The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury

  The Promise Keeper

  Sea Heroes of Duxbury

  by

  LISA NORATO

  Published by Lisa Norato

  Cover Design by Dar Albert

  THE PROMISE KEEPER

  Copyright © 2014 Lisa Norato

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, such as electronic, photocopy or recording, without the written permission of the author, Lisa Norato.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, incidents and dialogues are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

  All Scripture quotations within in the body of the novel are taken from the Kings James version of the Bible.

  Dedicated with love to my courageous brother, Police Captain Richard Norato, beach beauty sister-in-law, Karen, and their sweet boxer-boy, Jake.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Thank You for Reading

  The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

  John 1:5 NIV

  Prologue

  Cornwall, England, 1803

  They escaped across the damp, moist heath, Johnny and the two women he guided through the moonless night. One short, one tall. One old, one young. One fat, one slender. One plain, one a rare beauty — the most beautiful lady he’d seen on any continent. For although he was only eight years of age, he had visited many lands.

  He urged them toward the sheltering woods and a path leading to the riverbank. Captain Moon waited in a boat, ready to row them to the safety of his sleek, nimble ship. Don’t get caught, Johnny, his captain had warned. Johnny’s heart beat so loudly in his ears he was certain all of Sutherland Hall could hear it. He imagined any moment now an alarm would be raised. Lanterns would be lit and barking dogs give chase in pursuit.

  “Why ever did you insist on that scarlet cape, my lady?” whispered the older woman to the younger. Her voice trembled with fear and the threat of tears. “’Tis much too bright, surely.”

  Lady Eleanor laughed quietly, a feather-light breath of sweet gaiety that made Johnny turn. Fear gripped him so tightly he could wet himself, yet there she stood, grinning like a child off on an adventure. Her white teeth shone in the blackness, and he wanted to tell her, “Please don’t smile, my lady. Someone could see,” but he didn’t have the heart. He had never seen her smile so.

  “If I must leave with only the clothes on my back, so be it, dearest Hetty, but I shall have my cloak,” she said.

  “Turn it inside out, my lady,” he advised.

  She quickly did as he suggested then raised the hood so she was cloaked from head to foot in brown, marten fur that blended into the woodlands.

  He led them deep into the thicket and down a twisting path he’d been made to traverse again and again, until it became ingrained in his memory. For in this moonless pitch, he could not see his own hand before his face. The sound of the running river grew stronger, and he heard the older woman panting, as though she was having a difficult time keeping up, but they could not stop to rest nor slow their pace.

  Up ahead, Johnny sensed movement. His eyes widened but there was no light to aid his vision. Perhaps a swaying tree branch? Or shadows playing tricks with his sight? What shall I do? he wondered. Fall back or press onward? Hide or try to cut a path down another route?

  Somewhere in the distance came the death screech of a raptor capturing its prey. The gloom before him took shape into that of a tall, dark figure.

  Chapter 1

  Duxbury, Massachusetts, 1825

  She’d learned to walk on a swaying deck, balancing against the rhythm of the tides. Raised in a seafaring family, she’d only ever known an existence with the ocean at her doorstep. She understood the significance of currents and tides and wind direction, and she could handle an oar. Father bragged she was the best of swimmers, having learned when she was no more than a babe.

  For her sixteenth birthday, her parents had gifted her with a small skiff, the Moonbeam, a hardy little craft fitted with a mast. In it, Iris Moon cruised the coast, paying calls and running errands swifter and easier than was possible by land travel. Unlike most shipbuilders, because Father and Uncle Alden specialized exclusively in small boats, theirs were the most dependable of any built on the South Shore.

  Her plan was set. The Moonbeam remained tied at the wharf. Father often borrowed the skiff and had not yet stored it away for the winter. Iris would sail to Clark’s Island, where she would at last meet that reclusive cur of a light keeper who had eluded her for a year now.

  In the spirit of this charitable season — a season of giving in honor of having received the greatest gift of all, Christ’s sacrifice for mankind — she had proposed that each member of the Ladies Charitable Sewing Society should contribute some small token for the purpose of gifting their light keeper with a Christmas basket.

  “As daughters, wives and sisters of men in the seafaring trades, I find it just and proper that we women should convey our especial gratitude to Keeper Mayne at this giving season,” she had argued. “For in protecting our shores, he helps to keep our menfolk safe. And not only our menfolk but all those who travel to Duxbury and add to its commerce.”

  The gifting of the Christmas basket being her idea, Iris felt it only fair she take on the task of its delivery. Still, she regretted going against her father’s wishes, for she had little desire to disturb Keeper Mayne’s privacy. Nor did she wish to intrude where she did not belong, but surely Keeper Mayne would welcome a visitor arriving in a spirit of goodwill during this season of Christ’s birth.

