For the Love of Faith: The Prophecy

By C. Frederick Haigh

November 1918: Nineteen-year-old James Sinclair is shot down over France. He would never forget the Great War and his near-death experience. Wealth and social status no longer seemed to matter. He wanted to be a hero. He made a vow to God and wrote about it in his journal.

 

October 1956: Ten-year-old Elle Hancock finds her Dadd

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Frederick Haigh
• Release date: Nov 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798868985607

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FOR THE LOVE OF FAITH

A Trilogy

Book 3 – The Prophecy

"So Now Abide Faith, Hope and Love, These Three

But The Greatest of These Is Love"

1 Corinthians 13

This book was Inspired by my Sister

Her name was Faith

C. Frederick Haigh

To My Family

And the Spirits of Those

Who Have

Lost All Faith

Dear Faith,

Come hear mah bagpipes echo o’er th’ island nicht,

‘N’ let th’ moon dust dabble tis ancient light.

Come titch mah heavenly whisper in th’ twilight’s mist,

‘N’ rest upon mah shoulder ‘n’ offer me a kiss.

Fur I wull be thare waiting, ‘n’ dicht awa’ yer tears,

‘N’ protect yer heavenly spirit fae a’ earthly fears.

I noo gie ye a’ I hae, ‘n’ a’ I wish tae be,

Fer ye ur mah true Luve, mah Faith, ‘n’ oor Destiny.

Air Son Gràidh A’ Creideamh 

JWS

V    THE FINAL DIARY

June 11, 1965 –

June 18, 1966

Chapter 1​​The Reality

Sunrise, Friday, June 11, 1965

An Unknown Location

The top of the lighthouse caught the first rays of sun. It greeted the morning like a sheaf of gold against the blackened sky. In less than an hour it lit the doorway where Dr. Sinclair lay. That alone would have been the wakeup call, but there was also a loud grinding noise that sounded like a high pitch grunt. It seemed to come in waves; sometimes distant, then close. It was never-ending. The constant noise, the rising sun, and a searing pain on his left arm and chest prevented further sleep.

He sat up against the wall and squinted at the outside glare. The silhouettes of grasses and palm trees were now sun-etched survivors of nature’s wrath. Although the eastern horizon was hazy and the rain had finally ended, it was slow to register with his lack of sleep and the incessant noise.

What seemed oddly urgent, were his water-logged shoes. They felt squishy and tight. As he looked at them, his motions became instinctive. He moved over to the entrance stoop and pulled off one and then the other, then removed his socks and tossed them after a couple of squeezes.

Then he took off his pants, shirt, and tank top, and threw them past the shoes. It felt good to be wearing nothing but boxer shorts. More than a minute passed as he watched hundreds of birds, maybe thousands, flit and move through the broken underbrush and torn trees. Some of them made a loud grinding sound; some just tweeted – more within eyesight than he had ever witnessed.

As reality set in, he glanced behind his left arm, a source of pain. He was surprised to see a long cut below his shoulder with crusted blood still seeping down his arm. Crap! he yelled out and repeated as he reached with his right hand.

Looking out at his muddy blue shirt, he could see the torn left sleeve and blood stains. That makes sense, he grumbled. He picked up his pants and fiddled with the pockets. Several things fell out, most importantly his small pipe knife. He opened the blade, cut off the rest of the sleeve, and wrapped it around his arm. The cloth didn’t close the wound, but the pressure felt better.

After taking a few deep breaths, and regaining some perspective, he walked back in the building. The reflections of the morning sun clearly lit up the entrance hall and broken doorway but not much beyond. His first glance was to Bonnye, still covered in his jacket. He knelt and touched the hem of her legs. They were covered in a yellowed mud and were now cool to the touch. He crossed himself and knew this day would require a grave or a rescue, whatever came first. He didn’t have the heart or energy to dig a temporary grave, but it could not be delayed in the tropical humidity and heat. A decision would be needed if help didn’t arrive within the next few hours.

