“Quite,” agreed her mink-coated friend. “Vulgar and wonderful. I quite love this war. It has given me one more chance for a fling at life.”
“All out for England!” Cherry called into the megaphone. “Everybody sing, ‘We’ll roll the old chariot along’.”
They sang. They roared. They sang.
“If Hitler’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.If Tubby’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.If Il Duce’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.If the devil’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.We’ll roll the old chariot alongAnd we won’t tag on behind.”
“If Hitler’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
If Tubby’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
If Il Duce’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
If the devil’s in the way, we’ll roll it over him.
We’ll roll the old chariot along
And we won’t tag on behind.”
In the hush that followed, Cherry announced in a low, husky voice: “God save the King.”
There followed a shuffling of feet. Every man, woman and child was on his feet. Even the enemy planes above seemed to hush as the glorious National Anthem rolled over England from Dover to Newcastle.
There were tears in the social service worker’s eyes as she took Cherry’s hand. “You’ll come again, won’t you?” she said in a low voice full of meaning. “Often and often.”
“Everybody Sing”“Everybody Sing”
“Everybody Sing”
“If—if you need me,” was the quiet reply.
“And you said you couldn’t do it!” Dave laughed happily as he guided her up the stairs and back to their sub-basement for one more cup of good American coffee.
That night members of that motley subway throng shared their beds with their new-found friends. Dave found a place with a young disabled veteran of the battle of Flanders. They slept on a thin pad and were covered by blankets none too thick. The subway was cold and drafty. For two hours Dave lay there thinking. Those were long, long thoughts. Back to the pictured walls of his mind came the peaceful pastures of Ramsey Farm, the racing planes overhead, the falling bombs, and the drifting parachutes. He rode once more with young Lord Applegate in that two-seater. His blood raced again as they played hide-and-seek with an enemy plane in the clouds. Again he heard the thundering crash of a bomb that had exploded, not, he supposed, more than two blocks from where he and Cherry had stood. What if it had been only one block, or no block at all? He tried to think this last question through, and could not quite make it. Nor could he answer to his complete satisfaction, his second and third questions,—why had he come to England? And why did he not go home? There would be a plane for Lisbon the day after tomorrow. Would he take it? He doubted it. And yet it seemed to him a voice whispered, “It is to this or no other. Think it over.” He did not think. Instead, he fell asleep.
Cherry had been given a welcome by a bright young lady who sold shoes in a great store. This young lady was wondering whether a bomb had scattered her shoes over a city block, and her job with them. In the midst of her chatter Cherry fell sound asleep.
Before they could leave the subway next morning two people were after them.
The manager of the radio station, who the night before had given Cherry such a lukewarm reception, came bustling down the stairs. She, he said, had been “Splendid! Splendid! Quite remarkable indeed! How the people had taken to her! There had been wires, phone calls,—everything. Would she come back at nine that night and sing at the studio? She should have a competent accompanist and every courtesy. Would she come?”
“No.” Cherry favored him with her brightest smile. “I won’t sing in your studio. I can’t sing in a stuffy little box with no one about except a man in a glass case who waves his arms, pretends to cut his own throat with his fingers, points to the tip of his nose, and goes through all manner of other contortions just to tell me what to do.”
All this left the man staring at her, speechless.
“But if,”—Cherry burst into a merry laugh—“if you’ll let me sing on my box with my glorious red-headed Irish girl to tickle the ivories, I’ll come back, not tonight, but very soon, and often.”
“Oh! My dear child!” the manager exploded. “You are generosity itself. But the subway is cold and drafty.”
“No place,” said Cherry, and she did not smile, “can be cold where so many warm hearts are beating as one.”
The man stared at her in speechless silence for a moment. Then he murmured, “May God forgive me if this child is not a genius.”
But here was her mother. She too had heard the broadcast and thought it marvelous. This was her day off. Her small car was just around the corner. She would take them back to Ramsey Farm in time for scrambled eggs, coffee and scones. And she did.
