She stood in the warm, ankle-deep water and watched the speck of the boat disappear on the horizon. Shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare, she strained for one last glimpse, but he had truly gone. The time away from him sounded like forever, especially with the dangers at sea. She shivered in recalling the hurricane that had struck Galveston the previous September and killed six people.
“Please bring him home to me,” Jule prayed. Then, as if God chose to remind her of Mason’s earlier words, she remembered his remark of not needing to pray for him. “Touch his heart, Lord. Make him see how much he truly needs You.”
Mason stared at Jule’s lone figure until she faded from view. Already he missed her. Already his arms longed to hold her. He had sealed her lovely face to memory—the natural pink of her cheeks and the depth of her hazel gaze. Closing his eyes, he could almost feel her silky black tresses woven between his fingers and hear the sweet sound of her voice saying she loved him. Given the opportunity, he would have brought her with him. But a woman did not belong at sea—and neither did some men.
In the weeks ahead, he’d keep busy, but he well knew the restlessness after days of riding ocean waves. Those were his thinking times, when he contemplated the future and dreamed of Jule—his jewel.
In the past, he had studied his Bible during idle moments on board ship. Mason shook his head, burdened with guilt over his doubts of the Lord. He needed to renew his dedication and commitment to the Creator. Where had those questions come from? And why had he allowed them to consume his mind?
Searching his soul deeply, Mason realized his daring escapades had much to do with his misgivings. Time and again, he had battled the odds through the worst of storms and won. Admittedly, he had come to believe in his own skill rather than in God’s grace.
Jule cast a worried frown at the shadows of twilight ushering in the sunset. The hours had passed slowly since Mason’s departure, but new fears filled her senses. From her post at the top of the lighthouse, she could see all around, and there were no signs of Papa and Joshua. They should have been back before now. Rarely did they stay out fishing much beyond late afternoon. The lighthouse duties ranked more important than anything else in their lives, except for serving God.
She picked up the small metal box containing matches and lit the lamps. Once they burned brightly against the reflectors, she stepped out on the catwalk to look again for signs of Papa and Joshua. The darker it grew, the more concerned she became.
Four hours later, right after Jule had trimmed the wicks, Joshua bounded up the spiral staircase of the high tower, calling her name in an anxious tone. Alarmed, she met him at the top of the iron steps.
“Is everything all right?” she asked, searching his face. “Where have you and Papa been so long?”
Her brother, a long-legged boy of fifteen, stepped into the lantern room. In the light, she could see the day had taken its toll on him.
“What’s wrong?” she asked, feeling agitation wind through her body.
“Give me a moment to breathe,” Joshua replied with a scowl. “I’m bone-tired, and I’m taking over the lighthouse tonight.”
“No, you’re not,” she said firmly. “You need your rest. Please, tell me what happened today. I know something is wrong.”
His face instantly softened. “Papa has pneumonia.”
“How do you know?” she demanded. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’ll be quiet and listen. It’s just I have been so worried.”
He nodded and offered a grim smile. “Papa got real sick on the boat—couldn’t breathe and had an awful fever. Against his wishes, I went on to Galveston and forced him to see a doctor.”
Jule knew very well the problem her brother must have had urging Papa to seek medical help. But Joshua had one strong advantage: he resembled their mother—large-boned, strong, and determined.
“He argued with me, even threatened to thrash me, but he was too weak to put up much of a fight. A friend of Mason’s recognized Papa and offered to drive us to the doctor in his wagon—or I don’t know what I would have done.”
“Praise God. What happened at the doctor’s?”
“He told Papa to get to bed and stay there.” Joshua swallowed hard and took a deep breath. A lock of black hair fell across his forehead. “He’s real sick, Jule. I’m afraid for him.”
She reached for her brother, and he allowed her to hold him. “I saw him cough up blood, and his breathing sounds like a foghorn.” Joshua paused as if stifling any urge to cry. He pulled away and towered almost a foot taller. “Go to Papa. Mama most likely needs help in keeping cool cloths on him.”
