Storm Warriors (7 page)

He and Daddy and Grandpa talked as they worked, but I stopped digging and stared at the mounds of sand piled up above the pilings of the station house. My stomach twisted into a knot. How on earth would I ever find the books again?

At suppertime, Mr. Etheridge invited us to stay. After four days of being cooped up, we all needed some company.

I went to the cookhouse to help Mr. Wescott chop turnips, carrots, and salt pork for stew.

“What do you think of this?” Mr. Wescott asked. He slapped a worn photograph onto the table next to me.

It was a three-masted schooner with her sails cut away, her rigging shiny with what looked to be a coating of ice, and her hull sunk so low that stormy waves washed over it.

“It's the wreck of the
Louis V. Place,
” he said. “Happened up near New York in last February's storm.”

I examined the broken ship. “Is that the one Mr. Etheridge told us about where most of the crew died?” I asked.

Mr. Wescott nodded. “That's the one.” Then he asked, “Do you see anything strange in the picture? Look close.”

I studied the ice-encrusted lines, the heavy storm-driven waves, the sails hanging low. Then, at the base of the starboard mast, I saw it. My hands went clammy. I shuddered. It was the ghostly face and shoulders of a man, twenty times its normal size.

“That's Captain Squires, the dead captain of the ship,” Mr. Wescott said. “Come back to haunt it.”

The skin on my back prickled. I stared at the mustached face with its captain's hat, floating disembodied in the rigging.

“Sailor from New York sold that photograph to me,” said Mr. Wescott. “Said the one survivor—Stevens, I think his name was— goes door to door selling them.”

I swallowed hard. “Why didn't they get rescued?” I asked.

“The crews from three stations—Blue Point, Lone Hill, and Point of Woods—tried for hours. They shot the line for the breeches buoy, but the sailors were so frozen and weak they couldn't tie it off. The surfboat was useless because the sea was full of porridge ice. The sailors climbed into the rigging, and I heard it told that through the night, one by one, they just got tired and dropped into the sea.”

“What about Stevens?” I asked. “How did he get ashore?”

“Seems there were two—Nelson and Stevens—who hung on to the rigging together, and all night, to keep from freezing, they punched each other. The next day, when the storm finally died down just a bit, the lifesavers got the surfboat out to pick up the two. Their faces were swollen from the punches, but they were alive.”

“But you said Stevens was the only survivor,” I said.

“Nelson's feet were frozen solid. They sent him to the hospital on Staten Island to have them amputated, and he died of lockjaw a month later.”

I nodded and looked down at the photograph again. “The captain didn't want to leave his ship,” I said.

“I think you're right,” said Mr. Wescott. “I heard he was one of the first to drop off the rigging. Probably felt like he'd abandoned his crew.”

As we finished chopping the vegetables and meat, I wondered where the captain went when the
Louis V. Place
finally broke to pieces in the sea. I wondered where the other dead sailors went—did they come back to the ship, too? And I wondered where Mamma went when she closed her eyes and stopped breathing and Doc Fearing pulled the sheet up over her face.

Within a few days, Mr. Etheridge got the telegraph message he feared he would. The storm had caused a wreck—the
Alianza
—near Newburyport, Massachusetts. She was an old ship, and in the wild storm she broke to pieces in no time and her crew was thrown into the sea. Four of them swam to shore. The three that washed up dead looked like they'd been bashed and killed by the floating wreckage before they'd even had a chance to drown. They found the captain's body with the back of his skull caved in.

I was glad we hadn't had anybody die in a wreck on Pea Island. That would be like fighting a battle against the sea and losing. And I had my own small battle to fight now. It was me against the piles of sand that had built up under the station and buried the two doctoring books so deep I didn't think I'd ever find them.

Digging sand under a building on your hands and knees is nasty work. I got sand in my hair, down my shirt, and in the cuffs of my breeches. I got sweaty and sand stuck to my skin. And still, after two days of digging, I hadn't yet found the doctoring books. All I kept finding was planks of charred wood.

At first I thought a piece of old half-burnt firewood had blown under the station during the storm. Then I found another piece, and then a charred board that looked like it had been part of the wall of a house. It was much too big for firewood. And there was too much of it to have all blown under there. But what was it? How did it get there? Nobody in their right mind would build a fire under the station.