It was hard to see Elizabeth in the shadows, but he noticed her position had changed – a good sign. She was now facing the wall. He gently pulled on her right shoulder and face. She moaned softly, another good sign.

He looked first at her legs and feet, then moved his hands along the outside and inside for anything that felt broken, just as he had done the night before.

He removed her wet and muddy tennis shoes and tossed them through the doorway. Then he moved her feet and toes. There was nothing that seemed broken or out of place.

Then he placed his palm on her forehead and face; they were warm. He touched her jaw and neck, and her left arm and hand. Nothing. But as he felt her right forearm she cried out. He looked closer.

The radius was fine, but the ulna was slightly bent, and probably broken about two inches above her wrist. And there was now a swollen area. He guessed she would need some sort of brace – something that would immobilize her arm. He stood back up, walked back out into the morning light, and looked for a makeshift splint. Some straight sticks would do.

With the aftermath of the storm, it was an easy task. He found two, and after ripping four cloth strips from his torn shirt, he moved back inside, and within a couple of minutes had fashioned a temporary brace. As he felt again for any other injuries, he noticed her dress was wet. He squeezed and could see the water and mud flow across the cement floor. It needed to be dry.

After a moment of thought, he unbuttoned the front and carefully removed her dress from her arms and chest. After untying her belt, and checking for any cuts or bruises, he slowly slid it off her legs and feet. The once soft-yellow dress was now coated in muddy slime.

He walked out the door and tried to wrench out the water, but like his own clothes, it remained damp and muddy. He spread it out, hoping the sun would dry and loosen the caked mud.

When he walked back in, he realized Elizabeth was only wearing her bra and underpants. He looked over at his jacket laying across Bonnye but didn’t want to remove it. Not right now. He remembered the excursion bag and the Jamaican shirts. Those would work.

He carried the bag away from the building and slowly turned it over. Water swirled out as did the shirts and several other items. There were wads of tissue paper, a Jamaican souvenir cup, two wooden bowls, two bottles of Coppertone, and two small boxes from Hanna’s. He put the boxes aside and studied the pewter cup with Jamaica etched on the side. The handle and rim were slightly bent, but it was still usable.

The shirts needed to dry out to be useful. He lifted each, wrung them out, and shook them in the air several times. After flattening them on the rocks near Elizabeth’s dress, he picked up the other items and spread them out in the sun.

He glanced across at the towering lighthouse then at his watch. Seven-ten, he mumbled and put it to his ear. He moved his wrist several times to tighten the self-winding spring.

The sun was now lighting the eastern sky, and the storm clouds were further south. He looked north. Where was the rescue party? Even though the plane had disappeared off a cliff, a rescue plane should be able to spot something. Maybe the shirts? he thought. They’re colorful. He spread them out further.

Just seven hours earlier he had searched for anything or anyone who could help – looking for a road, a light, a house. He had seen nothing, and with the howling wind, had heard nothing. Most of that time was spent clinging to brush and trees and sometimes retracing steps. His face and ears still stung from the staggering wind!

He stood for a few minutes, looking again to the horizons, first toward the sunlight, then north past the tower, then west of the building, then back where the plane had crashed. He could see the white caps of ocean waves across the south.

We must have crashed in a remote location, he thought. Maybe on a finger of land, seemingly deserted. It was probably guided by the lighthouse beam, faulty gages, or pilot miscalculations. Whatever happened, he knew it was a fatal judgement, and some sort of rescue must be underway. He assumed it would be just a matter of hours.

Although it was early, he could feel the sun on his shoulder, or maybe it was the pain. He looked at the bloody wrap around his left arm; the pain was not going away. As he glanced across other parts of his body, he noticed several bruises on his left side and thighs, and the long scar above his left foot – still jagged after forty-five years. But there were no other cuts, and fortunately no broken bones. He felt blessed to have made it through the crash in fairly good shape.