Jule nodded, but as much as she wanted to help Mama, Joshua looked exhausted and was most likely hungry. Mama and Jule didn’t need both of their men sick. “I want to do what I can,” she began, “but I will return shortly. You tended the light for two nights in a row then lit out at sunrise with the fishing boat. You can’t go on day and night sleeping a few hours here and there, Joshua, and we can’t have you laid up, too.”
He stiffened. “I’m the man of the house while Papa is sick.”
“I know, and I appreciate all the things you do, but the lighthouse responsibilities are mine. Believe me, you will have plenty to keep you busy with fishing.”
Joshua failed to respond, no doubt deep in thought about what lay ahead. Jule stood on her tiptoes and placed a kiss on his cheek.
“I’ve been praying,” he finally said.
She smiled into his boyish face. “Good. As soon as I get back, we can pray together.”
“All right, Jule.” He shifted and took a deep breath. “I’m not ready for Papa to die.”
Joshua’s words nearly caused her to weep. “Neither am I. We will pray for healing and trust in God’s peace.”
A short while later, Jule hurried down the stairs. All the while she prayed for God to spare her father. They all knew Papa’s condition had grown worse over the past weeks, but they had been afraid to talk about it. Part of the problem stemmed from the fact they lived an isolated life on the Bolivar Peninsula and relied heavily upon each other. Papa, Mama, Joshua, and Jule were more than family; they were close friends.
Once in the house, the sight of Papa lying in bed with his eyes closed devastated Jule. She expected to see him frail and weak, but she wasn’t prepared to see his skin a ghastly shade of white. It looked like the bleached sand piled along the shoreline, and she didn’t like it at all.
“What can I do?” she asked her mother.
Mama did not take her gaze from Papa. She dipped a cloth in a basin of water and gently patted his face. “I cannot leave him,” she said. “Next to the Lord, your papa comes first.”
Jule wrapped her arms around her mother’s shoulders. “I understand. I will clean up from dinner, make sure Joshua has eaten, then tend the lighthouse.”
“Thank you,” her mother whispered, reaching up to pat Jule’s hand, but still keeping her eyes on her husband of twenty-one years.
“Joshua said he has pneumonia,” Jule said softly.
Her mother nodded and went about cooling his face.
“Did the doctor give him any medicine?” Jule pressed her lips together to keep from crying.
Mama nodded again, then her shoulders raised and lowered as heavy sobs racked her body.
“Oh, Mama, we must pray for God to heal him.” Jule hugged her mother’s shoulders in an effort to comfort her. For a brief moment, Mama allowed herself to cry.
“Yes,” her mother managed, gaining control. “We all will pray… because the next twenty-four hours are the most critical.”
Jule silently agreed. Early in the day, she had eagerly anticipated the future. But now that night had fallen, her life and the lives of those she loved looked bleak and frightening.
Chapter 6
Jule toiled during the night, keeping the wicks trimmed and wiping soot from the tower windows. Normally she slept a few hours between the lighthouse responsibilities, but not this night. While the wicks burned, she re
peatedly hastened down the spiral steps to check on her father. She couldn’t sleep. She dare not for fear Mama would need her to help with him. None of the family members found any rest, and all expected an even longer day ahead. By daybreak Papa’s condition had not changed; if anything, he had grown worse.
To Jule, every breath became a prayer. Papa’s fever had to subside; she could think of nothing but his recovery. She felt pity for her brother, who had suddenly assumed the weight of their father’s illness and the financial burdens of the family. Mama, seeing Joshua’s dilemma, sent him out with the fishing boat to keep him busy while they waited. Toward sunset, after Joshua returned with a good catch, Papa broke into a sweat and the fever subsided. Even as tired as they all felt, their exuberance rang from the rooftops.
