Dangerous Dreams: A Novel (46 page)

They had slipped away from Roanoke Island at deep dusk, in a gentle rain, and with only enough light to find their way across the large estuary to the north and into the five-mile-wide sound that led north-northwest toward Chesapeake. Once into the northerly sound, the smaller shallops had hung lanterns on their sterns for the pinnace to follow; and in spite of the steady rain, the pinnace crew had kept them in sight. The two shallops sailed in a spread formation about two hundred yards apart, using sounding ropes with ten-pound weights attached to the end and knots tied every foot, to measure the water’s depth and ensure that the deeper-drafted pinnace, which steered between the two shallop lights, would always have the deepest possible channel.

After an hour and a half, the rain stopped, the temperature warmed, and the wind subsided to a gentle breeze; the brilliant moon then reappeared, spread its beams over the calm water before them, illuminating the mainland on their left and the outer banks on their right. In spite of the rain, the entire company had remained above deck, the hold having been configured for cargo and not a comfortable place for passengers. On deck they either sat on newly constructed plank seats or stood at mid-deck to avoid being thrown over the low side railings by a sudden heave of the ship. All were wet and chilly from the cool rain and the evaporative effects of the breeze; but when the rain stopped, their subdued spirits rose like hot smoke; and they began to celebrate their escape from Roanoke Island, voice their emerging optimism for the times ahead.

After three hours, most on the pinnace sat silently on their seats, wrapped in thin blankets, leaning against one another, trying to sleep while the newly trained crew made subtle adjustments to the sail configurations and watched the moonlit water slide by with a smooth, steady whoosh. Two men at the prow had the job of keeping sight of the two shallop lanterns in case John Hemmington, who manned the tiller, lost sight of them. There
had been several anxious moments during the rain when one or both lights had been extinguished by the wind before being quickly relit. Hemmington estimated another two hours to the north end of the sound, and it couldn’t pass too quickly to please him. He was a part-time, small-boat, coastal sailor; and the fifty-foot pinnace was a new experience for him, one he found disconcerting with so many people depending on him and mistakenly thinking he was competent. He thanked God the rain had stopped and the moon would be with them for the remainder of the voyage. Encouraged, he acknowledged to himself that he
was
beginning to get the feel of the ship though her lighter-than-normal weight gave her a reduced draft and a correspondingly higher ride on the water, which, when combined with her relatively flat bottom and shallow keel, gave her a nimble but sensitive, almost-tippy feel. “Stay with me, Lord,” he said as he glanced at the stars overhead. As he looked back to the front to reacquire the shallop lights, one of the crew at mid-deck on the left side shouted, “By Jesus Himself! Look at that lightning! Ho . . . ly Lord!”

Hemmington and others who had heard the man looked toward the western horizon, saw nearly continuous lightning the entire length of a north-south line that stretched as far as they could see in either direction. He shook his head, shuddered. Nothing so frightful and monstrous in England. He felt the sudden chill of a rising southwest wind graze his left cheek, smelled fresh moisture in the air. He looked at the sky, judged from the speed of the thin clouds drifting past the moon that the line of thunderstorms would hit them in about thirty minutes and, judging from the expanse and severity of the lightning, would likely pummel them with heavy rain, hail, and wind that would roil the serene, shallow sound into a churning cauldron of vicious, choppy waves higher than the freeboards of their boats. He took a deep breath, then another, looked at the moon, tried to slow his racing heart, calm his impulse to panic.

Suddenly, the right shallop light disappeared, and a moment later, the left. Probably the last we’ll see of them before morning, he thought . . . if we
see
morning. Damn! Worst possible timing: approaching the narrows, two-and-a-half-miles wide for five miles. He checked his compass: three-five-five. Maintain this course, and you’ll be alright, John . . . but don’t
forget, wind will push us toward the outer banks . . . got to compensate . . . hold three-
four
-five when the wind rises . . . but compasses don’t work well in lightning storms. Damn, Damn, Damn . . . maybe we should anchor here, ride it out . . . no . . . anchor will drag or rope will break . . . keep going . . . fast . . . get through the narrows before it hits. Got to be close. Lord Jesus, I don’t want to be here . . . keep moving . . . wind from the southwest . . . keep the tiller and sail angles constant to maintain course when the compass quits . . . but wind will shift in the storm . . . but perhaps lightning will illuminate the shorelines enough to see them . . . but what about depth . . . could run aground. Damn it! Got to pass through the narrows before it hits . . . already at top speed. Christ Jesus. Help us.

Thirty-five minutes later, Hemmington’s compass was a useless trinket, its pointer flicking randomly in aimless directions; but as he had hoped, bright lightning flashes told him they were now in the narrows, but too close to the outer banks. Dangerous, he thought as a needling, wicked chill raced down his back. He estimated the wind at more than thirty-five knots and rising, still from the southwest; he increased his tiller angle to steer back to the center of the channel. Rumbling, shrieking black clouds suddenly enveloped the ship, pelted her first with huge, heavy raindrops then with hail the size of radishes. A churning cauldron of malicious waves and towering swells tossed and battered the ship, crashed onto the deck; tumbled screaming people who hadn’t tied themselves to something, like pebbles tossed onto a cobblestone street; flung those who
had
, to the ends of their tethers, where the violently pitching deck pounded them like a man being drug on the ground by a runaway horse.

Hemmington leaned into the tiller with the full force of his body but couldn’t hold it, called one of the crew to help; heard people screaming, crying, praying. As the howling, shrieking wind pounded his ears, he yelled at the two lantern watchers to look outboard for the shorelines when lightning flashed, realized they couldn’t hear him. He’d never had the bad judgment to remain at sea in a storm like this, knew he was beyond his capabilities. He shuddered as a deep, burning fear gripped his insides, planted the gnawing realization that they would not survive the night.

