THE GHOST SHIP

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “And it had a crew and a destination.”

  Turning to the sea, she saw the ten-foot breakers and imagined bodies rolling toward the shore in this place called the Graveyard of the Atlantic. She faced him. “And the sea destroyed this ship and its crew.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “What caused it to wash up here?”

  He inclined his head toward the wreck. “That much of her – the keel and bow – has always been here.” His intensity mesmerized Ann. “The recent storms disinterred what's left of her.”

  “Too bad her rest was disturbed,” she said.

  “Nature, I'm sorry to say, doesn't adhere to the rites of men.”

  “Where's the rest of the ship?”

  “Most of her hull and deck are likely in houses up and down this island.”

  “Houses were built with shipwrecked wood?”

  “It's good sturdy wood, Miss Gavrion.”

  Like coffins. “Men died in that wood.”

  “You're superstitious, I see.”

  “It's this place – it's godforsaken.”

  A flock of seagulls scattered across the tense horizon giving her a rush of anxiety as if her innermost thoughts were visible to this man.

  He said, “Many godly men went down in the Atlantic here. Look out there.” He passed his arm over the water. “Beyond what you can see are sand archipelagos. They snared unwary and unskilled sailors. Undoubtedly some were also ungodly.”

  She thought about the photo she'd seen hanging in the inn's bar last night. “Could this be the famous Ghost Ship?”

  A distinct hum mushroomed from him. She felt it vibrate between them like a tuning fork. Before he answered, a cry came from up the beach. She looked past him. The lighthouse had come closer, and behind it sat a two-story building. A turret rose from its roof, and a man stood at the rail, semaphoring. At the same time, someone in a blue uniform sprang from a door on the ground floor.

  Lawrence said, “Seems others are anxious to see what old Neptune's uncovered.”

  While she watched the man from the building pump his legs toward them, she felt a twist in her intestines. She turned to Lawrence. “Who is he? Is he with the museum, too?”

  “No. That's C. P Brady. He's a surfman with the Coast Guard.”

  “Surfman?”

  “It's a rank. On watch, he monitors the shore and the sea with a long telescope.”

  “Telescope? In the age of global positioning?”

  “Global positioning?”

  “Tracking things from satellites in the sky.”

  “Satellites?” He looked into the distance, his eyes blinking. “Ah, the stars.” He looked back at her. “But sometimes you can't see them for the clouds.”

  “But they can still see you.”

  He turned his palms up. “Call me old-fashioned.”

  She moved her hands to draw her cape tighter and found she wasn't wearing it. Instead, she had on a belted plaid riding jacket that went to her knees. Extending a foot, she saw jodhpurs that laced down the sides of her legs and disappeared into black riding boots. She put her hands into unfamiliar jacket pockets and looked at Lawrence. Her brain formed questions as her mouth opened. But an imperceptible shake of his head, and his changing expressions – amused, then reassuring – checked her words.

  She heard the echo again. “Shipwreck.” She looked to the east and saw nothing but malevolent water and racing clouds. A moment later, the clouds tumbled apart, and, in a strip of gray light, a tall ship loomed. It was hard to breathe past the knot in her throat. “That's The Ghost Ship.” She looked at Lawrence. “It's …”

  The surfman, C. P., ran up and saluted Lawrence. She glanced at the insignia on the surfman's left coat sleeve – crossed oars on a life ring. Through heavy ragged breathing, C. P. said, “The ship looks to be aground, Sir. She's a five-master. With a gib. Mainsails and topsails set. She's on Diamond Shoal. I put out a call for help.”

  “Let's get to the station.”

  She kept pace with Lawrence as they sped up the beach, but, before they reached the building, Lawrence halted and caught her arm. “Keep your hair tucked under that hat. Don't act like a woman. If you must talk, keep your voice low.”

  “What?”

  “It would be better if you were a boy.”

  “A boy?”

  “You can pass because you're tall and slim. Just keep that blonde hair under the cap.”

  “I'll do whatever I want with my blonde hair, thank you.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Please?”

  “Why can't I just be who I am?”

  He urged her onward. “Women get in men's ways, makes them forget their tasks.”

