Teetoncey and Ben O'Neal Read online

  I almost fell off the porch. I flustered up. "Boys my age just don't go around hugging and kissing their mamas."

  "Even now and then?" she asked.

  I said, "Tee, she is just a mama like all of them. I'm living with her just now because I have to."

  "But you could at least be nice to her."

  What was this? I said, "I'm nice to her. I fill the wood boxes every day. Empty the ashes. Do a thousand things. I give her four dollars a month. What else can I do?"

  "Don't you love her?" Tee asked.

  My head shook in pure exasperation. How did she get on this subject? Feeling very uncomfortable with the whole trend of conversation, I got up and went around to the back of the house and split some wood, slamming the ax in.

  Tee was too serious and womanly for me.

  11

  ONCE I WENT to a Manteo tent revival with Mama and sat on the front row with my feet in sawdust. During the preaching, the Reverend Peter Pender, imported from Gastonia, shouted into my face, "The devil's gotcha! You're goin to hell!" He had red hair a shade lighter than Kilbie's and very sour breath. Why, I didn't even know that preacher; he'd never seen me until that night. But there have been times when I think he was right. I also think the Lord and the devil sometimes get together to undo a person. On certain occasions, they seem to work hand in hand and leave human waste in the wake. However, I did not figure on Him and the devil teaming up in the weather department.

  Not a full, raging nor'easter had hit us since December and one was overdue. From November until April, we usually averaged a big gale once a month. Winds and seas just as high as the afternoon the Empress plowed in.

  Fates of one kind or another soon decided that the northeast wind would visit in the period of the new moon in February, informing ships at sea and coastal folks by barometers that fell slowly but surely. The needle told us that this wind would howl like it came from the icy backside of Hades, driving water over Diamond Shoals to treetop height; churning Wimble and Heron Head into a frenzy; mount waves of ten to twelve feet all along the Banks.

  Big storms, not those pesky squalls that hit and run, send out their warning feelers and we began getting rain before first light opened. I filled the wood boxes after breakfast and tied off Me and the John O'Neal to a scrub oak; then checked around to make sure there wasn't anything that would kite up against the house. I put some corn in a bucket in the shelter. Fid predicted as well as anybody what was coming and would soon leave the marsh to keep his shag partially dry. Boo Dog got ready to take his post on the hooked rug by the stove.

  All the while I knew that the surfmen and keepers from Wash Woods, up by the Virginia border, on south, were checking equipment; looking out of their rain-spattered cupolas. Undoubtedly, on the previous sunset, with heavy clouds to north and east, they'd seen sails; plumes from steamers hull down on the horizon. The parade of ships by the Outer Banks never stopped although many were probably trying to hightail it to port this rainy morning.

  Before noon, the first hard swipes of wind attacked the sand strips, gusting to forty knots; by noon, it was blowing steady, driving rain ahead of it with enough force to knife paint off bulkheads. The house vibrated and the myrtles and oaks, always bent west, bowed lower and hung to sand roots.

  I took Tee to a special upright oak beam that Papa had sunk into the sand, lodging it on a big rock It came up through the floor and went right to the roof. "Put your ear against it," I instructed. "You can feel the boom of the surf and hear it." I sometimes listened to it during storms—a crash every few seconds running up the grain of that old oak upright.

  "Are we safe here?" Tee asked, slightly jumpy.

  Mama called over. "This is jus' a gale o' wind. Not a hurrycane. We're safe as Boos fleas. Only time to worry is when the water walks across the Banks. Even then, John O'Neal built this house to stay."

  But as the afternoon wore on, Mama got the Bible out and read awhile. Not to beseech watch over us, however. Brother Reuben was on her mind, of a certainty. She asked, as usual, "Where do you think Reuben is today?"

  "Safe in port in Trinidad," I said. I didn't know.

  Tee and I played checkers after supper until it was time to blow the lamps out. The house was dancing by then and the last thing I did before I went to bed was caulk the front doorjamb with burlap bags to keep wind from driving rain in.