Mrs. Ramsey, David realized at once, was a strong, efficient person, with a will of her own. She directed the affairs of her household as the O. C. directs his squadron. Breakfast over, she called in the entire group to discuss farm affairs. She commended Jock for his fine job of plowing, and the boys for their work in the turnips and Brussels sprout patches.
“England is going to need food,” she declared. “We must all do our best. The nights are growing cold. We may get a freeze at any time, so—oo—”
“So it’s the potatoes next.” Brand gave vent to a good-natured groan. He hated picking up potatoes. Stooping over made his back ache. But theirs was a fine crop, and it must be gathered in.
Jock got out the potato plow. Soon they were all hard at work. David joined in. So too did Alice. Even the “enfants terrible”, Tillie and Peggy, helped a little. They were, however, at their best throwing clods, so in the end they were banished.
The place where the potatoes were stored held for Dave a real fascination.
“We call it the Hideout,” Alice explained, dropping down on a sack of potatoes for a short rest. “It’s as old as the hills. Did you note the moss on the roof?”
“Six inches thick,” Dave agreed. “And look at the walls! Solid masonry!”
“We believe it goes back to Feudal days.” Alice’s eyes took in the one large room, its broad stone fireplace, two narrow windows, and massive beams. “In those days it was a real hideout, I shouldn’t wonder,” she murmured.
“And might be again,” Dave suggested.
“Yes, if the Huns really come,” she agreed. “But they’ll never get this far—England will beat them back even if they swarm in on the shore like the waves of the sea.”
All that day Cherry sat curled up in a great chair before the fire in the farmhouse kitchen. She sometimes slept, sometimes thought soberly, and sometimes dreamed. To this her wise mother offered no objections. Cherry, she realized for the first time, had a great gift. She might, it seemed, be of extraordinary service to all England. She could bring them the spirit of youth, buoy them up, give them courage for the great ordeal that lay ahead.
The potatoes were stored in a narrow, dark underground tunnel that one entered through a door at the back of the Hideout.
“A grand air raid shelter,” suggested Dave.
“Hope we never need it,” Alice replied soberly, “but you never can tell.” Her brow wrinkled. She was thinking of the hole in the ground where an ancient playhouse had once stood. “How about a tramp to the village?” she suggested.
“O. K. by me,” said Dave. “I’ll see if my boots are finished.”
The boots were not finished. But then, boots at the cobbler’s never are—at least, not the first time you call.
“You’ll have to pardon the delay,” the old man apologized. “So many boys from the airdrome have brought in their boots.
“But things will go faster now.” His face brightened. “You see I have a helper.”
For the first time Dave noticed a short, sturdy young man sitting in the corner. He was sewing on a sole and never once looked up.
Dave thought with a start, “He has a vaguely familiar look. But I’ve never seen him before, that’s certain.”
“He does very fine work.” The old man rubbed his hands together. “Very fine indeed.”
Appearing a little disturbed by Dave’s lingering look at the stranger, old John followed him out of the shop to close the door behind him. “He’s quite proper,” he said, jerking a thumb backward toward the shop. “He looks like a German, but he’s a refugee, a Hollander. You understand?”
“Yes,—I”
“His papers are in perfect order. I saw to that you may well believe.” The old man laughed a trifle uncertainly. “Our local magistrate looked over those papers for me,” he went on. “We can’t take chances. But this, you see, is a rare opportunity. I’ve never made any real money, not in all my long life. And now, with all these fliers coming in—”
“Gives you a break,” said Dave. “I wish you lots of luck.” As it turned out, the old man was to need it,—lots and lots of luck.
When the cobbler opened the door to retrace his steps, Flash, the collie, who had come up as a sort of vanguard to Alice, put his nose in at the cobbler’s door, gave a long sniff, then uttered a low growl.
“Well now, I wonder what he means by that?” Dave thought as he hurried away to join Alice.
That night, after the others had retired, Mrs. Ramsey, Dave and Brand sat for a long time silently watching the fading glow of the wood fire.
“Mother,” Brand said suddenly, “I’d like to join the Royal Air Force.”
“Oh! No!” The mother’s words came short and quick. “You are needed here. Besides, there’s little enough for our aviators to do now. After the beating up we gave them, the Jerries, as you call them, are only coming over at night. You can’t find them at night. That’s work for the anti-aircraft batteries.”
