Storm Warriors (4 page)

I raised my eyebrows at him. “Does it feel like the rheumatism, Grandpa?” I asked.

He slapped me upside the head, gently.

“She'll come, Grandpa,” I said, touching his hand. “One of these days she'll see your advertisement in the newspaper, and she'll show up at our cabin.”

He nodded.

“And will you shoo me and Daddy out of the cabin and say, ‘Me and my Dahlia, we gonna have us a time!’?”

He tapped my knee, grinning. “That's just
exactly
what I'll say.”

Just then I heard voices and giggling.

“Nathan!”

I turned my head.

“See, it
is
him. I told you so.”

It was William and Floyd with their sisters. Floyd's sister, Fannie, was about my age, and William's sister, Seabright, was only seven, with lively braids that stuck out every which way.

Grandpa said he'd leave me to visit with my friends and he'd go find Daddy.

“Nathan, did you see the
Emma C. Cotton
break up?” Fannie ran to me and stood, breathless, waiting for an answer. Her black braids framed her high forehead and wide-set eyes.

“Did you help with the rescue?” Seabright asked. “Did you row out in the surfboat?”

William and Floyd stood over to the side. William had grown taller since I'd last seen him. He was lanky, with arms and legs like mooring poles. Floyd had grown stockier. They both looked as if they were brooding.

“I helped pull the beach cart and the surfboat, but I didn't row out,” I said.

“Was everyone almost killed?” Fannie wanted to know.

“Was it scary?” Seabright asked. She twisted the edge of her dress around her slender fingers.

I remembered the huge wave breaking over the bow of the surfboat as it made its way out, and then the sound of the mast crashing into the water just moments after the crew was safely away.

“Yes,” I said. “But it was probably scariest for the sailors, since none of them knew how to swim.” I looked at William and Floyd. “Mr. Meekins is going to teach me how to swim in the heavy surf.”

William scuffed his toes in the sand and Floyd just grunted.

“They're sore because you got to help with the rescue and they didn't,” Fannie said.

“I am not,” Floyd snapped. “It doesn't matter anyway, because Nathan's just a helper—a fisherman volunteer. William and me, we'll be
real
surfmen, right, William?”

William pulled up a weed and chewed on the end. “Of course that's right,” he said coolly.

I knew better than to argue with two boys who were bigger than me. I'd had enough of arguing with Daddy about this very same thing, anyway.

“We're coming to the auction,” said Fannie, obviously changing the subject.

“Me too,” said Seabright.

The auction of the wrecked
Emma C. Cotton
—broken-up timbers, sails, and any of her load of coal they'd been able to sal-vage—was scheduled for the second of January or the first good sailing day after that.

“I'll see you there, then,” I said.

Daddy and Grandpa walked toward us carrying our sacks of groceries. Floyd, William, and I took the sacks out of their arms and loaded them into our skiff.

Daddy asked the children about their families. Fannie said her and Floyd's mother had been out crabbing a couple of days ago, cut her foot on a shell, and now she was in bed with her foot swelled up.

“Has she put turpentine and fat meat on it?” Daddy asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Fannie.

“Has your Papa called on Doc Fearing?” he asked.

Fannie looked down at her toes in the sand. “You know how it is around here with black folks and Doc Fearing. Nobody goes until it's too late, so they think if you call on him, you're liable to die before sunup.” She looked up at Daddy, her eyes pained. “I
wish we had our own colored doctor the way you had in Elizabeth City.”

Daddy started to untie our mooring rope. “You tell your papa to call on Doc Fearing sooner rather than later, you hear?”

Fannie and Floyd both nodded.

“I'll come see your mamma next time I'm on the island,” he said. “Tell her I hope she feels better.”

Grandpa and I sent our regards, too.

The afternoon light was slanting low. We all said our goodbyes and hoisted our sails. The southwest wind was even stronger than before, and we skimmed easily across the water.

I wanted to ask Grandpa why Floyd and William were so sure they'd be surfmen and I wouldn't. But I dared not bring up that particular subject in front of Daddy.

“That Mr. Griffin robbed us again—fifty cents a pair for those birds!” Daddy scowled, and his bushy eyebrows nearly met in the middle. “He's got some nerve, when I
know
he pays a dollar a pair to any white man who walks into that store.”

Grandpa shook his head. “And there's not a blessed thing you can do about it, so you better get sixty birds next time instead of thirty and stop your complaining.”

