Heart Of The Storm. Mary Burton
mingled with fear in his eyes. “You may have fooled the captain,” he snarled, “but not me.”
“I want to go on deck and speak to the captain this instant.”
Rubin blocked her exit with his large body. He smelled of sweat and fear. “You’ll stay right here. The men are busy lowering the lifeboats and they don’t need your curses.”
They were abandoning ship and leaving her behind? “I must see the captain.”
Rubin folded his arms over his chest. “You’ll get no help from him. He’s got his hands full keeping this ship afloat.”
“Move out of my way. You can’t make me stay. I paid good money.”
“Dead men can’t spend money.”
“Get out of my way!” she screamed.
Rubin shoved her into the cabin and closed her door.
In the next instant the ship pitched violently and she stumbled back. She lost her footing. She grabbed onto a chair, but the chair toppled forward under her weight. She fell hard and hit her head against the corner of a wooden crate. Pain registered for only a moment and then her world went black.
When Rachel awoke, she was aware of the howling wind outside. And the cold.
She was lying in two inches of water.
Chapter Two
Rain pelted Ben Mitchell as he rowed toward the wreck of the Anna St. Claire.
His assistant, Timothy Scott, sat in front of him in the boat. It was the boy’s first sea rescue. He was huddled under his black slicker; a stocking cap covering his red hair. Even over the wind Ben could hear the lad’s teeth chattering with fear and cold.
“The freighter is so close, I swear I could spit on her,” Timothy said.
“Aye, she’s not more than one hundred yards from the shore.”
Ben glanced over his shoulder at the schooner. The right side of her hull had sunk so low that stormy waves washed over her bow. The ship’s masts were broken and her torn white sails flapped in the wind like eerie specters.
Timothy gripped the side of the dory. “Are the wrecks always so close?”
Ben dug the oars into the water. “No. We’re lucky this time.”
“Luck.” The boy laughed. “Only a keeper would be talking of luck while rowing out to a wreck in this kind of weather.”
“Wait until the day you row out a half mile to a ship in weather worse than this.” This past winter had been one of the worst on the outer banks. The nor’easters had fooled many a ship’s captain. There’d been more wrecks than normal and the bodies of dozens of unnamed sailors had washed up on the beaches. He’d be glad to see spring.
The lighthouse beacon blinked steady and bright as the seas caught the dory and dragged her further out to sea. The riptide would make getting back to shore more difficult than he’d first thought. But there was no worrying about that when there will was a ship to board and search.
Ben had served as lightkeeper for six months. He’d been hired late last fall as the Winter Man, a temporary replacement to fill the shoes of the old keeper who had died suddenly. After twelve years in the Navy and an unexpected discharge, he’d come home to visit his aunt and cousin.
Ben had been at loose ends. He’d had offers from several shipping companies, but he had lost his taste for sailing the seas.
The short-term job as winter man had suited him for the time being. Two weeks ago, he’d received a letter from the Life Saving Service. The board had offered him the position full-time. He’d yet to give his answer.
The service had hired Timothy less than a month ago in the hope that the extra help would entice Ben to stay. Timothy had been raised in a family of fisherman who worked the waters off the outer banks. Though Ben thought the boy talked too much, he understood the ocean and the dangers of the Graveyard’s waters. Whether Ben stayed or left, Timothy would serve well.
“Why didn’t the ship’s captain heed the flare you fired?” Timothy asked, shouting over the wind.
“Who’s to say?” Ben dug his oars deeper into the water. He’d fired flares from his Costen gun several times when he’d first spied the ship, but the captain had not altered his course. Ego, pride or most likely the captain had already abandoned the ship. He’d find out soon enough.
The two lapsed into silence as Ben dug the boat oars into the water and drove them toward the freighter.
Within minutes the dory skimmed the side of the boat just below a burnished sign that read Anna St. Claire. “Take the oars, Timothy. Hold her steady while I go aboard to see if there’s anyone left to save.”
Relief washed over Timothy’s face as he scooted forward and took the oars. “I don’t mind coming with you, sir.”
Ben had enough trouble on his hands without the worry of a green lad traipsing about a dying vessel. “Stay put and keep the dory steady.”
Waves crashed into the side of the rowboat. Cold rain drizzled. Timothy didn’t offer an argument.
Ben wiped the rain from his face. He grabbed a rope dangling from the side of the ship. He tugged on it to make sure it was secure.
“Ben, do you really have to board her? The ship looks abandoned. It’s like the ghost tales I’ve heard the seamen tell.”
Superstition was as much a part of this region and the wind and sea, but Ben had little patience for talk of ghosts and curses. It had been his experience that trouble was caused by the living not the dead. “There’re no ghosts aboard this vessel.”
Timothy stared up at the shadowy vessel. “Yeah, but what if there are ghosts and they are watching us now? Sends a shiver down my spine.”
A slight smile tipped the edge of Ben’s mouth. “That’s the icy waters, lad, not ghosts.”
Ben gripped the rope and, using it as balance, scaled up the side of the ship. He swung his leg over the ship’s railing and landed on the deck. It listed beneath his weight.
The center mast had cracked two thirds of the way up and fallen into the ocean. The other sails were torn and flapping wildly in the storm. Wind scattered the ropes and crates over the deck.
“Can you see anything?” Timothy shouted.
The rain blew sideways, stinging Ben’s face as he started his search. “No. Not yet. Hand me up the lantern.”
Timothy moved to the edge of the dory and on wobbly legs handed the lantern up to Ben.
Ben cursed the wind that made the light flicker and spit. Protecting the flame with his body, he turned up the wick.
The lantern light cast an eerie glow on the ship. A quick survey revealed that Timothy had been right. All the lifeboats were gone. A closer inspection of the top deck confirmed there wasn’t a sign of any soul. Likely, the men had fled the vessel when the main mast had started to go.
No doubt the sailors would turn up somewhere along the outer banks, either dead or alive. The chances of finding any survivors on the Anna St. Claire looked slim.
But Ben was thorough.
He’d learned that perception and fact didn’t always agree. So he would search this vessel, and only when he’d confirmed with his own two eyes that she had been abandoned, would he leave.
He moved to the ship’s railing and called down to Timothy. “If I’m not back in ten minutes, leave.”
“Where are you going?” Timothy shouted over the wind. He huddled in the boat, his hands wrapped around his body.
“Belowdecks.”
“The lifeboats