A Light-house Christmas

by Randy Kilgore

Christmas Eve, 1899.

Windswept rain pounded the roof of the pub. Cold air slipped between the cracks of the shutters, whistling a haunting tune. Huge logs crackled in the oversized fireplace, competing with the wind for the attention of the villagers gathered there. It was Simon Oakton, the burly whitesmith, who broke the silence as he peeked through a shutter for some sign of life in the light-house: "C'mon, Ian, are you out there?" He said it louder than he intended, not meaning to seem overly concerned to the others. Pastor Quinn pretended not to hear, knowing Oakton considered emotion a sign of weakness in himself.

No one could remember a storm this fierce. Shopkeeper Mablee, the oldest member of the group assembled there, worried aloud that "many a home would be roof-less on the morrow." "Too strong," he muttered, "we've not prepared ourselves for such a storm as this. God Himself must be behind the winds this day." Mrs. Mablee gave her husband a sharp look, indicating her displeasure with her husband's cavalier reference to the Almighty. The unspoken message delivered, (and the offending husband looking appropriately sheepish), Mrs. Mablee continued to tend the wounds of Milt and Rafferty, whose attempt to reach the light-house had only gotten them battered by flying debris.

Light-keeper Ian Tannen was out there alone, and would be, it seemed, 'til the storm subsided.

Trouble was, there was no sign of light in the tower; no sign of life at all. The villagers, who never missed an item of gossip in their neighbor's house, also didn't fail to notice the darkness, and one by one they made their way to the pub, seeking news of their friend.

"He'll be fine, Oakton," bellowed Milt. "The old goat's likely hiding in the cellar like a scared rabbit." He laughed a bit too nervously, though, and only a few chuckles could be heard among the group, trailing quickly into silence. "What about the ships?" Miss Sharpton asked. The recently arrived schoolteacher shuddered as she remembered tales of shipwrecks from the light-house crew. "Nary a ship out in this, Miss," said Oakton gently, surprising even himself, and garnering a knowing smile from Mrs. Mablee. "but them that are will be well away from land for certain." They all knew what he said was not likely so, but Oakton's awkwardly-masked affection for the newest member of the town provided the pub with a moment of light-hearted amusement.

Pubkeeper Olsen served stew in silence, worrying about his lifelong friend as darkness settled over the town. Driving rain and powerful winds kept pounding the doors and shutters. Surely, he thought, this is the worst storm ever.

Could the light-house stand? Had Ian gone outside among the slippery rocks surrounding the tower?

Outside the warmth of the pub, another group huddled together in infinitely greater peril than even the beloved light-keeper Ian Tannen. A lone ship, caught in the storm, crept ever closer to the rocks off Oakton's Bluff, the same bluff whose light-house was dark at the very moments when it's light was most desperately needed."Where are you, Ian Tannen?" the captain wondered as he fought back his own fears."Where is your light, old friend?"

Neither group knew the other existed, but before Christmas dawned, both would be changed forever. All because of an expectant mother huddled in the captain's cabin...

PART II

This was the fourth year Pastor Quinn spent Christmas Eve in Lars' pub. Joined in quiet grief at the loss of their beloved wives, it just seemed less lonely to spend time with someone who knew without words how the other suffered. Christmas was a lonely time for them both, but more so for Lars, whose loss was most recent. It was five years ago, Christmas Eve, when Mrs. Olsen had "gone to be with God," as Lars always put it. A "saint's saint", he called her.

Mrs. Olsen never tired of praying for her husband's soul; what joy the news of his salvation must have brought her, even hearing it in heaven. Quinn smiled as he recalled the shock in the church that Sunday when Lars had "walked the aisle". Half the congregation shouted in praise and the other half worried they'd lost their source of ale!

Even so, it wasn't his friend Tannen or his wife Marta closest to his friend's thoughts this night, Quinn knew. It was their only son, the son who in a mix of grief and anger had stormed out of this very pub, vowing never to darken its' doors again. Three long years it was now, and nothing, not a word, had been heard from him.

Quinn knew Lars harbored a secret hope that Christmas would bring his son back; every Christmas so far that hope had been dashed. Still, stubborn soul that he was, the hope stayed on.

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Out at sea, memories of that very pub washed over a member of the crew. How he would have loved one more chance to walk through its' doors! Would he have been welcome? Such terrible things he'd said to his father! A deep sadness crept over him as he stood guard over the captain's guest, frightened as she was by the storm. Her first time on a ship, he remembered her saying. He hoped she didn't see the fear in his own eyes.