The more wood I found, the more curious I became, until I nearly forgot about the books and started digging for more charred wood instead.

So, it was almost by accident that my fingers finally touched the rags I'd wrapped the books in. The rags were soggy, and those books were a sight—all warped from the damp sand. I tried to wipe them dry with my shirt, but it was hopeless. I groaned out loud. When the surfmen found out, they'd probably ban me from the station.

I walked into the empty station house. Sunlight streamed through the salt-spray-covered windows. Quietly, I slid the books back onto the shelf. All I could do was wait to see what my punishment would be.

The next day, Daddy sent me to the station to borrow some saltwater soap because we'd run out and we were fixing to take our dirty clothes over sound side to wash them. Mr. Bowser fetched me the soap, and when he handed it to me, he said, “I see you're finally done with the books you borrowed. Did you learn something?”

My answer got stuck in my throat. I stood there with my mouth gaping open.

Mr. Bowser looked down at me, calm as anything, and said, “You tell your daddy I want you to walk the nine-to-midnight patrol with me tonight.”

Somehow I closed my sagging mouth. “Yes, sir,” I whispered, and took off out of there like I was being chased.

I told Daddy about walking the patrol, which he said would be fine, but I didn't tell him about the books or about the fact
that Mr. Bowser was going to whip me good before we did any patrolling.

That night after supper and after I helped Grandpa wash the dishes and pans, I walked slowly to the station. I wasn't sure what I was going to say to Mr. Bowser, except to apologize for what I had done.

At the station, the men were still cleaning up after supper, each man washing his own dish in the cookhouse sink. Mr. Bowser said we'd start the patrol shortly and for me to wait in the station. He didn't seem awfully angry, and I counted that in my favor.

Just before nine o'clock, Mr. Bowser checked what he needed for the patrol: a lantern, Coston flares, his badge to exchange with the surfman from Oregon Inlet when they met, and a spyglass.

Dorman Pugh was getting ready to walk the south patrol. He packed the same items as Mr. Bowser did, except he brought the patrol clock for the key post box at New Inlet because no surfman would meet him there. He would turn the key, kept in the key post box, in the patrol clock to show that he'd walked the beat.

Mr. Bowser and I walked north along the shore toward Oregon Inlet. The moon caught the white foam of the breakers and made them shine.

“There's not likely to be any trouble tonight,” said Mr. Bowser. “Calm seas, calm wind.”

I trotted along beside him to keep up with his long strides.

“I've walked this patrol in wind so strong I could barely keep on my feet,” said Mr. Bowser. “In fact, one night a gust swept my legs clear out from under me, and I landed on my back.”

I nodded. I was still afraid to say anything much, still waiting for a whipping or at least a good talking-to.

“All right, boy,” he said after we'd walked a while. “Directions for Restoring the Apparently Drowned. Let me hear it.”

My eyes widened. How could he know I'd memorized it? I took a deep breath and started in, “Rule One. Arouse the patient. Unless in danger of freezing, do not move the patient, but instantly expose the face to a current of fresh air, wipe dry the mouth and nostrils, rip the clothing so as to expose the chest and waist, and give two or three quick, smarting slaps on the stomach and chest with the open hand….”

“Good,” he said when I'd finished. “What about fractures? Say a sailor gets brought in and his leg is broken. What are you going to do?”

“Is the bone sticking out or not?” I asked.

Mr. Bowser raised his eyebrows like he was impressed. “Not,” he said.

“All right. Then cold compresses to keep the swelling down, and splint it with something like shingles or a board, or to the other leg if we can't find anything for a splint.”

Mr. Bowser nodded. “Very good,” he said.

He asked me more questions about hypothermia, heat exhaustion,
head injuries from being hit with floating debris, how much whiskey you give a child and how much you give an adult. Apparently, I got most of the answers right.

“Now,” Mr. Bowser said sharply, “tell me where you kept those books—in the bottom of your privy? Didn't anyone ever teach you how to take care of a book?”