  Father had departed at daybreak to join his yard workers in the construction of Mr. Dawes’s longboat. So, after seeing Hetty off on an errand to the busy store Captain Sampson ran out of his house in Eagle’s Neck Creek, Iris took the basket and headed for the wharf with Snow. She knew from experience if she did not bring the Labrador, Snow would bark and raise a ruckus, then jump into the ocean and swim after the skiff.

  Iris wended her way along the bluff, the frozen ground unyielding beneath her soft leather soles. She avoided the salt ponds. Their tall reed grasses swayed in a briny breeze, at least eight feet in height. The shore was quiet except for the surf and the rustle of the dune grasses above the rocky beach. The shipyard remained deserted, the inland farmlands barren. Father and his yardmen worked inside the sheds, the steam house and the forge, where they would labor for some hours yet before breaking at mid-morning. Still, Iris hurried.

  Any one of them could step outside and spot her. Or it might be Alice. The cook would detain her, ask where she was headed. Someone could see her take the skiff into the bay and alert her father, but I
ris was determined nothing should deter her from this mission, not even her own misgivings.

  Like any experienced mariner, she eyed the skies. They shone a crisp azure with light, airy clouds as transparent as white smoke. Close to shore, the smell of seaweed, sponge and dead crab proved too much temptation for Snow. The dog loped off despite Iris’s calls.

  Iris plodded on ahead to the wharf, prepared to leave the Labrador behind.

  She was running now, excited to be away. A tall, hooded figure in scarlet red from head to the tops of her half boots. She imagined she stood out like a flag against the barren winter landscape, and her heart raced at the risk of being seen.

  “Lady Moon,” a voice cried out behind her. “Please, my lady. Wait!”

  Iris fairly jumped out of her skin. She heard Snow’s friendly bark and slowed her steps to a halt.

  It was Peter Bliss, the farm manager’s son. Snow reached his side then began sniffing at his heels as he hurriedly approached Iris. His face screwed with disappointment, the closer he drew. “You’re not Lady Moon,” he said. Distress clouded his naturally sweet, innocent gaze. He stared, a lock of dull brown hair hanging limp over one eye. “I thought you was her. I thought she’d come back. I came looking for shells, but you’re not her.”

  Iris lowered her hood so he could see her more clearly. “No, I’m not her, Peter. I’m Iris, see? I’m sorry if I confused you by wearing my mother’s cloak.”

  He looked like he would cry. “She’s gone, isn’t she? She won’t come back. Who shall I find shells for? Who shall be kind to me? Who will be my friend?”

  The reminder of Eleanor Moon’s loss disturbed him as much as it would Iris or her father. “Peter, it’s been over a year. But I am here. You can collect shells for me.”

  Come spring, he would be contentedly occupied in hoeing and planting. Peter loved working with the soil. He possessed a talent for growing things. Seeing the success of his labors fortified and encouraged him. His thoughts grew sharper come spring and summer and even during harvest. But wintertime brought idleness, not only to his hands but his mind as well, as though they somehow shared a connection and muddled his thinking.

  Iris covered her head again with the hood, anxious to be off. “I must leave you now, Peter. I’ve an errand to run,” she said with a lift of the heavy basket. “Don’t walk the shore in this cold alone. Why not join the men in the work shed? Before long, they will break for grog, and I believe your mother shall be serving Hetty’s plum pudding.”

  Even as she suggested it, Iris knew Peter preferred the quiet of the fields and the peacefulness of nature to the clamor of shipbuilding. Mallets pounding, saws rasping, adzes chopping heavily into timbers — the sounds of construction, the constant noise, combined with the raised voices of the men, could at times confuse and unsettle Peter. Iris reasoned that was why he had come to the shore.

  “Peter, tell no one that you’ve seen me. Let this meeting remain a secret between the two of us. Can you do that for me?”

  He glanced past her in the direction she was headed and understanding seemed to come when he noticed the wharf. “You are sailing your skiff today, my lady? Are you off on an adventure?”

  Iris studied him with one brow raised. Peter was not always so very simple as most folks believed.

  “Suppose the bay blows hard?” He fretted his lower lip and wrung his ungloved hands, calloused and red from the cold.

  Iris glanced at the distant outbuildings with their dull windows and strewn timbers lying about. She grew impatient to steal away before anyone else spotted her.

  “I’ve no fear of the bay, Peter. Look, the waters lie as calmly as if this were a summer’s morning. Don’t worry about me. I shan’t be gone long. Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

  He dropped his head in distress, shaking it while staring down at the wilted beach grass. “Captain Moon won’t like it. He won’t like it. He won’t like me keeping secrets.”

  Iris lifted his chin gently so she might look him in the eye. “Sometimes it is sufferable to keep a secret for a friend … for a little while … just until that friend can speak the truth for themselves. Do you understand?”

