Chapter Eleven: The Flood May Bear Me Far
Later that morning the sailors raised a shout from down the beach. Pam and the bosun rushed over to see they had discovered an old shipwreck high above the tideline. There wasn't much left intact, just a rotting, wooden skeleton. Nearby, pieces of it looked like they might once have been removed and used to make a temporary shelter.
"Apparently we are not the first to sail, or wreck, here," the bosun said, looking around the scene carefully.
"How long do you think it's been here?" Pam asked, a note of concern in her voice. Did they have neighbors?
"I have seen a lot of ships and a lot of wrecks in my time, too many of the latter I regret to say, but it's impossible to really tell for sure. The vessel's wood might be some kind of cedar, which could explain how well-preserved it is. From their overall condition, I'd make these pieces to be around a hundred years old, more or less. Just a guess, mind you." The bosun cast his eye around the scene with a worried expression on his face. "Still, we can't be sure we are alone here. No one should go wandering off by themselves, although I don't see any signs of recent activity. Best to play it safe, though." Pam was not comforted.
After a bit of digging around the decaying hulk, Pers let out a whoop of discovery. Full of youthful vigor he soon unearthed around two hundred pounds of wax bricks ensconced in a hollow under a heavy beam. To their surprise, each bore some kind of inscription.
"This looks like Arabic to me, but I'm no expert." Pam said. The bosun nodded, squinting at the strange script.
The men made a thorough search of the area but nothing else of use or interest was found. The bosun ordered the men to carry the bricks and whatever lengths of wood that might still be usable to camp. Looking back at the abandoned shelter, he told Pam, "Perhaps they were rescued!" with a well meaning attempt at good cheer.
"There's a good thought. We must think positively." Easier said than done. I have to stay busy or I'm going to go nuts, this is really all just too much. Pam put six of the odd bricks into her bag. Having been too uptight to eat earlier that morning, she returned to camp to see what kind of miracle her friend had produced for breakfast.
First, Pam gave the wax to Dore to see if she could find any use for it, keeping one for herself as a souvenir. Dore was well pleased. "Candles!" she exclaimed and began to bustle about trying to scrounge up something to use for wicks.
"There's a lot more where these came from, the men found them on an old shipwreck."
"A lucky find, we shall have light through the night now if we wish it."
Pam sat down cross-legged in the sand under the sun-dappled shade of the palms, studying her mysterious prize. So, others have been here before us. She wasn't sure if that was a comfort or not. She also mused that they were most likely going to be melting an important archaeological find, but pushed the thought aside, their survival came first. Dore handed her a muffin on a plate of plantain leaf. At the moment, none of the various fruits growing in abundance around the camp were ripe, but Pam looked forward to the day. She loved plantains, and there weren't any to be had in Thuringia-Franconia. The plus side of being marooned.
Pam ate her muffin slowly. It was utterly delicious, seasoned with a bit of sugar and cinnamon, and just enough to fill her. The real problem was coffee, or the terrible lack of it. Her head still felt fuzzy inside even though she had been up and about for hours, and there was a dull ache at her temples. These were the same telltales of caffeine withdrawal that she had experienced in the first year after the Ring of Fire, before Grantville had come into a fairly reliable supply of the blessed bean again. It would take a few more days, but the feeling would pass. Hopefully they would be rescued by then, but she wouldn't let herself think too hard about that.
Pam stood up from her place near the fire and tied the red cotton handkerchief from her back pocket over her head. The sky was the extra deep cerulean that can be seen sometimes after a storm has passed, and the climbing sun promised to be hot. It felt like it was already around eighty degrees Fahrenheit and it couldn't be much later than ten AM. The sea glowed the intense aqua of tropical waters; the sapphire sparkles at the surface almost blinding to look at.
At least it was beautiful here, and Pam began to feel just slightly better, the awesome pageantry of nature pushing her many worries to the back of her mind. Its a nice day, just enjoy it for what it is, fool. She made herself get up, thanked Dore, and wandered down the beach to rejoin the sailors in the ongoing search and salvage operation. Down at the water's edge, the sea was as gentle as a lamb now that the lion winds had ceased their roaring, so she took off her socks and boots and walked barefoot across firm pale sand, wading through the lapping wavelets.
