Victory by Susan Cooper Read Free Book Online Page B

man’s life and death’?” Russell says. “Weird. What’s in that little wrapper?”
    â€œThe great man must be Lord Nelson,” Molly says. She looks at the folded brown paper, and is nervous of touching it. She feels suddenly that she is on the edge of some huge powerful thing or happening, though she cannot imagine what. But she knows that she has to investigate, or Russell’s inquiring hand will come down and do itfor her. So she puts out a finger and lifts up the top flap.
    Inside the roughly made envelope is a small piece of coarse, frayed cloth. It is a dirty cream color, a lighter brown than the paper around it: a ragged little piece of material about three inches square. Molly takes it out between her finger and thumb and puts it on the palm of her left hand.
    And in that instant, the presence of power floods all around and through her like a great noise, so that she feels suddenly giddy. She puts her other hand flat on the bed beside her, to prop herself up. She is not frightened, not at all; it is more like an excitement, like the feeling of having been given some wonderful piece of news.
    Then it is gone, as if a huge chord of music had suddenly boomed out, and then just as suddenly stopped.
    Russell is gazing nervously at her face. “Moll? You look like . . . are you going to have one of your sideways times?”
    â€œNo!” Molly says. “I’m fine.” She holds her palm out to him. “Look—it’s a piece of cloth. It’s really old.”
    â€œYeah,” Russell says, glancing at it. He is still keeping a cautious eye on her face.
    Molly moves her hand to slide the little square of cloth back into its folded paper covering, but as she does so, she notices some words written on the paper itself. She pauses and instead opens out the fold.
    This writing is very faint, and in a different hand: a beautiful slanting copperplate handwriting, from another age. Molly knows at once that it is much older than theinscription by Mr. Edward Austen. She has seen writing like this before, on a school visit to the British Museum in London. That day, most of the kids had obsessed over a prehistoric mummified little man, but her favorite thing had been the old handwritten letters and manuscripts, in glass-topped cases covered with velvet curtains to keep the light from fading the ink.
    She starts to read aloud again. “Thif the moft —” then she smiles, remembering the way the old manuscripts had every S written like an F .
    She reads: “This the most precious possession of my father Samuel Robbins, his piece of the flag of HMS Victory on which he served as a boy at Trafalgar. Given into my safekeeping as a girl, before his last voyage from which he did not return. May God bless my dear father and his Admiral.”
    Molly finds her voice shaking, and she stops. “Oh my goodness,” she says. She stares at the piece of darkened cloth in her hand.
    Russell picks up the wounded book and studies the handwriting. “There’s a signature here too,” he says. “Emma . . . Tenney. See?” He hands it to Molly. She looks, and nods.
    â€œCool,” Russell says. “You got a piece of history, Moll.” And Molly realizes that he has no idea of the nature of this amazing thing that has come into her life. For Russell, this is just an old book with some writing and a dubious relic in it. Though he lived for two years in England, he has come home and changed back into an American boy, and thename Nelson is no more than a memory of that dude on the pole in Trafalgar Square. If the piece of flag had something to do with George Washington, it might have kept his attention. But it is as English as Molly and her book, and besides, Russell has far more interest in sailing, girls and his impending driving test than in history.
    Molly slips the square of cloth back into its brown paper covering, and closes the book.
    Russell gets up,