The Mariner's Ghost

By David Allen McWhorter

In the early 19th century, a 14-year-old English boy floats alone in the ocean, his ship and his family lost in a great storm. The ghost of an ancient mariner appears, assuring him that he will survive and that great things await him. Rescued by an English warship, John Terrell begins a life of service in the Royal Navy. With the help of his shipmates and his ghostly mentor, his adventures begin.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Allen McWhorter
• Release date: Apr 17, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452341293

David Allen McWhorter

A life-long lover of sailing and nautical fiction, David Allen (Al) McWhorter is a graduateof The University of Texas at Austin where he studied media criticism and screenwriting. Helater worked in advertising and publishing before deciding to leave the corporate word behindand pursue his love of music by teaching himself lutherie - the art of stringed instrument making.Now owner and luthier of his own shop, SpruceHouse Ukuleles, Al divides his time between hisfamily, lutherie and writing. He lives in Eugene, Oregon.

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The Mariner's Ghost

by

David Allen McWhorter

Smashwords Edition

*****

Published by:

Smashwords

The Mariner's Ghost

Copyright © 2010 by David Allen McWhorter

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

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*****

THE MARINER'S GHOST

*****

BOOK I

CHAPTER 1

John Terrell was very tired and very cold. It had been hours since the little ship that had been meant to carry his family from England to America had gone down in a terrible storm, leaving him floating alone in the icy, heaving Atlantic Ocean. When the ship had capsized under a wall of water taller than the main mast, and he had finally fought his way to the surface, there had been no one else left from a ship that had once held 50 passengers and crewmembers. All that remained were a few pieces of timber, including the hatch cover that now kept him from joining his mother, father and three younger sisters in the murky depths.

John could not swim, and his hands were raw and bloody from holding tight to the slippery wood that was his savior. He had tried several times to climb onto the hatch cover and out of the water, but each time his weight and the enormous waves caused the three by five foot cover to turn over, spilling him back into the churning sea. As he clung to the safety of his tiny island of wood, John, who had turned fourteen only a week before, began to realize just how frightened and alone he really was.

I will not cry, he said out loud, over the sound of the wind and waves. I will not. But he did anyway, as night fell and covered the ocean with inky blackness.

The Terrell family had taken passage only a week before on Lark, a small, shabby transport bound for Boston, Massachusetts, where they hoped to start a new life in that very new country. They left behind a tidy cottage where John and his sisters Mary, Anne and Catherine had lived all of their lives. Now, on this stormy day in October 1800, that hope was lost forever in the storm-ravaged Atlantic. What had once been a family of six was now reduced to one frightened, shivering boy clinging desperately to a soggy piece of wood.

As the night passed, so too did the storm from that part of the vast ocean that held john and his tiny raft. He realized that he had slept for part of that time, his coat sleeve jammed between the planks of the hatch cover, keeping his head above water even as his hands had lost their grip on the wood. Feeling a little stronger, he tried once again to climb onto the cover and this time he was successful. He rested for a while, and then pulled his belt off, passed it through one of the iron ring bolts that protruded here and there, and buckled it back around his waist. Now safely tied to the cover, he curled up as best he could with the water lapping all around him. As sleep again took him, he saw the trusting face of his little sister Anne as he reached down to pull her into the great oak that stood near their home, the wild village dog snapping and growling at her tiny feet.

It was night again when John awoke to a terrible hissing sound and a great torrent of seawater falling all around him. In the darkness, he saw a huge black shape rise from the water and was terrified to see a great watery eye staring at him, no more than an arm's length away. The enormous creature nudged the raft, cracking one of the planks and threatening to turn it over with John still tied to it by his belt.

Stop that! he yelled at the top of his voice and waving his arms. Go away!

The great sea beast nudged the raft again, more gently this time, and then slid beneath the water and was gone. John stared after it, his breath coming in short gasps. He was so cold that his whole body shook and his teeth rattled together, and the seasickness that had plagued him since they had left England returned. He vomited into the sea until his stomach was empty, and after that his body continued to heave convulsively. For the first time it occurred to him that he might die out here in the middle of the ocean. No one knew that he was here - no one at all. He had no food, no fresh water to drink and he was colder than he thought possible. He hoped that the huge fish, or whatever it had been, would not come back. He felt the little strength that he had left leaving him, and then he felt nothing.

The feeble warmth of the sun woke him again hours later and he was so thirsty that he couldn’t make a sound. He dipped his hand into the sea and drank from it, but the salt on his raw, cracked lips stung unbearably. Despite the glaring sun, a sudden chill shook him.

I would not drink any more sea water, my friend, said a voice behind him.

John flailed his arms and legs, trying to turn around, but his belt held him fast.

Who’s there? He croaked, fumbling with the belt. He unbuckled it finally and rolled over. The light from the rising sun nearly blinded him, and he yelped in pain. When he forced his eyes open again, he could just make out a figure, silhouetted against the light – only the light shone through it, too, as if through loosely woven cloth. John blinked several times, thinking that he might be going mad.

The strange image spoke again. Yes, I be real, mate – or real enough for thee just now.

No you’re not! John said, rubbing his stinging eyes. It is the sun...and my thirst. I am sick.

Aye, boy, so thee will be, if thee keeps drinking that sea water! The shadowy figure chuckled. It is fair hard, I know, but drink not. Believe me when I tell thee that sweet water will come, and thee shall be delivered of all.

John watched as the image shimmered and slowly faded away.