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Often as not, Quinn's parishioners confided to the pub-keeper as practice to approaching the pastor's study. "A sinner's saint," one old salt had called Lars, a compliment of the highest order. It had not always been so. Almost no one thought Lars could be reached by God.

Except Quinn. And the dearly departed Mrs. Olsen, of course. Many a sailor's walk with the Lord had started with a reminder from Quinn that "if Olsen can be saved, is anything too hard for God?"

Spending Christmas together was their manly way of dealing with the emotion both had long since bottled up. Every year, both prayed for the remembrance of their lovely wives, now with God. And every year, both prayed for the return of Olsen's angry son; or even just news of his well-being. Every year, the hope welled up as Christmas drew near; every year the hopes and grief were then safely packed away with the Christmas bells, waiting for one more chance to be dusted off amid distant dreams.

A loud clatter startled Quinn out of his reverie. Little did he know what God had planned for this stormy Christmas Eve...

PART III

"They're here, they're here!" the young boy shouted, breathless from his dash to the pub. It was his bursting through the door that stirred Quinn from his thoughts."They", it turned out, were the rest of the life-boat crew.Milt and Rafferty already being unsuccessful crossing in the small boat, Oakton had put the call out to the full crew."Now", Oakton muttered to himself, "we can go check on Ian." Oakton was worried; it wasn't like him to let the light go dark.

Only shopkeeper Mablee didn't stand up; the rest---Milt, Rafferty, Oakton, Olsen, even Pastor Quinn---started dressing for the hard row over to the light-house. Already at the boathouse waiting was the rest of the crew, including two women.

"It's ladies' night, Simon," Rafferty teased, laughing as he pulled his boots up. The whitesmith still didn't approve of women in a life-boat, but he'd been outvoted. Grunting at the comment, he turned his big body to the pastor."You know it isn't your place to be going, Pastor. 'Tis church that needs you more than Ian; we've enough hands now."Mrs. Mablee sighed out loud, flustered at the petty nature of the conversation. Mrs. Mablee always fretted when the boat went out, and she just couldn't understand the teasing or bickering that went on amongst the rowers when danger was so close. Oakton, hat in hand, reached across the table and patted Mrs. Mablee's wrist. "You fret too much; we've only just a tiny row tonight. Likely find that rascal Ian fast asleep."Turning back to Quinn, he started to speak again, but Quinn raised his hand to silence his protest.

"We've been through this before, Simon. I'm a permanent part of the boat crew now and you might as well settle yourself about it." Quinn had buried two members of the boat-crew three years ago, in the blizzard of '96, and watching the suffering of the widows had ended his days watching from the shore. So long as the missus was alive, he stayed off the boat to honor her wishes; but now that she was in heaven, he saw no reason to stay dry.

"God's work isn't just in the house of God, Simon," Quinn had argued before the vote to add him. Quinn chuckled as he remembered it; a hard night indeed for the old-fashioned smitty: Both women and preachers invaded his beloved boat-crew in the same vote.

"What about the church service?" Miss Sharpton asked, peeking to see if the whitesmith noticed she was taking his side.

"'Tis foolish to bring the old folks out in this weather, Miss Sharpton," the pastor answered."We've put the service off 'til the bells ring; that'll be how everyone knows it's time for church. Right now it's time for the light to shine."

Oakton groaned: "Ah, preacher, will ya' quit with the poetry already. I'll not be havin' you waxin' and preachin' on the row across."He ambled across the pub toward the door, muttering to himself: "Time for the light to shine," he mimicked, then added, "for crying out loud."

Milt laughed, and even he couldn't resist needling the big guy: "Maybe we could get the girls to sing for you while we row?"

Mrs. Mablee prayed quietly as the men walked out the door.

"Why does the pastor go out?" Miss Sharpton asked the shopkeeper's wife. It was her husband who answered.

"He can't help himself. All those years watching others go out, being mostly the only man not to take a turn at the boat; it does something to your manhood."Mrs Mablee patted his arm as he spoke; knowing her husband still felt guilty he couldn't row any longer. He continued, "After his wife passed, he tried several times to join the crew, but none of us would have it. It just didn't seem right to risk the preacher's life; sort of like the doctor. Who's gonna do what they do if they're gone? But when we lost widow Wrenn's boys in '96 and he looked at their young wives, he just couldn't stand it; told us he'd row his skiff if we wouldn't let him on. So we did."

"Mr. Oakton doesn't like it still?" Miss Sharpton asked.