  She caught his arm. “That's our fault? We've as much right on this planet…”

  “I can't argue now. If you won't agree, then you'll have to return to the – wherever you were.”

  This was too much. Confused emotions threatened to send her into orbit.

  “Well?” he said, clearly in a hurry.

  The strangeness of what was happening defied rational thinking, and she touched her forehead. Her eyes met his. Amused crinkles augmented his daring blue eyes. By God, she wasn't giving in to him. “And if I don't agree to being a boy?”

  He walked away, gaining speed. The need to follow him trumped exasperation. She lifted her hands to pull her cloche lower on her brow and found she was wearing a heavy stocking cap. She tucked her hair and ran. Damn, man.

  --

  At the Coast Guard Station, he led her into a large warm room that smelled of burnt coffee. The wooden desks and roll chairs reminded her of props from a silent film.

  C. P. handed a telegram to Lawrence. He read it and passed it to her.

  To Keeper Coast Guard Station #183: Five mast schooner southwest point outer Diamond. Looks as if she go ashore. Harris, Master.

  “Sir, a cutter is coming from Wilmington,” C. P. said. “For now, our Station Keeper has ordered us to launch the surfboats.”

  “Shout when we can board,” Lawrence said.

  Saluting, he said, “Aye, Sir.”

  Lawrence was clearly the man in charge, and she noticed something else. His clothes. A blue serge uniform adorned with a star and three stripes on each sleeve had replaced his seafarer outfit. When had he changed clothes? She looked at her own clothes. A long slicker hung down past rubber boots nearly to her knees. She fingered the knitted wool cap. There was so much coming at her, she couldn't possible sort through it. She laughed and thought, whatever the hell is happening, it sure beats watching shore birds peck for crabs.

  She trailed Lawrence up a narrow staircase to the station's observation platform. The fierce wind threatened to suck the cap right off her head. A man in uniform Lawrence called the Station Keeper pulled his face away from a telescope trained on the sea. He addressed Lawrence. “Sir, looks like the schooner's been driven high on the shoal – in a boiling bed of breakers with all sails set as if abandoned in a hurry.”

  Standing at the turret rail, Ann could just make out the shape of the ship through the fog.

  “We got a telegram from Norfolk yesterday,” the Station Keeper said. “A five-master was several days overdue coming from South America – her name is the Carroll A. Deering.”

  Lawrence brought the long telescope to his eye. “I do believe we've found her – about ten miles out.”

  “But what idiot helmsman kept her canvas up so close to the shoals in weather like this?” the Keeper demanded.

  “We can only hope the idiot helmsman lived to tell us,” Lawrence said.

  Below, Ann watched C. P. and his crew of men and horses drag the boats toward the waves slamming the beach. A short time later, C. P. shouted up at them, “Surfboats ready to launch, Sir.”

  Lawrence turned for the steps and jumped down two at a time. She was right behind him, running from the building, down to the boats.

  Such tiny boats.

  When she saw the men ahead charge into the chur
ning water, a rush of panic held her feet to the wet sand. She looked at Lawrence.

  He crossed his arms. “Change of heart?”

  She raised her chin. “Hell no.” She ran into the sea, and, in an instant, her legs felt like ice shards.

  Lawrence boosted her into the boat, and men's rough hands yanked her onto a bench. At the sides of the heaving boat, men struggled to keep the craft going forward as they rammed it further out to sea. Lawrence was shoving from the stern, the convulsing water swamping his face. Sometimes, she lost sight of him.

  My God, if he slips under it's over for me, too.

  She half rose and held out a hand to him. “Lawrence. Here.”

  He called, “Gavrion. Get down.”

  Men pulled her to the bench. She shouted, “Lawrence, you'll drown.”

  “No, I'll not.”

  A man jammed an oar in her hand. “Laddie, shut up and heave.”

  Lawrence was the last to leap into the boat which spun under its own bearing. Once she got her oar in tempo, Ann matched the men's thrusts and pulls until her lungs stung and her shoulders burned. Hunched over, gulping pain, she saw that the boat was no match for the high, crashing waves. Still the men rowed on, and so did she, in vain, while tears of failure froze on her eyelids.

