Storm Warriors (8 page)

I was only a little relieved. “Do they know who did it?” I asked.

“It was never investigated, and nobody was ever charged with the crime. You know how it is when a white man wrongs a black man—the authorities just look the other way like it didn't happen.” He scuffed the sand with his heels as we walked along. “We've got a pretty good idea who it was, though. Three surfmen from another station who thought one of them should have been made keeper instead of Mr. Etheridge. But that was a good fifteen or sixteen years ago, and all three have been civil since then, so I won't name names and go digging up old hurts.”

I nodded. I'd rather not know anyway.

We walked in silence for a while. The moon had risen high, and it glittered on the waves. I was getting sleepy.

It was nearly midnight when we traipsed up the ramp into the station. Mr. Bowser handed over the Coston flare and spyglass to Mr. Irving, who would walk the midnight-to-three-A.M. patrol.

They asked me if I could find my way home in the dark, and I told them I could. I stumbled, yawning, through the brush to our cabin and collapsed in bed next to Grandpa.

Grandpa and Daddy were both sound asleep, their breathing deep and rhythmic. I wanted to tell them about the patrol, but I didn't dare wake either of them. Still, I felt like I'd burst if I didn't tell someone. So I decided to tell Mamma. That's the way I fell asleep—talking to Mamma in the dark, telling her
how even if I couldn't become a surfman, I already knew more than any of the boys on Roanoke Island about walking patrols, pulling the surfboat and beach cart to rescues, and taking care of wounded sailors.

If my wanting to become a surfman was like a fire I'd managed to mostly put out, then walking the patrol with Mr. Bowser was like a flame that lit it all up again. After that night I couldn't hardly stop myself from thinking about it. And my mind started working to make it seem possible, too. What if William and Floyd and all the other colored boys on Roanoke Island decided that what they really wanted was jobs at the fish market in Wanchese so they could live with their families instead of out on Pea Island away from everything? What if Mr. Etheridge retired—his hair and beard were already white—and Mr. Bowser became keeper and needed me to be his right-hand man in doctoring the wounded sailors? I knew it was crazy, but I couldn't help thinking that way. I guess there are times when the whole world tells you that you have to be one way, and you go on ahead and be how you want to be, anyway.

I was still fishing with Daddy every day. One morning after a heavy rain, Daddy and I were bailing out our skiff when we spotted the government sloop
Alert
just north of us on the sound. The
Alert,
with Lieutenant Cantwell and Superintendent Morgan aboard, was a regular sight at Pea Island. They came about once a month to bring the men's pay, deliver equipment like paint and stove brushes, and inspect all the stations along the Outer Banks. But today, as I watched, I saw that the
Alert
was not sailing smoothly. She was struggling to keep on an even tack.

“Something's wrong,” I said to Daddy.

He put down his bailing pail and stood up to look. The
Alert
's sails luffed and snapped in the wind, but she didn't come about. Suddenly we saw the red burst of a Coston flare.

Before Daddy had finished saying, “Go get the surfmen,” I was running through the marsh toward the station.

The crew was in the middle of practicing with the signal flags. I called out, “The
Alert
is in distress! She's just sent up a flare.”

Mr. Etheridge said not to bother with the surfboat, that the fishing skiffs they had moored sound side would be enough. I ran ahead, hoping that our fishing skiff could be one of the rescue boats, especially since it was the only boat already bailed out.

By the time I reached the sound, Daddy already had the sails rigged.

“George, can you take me out there to see what the trouble is?” Mr. Etheridge asked Daddy.

“Exactly what I had in mind,” said Daddy.

I was so excited I almost tripped over the mooring ropes. I helped Daddy push the boat off, then jumped in and took my place at the rudder. Daddy sheeted in the sails and we were on our way—me, Daddy, and Keeper Etheridge heading out to rescue the officials from Washington, D.C. If William or Floyd found out I was getting to do such a thing, I'd be in for another shiner for sure.

We sailed up alongside the
Alert
and luffed our sails.

“Lieutenant Cantwell, sir,” Mr. Etheridge greeted a tall white man in uniform with a blond mustache and a grumpy look on his face.

“The damned rudder's become unshipped,” said Mr. Cantwell. “She's gone out of control, and I've had to drop anchor.”

Another, shorter white man, also in uniform, appeared along with several young men—members of the crew.

