The Sacred Shore (20 page)
At the storm's height, an earsplitting crack shuddered through the vessel. The sound seemed too loud to be a mere fracturing of wood; it was as if the ship itself was splitting.
“All hands on deck!” Those were the first words shouted above the sea's roar since the storm had struck. Perhaps they could be heard because the shouts came from the bosun, the lieutenant, and the captain, almost within the same breath. “All hands on deck!”
The ship's mizzenmast had broken in the gale. The sailors and the officers grabbed hatchets and machetes and swords and hacked with all their strength at the ropes. Charles himself was tossed a bone-handled knife by a seaman whose face he never saw, and he too joined in the frantic effort to saw every rope that connected the mast to the ship. Thankfully, the mast did not give way all at once. It fractured a head's height above the main deck and hung there, tilted at an angle. They raced to release the ropes before the mast whirled overboard in the wind, taking with it whatever was still attached.
Charles could not say why he had remained on deck. Without conscious thought, he had grasped at the railings as the wind tore at him with such force it had literally ripped away his coat, leaving him in shirt sleeves and drenched. Twice he had been saved from being washed overboard by the line about his middle. His flesh was burned raw and aching from the salty spray and from the rope's hold, yet still he did not go below. Every wave that rose before the ship seemed directed straight at him. Somehow he felt he had to stand and face whatever fate was sending his way.
The mast cracked further, and the men redoubled their efforts. A single remaining line would be enough to turn the mast into an anchor, tilting the boat to leeward until the roiling sea washed in and sunk them. A third crack, a fourth, and Charles released his death's grip of the rail to use both hands for sawing frantically at the next line. Men shouted and cursed and chopped with all the energy they had left. The mast gave a final ripping sound and careened overboard. Ropes flew like hemp snakes, lashing out as they followed the mast into the depths of the sea.
The men stood, chests heaving as they watched the last of the ropes disappear. As though finally convinced the ship would not give in to its fury, the wind shrieked a further delirious note and began to die. Charles could scarcely believe it was happening, and yet with each swooping rise upon the next wave, less wind lashed at them. The sea remained demented, but in the space of a quarter hour the wind eased to such a point that the captain sent sailors aloft to stretch out more sail. This meant they could steer around the worst of the seas. The trio of storm anchors were hauled up, some crew were directed to work the pumps, and the ship began to make way just as the first ray of sun lanced through the clouds.
Charles was mesmerized by the sight. Out of the terrifying darkness and desolation, a pillar of hope seemed to pierce into his very being. Though the storm continued to roll and shake the ship, though the sea remained blanketed in froth, still there was this sign that it would be over soon. He felt a powerful connection to that ray of sun, felt it with such intensity that he craned against the rail and searched the storm-flecked horizon, seeking the source.
“Give God the glory, sir!” The captain walked the tossing deck as easily as he would a village street. “We have survived another one, and you have shown yourself a good hand in a bad time!”
“It was nothing,” Charles muttered, wishing the captain would go away and leave him to search for the message he feared would be lost to him.
“Quite the contrary!” Now that the storm was passing, the captain was full of cheer. “Rare is it that a landsman can act properly when the sea beasts roar.” The captain nodded his approval. “It is a pleasure to sail with you, m'lord.”
“Thank you,” Charles murmured, but not merely to the captain. No. There before him, dancing about on waves still rising as high as their remaining two masts, he saw the answer. The message was clear. There would be more storms in his life, more times when human power and earthly possessions were stripped away. The challenge was not how to avoid them, for they would come. Oh yes. They would come. The question was, how would he use them? What would he learn? When the fury passed and he was in control once more, what lesson would he take from the encounter?
Charles turned from the rail, satisfied that for once in his life he had managed to ask himself the right question. He did not fully know the answer yet, but for the moment, the asking was enough.
Nicole handed the little girl, still weak and whimpering with passing fear, up to Guy. Then she climbed the ladder herself and stepped into a world transformed. The air and the sea and the ship itself seemed to shine. The light was impossibly bright, the sea and sky so beautiful it brought tears to her eyes. She staggered to the rail and took great draughts of the sweet air. The storm was passed, the world was sane once more. And she was alive. It was the sweetest breath she had ever drawn. She was alive.
And yet, and yet. As she opened her eyes, she found herself still hearing an echoing refrain. But the call to prayer was no longer shouted. It was whispered as soft as a distant gull's cry, almost lost upon the gentle wind.
Yes, she still wished she could pray. Thanksgiving welled up within her. But another part of her mind wanted to push it all aside, push the desire to pray down deep with the fear that was now passing. She had survived, and now she was free to go on with her life.
Her
life.
Even so, the whispered refrain called to her, and the empty feeling at the center of her being softly vibrated to the voice that only her heart could hear. Even so.
Nicole walked over the cobblestones from the market back to the mission. A restless wind tossed her hair, and though she was still weary and bruised from the storm and the passage, she felt her heart responding with gusts as impatient as the wind. But to what, to whom? She no longer knew where this journey was taking her. To Acadia, yes, but what about this inner journey?
