The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury Read online

  The little skiff leapt and skipped over a high, rolling sea. With determined effort, Johnny plunged and pulled the oars through its steep and dangerously cold waves. Ten minutes into crossing Duxbury Bay he was drenched and freezing from the foaming white wash that broke over the gunwale. Salt spray stung his exposed cheeks with the icy prick of a hundred needles. His eyes watered. The taste of brine salted his tongue as bitter cold seawater splashed his face. Twenty minutes into the row his lungs labored in the frigid air. The muscles of his shoulders and back burned in protest.

  He continued to row toward the wreck, and as he did, he glanced up at Nook House. The dot of scarlet light which, before dawn, had shone from an upstairs window was no longer visible. Iris’s doing? He could think of no other reasonable explanation.

  The Moonbeam drew closer to the battered barque, and Johnny cringed at the haunting sight that greeted him in the shallows. Even at low tide, the sea crashed against her hull. It exploded in a towering spray that burst over the rails, freezing on contact. He read her name off the hull. The Vulture. She lay lodged in the sand like a broken ice skeleton, her deck and spars visible through a coating of ice several inches thick. Her sails had been rent beyond repair, her ropes so encrusted he doubted whether the ice could have been chopped away had the Vulture’s crew the strength to lift their axes.

  They clung to what remained of the frosted rigging, struggling to maintain their footing upon a glassy, frozen deck, their faces aghast and bloodless, as white as the foaming crests of the waves that threatened to destroy them.

  As lighthouse keeper, Johnny bore a weight of responsibility for the helpless seamen. He grieved for their torment and their fears became his own. The Vulture spotted him and those aboard cried for mercy, lifting their weakened voices in agonizing pleas. Wind and storm and sea had not claimed them, but the cold was now leeching the life force from their bodies. They were freezing to death.

  Lowering his oars, he weighed the danger as the Moonbeam leapt on the rolling waves.

  On shore and across the hills of the Nook, folks huddled in groups, watching. They must have come trudging through the snow from as far as Duxbury Town.

  An ox-drawn wagon had been backed up to the surf. Captain Moon waded knee deep in the seething foam, a rope tied about his waist which was also attached to the wagon. He appeared to be commanding the rescue. Johnny had borne witness to the captain’s successful leadership many times over. Ezra Moon did not shy from danger.

  Johnny watched the captain wade deeper into the breakers, struggling to reach beyond the undertow so that he might get close enough to throw a line aboard the Vulture.

  Although Captain Moon was a strong swimmer, his muscled legs sturdy, he seemed to be making no headway against the wind and waves.

  A heavy weight had been attached to the end of the line. In a desperate attempt, he tossed out the rope, aiming for the barque’s main deck. Several of the crew reached for it, but the weight missed its mark and slipped into the sea.

  Johnny rowed closer to the Vulture, cautiously steering beyond the reach of those frantic fellows who might try to jump into his small skiff and capsize her. When he had maneuvered to a safe position between the barque and shore, he pulled in his oars, lifted his hands and hailed Captain Moon.

  “Here, captain! Throw the line here!”

  Captain Moon nodded his understanding. He dragged the weighted length back across the shore’s sandy bottom until he had taken it up fully once again.

  With his first attempt he landed the weight aboard Johnny’s boat. Quickly, Johnny scrambled to grasp it with benumbed fingers.

  It felt frozen and unwieldy in his hands, and he had to fight against the waves which tossed the small skiff and swamped her sides as he hurried to make fast the line.

  When he had it properly secured, he once again took up the oars and rowed backward toward the Vulture. He was greatly hindered by the floating wreckage and had to be especially careful of his paddles as he pulled them through the choppy waves.

  A lantern swung wildly from what remained of the shrouds, squeaking eerily as it was tossed this way and that, remarkably one of the few items not frozen stiff. The din added to the creaks and groans that comprised the barque’s death knell.

  Johnny saw grown men with tears in their eyes clinging to the Vulture’s rails, their beards covered in ice crystals, their cheeks reddened and raw. They shivered uncontrollably, trapped inside their frozen and heavily sodden clothing.

  He flung the weighted line aboard and a round of cheers went up.