"Oh, Simon doesn't really mind anymore," Mrs. Mablee piped in, "in fact, I think he feels like God might be watching out for them more now, but he'll never admit it."

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Meanwhile, across the water, Ian pulled himself up the side of the rocks, shaken and bruised from the fall. Not sure how long he'd been unconscious, he was aware of the darkness as he fumbled to move toward the tower. A sharp pain in his leg prevented him from standing, and his soaked clothing added weight to his pull, making it slow going.

Stopping to catch his breath, the silence was broken by a new sound; the tiny pfft of sleet beating the rocks.Now he faced a new danger as ice formed on the ledges and his clothes.

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At the boat-house, the laughing had stopped. Jensen's boy had just ridden up; a ship was out there in the storm, he said, and his father felt sure it had lost its rudder.

Now it wasn't just Ian at risk. Now it wasn't just a short row. If that ship did indeed have no rudder, every rower knew this Christmas Eve would be spent on the water. Only the rocks waited for any ship out in this storm.

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It was probably best, then, that Lars didn't know his prodigal son was aboard that boat. It was certainly best that none of them knew the full story of what the night would bring...

PART IV

The "ship" the Jensen boy's family spotted was well-known to the villagers. Captained by the salty Jonas Toner, the Whistling Mariner was a two-masted schooner owned by an American family across the ocean. Built in Essex, an American village known for its shipbuilders, it launched from nearby Gloucester in the '70s, but since 1888 had claimed Salem as its home port. Captain Toner liked to spend his liberties in Oakton's Bluff, where his old friend and former shipmate Ian Tannen had settled in as lightkeeper.

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Onshore, the lifeboat crew readied its equipment for what now seemed certain to be a night of rescue rowing. The banter of the earlier hours dissipated as the weather worsened, first changing from rain to sleet, and then to ice. Pastor Quinn prayed as he worked, sometimes aloud but mostly to himself. It was a night to be praying for snow; as snow was easier than ice, he knew.

Next to him, Simon Oakton worked silently, buried in his own deep thoughts. Ice was a killer to be sure, but mostly for the passengers on his lifeboat. Any passengers on the ships they worked to rescue were in danger regardless of the form of weather: Once they were in the water, only a miracle could save them, and Oakton had seen more losses than miracles among the "jumpers," those frightened souls who left a ship out of fear or desperation before the lifeboats could get to them. He prayed, too, first for his friend Ian, who he knew was in trouble if that light was out in the light-house; and then for Captain Toner and his crew.

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Neither of them knew it at the time, but Oakton and Toner were thinking of each other at exactly the same moment. Toner had his hands full aboard ship. The Jensens were wrong, of course; (something he couldn't have known, anyway) it wasn't a problem with a rudder that caused his ship to flounder. Two-masted schooners have their mainsails on the aft-mast (as opposed to ketches, whose mainsails are flown on their most forward mast), and the Whistling Mariner's aft-mast had collapsed. Its remaining mast was cracked, and would soon go, too.

Watching as his ship collapsed around him, the captain ordered all hands to deck for orders. Their hopes lay in launching their longboat, and in someone ashore noticing their plight.

Toner's language was salty as he passed among the men; urging them on in a tone certain to make them understand the danger. Barely heard above the wind, he cursed as he fell again and again on the ice-covered deck. He cursed, too, at his old friend Ian, whose darkened light-house made it unlikely anyone would spot his ship."Was Ian at church?" he wondered aloud angrily.

His last time in port, he'd barely sat down to his meal when Oakton and Tannen had started plying their newfound religious wares to him. He'd made clear his thoughts, in no uncertain terms; believe in God if you want, Ian, but leave Him out of mine. Now, aboard ship in gales approaching thirty knots, he cursed aloud the thought that Christmas Eve services would cost his crew their lives; would cost the girl her life.

Little did he know what that God he cursed was doing that very moment...

PART V

"Ian!" roared Simon Oakton, the blacksmith.

The dazed light-keeper smiled weakly at the sound of the blacksmith's voice. The cottage next to the lighthouse filled up quickly as the boat crew bundled into the space. Matt Swenson, the assistant light-keeper, was part of the lifeboat crew, and he and another of the men immediately set about getting the lighthouse lit back up. Pastor Quinn patted Tannen's shoulder as he rushed past to grab a lantern, then headed over to the lighthouse to climb the stairs and search for the ship.

Jenny, one of the two women lifeboat crew members, stoked the fire in the fireplace, then left to bring in more wood. Martha kneeled over Ian and began to examine his wounds.

"That's a nasty bump, Ian; like as not the doctor's going to need to see you."

