appeared quite chipper this morning.

  But the question did dampen him for just a moment. “No. Nothing. Bit odd—I’ve gotten a letter twice a week.” Then he smiled. “I’m sure all is well. Stopped the Jerries in their tracks, no doubt, and Jamie leads the pack. Too busy to tell me about it!” He waved a piece of paper. “I have the information you were after!”

  The timing couldn’t be worse. And yes—there was Mrs. Shrew, right behind her.

  “Information?” she called as she appeared at the hatch. Her voice always took on a slightly musical note when the captain was about. “What information?”

  There was no signaling Captain John to be discreet. He’d already torn off his hat, eyes only for Mrs. Shrew. “Well, good mornin’, Mrs. Shrewsbury!” he said, as if heartily surprised.

  “Good morning,” she sang. “What news, Captain? Has the barbarian invaded our shores? Ha-ha-ha!”

  “Hasn’t come to that yet. We’ll be ready if they do. Only, I’ve found where they’ve stowed the Burglar Vicar. He’s in a jail in Westminster. Awfully far from Bexley, don’t you think? Don’t know why our own jail didn’t suit.” He nimbly stepped over the narrow plank from the dock to the Maggie Bright. “Here you are, love.”

  Clare meekly took the paper.

  “What is that?” said Mrs. Shrew.

  “Only it’s a paper with an address on it,” said Captain John. “Where they’ve locked up the BV.”

  Clare winced at the shrieking staccato silence.

  Mrs. Shrew slid to her side. “It is worse than I have feared,” she said, voice breathy and low, no music in it. “You have developed: a fixation.”

  “What’s this?” said Captain John, looking with concern at Clare. “You do look a bit peaky . . .”

  “Your tea.
Your concern. Your kindness.” Mrs. Shrew turned upon the captain. “And you have thrown petrol on it!”

  “Hang on,” the captain said defensively. “I’ve done what?”

  “‘Put the matter out of your mind,’ hmm?” said Mrs. Shrew. “While you go about developing a sick, sordid, victim crush!” Her eyes glowed, and fell upon the paper in Clare’s hand. “I cannot let you have that.” She reached for it, but Clare held it high.

  “Mrs. Shrew—sbury, honestly. There is no fixation. There is only deep curiosity about why this man was on my boat. He had no intention to harm us in any way. I am quite sure of it. He was looking for something. I want to know what he was looking for—why it was worth risking jail.”

  “You don’t believe that rubbish about his wife due for their first child—asking us to let him go for their sakes before the police came?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. I do know he was after something. And there was something about him—something innocent. And worried. And . . . well, rather pathetic.”

  She became aware of her grasp on the mast stay. She followed the stay up to the mainmast.

  The Maggie Bright was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen, a gallant, lovely, hearty girl, and entirely in Clare’s hands: her two noble masts, the fifty-two feet of her length and the sixteen feet of her width—beam, Captain John implored her to say. But it wasn’t until Clare had signed the papers of ownership transference that she knew something sacred had been turned into her keeping—as if a spray of oath-taking fairy dust had erupted at the last scratch of the pen.

  Clare felt as if the previous owner, of whom she knew next to nothing, trusted her. Trusted her to keep the fittings polished, the decks scrubbed, the bottom clean, to keep her free of leaks—to keep her ready for any adventure, surely crouching at the very next corner. Perhaps all new boat owners felt this glowing responsibility. But Clare had believed from the start that Maggie Bright was something special.

  “I have a right to know anything that concerns my vessel.” A gust of wind came singing through her lines. Fittings rattled a counterpoint. “If that is a fixation,” Clare murmured, eyes moving along the foremast line to the bowsprit, “oh, I am fixated.”