“Superintendent Morgan, sir,” Mr. Etheridge addressed the shorter man. “I'm sorry to hear of the trouble.”

Superintendent Morgan nodded. “We'll need nails and iron bolts to repair the rudder,” he said. “And a place to stay until we can sail again.”

Mr. Etheridge looked toward shore, where the crew was just starting out in a couple of fishing skiffs. “We'll have you and your crew back to the station in no time,” he said.

The ship's crew lowered a ladder, and the two officers
climbed down and stepped carefully into our skiff. They took their seats, their backs ramrod straight as they sat on the rough wooden boards. I admired their uniforms: the deep blue of their coats, the gold glint of the buttons.

“Nathan.” Daddy had to nudge me out of staring. “I still need you to man the rudder.”

I blinked. I moved to the back of the skiff and closed my hand around the smooth handle of the rudder. As Daddy sheeted in the sails, we began to move easily over the water. Could this be real? Was I actually sailing Lieutenant Cantwell, Superintendent Morgan, and Keeper Etheridge back to shore in our boat? I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning and laughing out loud. And everyone had been telling me not to hope for things that seemed impossible!

We moved swiftly, the skiff slapping over the water, the wind in my face, and the morning sun lighting up the marsh grasses onshore. I decided then and there that I would never call anything impossible again.

The knocking at our door was loud and insistent, and it woke me from a deep sleep. Daddy roused himself to answer it. I listened to the news: there was a wreck, a three-masted schooner. One of the surfmen, George Midgett, was ill, and the Oregon Inlet crew had not yet arrived. The schooner had already begun to break up. They must launch the surfboat, but quickly. They needed our help—
now
.

I was out of bed by the time Daddy turned from the door. We threw on our clothes and ran through the brush to the station. A howling northwest wind blew sand in our faces. Bright stars twinkled in the black sky.

The surfboat had just been rolled down the ramp. Daddy and I immediately snatched up drag ropes to pull. The sand gave way under my feet, and I heard the wheels creak as we hauled the
boat along the shore, south toward the dark hulk of the stranded schooner. The surf pounded, loud and jumbled.

When we reached the wreck, Mr. Etheridge shouted, “Unload!” Instead of standing out of the way with Daddy, I took what I figured to be Mr. Midgett's job of helping to lower the boat into the shore break. Then, with the shouting of “Take oars!” and “Go!,” I pushed hard, running alongside the surfboat. I helped shove the boat through the pounding breakers until a cold wave washed over my head. I gulped in salt water and choked. Some-one's strong hands grabbed my arms and hoisted me upward. I flopped over the side of the boat. It was now afloat and being rowed quickly out to sea.

“Damn you, Nathan!” It was Mr. Bowser's voice. But he was too busy rowing to say any more.

I choked on the water still in my lungs. A wave crashed over the side of the boat and drenched my face again. I blinked salt water away and saw an unmanned oar. I would prove I'd done the right thing. I would row as well as the other surfmen.

I set my oar to work in rhythm with the men. The boat rocked crazily, buffeted by the uneven waves. Pull … pull … I put my mind to the rowing, not the danger. Stripes of white foam glowed in the moonlight with inky black sea in between. Short bursts of my own breath sounded in my ears.

The schooner, dark and huge, loomed ahead. Excited shouting greeted us. We pulled the surfboat along her leeward side,
being careful not to collide. One of the sailors on deck held a coil of rope. When we came near, he swung his arm back and cast the rope out, but a gust of wind took the rope and flung it into the ocean. It landed just off the side of the surfboat, hardly two feet out of my reach.

Now,
I thought. Now I'll show them what I'm made of. Now I'll show them what a good surfman I'll become. I stretched my oar out into the water, caught a loop of the rope, and drew it closer. Then I leaned out and plunged my hand down. My fingers closed around the rough rope.

Someone shouted, “Nathan, no!” I felt a jolt, a moment of weightlessness as the surfboat catapulted me up. I hit the sea with a slap. Cold, dark water closed over my head.

I was still holding on to the rope. They can pull me up, I thought. Just don't let go.

I only caught a glimpse of it—large and black, tossing in the waves. It slammed into my head with blunt force. There was a flash of white-hot pain, then darkness.

Someone was rubbing my legs and feet. The pungent smell of linseed oil filled my nostrils and made my aching head hurt even worse. I tried to open my eyes but felt as if the lids were made of lead.