Ian nodded.

No protest? Oakton and Martha exchanged glances. Both knew of Ian's aversion to doctors, and both were alarmed at his lack of objection to the idea of a trip across to Doc Larkin. Martha busied herself cleaning the wounds on the head, and Oakton motioned for Olsen to step into the next room.

"What to do?" the whitesmith wondered as Olsen accompanied him into the next room. Clearly Ian needed medical attention, though it wasn't obvious yet how bad his injuries were. Just as urgent, though, was the ship floundering in the stormy seas. If the lifeboat crew rowed Ian back to the mainland, they'd lose valuable time reaching survivors when the Whistling Mariner hit the rocks, as it was apparent now she would.Even leaving one person behind to take care of Ian wasn't an option if the Mariner needed help, as the lifeboat needed every hand in mild storms, let alone in blizzards like tonight.

Matt walked in just about that time with more bad news. "We've got the light going, but it's a wee speck to anyone out there tonight. This snow's so thick we'll be lucky if any of the beam will be spotted from the ship.

Jenny, though, had already sized things up; and wasn't waiting around to talk. Oakton grinned as the lighthouse bell started to toll. Counting the tolls, he realized Jenny was sounding the call for the second crew. Oakton had been too busy to notice the second crew had already started arriving at the boathouse; but Jenny had spotted them. Rafferty stuck his head in the room and grinned at Oakton: "Might be she'll even take your spot in the boat, Simon."

The whitesmith grinned back in grudging acknowledgment of yet more evidence saving lives wasn't just a man's job.

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Aboard the Whistling Mariner, things had gone from bad to worse, and Captain Toner had ordered everyone in the longboat. He watched with uncharacteristic tenderness as the only woman on the ship was gently escorted up on deck. Clearly close to delivery, Toner shocked himself as he heard himself saying out loud: "God save this lass and her babe, even if ye take the souls of the rest of us."

As if she heard him, she looked up to catch his gaze...

PART VI

Back in the pub the Mablee's were busy clearing the bar and moving tables together. Soon enough the place would be hopping as the village roared to life.A one-lifeboat-night stirred about a third of the villagers; but anytime the second lifeboat was called out, the entire village responded. Within the half-hour, women began to roll in with bandages and blankets, ready to tend the souls brought in from the sea. In the back, three elderly men readied the storeroom to take the bodies of those whose bodies were recovered but whose lives had been claimed. Long ago the villagers learned to move the departed from the view of those still fighting for their lives. No need to be reminded, at that moment when every breath was a fight, just how short the journey from life to eternity truly was...

Armand Nielson and Andrew Montgomery spread the oil slickers on blankets, silently praying their work would be for nothing this night. Both had been rowers for decades, but neither was fit to face the sea's fury any longer; so they served where they could. With them was odd old Mr. Wilkins, the village's mortician. A transplant from "the colonies", Wilkins had learned his trade as a Union soldier during the American Civil War. Many a European village now had its' own mortician, one of the ways the New World was changing the Old. Wilkins took the bodies from this storeroom to his offices when the storms ended, and Armand and Andrew always bowed out. Still set in their ways, they much preferred the days when the doctor and the clergy took care of the dead. Neither had set foot in Wilkins' offices. Truth be told, the very idea scared them both.

A loud clatter startled the trio, and they rushed to the front to see Mr. Mablee sheepishly surveying what remained of the pub's large mirror. Mrs. Mablee, shaking her head, shoved the broom and dustpan into his hands. Armand grinned at Andrew, and the two paused for a brew as they watched the work going on.

There were tables for the food already being prepared in houses nearby; a night of rescue work always called for food, and lots of it. On good nights, the rescues turned into what the American missionary family who vacationed here each summer called "potluck suppers". These suppers featured the finest cooking as each wife sought to put her best culinary foot forward. On the hard nights, like the one three years ago, the food served to ease the silence brought about by the heavy sadness of loss.

"What would this night bring," Armand wondered as he thought back to that dark night three years ago. Like tonight, that was also a two-lifeboat evening. Like tonight, Olsen's pub was a flurry of activity. Twenty souls saved from the ketch Ruddy Windward; a hearty cheer had gone up when the last little boy had been brought in. Then came the terrible news of the loss of Widow Wrenn's twin boys. Armand could still hear the deep sobs of their mother, and the shrill cry of Thomas's bride of three days.