  He stared wide-eyed and guileless. Clearly, he did not understand, but Iris knew he would take her at her word. If she said it was sufferable, then he would allow her secret. “As you say, my lady.”

  She grinned. “Iris, remember?”

  “My lady,” he insisted, his mouth firm.

  “As you say, Peter.” She smiled patiently then called to Snow and hurried off before he could detain her further. The autumn-reddened leaves of the whortleberry bushes had shriveled and died. They hiked along the bluff, past the rocks and down an incline where winter had stripped the wild sea rose and bayberry bushes to barren, woody branches.

  Through the sea grass Iris tread to the beach then made her way to the wharf. Its weathered boards groaned slightly as she strode to where her skiff was docked. She lowered herself into the Moonbeam and, taking a seat by the oars, steadied the small boat for Snow who jumped in after her.

  While the Labrador settled in the stern, Iris removed her white mittens and took up the paddles in a firm grip. She strained at the oars, pushing off from the wharf with her back to the bay, and pulled the skiff into the tide. It would be a mile and a half row to Clark’s Island and already the sharp, cold air threatened to steal her breath. It rose before her face in a vapor with each drag of the oars. She rowed, unhindered by wind and spray, drawing warmth from the sunlight that reflected off the water.

  After a bit, a fresh breeze arose and Iris judged it strong enough to hoist the sail. The wind in her favor, she soon had the Moonbeam drawing swiftly closer to the western shores of Clark’s Island.

  She reflected on another cold December day in 1620. A group of Pilgrim Fathers left the Mayflower at anchor on Cape Cod and sailed a small shallop to the eastern side of the island, looking for a place to make their settlement. There they held their first Sabbath service and named the island Clark’s after the Mayflower’s first mate.

  Iris scanned the island’s deserted shoreline and the forest that lay beyond. She reefed the sail and took up the oars once more, waiting for a large breaker to lift her skiff’s hull. When presently it did, she rowed hard, riding the wave toward shore. Snow jumped into the foaming surf and swam.

  Iris removed her fur-lined cloak before climbing out then waded in the shallows and, with the aid of the tide, nosed her little boat ashore. Snow loped along the long, lonely beach, pausing now and then to snuffle at a pile of seaweed or a shell.

  Sweeping on her cloak, Iris gathered her basket and trudged up the beach to the grassy shore, sloshing in her sodden half-boots. She lifted her gaze to the white-painted lighthouse tower, which rose up out of the trees and brush with a brilliance that seemed to absorb the sunshine. Light glinted off the shiny glass panes of its lantern room.

  Iris trembled, not at the great solitary structure or from the chill of her wet feet, but in uncertainty of what lie ahead, of what she’d find in Keeper Jonathan Mayne and the mystery that shrouded him.

  I do hope you live up to the secrecy and romance surrounding you, Keeper Mayne. She reminded herself not to expect a welcoming reception. She’d been warned the keeper guarded his privacy. He was sure to be busy about his work with neither the time nor inclination to entertain a visitor. Iris imagined a hardened seafarer, a man ignorant of social graces and undisturbed by the elements or even danger.

  She didn’t envy his lot over the coming months. For her, winter was a quiet season with days spent employed in needlework or reading by the fire. Given the long, winter nights and the uncertainty of New England weather, Keeper Mayne would be enjoying no such peace.

  Iris called to Snow and walked with her into the barren forest. Dry, bare branches clawed at her head and shoulders, like gnarled fingers reaching for a touch of the cool, smooth silk of her cloak. The only sounds were those of birds chirping, rabbits scampering through the brush and the c
runch of pine needles and broken twigs beneath her feet.

  She uncovered a path which led to a clearing where the lighthouse tower stood. Pilgrim Light, she knew, had been painted in whitewash of mortar and hair, diluted with new milk to render it resilient to moisture. Basket in tow, Iris approached a heavy, wooden door built into the stone foundation and knocked.

  When she received no response, Iris called out a greeting but was answered with silence.

  She lifted her gaze up the towering beacon to the glass room at its very top.

  It made for a lonesome sight. Iris stepped away to explore the surrounding area. She peered inside a small storage shed that held lifesaving equipment and a rescue boat built in her father’s yard specifically to withstand winter gales.

  Having no luck locating the keeper, she left it to Snow to search him out and followed the dog’s lead. When the Labrador wandered past into a second clearing, Iris hurried after her only to realize, as she trod upon the barren ground, that she was standing in what had been a large garden plot.

  Snow scratched at the door to a small, nearby structure. A root cellar would be Iris’s guess. She approached, intending for a peek inside when Snow lifted her head, ears alert. The dog’s white, muscled body tensed in anticipation, and she turned to bark excitedly at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  Chapter 2

  Iris whirled around, binding herself in the heaviness of her cloak.

  Several feet away stood a tall, raven-haired man gripping an axe as though prepared to use it as a weapon.