Read Online Storm Warriors by Elisa Carbone - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elisa Carbone
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be we had a nice hut here, a halfway house, where we could get in out of the wind and rain.” He patted one of the salvage boards. “But the Life-Saving Service thought that was too soft for us surfmen and tore all the huts down.” He sniffed. “They sit in their warm offices up in Washington, D.C., and make decisions like that, you know.”
Before long, Mr. Forbes from Oregon Inlet came walking down the beach. We all said hello, and he and Mr. Bowser shared information about the patrol so far, the boats they'd sighted and that there were no problems. They exchanged their badges to show they had met.
I was cold from sitting and glad to start walking south again. The pile of salvage wood made me think to ask Mr. Bowser about the charred wood under the station. Maybe he knew the answer to the mystery.
“Mr. Bowser,” I began as he stood scanning the horizon with the spyglass.
“Damn,” he said under his breath.
I was about to apologize for distracting him when I realized it wasn't me he was cursing at.
“See that schooner?” he demanded.
“Sure,” I said. “She's so close I could about spit on her.”
“Exactly,” he said. “She's so close she's liable to hit a shoal.” The schooner's hull was a dark mass, and her sails glowed white in the moonlight.
He pulled two Coston flares out of his satchel and gave me one to hold. “If the captain doesn't see the first one, we'll light the second.”
In one quick motion, he pushed up against the bottom of the flare and it burst into a bright red flame. He held the light above his head and waved it.
“Turn offshore,” he said, as if the flare could carry his words as well. “You're too close.”
Moments later, we saw the schooner shift course and head out to sea. I let out my breath, relieved.
Mr. Bowser took the flare I'd been holding and put it back inhis satchel. “They've probably saved thousands of lives, these flares,” he said. “It surprises a lot of folks to find out they were invented by a woman.”
“A
woman
?” I asked. I
was
surprised.
“Sure enough,” he said. “Woman by the name of Mrs. Martha Coston. It was back before the war. She finished the work her husband started before he died.”
The schooner was well out to sea now, and I decided to try my question again.
“Mr. Bowser, I was digging under the station and … there's a powerful lot of charred wood under there.”
Mr. Bowser nodded. “I reckon there would be,” he said. “They couldn't use the burned pieces when they rebuilt the station, so they just let them lie.”
I frowned. “When they rebuilt the station?” I echoed.
“Right. After the fire.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Nobody told you about the big welcome the white folks gave Mr. Etheridge when he became keeper?”
I shook my head.
“Burned the station to the ground, they did,” he said, then spat onto the sand.
When he saw the scared look on my face, he added. “It was after everyone had gone home for the summer. They didn't mean to hurt anyone—just express an opinion.”
I was only a little relieved. “Do they know who did it?” I asked.
“It was never investigated, and nobody was ever charged with the crime. You know how it is when a white man wrongs a black man—the authorities just look the other way like it didn't happen.” He scuffed the sand with his heels as we walked along. “We've got a pretty good idea who it was, though. Three surfmen from another station who thought one of them should have been made keeper instead of Mr. Etheridge. But that was a good fifteen or sixteen years ago, and all three have been civil since then, so I won't name names and go digging up old hurts.”
I nodded. I'd rather not know anyway.
We walked in silence for a while. The moon had risen high, and it glittered on the waves. I was getting sleepy.
It was nearly midnight when we traipsed up the ramp into the station. Mr. Bowser handed over the Coston flare and spyglass to Mr. Irving, who
Before long, Mr. Forbes from Oregon Inlet came walking down the beach. We all said hello, and he and Mr. Bowser shared information about the patrol so far, the boats they'd sighted and that there were no problems. They exchanged their badges to show they had met.
I was cold from sitting and glad to start walking south again. The pile of salvage wood made me think to ask Mr. Bowser about the charred wood under the station. Maybe he knew the answer to the mystery.
“Mr. Bowser,” I began as he stood scanning the horizon with the spyglass.
“Damn,” he said under his breath.
I was about to apologize for distracting him when I realized it wasn't me he was cursing at.
“See that schooner?” he demanded.
“Sure,” I said. “She's so close I could about spit on her.”
“Exactly,” he said. “She's so close she's liable to hit a shoal.” The schooner's hull was a dark mass, and her sails glowed white in the moonlight.
He pulled two Coston flares out of his satchel and gave me one to hold. “If the captain doesn't see the first one, we'll light the second.”
In one quick motion, he pushed up against the bottom of the flare and it burst into a bright red flame. He held the light above his head and waved it.
“Turn offshore,” he said, as if the flare could carry his words as well. “You're too close.”
Moments later, we saw the schooner shift course and head out to sea. I let out my breath, relieved.
Mr. Bowser took the flare I'd been holding and put it back inhis satchel. “They've probably saved thousands of lives, these flares,” he said. “It surprises a lot of folks to find out they were invented by a woman.”
“A
woman
?” I asked. I
was
surprised.
“Sure enough,” he said. “Woman by the name of Mrs. Martha Coston. It was back before the war. She finished the work her husband started before he died.”
The schooner was well out to sea now, and I decided to try my question again.
“Mr. Bowser, I was digging under the station and … there's a powerful lot of charred wood under there.”
Mr. Bowser nodded. “I reckon there would be,” he said. “They couldn't use the burned pieces when they rebuilt the station, so they just let them lie.”
I frowned. “When they rebuilt the station?” I echoed.
“Right. After the fire.” He gave me a sideways glance. “Nobody told you about the big welcome the white folks gave Mr. Etheridge when he became keeper?”
I shook my head.
“Burned the station to the ground, they did,” he said, then spat onto the sand.
When he saw the scared look on my face, he added. “It was after everyone had gone home for the summer. They didn't mean to hurt anyone—just express an opinion.”
I was only a little relieved. “Do they know who did it?” I asked.
“It was never investigated, and nobody was ever charged with the crime. You know how it is when a white man wrongs a black man—the authorities just look the other way like it didn't happen.” He scuffed the sand with his heels as we walked along. “We've got a pretty good idea who it was, though. Three surfmen from another station who thought one of them should have been made keeper instead of Mr. Etheridge. But that was a good fifteen or sixteen years ago, and all three have been civil since then, so I won't name names and go digging up old hurts.”
I nodded. I'd rather not know anyway.
We walked in silence for a while. The moon had risen high, and it glittered on the waves. I was getting sleepy.
It was nearly midnight when we traipsed up the ramp into the station. Mr. Bowser handed over the Coston flare and spyglass to Mr. Irving, who
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