The Ghosts of Aquinnah

by Julie Flanders

“Hello? This is Grace Pease.”

  “Ms. Pease, this is Hannah Forrester.”

  “Oh, hello Ms. Forrester.”

  “I’m sorry to be calling you so late…”

  “Not a problem,” Pease answered. “What can I do for you?”

  “I just wondered if you or perhaps the maid had been in my room since I checked in this afternoon.”

  “No, I haven’t. And Mrs. Rogers won’t be back until tomorrow morning to clean. She cleaned your room before you got here today. Was something unsatisfactory?”

  “No, no, everything was great, thank you. I just found a paper on the bed I thought you or Mrs. Rogers may have misplaced.”

  “What kind of paper?”

  “A newspaper article.”

  “I’ll ask Mrs. Rogers in the morning, but I can’t imagine why she would have been carrying newspapers around while cleaning the rooms. Please accept my apologies, though. I’m sorry that a mess was left in your room.”

  “No, it wasn’t a mess at all; please don’t think I’m complaining.” The last thing Hannah wanted to do was get the maid in trouble with her boss. “It’s not a problem. You’re just sure that no one was in my room after I checked in?”

  “Of course I’m sure, Ms. Forrester. We respect our guest’s privacy. And no one has a key besides Mrs. Rogers and me.”

  “Okay, great, thank you. I may have picked up this paper myself on the ferry or maybe back in Boston and just forgot, I’m sure it’s nothing. I’m sorry again to have bothered you. The room is lovely.”

  “It’s no bother at all. Please don’t hesitate to call if anything else comes up.”

  “I won’t, thank you. Good night.”

  Hannah hung up the phone and walked to the door of her room to double-check the lock. Maybe she had simply forgotten to lock it when she’d gone to the cliffs and another guest had entered her room by mistake. That was the most likely answer. Except that she knew she’d locked the door.

  Shaken, Hannah grabbed a straight back chair from the dressing table and propped it under the doorknob. She returned to the bed and picked up the paper again. Grace Pease’s voice echoed in her head.

  “No one has a key besides Mrs. Rogers and me…”

  Whether they had a key or not, someone had managed to get into her room while she was gone and placed the old newspaper where she was sure to find it. But who?

  An answer crept into Hannah’s mind, but she quickly swept it aside. She wasn’t so far gone that she was ready to accept that. There had to be a rational explanation for all of this.

  She looked at the paper again and knew where to start looking for that explanation. She’d spend the following day at the library. She needed to learn more about the wreck of The City of Columbus.

  ****

  Hannah couldn’t believe her eyes when she booted up her laptop the following morning at breakfast and clicked onto the official Martha’s Vineyard site. She realized she wasn’t going to be heading to the library after all.

  There, front and center on the page, was an advertisement about a new exhibit at the Martha’s Vineyard museum and historical society in Edgartown. The exhibit featured the most infamous shipwrecks in the island’s history. Hannah had no doubt that The City of Columbus would be included. It had to be.

  Stunned by the coincidence of the exhibit opening right after she had found the newspaper article, Hannah recalled the night she had decided to come to the island after her mystery woman had stared directly into the webcam and at her. She was shaken by the feeling that she was being led. But how could that be? And what could possibly be the purpose?

  Knowing there was only one way to find out, Hannah quickly finished her breakfast and jumped in her car. The beautiful sunshine of the previous day had disappeared and she now found herself driving through a pelting rain. She considered herself lucky to find a parking spot near the museum, as the narrow cobblestone streets of Edgartown could often be a nightmare to navigate.

  Hannah pulled the hood of her raincoat over her head and ran as quickly as she could to the museum, noticing the Fresnel lens of the old Gay Head lighthouse in its usual place on the front lawn as she ran past. She tried to recall the last time she’d been to the museum, and couldn’t. It was safe to say it had been a long time.

