She studied Lydia. Her sister looked lovely with the golden sunshine illuminating her hair as they strolled along the beach. They were like sunshine and shadow, Lydia with her hair so fair and Hannah’s own as dark as midnight. “I would be lost without the comfort of your company. Are you settling into the isolation now?”
Lydia shrugged. “Do I have a choice? I have to say I am disappointed, though. I had thought to see some British soldiers around here, but the only ones I saw were in New York.”
Hannah frowned. “What is this preoccupation with the British, Sister? Such talk is treasonous here. You must put such notions from your mind. Have you forgotten the British killed my husband?”
Lydia tossed her golden head. “I sorrow for your loss, but don’t blame the British that John went to war against his country. I never understood why you married the man when you could have wed Galen. I want a man who is dashing and handsome, not some dry stick many years my senior.”
At the mention of Galen’s name, Hannah stared at her. She’d hoped never to hear that name again, and a shudder passed over her. Lydia’s smile faltered at the fierce look Hannah gave her. “If you knew the evil in that man’s soul, you would not utter his name in my presence, Sister. Do you never look beneath the surface of good looks and a ready smile?”
Hannah shook her head. “I despair what will become of you, Lydia. Though he was older, John was twice the man Galen is. He cared for me when I needed someone more than you know.”
Lydia’s blue eyes seemed guileless as a babe’s. “You cannot dissuade me, Hannah. I refuse to believe ill of Galen. And I mean to marry an Englishman and live in England one day.” She smiled dreamily. “Grandmother spoke so often of the balls and fetes, of being presented at court. Someday I will have that life.”
Hannah gave a quick look around her and lowered her voice. “You must not say such things. If someone overheard you, you would be tarred and feathered and set on the road to New York.”
“Well, it would be better than this place of crushing boredom.” Lydia stared out over the ocean. “Just think, Hannah. Over this water lies England.” She drew out the last word in a breath of awe.
The longing on her sister’s face shook Hannah. This was no passing fancy of a young girl. Their grandmother’s stories of her young years in England had clearly turned Lydia’s head.
Hannah squinted up at the darkening sky. “I shall have a hard time of it tonight. Yonder comes a storm.” The wind blew the salty tang of moisture into her face.
By the middle of the afternoon a nor’easter roared down upon them. The wind and waves lashed the shore, and Hannah had to stay in constant attendance on her lights. The gale extinguished them twice through the long night. When morning broke, she looked out from the top of the lighthouse and saw the wreckage of a ship floating in the turbulent waters.
She rushed down the steps of the tower, then ran to the shore and fixed her gaze along the shoreline, trying to hold her panic at bay. Were there any survivors? Her feet made sucking sounds in the muck as she picked her way through the seaweed and debris left by the crashing waves. Pausing occasionally to scan the sea for bodies, she had gone nearly to the tip of Gurnet Point before she saw the first man, tossed onto the shore as flotsam.
He was dressed in a British uniform. It must have been an enemy ship that had crashed on the rocks. She knelt and touched him. Dead. She continued on her search and found five more bodies. The final man was still half submerged in the water.
Gasping at the shock of the cold water, she plunged up to her knees in the waves and dragged him to shore. He seemed different from the others, more pliant. Kneeling, she put her ear to his chest. He was still alive!
Lydia would never hear her above the howling wind. Hannah hesitated a moment, then knelt again. He must be kept warm. She pulled her shawl from under the rain slicker she wore and laid it over him, then hurried to the house to fetch assistance from Lydia.
By the time they managed to half-drag, half-carry him to the house, he was muttering and floating in and out of consciousness.
Hannah took off her wet outer clothing. “Get the fire going, Lydia, while I make some hot tea.” She had to repeat her request. Lydia stood staring in wonder at the young man.
“He’s so handsome. Poor man. Will he live, Hannah?”
“We shall try our best. But if God calls, he will not tarry.” She dragged the man as close to the fireplace as she dared. “One of us needs to fetch the doctor. He is very poorly.”
