The Promise Keeper: Sea Heroes of Duxbury Read online

  Iris thought she should be doing something to help, but what could she do? Shock paralyzed her. When the first boot hit the floor, she startled even though she had watched it drop.

  “We couldn’t find him anywhere,” said Seth. “Then we began searching the woods, and eventually Benjamin found him sprawled on his back in the snow. Keeper Mayne was on his way up the light tower when lightning struck.” The young adzeman shook his head in stunned disbelief. “He must have been thrown a good hundred feet. We think, perhaps, the snow-covered tree branches helped break his fall.”

  “Not entirely,” said Hetty. “He appears to have a bump on the side of his skull.” She examined the keeper, turning his head carefully in her skilled hands, her palms cradling his dark, whiskered cheeks. “And Lud?” she asked. “What of our Lud? Is he well?”

  Iris’s eyes flooded with tears once again. She should have been the one to ask about her cousin.

  “Judging by appearance, Lud would seem to have suffered the worst of it,” her father explained, “but, unlike Johnny, he is conscious and faring as well as can be expected. He has been burned, scraped and bruised and has inhaled smoke into his lungs. That is our greatest concern. He can barely speak, but our hopes are high he shall make a full recovery.” Her father’s gray eyes began to fill, and he could go no further but to add, “He’s a hale lad.”

  Mr. Bliss continued for him. “Lud was loading supplies into the hold when he heard the blast. As the structure collapsed in flames, the circular staircase partially shielded him. He ducked into the hold just beneath it and closed the door, which didn’t prevent the smoke from pouring in after him. He realized he hadn’t much time before the blaze would begin to consume the wooden door. The hold was the most dangerous place for him to be, for it was filled with oil drums, wicks, dry cloths and turpentine that could ignite in a moment. He was injured and greatly weakened from inhaling smoke, yet God preserved him with the strength to unbar the back door and escape. He had crawled several feet through the snow before passing out. I am sorry to say that Pilgrim Light is gone and everything within it. All that remains is its stone base and a melted stairway.”

  The tragedy of circumstances drew a whimper from Iris’s depths. “What can I do? I shall do whatever I can to help and will be praying for them both throughout the morning.”

  “Aye, my girl, your prayers are needed, but only after you have first taken a few hours sleep,” Hetty said. “You have been up on your feet with us since quite early yesterday morn.”

  “But you know I shan’t be able to sleep a wink, Hetty,” Iris said. “Not with all that has happened. Besides, the sun is rising and soon it shall be light.”

  “You will and you shall rest. I’ll not have you growing sick with exhaustion and adding to my worries. Very soon now, I will have Alice here to assist me.”

  Iris huffed. “Father, I am a grown woman. You cannot allow her to send me to bed.”

  He fixed his gaze on her, his expression solemn, revealing nothing of what he might be thinking. And he was thinking deeply of something. Iris could tell in the way he scratched his white beard.

  “Do as she says, Daughter,” he said in a weary voice. He wore dark circles under his eyes, as did all the exhausted fellows that crowded the small room. Iris would have much rather helped her father upstairs and tucked him into bed.

  He looked so terribly fatigued, she didn’t have the heart to argue with him.

  “Has our Lud been seen by the doctor?” Hetty asked.

  “Dr. Huxham will come as soon as he is able,” said Father, “stopping first to examine Lud and then Johnny, but he is currently occupied with the frozen survivors of the wreck.”

  Hetty contemplated the keeper’s still, ashen figure. “We must do what we can until he arrives. Keeper Mayne needs to be wiped completely dry, and then I shall do my best to resuscitate him. Have Peter stoke the fires when he arrives. This room must be kept warm.”

  She rolled up the sleeves of the muslin chemise she wore under her sleeveless housedress then proceeded to unbutton the keeper’s sodden wool waistcoat. “Quickly now, you fellows, help me to remove his clothes. And you, my Iris, check the cupboard on the third floor for any remaining flannel cloths. I shall rub our keeper dry, forcing the blood to flow more freely through his stone cold limbs.”