He moved his arms straight out, then above his head, then he leaned to the left and then the right. Ouch! Pain be gone! he yelled out. Out! Out! Damn pain! He smiled at the Shakespearian expression as he placed his hands on his waist and twisted in his stance. He winced a few times but kept twisting until his back seemed to loosen.

Then he pulled his arms to his chest, clenched his fists, and boxed at the air, swatting at an unseen opponent. After a few deep breaths, he felt ready for the day. His spirit was within reach and his will to survive was returning.

He looked again at the lighthouse, just a dozen or so yards away. It was a round cement obelisk shape with a thick bell bottom base, definitely capable of surviving a hurricane. He could see a metal grated door at the bottom.

He walked over to it and pulled, but it just banged. A large brass lock was in place, something he would need to break off to use the tower. He stepped back and looked up at the light.

He could see four good-sized windows that led to a railing at the top. He went over to the step-up base and walked around to the other side. Same thing, windows but no open doorway, just an entrance that had been cemented shut.

He walked back to the front and studied the lock again. A large rock or crowbar might break it. He could see some rust on the iron door and breaking the lock was a possibility. He knew the top of the lighthouse was key to finding the search party or sending out a signal.

Maybe he could find something at the crash site. The morning sunlight would reveal more debris, and maybe something useful. It seemed a priority, and he put his once-white shoes back on and carefully walked along the previous night’s path. What he had thought was a shallow creek was now clearly a man-made path, and as he felt the base with his feet, he realized it was a narrow-gaged railroad track. It was clearly overgrown but could possibly lead to a home or settlement. He would need to pursue that later.

He continued and eventually reached the plateau where the crash had occurred. He noticed the torn brush, flattened grasses, and stripped palm trees, evidence of the crash and strong winds. And there were several noticeable gouges across the mud and limestone. He stood for a few minutes and glanced across the landscape and wondered again what happened to the plane. He moved carefully along the cliff edge where he had almost fallen. It was a limestone plateau with a few large boulders. He held onto one and looked over the cliff side. It was a shear fifty-foot drop into the ocean.

He pulled back and now knew where the wreckage and pilots had gone. He looked again and scanned out across the waves thinking that debris might have floated to the surface or clung on the cliff, but there was nothing within eyesight. He looked to the left and right along the shoreline. Nothing.

Then he turned around and began a ground search across the muddy limestone flat. Much of the grass and shrubbery was gone, replaced by small pieces of plastic, and some blue paint streaks. It was as if a giant vacuum cleaner had sucked the DC-3 into oblivion. For several minutes he continued the search, then walked north behind some tree stumps.

As he moved back toward the building, he saw a strip of grey fabric wrapped around a tree stump and a glint of metal in the undergrowth. It was flat and larger than the soda cans. He pulled a broken root up from the mud and wiped away some of the dirt. It was a metal sheet. He moved his fingers across revealing more surface.

After finding an edge, he pulled and loosened it. It was the underside of a two-foot by one-foot flat aluminum drawer. He had seen one the night before. He turned it over and dozens of cellophane wrapped packages spilled out.

Probably wet crackers, he thought. At least the aluminum drawer could be used for signaling. He set it aside.

He scanned the area again. Maybe there were other drawers encased in the mud. He picked up a stick and prodded the soil in likely places, but nothing. Everything must have been swept over the cliff.

He looked at his watch; it was almost eight. After picking up the drawer and two cushions, he headed back. This time he watched where he stepped. It wasn’t just the storm debris, or the broken brush, but also the thick grasses that stung as they whipped against his legs. Within a few minutes he was back by the entrance and set the drawer and cushions down.

As he walked through the inner hallway, he thought he could see a dim light coming from inside the building, something he hadn’t noticed before. He kneeled by Elizabeth and noticed she had rolled the other way. He felt along the back of her head, an area he hadn’t touched before, then leaned over and studied the back of her shoulder. Nothing. She was breathing fine and her pulse was strong. She just needed to wake up.