Lydia shivered. “I am still unfamiliar with the area, but I shall try if you like.” She tucked the blanket more tightly around him.
Hannah gazed out the window. Sheets of rain sluiced over the glass, and the wind still howled. Although it was nearly nine o’clock in the morning, it was as dark as twilight. The beacons were still shining, though. The wind was beginning to die down. A ride to town would not be pleasant in this weather.
She sighed and turned to don her rain slicker. It was kind of Lydia to offer, but it wouldn’t do. “No, I must go myself. You would be lost before you reached town, and you don’t even know where the doctor resides.”
Lydia nodded. “I shall stay by his side.”
The man moaned, then muttered. “Water.”
Hannah poured water into a tin cup and knelt beside him. He feebly tried to drink, but more dribbled down his chin than reached his throat.
“My thanks,” he whispered. He stared at her with suddenly lucid eyes. “Where am I?”
“Gurnet Point lighthouse. Your ship was destroyed in the storm.”
Alarm showed in his brown eyes for a moment. “Then the light-house still stands?”
Hannah frowned. “Of course.” What did he mean? A vague uneasiness enveloped her.
“We must destroy the light.” His eyes turned unfocused again. “It shall not stand come the morrow. It is crucial.”
Her breath caught in her throat, the cup slipped out of her fingers and clattered on the floor. The cold water soaked the hem of her dress. Destroy her lighthouse?
“Tend to him,” she told Lydia. “I must extinguish my lights before I fetch the doctor.” Her heart pounded. Was an invasion imminent or just an attack on her lighthouse? Either one was a terrifying thought. She hated to let her lights go dark. What if a friendly ship needed guidance? But the danger was too great.
Lydia nodded and smoothed the man’s hair back from his forehead. “I shall stay here.”
Hannah sighed at her sister’s dreamy tone and exited the house. Pelting through the mud puddles, she ran to the nearest tower and climbed the wooden steps to the top. The glass was black with soot. She extinguished the flame, then hurried to the other tower and did the same. Gazing through the window, she strained to see if any other ships navigated the storm-lashed sea, but it was impossible to tell.
She had done all she could. Now she must summon the doctor. The rain began to die down, and the wind quieted as she exited the tower nearest the house. Lydia waved frantically from the door.
“What is it?” she called when she neared the house.
“I think he is dead.” Lydia’s face was white. “You must see.”
Hannah brushed by her and knelt by the sailor. She touched his cheek. Cold. Putting her ear to his chest again, she could detect no heartbeat, no rise and fall of his breath. “He has expired,” she said softly. “May God have mercy on his soul.” She sighed. They had all died, in spite of her work through the night to keep the lights burning. At times like this it seemed she labored in vain.
“We must bury this one and the others still on the beach,” she told Lydia. “The men from the village will be arriving soon to scavenge among the wreckage. I shall ask them to dig the graves.”
By the time the men arrived, only a gray drizzle fell from the equally dull sky. Elated by their finds along the beach, the men dug the graves in the little graveyard behind the house without grumbling. Several casks of beer and whiskey, a cask of gunpowder, various tools, and article
s of clothing sweetened their tempers.
Hannah paced the hill overlooking the ocean. She chewed on a hangnail. Was a British frigate even now heading her way? The crisp air, cooler since the passing of the storm, touched her face with a caress that left her shivering, and not just from the temperature. Soon winter would be here. She dreaded tending the light with the biting wind tearing through her clothing.
Her stomach growled, and she realized she’d eaten nothing all day. Lydia would likely be famished as well. Wrapping her rain slicker more closely about her, Hannah forced herself to turn and walk back to the house. There was no recourse—tonight she must leave the lamp out. Knowing the plot, she dare not risk her lights.
Lydia had prepared a stew for supper. The stockpot on the trivet bubbled out a delicious aroma of beef and potatoes, and Hannah’s stomach rumbled. Fresh bread was on the table and a kettle of hot tea.
She laid a hand on Lydia’s shoulder where she sat on a stool tending the stew. “You are a blessing. That stew smells lovely.”