“I’m not so sure of that,” Brand murmured beneath his breath. “But mother,” his voice rose, “the Huns may come over, a million of them, by air and sea, perhaps tomorrow. We must be prepared!”
“And we must be fed,” his mother replied quietly. “Perhaps later—” She did not finish. She knew a great deal about war, did the brave-hearted English mother.
“Wars,” said David, speaking before he thought, “are wrong. There should be no wars.”
Instantly the woman’s slow, steady gaze was upon him. “She’s angry with me,” he thought. His lips were parted for the words, “I’m sorry.”
But she spoke first. “You are exactly right, David. Wars are terrible. I should know. Wars have cost me those I loved far more than life. Now another war may cost me my son, and perhaps my daughters.
“Some of us,” she went on, “did what we could to prevent this war. We failed. Why? Perhaps none of us will ever know for sure.
“However,” her voice was steady and sure, “we have a war. We have no choice but to fight it. We must fight or be enslaved. Our enemy has left no room for doubt there. England has always been free.”
After that for some time, save for the slow, steady tick—tock—tick—tock of the dependable old English clock in the corner, there was silence in the great room.
Later, as they stood outside beneath the stars, Brand told Dave that for more than a year the Young Lord had been training him, teaching him how to become a fighter. “And he’s a real fighter himself, you may be sure of that.” His voice was low and strong. “He’s no braggart like some of those flying Huns. He has a real record all the same. He flew in France during the Blitzkrieg. Sometimes it was ten Messerschmitts to his one Hurricane. He got two of them. That was just one time. There were many others. You just wait!” His voice rose sharply. “I’ll be right up there beside him in a Tomahawk one of these days!”
Would he? Dave wondered.
Next day, just after lunch, feeling very much like a small boy slipping away to go fishing, Dave made his way toward the airdrome. He wanted, he told himself, to study a Spitfire. He had seen that one in action over the farm on the day of that air battle. It had fascinated him. Truth was, he hoped to run across the Young Lord and perhaps to be invited for one more ride in that two-seater. There was, he realized, a slight element of danger in such an excursion, just enough to give it tang, like a frosty morning.
He was not to be disappointed. Lieutenant Applegate was just having the machine rolled out.
“Greetings!” he cried. “Just in time! But then,” his voice changed. “I must not tempt you too much. This, you will understand, is our life. It is easy to ask too much of one who is not in on the great game.”
“I’ll be glad to go up again,” Dave said quietly. “To tell you the truth, that’s what I had hoped to do.”
“Righto! Climb in!” Applegate exclaimed. “You see,” he added, “we’re just giving this ship a tryout. Perhaps after we’ve done a stretch of patrol, we’ll ask the ground crew to run up a sky target and I’ll let you have a try at it with a few bursts of machine gun fire.”
“Oh!” Dave caught his breath sharply. But if he had known!
“We’ve always got more men than ships,” Applegate went on. “So if two men in a ship like this, by dividing the things to worry about, like dials, controls, gun-sights and all, can accomplish more than one, why then, that’s the berries. What say? Shall we be away?”
Dave nodded. Then they were off and away into the blue.
As on that other day, the sky was magnificent—bright blue, with clouds like huge cotton balls floating through it. Dave could not recall a moment in his life he had enjoyed so much. There was the thrill of speeding through space at three hundred and better miles an hour, and of looking down upon a world that was entirely new to him. Added to this—a real dash of red pepper—was the possibility that they might—just might bump into an enemy craft. Did he wish the last? He could not tell. Flying was strange. It was like a game, basketball or football—you went into it cold. As your blood warmed, a certain reckless daring came over you. You didn’t will it, perhaps did not, in your sober moments, so much as want it. It was there, and for the time being you could but yield to its urge.
Today it was just like that. Now diving into a fleecy cloud, they were lost to the entire world. But not for long. Like a dove flying from a cloud in a picture postcard, they glided once more into the bright sunshine.
Little patches and squares, forests, fields, homesteads, lovely villages all lay beneath them.