Armand had carried the boys that night from the front to the storeroom, gently begging God for mercy on their souls, knowing as he did of their steadfast faith. Timothy had fallen overboard trying to pull a jumper out of the water, and Thomas' had leapt in to save his brother. Though both were strong swimmers, they were caught in the current carrying them toward shore. The waves, throwing everything against the rocks there, had proved too much for them. Shore crews worked frantically to reach them, but the doctor shook his head the moment they were carried in the pub.

"Please, dear Lord, not again," Armand said out loud in the present. Next to him, Andrew nodded, having followed his own thoughts down the same path.

What would the morrow bring?

PART VII

Oakton's Bluff was one of only two villages with the resources to field two lifeboats; and then only because of the Smithsons. The village's richest citizens, they purchased and donated two lifeboats, each built after the designs of the American inventor Joseph Francis; the Hannah Dawn (named for the couple's eldest daughter) and the Maria II. Double-banked to seat eight oarsmen, each lifeboat also carried steersmen at both ends, giving them crews of ten. Airtight compartments around the boats gave them buoyancy not achievable in larger ships, which explained why they could be used for rescue when other boats were in danger.

An Oakton had been the head of the lifeboat teams for as long as anyone could remember, and Simon was this generation's master. While the Maria II and its crew carried Ian Tannen back to the mainland and the doctor. Matt Swenson stayed to tend the lighthouse, and it was he who first spotted the Whistling Mariner floundering near the breakers. Oakton steered the Hanna Dawn toward the troubled schooner, one crew member short now with Swenson off. It was hard going, winds pummeling the crew with sleet and ice. As they drew near, Simon spotted the ship's long-boat, but it was empty!

From the trailing ropes, it was clear the storm had stripped the boat from the Mariner before the crew could get in.

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Mere minutes earlier, on board the Mariner, Captain Toner shouted directions to the crew. Twenty-four men and one woman---one very pregnant woman---started the frightening task of lashing themselves to fixed parts of the deck as the waves carried the schooner up on the rocks. Wave after wave battered the deck, adding thin coats of ice as each one swept across the ship's wooden planks. When the long-boat broke off, all hands panicked but the Captain. Two sailors were already in the water; "goners for sure" in Toner;s mind. One had jumped, hoping to swim to the long-boat. The ship's first mate hadn't jumped; he'd fallen in, trying to catch the rope as it broke loose. Johnson was a good man; and had been with the Captain for seven years; and Toner felt a deeper sadness than he'd ever felt, thinking of Johnson's two small, now-orphaned children back in Salem.

With the long-boat gone, all hope seemed lost, even to the Captain, though he kept up his fighting face for the crew. Only a miracle could save them now."God; if your up there, we'll be having some help, please?"Toner surprised himself with his own words, and the young mother-to-be, only feet away, looked at him, frightened, with eyes pleading for a comfort no one could offer.

Which is just about the time that miracle started to happen, for it was at that exact moment Swenson's efforts got the light-house lit back up.

"If only..." Toner thought, daring to hope as the beam swept across the sea once again. The hope was obvious: With the light-house lit, there was a chance they'd spot the Mariner, or even hear its' bell, which Manny had been ringing non-stop for nearly two hours. IF Ian Tannen spotted them (Toner had no idea Tannen was injured), and IF he could signal the lifeboat crew, and IF they could make it out in this storm, and IF the waves didn't break the boat up on the rocks before they arrived; and IF any of them weren't frozen to death when the rescuers arrived, there just might be some hope for some of his crew; maybe even the girl.

As Toner helped the crew lash themselves down, he thought back to the day he'd said yes to the young girl's request."Why did I do that!" The question pounded itself in his head all night; always with the same result. Toner cursed himself for softening up; that decision would likely now cost the girl her life; hers and her baby, too. Never before had he taken a passenger along on a coal run, and certainly not a woman! Every salt worth his sea legs knew a woman on board was purely bad luck. Still, she'd nearly begged him to take her, and he'd already accepted one surprise passenger, so why not two? Besides, he owed her father more favors than he could possibly repay; so when her father also asked, how could he possibly refuse? It was to be Mrs. Bidwell's maiden voyage, a trip designed to surprise her sister at Christmas. Sophia Justine Bidwell, formerly Sophia Sharpton had decided to take her first ride on the sea in time to spend Christmas with her sister, Kathryn Sharpton, in Oakton's Bluff.

Now, the Captain rued, it would likely be her last boat ride---and her last Christmas.