  She walked inside and shook the rain from her jacket as she wiped her shoes dry on the door mat. It was easy to find the shipwreck exhibit, as the museum was small, and a large banner hanging from the ceiling pointed to the display. The museum was crowded, which wasn’t a huge surprise given the rain and nasty weather. There weren’t a great deal of indoor recreational activities available on the Vineyard.

  Hannah scanned the room until she found what she was looking for, which didn't take long. As the most deadly shipwreck in the island’s history, The City of Columbus took center stage in the exhibit. A door from the ill-fated ship was encased in glass, and Hannah couldn’t help but wonder how many doomed passengers had grabbed hold of that door as they tried in vain to reach safety. A builder’s plate bearing the ship’s name was displayed next to one of the quarterboards from its deck.

  She paused at a display of newspaper clippings from the time of the wreck, finding coverage from The Boston Globe and The New York Times as well as the articles from The Vineyard Gazette. Hannah felt slightly lightheaded when she came upon the article that had been left on her bed back at the Hammett House. She didn’t need to read that one to know what it said.

  Moving on from the newspapers, Hannah was surprised to find photos and daguerreotypes from the days immediately following the wreck. While she knew from the famous Matthew Brady collection that photography had been available as early as the Civil War, she hadn’t thought about it being used on an island as remote as the Vineyard had been in those days.

  She was fascinated by photos of the Wampanoag tribe members who had manned the rescue boats after being informed of the wreck by the lighthouse keeper. They stared at the camera while holding the large oars of the boats in their weather-worn hands. Hannah couldn’t imagine rowing a boat through the huge waves that regularly pounded the shore of Aquinnah, and wondered how the rescuers had managed to survive themselves.

  Hannah’s heart began to pound a rhythmic drumbeat in her chest as she came upon another photo, this time of two middle-aged men and a young woman standing in front of one of the boats. Feeling dizzy, she grabbed the railing of the exhibit case to steady herself.

  “That’s her,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  Hannah jumped, startled to find she had spoken aloud. She looked at the woman next to her and pointed at the photo. “I’m sorry. I just recognized the woman in this photo.”

  The woman nodded and moved away. Hannah knew the woman thought she was nuts; something she was starting to get used to at this point. And something that probably wasn’t that far off the mark.

  But when she returned her gaze to the photo, she knew that it was the truth and not some crazy delusion. The woman in the photo was the same woman Hannah had seen on the webcam. She even wore the same long white dress and dark cloak.

  Hannah looked at the card next to the photo and read the description. According to the card, the people in the photo were the lighthouse keeper who had coordinated rescue efforts and the town doctor and his wife.

  Hannah cleared her throat and headed to the front desk of the museum, where an elderly woman dressed in a rose-colored blazer and a gray skirt greeted her.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  “Do you work here?” Hannah asked.

  “I’m a volunteer docent.”

  “Can you tell me who the people are in one of the photos in the shipwreck exhibit? It says on the card they were the town doctor and his wife.”

  The woman followed Hannah over to the exhibit and looked at the photo Hannah pointed out.

  “Yes, of course” the woman said. “That’s Josiah Winslow; he was the doctor in Chilmark at the time and came to help with the resc
ue efforts.”

  “And the woman?”

  “His wife. I believe her name was Stella.”

  Hannah stared at the photo and thought of the woman wandering around the cliffs alone at night. Stella Winslow.

  She turned abruptly to the docent. “Can you tell me anything else about her?”

  The woman looked puzzled. “No, I’m sorry I can’t. What else is it that you want to know?”

  Hannah shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said, knowing full well she sounded like a lunatic. “Do you have newspaper archives here? Or would I need to go to the library for that? I need to find out more about this wreck and these rescuers.”

  “I think you’d do best going to the library. They have all the old papers on microfiche.”

  Hannah nodded. “Thank you.”

  She got back into her car and considered heading to the Edgartown Library, but changed her mind as she turned the image of Stella Winslow over in her mind. The Winslows were from Chilmark, and the wreck had taken place off the coast of Aquinnah. She had already been in the right place when she’d arrived “up island.”

