Ruth Langan - Dulcie's Gift

“I swear, as well,” Fiona said.

“And I,” said fifteen-year-old Starlight in hushed tones beside her.

“Good.” Dulcie uncurled her fingers, which had been squeezed into such tight fists the nails had dug into her palms, drawing blood. She glanced around and realized that the shore was no longer visible. The wind and waves had dragged their little craft far out to sea. They were at the mercy of the storm.

“Now,” she went on breathlessly, “we must pray for deliverance, for I fear we have exchanged one danger for another.”

As they began the words of a familiar Bible verse, the storm broke directly overhead with such fury one oar was ripped from her grasp.

Fiona gathered the frightened children close, but as the small boat was tossed about like a piece of driftwood, she was flung backward, dragging Clara with her. Even the rumble of thunder couldn’t drown out the terrible sound of their heads hitting the wood. As the next flash of lightning tore through the darkened sky, a thin line of blood could be seen trickling down Fiona’s cheek. Beside her, Clara lay motionless in the bottom of the boat.

Dulcie wrapped them with her cape and petticoats to shield them from the full force of the storm. Then she took Fiona’s place, draping her arms around the weeping children. And though she was too frightened to speak, the words of the psalm continued playing through her mind.

“Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil…”

Jermain Island, South Carolina

The storm had lasted less than an hour, but its tremendous winds had uprooted trees and knocked down a storage shed, which had collapsed like a house of cards. Though rain still fell from a darkened sky, the worst of the downpour had blown out to sea.

Cal Jermain slogged his way through the flattened rows of tender seedlings to survey the damage. Frowning, he discovered evidence that confirmed his worst suspicions. The storm had completely wiped out days of backbreaking labor. The entire crop would have to be replanted if they were to have anything to harvest by late summer.

With a muttered oath he turned away and began to walk the shoreline, littered with debris. It was then that he spotted the flat-bottomed wooden boat bobbing in the surf.

“Any fool who can’t take the time to tie up his craft deserves to lose it,” he grumbled as he waded through the shallows to retrieve it.

He caught hold of the bow, then sucked in a quick breath.

Bodies were sprawled across the bottom of the craft. Three, six, seven of them in all. Women. Children. Bloodied. Battered. Sloshing in several inches of water that ran red with their blood.

He swore, loudly, savagely.

As he hauled the boat closer to the rough shore, he heard a low moan. Instantly he climbed over the edge of the craft to locate the survivor.

A young woman in a torn, sodden gown lifted her head. Hair as black as midnight hung in wet tendrils around a face devoid of color, except for two bright spots on her cheeks.

“Sarah!” The name was torn from Cal’s lips in a breathless cry. “God in heaven. You’ve come…”

He scrambled to her side and dropped to his knees. In that instant he realized his mistake. Not Sarah. Up close, this stranger bore no resemblance. But his voice still trembled. “You’re alive, then. Can you sit up?” He placed one arm carefully around the young woman’s shoulders.

“I…Yes…” Dulcie’s words trailed off as everything went black for a moment. Then a man’s face came into focus. She had a quick impression of dark hair. Dark eyes. A tight angry mouth. A big man. Scowling. Threatening. Even kneeling, he filled her line of vision. She shrank from his touch, shivering violently.

The movement wasn’t lost on Cal. There was a look of fear in her green eyes. A most unusual shade of green, which seemed to glow with some inner fire. Most probably fever. Or shock.

Very deliberately he lowered his hand to his side and backed away.

She relaxed her guard. “Where are we?”

The breathy voice was cultured, distinctly Southern. It whispered over his senses, touching a chord deep inside him. For as far back as he could remember, the women in his family had spoken in just such a soft, genteel manner.

“This bay is known as the Bay of Storms, and it’s on Jermain Island. Off the coast of Charleston.”

“How far from Charleston?” she asked a little too quickly.

At once he was alert to the terror that rippled through her. “An hour or more.” He saw her fear slowly turn to relief. “But I would recommend a sturdier craft than this if you venture out to sea again. I don’t know how you survived this wicked storm. You were indeed fortunate.”

He glanced around as several of the others began to move or make little sounds of distress. Relief flooded through him. His first impression had been wrong. They were not dead. But barely alive, from the looks of them.

“I’ll help you to shore.”

As he reached for her, Dulcie realized with a shock that his left hand was missing. Instinctively she recoiled from his touch.

At her reaction, Cal went still.

It was an awkward, shattering moment. One that set both their faces to flame, hers in embarrassment, his in anger. Then, moving quickly to cover her feelings, Dulcie swept past him.

“I can manage, thank you.” She was mortified by her reaction. Though it had been purely reflexive, it jarred her sense of fairness. After all, this stranger had already lost his hand. He should not have to suffer a loss of others’ civility, as well. Nevertheless, she couldn’t think of any way to make amends. “But if you would help the others…”

She scrambled over the edge of the boat and was nearly swamped by waves. Cal watched, making no effort to assist her, as the current tugged at her already soaked gown, dragging her to her knees before she managed to find her footing.

His eyes narrowed. He’d be damned if he’d offer his help a second time. Still, he kept careful watch to see that she made it to shore.

As soon as she dropped safely into the grass, he turned away and lifted out a small child who had begun to cry. When he’d carried the child to the grass, he returned to the boat again and again until all had been deposited on land. Assured now that everyone was alive, he called to Dulcie, who lay, breathing heavily, “I’ll go now.”

“Go?” She lifted her head in alarm, a challenge in her eyes.

As patiently as if he were addressing a child he said, “I have to go back to the barn and hitch the team if I’m to take all of you to safety.”

“Oh.” She turned her head, but not before he recognized the look of relief.

So, he thought as he trudged away, she’d expected to be abandoned. It was a typical reaction in the aftermath of the chaos that had swept the land. But it was not his problem, he reminded himself. There wasn’t a soul left in these parts who hadn’t been affected by the damnable war. And he certainly couldn’t heal all the wounds. Hell, he couldn’t even heal himself.

Leaning a shoulder into the heavy door, he entered the barn and breathed in the scents of warm dry hay, moist earth and dung. Scents that had been with him since his childhood on this island. Even now, all these years later, they soothed his troubled spirit.

Speaking softly to the horses, he hitched the team to the wagon, then hurried to the house for needed supplies.

When he returned a short time later, he found Dulcie kneeling in the midst of the others, soothing tears, calming fears. Most of them had managed to sit up. But two figures had not moved—the injured young woman and child.

“Which is the most seriously wounded?” Cal asked.