Storm Warriors

It's things we ran away from that got us here, and now there's no place farther out to run except the wide, rolling Atlantic Ocean.

December 27, 1895

Dripping. That's what got my attention first. Cold water dripping right on my face while I was trying to sleep, two nights after Christmas and just four days after Grandpa and I had climbed up on the roof and done what we'd thought was a good patching job. Dripping, and the wind whistling through the cabin like it was a harmonica, then the sound of Daddy crashing in through the door, and the smell of burning fish oil as he lit the lamp and stood over me in its yellow glow.

“Get dressed, Nathan,” he said. “A schooner's run aground.”

Beside me in bed, Grandpa grunted, rolled over, and pulled the blankets off me.

“I guess that means he's not coming,” I said, sitting up.

“Let the old man sleep,” Daddy said.

I was already dressed. The storm had chilled the cabin too much for me to get undressed the evening before. I pulled on the heavy slicker and rain hat Mr. Etheridge had given me when the surfmen got new ones in the autumn. I was surprised when we stepped outside to find the rain easing up and stars peeking out between the clouds.

Daddy suggested the privy. No sense pissing in the bushes when a gust of wind could blow the wrong way and make a mess of things. I ran ahead of Daddy, and the wet sand about froze my bare feet.

“They'll need help with the beach cart,” I called over my shoulder.

Daddy's voice was swallowed in the wind, but he probably said that he'd catch up.

In the dark up ahead, I could see the Coston flare, the signal from the Pea Island surfmen to the stranded ship that help was on its way. Offshore, to the north, was the faint glow of a lantern—from the troubled ship, no doubt.

The men from the Pea Island station—all seven of them— were already pulling the beach cart toward the wreck. Its wooden wheels creaked as it rolled through the deep sand, and its contents—the Lyle gun, the faking box filled with rope, the shovels, pickax, sand anchor, and breeches buoy—all jostled and rattled in the big open wagon. I grabbed hold of a haul rope and added my muscles to theirs.

“Will you look at what the cat dragged in,” said Mr. Bowser between panting breaths. Benjamin Bowser was the number-one surfman—first in rank after Mr. Etheridge, the keeper. He was tall and lanky, with hollowed-out cheeks and a bushy black mustache.

I grinned at Mr. Bowser. “Can I light the fuse for the Lyle gun?” I asked, knowing no one would let me.

“You hush and just pull,” said Mr. Meekins sharply. Theodore Meekins was the widest of the crew, with hands like baseball mitts and serious, dark eyes. My face went hot when he reprimanded me. He was right. With a crew of men, and maybe even the cap-tain's wife and children clinging to the grounded ship, I had no business jabbering like a fool. I tipped my head down and pulled with all my strength. Daddy joined us on the other side of the cart.

Over our heads, the clouds parted and stars glittered. To our right, the ocean thundered, inky black except for the white strips of the breakers and a dancing streak of light where the moon caught the waves. The stiff west wind whistled in my ears and turned my cheeks and hands icy cold.

When we reached the wreck, I could see the outline of a three-masted schooner. She was maybe two hundred yards from shore, lying on her side with her sails torn away. She tossed with each wave as if she was trying to free herself from the shoal but couldn't. On her slanting deck, I counted seven dark forms—the stranded sailors waiting for our help.

“Halt,” Keeper Etheridge commanded. Then, in a loud, firm voice, “Action!”

The Pea Island crew moved like well-trained soldiers, and Daddy and I stood out of their way. Stanley Wise, William Irving, and Lewis Wescott grabbed the shovels and pick and began to dig a hole to bury the sand anchor. George Midgett and L. W. Tillett unloaded the faking box, pulled the shot line out of it, and wet a bight of the line in the ocean. Theodore Meekins unloaded the tall wooden crotch. It would be set up between the sand anchor and the wreck to hold the ropes above the surf. Richard Etheridge and Benjamin Bowser unloaded the Lyle gun, set it to aim at the ship, and got the flare ready to light the fuse on the gun.

The Lyle gun was ready to fire a weight and shot line over the wreck so the sailors could haul in the hawser line and fasten it to a mast. Then the breeches buoy—a pair of cutoff canvas breeches attached to a doughnut-shaped buoy—would be hauled out to the ship with a whip line and pulley, and one by one the sailors would be brought ashore, sitting in the breeches with the buoy holding them safely above the pounding sea.