  Though it was still pelting, the worst of the gale was over when we woke up and by midmorning, when Kilbie rode up, the wind was down to five knots or so. Banging water droplets off his sou'wester and rubber coat on the porch, he came on in to say, very soberly, "It's a bad one, Ben. I jus' come from the store. Four ships are wrecked. Closest one is between here an' Chicky. Filene's crew is out. Prochorus has his crew out; Cap'n Davis; Cap'n Etheridge; Cap'n Drink-water. Ever crew on the Banks is out, I expect..."

  Kilbie was anxious to ride and wanted company.

  I couldn't resist, as usual. The Chicky wreck wasn't that far away. I looked over at Tee. "You want to go? You'll see a sight."

  Mama said peevishly, "Why, Ben? Why?" She was thinking Tee had already had her fill of storms and wrecks.

  "It may be the only time she'll ever see a lifesaving crew in action."

  Mama sighed. "Why does she need to see it?"

  I left the decision to Teetoncey. "I'd like very much to go," she told Mama. Well, who wouldn't? You name me a mainlander who wouldn't like to see a Hatteras wreck? Name me an exile from England who wouldn't like to see one.

  So we dressed and I brought Fid out of the shelter and then we headed toward Chicky Station, riding double in the light rain; Kilbie slopping along beside on that slow old mule.

  When we broke to the beach, surf roaring so loud we had to shout, the ocean stretched before us in mountains of white cresting water with foamy, gray valleys. Salt spray was heavy in the air, mist scooped from wavetops, still flying inland. For a mile offshore, the water was the color of bean soup from the boiling sand. Ever thus after a gale.

  We rode on past Heron Head Station but didn't stop. No one was there, of course. Along with the lifesaving equipment, they were at the wreck, a little below Chicky Station. The Chicky boys were working a previous wreck to the north.

  In another fifteen minutes, through the light rain, we picked up the vague shape of a ship near the beach; masts still up but rigging in a mess; hull still in one piece but probably already pounding apart. I judged it was about a hundred yards offshore. Kilbie said it had grounded about 9 A.M., a much better time to wreck than in pitch night.

  Closer, we got a better look. "Three-masted schooner," I said to Tee.

  The ship was sideways, parallel to the beach; breakers slamming against her starboard side. She was tilted over about twenty degrees. Geraldine Solari, Brooklyn, New York, was on her stern.

  "Those men," Tee breathed, awed by it all, to my great satisfaction.

  Yes, there were still some men aboard her, clinging midships along the port rail. The ship lifted and slammed against the bottom as each wave passed, shaking stem to stern.

  As we reached the scene, Filene was getting ready to launch again. Four survivors were already huddled on the beach, staring anxiously out at their shipmates. "Filene'll save 'em all," I reassured Tee.

  To those who have never watched a cedar-planked, oak-ribbed double-ended twenty-five-foot lifesaving boat go out through high surf, it is a moment beyond description. Papa once told Mama, "You feel like you're sitting on a half-hollow matchstick an' the breakers look like Smoky Mountain peaks."

  Jabez and Mark Jennette were already in the heavy boat, cloaked in glistening oilskins, hooded under sou'westers, oars set to take the first sweep of storm water. Their faces were taut. Luther Gaskins, Jimmy Meekins, Malachi Gray, and Lem O'Neal, along with Keeper Midgett, were bending down to shove her full into the water, with Filene leaping aboard last to use his arms and back on the sweep oar, which would steer her.

  We saw Filene watching the breakers, waiting for the best one to ro
ll in, then he bellowed, "Let's take her out," and the crew bent to shoot her into white water, leaping into their seats, grabbing oars, all in a molasses-smooth move.

  Filene tumbled over the stern as Jabez and Mark heaved back mightily. The bow rose on froth and she speared toward the first big breaker.

  The breakers were the killers and could make kindling of the thousand-pound boat, mangling every man aboard, in an eyeblink.

  They rose on the first big one, climbing almost straight up.

  We could hear Filenes hoarse yell—just a "Yaw——yaw——yaw" as he timed the oar strokes.

  They crested it, spray flying, slamming over it, with ten feet of bow in sight; then buried in the wild trough of water and rose again to climb the next one.

  Tee's mouth had dropped open and she was staring at the plunging boat, absolutely speechless.

  The boat rose again on a hill of water, staggered a moment on the crest and I thought maybe Filene would broach, but then I saw that massive back literally swing the hull straight as it hung in air on the steering oar. In a moment, they were past the breaker line.

