station, where he was doing repairs.
Daddy, Grandpa, and I fell to work on digging out the cookhouse with Mr. Etheridge.
“We had a storm that hit around this same time in February last year,” said Mr. Etheridge as he worked alongside us. The shovels made a nice clinking noise against the sand. “But last year's was worse—freezing weather, with snow and a terrible wreck up off the coast of Long Island, New York, where they lost almost the whole crew.” A worried look crossed his face. “They'll be telegraphing soon to let us know of any casualties from this storm.”
He and Daddy and Grandpa talked as they worked, but I stopped digging and stared at the mounds of sand piled up above the pilings of the station house. My stomach twisted into a knot. How on earth would I ever find the books again?
At suppertime, Mr. Etheridge invited us to stay. After four days of being cooped up, we all needed some company.
I went to the cookhouse to help Mr. Wescott chop turnips, carrots, and salt pork for stew.
“What do you think of this?” Mr. Wescott asked. He slapped a worn photograph onto the table next to me.
It was a three-masted schooner with her sails cut away, her rigging shiny with what looked to be a coating of ice, and her hull sunk so low that stormy waves washed over it.
“It's the wreck of the
Louis V. Place,
” he said. “Happened up near New York in last February's storm.”
I examined the broken ship. “Is that the one Mr. Etheridge told us about where most of the crew died?” I asked.
Mr. Wescott nodded. “That's the one.” Then he asked, “Do you see anything strange in the picture? Look close.”
I studied the ice-encrusted lines, the heavy storm-driven waves, the sails hanging low. Then, at the base of the starboard mast, I saw it. My hands went clammy. I shuddered. It was the ghostly face and shoulders of a man, twenty times its normal size.
“That's Captain Squires, the dead captain of the ship,” Mr. Wescott said. “Come back to haunt it.”
The skin on my back prickled. I stared at the mustached face with its captain's hat, floating disembodied in the rigging.
“Sailor from New York sold that photograph to me,” said Mr. Wescott. “Said the one survivor—Stevens, I think his name was— goes door to door selling them.”
I swallowed hard. “Why didn't they get rescued?” I asked.
“The crews from three stations—Blue Point, Lone Hill, and Point of Woods—tried for hours. They shot the line for the breeches buoy, but the sailors were so frozen and weak they couldn't tie it off. The surfboat was useless because the sea was full of porridge ice. The sailors climbed into the rigging, and I heard it told that through the night, one by one, they just got tired and dropped into the sea.”
“What about Stevens?” I asked. “How did he get ashore?”
“Seems there were two—Nelson and Stevens—who hung on to the rigging together, and all night, to keep from freezing, they punched each other. The next day, when the storm finally died down just a bit, the lifesavers got the surfboat out to pick up the two. Their faces were swollen from the punches, but they were alive.”
“But you said Stevens was the only survivor,” I said.
“Nelson's feet were frozen solid. They sent him to the hospital on Staten Island to have them amputated, and he died of lockjaw a month later.”
I nodded and looked down at the photograph again. “The captain didn't want to leave his ship,” I said.
“I think you're right,” said Mr. Wescott. “I heard he was one of the first to drop off the rigging. Probably felt like he'd abandoned his crew.”
As we finished chopping the vegetables and meat, I wondered where the captain went when the
Louis V. Place
finally broke to pieces in the sea. I wondered where the other dead sailors went—did they come back to the ship, too? And I wondered where Mamma went when she closed her eyes and stopped breathing and Doc Fearing pulled the sheet up over
Daddy, Grandpa, and I fell to work on digging out the cookhouse with Mr. Etheridge.
“We had a storm that hit around this same time in February last year,” said Mr. Etheridge as he worked alongside us. The shovels made a nice clinking noise against the sand. “But last year's was worse—freezing weather, with snow and a terrible wreck up off the coast of Long Island, New York, where they lost almost the whole crew.” A worried look crossed his face. “They'll be telegraphing soon to let us know of any casualties from this storm.”
He and Daddy and Grandpa talked as they worked, but I stopped digging and stared at the mounds of sand piled up above the pilings of the station house. My stomach twisted into a knot. How on earth would I ever find the books again?
At suppertime, Mr. Etheridge invited us to stay. After four days of being cooped up, we all needed some company.
I went to the cookhouse to help Mr. Wescott chop turnips, carrots, and salt pork for stew.
“What do you think of this?” Mr. Wescott asked. He slapped a worn photograph onto the table next to me.
It was a three-masted schooner with her sails cut away, her rigging shiny with what looked to be a coating of ice, and her hull sunk so low that stormy waves washed over it.
“It's the wreck of the
Louis V. Place,
” he said. “Happened up near New York in last February's storm.”
I examined the broken ship. “Is that the one Mr. Etheridge told us about where most of the crew died?” I asked.
Mr. Wescott nodded. “That's the one.” Then he asked, “Do you see anything strange in the picture? Look close.”
I studied the ice-encrusted lines, the heavy storm-driven waves, the sails hanging low. Then, at the base of the starboard mast, I saw it. My hands went clammy. I shuddered. It was the ghostly face and shoulders of a man, twenty times its normal size.
“That's Captain Squires, the dead captain of the ship,” Mr. Wescott said. “Come back to haunt it.”
The skin on my back prickled. I stared at the mustached face with its captain's hat, floating disembodied in the rigging.
“Sailor from New York sold that photograph to me,” said Mr. Wescott. “Said the one survivor—Stevens, I think his name was— goes door to door selling them.”
I swallowed hard. “Why didn't they get rescued?” I asked.
“The crews from three stations—Blue Point, Lone Hill, and Point of Woods—tried for hours. They shot the line for the breeches buoy, but the sailors were so frozen and weak they couldn't tie it off. The surfboat was useless because the sea was full of porridge ice. The sailors climbed into the rigging, and I heard it told that through the night, one by one, they just got tired and dropped into the sea.”
“What about Stevens?” I asked. “How did he get ashore?”
“Seems there were two—Nelson and Stevens—who hung on to the rigging together, and all night, to keep from freezing, they punched each other. The next day, when the storm finally died down just a bit, the lifesavers got the surfboat out to pick up the two. Their faces were swollen from the punches, but they were alive.”
“But you said Stevens was the only survivor,” I said.
“Nelson's feet were frozen solid. They sent him to the hospital on Staten Island to have them amputated, and he died of lockjaw a month later.”
I nodded and looked down at the photograph again. “The captain didn't want to leave his ship,” I said.
“I think you're right,” said Mr. Wescott. “I heard he was one of the first to drop off the rigging. Probably felt like he'd abandoned his crew.”
As we finished chopping the vegetables and meat, I wondered where the captain went when the
Louis V. Place
finally broke to pieces in the sea. I wondered where the other dead sailors went—did they come back to the ship, too? And I wondered where Mamma went when she closed her eyes and stopped breathing and Doc Fearing pulled the sheet up over
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