Suddenly, the aft mast snapped like a twig, fell partially overboard, trapping those beneath it in rigging, like flies in a spider web. It entangled Hemmington and his helper, pulled several screaming people into the water. The top of the mast and its sprit sail sank, flowed with the current; acted like a sea anchor, tried to drag the stern to the right and the prow farther into the wind. Hemmington’s helper lay on the deck, tried to climb to his feet. Hemmington wrapped both arms around the tiller, leaned his chest into its left side; but even with the submerged aft sail trying to drag the stern to the right, the force on the main mast, with its large spritsail and smaller, square topsail, was too great for him to maintain course, and the prow turned relentlessly downwind toward the outer banks. Hemmington’s mind tumbled in chaos: if we strike the mainsail we’ll drift backward, run aground; anchor won’t hold, no choice but to hold fast and pray; but we’re listing too far over, may capsize, or the main mast may break. “Damn it to hell, what should I do?”

One of the crew crawled over to Hemmington, screamed, “John, I think I saw one of the shallops off the port side . . . belly up, adrift, no people in sight.”

Hemmington’s heart pounded; he stared at the man, his mind and lips frozen in a rigid stupor.

Emily—drenched, disheveled, exhausted, gasping for breath—knelt and clutched the plank bench she was bound to on the left side of the ship; her father and George knelt beside her. A wall of water crashed over the side, bludgeoned the three to the deck, swept them to the ends of their rope tethers.

“Father! My arm.”

“Hold on, Em!”

George grabbed her waist with one arm, wrapped his other around the bench.

Roger Baylye yelled at Hemmington, “John, strike the damn sail before we capsize. Let her drift to ground, take our chances.” The whining roar of the wind swallowed his words.

Another deluge crashed over the side, again pounded Emily to the deck and the end of her tether. She coughed up a mouthful of seawater, rolled over, grabbed George’s leg. “George, hold me.”

George and her father pulled her back to the plank.

“Hellllp!” Elizabeth Viccars and her young son washed over the right side.

“Elizabeth!” Ambrose Viccars yelled as he leaped after them.

“Father, did you . . .”

“What?”

Emily again wrapped her arms around the plank, grasped her weak left arm with her right hand. George and her father each held a handful of her shirt in their free hand.

Another wave pounded over the left side. Emily saw Robert Ellis struggling to hold on to the seat in front of her. “Father!” Another wave. “Help Robert!” She looked back toward Ellis; he was gone. “God help us!”

Suddenly, the ship gave a mighty moan, abruptly stopped as the right front rammed into a sandbar like a careening carriage hitting a stone wall, sent untethered people flying across the deck, knocking several unconscious. A huge swell lifted her stern to the right, threw people against the right side, or to the ends of their tethers, or overboard. A loud cracking sound like a cannon shot, pierced the shrieking wind; the main mast snapped in two, fell across the deck, its top hanging over the right side. The rudder slammed hard right, smashed the tiller into Hemmington, throwing him against the left stern railing then overboard.

The mast thrashed around the deck; splintered a man’s leg, crushed Dyonis Harvie’s head like a melon hit by a boulder; spread its rigging over the screaming passengers, bound them to the deck like a cargo net. A moment later, a large swell lifted the ship off the sandbar, slid her into a deep hole; she rolled onto her right side where she groaned, creaked, began to drift downwind and sink. The screaming, terrorized people on the high, left side hung from their tethers or fell into the water, while those tethered on the right were thrust underwater to drown.

Hanging from her tether, Emily struggled to untie the wet knot that bound her to her plank and the sinking ship. “George! Father!” Thomas Colman hung unconscious beside her.

George grabbed Emily’s rope with his left hand, pulled out his knife with his right, cut into his own rope. “Emily! Hold my waist!”

The ship moaned and warped; the plank seat broke in half, tore loose from the deck, which freed Emily’s rope but sent George and Emily tumbling into the convulsing nightmare below. Colman’s section of plank remained attached to the ship, suspending him from his snagged tether ten feet above the rising waves. In the water, George grabbed the plank; reached for Emily with his other hand, missed, saw her disappear below the surface; grabbed her rope as it snaked after her, pulled, kicked, drug her to the surface. “Emily!” He lifted her onto the board.

“Aaaarghhh!” She gagged, vomited a stomachful of water.

George twisted and kicked the plank through tangles of rigging until they were free of the wreck. He seized a piece of rigging secured to the ship. “Here! Hold this. I’m going for your father. If she goes down before I return, let go and kick away as fast as you can.”

“No, George! I won’t leave you!” Dizzy, hold fast, Em.

A few moments later, George returned with a groggy Thomas Colman, pushed and shoved him onto the plank beside Emily, then looked back at the drowning ship where tangled people screamed, pleaded for help. A huge swell suddenly rolled the ship onto her topside; the stern dipped beneath the surface; the prow began to rise.

George looked into Emily’s eyes, thought how blue they looked even in the dead of this dark, evil night. “Emily, I love you! Remember me! Now let go and kick. Go! Now! Hold on to your father. Kick! Kick! Go!”

“No, George! No! I love you! Please don’t go back!” She reached out to restrain him. “No! No!”

He yanked the rope from her hand, kicked and shoved her plank away, then swam back toward the ship.

“George! Come back! No, George. No!” Emily kicked her plank a short distance, looked back for George, realized there were no more screams. A flash of lightning illuminated the small part of the prow still above water. “My God. George, please come back!” she screamed, stared in dazed horror as the next flash revealed only black, angry water where the prow had been a moment before.

Chapter 11