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Chapter Three

“There’s a passenger ship in trouble,” Mrs. Calloway announced to Fiona as she hurried through the dining room on her way to the kitchen. “We’re going to need every bed in the place made up and every spare blanket brought over to the lighthouse.”

A passenger ship! Fiona’s heart leaped into her throat. Mary Clare. What if her niece was on that ship? She pushed aside the newspapers, husband-hunting forgotten, and raced to the entry hall. In a second, she donned her cloak.

“Where are you going?” the boardinghouse proprietress asked.

“I have to do something to help.” Fiona couldn’t bring herself to mention the fear that was building in her chest. A seven-year-old girl. A sinking ship. Icy water. What if?

“You can help right here. We need to carry blankets to the lighthouse.”

The lighthouse would do. From there she could see what was happening and learn what would be done. If the passengers were brought ashore, she could then bring Mary Clare here and warm her up.

“What about the rooms?” Fiona headed for the staircase without removing her cloak. “We’ll need to warm the beds and have something hot for them to drink.”

“All taken care of, dear. Louise has already begun preparing the rooms, and Pearl and Amanda are on their way. Come with me to the linen closet, and we’ll grab the extra blankets.”

Fiona took a deep breath. There wasn’t anything she could do right now. Mrs. Calloway had said the ship was in trouble, not that it had sunk. “The ship is still afloat, then?”

“Aye, bobbing like a cork, I understand.”

Fiona breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. “Is it a large ship?” Maybe if it was very small, Mary Clare wouldn’t be aboard. Lillibeth had said something about a group of orphans.

“From what I hear, it’s like the one you came in on.”

Oh, dear. There had been scores of passengers on the Milwaukee. If rescued, where would they go? Mary Clare could join her, but the rest? “We’ll never have room for everyone.”

“We’ll squeeze them in. Some can sleep in the parlor or on the dining-room chairs.”

As Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway upstairs, she recalled all too clearly the crowded conditions when she was growing up. Parents, two grandmothers, seven siblings—one with a husband—and a baby all squeezed into the tiny tenement apartment. She and three sisters and the grandmothers shared a single bed—three facing one direction and three the other. She’d been kicked in the back and shoulders numerous times, but the boys had it tougher. They’d line up the wooden chairs for beds—three chairs per bed. Ma and Pa gave up their bedroom to her oldest sister’s family, while they slept atop the kitchen table.

Mrs. Calloway was suggesting the same sort of discomfort, except this would be temporary. Fiona hadn’t known relief until she began getting paid to sing and moved to a boardinghouse room of her own. It had felt like the height of luxury, and she would never go back.

At the linen shelves, Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and handed them to Fiona. “Is that too much, dear?”

“I can carry more.” Fiona had always been strong. As a girl, she’d prided herself on the ability to lift more than boys her age. Contrary to common belief, she did not shirk manual labor.

Mrs. Calloway added a few. “No more, or you won’t be able to see in front of you. Come now, let’s get these downstairs and then head over to the lighthouse.”

After Mrs. Calloway donned her outerwear, they trudged through town. The wind howled off the lake, filling the streets with sand and whipping those particles through the air so they stung every inch of exposed skin. Fiona lowered her head against the wind. Thankfully she’d thought to pull the hood of her cloak over her head, or her hair would be filled with grit.

The drifts of sand made progress through town difficult, but fear for Mary Clare drove Fiona on. Climbing the dune taxed her limits. She gasped for breath and had to pause several times while Mrs. Calloway plodded on, apparently oblivious to the exertion. Maybe Fiona wasn’t as strong as she’d thought. The years on the stage had apparently taken their toll.

She pressed onward.

At the top of the dune, the lighthouse flashed a signal in a repeating pattern, but her attention landed on the men standing near the lighthouse entrance. One form was unmistakable. Sawyer. Relief flooded her. She’d never known a stronger man. He could do anything. He would save Mary Clare.

“Sawyer!” The wind shoved her cry back at her.

He would never hear. She must wait until she reached him.

Mrs. Calloway had gained the top of the dune and was talking to an older man bundled in oilskins. Fiona didn’t recognize him. Then again, it was dark except for the flashes of light from the tower above. Sawyer joined them, and the older man handed him what looked like a large coil of rope.

Fiona pressed for the summit. Her pulse pounded as a foot slid backward in the soft sand. The lake roared, and the stinging grit got worse with each step. Unlike Louise, she had never climbed the dunes or gone to the lakeshore. From sailing into the harbor, she recalled that the lighthouse sat high on the dune that separated Singapore from the lake, but she could not recall if there was much of a beach on the other side.