  She drove to the Chilmark Free Public Library and ran through the steady rain into the charming weather-stained wood building. She walked quickly to the reference department, and within a short time she had all the information available on The City of Columbus and the people involved in the wreck.

  Hannah sat down at a table and ignored the incredulity that rang through her rational mind. How had a 19th century Vineyard resident managed to turn up on a webcam at 21st century Aquinnah? Hannah knew it was impossible, but she didn’t care. She knew now that Stella Winslow had been wandering the cliffs for a reason. And Hannah needed to find out what that reason was.

  She spread the documents in front of her on the table and found herself immersed in the Martha’s Vineyard of 1884. Stella Winslow’s Martha’s Vineyard. As Hannah read through the materials surrounding her, she began to piece together a life.

  1884

  Christopher woke to the sound of his heart furiously beating in his chest. He felt an overwhelming sense of panic mixed with a crippling pain in his arm. Where was he and what had happened to him?

  He blinked and glanced around at his surroundings. He saw a woman staring out the window of the room where he was lying in bed. Her back was to him, and her long auburn hair hung loosely down her back. Suddenly, he remembered. She and her husband had helped him after the wreck. The man was a doctor…

  “Hello?” Christopher whispered, his throat as dry and parched as dead leaves. He made a painful attempt to swallow and managed to cough instead. “Hello?” he croaked.

  Stella jumped and turned around. “You’re awake,” she said, her face brightened by a smile as she came towards the bed. She wore a heavy blue cloak around her shoulders.

  Christopher nodded, afraid to speak more and start coughing again. The pain he felt with each cough was more than he could handle.

  “Are you cold?” Stella asked. “Thirsty?”

  “Thirsty,” Christopher gasped. “Please.”

  Stella picked up a pitcher of water and a mug from the bedside table and poured Christopher a drink. She sat down next to him on the bed and held the mug up to his lips. “Can you raise your head to drink?” she asked.

  Christopher nodded and lifted his head a few inches from his pillow. The slight movement sent a fresh wave of pain down his arm. He gasped and let his head fall back down.

  “I’ll help you,” Stella said.

  She leaned over Christopher and gingerly raised his head with her left arm. Supporting his weight, she brought the mug in her right hand back to his lips.

  Christopher took several sips, wincing as the water went down his parched throat. He took a larger drink, grateful for the increased ease in swallowing as he drank more water. He took a last sip before motioning for Stella to take the mug away. As she moved her arm out from behind him, he let his head return to the pillow.

  Stella put a cool hand onto his forehead. “You don’t feel hot anymore,” she said. “I think your fever broke.”

  Christopher tried to shift on the bed, and immediately groaned. “My arm,” he said. “God almighty what happened to it?”

  “You broke it before you were rescued,” Stella said. “Let me give you some laudanum for the pain. You’re due more.”

  “What happened to me?”

  “You don’t remember anything?”

  Christopher watched as Stella measured out a dose of laudanum and brought it to his lips. He swallowed gratefully, desperate for relief from the pain.

  “The shipwreck,” he said. “I know I was in a shipwreck. But my arm…”

  Christopher had a sudden flash of memory. A searing pain as he slammed into the rescue boat. Sailors pulling him into the boat and rowing towards the shore..

  “I hit my arm on the boat,” he said.

  “The bone cracked,” Stella said. “It’s a bad break, but my husband set it for you. You’ll be good as new soon.”

  Christopher glanced up at the woman’s eyes, so green they reminded him of a forest. Or of the beautiful countryside of his homeland. Home. Where was he now, he wondered.

  “Where am I?” he asked.

  “You’re on Martha’s Vineyard. In the town of Gay Head. Your ship went down right off the shore below the lighthouse.”

  Christopher’s memory started to return to him. “The lighthouse keeper. You said he helped me, right?”

  “Mr. Mayhew, yes. He and the Gay Headers rescued you and now we’re caring for you in Mr. Mayhew’s house.”