Lydia gave her a warm smile. “Sit down and eat while ’tis hot.” She poured the tea into mugs and set one in front of Hannah’s place.
Hannah sank gratefully into her chair and gulped the hot tea laced with sugar. Lydia sat across from her. Hannah said grace, then they ate their meal in silence. “It’s good, Lydia.” Sometimes her sister seemed so selfish, then she turned around and did something considerate like this, almost sensing when Hannah needed a bit of extra care.
After supper Lydia washed the dishes while Hannah went to the beach to look over the dark water again. What else could she do to foil the British? She should have asked the men from the village to come back with their guns. But what good would they be against cannons? No, her best option was to keep the lighthouse dark this night. The British would soon prowl on to fresher targets.
Such a day it had been. Every muscle ached from lack of sleep and carrying the sailor to the house. She would welcome her bed this night. But she couldn’t rest until she was certain the lighthouse was safe.
Peering through the darkness, she prayed for the British to miss her little lighthouse. She saw a blink of light. Was that a ship? She grabbed her spyglass and focused on the dim light. The moon appeared from behind a cloud and illuminated the water. It was a ship! The dark shape lumbered through the waves off to the north of her post and came closer to the dangerous shoals.
“It’s too close,” she whispered. If it did not veer soon, the ship would crash on the rocks.
She held her breath. She bore no wish to see even a British frigate crash on the rocks. Should she light her lamps? Torn with indecision, she hesitated, then let out her breath. No, she could not run the risk. It could be the ship that sought to destroy her lighthouse. If so, it well deserved to run aground.
She kept her glass trained on the dim shape. It came closer yet. “Move away,” she whispered. But still it approached. Then shouts echoed over the water. The sailors had seen the danger. It was surely too late. The ship began to turn but not fast enough. Hannah gripped the glass so tightly it cut into her palms. With a last majestic heave, the ship struck the rocks. The shouts turned to shrieks, and the ship began to break apart.
“Lydia!” Hannah ran down the steps. “Lydia, I need you!”
Her sister came to the door of the house and looked out.
“A ship is on the rocks. I must go to the rescue. Ready some hot tea and find all the blankets we have. Ring the bell to notify the village.”
Lydia nodded and disappeared back inside. Hannah ran to the beach and dragged her dinghy into the water. Two shipwrecks in as many days. It promised to be a hard season.
The waves sucked at her skirt, but she gathered them in her hands and climbed into the small boat John called a coble. Leaning into the oars, she rowed with haste toward the sinking ship. The screams intensified as she neared the disabled craft. Bodies were tossed in the waves, and she reached an oar out toward the nearest one. The wild-eyed man made a grab for it and missed, then the waves hurled him into the rocks. He sank under the foam and never surfaced.
Soon men from the village would be here to comb for wreckage and survivors, but these men couldn’t wait. A man clinging to a bit of detritus floated by, and she managed to get him into the boat. He was barely conscious, his dark hair hanging in wet hanks over his eyes. He wore breeches with a patterned waistcoat covered by a navy coat.
This must have been a merchant ship. Hannah’s heart sank. Her decision had cost this crew their ship and livelihood. She could see the name Temptation on a part of the ship that was still intact.
Shouts rang out behind her and she turned to see several dinghies cutting through the waves toward her. Thankfully, she waved to them. They could see to the rest of the survivors, if there were any. She simply had no strength left. She would take this man home, then seek her own bed.
She fought the waves to shore, then jumped into the foam and pulled the coble ashore. How was she to get him to the house? Fatigue slowed her limbs. She might have to wait until some of the men came ashore. His leg, obviously broken, lay at an odd angle. Even if he were conscious, he would not be able to walk.
She leaned over and set her hand on his shoulder. He stirred and opened his eyes. As black as the night, his gaze caught and held her own. She felt as if she should know him, but there was nothing familiar about his features. Black hair and eyes, he reminded her of a pirate. She knew no one with that air of danger. Then why did she feel this connection between them?