Seized with a sudden impulse, Dave spoke hoarsely into his mouthpiece: “Let me take her for a minute.” Ten seconds later he was working the joystick and Applegate, like an old lady in a wheelchair, was lolling back in his place.
But not for long. Suddenly Applegate straightened up, shaded his eyes, stared straight ahead, reached for his field glass, looked again, then said in a cheerful voice:
“See that long white cloud over to the left?”
“Ye—yes.” Dave’s heart pounded, he scarcely knew why.
“Swing over into it, then stay in it, going straight down it toward the channel. It must be all of four miles long. I—I rather smell a Hun.”
Dave obeyed instructions. The world was again lost to view.
Their journey along that cloud could scarcely have lasted two minutes, but to Dave that seemed a long, long hour. What was beyond the other end of the cloud? Something, he was sure. Did it mean a fight? He hadn’t counted on that. This was not his war. Was he sorry? He did not know. The ways of a human mind are past finding out.
Then, as if their plane had given a sudden leap, they were out of the cloud. And there, off a little to the right, was a dark spot against the blue of the sky.
The Lieutenant made one gesture, a stiff arm, pointing. That was all.
They were a full ten minutes coming within striking distance of that large plane. Every second of that exciting race Dave expected his companion to take over his controls, and all the time he remained silent, impassive.
At last, in a calm, even tone, he spoke: “That’s a Dornier. London took a terrific beating last night. Many women and children were killed or injured. That Dornier’s been taking pictures so they can find fresh spots to bomb. His pictures must not reach Allemond. We must get him.” His words were like rasping steel. Even then he did not take the controls.
A strange, cold wrath took possession of Dave’s entire being. “Women and children killed and injured.” He did not want the Young Lord to take the controls. And he knew what was to be done. He wanted to do it, at all risks.
Dropping a little below the flying level of the Dornier, he added a little speed, then streaked straight on. His heart was pounding, but his head was clear. At last, having risen to the attack, they were within striking distance.
“It’s football,” he was thinking calmly. “That Dornier’s got the ball. But in the end, it’ll be thrown for a loss.”
Even as he thought this, the Dornier banked sharply to soar away to the left. At the same time the air was ripped,—rat—rat—rat. The side shots from the Dornier went wild.
Once again they were after the foe. Once more they were all but upon the enemy’s tail when he swung sharply to the left. From the Dornier’s side came a wild burst of gunfire.
“Wasting his slugs,” Applegate exulted. “Keep right after him.” His hand was on the firing button. One push and eight guns would spray death, nearly ten thousand shots a minute. He could wait. It took just ten seconds when everything was right.
On the tip of Dave’s tongue were the words; “Here, take the controls.” He did not say them. His tongue would not waggle that way.
The Dornier took a nose-dive. When he came out of it the two-seater was with him. He tried climbing. No use. They could outclimb him, two to one.
Once again he straightened out, then curved to the right.
Recalling how so very often a football runner will repeat a pattern, a dash to the right, one to left, then straight ahead, Dave worked out a plan. Would it succeed? Only time, a terribly short time, could tell.
True to his pattern the Dornier pilot banked first right, then left, and after that went into a power dive.
Measuring this dive with greatest accuracy, Dave managed to come out of his own dive just in time to glide squarely up on the enemy’s tail.
Squinting through his sight, the Lieutenant gripped his gun control and waited. Dave found himself counting, “One—two—three.” Then came a sudden burst of sound that all but startled him into a tail spin.
Regaining his control, he shot heavenward.
The Dornier had received a ten-second burst of gunfire, hundreds of slugs, straight down her pencil-like fuselage. What would be the result? They must wait and see.
The Dornier lost its steady, straight onward flight. It began to smoke, then to lose altitude. Just then it went into a cloud.
“Dumb!” said Harmon.
Fearlessly Dave drove into that cloud. It was a long one. A full minute passed, another, and they were out.
Beyond them now was all clear, blue sky. There was no spot against that patch of blue.
The Young Lord took the controls. They spiralled downward toward the sea. At last they were beneath the cloud. There was nothing hiding there. But on the surface of the sea was a white spot. It was not foam. There were no white-caps.
