I looked into his face, speechless with terrible apprehension. But I could not say it! I had no right to! I could not say that I did not want him to go out onto the water that day. That it was too, too dangerous!
His eyes bored into mine, and he took both my hands and pressed them.
“Quickly now,” he said softly.
I turned and ran back to our cottage. Tad and Uncle Gil were standing by the side entrance, and Mr. Brown, Donald, and a few of the farmhands were with them. By now the wind had picked up, and I could see an ugly dark cloud edging along the eastern skyline.
I told Tad that some of the men and George and Mr. Stewart were going to go out in boats to get the passengers.
Tad nodded and picked up his cap.
“There’s not much time, boys, is there?” I heard him say, and then the men grunted in assent.
Tad turned to us. “Alis—you and Marged must tend the mantle if we are not returned in time. Whatever happens, you must tend to the Light!”
Auntie nodded quietly, and she crossed herself and gave the men a blessing that they accepted in somber silence. Uncle Gil kissed her on the cheek, and she stood as if made of stone, her eyes not even blinking.
“Oh, Tad.” I was so frightened. “Do be careful!”
He hushed me and folded me in his arms, and I clung to him. He told me to watch Mother and to get Allan to help us with the Light. He kissed me and then they were gone—all the men.
The whole morning, I flew back and forth between our cottage and the Lodge. There was a peculiar apprehension in our movements. I told Allan that Father wanted him to manage the Light if he were not back before dark, and he came back with me and saw that all was made ready.
I kept reckoning the minutes in my mind. I knew that it would take at least two hours to get to the shoal and then perhaps thirty minutes to get the passengers in the boats—and then another two hours coming back. And then if the water were rough…
Seven hours passed, and the waves were—Mr. Thompson said they were fifteen feet or more in front of the Lodge. The rain had not ceased, but the sky had turned an evil gray, and we heard thunder far off in the distance.
Mr. Thompson had his field glasses trained on the water for any sign of the boats, and we gathered on the front porch with our eyes straining to the same spot on the horizon. Even Effie was there, standing in the doorway with Corrie, and the baby began to cry as if she sensed our mood.
“The storm is moving fast,” said Mr. Thompson, and he shook his head glumly.
I began to pray fervently. It was but three o’clock in the afternoon, but the entire sky had turned a livid gray, and it seemed as if night had dropped upon us like a curtain falling. Now we could see lightning blaze across the horizon, and the wind took on a shriller aspect, knocking over the table and seizing the wicker chairs that we had neglected to take inside, battering them against the Lodge’s stone walls. The rain came down in sheets, and the waves took on an even more ominous and angry aspect. My heart sank as I thought of the boats in that water.
Then—
“There,” shouted Mr. Thompson, gesturing toward the eastern skyline.
And appearing suddenly from around the Point, we could see the outline of a large boat. Its foremast was rolling horribly—up and down, back and forth—and we could see, as it neared, that the first jib sheet was ripped to pieces. The mainsail was shredding rapidly in the wind, and the waves were pushing it toward the shore, where it would surely be smashed into pieces against the rocks. We saw the men lowering the lifeboats and then push off, desperately making for shore.
“Allan,” I cried. He had run out into the storm without warning toward the boats, and I leaped out after him.
The waves took two of the boats and shot them as if from a cannon toward the shore, but the rowers were skillful and with much effort were able to guide them away from the treacherous rocks and then into the protection of the Basin.
George stumbled from one of the boats, and I ran to him. I looked around wildly, but I could not see my father or uncle.
“George,” I cried. “Where is my father? Where is Tad?” I clung to his sleeve desperately. It could not be that he had drowned!
George stopped, bending over and catching his breath. He placed his hands on my shoulders and leaned on me heavily. With an effort he swallowed. His face showed terrible exhaustion, and his jacket was torn—there was a smear of blood across his forehead.
