The Child Lives On

Chapter Thirteen

On a foggy London evening, a hackney cab slowed to a stop in front of a large brownstone building. A distinguished gentleman, highly esteemed in the world of business, stepped out. The doorman at the brownstone greeted him, taking his hat, coat, gloves and cane. The clubroom was empty, except for an old gray military man. Oak paneling, plush carpets, soft leather chairs and a cozy fire created the perfect refuge on a chilly night - or any other night, for that matter. The military man looked up when the gentleman entered. A smile crossed his weathered face. "Mr. Smythe," he said, "haven't seen you in a dog's age."

"Been in New York," said Mr. Smythe, relaxing in the adjacent seat. "On business."

The clubman brought in a decanter full of port and a glass, set them down on the table next to Mr. Smythe, and left as quietly as he came in.

"New York, you say?" said the military man. "An excellent place for business, so I've heard."

"It wasn't business only," said Mr. Smythe. "It was a humanitarian mission as well."

"What sort of humanitarian mission?"

"I could relay the story, if you like."

"Proceed."

"Very well. As you may already know, I vacation every summer in Barfleur."

"Barfleur? Have you something against Brighton?"

Mr. Smythe waved off the interruption with his hand. "Ten years ago I befriended a retired café owner. We played chess, swapped stories, walked the shores, fished, and so on."

"Idyllic."

"Yes. The man died earlier this year."

"Having lost many a friend myself, I can sympathize."

"He had a granddaughter, one Emily."

"Ah."

"When I arrived in Barfleur this summer, I found her alone with no one to turn to."

"Poor child. How old is she?"

"Hard to say. She's exactly the same now as when I met her ten years ago."

"When one reaches a certain age..."

"I mean, she's still a child."

"I'm not sure..."

"Jacques seemed to think she was a magical being, a fairy or pixie perhaps."

"A fantasy, surely."

"Normally, I would agree with you."

At this point, the conversation went off the rails. Fantasy creatures - fairies, pixies, leprechauns and the like - were discussed at length. When the two men exhausted the subject, and themselves, Mr. Smythe picked up where he left off.

"The child wished to leave Barfleur," he said. "I offered to escort her to New York."

"And why would this little French lass wish to journey to New York?" asked the military man.

"She has relatives in Toronto."

"But you were going to New York."

"I was only going as far as New York. An associate of mine is escorting her to Toronto at this very moment - or perhaps an associate of his. No matter. He assured me, on his honor, that she would arrive safely.

With glasses emptied and refilled, Mr. Smythe continued.

"We set sail from Plymouth on a schooner," he said.

"A schooner?" asked the military man.

"My usual mode of travel."

"You should have taken a steamship."

"Too crowded. Besides, when smuggling a small child…"

"Say no more."

"Of course." Mr. Smythe cleared his throat. "The journey did not begin well. We were one day out when a frightening event occurred. I had left Emily in the cabin with her knitting to stretch my legs on deck. When I returned, I found a sailor in the cabin. Emily had been stripped bare, her wrists tied behind her back, and a rag shoved into her mouth."

"My word!"

"Indeed. The sailor was in the process of removing his trousers. I beat him about the head with my walking stick until he was bloody and unconscious."

"As any man with a sense of decency would do."

"After that, I never left her side."

"That goes without saying. What of the man?"

"I don't know. The captain saw to it."

"He bloody well should have been hung!"

"I concur."

The military man was thoroughly shaken. Although he was a veteran, and had endured the horrors of war, the thought of violating a small child was abhorrent. It took more than one glass of port to lower his blood pressure.

"I apologize, my friend," said Mr. Smythe. "Perhaps I should have held my tongue."

"No, no," said the military man. "Carry on. We must face the evils of this world head on."

"My thoughts exactly."

"Did the child recover?"

"She was distressed, of course."

"Of course."

"And grateful."

"I should think so."

"Exceedingly so, I think."

"In what way?"

"To the point of exaggeration."

"How so?"

"It was perplexing..."

"What?"

"...but she insisted..."

"What?"

"...that I saved her life."

"Metaphorically?"

"Perhaps."

"Some girls…"

"I'm sure I don't know."

At this point, the conversation centered on the various perceived eccentricities of the fairer sex, which I'm sure you would find quite tedious.