“Tat-tat-tat—Down goes Hun”“Tat-tat-tat—Down goes Hun”
“Tat-tat-tat—Down goes Hun”
“Good!” exclaimed the Young Lord. “We’ll head for home. If we hurry a bit we’ll be in time for tea.” And they were.
“We got that Dornier right enough,” the Young Lord whispered the minute they were on solid ground again. “But not a word about this! It’s frightfully irregular, I’m afraid.”
“I’m sure it is,” Dave agreed.
“And after all, it’s not your war,” his companion added.
“No. Of course not,” Dave agreed. “It’s not my war.” For the first time in his life those words seemed a bit strange.
At headquarters Dave asked for coffee and got it, good coffee served by a bright faced English girl.
He had just taken his first swallow when two young men entered. At once the Young Lord was on his feet.
The slim, dark-eyed one of the new arrivals said: “As you were.” At once tension relaxed.
“Commander Knox,” said the Young Lord, “I want you to meet my friend Dave Barnes from America. He thinks he can fly.” He grinned slyly.
“All Americans think that.” The Squad Commander chuckled. “Didn’t you ever notice that?”
“Yes—yes I have,” the Young Lord agreed. “And mostly they can’t. But this chap,”—he gave Dave a quick grin—“I shouldn’t wonder if he could fly. Oh, just the least little bit.”
“You wouldn’t be spoofing us?” said the red-headed companion of the Commander. He was grinning broadly.
“No one could spoof you!” the Young Lord laughed. “You’ve already been spoofed.”
“Dave,” he said, turning to his companion, “meet the singing murderer. We call him the Lark because he sings as he flies. You should hear him roaring away! He sings ‘On the Road to Mandalay’ while he swoops down on the tail of some unsuspecting Messerschmitt and blasts him from the sky.”
“That,” said the Lark without smiling, “may be a joke. It works for all that. I learned the trick when I was a boy fishing for salmon in Scotland. If I could whistle, carrying a tune, while I was landing a big one, I’d not get excited and I’d land my fish. It’s the same with the sky fighting. If you can carry a tune in the thick of it—”
“If you can,” laughed Dave, “then I’ll say you’re good!”
“He’s right as he possibly can be,” said the Commander.
“The good old Leader of Squadron 73 over in France used to say: ‘Boys, you may have as many good points as you like, but two are absolutely necessary: courage that will stick, and an unfailing sense of humor. Nothing keeps up a fellow’s sense of humor better than a song.’
“Guess we’ll have to toddle along.” The Commander moved away. “Good to have met you, Barnes. If you can really fly, and I must say you do look the part, we’ll sign you up just any time you say.” At that he and the Lark vanished through the swinging doors.
As Dave stared after them, awed respect was registered in his eyes. “So he was with Squadron 73!” he murmured.
“Sure was.” Applegate beamed. “In France, all the way, right through the Blitzkrieg. That was the fightingest aggregation that ever flew in formation. They shot down more than a hundred planes for sure, and sent a likely hundred more limping home.”
“How many came back to tell the story?” Dave was visibly impressed.
“Nearly all,” was the reply. “I think they lost two commissioned and two non-commissioned officers. That was all.”
“Sayee!” Dave murmured. “Air fighting is almost as safe as football!”
“Absolutely,” his companion agreed. “Providing you know your stuff and have been born in the air.”
“And that,” Dave thought, as he started for home some little time later, “is how I keep out of this man’s war. I’d better look up the plane schedule to Lisbon tomorrow.” But would he?
Dave walked toward Ramsey Farm in a thoughtful mood. Always for him, in the past, the ability to do a thing well had meant a clear track ahead. “But now,” he whispered, stopping stock still in the road to think. With the Young Lord’s help he had accomplished something that in this war-shattered land seemed rather more than well worth doing.
There was nothing startling about the part he had played. Back in America his uncle, a World War ace, had put him through his paces, that was all. In a staunch old two-seater they had banked, rolled, power dived and looped the loop until he really knew how. What fun it had been! He had not thought of it as preparation for anything. Yet today, when the test came, he was prepared. Yes, the ability to do a thing had always meant “Go ahead.”