My face flushed hot with shame. Of course someone had taught me. Mamma had loved books. “Mr. Bowser, I am sorely sorry about what I did,” I said in a strong voice, just like I'd practiced it in my mind a hundred times. “I—” but before I could say more, Mr. Bowser interrupted me.

“Here's what I want in payment,” he said. “When some of these wrecks come in, it's all we can do to keep up with the rescue, let alone treat all the men who are wounded and freezing and the like. You've got a good strong stomach for blood and gore, and you studied well. If I need you, I want you to help, you understand?”

“Help with … wounded sailors?” I asked, amazed.

“That's right,” he said. “
If
I need you. Otherwise, you stay out of the way. Understood?”

I squared my shoulders. “Understood,” I said. It was the proudest I'd ever felt.

Mr. Bowser lifted the spyglass to his eye and searched the horizon. So far we had sighted a schooner and two steamers. “All calm,” he said.

As we walked, Mr. Bowser told me about what it was like
to walk this patrol during the worst storms and coldest weather. “Sometimes the north wind blows so hard the sand looks like thick fog along the ground. It stings your face and eyes so bad you have to walk sideways and backward part of the time just to make it,” he said. “But the most unsettling thing isn't the bad weather. It's the time, say on the midnight-to-three-A.M. patrol, when you come upon a dead body all torn up and bloated from floating in the sea for days. It may only happen to you once, but let me tell you, you don't
ever
forget it.”

That made my stomach do a flip-flop. And I watched where I put my feet after that.

At the north end of the patrol, he motioned me to sit with him next to a pile of old salvage wood. “This is where we meet the man on patrol from Oregon Inlet,” he said. “Used to be we had a nice hut here, a halfway house, where we could get in out of the wind and rain.” He patted one of the salvage boards. “But the Life-Saving Service thought that was too soft for us surfmen and tore all the huts down.” He sniffed. “They sit in their warm offices up in Washington, D.C., and make decisions like that, you know.”

Before long, Mr. Forbes from Oregon Inlet came walking down the beach. We all said hello, and he and Mr. Bowser shared information about the patrol so far, the boats they'd sighted and that there were no problems. They exchanged their badges to show they had met.

I was cold from sitting and glad to start walking south again. The pile of salvage wood made me think to ask Mr. Bowser about the charred wood under the station. Maybe he knew the answer to the mystery.

“Mr. Bowser,” I began as he stood scanning the horizon with the spyglass.

“Damn,” he said under his breath.

I was about to apologize for distracting him when I realized it wasn't me he was cursing at.

“See that schooner?” he demanded.

“Sure,” I said. “She's so close I could about spit on her.”

“Exactly,” he said. “She's so close she's liable to hit a shoal.” The schooner's hull was a dark mass, and her sails glowed white in the moonlight.

He pulled two Coston flares out of his satchel and gave me one to hold. “If the captain doesn't see the first one, we'll light the second.”

In one quick motion, he pushed up against the bottom of the flare and it burst into a bright red flame. He held the light above his head and waved it.

“Turn offshore,” he said, as if the flare could carry his words as well. “You're too close.”

Moments later, we saw the schooner shift course and head out to sea. I let out my breath, relieved.

Mr. Bowser took the flare I'd been holding and put it back in
his satchel. “They've probably saved thousands of lives, these flares,” he said. “It surprises a lot of folks to find out they were invented by a woman.”

“A
woman
?” I asked. I
was
surprised.

“Sure enough,” he said. “Woman by the name of Mrs. Martha Coston. It was back before the war. She finished the work her husband started before he died.”

The schooner was well out to sea now, and I decided to try my question again.

“Mr. Bowser, I was digging under the station and … there's a powerful lot of charred wood under there.”

Mr. Bowser nodded. “I reckon there would be,” he said. “They couldn't use the burned pieces when they rebuilt the station, so they just let them lie.”

I frowned. “When they rebuilt the station?” I echoed.

“Right. After the fire.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Nobody told you about the big welcome the white folks gave Mr. Etheridge when he became keeper?”

I shook my head.

“Burned the station to the ground, they did,” he said, then spat onto the sand.

When he saw the scared look on my face, he added. “It was after everyone had gone home for the summer. They didn't mean to hurt anyone—just express an opinion.”