  An order was given to secure the rope and the crew hastened to the task. The young seaman who’d issued the command leaned over the icy rails and called down to Johnny. “Bless you, sir.” An oilskin covered his tall frame. His nose and ears shone as red as the thick russet curls beneath his hat.

  “Captain?” Johnny inquired.

  “First mate, Jensen Roark. On behalf of the Vulture and her captain, thank you.” His teeth chattered as he spoke.

  “Keeper Jonathan Mayne of Pilgrim Light, at your service, Mr. Roark.” Johnny nodded, mirroring the relief he saw in the mate’s expression. “How fare all aboard? Is your captain well?”

  Mr. Roark shouted over the roaring sea. “No lives have been lost. Captain Barrell seems to have suffered the worst of it. He insisted on keeping the watch himself and ordered the majority of our crew to remain in the forecastle. I fear frostbite. The men are helping him to exercise his limbs.”

  Johnny understood Captain Barrell’s sense of duty to his vessel.

  The stout, heavy line had been made fast, pulled taunt between the Vulture and the wagon for the purpose of aiding the men in dragging themselves through the waves to shore.

  The Moonbeam jounced and banged against the Vulture’s hull. “If you hang a ladder over the side, Mr. Roark, your crew can follow the line to safety.” Johnny glanced at the team of men already wading into the surf to receive them. “Rescuers are prepared to escort you safely to shore. Perhaps your captain should disembark first. I can accommodate one man in this skiff.”

  “Captain Barrell would never leave this vessel with his crew remaining aboard. No, Keeper Mayne, not our captain, but we do have a passenger, a Mr. Gregory traveling from England, whom I would appreciate you taking in your skiff.”

  “Then by all means, sir. Send Mr. Gregory down.”

  The crew moved swiftly. A ladder was hung, and a man appeared at Mr. Roark’s side in a black great coat with his satchel tucked under one arm. Despite his frozen and wan appearance, he removed his frosted beaver hat and smiled down at Johnny. “My deepest gratitude, Keeper Mayne. We have all endured a most fearful night.”

  “Make haste now, Mr. Gregory,” urged the mate Roark. “Warm accommodations await you.”

  Mr. Gregory tossed Johnny his satchel and was aided down the ladder into the skiff.

  Once the gentleman was securely seated, Johnny shoved off from the Vulture and plunged his oars into the icy froth.

  The Englishman clutched the Moonbeam’s gunwale so tightly his knuckles strained ghastly white. A large bejeweled, gold ring with a prominent square-cut emerald adorned his left index finger. Johnny noticed also the solid gold buttons of his great coat and its fine tailoring which included a large cape that reached to his elbows.

  “I am not ashamed to admit, there were moments on that vessel I believed I would not live to see another day,” he said.

  Johnny took note of his accent. He heard a familiar regional ring to it he could not quite place. Beneath the hollowness of Mr. Gregory’s narrow face, the unshaven jaw and dark circles, was a distinguished gentleman. His dark hair grayed softly at the temples and throughout his long side whiskers. Something in the set of his mouth and in the slight pointedness of his chin hinted at arrogance. An aristocrat.

  But if indeed he were an aristocrat, then why did he allow himself to be addressed as Mr. Gregory and not by his title?

  “You’re safe now,” Johnny assured him. “You tr
avel alone, sir?”

  The Englishman nodded. His dark eyes held Johnny’s in a direct, searching stare. “I seek a lost relation. Are you a local man, Keeper Mayne?”

  “I’m afraid I cannot aid you in your search. I hail originally from Salem and later Truro of Cape Cod. I have been at Pilgrim Light one year only and have made few acquaintances.”

  The skiff washed ashore. Johnny jumped into the tide, guiding the craft to a safe mooring. He lifted out the satchel then assisted Mr. Gregory as he disembarked, for the man had difficulty gaining his land legs. The gentleman’s clothing had stiffened with the freezing spray, restricting his freedom of movement.

  When he nearly stumbled, Johnny ducked his head beneath Mr. Gregory’s arm, bearing the Englishman’s weight across his shoulders. The sand sucked at his boots, requiring additional strength with each step, as Johnny half-carried the fellow up the beach. A stinging cold surge foamed around their ankles before receding with the undertow in lacy eyelets of sudsy foam.

  Both were drenched and breathless by the time they reached the snow-covered dune.

  “I believe I’m quite able to walk on my own now,” said Mr. Gregory.