“I could do it all again,” he assured himself as he thought of the day’s adventure.
For a moment more he stood there looking at the blue sky, white clouds, and gay autumn leaves that were England at her best. “This is England,” he whispered, “Bit by bit it is being destroyed by one man’s hate and lust for power.”
“Damn!” he swore softly. Then he hurried on.
He decided to take the long way home, the road that ran through Warmington. “Shoemakers,” he thought, “always have your work finished the second time, never the first. My boots will be done.”
“Here you are, sir,” said old John, handing out a neat package and taking the pay. “I ’opes you find them satisfactory, sir.”
“Oh, I shall, I am sure,” Dave said absent-mindedly. He was not thinking of the boots. His eyes were once more upon the young cobbler in the far corner. As before, his face hidden, he was bent low over his work.
“I ’opes you’ve ’ad a pleasant afternoon,” said old John.
“Oh! Very!” said Dave.
“If he only knew,” he murmured with a low laugh after he had left the shop.
Across the street was the village Pub. Its sign proclaimed it to be Ye Old Angel Inn. How long did an angel have to live in order to be considered really old, Dave asked himself whimsically. He had thought of angels as being ageless. Perhaps there weren’t any angels after all. He had once seen a picture of a French war plane going down in flames, and of two angels waiting, with hands crossed, to catch the unhappy pilot as he fell. “Shall I ever be in need of two angels?” he asked himself dreamily.
He crossed the street to enter Ye Old Angel Inn. He liked these English Pubs. They were village clubs. There was about them a pleasant aroma of beef roasting over an open fire, of hot toddy and strange English tobacco. He could, he thought, stand for one more cup of coffee. The weather had suddenly turned cloudy, damp and cold.
The coffee was good. He lingered over it, then ordered a second cup.
As he sat there he heard voices. Two villagers sat at a table in the corner drinking hot toddy.
“I’m tellin’ ye now, James,” one voice rose sharply, “’e’s nothin’ more nor less than a bloomin’ Jerry. ’E’s a spy, that ’e is.”
“Aw now, Danny,” the other admonished, “you know what old John told you ’e is. ’E’s ’Ollander, no more, nor no less. ’Is papers they is all in horder.”
“I know. I know,” Danny agreed petulantly. “But that don’t make it so. You know as well as I know ’ow easy as nothin’ it is fer a Jerry to git papers fixed to suit ’is own self.
“Now look, Jimmy.” Danny’s voice dropped. “Ye mind the last war. There were our castle, Warmington Castle, as fine an hedifice as there be in all Hengland. An’ what ’appens? Ramsey, over at the farm, ’e ’ires ’imself a Jerry, a prisoner of war ’e was. ’e treats ’im like a long-lost brother, Ramsey does. An’ what ’appens? I asks you, what ’appens?”
“It weren’t never proved that it were this Jerry that signaled to the bloomin’ airplane that come over an’ blasted the castle,” James protested.
“I know—I know. But who would doubt it?”
And so the argument ended. Dave finished his coffee, then wandered out into the chill of falling night. Danny and James had given him fresh food for serious thought.
Cherry was booked for a return to her subway studio on the following evening. Dave spent the greater part of that day teaching her a new song. He knew the tune and could pick it out for her on the piano. By great good fortune he found the words written out in longhand on a scrap of paper in his Sunday clothes.
“It’s not a new song,” he told her. “In fact, it’s more than twenty years old. An orchestra leader named Orrin Tucker dug it out of the file and gave it to his little five-foot singing doll named Bonnie Baker. It’s gone across America like a Nebraska cyclone. This is it:
“Oh! Johnny! Oh! Johnny!How you can love!Oh! Johnny! Oh! Johnny!Heavens above.”
“Oh! Johnny! Oh! Johnny!
How you can love!
Oh! Johnny! Oh! Johnny!
Heavens above.”
“Catchy,” said Cherry, beginning to hum it.
Catchy was right, and Cherry was the one person in all the world to set England on fire with it.