Shaken by the apparition and thoughts of madness and death, he cried again, this time silently and without tears. He lay on his raft all through the day, bobbing in the great ocean and drifting between consciousness and stupor, tortured by thoughts of his family and their fate. Why did I survive and not them? Why me?

At some point his tormented mind returned to the specter that had spoken to him. He had said that water would come.

Please! He rasped with what little strength he could muster, Please help me!

As he lay there on his back, he felt the intense heat of the sun fade, and a cool breeze wafted across his cheek. Forcing open one eye, he saw that dark clouds had gathered, and before he could mouth his thanks, a gentle rain began to fall. He opened his mouth wide and tasted the sweet liquid, swirling it around with his parched, swollen tongue. As the rain continued, he pulled off his stiff, salt-crusted shirt and let it fill with the rainwater, wringing it out several times to rid it of the salt. When it was clean, he wrung it into his mouth, reveling in its pure, life-giving refreshment. He drank his fill and more; he drank until his stomach bulged and he began to feel sick. He lay back down and let the rain wash him until it slackened and finally stopped. As he drifted off to sleep again, he thought once more of the shimmering figure who had promised his deliverance. Thank you, he whispered.

Then rain did not return, however, and in the days that followed the lack of fresh water and the unblinking sun took their toll on John’s weary mind. Drifting in and out of consciousness, he came to imagine that he had joined his family, deep in the depths. His father had found plenty of game for the table and his mother was cooking in the kitchen with his aunt, their laughter echoing into the murky distance. His sisters played with dolls fashioned from seaweed and shells. He saw all of this as if from a distance, his body weightless, free of the cold and all care. The water was crystal clear, and there was no fear. He could live here, he thought, in this beautiful sea. He opened his mouth and breathed in the sweet water like it was the freshest air…

He woke suddenly coughing, choking. Someone was there, holding a cup to his ravaged lips. He struggled free of the figure's grasp and flung himself off of the raft and…onto a wooden floor. He sat up and looked around him. He was in the cabin of a ship. A very small, dark cabin, with large beams running across the low ceiling. The air wasn't fresh at all, but rather stank of tar, mildew and unwashed bodies. He squinted in the dim light and saw that there was a man with him in the cabin.

Here lad, the shadowy man said softly. It's alright. Ya need t' drink this.

He held out the cup to John, who took it gingerly in his thickly bandaged hands. The cup was real, and looking again at the man, he saw that he appeared solid enough. Something about his manner was soothing, and John's fear lessened. He put the cup to his lips and tasted the water. It was warm and smelled stale, but he drank it right down and held it out for more. The man refilled the cup with a ladle from a wooden bucket on the floor and John drank that down too, and another.

As his eyes became accustomed to the near-darkness, he could now see that the man was small and elderly. His eyes were bright blue and cheerful, however, like those of a much younger man. Wispy white hair poked out here and there from under an ill-fitting wig, which resembled a bird’s nest more than anything else.

Who are you? Where am I? John asked.

You're on a King's ship, laddie, the man said, his voice still soft. We fished you out o' the drink yesterday mornin’. I feared you'd no' recover. I'm MacLeod, Ship’s Surgeon.

My family, John said. They're…

He tried to stand, but his legs buckled under him and he went down again, hitting his head on the cot beside him.

Don't do that, boy, MacLeod said. You're no' fit ta stand. You're no' fit ta be alive.

He examined the bump on the boy's head, and lay him on the cot, which was nothing more than a wide board, hung from the low ceiling by ropes at each corner, and covered by a thin, straw-filled pad. The cot swung gently to-and-fro with the motion of the ship, lulling John into a deep sleep once again.

*****

CHAPTER 2

The next time John awoke, he felt more nearly human. The tiny cabin was brighter, with a thin shaft of light peeking through the planks that covered the ceiling, and he could see that he was alone. Lying on the swaying cot, he became aware of the many sounds of a ship at sea: the creaking of the timbers as the wooden vessel sliced through the waves, orders shouted and answered, bare feet pounding up and down the decks. There were also the sounds of hammers and saws. What are they building?

The cabin was sparsely furnished, but orderly. A small shelf ran above him holding a dozen or so tattered books, the pages swollen grotesquely by the dampness. A crude wash stand, with a broken mirror hanging above it, occupied the opposite wall along with a tiny folding desk. He sat up and swung his feet to the sloping floor. He grasped one of the ropes that suspended his cot and pulled himself to his feet. This time, though he felt a little dizzy, he was able to remain upright. He held tight to the rope until he became used to the motion of the ship, and then took a step away from the cot. His legs felt as though he had never used them at all, and he soon sat back down on the cot to rest. The water bucket hung from a hook beneath the cot and he drank again and again from the ladle. When he was sated, he wiped his chin and lay back down, closing his eyes. He stayed that way for a while, not sleeping, but in that very restful, half-awake state. Gradually, he realized that he was cold, and opened his eyes to look for a blanket.

Did I not say that thee would be delivered, boy?

Whirling around, John saw that the apparition from the raft was seated at the Doctor’s desk. He was clearly visible, now, though still somewhat translucent, and John saw that he was somewhere between thirty and forty years old, with long, black hair and a small beard. He was dressed strangely, with a loose, baggy shirt and breeches stuffed into high leather boots. A great wide sword dangled from a belt worn across his chest. His expression was amused, though friendly, and John was more curious than afraid. He noticed again that he