  Tee said, "I never want to see that again." Under the brim of her sou'wester she was chalky. For mainlanders, maybe once is enough. But I reminded, "They got to come back, Teetoncey."

  Filene steered to the portside of the schooner, the lee side, sheltered somewhat from the seas, and we watched as eight men went over the rail and into the pitching boat, one so weak he fell and almost went overboard. Then the boat pulled away for the return trip.

  Kilbie said, "There's still one man aboard."

  I looked closer. He sure was—by the foremast, and seemed to be clinging to it; not even offering himself for rescue.

  Tee said anxiously, "They won't leave him, will they?"

  "Never have," I answered. "They'll go back after him."

  In a few minutes the survivors were safe on the beach without even getting their feet wet, and the crew was hauling the boat higher from the surf line.

  "They're not going back out to get that man?" Tee asked worriedly, her voice squeaking.

  I looked toward the schooner again, but Tee didn't really need to fret. Already Jabez and Lem O'Neal had the bronze Lyle gun in position; Jabez fixing the four-ounce powder charge and Lem getting the seventeen-pound ball shot and shot line ready.

  "They'll take him off in the breeches buoy," I said, having some firsthand knowledge of that operation.

  Staying well clear of the work, especially clear of Filene, I got close enough to Luther Gaskins to yell, "What's wrong with that man on the schooner?"

  Busy readying lines and a big block, like a giant wooden pulley, Luther shouted back, "Two o' 'em out there. One's busted inside an' we don't want to try him in the boat. Chest is crushed. You can't see him from here. He's down on the deck."

  In a few minutes, the Lyle gun boomed out, sending the ball shot over the bow of the ship. The strong, light No. 9 line was attached to it. Sometimes it took ten or twenty shots but Jabez was neat with this first one. The shot line was laying over the bow after riding down a mast stay and we saw the man fight his way forward up the slippery, slanting deck to grab it. Then he inched back with it and tied it off near the foremast.

  I said, "Watch now." Next to surfboating, it was probably the best show on the Banks: Jabez and Lem O'Neal attached the heavy block to the light line. Through the block was reeved a whip line, a still heavier line to support the breeches buoy, the funny-looking canvas pants. Mark Jennette and Malachi Gray each got an end of the whipline as the man on board began to heave in.

  Rain had stopped by now, and the wind had shifted around to west, helping to flatten the wavetops and push out the ebbing tide. Conditions couldn't have been better to watch a buoy rescue.

  With Jennette and Malachi paying out slack, the sailor on the Solari dragged the heavy pulley and whip line out through the breakers. He finally pulled it over the side and then carried it back to the foremast, falling once on the sloping deck, skidding on his shoulders to the rail.

  After tying it off tightly on the foremast, high up as he could reach, he waved. There was now a limp rope oval between ship and shore, running through the heavy block on the foremast. In a moment, the breeches buoy was dancing and flapping on its way toward the ship on the lower whip line.

  We watched as the empty buoy wobbled in across the deck and then the sailor lifted the unconscious body and managed to slip the legs down through the holes.

  Filene shouted, "Bring him home, boys," and four surfmen manned the whip line to return the buoy to shore with its injured cargo.

  In another two minutes, he was gently lifted from the buoy while Tee turned her back, not wanting to see a man with a crushed chest.

  The buoy was quickly returned to the wreck and the last survivor of the Geraldine Solan was soon safe onshore. In fact, all of them were on their way to Heron Head Station within a very short time. They'd have hot soup in their bellies and a drying out; then swap stories, as usual.

  I was very glad that Teetoncey could see a Hatteras Banks rescue when it all went so smoothly and not a soul was lost.

  We stayed on at the wreck for another three hours, helping the surfmen pull all manner of things from the water as the Brooklyn vessel broke up, mizzenmast shearing first.

  Finally heading home about four o'clock, we saw someone approaching about a half mile from us on the seaward trail. Boo Dog began barking.

  Soon, Mis' Mehaly Blodgett met us aboard her tackie and inquired as to where the keeper might be. I shushed Boo Dog down (he always barked at Mis' Mehaly for reasons unknown), and pointed off toward what was left of the schooner. Most of Filene's crew was still there. "He's two miles off, Mis' Mehaly," I said.

