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Anchored: A Lamp in the Storm

By Valerie Banfield

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Excerpt, Chapter One - Safeguarded

DECEMBER, 1895. Thomas Burton squinted, as if a heightened degree of focus could push back the haze hovering over the surface of the choppy expanse. He dared not blink for fear of losing sight of the ship altogether. When a hot white plume and a spray of red and orange specks burst through the low-lying cover and spewed into the clouds, he drew back, sputtering. The sound of the explosion reached his hearing moments later, drawing a lump to his throat and forcing him to gasp for air.

With his eyeglass fastened on the horizon, and the view eerily distorted by the mist, he watched the glow of flames as it licked the fabric of the three sails that led the schooner to its treacherous end. As the fog bell sounded again, Thomas said a silent prayer for those in the distance who would no longer hear its mournful toll.

Mate Alfred Reynolds joined Thomas on deck as a second round of small explosions vaulted into the atmosphere. He tugged the glass from Thomas’ hand, and hefted it to his right eye.

“At least it weren’t a passenger liner,” Reynolds said. “S’pose they were transporting gunpowder along with their other goods.”

“Looks like a shipment of whale oil. The ring of flames around the vessel is moving outward.” Thomas turned his head toward the mate. “Any sign of survivors?”

Reynolds shifted the glass across the horizon, left to right, up and down.
“Don’t see anything except fire.”

Reynolds handed the glass back to Thomas. “If you ask me, we’ve no reason to stay on deck.”

“I’ll keep watch a while longer, sir.”

“Too cold for survivors, and you know it. Folks so dimwitted to venture out this time of year, almost serves ’em right.”

Thomas turned just long enough to send a disapproving glance to the captain’s second-in-command. “I’ll stay, sir.”

“Suit yourself. You want to keep Bannister company whilst he rings the fog bell, s’up to you.” Reynolds leveled his well-worn scowl on Thomas, his loose jowls jostling with his downturned lips. When a wave tossed against the side of the lightship, he shook the spray from his face and headed to the officers’ quarters.

The frigid air amplified the fog bell’s clanging each time the clapper smacked against its iron shell. The familiar sound, delivered relentlessly in two-minute increments, assaulted Thomas’ eardrum with each peal. His body, like those of his mates, was so accustomed to the seafarer’s warning that he could anticipate each resounding gong at precisely the moment it rang into winter’s unforgiving air. At this moment, each time the bell tolled, the hope for survivors diminished.

Captain Roy Garvin bunched the fabric circling his thick neck with one hand and blew his warm breath into his other hand. “Anything out there, Burton?”

“Not that I can see yet, Captain.”

“Yet? Unless someone was already in the water when the first explosion hit, you won’t find anyone.”

Thomas allowed a brief recess from scanning the area between ships. He studied the solemn countenance of the seasoned sailor—the man relegated to the dreaded lightship for the duration of his maritime service. Thomas found fatigue, sorrow, and defeat in every deep line in the old salt’s face.

“I know that, sir.”

He lifted the eyeglass again, leaned forward, and blinked several times. “Captain?”

When Thomas heard the Captain turn, his footsteps heavy on the deck boards as he returned to the port side, he offered the glass to him.

“Something out there, ’bout halfway between the wreckage and the Nautican, sir.”

“Probably barrels of oil.” Captain Garvin turned, as if to go.

“Beg to disagree, sir. Looks more like a raft, or maybe a small lifeboat. Request permission to lower the lifeboat, sir.”

Thomas heard Garvin snort back the first response that rested on his lips. “Haven’t you been on ship long enough to lose your optimism? We have better things to do than look at empty waters and worthless debris.”

“But, what if . . . sir?” Thomas respected his captain. He did. But the man would rather pretend no one survived the sunken schooner than to conduct a search that might put his crew in harm’s way. Captain had every right to protect his crew.

“Storm’s heading this way. I can feel it.”

“Then let me head out now. I feel an urgent need to reach the boat, or raft, or whatever it is.” Thomas paused before he added, “Sir.”

Thomas stared hard into the captain’s eyes, even as the mariner drew them into thin slits. “Is this one of your prophecy sightings, Burton?”

Thomas knew Captain didn’t mean to taunt; the man chose his words carefully and deliberately. How was Thomas to explain himself when he didn’t know why God sometimes nudged him to do something, or say something that originated outside of his own mind? All Thomas knew, God spoke to his heart. Others knew it too. Captain, included.

“If God spared someone’s life, and the waves are tossing him about while he holds onto that chunk of wood floating out there, we best retrieve him. God Almighty may have saved someone for a special deed and purpose. I aim to do my part.”

Captain released his hold on his coat, rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “I won’t send other men out with you. You may go if you have two volunteers.” This time, Captain strode to his quarters without leaving room for Thomas to comment.

Thomas ran the eyeglass lens over the dark waters. Where did it go? He closed his eyes, blinked them tightly once, and scoured the horizon again. Nothing. This time, when he closed his eyes, he said, “God? If you have a reason for me to lower the boat and turn those oars, You have to show me where You want me to go.”

When he looked again, the drifting mass was in plain view, moving closer to the ship.

Thomas scrambled to the galley and shouted, “Need two volunteers. Might have survivors. Anyone?”

His request earned silence and disinterested faces.

“Men, this is why we’re here. To save people from drowning. I need two volunteers.”

Thomas caught Andrew Miller’s eyes and fastened on them tighter than the chain holding the lightship’s anchor. Andrew peered over his playing cards and lowered his hand just far enough for Thomas to see him chewing his lower lip. Andrew emitted an annoyed, “pfft,” and dropped his cards to the table. He slapped Henry Simpson on the shoulder.

“Let’s go.”

Thomas clapped Andrew on the back as they waited for the crew to lower the lifeboat into the icy waters.

“Thanks, Andrew. You too, Henry.”

Thomas and Henry strained at the oars while Andrew searched for the floating mass.

“You’re crazier than I am, Burton,” Andrew hollered.

“Then why’d you volunteer?” Thomas yelled.

“I figure I can either die from boredom, or die in the Atlantic. Ain’t got much to lose, either way.”

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