Daddy shot him an angry glare, and they both fell silent.

The sun glowed red behind low clouds as it sank toward sunset. We sped along, the wind pushing us with a steady hand. We'd be home before dark.

“It's just always been a family thing,” Grandpa explained. He was picking the berries out of a pile of yaupon leaves, getting ready to make yaupon tea. His gray hair stuck out in thick tufts, and his voice was raspy with early-morning rustiness. “The Bowsers, Tilletts, Midgetts, Berrys, Etheridges—the white families and the black families—they've been in the Life-Saving Service for a while now, and it just stays in the family, I suppose.” A beetle scurried across the table. Grandpa knocked it onto the floor and squashed it with his foot.

“Couldn't they ever let a new person in?” I asked.

Grandpa just shrugged. “Go dump these berries outside,” he said, and handed me a pot half full of berries. I scrunched up my nose—the only thing yaupon berries are good for is to make you throw up.

When I came back in, Grandpa told me to set the pot down and sit myself down. Then he leaned forward. “What's wrong with fishing?” he asked, his face serious.

“Nothing's
wrong
with it. I guess I just …” I ran my thumbnail down a groove in the table. “I guess I want to hope for something better, that's all.”

Grandpa patted my hand and nodded. “Then you keep on hoping, boy. Why, it's my hopes of finding your grandma that have kept me going all these years.” He scooped up the pile of yaupon leaves.

My chest went hollow with dread. I saw myself with white hair and an old, raspy voice saying, “Someday I want to be a surf-man.”

“No, Grandpa!” I brought my fist down hard. “I don't want to just hope. I want to
do
it!”

Grandpa stared at me, startled.

I ran out of the cabin into the gray, windless day. I breathed in the cold air and tried to calm down. What would Mamma say if she were here? “Nathan, you can do anything you set your mind to.” That's what she'd say. I closed my eyes and tried to hear her voice. I could see her in my mind's eye, an apron covering the front of her faded green dress, wagging one flour-dusted finger at me. “Don't expect it to be easy, Nathan, because it
won't
.”

“Okay, Mamma,” I whispered. “I won't.”
The crew of the
Emma C. Cotton
stayed at the station for three days. Then Mr. Etheridge hitched the government team to the driving cart and drove them up to Oregon Inlet so they could take a steamer to Norfolk. The captain, Mr. Ayres, stayed behind, and when the surf finally went calm again, the surfmen helped him gather the topsails, stores, and whatever else they could salvage off the ship.

On the day of the auction, buyers came from Manteo, Hatteras, Ocracoke, and Nags Head. The day was foggy and rainy, and everyone stood out under umbrellas while the Commissioner of Wrecks, one of the white Mr. Meekinses, called out prices and announced things “sold.” The salvaged timbers, sails, line, and what was left of the stores of coal were auctioned off to the highest bidder. Mr. Ayres said that before the wreck it had all been worth over ten thousand dollars. He hoped to get at least a hundred dollars out of the auction to bring back to the boat's owner.

Mr. Bowser told me that on a sunny day an auction easily turned into a picnic, but the rain didn't make good picnic weather. Fannie had stayed home to help her mother, whose foot was healing slowly, and Seabright hadn't been allowed to come in the rain, but William and Floyd were there. They sidled up to me, each of them holding a coat over his head.

“Nathan, can you get us in to see the beach cart and surfboat?” William whispered.

I frowned. “We're not supposed to go snooping around the boat room,” I said. “That equipment is for drills and rescues only.”

“Come on.” William gave me a little shove. “Everyone is busy here. No one will know. We just want to look.”

“Yeah,” said Floyd. “We'll be back before anyone sees we're gone.”

I shook my head, ready to object again. William looked at me scornfully. “I thought you did everything around here—help with rescues, eat with the surfmen, learn to swim in the heavy surf—and you're telling me you're not even allowed to
look
at the equipment while it's sitting in the station?”

I straightened my shoulders. “Oh, fine,” I said impatiently. “We can go, but just for a minute.”

We ran down the beach, through the cold, wet sand, to the station house. We were plenty far enough away from the auction that no one would see us. And because of the fog, the surfmen were walking patrols today rather than keeping watch from the lookout deck. The station house was deserted.

We walked up the boat ramp, and I unlatched the huge double doors and pulled on one. It slid aside with a loud creak. The three of us stepped inside the dimly lit boat room.

