North Carolina Ghosts Legends by Nancy Roberts

Author:Nancy Roberts [Roberts, Nancy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Social Science, Folklore & Mythology, History, United States, State & Local, South (AL; AR; FL; GA; KY; LA; MS; NC; SC; TN; VA; WV)
ISBN: 9781643360461
Google: ljiqDwAAQBAJ
Publisher: Univ of South Carolina Press
Published: 2019-10-11T05:10:36+00:00

Wreck of a wooden sailing vessel at dawn on Hatteras Island

Seaman Robert Lee Garnett had signed on the Henry P. Simmons in Philadelphia but that day was beginning to blur in his mind. Cold and wet, he had managed to wrap himself in a sail but his body ached from the long hours in one position. Only with the greatest caution could Garnett move his hands and feet, and from time to time, he was able to capture a little rainwater in the sail. He drank it greedily.

He watched one of the men on the beach walk back and forth and sometimes gesture as if directing other men. In the midst of his ordeal this man caught his attention and, somehow, gave him hope. More and more often he found himself dozing. He increased his efforts to stay aware of the feel of the rough rope in his stiff and bloodied hands. He must maintain his grip. Night came and he tried not to think of the tossing black water beneath him. The crews waiting for help received word that the tug could not leave Norfolk.

When Keeper Corbel arrived on the morning of the twenty-sixth he dreaded looking out at the rigging, but miraculously the big man and two others were still there. Three times he commanded the lifesaving crews to launch a boat. Each time the immense watery arms of the sea seized the small craft and hurled it back on the beach.

As the lifesavers watched helplessly, one man toppled from the rigging into the sea only to be followed without a cry by another. Two men erased from life as soundlessly as the stroke of a sponge wipes clean a blackboard.

Corbel and his crew set out in the surfboat to rescue them. The men rowed desperately. Their arms hurt as if the force of the waves would tear them off.

For a moment the crew seemed to be making headway. Then, as if the sea had merely been teasing them, leading them on, an oar snapped and a monstrous wave tossed the boat on shore. Malachi’s breath came in aching gasps and his hands were a mass of broken, bloody blisters.

He was overwhelmed with hatred for his wild and wicked adversary. Here, on this string of off-shore islands, the sea birthed men like him. It fed them, was a beloved mistress and a respected taskmaster but also a monstrous tyrant. If they did not suffer death from its violent hands, at the very least they could be left broken and maimed for life.

Now, only one of the shipwrecked five still lived. Robert Garnett clung to his perch, his arms numbed. Salt spray ripped into the tortured, tender skin on his face. He cursed but endured, scarcely aware of being more than a numb appendage of the mast—a pair of eyes stinging from wind and water and a tired, tenacious brain. He had borne three nights and three days in this vicious storm.

Until the outline of the masts was lost in the mist and darkness, Malachi watched the lone figure.

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