Another wave crashed down, this time pouring water on top of him. The salt water stung his eyes and pricked his arm, sending surges of pain through his body. With his good hand he tried to wipe away the moisture. He peered out into the sea, its pitch-black backdrop punctuated with jagged lines of lightning every few moments. Moonbeams fought to shine through breaks in the clouds, sending an eerie glow and illuminating the frothy crests of the water. He checked forward, noting the sailors at the forecastle were still busy, each of them tied to the rigging for safety.
He glanced down at the rope near the helm. He thought about tying himself up too, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Not with his memories of the equal danger it could present in a storm, especially with one arm injured and unable to hold tight.
He gripped the rungs of the wheel with both hands, his injured arm a strange mixture of pain and lack of feeling. His fingers wrapped around the wooden dowels, throbbing, and tingling.
Another flash of lightning shattered the sky, and Will glimpsed an enormous wave cresting just ahead. If he turned the wheel just so, he could try to hit it at an angle that would make for the safest impact.
The rudder started to respond, and the entire ship turned, but it wasn’t quite enough as the wave hit at the same time, throwing the bow into a nearly horizontal angle.
A second wave came from the same direction, this time crashing directly on his head. The force of the water against his arm was unbearable. Reflexively, his grip spasmed open, and he fell to the ground.
The retreating swell dragged him toward the edge of the boat like the greedy claws of a sea demon. His hands flailed about, struggling for something to hold onto, but he continued to slide down the polished wood floor, unable to fight against the unruly angle of the deck. He gasped for air, or to scream, but foamy seawater filled his mouth.
This was what he feared; this was why he hated storms. Throat burning, visions of his past flooded every part of his brain. His father, at the bowsprit grasping the end of a rope, hastily tying it around himself. A huge wave washing over the deck taking his father with it across the deck. Will remembered he ran forward and took hold of the other side of the rope. He wound the thick line around his hand to maintain tension as he tried to pull his father back. Another wave pulled his father farther across the deck, and the long rope caught on a barrel, throwing his father’s body violently into the metal capstan.
Will remembered how his hand seared with pain, the rope tightening like liquid fire against his skin, tearing the flesh as his father slid further from him. His next memory was of his father lying in a heap on the deck. By the time Will freed his hand and came to him, his father had taken his last breath. The rope that was supposed to save his father had tangled him, and the waves had battered him, and Will wasn’t fast enough to free him.
His hand would always bear the scar as a reminder of his failure.
Another draft of water crashed against Will from the opposite direction, this one with even more force. He slid down the deck in the other direction but used every bit of his remaining energy to crawl toward the ship’s wheel. With his good arm, he tried to grasp at any small lip of the planks to no avail. His bad arm throbbed, but amid the chaos he didn’t really register all the pain.
He just knew he couldn’t give up. He didn’t want to end up like his father, no matter how much his arm screamed at him and his legs gave out. His crew and 480 passengers depended on him. He had to keep fighting.
Ann woke with a start when her head fell away from the wall. The doctor’s few instruments rolled across the table as the ship lolled to the side. The bolted-down furniture remained in place while other odds and ends scattered violently across the room.
Then she realized the cot before her was empty.
Where had Mr. Boyd—Will—she reminded herself—gone? She looked around the room and could see the doctor asleep on the nearest cot. She wasn’t sure how long she’d slept, but the one small window showed flashes of lightning through a dark sky.
The sound of the door crashing open caused her to whip around. A man stood in the doorway, bent at a strange angle, cradling his arm. The doctor immediately stirred.
“Mr. Crenshaw,” the doctor called out, “what has happened?”
“The deck pitched, and my arm was at odds with the forces against it. I think it may be dislocated.”
Dr. Rowley drew Crenshaw near him, and Ann thought this a perfect time to leave, hopefully undetected. The room was still very dark, and Will’s empty cot was in the corner. She couldn’t risk any questions right now.
Silently, she gathered a bit of the bandaging cloth and one bottle of liniment. Of course Will would be stubborn enough to leave the sick bay without telling anyone. She slipped out the door and entered steerage, hoping to make her way quickly through.
But no one was sleeping, though many people appeared to have just awoken. President Garn stood in the doorframe. It looked as if he’d called some kind of meeting, and entire families huddled near their bunks, while some of the smallest children sat in the tight space between berths.
“My fellow brothers and sisters.” His voice was loud and grave. “I’ve spoken with the captain. He knows of our faith, of our belief, and that we pray to our God. I ask you now to join in prayer and fasting so that our ship might be spared and our very lives preserved. These sailors and this vessel need every ounce of help we can muster on their behalf.”
“Amen!” someone called from a berth.
“Agreed,” said another.
“I would now like to, if I may, gather in prayer together. The faith and desires of many can have great power when calling on the Lord for mercy.”
Ann watched from the back of the room as people removed caps and bowed heads solemnly. She clasped her hands around the supplies she had taken from the sick bay and closed her eyes.
President Garn prayed with more fervor than she’d ever heard.
“Our dear Father in Heaven, we, Thy humble Saints, gather together at this time to plead with Thee for deliverance. We think of how Thy Son calmed the seas when He was on the earth, and we ask for the same blessingnow. We pray that like Thy great servant, the Brother of Jared, we can cross the great deep in safety. We pray that the bowels of the sea will calm, that the tumultuous deep and the troubled skies will relent and work together for our good. We ask that the wind may work in more favorable ways and allow us to make progress toward Zion, our promised land, where we can gather with the other Saints.”
Here he paused, overcome with emotion. The only other sounds in the room were several sniffles as many of the company wiped away tears.
His strength returned, and he continued. “Dear Father, this is our very own crossing, like so many of Thy faithful before us. Please deliver us! Please grant us health and spare as many as Thou sees fit from the smallpox and from this storm. Indeed, we are grateful for this chance to exhibit our faith and come closer to Thee. We are grateful for Thy watchful care and pray for an even greater measure at this time. Last, we also ask Thee to preserve the strength of this vessel, to keep theWindermereseaworthy and sound, and please protect and watch over those who direct it, including the captain and the brave sailors aboard. In the name of Jesus Christ, our deliverer. Amen.”