“He's coming to.” That was Daddy's voice.

“Get some whiskey and hot water ready,” I heard Mr. Etheridge say.

I felt the itchy wool blanket that was wrapped around me. Someone pulled it aside and began to rub my arms and hands. My muddled brain found the pattern and put the pieces together. Wrapped in a blanket. Arms and legs rubbed with linseed oil. Whiskey and hot water.

My mouth was dry and my tongue felt swollen. “Hypo …” I tried to talk, but it came out slurred. I swallowed, wet my tongue, and tried again. “Hypothermia,” I said softly.

“What?” Daddy leaned close to hear. I could feel his breath on my cheek. “Speak up, Nathan.”

“Hypothermia,” I said more clearly. “That's what you're treating me for.”

There was a moment when no one spoke, whoever was rubbing my limbs stopped rubbing, and the air in the room seemed to hold still. Then Mr. Bowser's voice shattered the silence.

“Good God, boy! Are you daft? You came near to dying on us, and your first words when you come back from death's door are straight from the medical manual?”

I still didn't open my eyes, but I heard their laughter—nervous, relieved laughter.

I'd had a firsthand demonstration of how those sailors in Massachusetts died: by being smashed in the head by floating debris. My head being so bashed up saved me from getting a whipping, but it didn't save me from being scolded, reprimanded, and reminded a
hundred times that what I had done was very stupid, put the lives of the surfmen and sailors in danger, and had better not
ever
be done again. Daddy said, “This is the craziest thing you've ever done, boy. I've got a good mind to keep you away from the rescues altogether.” Mr. Bowser said, “I told you to stay out of the way unless I needed your help. Don't you know how to stay out of the way?” And Mr. Etheridge said, “I thought you had better sense than that, Nathan. I'm disappointed in you.” I think I would have rather gotten a whipping and not had to hear about my mistake over and over again.

Mr. Etheridge decided to keep me at the station. Even I knew there wasn't much to be done about a fractured skull. All the medical manual had said was “Place the patient on his back and apply cold, wet cloths to the head.” But Mr. Etheridge wanted to keep a watch on me in case I took a turn for the worse, so I lay in bed at the station feeling miserable. My head hurt so bad I could barely move without my eyes watering. The bandage on my forehead, where the plank had hit me, had to be changed every day. I kept a cloth over my eyes because even a little sunlight sent shooting pain into my head. But the worst injury was to my spirit. I felt that just when I'd started to hope again, just when I'd begun to feel that the impossible might yet be possible, it had all come crashing in on me. Now I was so ashamed I wished I could shrivel up and disappear. I vowed that once I was well enough to return home, I would not show my face at the station ever again.

For three days I lay on my cot in the bunk room, listening to the voices of the sailors and surfmen downstairs as they played cards and told stories. I smelled the cigarette and pipe smoke as it wafted up the steps and heard the clinking of forks on plates during mealtimes. Mr. Wescott brought my meals up to me, though I didn't eat much and mostly drank water.

When the surfmen and sailors came up to the bunk room in the evenings, they asked how I was doing, and Mr. Bowser changed the bandage on my head. I answered their questions with as few words as possible, counting the minutes before they would settle in for the night. In the dark, I listened to their snoring and hoped that the next day would be the day I'd be well enough to go home and not have to face them anymore.

On the fourth day, I was surprised to hear a different voice when my breakfast was brought upstairs to me. “Sit up, Nathan. Take that rag off your face and look at me. I want to talk to you.” It was Mr. Meekins.

I did as he said, wincing, as sitting up made the blood pound in my head. I squinted my eyes almost shut against the light, but I looked at him. His face was serious and a little bit angry. His straight nose and square jaw under the polished brim of his surf-man's cap made him look very official.

“I think your pride is hurt worse than your head,” he said.

I let my breath out in a slow stream. It was a relief to have
someone name where my real pain was coming from. “Yes, sir,” I said softly.

“There's no doubt you acted like a fool the other night,” he said. “But I'm good and tired of you acting like a fool now. If there's anything to be learned from this, it's how to be a man. Accept that you made a mistake, say your apologies, decide you'll do it different next time, and stop sulking. If I see one more mopey look on your face, I'm liable to slap you upside the head—then we'll see which hurts worse, your pride or your head.”