That night in the chill damp of the subway, she sang it over and over. Next day in the airdromes and factories, barracks, schools, stores and on the street, one might hear: “Oh! Johnny! Oh! Johnny!”
The song was made. So too was Cherry. In the days that followed she was to become the sweetheart of all England. Newspapers were to print her picture in color. These pictures were to appear on the rough board walls of cantonments all over England, and in the cabins of boats, large and small, sailing the dangerous North Sea.
She was to be taken up by the nobility. Lady Perkins, a friend of the Young Lord, who lived in London, was to make her a part of her household, with privilege of coming and going as she pleased.
Only now and then did she sleep with some working girls in the subway. Most nights after the “all clear” had sounded, she sped away to creep beneath downy covers in a wing of Lady Perkins’ mammoth old home.
“It’s not that I crave magnificence,” she confided to Dave, “It’s just that I must have rest. It—well, you see—it all must seem so simple and easy, my singing. And it truly is, but,”—she heaved a sigh—“when it’s all over, I’m a rag.”
“I know,” Dave agreed. “It’s always that way. The thing you do with apparent ease because you have yourself under perfect carefree control, is just the thing that takes it out of you.”
By himself later, Dave recalled words of a great old poem:
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,And walk with kings, nor lose the common touch,—”
“If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
And walk with kings, nor lose the common touch,—”
“That,” he told himself, “is just what Cherry can do. And nothing can ever spoil her.”
If he had quoted from that same poem:
“If you can meet with Triumph and DisasterAnd treat those two impostors just the same,—”
“If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same,—”
he would have been telling Cherry’s fortune, for Cherry was to meet with both Triumph and Disaster.
It happened, or shall we say began, on a Sunday night. During the many days previous to this, things had picked up little by little in Cherry’s subway radio studio. One evening the little Irish girl who played the piano had brought in a young fellow with a shabby violin case under his arm. “Can you play it?” Cherry asked.
“A little,” was the modest reply.
The young fellow, who had gone through all the horrors of the Battle of Flanders and Dunkirk, was Scotch. He could do weird things with that violin. With it alone he could make you believe that a score or more of bagpipers were marching down the street. And when it came to that mellow old Scotch song:
“Flow gently, Sweet AftonAmong thy green braesFlow gently. I’ll sing theeA song in thy praise.”
“Flow gently, Sweet Afton
Among thy green braes
Flow gently. I’ll sing thee
A song in thy praise.”
he could bring a happy tear to many a tired eye. So he was given a place on the program, and weary Cherry sang a little less than before.
Other musicians wandered in. Where they all came from no one will ever know. Next there came a cellist, then a drummer, two bass viols, two clarinets, two more violins, a gypsy girl with tambourine and castanets,—all these and half a dozen others wandered in. After that they had an orchestra. There was not an “artist” in the hard and fast meaning of the word among them all, but they could roll the barrel, set Johnny loving, swing the chariot low, roll the old chariot along, and do a hundred other songs dear to the hearts of the good common people of old England and to many another who did not consider himself quite so common.
All this gave Cherry a breathing spell now and then. But when the members of the orchestra had each done his bit for just so long, there would come calls from all down the subway:
“Cherry! Cherry! We want Cherry! We want the Singin’ Angel.”
The Singin’ Angel, that is what they came at last to call her. That was because of Sunday nights, for on that night they left the Old Chariot at home, put lovin’ Johnny to bed early, rolled the barrel far back in the corner, and pushed “The Old Rugged Cross” right out in front.
No one seemed to mind. Indeed they appeared to love that hour of the week best of all. In times such as this people cling to their religion. One moment “Rock of Ages, Cleft for Me” would go rolling on and on from end to end of the subway.
Some one in the orchestra would start “Throw Out The Lifeline to danger frought men.”
Then Cherry in her strong young voice would sing:
“When all my trials and troubles are o’erAnd I am safe on that beautiful shoreThat will be glory, be glory for me.”
“When all my trials and troubles are o’er
And I am safe on that beautiful shore
That will be glory, be glory for me.”
“Now!” she would cry. “Everybody sing!”
“Oh! That will be glory for me,Glory for me, glory for me.”