In the days following, Mama refused to leave Papa’s side for longer than a few minutes. She prepared meals and kept the house tidy, but little else. Joshua left each morning at sunrise with the fishing boat and helped supply the family with the extra income desperately needed for Papa’s medicine. Jule minded the lighthouse at night and kept the brass polished and the Fresnel lens clean by day. She hauled buckets of kerosene from the fuel house up the one hundred twenty-five stairs, but not once did she regret the hard work. It kept her mind from Papa’s illness and Mason’s absence. Fortunately, Galveston Bay stayed relatively calm, a blessing for the hurricane season.
After four weeks, Papa, with Joshua’s aid, emerged from his bed and sat on the front porch to watch the sea. Outwardly he joked about his family taking care of him and the easy life they were letting him live. But sometimes when he gazed out over the water, Jule saw his eyes moisten, and he never ceased to thank them for their love and care.
“Tell us another one, Captain,” one of the crewmen called out. “What about the time you sailed around the cape and ended up dumping your cargo to save the ship?”
Mason gave the toothless man a wry smile. How well he remembered his first voyage around Cape Horn. For five days, he and his crew had battled ferocious storms with high-speed gales and nearly lost the clipper and the men, along with his father’s goods.
He glanced up into the starless night. “No more stories tonight; I need to get some sleep.” After giving a few instructions to the crewmen who would be on duty during the hours before sunrise, he moved to the helm and allowed his sights to drink in the rhythm of the sea.
This voyage had already taken longer than he anticipated. Initially, he had made good time, arriving in New York in four days and then reaching Liverpool, England, in two and a half weeks. However, delays in England had kept them docked for five more days, which gave some of his men plenty of time to indulge in drinking, fighting, and the like. He seized the opportunity to purchase Jule a set of English bone china and several yards of fine lace for his mother.
Two and a half weeks later the Flying Fish sailed back into New York harbor and unloaded the tea and several pieces of furniture. He sent a wire to his father informing him of the ship’s schedule, but the load of coal arrived two days later with an additional request to deliver a portion of it to South Carolina. The seller offered a handsome price—one not to be rejected. Mason felt certain he could make up some of the extra days with a good wind. He’d told Jule the voyage would take two months, so he could surprise her by arriving home early. If the trip continued as planned, he’d be docking into Galveston Bay more than four days ahead of schedule.
Mason watched the waves lap up against the sides—higher with each one that slapped against his vessel. He could smell the storm, too. Uneasiness sped through him, an all-too-familiar surging of blood racing through his veins. His crew called it an extra sense, but Mason referred to the ominous feeling as a foreshadowing of things to come. Every sea captain yearned for high winds to carry his sails, but no one wanted to face a storm’s fury. The intensity of these gusty winds alarmed him, and the sooner they reached the South Carolina harbor and unloaded, the sooner he’d return to Jule.
“You smell it, don’t ya?” his first mate said.
Mason heaved a sigh. He hadn’t heard the broad-shouldered man approach. “Yes, Pete, I do. It’s more than the waves picking up and blowing us along.”
Neither man said a word. They had been together through bad weather many times, but sharing danger didn’t make an impending storm any easier.
“Order more men aloft to the rigging; replace the sails with the storm canvas,” Mason said quietly. “The wind is increasing, and don’t hesitate to pull in the topmast sails if it reaches forty knots.”
“Aye, sir.”
Mason studied the barometer and saw it had dropped. He believed in being ready for bad weather. “Make sure the rigging is repaired and the lifelines strung, too. Have a couple of crewmen check on the load of coal. We can’t have it shifting during a storm.”
Mason peered again at the waves. Through the lantern light, he could see the whitecaps churning. “I’m going to lie down for a few hours while you take the wheel. Wake me if the wind reaches twenty-five knots.” With a wry smile, he added, “I’ll most likely be awake anyway.”
Descending the steps to his quarters, Mason realized sleep would not come. He wanted to be at the wheel—to steer his ship across the water and into the wind. And with a storm, he needed the navigation tools at his fingertips.
He remembered spending almost thirty hours at the wheel during gale winds at Cape Horn. Mason didn’t care to repeat that feat on his last voyage.