Toner watched as Nathanael Olsen, his other Christmas surprise for the folks in Oakton's Bluff, lashed Mrs. Bidwell to the mast. Then he shook his head in grudging admiration as four men bound themselves around her, forming a wall of protection from the driving winds and surf. Even in fear, these men of the sea practiced old-fashioned gallantry. Toner could read their minds. Their bodies would serve to keep the young lass warm for longer; and if they were truly lucky, the ice would form a shell around them that would trap warm air inside, giving Mrs. Bidwell a fighting chance, but surely dooming each of them.

PART VIII

What Captain Toner didn't know---couldn't know---was that Simon Oakton had already picked up both the jumper and his first mate. In the lifeboat, the two were already stuffed beneath the furs and slickers as the oarsmen struggled on towards the ship. Hannah, the other female crew member tapped Simon's shoulder, shouting over the sound of the waves. He nodded, reluctantly, and turned the lifeboat back towards land. If the first mate was to live, he'd need help as quickly as possible. Rescues couldn't be rushed; and it made no sense to lose lives already pulled to safety for the mere chance of finding more. With the second boat already trailing after dropping Ian off, Simon knew what he had to do, and so he headed in to bring his first two rescues into the village.

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The crew of the second lifeboat barely nodded as they flew past the Hannah Dawn towards the Whistling Mariner. Ethan Smithson headed up the second boat; and he'd turned his crew a-corkers. Nearly every week they practiced, and the result was what everyone acknowledged as the fastest lifeboat in these parts. Oakton had always scoffed at Ethan's drills, but quietly, since it was Ethan's parents' money---soon to be Ethan's money---that made the boats possible. Tonight, even Oakton welcomed that speed.

Near the shore, teams from the village waited with blankets and slickers, hurrying as fast as they could from the boathouse to the pub once each shipwreck victim arrived. The rocks, planks, and even the sand made walking difficult as ice coated everything in sight. Further from the shoreline, snow also made any movement a trial as it started to accumulate. Mrs. Mablee stepped outside the pub and marveled at the scene. For nearly 200 yards, lanterns mounted on makeshift posts formed a corridor, lighting the path between them. The lanterns were tended by young boys and girls, all eager to be part of what was happening in the town. Men shoveled snow along the path, as women readied themselves to greet each person coming up that path.

Only the Smithson house up the hill had gas lights, and Oakton's Bluff was too practical to have seen the need for gas lanterns in the village itself.

There was no denying the excitement these rescue missions created. Men barely willing to greet each other over some silly squabble laid aside their differences to work shoulder-to-shoulder to save mostly strangers from the clutches of the sea. Up and down the English coast, the English Lifeboat Institution claimed more than 14,000 lives had been saved by lifeboat crews and their villages; and Oakton's Bluff had its share of that number.

Self-described "old maids," too modest for courting, thought nothing of tending sailors in tattered clothing as they fought to bring them back to life, working side by side with the girls who served drinks and danced over to Millby's Tavern on the outskirts of the village. In the daytime, those same prudish women chattered their judgments back and forth over the "low morals" of women who danced with sailors in taverns, but nobody noticed such things on the so-called "rescue nights."

Often, when the night's work drug into a weekend, the "low-morals-ladies" would sit in the back of the church during Pastor Quinn's Sunday sermon; grateful the danger was over, but not wanting their hours of acceptance to end. Women who only hours before worked shoulder to shoulder with them often as not merely nodded as they moved past them to their regular pews.

Not Widow Wrenn, of course; or her two son's widows, either. All three could be found sitting in the middle of the unwelcome intrusion of the dancing girls, daring any of the others to challenge them. Pastor Quinn always smiled at this trio; thinking back to the story of Naomi and her two daughters-in-law."How God must have loved these women for their faithfulness to each other and to His service;" Quinn often said.

The pastor knew their secret, of course, for only those who've been hungry can truly understand hunger; only those once-lonely truly comprehend and comfort the deep ache of others' loneliness. Likewise, only those who've suffered life's deepest sorrows understand the depths of those sorrows in others. Death may have robbed these Wrenn women of their present joy, but it couldn't take away their future joy, and the present comfort it brought them. Quinn thought of them every time he heard that oldest of Christmas carols that spoke of "tidings of comfort and joy."

All this, of course, explains why the three Wrenn ladies worked so hard to bring back to life those souls most wounded by their fight with the sea. Every storm found them leading the work in Lars' pub as feet and hands and noses were gently massaged to bring blood back into circulation, to bring life where life had left. Unbowed by the pain of their own loss, and unwilling to run from nights like this when the reminders were everywhere, they turned their pain into service, praising God for the chance to spare someone else's mother---someone else's wife---the loss they knew so well.