“Oh! That will be glory for me,
Glory for me, glory for me.”
Yes, religion seemed very real on these Sunday nights. On this particular night, it was midnight when Cherry reached Lady Perkins’ home. She remembered it afterward, for at that very moment Big Ben was gloriously booming the hour of twelve.
She had walked home alone. It was not far. She let herself in with her latchkey. The “all clear” had sounded, so, feeling weary and happy all in one, she stretched out on her bed fully dressed, and fell asleep.
She was dreaming of quiet, sleepy hours, with Flash at her side, while her sheep wandered over the hillside at Ramsey Farm, when suddenly it seemed that a mighty thunderstorm had stolen upon her unawares and that the very hill was being rocked by its roaring.
She awoke standing in the center of the room. Her knees trembled so she could scarcely stand. The floor beneath her vibrated like a ship in a storm. From all about her came strange crashes like walls falling one upon another.
“Only three walls remained”“Only three walls remained”
“Only three walls remained”
She tried to call, but could only whisper. A narrow crack of light appeared before her. A board in the door had been split. She stepped to the door and opened it. Then, catching herself, she started back to whisper in dismay:
“It’s gone! The house is gone! Only my room is here!”
That was not quite true. Of that spacious home only three rooms remained—her own and two others. A half-ton bomb had scattered the rest.
Recalling that the French windows of her room opened out on a court, she sprang to the nearest one. Then she was out and away.
A weird light from a flare sent down by the enemy illuminated the street. Once on that street she began to run. In all her fright and confusion she had a vague plan. Dave was spending the night with his uncle. She knew the address. Was it far? She did not know. All she knew was that somehow she must get there.
She had gone but a block when she ran squarely into the arms of a six-foot policeman.
“Here now, Miss! What’s this?” His voice had a kindly rumble.
“The house!” she cried. “Lady Perkins’ house! It’s gone!”
“Yes,” he agreed. “It was a terrible bomb. The firemen are just there now. Thank God Lady Perkins and all were away.”
“No!” Cherry whispered. “I was there.”
“You?” The Bobby looked her over. “You were there? And who now might you be?”
“I—I’m Cherry.”
“What? The Singin’ Angel?” He looked her in the face. “Bless me heart it is now! What do you know about that! Bless the Lord you are safe.”
“I can’t talk.” The girl’s head drooped. “I can’t sing. I—I want to go to Dave’s Uncle’s place.” In her fright she was like a child.
“And where would that be?”
She gave him the address. He read it, then blew a whistle. A man appeared.
“Jim,” he said, “this is Cherry, the Singin’ Angel. God’s own child she is.”
“The Singin’ Angel!” Jim’s jaw dropped.
“None other,” said the Bobby. “An’ you’re to take her to this address. Mind you drive careful, careful and steady as ye would if it were the Christ Child you’re ’avin in yer car.”
Jim’s car was old and dilapidated, but to Cherry it was the latest model of a Rolls Royce and its cushions as soft as down, for was it not taking her to her friends?
Arrived at the house, in the presence of Dave’s tall, gray-haired uncle, she disgraced herself by throwing herself in Dave’s arms. Then she wept like a child.
This storm over, she felt better. Two cups of strong tea revived her spirits but not her voice. She could only whisper as she said: “Dave, please take me home, back to the farm.”
“At this hour of the night?” Dave stared.
“I’ll have a car for you at once,” said the kindly gray-haired uncle. “Dave, my boy, London’s no place for a girl who has gone through what this girl has tonight.”
All the way home Dave had an arm about Cherry. She cuddled close to him, as a scared child would and they were not ashamed.
Arrived at the farm, they quietly dismissed the driver. Arousing no one, they sat before the half-burned-out kitchen fire for a time. When at last Dave felt the trembling quiver of her shoulders pass away, he said huskily:
“You’d better turn in for a little sleep.”
“Dave,” she whispered. “My voice is gone. I can’t sing any more.”
“Fright. That’s all.” Dave tried to reassure her. “It will come back.”
Would it? He wondered as he watched her make her way slowly, dreamily, like a sleep-walker, up the stairs.