  An eternity struggled by before Lawrence shouted over the sea's roar, “Useless. Pull back. We're making no progress.”

  Back on shore, defeated, shivering men clustered around Lawrence. She stood at his side and listened to their fears for the crew of the stranded ship. At last, Lawrence backed away from the men and motioned for her come with him. “No need to keep watch. The crew won't be coming ashore here.”

  “What? We can't give up.”

  “Ann. I know it's no use.”

  “How?”

  “Come with me to the station.”

  She felt like a child running after his long strides. “Lawrence, you can't do this. Why are you so sure? What happened to the crew, if you know so much?”

  He stopped and rubbed his forehead. When he looked at her, his eyes appeared to be drowning in pain. “I don't know what happened to the crew. It's something I'm going to find out.” He walked away and into the building.

  She wondered what would happen if she didn't follow him. The dream will be over. You'll be back on the beach, looking out to sea, afraid of the future, longing for something and not knowing what. She didn't believe this was a dream, but whatever the dimension, she was following him.

  The Station Keeper held a telegram. “The Deering carried coal to Rio de Janeiro. On her return, her last port of call was Barbados.”

  “Barbados,” Lawrence said, as if that island were reason enough for a ship to wreck on a shoal a thousand miles away.

  CHAPTER THREE

  --

  The sea had calmed somewhat. The Coast Guard cutter closed in on the stricken schooner now called by one and all The Ghost Ship.

  At the rail of the cutter, named Manning, Ann reached over to hook her arm through Lawrence's, but he pulled away, giving her a glance she'd come to know too well. Bitched by his constant reminding, she said, “Oh yeah, I'm a boy.” She reached up and tucked a stray hair under the banded beret and looked down at the trousers she wore – thirteen-button blue bellbottoms. Her top was a low-neck blue jumper with a V-neckerchief. She looked exactly like the boy on an old Cracker Jacks box. Over the uniform, she wore a peacoat that stank of the barnyard. She reckoned it must have taken twenty sheep to make the heavy thing and still she wasn't warm. No matter. She breathed the crisp air of happiness and watched the cutter's bow slice through the chopping sea. The single-mast sloop had a gib, and with the wind at her back, the ship flew toward the shoals. Occasionally, Ann looked back to see men standing by a cannon bolted to the cutter's foredeck. She turned to Lawrence. “Why the cannons?”

  “The sea isn't the sailor's only enemy. His own kind would blow him overboard for keg of rum, and, after all, we are at war.”

  War – off the coast of America? She opened her mouth, and then clamped it. Don't question, Annie, it might end.

  Lawrence smiled, the caring folds around his eyes and his dimples made her niggling doubt escape with the wind. Near enough to the schooner now, she could make out its name on the stern. “The Deering,” she shouted, as excited as a sea-besotted sailor. “She looks spanking new.”

  “Indeed, she is,” Lawrence said. “That shoal ended her maiden voyage.”

  The cutter tacked back and forth across The Ghost Ship's stern. Ann watched the seamen with their spyglasses trained on the port and starboard sides. Lawrence suddenly shouted, “Look, she's got no anchors, nor life boats. The ladder's hanging over the side.”

  While the Coast Guard crew furled the cutter's sails, Ann heard the sound of a heavy chain rattling, making the cutter rock stern-to-bow with added force. “Dropping anchor,” Lawrence said.

  She looked up at him. “I'm coming with you.”

  He hesitated, and in that quick moment, she knew she'd won. He leaned close to her ear. “Stay close to me, sailor.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  C. P. came up. He held a telescope. “No guns on deck of the schooner, Sir. No signs of the crew.”

  Lawrence took the scope from him and plugged it into his eye. He let it roam over The Ghost Ship. “How many in the crew?”

  “There was Captain Wormell, his first mate, an engineer, and a crew of eight.”

  “A total of eleven men on board,” Lawrence said, collapsing the telescope. “Let's go then.”