  Johnny released him, and with a shaky breath, Mr. Gregory regained his bearing. He reclaimed his satchel from Johnny and tucked it under one arm then straightened his tall beaver hat in an attempt to regain some semblance of dignity.

  Johnny’s heart swelled with compassion, which he was careful not to let show on his face.

  The Englishman offered Johnny his hand, and they exchanged a firm handshake. “Thank you, Keeper Mayne. I shan’t keep you, when others are in dire need of your assistance, but before you go, tell me quickly, if you would — who is that man?”

  Duxbury townsmen swarmed the beach, wading through the surge to rescue the Vulture’s frostbitten crew, as one by one they climbed down the ladder and jumped into the frigid waters. Yet Johnny knew exactly to whom the Englishman referred.

  “That brave fellow is Captain Ezra Moon, sir,” he said. “Go now, I urge you. Take a seat in the wagon. You shall soon be taken somewhere warm and dry and be well cared for.”

  Johnny turned then, anxious he should lend himself further to the rescue, and hurried into the tide to assist Captain Moon and the others.

  With Mr. Gregory safe, he never had occasion to glance back and witness the Englishman stagger away from the oxen-driven rescue wagon. But Iris, who stood alone, high on a snowy bluff outside Nook House in her mother’s billowing scarlet cape, did.

  Chapter 7

  During the winter seasons of Iris’s mother’s youth, fashionable ladies wore long, hooded cloaks of silk, lined with fur. Eleanor Sutherland’s cloak was one of the few articles she brought with her from Cornwall when she left to marry an American sea captain. Her sweet, creamy, white floral scent clung to its fur lining, smelling like the slightest essence of tuberose. Iris loved wearing the garment for just that reason. It comforted her to make use of her mother’s things. They helped keep her mama’s memory alive, and made Iris feel as though Mama was close in spirit.

  Bright scarlet against a barren white landscape, Iris supposed it should have come as no surprise she’d been spotted in the cloak.

  And yet she was surprised … or rather, taken aback.

  Though a fair distance separated them, Iris knew it was she who held the survivor’s attention.

  He staggered closer, staring up the bluff at her in seeming fascination.

  The wind freshened and her long, pale hair escaped her hood to dance before her eyes. Iris swept the loose strands off her face.

  The locals escorted weary, freezing men to the wagons, one of which would be pulled up the lane to Nook House, but the formal-looking gentleman showed no interest in rescue. He stood as though transfixed.

  “Why does he not join the others?” Iris wondered aloud.

  The gentleman wore a tall, beaver hat and a long, black great coat with a wide, attached cape. It reminded Iris somewhat of her own scarlet cloak.

  Two chess pieces, each waiting for the other to make the next move. She, a flowing red shape perched high on the bluff, and he a black figure standing below in the dunes, neither of them stirred, until a forceful gust swept off her hood to bare her head. Loosed, her long, straight, pale ash blond hair blew out behind her, steaming in the wind like a ship’s banner.

  The man removed his own hat in response and bowed, acknowledging her … as though he knew her.

  He called up to her then, saying something Iris could not decipher over the storm winds and the howling seas.

  “What does he say, my lady?”

  Iris startled, unaware that Peter had rejoined her. “I can’t tell. He is disoriented, obviously. He’s just been through a harrowing experience. He needs attention and warmth.”

  “Shall I fetch him for you?”

  “No, Peter. Your father made me promise I’d keep you close to the house. Someone will notice him and guide him to the wagons,” she said, while from behind, Iris heard her own name being called.

  Hetty stood in the opened doorway of the keeping room, hugging her crocheted shawl tightly across her ample bosom. “Iris, my girl, come indoors now. We’ve need of your helping hands. ’Tis much too cold out here. And I soon shall be busy enough without having to nurse you, too, should you catch yourself a chill.” She waved Iris inside.

  “Peter, run to the barnyard for me, would you? We need bricks and large stones we can warm in the hearth,” Hetty directed. “There’s a good lad.”

  Iris turned one last time to glance down the bluff at the coast, but the man was nowhere to be seen. He’d disappeared.

  She shook her head to clear it, wondering if perhaps she had imagined him.

  But no, Peter had seen him, too.