  The old woman, half deaf, almost toothless, yelled, "Ship's aground on Heron Head." Her one good eye was gleaming like a hazel jewel beneath her sou'wester brim.

  Another wreck! It was hard to believe.

  "You sure, Mis' Mehaly?" I asked.

  "I'm sartain," she replied.

  I still had my doubts. She couldn't see too well with that one eye, the other having been a victim to a fishhook when she was a child.

  Kilbie said, "C'mon, let's go," and we charged off for Heron Head Shoal; Mis' Mehaly continuing on north to inform Filene.

  As we bounced along, Tee asked, "Who was that?"

  "Old woman from Buxton Woods, Mis' Mehaly Blodgett."

  "She looks like a witch," said Tee.

  She wasn't. Mama swore by her. She made the best penetrates on the islands, adding sweet spirit of basil, orange peel, and lavender for tang. Her liver-sweeper was unique. Neither was there a better midwife than Mis' Mehaly. But it was very odd that she was this far north, out in the dregs of gale on mucky sand. Later, we asked her several times, but could never get a straight story and for a while Tee remained convinced she was a witch.

  Reaching the beach at Heron about four-thirty, when a dozen rays of sun punched through cloud holes to west, I had the chill of my life. Tee gasped and Kilbie said, "Oh, Ben!"

  Across the wintry sea, sitting in coffee-colored water at this period of low tide, there was a ship. But it was not a new wreck. Nothing from this storm.

  We saw this: a skeleton of vessel, with some ribbing poking up, a donkey steam boiler with a short rusted stack; two splintered stubs of masts rising up about three feet. I could hardly breathe. Without doubt, it was the Malta Empress. Back from a voyage through sand.

  The gale winds and rushing tide had shallowed out that bar, probably raised the hulk on high water; then let it lower to drop a skin of sand back over it, but not cover it completely. The bones of the Empress sat there, grim and gaunt, a dark, returned ship of the Hatteras ghost fleet.

  A single sunbeam caught it, laying yellow on it against gray ocean, and we couldn't speak for a minute. It had to be the devil's work, but I was also certain the Lord had done this to me personally for failing to tell Mama about the bullion.

  I thought Teetoncey was go
ing to faint.

  12

  NEWS WENT the length of the Banks in no time at all. There was chittering and chattering and mule mounting. The wrecker blood was so thick in the Midgetts, the Farrows, the Gaskinses, the Gaskills, the Gillikins, and I suppose one O'Neal, at least, that people could smell a resurfaced hulk over and above the fish frying at suppertime. They started to come before the first star was out.

  Frank Scarborough joined us just after dark, whispering, "Anybody know 'bout the bullion?"

  I shook my head hard enough to warn him to shut up. Then we younguns gathered driftwood to get a bonfire going. Jabez spilled some coal oil from a lantern to help the wet wood ignite. The whole Heron Head crew was there, but none of them had seen what was on the bar. Night had fallen before they could arrive after working the Solari wreck.

  Although die tide was coming in strongly again, Filene wanted to launch; go out and take a look around. Low water would be about six in the morning and they could get a better look then, but Filene wouldn't put it off. The keeper didn't quite believe Mis' Mehaly, nor Kilbie and myself. He wouldn't even believe Tee. Yet he couldn't contain his curiosity.

  For one, I was happy that he was about to row out; not delay. From the looks of it, the Empress had raised herself about six feet but that wouldn't be enough to expose the chests. Her keel was still covered with sand. If the chests had bobbed up, we'd just all act surprised.

  Teetoncey's mood had changed. Her eyes were distant, and she hardly said a word; wouldn't even look out toward the shoal. She just stood around, her thoughts somewhere else, and no one paid much attention to her, including me.

  Warming his meaty hands, the keeper was near the bonfire, burning blue red because of the salt in the wood. I did hear him say to Luther Gaskins, "If it is the Empress, somehow I wish she'd never surfaced. That ship is beginnin' to hant me." Few things ever haunted Filene, but if he'd seen her at yellow sunset it might have happened. He would have run for his Bible.

  However, some people on the Banks did believe that a ship come back from a voyage in the sand was bad luck for us all. I did not agree. What could have been luckier than to have this particular barkentine pop up?