  Father turned to address his men. “Thomas and Ben, return to your homes, both of you. There’ll be no work today in the shipbuilding shed or in the fields. Inform the others. You’ve earned a day of rest, for you have all done more than your share these past twenty-four hours.”

  As they took their leave, Iris watched her father slip off Keeper Mayne’s socks. The keeper’s large feet hung off the edge of the mattress. Moving to the head of the bed, her father gently raised him so Hetty could remove his unbuttoned waistcoat. Beneath, he wore one shirt of checkered wool over another, for it was well known that wool kept a body warm, even after the fabric became wet.

  She marveled at the extreme care Hetty and her father seemed to be taking with Keeper Mayne. Not that she would expect them to bestow any less assistance to a fellow man in need, but something about their tenderness would suggest the keeper was … special.

  Iris’s cheeks flamed in embarrassment and fascination as Hetty loosened his trousers. The spry old nurse pulled the shirttails free of his waistband and pushed them up over his torso, bearing Jonathan Mayne’s lean ribs and the ripple of muscle and sinew that shaped his broad expanse of chest. It was covered with a dusting of dark hair.

  “Daughter, what are you still doing here?” Her father’s firm, displeased tone gave Iris a jolt. “This is no sight for you.”

  “He will wake up, won’t he, Hetty?” Her voice shook and the words spilled out as a plea.

  “Go now, my Iris, and hurry,” was her answer. Iris turned and ran.

  She wasn’t allowed back in the room once she’d retrieved the flannels. Alice had arrived and had begun to brew the coffee and prepare breakfast. Iris had no appetite and with nothing else for her to do, she ascended the stairs to her room. She found the climb much harder this time. Her legs seemed slow in responding, and it was with great effort she made her way to her bed and dropped down on the edge for a seat.

  Her shoulders sagged with the strain of recent events. The storm, the shipwreck, the destruction of the lighthouse, all occurring one right after the other. When would it end, for how long could the townsfolk of Duxbury go on battling the elements without a reprieve? Father and Hettie needed sleep more than she, but suddenly Iris could not keep her eyes open.

  She stretched out on top of the coverlet without undressing, without slipping in between the smooth sheets. Weary, she pulled her mother’s crocheted shawl around her and pressed her nose to its faded scent of tuberose. Her eyelids fell shut and she drifted off, comforted, as though Mama were there with her, telling her everything would be well.

  She dreamed. She was a young child again, carefree, bursting with spirit and mischief, rather tomboyish in the way she liked to run, jump and climb, showing no fear. Always, there was someone on deck watching her for the things she’d get into.

  She longed to climb the rails for a better view of the dolphins and this time, for once, Mama’s back was turned. She managed to heave herself up, but just as she did so, the ship rode a great ocean swell that raised the hull and sent the bow plunging into a towering crest. Struck with the full force of the spray, Iris lost her balance.

  Flailing her limbs, she hurtled downward, landing with a splash and plunging into frigid waters. The cold green sea rose up to swallow her. Brine stung her eyes. Water gushed up her nose and into her mouth, strangling her ability to breathe. She was seized in a panic more horrifying than anything she could ever imagine. She fought and struggled against the force of the sea that pushed at her, crushing her tiny body. Then at once that same seawater propelled her upward, and she bobbed to the surface, coughing, choking and gasping for air.

  She screamed out a name. The desperate
sound echoed in her water-logged ears. It was cold. So cold. Her body shivered uncontrollably. A wave lifted her helplessly, tossing her like a piece of driftwood. She splashed in the icy froth, trying desperately to climb out, but the green sea sucked at her again, pulling her down… .

  Iris awoke with a silent scream in her throat, and only then did she realize what name rolled off her tongue. Johnny. She had not been calling for her mother nor her father or even Hetty.

  Johnny.

  Fully conscious now, she bolted upright. Iris gasped, breathless from the shock, brought on as much by that name as the terror of her nightmare, which was still with her — it had felt that real.

  Brilliant sunlight streamed in from the window and she turned away from it, for the brightness stung her eyes.

  Had it been a buried recollection or a wild dream? Why did I call for Johnny, Mama, and not you? Even if just a dream, why had I called for him at all? Who is he? The Johnny of her dream was one and the same with Keeper Mayne — of that much Iris was certain. But what was their connection? Mama knew. If only she were alive to explain.