From Pam's point of view the pickings were fairly slim, but the men seemed happy with every broken barrel and tangled mess of rope they recovered. They found a saw, and some wood-working tools packed in a water-tight wooden crate that had washed up, and they held a brief, whooping celebration at such excellent luck. The tide was all the way out now, and just beginning to turn; at the cove's far end it revealed a wide muddy flat dotted with slippery black volcanic rock. The upper beach here was made up of a coarser salt-and-pepper sand composed of tiny volcanic pebbles and bits of broken coral. Neither surface was particularly conducive to walking over, and Pam definitely didn't like the feel of the mud oozing between her toes. After rinsing her feet in the sea as best she could, she put her footwear back on, taking a moment to be very thankful she had brought her very best waterproofed boots along.
Shortly, Pam whooped aloud herself when she saw a small barrel floating along the water's edge. The sailors got there first and were checking its contents as Pam ran through the splattering muck to join them. Please be coffee, please be coffee, Please be coffee! she prayed earnestly. It turned out to contain sugar, which was no bad thing, so Pam did her best to hide her disappointment.
Pam continued to follow the waterline closely, scanning the shallows. There were countless black crabs scurrying about the rocks, Pam thought they might make a decent meal if they could be caught. She was startled for a moment by a long, brown tube shaped object half hidden in a clump of kelp. A sea snake? She approached carefully, then let out a peal of delighted laughter as she realized the menacing looking creature was in fact her grandmother's gnarled oak walking stick! After flicking off sticky bits of seaweed she found the tough old thing damp, but no worse for wear. Pam clutched the familiar item with both hands and held it to her breast.
Memories of her grandmother flooded into her mind, the long birdwatching walks they had taken through the peaceful West Virginia countryside, her grandmother's gentle voice listing the many birds and animals they found to her attentive grandchild. That was where a love of nature had been firmly planted in her heart. What would her grandmother have thought of Pam using it as a weapon in the seventeenth century? Pam had once broken a man's jaw, thus saving Gerbald's life with the dear old thing, it was almost beyond imagining. That incident had begun with trying to save a family of up-time wood ducks from poaching. Why? Because she had to save the natural world, that's why, Pam Miller, Mother Nature's Protector, "The Bird Lady of Grantville." She shook her head, thinking of the dangers her love of nature had led her to, as well as the friends she had made because of it. Now, she had led them into even greater danger.
She looked around at the men combing the beach, every floating piece of civilization they could find increasing their chances of survival just a bit more. Everybody was putting on a brave face, but she knew they were really in trouble. The bright burst of joy from recovering a personal relic from a lost future faded as the depression which had been whispering to her, biding its time at the edge of her consciousness, finally asserted itself in her mind, a dark cloud spoiling her sunny day. All the parades and good will speeches meant nothing now. Their ship was sunk, their expedition was over before she had even seen a damned dodo, and they were marooned on a remote island in the seventeenth century with no such thing as search-and-rescue planes. Pam fought back tears; they had been waiting their turn too, now threatening to spill. That was when she saw the line of sailors ahead of her farther up the beach had gathered in a circle around something floating in the shallows.
Her recovered walking stick proved helpful as she made her way across the muddy flats toward the now silent sailors. Young Pers saw her coming, and quickly came to cut off her approach. As he drew near, Pam thought that he didn't look quite so young anymore. Where was the happy fellow who had helped her pass the hours on the long journey around Africa? His rosy cheeks looked dimmed even in the bright southern sunlight.
"Pam, please, you must stay back. This would not be good for you to see."
Looking past him, Pam saw the men were dragging a soggy mass from out of the shallow water. Their movements were strangely gentle and spoke of deep respect. She saw a boot had come free revealing a bare foot, its color an unnatural shade of white, with a tinge of palest blue. Pam looked away.
"Who was it?" she asked in a small voice.
"Our first mate, Janvik. We must give him a proper burial now. It is better to do it quickly . . ." Pers paused, his face full of worry for a very upset Pam.
The tears that had been waiting impatiently behind her eyes burst loose now, and she swallowed a terrible sob. Her grief was made worse by a sharp sense of guilt that she hadn't liked the man much in life, and that was only because he was just doing his job, and keeping his men at their tasks while she flitted about the ship like a silly school girl, distracting them at her whim. Tears fell hard in a hot cascade down her tanned face, their salt and moisture joining the great Indian Ocean in tiny splashes.