He lit a lantern on his mahogany desk and pushed aside his chair, too restless to sit. A map of the voyage from Galveston Bay up along the East Coast to New York harbor and across the Atlantic to England lay sprawled out before him. They were off the coast of Maryland, but not close to shore. Daily, he’d been marking their journey and counting the days until he could return to Jule. What he wouldn’t give for a lighthouse this night.
Opening his log atop the map, he scanned the details of his five-day delay in Liverpool and then the extra day in New York. He’d carefully added the additional port in South Carolina before sailing into Galveston, but now a storm threatened to detain them once more. This all endangered his reputation for speed.
From the corner of his eye, holding the map in place, he detected his Bible. A marker was all he’d used it for since boarding ship. Not once had he opened the Scriptures, and his prayer life amounted to rounding up the crewmen after sunrise to ask God’s blessing upon the day. Regret riddled him. He reached for the leather binding, but as his fingers touched upon its grainy cover, the Flying Fish lunged sideways. In the next instant, Mason climbed the steps to take his position at the weather rail, all thoughts centered on the safety of his ship and crew.
Shortly after midnight, strong gales picked up more momentum and whipped the vessel about. Waves, almost as high as the ship, began to crash against the deck. Crewmen standing in knee-deep water and dressed in oil slickers tied themselves to their posts to keep from being washed overboard as the ship bucked with the storm’s violence. Three sailors manned the bilge pump to remove water from the lower decks, while more men balanced on footropes to take in additional sails. Mason saw no choice but to change course. He had to turn the ship away from the wind in a complete circle.
Just before sunrise, gales approaching eighty knots dumped tons of green-gray water on the ship and its crew. The ocean roared like a devouring dragon bent on consuming them. A fourth man scrambled to help with the bilge pump while Mason, Pete, and another crewman at the wheel fought the waves’ pressure against the rudder.
Only the lowest staysail and the lower topsails remained to drive the
Flying Fish.
Oh, Lord, remember my men, Mason prayed. Realization gripped its icy fingers around him. When had he last prayed, truly prayed from his heart? Amid the storm’s fury, Mason remembered an old Bible story. The Old Testament account stated how Jonah ran from God to keep from preaching to the pagan city of Nineveh. Jonah thought he could live his life apart from God. During a vio
lent storm on the high seas, Jonah sensed the high winds were because of his disobedience to God and asked the ship’s captain to throw him overboard to save the lives of those on board. God had a fish swallow Jonah and kept him inside its belly for three days—plenty of time for him to consider his sins and his rebellion.
Heavenly Father, Mason’s mind shouted, I am guilty of running from
You. I have left You behind while I pursued my own glory. Time and again,
You have rescued me from the jaws of death, and I have given You nothing in return but empty phrases of gratitude. Oh, please do not destroy these men when I am the one to blame. Lord Jesus, only You can command the winds to cease. Only You.
Tormented with guilt and remorse, Mason winced from the vivid memories of the disrespect he’d shown his parents. The times he’d mocked the captain and ignored his mother. Everything they did had been for Mason’s benefit. Their hard work in building the Channing empire resulted from the love they held for their son. All they had belonged to him. How selfish of him to not appreciate them more fully. And Jule…so often he took her for granted. She should have been escorted to plays and elegant dinners—the things she had never enjoyed.
Father, forgive me, for I am a sinful man.
If God so graciously spared his life and his crew, he would never again ignore his blessings.
The winds raged, shredding the thick canvas sails until they looked like helpless kite strings. The ocean belched with rage, dipping the vessel into a downward spiral then tossing it into the path of one wave after another. The wet and cold settled in his bones as he gripped the wheel to keep the Flying Fish afloat.
The ship creaked like a brittle matchstick.
“She’s going down!” Pete shouted frantically.
“God, no!” Mason shouted. “I beg of You, spare us!”
Jule awoke with a start. She’d been sleeping during the four-hour period before trimming the wicks. She glanced about. The lamps were in order. What had startled her?
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