Ghost of the Southern Cross by Nellie P. Strowbridge

Author:Nellie P. Strowbridge
Language: eng, eng, eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Flanker Press
Published: 2015-01-22T16:00:00+00:00

41

In Foxtrap, time wore away and yet it seemed suspended, a portent like a black moon showing no light. An outward calmness settled over the place as men worked in their lofts and sheds and women tended their homes. Still, uncertainty spread like a plague, sickening the hearts and minds of relatives waiting for a confirmation that their men were living or gone.

All through the long nights, echoes of disturbing news that the Southern Cross had not found safe shelter kept Maggie awake, hope washing away, drifting back like flotsam. Hours stretched as long as days and days lingered like weeks. She pushed at fear present like a black intruder and went to see William who reasoned that if the storm had driven the barque out to sea it would take days for her to make land.

Maggie glanced out the window and saw Caroline carrying a crock of stew in her apron. Lavinia came behind her mother, her face pale, her eyes dark. Caroline nodded toward Maggie and laid the stew on the stove. Lavinia dropped a steaming loaf of bread on the table.

“You’ve got to eat, me man, and you, too, Maggie,” Caroline said. She stirred the stew and gave William a critical eye. “Do you find it cold?”

“Not altogether,” he said, his voice logy.

“A sweater would do you just the same.” She got up and took his sweater from a nail on the back of a door and laid it on his bent shoulders.

Lavinia touched her uncle’s back. “It’s a terrible loss, all those men on the Newfoundland perished, but Jamie is coming home.” She lifted her head stubbornly. “There’s no one says he’s not.”

Caroline drew her lips into a hard line. She said nothing. Then, seeing her daughter twisting the tail of her pinafore in her hands, her eyes wet, she put her arm around her. “We can’t borrow tomorrow’s trouble. Wait and see. There’ll be news soon.”

Maggie left the house without waiting for a dish of stew. More than ever she and William remained prisoners of hope.

That night she curled in bed beside Melanie and wrapped her arms around the tender body. She woke the next morning to hear voices from the kitchen. She jumped out of bed and slipped down to the stovepipe opening in the floor and listened. She heard a neighbour’s grave words: “The Southern Cross would have been in port by now if she hadn’t met with trouble. She headed right into the mouth of the storm and was likely swallowed.”

“Don’t tell Maggie right away.” Her aunt’s voice came strained and hoarse.

Maggie’s heart galloped, her ears buzzing. What were they saying? She dressed and crept along the landing and down the stairs holding to the bannister. Her stockinged feet hooked in the clips holding the flower-patterned canvas in place and she almost tripped. She pushed open the door to the pantry just as the neighbour closed the door to the porch behind her. Her aunt was already reaching for a pot and rolled oats.

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