“Back,” he panted. “They are—I think”—a fit of coughing interrupted him—“going ashore at the Light…”
I knew immediately what he meant. There were mooring spikes that Tad had driven into the rocks down below the light station—positioned in such a way that a boat could be tied to them without coming too close to the sharp ledges, and hence beyond the crashing waves that might crack its hull and seize any unfortunate passengers.
Without a word, I turned from him and flew down the beach. It was raining fiercely by this time, and I hastened but poorly along the shore, picking my way back to the outcropping below the light station. It was foolish and reckless of me to take this route in such a storm, but I knew that it was fastest. I could hear George calling my name hoarsely behind me, but I did not stop.
As I got closer, I could see Tad in his boat, and Uncle Gil and Dr. McTavish on the stone landing. Uncle G. had secured a second boat, and there were several women huddled against the rock face. My first thought was that one of them must be Mrs. McTavish. Uncle G. was crouched low on the ledge, struggling against the wind to get to Tad—his boat was still tossing in the terrible water, and it seemed that it would capsize at any moment. Tad kept casting a rope out to him, but Uncle Gil was too far away to reach it, and then the waves would drag it down, and the rowers had to fight again to find a position near enough to the rocks.
From my vantage, it seemed that I might have a better chance to secure the rope, and so I beckoned for Tad to throw it to me. I could barely see for the rain, but suddenly I felt a rope in my hands and I grasped it. The mooring was not more than a few paces away from me, but it seemed a mile! The boat heaved and rocked, and the rope would not obey me. I struggled with it, pulling and pulling, and I could feel my ankle start to give way.
Still I persisted. I wrapped my hands in my skirt and tugged with all my might. Uncle Gil could not reach me, and I could see him fall against the rocks as a blast of wind took him down with a cruel ferocity.
I bit my lips against the pain that shot through my arms, and I pulled with all my strength on the rope, but ever did the mooring remain out of my reach.
It was the wind—it was the wind who wanted him.
“I will not give him to you,” I shrieked out to it. “You cannot have him!”
And then—I do not know how to express it otherwise—it seemed as if two strong hands were next to mine and the Bay gave way. The rope slackened momentarily in my hands, and I quickly looped it around the mooring, tying it firmly in the way that Tad had taught me.
And then he was there, his face grim and his chest heaving from his exertions. He said my name, and I placed my hands alongside his neck, feeling the warmth of his body through my frozen fingers. I did not know it until later, but the rope had cut through my hands, and I left blood all over him.
But he is safe! And Uncle Gil! I am ashamed to be so thankful when so many others have perished—but I cannot help it.
July 4
Between them, Tad and Uncle Gilbert have saved eighteen passengers. George and Mr. Stewart have saved another nine. Dr. McTavish, too—but still I do not know if his wife is among those rescued. The boats of the other fishermen have also come in, and there are little children and women, all cold and crying, throughout the cottage. I have been of little use, but Auntie A. has done her best to make them warm, and I have tried to comfort the littlest ones. Tad and Uncle Gilbert cannot go back out—the storm is too f
ierce—and my heart is broken for these children. Will they learn tomorrow that they have mothers and fathers no more?
When will we know what has become of Mrs. McTavish?
July 7
There is to be a search. The inspectors have come, and there is an officer from the Royal Navy who has organized the men into crews.
It is all quite dreadful. For three days, we have had debris washed ashore, though thankfully there have been no bodies as yet in the Basin, or indeed below the light station. Mr. Stewart says that there were 150 people aboard the Mary Jane and that, so far, only eighty are accounted for. The worst have been the children’s things: I found a tiny baby’s bonnet and a little boot no bigger than my hand! There are two newspaper reporters staying at the Lodge, and each day, more people come hoping to get word of their relations. But it is now the third day, and our hopes are dwindling—Dr. McTavish seems to grow older with each day, and I can do nothing for him, except take his hand and hold it. He lets me do this at least, and when I asked him if he would drink his tea, he took a few sips, though he says hardly a word. I think she must be drowned…but I cannot tell if poor Dr. McTavish knows that it must be so.