  At the ladder, Ann peered over the rail. Two toy boats bobbed in the bubbling caldron below. It looked so far down, she wondered if Lawrence felt her tremble when he urged her over the edge. Once she'd gained a foothold on the rope ladder, she wriggled down like the men before her. Two of them helped her balance in the dinghy. Throughout the short, frigid trip in the small boat, she sat hunched, the peacoat so heavy with sea spray she couldn't row. For the first time, she feared death, that her lungs would freeze and her organs shut down. The small boat hit the beach. She couldn't move. Two strong men pulled her up. “Hey, laddie, you need strengthening,” one laughed. They deposited her on the shore where she fell like a sack of sand.

  Lawrence laughed and held out a hand. “No sea legs yet, my boy?”

  On her feet, fighting not to lean against him, her voice shook when she said, “Those men treat me like I'm your private property.”

  “You are. You are my sister's weak son who needs toughening.”

  She wobbled to the schooner's rope ladder. She felt like the proverbial drunken sailor and wished that at least she'd imbibed the storied rum. Looking up, the ship looked like a skyscraper, so high up. She got her foot in the first rung, then one after another, her heavy feet climbed. Lawrence was behind her, giving her rear-end a shove when her foot slipped or she faltered.

  At the top, two sailors hoisted her onto the deck. When her feet landed, the hairs on her arms rose. The Ghost Ship.

  Lawrence led to what he called midships. Hand over hand, she clutched the lines that crisscrossed the deck. It was like climbing a small mountain. She ducked under a boom. “Lawrence,” she called, “such a tangle of ropes. How do sailors know which ones to pull?”

  He looked back, grinned and stopped to pluck a thick wet rope. “My dear nephew, these are shrouds. They keep the masts in place. Those moveable lines over there trim the sails and are called sheets.”

  “I'll remember next time, Sir,” she said, and snapped off a salute. His laughter came from deep within, and she vowed to make him laugh more often.

  At the superstructure, she watched Lawrence examine a brass post. He was so intense, she saw smoke surround him, and she didn't think she was imagining it. Abruptly, he went down on a knee to investigate something on the deck. He swore softly and stood, contemplating the big wheel that guided the ship. “By the Devil.”

  When he turned his back to her in order to study another object, she saw the wheel begin to rotate.
She blinked to clear her mind of the impossibility, but when she stared back, the wheel continued to turn. At first it appeared as a shadow, but soon the figure at the wheel fleshed out into a scruffy little man who twisted the wheel against a sudden storm – a storm that didn't touch her. A tall man came up behind the man at the wheel. The tall man raised his arms over his head, and she saw him gripping a wedge-shaped hammer. It came down on the head of the man at the wheel. The wheel man fell forward, his blood spurting to mingle with sea foam. The ship rolled, and he sluiced across the deck. At the rails, he flushed into the sea. She cried out and grabbed sheets to steady herself. Her hand slipped and she bounced against the lines and buckled to the deck.

  Lawrence rushed to her and knelt. “What is it?” She couldn't speak. “Let's get to your feet.” Standing, she held onto Lawrence as the ghastly image played again. She looked into his apprehensive eyes. He said, “Tell me, what did you see?”

  What had she seen? Was it real? Could she even explain it? For the moment, she couldn't find her voice. The revelation had been appalling. “I – I …” Again she saw the murder in her mind and knew that she had seen something real. She backed away from him and put a hand on her breast. “The crew. My God.”

  “The crew?”

  She felt his eyes probe hers, willing her to describe what she'd witnessed. “Something – horrible – happened to the crew. I saw – oh, Lawrence – I saw…. He killed him.” She put a fist to her mouth and pressed it hard against her lips while her breathing came quick and shallow. Words burst from her mouth. “A tall man hit a little man over the head with a hammer.” Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  Lawrence bent to the base of the wheel to pick up the hammer that she'd seen in the man's hands. “This sledgehammer?” he asked.

  Tremors wracked her body, coming in waves. As she doubled over, she heard a voice ring out across the deck. “Commander.”

  Lawrence dug an elbow into her upper arm. “Up,” he commanded. “Lower your cap.”

  As the Coast Guard officer weaved through the lines, she brushed her cheeks and lowered the cap to her eyebrows.