Pers reached out to tentatively pat her on the shoulder. Pam stepped into the young sailor's strong arms, and clung to him, unknowingly pressing the walking stick painfully against his back, but the big, solid youth didn't mind. He did his best to comfort his distraught friend, who now felt she had added a death to her list of responsibilities. Maybe two, if she counted the missing captain. The thought made her cry so hard she shook. Pers patted her back gently, as a son would his weeping mother.
"There, there, Frau Pam. We who go to sea know death well. He sails silently behind us, waiting until he is called upon to bring us to the next world. It is just the way of things. Please, you mustn't cry so."
"It's all my fault. All of this fucking disaster is my fault."
Pers clicked his tongue to negate that statement. "You cannot think such things. Can it be your fault the French came with their warship, your fault such a terrible storm blew in when it did? You must not make this your burden, Frau Pam, Herr Janvik did his duty, and none could command him otherwise."
Pam stopped her tears and slowly drew herself out of her young friend's comforting embrace. She nodded and sniffed sharply. Finally, after doing her best to wipe her face dry on her sleeve, she asked him "How did you get so wise, anyway, kid?"
"I listen to those around me, and I remember what they say when it is of value. I only hope my words, simple they may be, are of some comfort to you. You are also my teacher, and I am grateful to have met you; I have learned much. We men of the Redbird all think the world of you, Frau Pam, don't you know?"
Pam gave him a squeeze on his arm. "Yeah, you're helping. I'll remember what you said. Thanks for being here for me, Pers. It means a lot to me to have such fine friends." This pleased the young sailor, who even as he blushed, smiled in his infectious way. Pam's personal storm having blown itself out for now, for now, she watched the solemn and timeless ritual of digging a grave. Such sad toil taking place on a sunny tropical beach seemed incongruous, like an odd twist of plot in a confusing dream.
"I'll go get everyone at camp and bring them back for the service," she told them, needing some time alone to pull herself together.
"It will take about an hour to finish our task here. We will wait for your return before we say any words," the bosun replied, sweating from his turn with the long spade.
Pam nodded and walked slowly back toward the distant white rectangle of their sail tent, leaning heavier on her grandmother's walking stick than she had ever remembered doing before.
By the time she returned, the grave had been filled, a fresh mound of sandy loam beneath which their sailing mate's mortal form would be returned to the earth. The funeral was simple and sincere. The bosun said the Lord's Prayer in Swedish, and Dore sang a Lutheran hymn in German, Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, which Pam translated as "How Brightly Shines the Morning Star." Pam marveled at the beauty of her friend's strong alto voice. During the years she had come to think of this woman as an older sister, but this was the first time she had ever heard her sing. All held a respectful silence once the last thrilling notes of Dore's voice fell away with the sea breeze.
Pam clutched a simple bouquet of wild flowers, weeds most likely, but pretty enough, that she had scrounged together on her way back down the beach. She was about to place them on the grave when she looked up to see all eyes on her. Oh no. They want me to say something! The great woodsman Gerbald hadn't returned from his mission yet, and Pam felt vulnerable without his reassuring presence, the older brother to match Dore's role as sister to her, the two forming a much-treasured set. She realized she would eventually have to speak up. Her mind suddenly slipped down into a pleasant yet seldom used gear, and she found herself stepping forward, miraculously speaking up in a somber tone worthy of an ordained minister.
"I want to share with you all a poem I learned when I was a school girl. It's by a man named Tennyson, who might never be born in this world. He wrote it for sailors in particular. I only know how to recite it in English, but I hope the sound of it will still bring some comfort to us. The poem is called Crossing the Bar.
Sunset and evening star,
And one clear call for me!
And may there be no moaning of the bar,
When I put out to sea,
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,
Too full for sound and foam,
When that which drew from out the boundless deep
Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,
And after that the dark!
And may there be no sadness of farewell,
When I embark;
For tho' from out our bourne of Time and Place
The flood may bear me far,
I hope to see my Pilot face to face
When I have crossed the bar."
Pam looked up to see the men around her nodding their approval, even if they hadn't understood all of the words, they had felt the emotion of the piece. Dore regarded her with a quiet, beaming pride. Pam gently placed her simple bouquet at the foot of a stout, red- painted plank from Redbird the men had placed there as a marker, on which the first mate's name, nation, ship and the current year were carefully scribed with the wax they had found that morning. They hoped the water resistant substance would tell his story for many years to come. Pam turned away first, and they all walked together back to camp, seeking relief from the stinging noonday sun.