  A short while later the strange episode was forgotten in the urgency of the rescue wagon’s arrival. Seven men hobbled through the door of Nook House, the Vulture’s survivors having been divided among nearby households. They entered the large keeping room on frozen, unfeeling feet with Snow nearly knocking them over in her excitement to greet them. Ice crystals clung to their frozen hair and brows, glistening in the reflection of the lamplight and the hearth’s glow. Their lips had taken on a bluish tinge and their teeth chattered.

  Wood smoke from the great crackling hearth fire drifted upwards to swirl about the dark, hand-hewn oak beams overhead. The men shuffled toward it with moans accompanying their every step. Some simply collapsed on the long wooden benches at the worktable.

  “Mary, show the worst of them to the borning room,” Hetty commanded, wasting no time in taking matters in hand. “We need to cut the frozen clothing off their bodies quickly.” She hauled a pair of seaman off the bench and began ushering them toward the back of the keeping room. “Alice, my dear, bring along those buckets of melted snow. We’ll rub the cold water on their limbs and warm them slowly.”

  Iris made to follow and assist. “Oh-no, not you, my Iris,” said Hetty. “This be no sight for your virtuous eyes. You shall serve, my girl. While we’re gone, toast the bread. Then pour the coffee, and while you’re about it, fetch the cherry brandy from the dining room’s sideboard.”

  Her father was filing inside with Mr. Bliss and Uncle Alden. No sooner had Father stepped through the door when Snow ran to him with a bark of welcome. The white Labrador jumped up to plant her large forepaws upon his chest.

  “No lives lost,” Father announced as he greeted his dog. His hearty seaman’s voice boomed for all to hear. “Every man jack on the Vulture has been landed safely. Can’t say the same for the barque or her cargo, but those are things which, in time, can be replaced.”

  Iris immediately commenced to slicing bread while the men gathered at the hearth to remove their sopping outerwear, dripping on the scrubbed pine floor. It was then the door swung open, allowing a gust of frosty air and two late arrivals — Lud and the scruffy-faced Keeper Mayne in his green Monmouth cap.

  She paused with her knife and smiled, m
ore gaily than was perhaps appropriate.

  He met her stare from beneath a set of dark brows with eyes as sharp as an eagle’s. Iris slipped into their depths as though lost in a trance.

  This man was a stranger, and yet not a stranger.

  Where had that thought come from? Her face warmed at the confusing feelings inside her, and Iris lay down the knife to wipe her hands on her apron as though suddenly self-conscious. “Welcome to Nook House, Keeper Mayne,” she said.

  He made her a proper bow in his disheveled, soggy attire. “Miss Moon.”

  “I am pleased to have you visit my home.”

  “I don’t wish to disappoint you, Miss Moon, but this is not a social call.”

  “You said we would not meet again and yet here you are.”

  “Here I am,” he said. “Perhaps I am not so unlike the tide which is also controlled by a moon.”

  All the fellows around the room enjoyed a good laugh at her expense. Iris noted even Keeper Mayne ducked his head to hide a smile.

  “Daughter,” her father said, “the man has risked life and limb to save endangered travelers. Must he also abide your banter before he is granted a rest? What did I warn you about respecting our keeper’s privacy?”

  But Iris found she couldn’t help herself. Questions about Keeper Mayne buzzed inside her head like a bee caught inside a lidded crock.

  “Iris, it’s been the talk of the work shed how your curiosity could not be contained,” Lud said with a chuckle. “You defied Uncle Ezra to row the Moonbeam out to Clark’s Island and descended upon our poor, unsuspecting keeper.”

  Iris narrowed her eyes pointedly at her cousin. Lud was muscular and broad shouldered with a generous grin and wholesome features. His wheat-colored hair fell lank over his ears and long side whiskers.

  He made her a glaring face of disapproval. “You must excuse my outspoken and inquisitive cousin, Johnny,” he said.

  Johnny. Lud had called the keeper Johnny. The name struck a cord with her. It squeezed Iris like a hug from an old friend. It touched her heart in a way her mind could not begin to comprehend. Such a common name, and yet the sound of it reached into her very soul. Johnny. It echoed inside her mind like a faded memory struggling to surface. She had only ever heard the keeper referred to as Jonathan Mayne or Keeper Mayne, but something about the nickname “Johnny” resounded with comfortable familiarity.