William ran his hand over the side of the surfboat. Floyd went to the beach cart and touched the sleek Lyle gun. I kept watch at the door.

“In a few years, this is where I'll be,” said William. “Doing drills, working the rescues—”

“That's if someone retires,” Floyd interrupted him.

“Half of them are old codgers,” William shot back. “Somebody will retire.”

“A few years after William joins the crew, I'll be old enough as well,” I announced.

They both looked at me. William scoffed. “Old enough for what? To pull in the nets for your daddy?”

I took a step toward him. “I
live
here.” I jabbed my finger into his ribs for emphasis. “I've already done a rescue. You've only
played
at rescues.”

William shoved me hard. “You're
nobody
. When me and Floyd are surfmen,
if
we let you, you can
help.
”

I shoved him back. “I'll be a surfman first. I'll be a higher rank than you.”

William grasped the front of my shirt and got up in my face. “Not on my grandfather's grave,” he hissed.

I jerked free, but wasn't prepared for what happened next. William took one step back, cocked his elbow, and slammed his fist into my face. Pain shot through my cheekbone and left eye. I staggered for just an instant, then swung and sent my own balled fist into William's jaw. He spat and I saw the blood dribble down his chin. Then he came at me again but collided with Floyd.

“Are you
crazy
?” Floyd stood between us, his eyes wild and scared. “Dorman Pugh is up the beach—he's coming back from patrol.”

We scrambled for the doorway. William and Floyd took off running. I slid the heavy door back into place, then jumped off the boat ramp and ran back to the auction, rain drenching my face and cooling my temper. William and Floyd had already rejoined their families, as if nothing had happened.

Before long, my cheekbone started to feel like it was stuffed with cotton. I decided to leave before anyone noticed the swelling.

Back at our cabin, I soaked a rag in cold water and held it to my face. Tomorrow I would have a shiner. What would I tell Daddy?

The door opened, and Grandpa walked in. “William's lip is still bleeding. I came to see how bad you look,” he said.

I held the rag away from my cheek, and Grandpa bent to get a good look. He whistled. “That'll be one of the best shiners North Carolina has ever seen, I reckon.”

I laughed a little, which made my face hurt more.

“You want to tell me what happened?” he asked.

I sighed. “No.”

He pulled up a chair and sat down. “Well, tell me anyway,” he said. He folded his bony fingers together and set his hands on the table, like he had all day to wait for me to talk and wasn't going to move until I did.

I told him about how much I wanted to be a surfman, how helping to save those sailors felt like I'd done something big, something great, like I'd fought a battle and won, and how there are no battles to fight as a fisherman, just the same nets day after day. I told him how I thought Mamma would encourage me to dream big, to work hard for what I wanted, but how everyone was mad at me for wanting it—Floyd, William, even Daddy.

Grandpa listened without interrupting. When I was done, he said, “I'd shoot myself before I'd tell you not to hope. And if you work real hard, you ought to get what it is you're wanting. But you've got to be ready in case what you hope for doesn't come looking the way you think it should.” He lifted up his hat, scratched his head, and put his hat back on. “Did I ever tell you how I used to have a hankering for a piece of land?”

I shook my head no.

Grandpa nodded.

“It wasn't during slavery times, of course, but after the war, when I had my freedom. Master Johnson had given me some coins when I left his place, and what I wanted more than anything was a farm—just a small one, with a little cottage on it— so I could work the land like I'd always done, knew how to do, only do it for myself instead of for Master Johnson.” He shook his head slightly. “But then one thing led to another, the way life does, and at some point I knew I was never going to have that
farm, never going to live in a house that belonged to me.” He looked up at me. “And you know what?” he asked.

“What?” I echoed.

“It has all been just fine. I certainly enjoyed hoping for that piece of land. And by the time I knew I was never going to get it, I had other good things instead.” He knitted his eyebrows together, like he was trying to figure out the best way to explain things. “What I wanted from that farm was independence—I didn't want to work for another man, white or black, ever again. And I wanted to work it with someone I loved: your Grandma Dahlia. What I got was a fishing skiff. Around here, having your own boat is just like having land—you don't have to work for anybody but yourself. And I got to work that skiff with someone I love—your daddy, and then after a while,
you
. So, you see, sometimes your dreams show up dressed a little different than you thought they'd be. You have to know how to recognize them when they get there.”