Not once since Timothy and Thomas had been lost had another soul breathed their last breath here off the shores of Oakton's Bluff. Farmer Jensen, one of the few villagers who frequented Millby's Tavern, called the Wrenn ladies "lucky charms."Pastor Quinn had a different take, preferring to see their lifesaving efforts as God choosing that way to keep the promises of Romans 8:28.God took their service in the face of their loss, and blessed it with His own efforts; saving even the little boy no one thought could be saved last winter.

Ah, but that's another tale.

PART IX

The word spread like wildfire after the first mate stopped shivering long enough to be able to speak. It was the eldest Widow Wrenn who first heard the news, and it sent a shiver of stunned faith even through her deeply spiritual bones. Lars' Olsen's son was out there; and Kathryn Sharpton's sister, too!

Mrs. Mablee heard it next, and told the men heading back to the shoreline to meet the lifeboats. Seven crew members had been brought in already; two each by Simon's boat, and three by Ethan's. Ethan's boat, the Maria II, had three more sailors being unloaded when Mr. Mablee shouted the details out to Ethan.He nodded quickly and pushed his crew back out for their third trip.

"Ye'll have to tell Simon yourself; the waves are too tough for us to move in tight, and he can't hear himself think, let alone me trying to shout." Ethan noted. With that his boat moved away and Mablee waited anxiously for Simon's boat to come back in.

One of Ethan's crew had switched out and was being treated for exposure at the pub. Knowing Simon wouldn't be back for nearly a half of the next hour, Mablee went to find out what was happening on the sea by chatting with the recovering rescuer.

Captain Toner had prepared his crew well: Only the first man was a jumper, and he was Toner's newest mate. The rest of the crew had remembered well what the Captain told them about not being in the water. This willingness to listen to the Captain's experience made both the rescued and the rescuers chances of survival infinitely greater tonight. Pulling people out of the water, especially in winter's grip, almost never resulted in a saved life; and more often than not caused a lifeboat crew member to tumble over to the sea, as wet heavy clothes on the victims' made lifting them out of the water terribly difficult.

Still, the rescue was anything but easy, even when they weren't in the water. As with every other winter rescue, those trapped on the Whistling Mariner were of no help to the rescuers; they were quickly frozen to the ship, unable to move, even to help themselves.

This meant the lifeboats had to move in close enough to the ship to cast a line across, then someone had to cross over that line to the ship. Rigging this kind of a set-up was difficult enough in fair weather; in a storm like tonight's it was nigh impossible. Still, both Oakton and Smithson were masters at it, and soon enough three crew members from the rescuers boat would board the battered ship. Martha and Hannah were two of the three from Simon's ship, their catlike acrobatic movements and light weight making the climbs seem effortless.

Once aboard, they were forced to wrap themselves around whatever part of the deck they could. By now the ship looked more like Milton's pond during the Winter Festival than it did a ship. Ice layered several inches thick made walking upright impossible. It was necessary for the rescuing boarders to crawl most places. When they found a body, always it was encased in ice, and there wasn't time to determine if they were alive or dead. Using wooden mallets, they pounded at the ice layers until it cracked, then two of them carried the body back to the waiting lifeboat. Wooden baskets were used whenever possible to float the frozen seamen down to the waiting crew of the lifeboat, who themselves were fighting to stay off the breakers and out of the path of the rocking ship. Sometimes the baskets would get hung up, and then the lifeboat crew would send up another member to carry the victims from the ship down to the boat.

Time was the chief enemy at this stage, as even the healthy lifeboat crew was freezing by this stage of the rescue. Almost always, after a second or third body had been freed from the ice-bound deck, it would be time to return to the lifeboat and start rowing back. The rowing itself warmed the rescuers, enabling them to stay out at the task, but too much time standing still put them in equal peril to the cold.

It was in this treacherous leapfrog fashion that the rescue continued. As the number of the rescued increased, and as the lifeboat crew members traded off with shore-bound replacements, themselves now in need of the nursing offered by the women and other villagers in the pub, the news of Olsen's son drifted from the minds of the workers; so much so that no one remembered to tell Lars. After all, the real news was of the woman on board!

Twenty-one people had been brought to shore, leaving only the group of five lashed together around the aft mast.

Exposure reduced the lifeboat crews from twenty to eleven who were fit for duty, but it was twenty who went out, nonetheless. The Maria II and the Hannah Dawn were side by side as they raced to the Whistling Mariner for one last round of rescue...