“Sawyer!” she called out.

This time he turned toward her. After giving the coil of rope to another man, he loped down the short distance and relieved her of the blankets.

“Take my arm,” he said.

The security of his strength washed over her. He would help her. He would ensure Mary Clare was safe.

“Must help,” she began, but could get no further before gasping for breath.

They managed the last few yards to the top of the dune, near the man clad in oilskins and Mrs. Calloway. There Sawyer released her and returned the blankets to her care.

“There you are,” the boardinghouse proprietress said to Fiona. She didn’t display the slightest shortness of breath. “We ought to put the blankets indoors in case of rain.”

The man in the oilskins pointed to the keeper’s house. “Jane’s inside.”

He must be the lighthouse keeper, for Jane was the lightkeeper’s wife. Though Mrs. Calloway turned to go to the lighthouse, Fiona had to make sure Sawyer knew about Mary Clare. He had stepped away to talk to the rest of the men.

She nudged his arm. “You need to rescue them.”

He shook his head. “Don’t know if we can with those waves.”

“You must.” She fought desperation. “My niece. She’s only seven. She could be on that ship.”

His expression, highlighted in the eerie light of the lighthouse, twisted with concern. “We’ll do what we can.”

But she could see the doubt in his eyes before he rejoined the men. Poor Mary Clare! Fiona knew no fear when she could take charge, but this was beyond her control. Lord, please save little Mary Clare.

She looked toward the water but couldn’t see anything. The beam from the lighthouse didn’t illuminate the landscape directly below. It pierced the sky above them, a beacon to the ship. Beyond and below the dune, she glimpsed occasional dots of light bob up and then disappear. The beam from the light briefly revealed the tossing tempest.

How could anyone survive those seas?

Mrs. Calloway nudged Fiona with her shoulder, directing her toward the keeper’s quarters. “Come.”

Fiona couldn’t drag her gaze from the unfolding situation. Her feet stayed rooted to the spot even when Sawyer and the men headed down the dune toward Lake Michigan.

“We need to be ready,” Mrs. Calloway urged. “The survivors will need warm, dry blankets.”

Only then did Fiona notice the first spits of rain. Somehow she followed, her legs moving though her mind was still on the embattled ship. Surely they would survive. God would not take the life of one so young. Yet, she could name many who had died even younger. Mama had lost a boy who lived less than one day on this earth.

“Mary Clare,” she whispered into the windy night. “I failed you.”

If she had found a husband sooner. If she hadn’t gotten entangled with that vindictive Evanston in New York. If only she had cast caution to the wind and taken in Mary Clare at once rather than head off on this quest to find a husband well off enough to give her niece all she deserved. What did it all matter now, when the little girl was sick and frightened on a sinking ship?

She looked back but could see only darkness cut by the beam of the lighthouse. This fretting was useless, borrowing trouble from the future. She had to trust Sawyer and the men. She needed to trust the ingenuity of the officers aboard the imperiled ship. Most of all, she needed to trust God. Turning back to the task at hand, she hurried to catch up to Mrs. Calloway.

They covered the distance in little time, pushed forward by the steady wind. Mrs. Calloway stomped her feet on the lighthouse stoop to knock off as much of the sand as possible. A coiled rope mat helped remove more before they stepped inside.

“Jane! We’ve brought blankets,” Mrs. Calloway called out.

A girl of perhaps twelve appeared. “Mother said to leave them on the hall chair.”

“Thank you, dear. Is there anything else you can use?”

Fiona set her stack of blankets on the chair, which was situated opposite the entry table. A simple pewter card receiver sat on the end of the table nearest the door. She couldn’t help wondering how many callers Mrs. Blackthorn got. The tray was empty. The hall stand was not. It bristled with coats, hats, scarves and gloves. A number of umbrellas filled a brass urn beside it.

Mrs. Calloway handed her the rest of the blankets. Fiona had to rearrange a bit to keep the stack from toppling.

“Mother said there could be dozens of passengers,” the girl said. “She’s making soup, but we don’t have enough bread.”

“Don’t go begging these kind folk,” came a voice from the back of the house.

“It’s no bother at all, Jane,” Mrs. Calloway called back. “I’ve got plenty left over, and we can get more on the rise in no time.”

Fiona wondered why Mrs. Calloway didn’t just go back to the kitchen, but then she looked down and saw the sand coating their skirts and coats. No woman wanted that tracked through her house. A considerate visitor stayed in the entry. Fiona recalled all the times she’d barged straight into the boardinghouse parlor without shaking out her skirts. Mrs. Calloway never said a word, but it must have made her sigh with frustration.