  A memory lurked on the edges of her consciousness, waiting to be recalled. Iris searched the corners of her mind with all her will, but it kept to the shadows.

  One thing she did remember was her conversation with Keeper Mayne on Clark’s Island. He seemed to contradict her when she remarked they had never met.

  She’d thought it queerly strange at the time, especially a little while later when he had asked, “Or perhaps you remember? Is that why you’ve rowed out to see me?”

  Iris realized now he’d hoped to stir her memory. He knew her, so how could she have forgotten him?

  She hurried downstairs to check on him and found Alice in the sitting room, dusting the Chinese export porcelain pieces that adorned the mantle. It was very nearly nine a.m. and the doctor still had not arrived. At Alice’s urging, Hetty had gone upstairs to nap, but not before sending Peter to buy some fish for supper. Captain Moon, she explained, was maintaining a vigil in the keeping room. Iris found him in a deep slumber, snoring away in his rocking chair by the hearth. Snow lay curled on the braided rug by his feet, but she lifted her head when she saw Iris and followed her into the borning room.

  The door had been left open so the room might absorb the heat from the hearth’s fire.

  Keeper Mayne still had not regained consciousness. He lay on his back, tucked under a mound of quilts and garbed in what appeared to be one of her father’s nightshirts.

  His thick, luxuriant hair had been neatly combed, and he bore a look of such peacefulness that for one frantic moment, Iris thought he might have been laid out for the undertaker.

  But then, as she took hold of her fear, Iris drew slowly nearer to the bed and saw that his previous pale complexion had warmed to its natural haleness.

  She drew closer and leaned down to touch his face. It felt warm beneath her palm but not feverish. Her thumb skimmed the scratchy bristle of his dark beard. Her fingers traced the squareness of his jaw.

  A wellspring of fondness rose up inside her and an astonishing childhood memory jogged loose in her subconscious.

  It had been around the time she and Mama stopped accompanying her father on his voyages. With Father away at sea, Mama kept an even closer watch over Iris than when aboard ship. Iris recalled feeling smothered by the overprotective company of her mother and Hetty, just the three of them alone with the servants in the great quiet of Nook House. She created an imaginary friend for herself. They enjoyed private conversations, explored Nook House’s hidden stairwells, hosted tea parties in Iris’s room, walked the beach with Hetty and watched for sails with Mama up on the captain’s walk.

  Eventually, Iris outgrew her imaginary friend and over the years forgot all about him.

  Until today.

  She remembered him now.

  Her pulse quickening, Iris knelt at his bedside and took hold of the keeper’s hand. She stared at it, joined with hers. It was strong and calloused with dexterous, long fingers one might expect of an artist or musician.

  “Keeper Mayne, can you hear me?” she called to him in a whisper. “As a child I had an imaginary friend I called Johnny. He went everywhere with me, and I even set a place for him at the supper table. One day Mama explained it was time I let go of my friend. I was becoming a young lady and must behave like one, which did not include talking aloud to a boy who wasn’t really there. I would soon be making real-life friends, she said. And so I obeyed. I believed her, and in time forgot Johnny completely.”

  Snow, who had been sniffing the keeper’s feet, began to lick one big toe.

  “Where had I gotten that name from, I wonder? Johnny. From you, I am now thinking. Because Johnny never was entirely imaginary, was he?” With her other hand, Iris ruffled the thick, dark hair that fell across his brow, so that he looked more like the rugged, windblown lighthouse keeper she knew. “No, not imaginary at all. You are as real as real can be. But the question remains — who are you, Keeper Mayne?”

  In response, Iris thought she saw his eyelids twitch. With a gasp, she pressed closer and squeezed his hand, watching intently, but nothing more happened.

  And then, suddenly, his firm lips parted and Iris heard the tiniest sigh.

  Raven black lashes fluttered ever so slightly upon his bronzed cheeks.

  “He’s waking,” she cried out, then jumped up and ran to the opened doorway. “Father, come quick! Keeper Mayne is stirring.”

