An hour later most of the children were lying exhausted in an uneasy doze; Howard was able to sit down himself and rest.
He glanced back at the land.
It was practically lost to sight; only a dim shadow showed where France lay behind them.
He stared back at Brittany with deep regret, in bitter lonely sadness.
With all his heart he wished that he was back there with Nicole.
Presently he roused himself.
They were not home yet; he must not give way to depression.
He got up restlessly and stared around.
There was a steady little night breeze from the south-east; they were making about four knots.
'It is going well,' said Focquet.
'If this wind holds we shall hardly need the engine.'
The young fisherman was sitting on a thwart smoking a caporal.
He glanced back over his shoulder.
'To the right,' he said, without moving.
'Put it this way.
So.
Keep her at that, and look always at your star.'
The old man became aware that little Pierre was at the helm, thrusting with the whole weight of his body on the big tiller.
He said to Focquet: 'Can that little one steer a boat?'
The young man spat into the sea.
'He is learning.
He is quick, that one.
It prevents sea-sickness, to sail the ship.
By the tune that we reach England he will be a helmsman.'
The old man turned to Pierre. 'You can do that very well,' he said.
'How do you know which way to go?'
In the; dim light of the waning moon he saw Pierre staring straight ahead.
'Focquet told me,' he replied. The old man had to strain to catch his little voice above the lapping of the waves. 'He said, to sail at those square stars up there.'
He raised his little arm and pointed at the Bear.
'That is where we are going to, m'sieur.
That is the way to America, under those stars.
There is so much food there that you can give some to a dog and have him for your friend.
Mademoiselle Nicole told me so.'
Presently he grew tired; the boat began to wander from the Bear.
Focquet threw the stump of his cigarette into the sea and routed out a heap of sacking.
Howard took the helm and the young man arranged a sleepy little boy on the floor beside their feet.
After a time Focquet lay down himself on the bare boards and slept for an hour while the old irian sailed the boat on through the starlight.
All night they saw no ships at all on the sea.
Ships may have been near them, but if so they were sailing without lights and did not trouble them.
But in the half-light of dawn, at about half-past four, a destroyer came towards them from the west, throwing a deep feathery bow wave of white foam aside as she cut through the water, bearing down on them.
She slowed a quarter of a mile away and turned from a grey, menacing spear into rather a battered, rusty ship, menacing still, but worn with much hard work.
A young man in duffle coat and service cap shouted at them from the bridge, megaphone in hand:
'Vous etes Francais?'
Howard shouted back: 'Some of us are English.'
The young man waved at him cheerfully.
'Can you get to Plymouth all right?'
'We want to go to Falmouth.'
The whine of the destroyer's fans and the lapping of the waves made conversation difficult.
'You've got to go to Plymouth.
Plymouth!