“Anything else we can bring after we get the dough ready?” Mrs. Calloway asked loudly.

Jane Blackthorn appeared at the end of the hall, hands covered in flour. “No need to go to that trouble, Mabel. I’ve got a batch ready to go. We might need bandages.”

The two women proceeded to discuss preparations while the daughter returned to the kitchen and Fiona waited. Her thoughts drifted back to Sawyer and the men. What had they encountered at the lakeshore? The waves must be huge in this wind. Their crashing could be heard inside the keeper’s quarters.

“Do you know what they plan to do?” she blurted out.

The two women stared at her.

“Some of the men went down the dune toward the lake,” she added.

Mrs. Calloway looked to Jane before answering. “I expect they wanted to have a closer look-see at the situation.”

Fiona prodded. “What will they do?”

Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “They’re probably seein’ what they can do to save those people on the ship.”

The lump grew in Fiona’s throat. “Then they are wrecked.”

“Samuel says they’re stuck on a sandbar,” Jane said. “The waves could tear the ship apart.”

Samuel must be her husband, the lighthouse keeper.

Icy fingers of dread wove their way around Fiona’s heart. “Then there’s little hope.”

“There’s always hope,” Mrs. Calloway said. “All things are possible with the Lord.”

The paraphrased scripture would normally settle Fiona’s nerves, but not tonight. “But how will anyone get to them in these waves?”

The two older women looked at each other.

Mrs. Calloway answered. “Apparently your Mr. Sawyer—” she often added Mr. to a man’s first name “—said during the war he saw someone send a line out to sea using a mortar.”

“A cannon?” Fiona gasped. “You have one?”

Jane shook her head.

“If the ship’s close enough,” Mrs. Calloway said, “they’re going to try tying a lead weight on the end and throwing it.”

That sounded far-fetched, but Fiona wasn’t going to say that, not with the ladies’ husbands involved.

“If that doesn’t work,” Mrs. Calloway continued, “they’ll use the mackinaw boat to try to get to the foundered ship.”

Boat meant small. Fiona’s head spun, and she leaned against the wall for support. All she could envision was Mary Clare’s lifeless body dragged from the icy water. Just hours ago, she’d been upset that her designs on Carson Blakeney had come to naught. What were her plans compared to people’s lives? Innocent people faced death on that ship, and brave men would risk their lives to try to save them. Sawyer in the lead.

“Now there,” Mrs. Calloway said, “no one’s gonna do anything foolhardy. They’ve all got a good dose of common sense.”

Jane nodded. “Samuel knows better than to send anyone out in impossible conditions.”

Even worse.

“But if no one tries to reach the ship...” She couldn’t fathom that. “They must try. They must.”

Again, the women stared at her.

“Now, what’s got you all upset, dear?” Mrs. Calloway asked. “The good Lord will take care of everyone.”

Fiona had always thought her faith strong, but she was no longer sure. Not sure at all.

* * *

Sawyer had seen the lake rough, but tonight was about as bad as it could get. When the waves and the cold were put together, the chances of rescuing anyone were slim. But they had to try. A little girl, Fiona had said, her eyes filled with an emotion he had never seen from her—fear.

Sawyer recalled the little girl who had held out her hand to him when he marched south from Atlanta during the war. Rail-thin, her lips had barely moved, but her eyes had told a terrible story. All she’d wanted was food, but he didn’t have any. That failure still haunted him. He could not fail Fiona’s niece.

A line of waves crashed and rolled ashore, pushing inland nearly to the edge of the dune. The men huddled there, just out of reach of the water. For now. With the wind steady, the waves would build. Soon there wouldn’t be any beach.

The ship was lodged on the sandbar. The lights aboard, likely lanterns since the engines had failed, vanished behind towering waves and then reappeared in the trough. Otherwise, they hadn’t budged. Blackthorn figured the sandbar—and now the foundered ship—was roughly a hundred yards offshore. Not impossible if they had a solid steam tug. She would pitch and roll like crazy, but they could get to the ship and get passengers onboard. It would take several trips, and hauling the passengers, especially the women and children, from ship to ship wouldn’t be easy, but it could be done.

The mackinaw? Impossible. The shallow-draft sailboat was designed to carry a lot of cargo, not weather heavy seas. It would flip over and fill with water in minutes.

“Maybe the ship will last till morning,” Garrett Decker yelled into his ear.

