Is that all right for you?'
Howard spoke quickly to Focquet, and then nodded to the ship.
The young officer waved at him again and stepped back.
There was a sudden foaming of the stern and the destroyer shot away on her course up-Channel.
They were left tossing in the creamy effervescence of her wake.
They altered course two points towards the east and started up the engine, giving them about six knots of speed.
The children roused, and in failing misery began to vomit again.
They were all cold, and very tired, and desperately hungry.
Presently the sun came up and the day grew warm.
The old man gave them all a little drink of wine and water.
All morning they plugged on over a sunlit, summer sea.
Now and again the young Frenchman asked Howard the time, studied the sun, and made a correction to his course.
At noon a thin blue line of land appeared ahead of them to the north.
At about three o'clock a trawler closed them, and asked who they were, and, as they tossed beside her, showed them the high land of Rame Head on the horizon.
At about half-past five they were off Rame Head.
A motor-launch, a little yacht in time of peace, ranged up alongside them; an RNVR lieutenant questioned them again.
'You know the Cattewater?' he shouted to Howard.
'Where the flying boats are?
That's right.
Go up there and into the basin on the north side.
All refugees land at the fish quay in the basin.
Got that?
Okay.'
The launch sheered off and went on her way.
The fishing-boat nosed in past Rame Head, past Cawsand, past the breakwater into the shelter of the Sound.
Ahead of them lay Plymouth on its hills, grey and peaceful by its harbour in the evening sunlight.
Howard stared at it and sighed a little.
It seemed to him that he had been happier in France than he would be in his own land.
The sight of the warships in the Sound, the land, and the calmer water revived the children a little; they began to look about and take an interest again.
Under the old man's guidance Focquet threaded his way through the warships; off Drake's Island they came to the wind and lowered the brown sail.
Then, under engine only, they made their way to the fish quay.
There were other boats before them at the quay, boats full of an assortment of mixed nationalities, clambering ashore and into England.
They lay off for a quarter of an hour before they could get to the steps, while the gulls screamed around them, and stolid men in blue jerseys looked down on them, and holiday girls in summer cotton frocks took photographs of the scene.
At last they were all stumbling up the steps to join the crowd of refugees in the fish-market.
Howard was still in the clothes of a Breton labourer, unshaven, and very, very tired.
The children, hungry and exhausted, clustered round him.
A masterful woman, trim and neat in the uniform of the WVS, shepherded them to a bench.
'Asseyez vous la,' she said in very bad French, 'jusqu'on peut vous attendre.'
Howard collapsed on to the seat and sat there half in coma, utterly exhausted.
Once or twice women in uniform came to them and asked them questions, which he answered mechanically.
Half an hour later a young girl brought them cups of tea, which they took gratefully.
Refreshed, the old man took more interest in his surroundings.
He heard a cultured Englishwoman's voice.
'There's that lot over there, Mrs Dyson.
All those children with the two men.'
'What nationality are they?'
They seem to be a mixed lot.
There's rather an attractive little girl there who speaks German.'
'Poor little thing!
She must be Austrian.'