July 9
The government inspectors have returned, and they had a long conference with Tad, Uncle Gilbert, George, and Mr. Stewart. The officer from the Royal Navy is here too, a Captain Howarth. Auntie Alis remarked that he is a handsome man, but I find his visage quite fierce. He has burning black eyes, and when he looks at me, I find them quite unnerving. He is very correct and stands quite straight and tall in his uniform, but he is displeased, it seems, with something and insists that Tad come with him to the Lonely Island light station.
The keeper there is Mr. Doric. He was here at Cape Prius before Tad, but then he was moved to the Lonely Island Light—why, I do not know. It is a terribly isolated, stark place and thus is well named. The island, too, is filled with snakes.
Captain Howarth has assembled two crews and has asked Tad to bring our dogs, though why I can’t imagine. Allan has insisted on accompanying the men, and Tad says that I, too, can come with Dewi and keep an eye on Allan.
Allan says that he is not sure why we are returning to the island since they have already searched it and Mr. Doric reports no bodies or effects—but Tad seems evasive. We will go early tomorrow.
July 10
I do not know if I have the strength to write of my travails today, but I must try.
We left for Lonely Island just as dawn was breaking and the weather was clear and calm. Indeed, no one would guess that the Bay had been a monster but a few days before, for it spread before us so soft and pleasant. A light wind allowed us to raise both sails, and we made our way there in good time.
Tad and I, Captain Howarth, Mr. Stewart, George, and Allan were in one sloop, while six other men took a second, larger one. I was almost sure that Captain Howarth suspected some ill of me, for ever did he cast his black eyes in my direction, and I kept pulling my hat lower, so keen was I to avoid them!
Allan was almost quivering with excitement, and I had to talk to him in a calm, low voice to cool his impetuousness. George was very quiet; his mind seemed to be elsewhere as his eyes roved, resting now upon Captain Howarth and then on Tad. He looked at me, too, but did not seem to see me and would not answer the anxious inquiry in my eyes by word or gesture.
When we got to the island, Tad tied the boat and Captain Howarth turned to help me step ashore. Again his eyes seemed to bore right into me. Dewi snapped peevishly at him, but it gave me a chance to stoop down and scold him for being such a bad creature and thus evade that dark stare.
Mr. Doric came out from the lighthouse. He was in only his shirtsleeves, and he seemed angry to see us. I stepped away from them and drew Allan’s arm into my own. I heard Mr. Doric raise his voice, protesting that there were no bodies that had washed ashore and that if there were, he would have reported them. Captain Howarth said something in a low voice that I could not hear, and then there was an argument. I heard Tad say that it could not hurt to look a second time.
I was filled with a strange dread, but I was glad to take Allan away from the men and their angry voices. We left the two hounds near the boats and took Dewi, who pulled us along, his nose to the ground, sniffing furiously. I was careful to keep his leash in my left hand, as my right was still bandaged and smarting from the exertions of the storm. Allan asked me if I thought that Mr. Doric might be hiding something, and I looked at him in surprise. Had he heard something that I had not?
Allan remarked he had overheard George and his stepfather talking, and it seemed that Mr. Doric had sent away some of the fishermen who had come two days before rather rudely.
“But it may have been—just his way,” I exclaimed. “He is not a sociable man. That, at least, is no secret.”
No, Allan indicated, shaking his head—they thought something more was amiss. Mr. Doric told them that no debris had washed up, but as the fishermen were leaving, they saw what looked to be some furniture: part of a table and a battered deck chair, such as one would see on a pleasure boat.
I was more than a little unsettled, and I stopped dead in my tracks. I did not like to think of what Allan was insinuating, and I remembered that we had to be wary of the snakes that infested the place.
Dewi was pulling vigorously on his leash, and Allan’s eyes brightened.
“He’s found something,” he cried exultantly and yanked the lead from me.
“Allan,” I protested, “stop!”
