Teetoncey and Ben O'Neal (16 page)

J
ABEZ
: "That is true, Cap'n. I did myself." Jabez often took a big spit of Ashe's best plug after he said something profound and undoubtedly did this time.

F
ILENE
: "As I do recall, Reuben was not a month over thirteen when he went off to Norfolk I remember that Rachel, God rest her soul, was beside herself."

J
ABEZ
: "That she was. I don't think it happened more'n a year after John O'Neal capsized."

FILENE
: "About then. But I think John O'Neal, God rest his heroic soul, too, would have been right proud today that he had a boy who'd buried his dead an' faced the wind."

J
ABEZ
: "Right proud." And then a six-to-eight-foot spit.

In truth, I wasn't facing the wind, and the region between my chin and forehead must have looked like a wrung-out mop.

I stayed by the rail until the peak of canvas vanished behind the first sun rays and then made my way toward the bow, pausing outside the lounging and dining saloon. It was richly carpeted in red, everything clean and shining. Forward were two long tables with snowy cloths, silver-colored cream pitchers, and thin little rose vases, minus roses because it wasn't summer as yet.

Other passengers were already eating breakfast. The coffee smelled good, as did the frying pork belly. So, carrying my seabag inside, placing it down where I could watch it—Filene had warned of thieves north of Kitty Hawk—I advanced on one table and sat down at the far end, away from other diners. Looking around that saloon, I'd never seen such splendor.

In a moment, a tall, elderly waiter in a starched white SS
Neuse
jacket with brass buttons on it placed a glass of water in front of me and said pleasantly, "Mornin. We got some nice Smithfield ham today. Or some Philadelphy scrapple. Virginia trout. Grits 'n gravy."

From strain, my voice cracked when I answered. "Reckon I'll have some oatmeal, please." More and more, my vocal cords were doing that of late, the usual plague of change of life.

Almost without thinking of it, I touched my pants pocket to see if the odd change was still there; let my hand slip stealthily to my breastbone to feel the fourteen dollars, my entire fund, bound tightly and hanging on a whistle lanyard, an idea of Filene's. It was safely there.

I'd seen these steam railway ferries many times as they plied the sounds and had boarded this same vessel once, just recently, when delivering Teetoncey, the British shipwreck survivor who'd lost her parents and was headed back for London, England. But I'd never been a passenger myself and had no idea what they charged for breakfast. Oatmeal shouldn't be more than a few pennies, anywhere.

"No ham 'n eggs?" asked the waiter, tempting me.

"Just some oatmeal, please," I replied, feeling hot and stuffy.

"Shame we got no berries today," said the waiter, moving off toward the galley.

Thirty minutes later, I was down on the second deck of the
Neuse,
leaning out of an open cargo port near the stern, throwing up. There was hardly a ripple on the Albemarle Sound and I could only guess that the sour gush of porridge wasn't exactly from seasickness.

Acclaimed author Theodore Taylor was born in North Carolina and began writing at the age of thirteen, covering high school sports for a local newspaper. Before turning to writing full time, he was, among other things, a prizefighter's manager, a merchant seaman, a movie publicist, and a documentary filmmaker. The author of many books for young people, he is known for fast-paced, exciting adventure novels, including the Edgar Allan Poe award winner
The Weirdo; Air Raid—Pearl Harbor!;
and the bestseller
The Cay,
which won eight major literary awards, among them the Lewis Carroll Shelf Award. Mr. Taylor lives near the ocean in Laguna Beach, California.