Heart Of The Storm

“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 are gone, Ben. The sailors have all abandoned ship. Give up the search.”

“I’ll make a quick check belowdecks before I write this ship off.” His tenacity served him well. It had also led to his court-martial. What made you great was your undoing, the admiral had said to him. “Remember, if I’m not back in ten, leave.”

Timothy wiped water from his face. “I won’t leave without you.”

“You just celebrated your twentieth birthday and you and Callie are to wed in less than a week. Ten minutes, Tim, and I expect you to start rowing.”

Just then the freighter shifted, pitching Ben forward. He nearly dropped the lantern. Wood splintered and cracked somewhere on the vessel. He gripped the railing, his muscles bunching under his thick cable-knit sweater and dark jacket. His iron grip kept him from falling headfirst into the ocean. The lantern light nearly went out.

Timothy’s face was pale and panicked in the lantern light. “Please, sir, give it up. The ship is going to break up.”

Water dripped from his nose as Ben glared down at his assistant. “Ten minutes.”

Without another word, he strode across the badly sloping deck. By the time he reached the hatchway that led below, rainwater had drenched his black pea coat. Turning the knob, he shoved open the hatch.

He held up the light. Three feet of black ocean water lapped against the third rung of the ladder. Outside the wind howled.

“Hello down there!” he called. Silence.

Debris floated past three doorways that fed into the hallway. Two on the left and one on the right.

Seconds passed as he strained to hear. “Hello!” he shouted again. Nothing.

Perhaps Timothy was right.

Everyone was gone or dead.

Ben turned on the ladder ready to climb above deck when he heard the muffled scream. At first he thought it was a trick of the wind.

But he stopped and listened. The wail returned, sounding more human—and more feminine—than before. But a woman aboard a freighter didn’t make sense.

“Hello down there,” he shouted.

The screaming stopped and for a moment there was only silence. Then he heard, “Is someone out there?”