I could hear the men behind us with the other dogs; one of the hounds was yelping, and then there were loud scraping sounds as if they were moving some heavy object. A chill crept up my spine, and all of a sudden, I was afraid.
“You see,” I heard Mr. Doric exclaim, “there’s nothing here!”
“Margie!”
Allan motioned toward a pile of driftwood that had been bleaching in the sun for many months, or even years perhaps.
He paused before it and then said, “Come,” very quietly.
Again, a wave of dread passed over me, but I drew in my breath and moved closer.
Dewi was tugging on a piece of cloth, and to my horror, when we pulled him away, I saw a hand protruding from what looked to be the sleeve of a woman’s garment.
I must have screamed!
I do not know if seconds or minutes passed, but it seemed that Captain Howarth was there very quickly, with his hands on my waist, gently pulling me back from the pile of wood, speaking very softly to me, “Step away now—I’ve got you.”
Allan was transfixed.
I closed my eyes and covered my mouth, for there was a terrible stench that arose from the body. Then Tad was behind me, and I turned and pressed my face against his coat.
“There, Marged. There,” he said. And I swallowed and gathered myself, for I did not wish to shame him and have the men think him possessed of a weak daughter.
“Allan,” said Tad sharply, “come here and look to Marged.”
I am sure that he did this in part to draw Allan away from the grisly pyre. The men lifted up the pieces of wood, and I saw the form of a woman’s body emerge. Her face was horrible—the lips drawn back and her eyes staring wildly. Her arms were crossed at her chest, as if clutching some object, and her dress was torn in several places.
“There’s a wee babe with her,” one of the men said, stooping over her body. “Aye, it’s just a wee child.”
It was then that I realized that the woman could not have been put there by the storm, for she was too far from the shore. Nor could the storm have placed the branches upon her body, so carefully concealing her. But how had it happened?
I turned slowly and looked at Mr. Doric as it dawned upon me that someone—someone on the island—must have placed her so.
Captain Howarth stood up abruptly from his crouched position above the corpse and said, �
�This indentation shows that this woman was wearing a ring. And it seems that something has been wrenched from around her neck. Mr. Doric, can you explain this?”
Mr. Doric stood as if turned to stone, his eyes staring vacantly before him.
“Robbing the dead,” muttered one of the men.
Tad walked over to Mr. Doric and took his arm. “Come, James,” he said, and he led him, unresisting, back to the light station. One of Captain Howarth’s men stayed behind with the body, and Allan and I could do nothing except return to the dock, where our boats were tied and waiting.
“There are probably more—” began Allan, but I interrupted him.
“Don’t,” I said. “Let’s not talk of it. Not just yet.”
George and Mr. Stewart took us back to the mainland. We were all silent the whole way. I could not talk to the reporter either, though he came twice to see me.
When Tad came back, I heard Uncle Gilbert say, “They’ll hang him”—and Tad offered no contradiction.
July 11
They found more debris from the Mary Jane in Mr. Doric’s yard, and what Captain Howarth described as “personal effects.” It seems that Mr. Doric has taken things from many of the dead, and they are discovering the other bodies that he has hidden throughout the island. I do not think that I could ever bear to go back to that lonely spot after this; perhaps it was the isolation that twisted him and induced him to commit such heinous deeds!
July 15
We buried Mrs. McTavish today. They found her body early yesterday morning; I cannot write much of this. My heart is breaking for Dr. McTavish—I heard Tad say to Uncle Gil that she was almost unrecognizable. How terrible! I am filled with sadness and regret. There will be five new graves in our little cemetery. One of them will be for a boy who is thought to be eight, and one for a little girl of three.
I don’t think any of us will ever forget this summer.
Eight
I walked over to Clare’s after dinner, heading along the road rather than picking my way across the beach. I stopped at the overlook; there were dark clouds gathering on the horizon, and I found myself scanning the Bay for boats. Sure enough, a small yacht was making its way toward the two buoys that marked the entrance to Drake’s Basin.
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