Nine days after the storm had blown itself to sun-tossed shreds, the ship had limped into Boston Harbor. The captain had informed them of the unplanned halt, to no one's surprise. A shattered stump had been all that remained of the mizzenmast, and four men were required to work the pumps every watch to keep the ship from foundering. The vessel's home port was as good a place as any to lay over for supplies and repairs. Besides which, the crew had been desperate to see their loved ones again.
The captain explained the layover this way: “My lady is not mortally wounded. But she is ailing and needs laying to and refitting.”
Guy had listened to the wealthy Englishman's translation, then said in speech slow enough for Charles to understand, “Please tell the captain we are ever in his debt for saving us.”
“It was my duty, sir, nothing more,” was the message Captain Dillon had sent in return. He had halted further thanks by telling the travelers, “There is a seaman's mission run by the local pastorate. You'll find lodging there. And I'll pass word along the quayside that you're honorable folk seeking passage north.”
Nicole had found herself studying the wealthy Englishman, the titled gentleman whose name she did not know other than “Lord Charles.” He looked as tired and battered as all the others, yet there was something new in his gaze. Nicole had listened as much to the man's voice as she had to the discussion, and wondered if it was the life-threatening experience itself that had marked him so. In the end she decided not, as the man did not seem afraid so much as uncertain. It was a sentiment and a confusion she could well understand. As they had broken away from the discussion, Nicole found herself asking, “What will you do, m'sieur?”
He had examined her with a frankness that matched her own. “I have holdings, a new land grant, in the eastern portion of this colony. I am considering a trip out to inspect them.”
She had nodded, feeling the eyes of the others watching. “Your haste to arrive in Halifax has lessened?” she asked, lowering her voice.
His gaze had remained on her face, and he gave a brief smile. “To be perfectly honest, mademoiselle, I am no longer certain of what I seek.”
“I understand,” she had murmured. “All too well.”
Nicole turned into the side alley that brought her to the mission entrance. She almost collided with an elderly man, the one person she had come to know by name. “Oh, your pardon, Monsieur Collins.”
“What a lovely way to brighten up a morning,” he exclaimed, doffing his black hat with the sharp corners and the hard round crown. “You are well this glorious day, I trust?”
The Reverend Collins served as both an overseer of the mission and a teacher at the seminary. It was in fact the seminary and the attached church that financed the waterfront mission. Many of the quayside inns were also bawdy houses, and all served strong drink. Many years back the seminary had seen a need for housing visiting seamen and families in an atmosphere of wholesome Christian principles and offering the Samaritan's hospitality. Those who were able to pay did so. All others were housed and fed for two weeks during the summer traveling season. In the winter those who wished to stay and work were made welcome. All this Nicole had learned from Reverend Collins, the only member of the seminary faculty who spoke French. He did so with a mishmash of accents, for the man had lived in Normandy as a child, back before relations between the French and English had become strained, and then served as a missionary in the province of Quebec. As professor of New Testament, he spoke German as well, and read Greek and Latin and a little Hebrew. Over his years of ministry he had added to this a smattering of several American Indian tongues. Nicole had observed how others within the seminary community, both students and faculty alike, treated the professor with deference and warmth. Yet he held no airs whatsoever, as though his knowledge and his intelligence were of little importance.
What mattered most to Nicole was the light in his eyes, a gentle flame that seemed to reach below what she was able to see herself and soothe the torment that had remained long after the outer storm had passed. Nicole hesitated, then replied, “I am rested, thank you.”
“Ah, well, that is good, is it not? We all must find a safe harbor, a place to recover from life's tempests.” He displayed an untidy gray beard, one long enough to tickle the upper buttons of his black coat. He seemed as unaware of his appearance as he was of his talents. “And how are the rest of your family?”
“The young one rested better last night, and the children are eating well.”
“Yes, I have noticed how the two boys seem to be losing their pallor.” He smiled as two students passed them, both doffing hats and bowing low to their instructor. “Such a pity that you had to endure that frightful storm.”
“It was most wretched, m'sieur.” Nicole found it surprising, both that he was willing to stand and speak with her as though she mattered, and that she wished to remain as well. “Have you ever been to sea yourself?”
“Not since my youth, and only then with great trepidation. I even made the trek from Quebec overland, and that was back when there was not even a trail to follow.” He chuckled and patted the broadcloth covering his ample belly. “I fear my constitution does not agree with the sea. I have been known to grow queasy just standing on the dock and watching the waves roll in.”
Nicole tried to return his smile but was unable to keep her mouth from trembling. Pastor Collins must have noticed instantly, because his face creased with deep concern and he said, “My dear! Have I distressed you in some way?”
“No, no, nothing like that.” But his concern made it even harder for her to maintain control. Nicole tried to laugh, but the sound was made false by the catch in her throat. “I am tired, nothing more.”
“Of course you are. Here, let me take your basket.” Ignoring her protests, he plucked the basket with its parcels from her hands. “It is so difficult to be the strength upon which others seek to draw, is it not?”