She quelled the unease and smiled encouragingly. “You’re safe now.”
He frowned and sat up. “Who are you?” He tried to move and groaned. “My leg is broken, methinks.”
“Yes, I believe it is. I am Hannah Thomas, keeper of Gurnet Lighthouse. Your ship struck the shoals offshore.”
He frowned more fiercely. “Lighthouse? I saw no light. If I had, we would have avoided this godforsaken place.”
“God has not forsaken Gurnet Point,” she said sharply. “Mind your tongue, sir.”
He scowled. “Did you neglect your post, mistress? If so, I shall report your dereliction to the authorities. I carry important cargo for Great Britain. You shall pay dearly.”
He shivered and she bit back the words of denial. This argument would get them nowhere. “I shall call the doctor to tend you. But I cannot carry you to the house by myself. Rest while I summon aid.”
He shook his head. “If I may be so bold as to lean on your shoulder and you can find a stick as well, I believe I can walk.”
“Not on a broken leg, surely.”
He glowered. “If you would fetch a stick, I would show you.”
Sighing at his stubbornness and pride, she found a thin, stout board left from yesterday’s shipwreck and brought it to him.
He nodded. “’Twill do,” he said. He braced himself on the stick and slung an arm around her shoulders. With the man hopping on one leg and supported by Hannah and the stick, they made their way to the house. Their progress was slow and laborious, but eventually they were at the front stoop.
Hannah opened the door and helped him into the house. In the light of the lamp, his face was pale and sweat dotted his forehead and upper lip. She pushed the chair to him, and he collapsed into it.
Breathing heavily, he shuddered and gasped. “Methinks I need your help again, lightkeeper,” he said in a mere whisper. Then he fainted.
CHAPTER 5
Pain. Birch Meredith cried out. His own voice woke him, and he opened one gummy eye, then quickly closed it at the piercing sunshine. Where was he? Groaning, he tried to move and found his right leg immobilized. He forced his eyes open and winced again at the sun’s glare. Sitting up, he stared at his leg. Strips of cotton bound it to two pieces of wood. Broken.
The iron bed he lay in sat along the back wall of a small bedroom. The only other furnishings were a simple bedside commode and a small ragged rug on the floor.
Memory flooded back. The Temptation, his pride
and joy, now lay at the bottom of the Atlantic Ocean. That thought hurt more than his leg. At least he had delivered the supplies for the revolution. But how was he to continue his espionage activities without a ship? He scowled. Thanks to that young woman who had let the light go out, his days as a privateer for the Continental Congress were over for now. If she were here now, he would throttle her.
As though his thoughts had summoned her, the woman opened the door to his small bedroom and entered. She carried a tray with a pot of tea and a plate of bread with jam. Her smile faltered at his scowl. She set the tray on the stand beside the bed. “You are awake.”
“Obviously.”
She bit her lip at his abrupt tone. She seemed nicely rounded with curly black hair and deep-green eyes. Dimples flashed in her cheeks, and she had full lips above a tiny pointed chin. Just his luck she would be wrapped in a nice package. But her looks wouldn’t save her from his wrath. Did she realize what her negligence had cost him? He narrowed his eyes and stared at her silently.
Perhaps she had done it deliberately. Was she a loyalist? He meant to find out. It would be dangerous to have a keeper of the light not fully loyal to the new government. But he must do so with care. Rumor traveled on the wind these days. He couldn’t afford to have anyone question his loyalty to the Crown or his value to Washington would be over.
“Perhaps your temper will improve with some refreshment.” She poured the tea into a cup and handed it to him.
He took the tin cup, suddenly famished and thirsty. He wasn’t sure when he’d last eaten. He didn’t even know what day it was. He closed his fingers around the cup and took a gulp of the beverage. The heat of the tea warmed both his throat and his hands. “Thank you.” He didn’t want to owe her anything. It was her fault he was in this predicament.
She smiled, and the dimple in her left cheek flashed. “Those thanks did not pain you too much, now did they?”
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