  While her father roused himself, Iris hurried to the keeping room’s entry and shouted down the hallway, “Alice, fetch Hetty, please. I think our keeper is waking at last.”

  Chapter 11

  Consciousness called him awake. His head ached. A dull fullness pressed against the edges of his skull, fogging his brain to such distraction he could not grasp his own thoughts. He experienced awareness only in terms of his senses. The pain in his head, soreness throughout his body, a sensation of warmth surrounding him and something wet and warm lapping at his foot. Johnny strained to open his eyelids but saw no light behind them encouraging him to wake.

  Just that miniscule movement started his head to spin, sickening him to his stomach. Had someone been holding his hand? Where was he? A soft voice called to him with words he could not make sense of. What had happened to him? Whose was that voice? It compelled him like the call of an angel, yet he couldn’t be dead and feel this poorly. And while he lay incapacitated, who was tending the lamps? He experienced flashes of memory — a dense snowfall, men screaming for their lives on a doomed ship, the crack of thunder, an explosion. The disjointed images confused him. He couldn’t seem to orient himself and dare not move.

  Weakness took hold and Johnny gave himself over to the darkness. It dragged him down to a blackness that reached the very depths of his soul.

  “He’s waking!” the voice cried, and the sound pounded sharply in his eardrums. “Father, come quick! Keeper Mayne is stirring.”

  The familiarity of that voice reached into his heart and began to draw him back.

  Johnny opened his eyes to night as deep as pitch. He saw nothing. Not even shadows. There was something unnatural about this darkness that chilled him to the bone, and he stretched his eyes wider, waiting for them to adjust. Seized by panic when they didn’t, he raised himself with his last ounce of strength.

  His head swam. Lost in a dizzying whir, he had not the strength to resist as he was pushed back down onto what he realized was a soft bed. His pillows were fluffed, elevating his head slightly. He was covered with blankets and a heated brick warmed his bare feet.

  “Lay still, Johnny. You are safe at Nook House and under our good care.”

  Johnny recognized that strong, projecting voice immediately. The sound of it brought him a measure of reassurance. “Captain Moon?”

  “Yes, Johnny, I am here, and Iris is with me.”

  “Right beside you.” Johnny turned toward her voice, as she took his hand in both of hers and clasped it tightly.<
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  This couldn’t be. He, in a bed at Nook House, in a state of undress with Iris holding his hand? How had he gotten here? Something terrible had happened. He knew that now, but he couldn’t remember what.

  Johnny broke into a cold sweat. His breathing was coming faster, in short, shallow pants as though he could not take in enough air. He blinked, straining to see.

  “Please, one of you, light a lantern so I might see your faces.” He heard panic in his voice and it shamed him, but he could not subdue the terror that multiplied with each moment passing in empty blackness. “It is so very dark in here.”

  “Oh, Johnny. It is nine o’clock in the morning. This room is flooded with daylight.”

  Johnny. His little sea urchin called him Johnny as she had as a child. He was nearly tempted to smile, but the despair in her tone chilled him. Iris hadn’t let go of his hand, not that he wished her to. It was a source of comfort, his one lifeline in a bottomless well of hopelessness slowly overtaking him. He was beginning to wish he had not wakened.

  “I am sure it is nothing,” he said. Though for himself, he was not convinced. “I must have gotten something in my eyes.”

  “Step aside, the lot of you, and let me in so the keeper can take some drink.”

  Nurse Hastings. He recognized her take-charge, motherly manner and sharp Cornish tongue, though he hadn’t the pleasure of a meeting since his days sailing as a ship’s boy under Captain Moon. Johnny wondered what she might look like now, over fifteen years later. He’d never forget her soft hazel eyes, eyes that had looked at him with admiration. He didn’t quite understand why, until he grew older and realized it was gratitude for the role he’d played in a deceit that brought her and her beloved mistress to America.

  Iris released his hand and he sensed her drawing away. “Oh, Hetty, something is amiss with his eyes. They are open, yet Johnny says he cannot see.”

  “First things first, dear girl. We must give thanks he has woken a’tall, and with his full senses. Here you go, brave Jon, have a sip of this. It’ll revive you.”