  “You’re Stella. Your husband is Josiah Winslow.”

  “Dr. Winslow, yes. And now that you’ve remembered us, perhaps we can learn about you. What’s your name, sir?”

  “Christopher Casey.”

  His Irish brogue became more pronounced as he said his own name.

  “You’re an Irishman, Mr. Casey?”

  “That I am. From Galway. But I came to Boston last year.” Christopher let out a deep breath as he felt the laudanum take effect and the edges of the pain start to slip away.

  “Where were you heading?”

  “Pardon?”

  “On the ship. Where were you heading?”

  “To Savannah,” Christopher said. Boarding the boat now seemed like a lifetime ago. He realized he had no idea how long ago it had been.

  “How long have I been here?” he asked.

  “Two days,” Stella said. “My husband should have returned by now, but the snow’s stopped him no doubt.”

  Stella rose from the bed and walked back to the window, where she lifted up the heavy curtains. Christopher stared out at the snowflakes falling and swirling in the shrieking wind.

  “The wind sounds terrible,” he said.

  “It’s breezy,” Stella agreed. “A nor’easter come up the coast.”

  Christopher rested his head back on the pillow. “It sounds so cold. I wanted to go to Savannah to get away from the cold.” He shivered in the bed.

  “You’re cold now,” Stella said, coming back towards the bed. “You may still have a touch of the fever. You’ve been burning up with it.”

  Christopher remembered the cough that had plagued him before he ever got on the ship. And his failure to listen to Mrs. Pitts’ advice to stay home until he had recovered.

  “I was ill before I ever got on the boat,” he said. “Feverish and coughing like mad…”

  Stella nodded. “You’re lucky it didn’t turn into the consumption.”

  She walked to the closet and pulled a thick brown blanket from the top shelf. Carrying it back to the bed, she opened the blanket and wrapped it around Christopher. “Get yourself warm, Mr. Casey.”

  Christopher nodded. “That feels good. Thank you.”

  “Are ya hungry?”

  Christopher hadn’t realized how empty his stomach was. He hadn’t eaten since he’d boarded the boat. His stomach growled as if on cue in response to Stella’s question.
“I am, yes.”

  Stella smiled. “I’ll be right back.”

  He watched her leave the room, her long hair swinging from side to side as she closed the heavy wooden door behind her. He turned back towards the window as he heard ice pellets hitting the panes of glass and the wind howling like wolves on the full moon. He wondered what the weather was like in Savannah at that moment.

  Never mind that now, he thought. He should be thinking about all those men he had seen hanging on the rafters of the ship with him. Had any of them survived? He knew Stella’s husband had told him he was their only patient. Surely others must have been rescued. Perhaps they had just been taken to another part of the island.

  He leaned back on his pillow and waited for Stella to return. The room felt too empty without her, and he felt too alone. In spite of the fact that she had only been gone a few minutes, he missed her. He missed her presence.

  ****

  “Our patient is awake, Mrs. Mayhew,” Stella said as she entered the kitchen of the lighthouse keeper’s home. “He’s very hungry, the poor thing. I dare say he’s not eaten since he boarded that ship.”

  “I’ve got chowder for him,” Mrs. Mayhew said as she dried her hands on her long white apron. “And bread baking in the oven just now.”

  “It smells lovely,” Stella said.

  “As long as it tastes good, that’s all we need to worry about.”

  Mrs. Mayhew was nothing if not practical. And that trait no doubt came in handy when running a house on top of a range of cliffs where her husband could be called out to man the lighthouse at any time of the night. Mrs. Mayhew seemed naturally calm and easy-going, although those may have been learned skills she had acquired to keep herself sane while raising the Mayhew’s five sons. The youngest was now 20 and had married a girl from Chilmark the previous autumn. Like the rest of her children, he’d left Gay Head behind. Mrs. Mayhew didn’t want to admit it, but she was thrilled to have the company of Stella and her young patient while they all waited out the storm. The house felt alive again for the first time since her youngest son had moved away.