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Dulcie's Gift. Ruth Langan
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“Look, Dulcie. Do you not see the storm?” The speaker was a young woman with hair the color of autumn leaves and a voice tinged with the lilt of Ireland.
“It can’t be helped,” Dulcie replied. Lifting one child on her back and another in her arms, she clambered over the edge and gratefully deposited her burdens on the rough wooden bottom of the boat. “There is nowhere else to go but out to sea. We dare not turn back now.”
One of the older girls clutched the hand of a small boy and tried to back away, terrified by the heavy winds that caused the little craft to rock violently. “I can’t, Dulcie. I’m…so afraid.”
Dulcie’s voice took on a note of command. “Fiona, Nathaniel, help Starlight aboard. There is no time to waste.” Her voice rose above the howling wind. “Remember what awaits us if we should tarry.”
“Aye. Come on, lass.” The Irish woman, bearing the weight of a six-year-old girl on her back, draped an arm around the pitifully frail shoulders of the younger woman and forced her to step into the angry, swirling surf. The little boy clung tightly to Starlight’s other hand.
As soon as all of them had been helped aboard, Dulcie hauled anchor and pressed an oar into the sand. Setting the small craft afloat, she began to row.
“Now that we have escaped, we must make a pact.” To convey the importance of her words, Dulcie deliberately met the wide, frightened stares of each member of the group. “No matter what happens, we must vow never to speak about what transpired back there.”
“Isn’t that the same as lying?” Once again, it was the earnest Clara who questioned their every move.
“That’s just like a girl…” Nathaniel began, but Dulcie shot him a look that silenced him.
“Listen to me, Clara,” Dulcie continued. “Our very lives depend upon secrecy.” At once the children began whimpering, and tears sprang to the eyes of the women. Dulcie’s own lips trembled, but she forced herself to go on. “The danger is not past. Perhaps it never will be. But this much I know. We must never entrust our story to others. Do you understand? Now swear.”
“I swear,” Nathaniel said when Dulcie turned to him.
“And you, Belle?”
The auburn-haired six-year-old nodded.
“Emily?”
Frizzy blond curls bobbed up and down.
“Clara?”
The others held their breath until the somber little girl, who had become the voice of everyone’s conscience, finally nodded in reluctant agreement. “I swear.”
“I swear, as well,” Fiona said.
“And I,” said fifteen-year-old Starlight in hushed tones beside her.
“Good.” Dulcie uncurled her fingers, which had been squeezed into such tight fists the nails had dug into her palms, drawing blood. She glanced around and realized that the shore was no longer visible. The wind and waves had dragged their little craft far out to sea. They were at the mercy of the storm.
“Now,” she went on breathlessly, “we must pray for deliverance, for I fear we have exchanged one danger for another.”
As they began the words of a familiar Bible verse, the storm broke directly overhead with such fury one oar was ripped from her grasp.
Fiona gathered the frightened children close, but as the small boat was tossed about like a piece of driftwood, she was flung backward, dragging Clara with her. Even the rumble of thunder couldn’t drown out the terrible sound of their heads hitting the wood. As the next flash of lightning tore through the darkened sky, a thin line of blood could be seen trickling down Fiona’s cheek. Beside her, Clara lay motionless in the bottom of the boat.
Dulcie wrapped them with her cape and petticoats to shield them from the full force of the storm. Then she took Fiona’s place, draping her arms around the weeping children. And though she was too frightened to speak, the words of the psalm continued playing through her mind.
“Yea, though I walk through the shadow of the valley of death, I will fear no evil…”
Jermain Island, South Carolina
The storm had lasted less than an hour, but its tremendous winds had uprooted trees and knocked down a storage shed, which had collapsed like a house of cards. Though rain still fell from a darkened sky, the worst of the downpour had blown out to sea.
Cal Jermain slogged his way through the flattened rows of tender seedlings to survey the damage. Frowning, he discovered evidence that confirmed his worst suspicions. The storm had completely wiped out days of backbreaking labor. The entire crop would have to be replanted if they were to have anything to harvest by late summer.
With a muttered oath he turned away and began to walk the shoreline, littered with debris. It was then that he spotted the flat-bottomed wooden boat bobbing in the surf.
“Any fool who can’t take the time to tie up his craft deserves to lose it,” he grumbled as he waded through the shallows to retrieve it.
He caught hold of the bow, then sucked in a quick breath.
Bodies were sprawled across the bottom of the craft. Three, six, seven of them in all. Women. Children. Bloodied. Battered. Sloshing in several inches of water that ran red with their blood.
He swore, loudly, savagely.
As he hauled the boat closer to the rough shore, he heard a low moan. Instantly he climbed over the edge of the craft to locate the survivor.
A young woman in a torn, sodden gown lifted her head. Hair as black as midnight hung in wet tendrils around a face devoid of color, except for two bright spots on her cheeks.
“Sarah!” The name was torn from Cal’s lips in a breathless cry. “God in heaven. You’ve come…”
He scrambled to her side and dropped to his knees. In that instant he realized his mistake. Not Sarah. Up close, this stranger bore no resemblance. But his voice still trembled. “You’re alive, then. Can you sit up?” He placed one arm carefully around the young woman’s shoulders.
“I…Yes…” Dulcie’s words trailed off as everything went black for a moment. Then a man’s face came into focus. She had a quick impression of dark hair. Dark eyes. A tight angry mouth. A big man. Scowling. Threatening. Even kneeling, he filled her line of vision. She shrank from his touch, shivering violently.
The movement wasn’t lost on Cal. There was a look of fear in her green eyes. A most unusual shade of green, which seemed to glow with some inner fire. Most probably fever. Or shock.
Very deliberately he lowered his hand to his side and backed away.
She relaxed her guard. “Where are we?”
The breathy voice was cultured, distinctly Southern. It whispered over his senses, touching a chord deep inside him. For as far back as he could remember, the women in his family had spoken in just such a soft, genteel manner.
“This bay is known as the Bay of Storms, and it’s on Jermain Island. Off the coast of Charleston.”
“How far from Charleston?” she asked a little too quickly.
At once he was alert to the terror that rippled through her. “An hour or more.” He saw her fear slowly turn to relief. “But I would recommend a sturdier craft than this if you venture out to sea again. I don’t know how you survived this wicked storm. You were indeed fortunate.”
He