P.J. Alderman - Ghost Ship

“We don’t have much time, and you must save yourself.”

“No!” she sobbed. “It might be my friend! I won’t leave him.”

“Miss.” The voice held patience as well as understanding. “This ship is precariously balanced in the surf—it could break further apart any second now. The waves are gaining height, and they will soon suck the ship deep into the sands. You must come with me now, or I’ll be forced to leave you behind.”

“Oh God, please ! Can’t you do something?”

“I’m afraid he’s already gone.” The man reached down to her. “Give me your hand, and I’ll lift you out.”

She stared over at the body, uncomprehending.

The floor shifted once again beneath her, throwing her off balance, and she screamed.

“Make haste, miss. I beg of you!”

Pushing away from the wall, she reluctantly reached up to grasp his hand. The man pulled her off her feet and out of the water, urging her to give him her other hand. In moments, she stood on a badly listing deck.

Destruction surrounded her. What had once been a ship possessing immense beauty and grace now seemed to be no more than piles of rubble. Canvas and rigging lay as it had fallen. Stacked taller than the height of a large man, it jumbled together with splintered pieces of wood that had once been yardarms.

In front of her, the bow of the ship had been forced up and onto the sand and driftwood. Behind her, the stern still lay in the water. Waves crashed against the hull.

Her rescuer kept a tight grasp on her elbow, holding her steady whenever she felt her balance give way. They picked their way around bodies and over snarls of rope and sails, their progress greatly hampered by the weight of Charlotte’s drenched gown.

As they reached the ship’s bow, she could hear faint shouts from the mist below. Her rescuer sliced quickly through a section of rope and used it to tie around her waist.

“I’m going to lower you down, miss,” he explained as he secured the rope to the railing. “Someone below will guide you onto the beach.”

“But what about the others?” she asked.

“They’re gone,” he replied in a gentle tone.

Dear God. Jesse . “No! I’m certain that if you just search the lower cabins …” Her voice trailed off on a hiccupping sob.

“Go on now, miss—I’ll be right behind you.”

Clinging to the rope, her heart pounding in her chest, she was lowered past bodies hanging in midair, tangled in the rigging. Mist swirled around her, adding to the chill of her soaked clothing and making it hard for her to see what lay below. Gradually, the faint light of a lantern beckoned through the darkness. Hands grasped her ankles, then her legs. She dropped onto the sand.

A woman worked briskly to untie the rope about her waist, then gave it a sharp yank as a signal to pull it up. She handed Charlotte a coarse wool blanket. “Sit, miss, and try to keep yourself warm. It will be some time before boats arrive to take you back to town.”

Shivering, Charlotte glanced overhead. The hull of the Henrietta Dale towered over them. Just aft of the bow, she could see a massive log sticking out of the hull where the ship had rammed onto the sand. The stern sat lower in the water than usual, and the entire ship was canted at an angle so acute as to appear as if it would fall any moment, crushing them. The woman stood by Charlotte, her head angled so that she could watch overhead, her expression tense. Two other men sprawled on the beach only a few yards away, unconscious and injured. One, the town councilman she recognized from the great cabin, had blood darkening the side of his face.

“Are we the only survivors?” she asked the woman in a hushed voice.

“No,” the woman replied, not pulling her gaze away. “By the time my husband and I arrived, a few of the crew had already managed to climb down with one injured man. They left to hike back along the spit to the headland and summon more help from nearby farms. Until we can get a message back to Port Chatham, no one will know to bring their boats out here to help with the rescue.”

“What about Michael Seavey?” Charlotte asked. “Have you seen him? And what of Jesse Canby?” she added, her voice breaking.

“Unless one of them is the man who was carried ashore a bit ago, or one of those two lying just over there, I’m afraid they didn’t make it.”

Chapter 17

I continued to ask throughout the night, but there was no indication that Jesse had survived,” Charlotte told them, swiping at tears. “The first mate and another member of his crew walked the five miles back to a farm on the headlands, to notify the authorities of the shipwreck. It took until almost dawn, but more help did eventually arrive.” Her expression reflected the rigors of that long, freezing night spent on the beach. “And along with help, of course, came the press.”

“Eleanor Canby was there?” Jordan asked. “She must have been devastated by the news of her son’s death.”

“No, her reporters were at the scene of the wreck, but Eleanor didn’t learn of Jesse’s death until around dawn, when we were all brought back to Port Chatham. Until we were all gathered together on Union Wharf, even I wasn’t willing to accept that Jesse hadn’t made it out alive.” Charlotte pressed her lips together for a moment before continuing. “I’ve never seen Eleanor so hysterical. She was raging at anyone who came close to her. When she saw you being lifted off the rescue boat, Michael, she became incoherent, ranting about how it was all your fault, that you were the reason her son was dead.”

“She must have loved him very much,” Hattie mused, “even though she professed to have disowned him.”

“So perhaps you were the unconscious man the crew first carried to the beach,” Jordan told Seavey.

He shrugged. “Obviously, I have no recollection of the event.”

Jordan turned back to Charlotte. “Think, Charlotte. Can you tell me exactly who you saw on the beach that night?”

“There were so many people rushing around, what with the reporters trying to get us to tell our stories, the local farmers trying to help the injured, and others arriving in boats to transport us back to Port Chatham. Captain Williams wanted to go back on board, to see if he could find more survivors, but the rescuers felt the ship was too unstable. All I remember is being horribly cold, and feeling a terrible sadness. I didn’t want to believe that Jesse might truly be gone.”

“You cared a great deal for him.” Hattie said it very softly.

“Yes. Though Jesse struggled with his own demons, he was a true friend to me during that time. I’ll always remember him with great fondness.”

Hattie hugged her, saying, “I’m just glad you survived.”

“So pardon me for being the one to point out the obvious,” Jordan said, “but we still don’t know who murdered Michael, and I still don’t have the information I need about Sam Garrett.”

Frank roused himself from where he had been standing throughout Charlotte’s story. “Indeed, I doubt anyone truly cared whether Seavey lived or died, or even the manner in which he died.”

“Frank!” Hattie exclaimed, scandalized. “Michael is right here, you know.”

“His insults fail to disturb me,” Seavey replied mildly. “And as I’ve indicated, I’ve no wish to know the exact circumstances surrounding my death.”

“Well, I do,” Charlotte insisted. “And so does Hattie. You were kind to me, Michael, when I needed the help.”

“That’s a wonderful sentiment,” Jordan remarked, “but unless someone can give me a clue how to go about this, we may be at a dead end.”

“Good God, woman,” Frank protested. “Your humor leaves much to be desired!”