Right when I expected to hear Richard Etheridge call “Ready” so we could hold our ears against the blast of the Lyle gun, instead I heard “Stop.” We all stood still and looked out toward the wreck. The lantern was flashing—the long and short flashes of Morse code. I knew the code's letters, so I watched and
read, “… i – t – e – w – a – i – t – u – n – t – i – l – d – a – y – l – i – t – e – w – a – i – t …” Wait. Wait until daylight.

I gazed out at the wounded ship. Mr. Meekins had told me that not one in a hundred sailors knows how to swim. They must be terrified, I thought, of the black, boiling sea at night.

Mr. Bowser let out a grunt of disapproval. “That schooner starts breaking up, they won't be hollering ‘wait’ anymore,” he said.

Mr. Etheridge crossed his arms over his chest and frowned. The waves, taller than a man, rumbled in one at a time, each a powerful battering ram against the ship's hull. It was up to Mr. Etheridge to decide what was best to do. He stroked his white beard with work-worn fingers and squinted out at the ship. Finally, he sighed. “Get the surfboat,” he ordered. “If the surf dies down, we'll use it instead of the breeches buoy.”

Half the crew stayed with Keeper Etheridge to keep a watch on the ship, and Daddy and I followed the other three crew members back toward the station. As we walked, we heard shouts behind us. The seven crewmen from the Oregon Inlet station trotted to catch up.

“What did you do, lie abed for another two hours before you decided to come help?” Mr. Bowser chided.

“Your Pea Island crew has got to learn how to use the telephone right,” said one of the Oregon Inlet crewmen. “I heard you wake up three other stations before you finally sounded our ring. We're
two
short and
one
long….”

I wasn't sure which one of the Oregon Inlet crewmen was speaking. I'd only met them once before—their station was about five miles up the beach, and they were all white men and hard to tell apart in the dark. Just to make things more confusing, they had most of the same names as the Pea Island crew: Wescott and Midgett—they even had substitutes by the name of Meekins and Tillett, and their keeper was another Mr. Etheridge. Grandpa says they have the same surnames because back before the war the granddaddies and great-granddaddies of the Oregon Inlet crew used to
own
the granddaddies and great-granddaddies of the Pea Island crew, and they shared their family names with their slaves.

We got to the station, and two men pulled open the huge double doors so we could guide the surfboat, on its wheels, down the ramp to the beach. It was like a large rowboat, big enough for the whole crew of seven to row it and fit three or four sailors in to carry them back to shore. Mr. Meekins came out from the stables with one of the government team—the one who wasn't lame. Once she was hitched to the surfboat, we all took hold of the drag ropes and pulled like mules ourselves. Even with all those men, one mule, and one strong, but skinny, twelve-year-old boy pulling on the drag ropes, it still felt like we were trying to lug an entire steamer through a sea of molasses. By the time we rejoined the rest of the crew, sweat ran down my back and arms. My heart was pounding hard, too. Soon the rescue would begin.

The wind had shifted from west to northwest. The threemasted
schooner looked like a cow struggling to birth a calf, lying on her side, rocking in the surf.

“She breaking up yet?” asked Mr. Bowser.

The sky had brightened, and I noticed a soft pink glow on the horizon. Daylight. Wait until daylight.

Richard Etheridge shouted, “Unload!” The Pea Island crew went into action with the surfboat, each man with his own job, unhitching the mule, pushing the surfboat to the edge of the sea, casting off the side lashings, taking off the wheels, lowering the boat onto the sand.

Within seconds, amid shouting of the commands “Take life preservers!” “Take oars!” and
“Go!”
the men had run the boat out into the breakers and jumped in. I held my breath as a huge wave crashed over the bow.

“Give way together!” Keeper Etheridge called. The oars moved in unison. Mr. Etheridge gripped the long steering oar. The surfboat faced the breakers head on and sliced through them. It moved swiftly over each towering wave toward the dark silhouette of the schooner.

The Oregon Inlet crew waited with Daddy and me. We watched as the surfboat reached the wreck.

In the eddy of calmer water on the lee side of the schooner, the surfmen were able to pull up close. A ladder had already been lowered, and the first of the sailors climbed down and reached out to be helped into the boat.

The sky turned light blue, and the pink glow spread until a speck of sun peeked up.