That was their best hope. That and the wind dying down. But if the passenger ship started to break up, they’d have to attempt the impossible. Sawyer could swim. But not a couple hundred yards into huge seas in icy waters. The ship might attempt to launch its boat, but that would be just as precarious as the mackinaw.

If only he had a cannon. They could attempt to fire the rope, attached to a shot, toward the ship and then rescue folks using that line. He’d seen it accomplished once, during the war, but the unit had resources that Singapore didn’t.

Sawyer rubbed his arms. “Let’s try heaving the line.”

They’d practiced a few times, failing miserably. This time Sawyer put Edwards on the spot. The man had boasted of his prowess. Let him prove it.

The wiry crew chief warmed up by swinging his arms several times. Then he grabbed the lead weight, reached back as far as he could and threw. The weight arced in the light from the lighthouse and then splashed into the water. Tuggman hauled it in.

“It’s useless,” Blackthorn said. “No one’s gotten near the ship.”

That was a kind way of saying they’d all fallen short by at least half.

“I’m praying she doesn’t break up,” Roland stated.

Sawyer shivered, though it wasn’t terribly cold. The southwest wind was warm, but the cold sweats had started coming on ever since he first saw the situation. Fiona’s desperate plea only made them worse.

“She’s breaking up!” Tuggman shouted.

Sawyer gulped. The worst had just arrived.

* * *

Fiona paced the small hallway in the keeper’s quarters after helping Mrs. Calloway haul bandages and liniments from the boardinghouse to the light station. The boardinghouse proprietress had vanished into the kitchen after asking Fiona to wait out front for word from the men. Nothing more could be done until survivors arrived.

Mrs. Calloway and Mrs. Blackthorn reappeared, busily calculating how many bed linens were available throughout town.

“The empty bunkhouses,” the latter suggested.

Mrs. Calloway shook her head. “It’s all at the boardinghouse. If only the hotel was open. There would be plenty there.”

“The VanderLeuvens would understand if we borrowed some,” Jane Blackthorn replied. “It is an emergency.”

Fiona couldn’t count blankets and bedding when lives were at risk. In addition to Mary Clare and the rest of the passengers, now Sawyer and the men attempting a rescue were in peril. When Samuel Blackthorn returned to check the light, he’d informed them that Sawyer and a few of the mill workers had gone to launch the mackinaw.

Blackthorn had shaken his head. “It’ll take the grace of God to bring them back alive.”

Fiona’s stomach churned. She was no sailor, but even she knew that a little sailboat didn’t stand a chance in such angry seas.

Mrs. Blackthorn returned to the kitchen, leaving Fiona alone with Mrs. Calloway.

“I can’t wait here.” She plucked her cloak off the wooden peg and threw it over her shoulders. “I’m going down to the beach to help.”

Mrs. Calloway stopped her with a firm hand on her arm. “Now, what do you think you’re gonna do that those men can’t do?”

“Something.” She couldn’t stand to wait.

“Do you think your Sawyer wants to be worrying about a woman when he’s got a boatload of people to rescue?”

Fiona didn’t miss the wording. Mrs. Calloway figured Fiona was upset because she feared for Sawyer’s life. She didn’t know that Mary Clare could be on that ship.

“Let them do what needs to be done,” Mrs. Calloway added. “And you be ready to help here when it comes our turn.”

“How can you be so calm when your husband’s part of the rescue party?”

“Faith in God above, child. Ernie is in God’s hands, and that’s the best place to be.”

Deep down Fiona knew Mrs. Calloway was right, but she couldn’t shake the fear. “My niece might be on that ship. My sister sent her here.”

“Oh, child.” Mrs. Calloway embraced her in a motherly hug. “God’s got hold of her. You have to believe that.”

Fiona was trying. “It’s so hard. What if...” She couldn’t finish the thought.

“Hush now. You just turn that precious girl over to the Lord’s care.” Right then and there, Mrs. Calloway prayed over the ship, the rescuers and the passengers, including Mary Clare.

A smidgen of peace wove through Fiona. Everything would be all right. She hoped.

Footsteps sounded on the stairs coming down from the tower. Both women looked toward the door to the tower. Fiona held her breath.

Mr. Blackthorn pushed open the tower door. His face was ashen. “The mackinaw’s gone under. They’re lost.”

Fiona gasped. Sawyer. All this time she’d been worried about her niece, who might not even be on the ship, when she should have prayed fervently for Sawyer. She had sent him out, had begged him to rescue her niece. Now he was gone? Guilt crashed over her. She moved her lips, but no sound came out of her mouth.

She’d sent Sawyer to the grave.