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PART X

Christmas night, 1899

The rescue was over, but no bells sounded for a Christmas service that Christmas Eve.Nor would they be heard beckoning the villagers to a service any time today, either, when the rest of the world was busy celebrating the birth of the Christ Child. Across the street from Olsen's pub, Pastor Quinn's church sat empty.

It wasn't necessary: The villagers were already gathered!

Pastor Quinn stood back of Lars' bar, slowly moving his head from side to side, gaze greeting gaze as he acknowledged every person in the now-packed pub. For nearly twenty-four hours the rescue had continued, through raging seas. The last of the bodies had been carried ashore near daybreak. Among them were Nathanael Olsen, Sophia Sharpton and Captain Toner.

Twenty-four of the twenty seven new faces greeted the pastor as he surveyed the room. While some were suffering, all, it appeared, would live. Their faces told the tale; no pain they felt now matched the fear they'd felt the night before. This was one Christmas service they were grateful to be sitting through.

Still, it wasn't the faces in the pub's main room that held the hearts of the people gathered there. All had watched solemnly as Armand and Andrew carried three bodies wrapped in blankets back to the storeroom where Timothy and Thomas had breathed their last exactly three years earlier.

Kathryn Sharpton was back there too, by now aware of her sister's surprise. Only Lars' had yet to learn of his son's presence, and that only because he'd only just come into the pub from the boathouse. With the pub packed after the last rescue, some of the nursing had been moved to the boathouse, and Lars' had been one of the crew tended there. Now back on his feet, no one knew what to say; or how to tell him his long-lost son was now back of Pastor Quinn in the one room everyone had prayed would stay empty.

"What to do?" Quinn thought to himself."Surely a song's not in order; but I've no strength to preach a sermon; and I'm not sure they've the strength to hear one."A passage came to mind, and he picked up his Bible; then set it back down. He knew the verse by heart.

"Greater love hath no man than this, that he lay down his life for a friend.""These words," the pastor began, "were more than just words when Jesus spoke them so many years ago. Even as He said them, He had in view the kind of death He would suffer soon; a death He knew was necessary if you and I were to have life. Jesus knew the cost of those words, even as every man and woman here knew them when they put their lives in jeopardy for strangers."

He swept the room again with his eyes, and then he continued:

"Well, we're strangers no more."Heads nodded, both villagers and guests, as each realized the bond this Christmas night had wrought. Never again would the crew of the Whistling Mariner think of Oakton's Bluff as just another port; likewise, never again would the villagers see that crew as anything but some of their own. Their citizenship in Oakton's Bluff had been bought with a price. Not their own, to be sure, for each had been beyond helping themselves when the lifeboats came. No, each was now family because of the sacrificial gift of the villagers themselves, and the once-two-groups now sat as one. Quinn didn't miss the picture.

"If we, men and women with no bond and no purpose save compassion could risk so much, how much more must Jesus have loved you, to suffer the humiliation of mere humanity alongside His full deity. Worse yet, He would then bear the stain of our sins on that humiliation, and knowing it from the first moments of His days here on Earth."

"But freely He bore that lowly birth, and freely He bore that lonely and terrible death, all because He loved us; loved me, loved even you when you weren't likely loveable. Who could not be moved to salvation by gratitude for such a gift as this? Who in this room tonight cannot ably understand the blessings of a life freely offered for yours?"

A low murmur started to the pastor's left; then slipped across the room like a rolling tide. Over the murmur, Quinn could hear its' cause: A baby's cry broke the silence from the storeroom behind him. Captain Toner himself raced from the room, shouting in a joy old salts like he rarely exhibited. "'Tis a boy, I tell you, a boy!"The baby lives!"

The room erupted with cheers not thought possible only moments sooner, when bodies spent from a fight with the sea struggled merely to hold heads up as the pastor spoke. Now, new energy coursed their veins as news of the baby broke into the room.

Suddenly, Lars' Olsen's voice could be heard above the crowd as he saw his son slip from behind the captain's body to look for his father.

Never again, the villagers would say, could they read the story of the Prodigal Son, and not have the living picture of that moment when Scripture says the father raced to meet his wayward son painted in their memories by the reunion of Lars and Nathanael Olsen that Christmas night.

Neither, too, did it escape their hearts' view, that the birth of a baby had once again harkened the reunion of a loving father with a lost child in the middle of a story of salvation and joy.

And so it was that Timothy Thomas Bidwell was born in the back of a pub on a Christmas day, across the inlet from the lighthouse gone dark. But the light that shone from Olsen's pub that Christmas Day changed the light-house and town forever; neither, ever again went dark.