As he looked over at Bonnye and his jacket, he realized again that something needed to be done. He closed his eyes and raised his hand to his face. Lord, have mercy on me, he cried.

She was still in her wet dress and he knew he couldn’t wait much longer. There were certainly bugs, birds, and ground animals who would do far more damage than a makeshift burial. He stood for a moment then walked outside and glanced toward the west, hoping to see some sort of vessel, maybe just a fishing boat. He put his hand across his forehead for shade and scanned the eastern shoreline. There was nothing.

He grabbed a stone and threw it off in the distance. Crap! he yelled out. He picked up another and threw it further.

He looked again at the lighthouse door and lock, and then around the base for a large stone. After finding one, he carried it over to the wrought iron door, raised it with both hands and brought it crashing down on the lock. The stone broke apart and a small piece glanced off his left wrist. Crap! he yelled.

He knew he had to dig.

Chapter 2​​The Promise

Early Morning, Friday, June 11, 1965

An Unknown Location

He started by looking for a large stick, something that could dig or move the dirt. Everything he saw was either too small or easily bent or broken. He walked further from the building and eventually around the other side, searching for anything that could be useful. Occasionally he looked out across the brush, palm trees, and what looked like fig trees. Nothing seemed substantial.

As he looked back at the building, he noticed broken glass in the last few windows. But what really struck him was the sunlight he could see inside.

He walked around the next corner and noticed two other broken windows and another doorway, something he hadn’t seen the night before. It was similar to the other end with an entryway stoop and an inner doorway. But what caught his attention was the missing roof and ceiling, now strewn across the inside floors. Everything had caved in. Maybe from the storm, maybe earlier. There were piles of broken wood beams and boards flung around an inner room and side halls, and a noticeable rotting smell.

As he scanned the room he spoke up, Yow! Ye lost the bloody war. He cautiously looked down, and noticed some of the boards were splintered and there were rusted nails protruding from several. Not a good place to walk, he thought.

What have you got here girl? he mumbled. He studied the two-by-twelve roofing joists, and the hundreds of two-by-six framing boards. As he tried to loosen one, he heard a loud clanking sound. He looked to his right, and there in the morning sun was a broken water pipe. A two inch he guessed. Merci, he yelled out.

He stepped over, grabbed the end, and pulled. He could move it from right to left but not free it from the boards. He pushed and pulled for almost a minute, then took a breath and tried again. Nothing.

The sweat was now dripping across his brow. He took a quick break. Dang E, he yelled out and moved the pipe violently side to side. It suddenly broke, and with it went his balance. He fell backward against the cement wall. Crap, he yelled again as the pipe banged off the floor.

He looked at the six-foot long pipe with a broken elbow on the end. I won! he yelled. Ye, little pipee, have lost. He smiled and rested on the floor for a minute. We need to get some work done here!

He slowly stood against the wall and rubbed the back of his head. He was thankful he hadn’t cracked it open. As he picked the pipe off the floor, he used it to move more wood. The pipe was rusty but still a strong lever.

As he carried it out the doorway, he noticed a sliver of olive green under one of the boards. He prodded with the pipe and moved more boards to the side. He bent down to get a better look and then removed more of the planks. He repeated the process several times, revealing more of the green.

He touched it; it felt like canvas. Maybe it was from a tent. He moved several more beams and pulled on the tarp-like material. After more than ten minutes of struggle, he pulled it free.

It was torn in several places, and heavy, but mostly dry and usable. And he could see another tarp below it, and what looked like white sails, or maybe sheets. He guessed there were more items under the rubble.

He moved along the edge of the room, in and out of the shaded areas, then through a side door into another room. Some ceiling joists looked stable but most areas had collapsed with the storm, and there were puddles on the floor. He carefully walked around looking for anything that might prove useful, but nothing caught his attention.

He guessed the ceiling had begun leaking a few years back, but the hurricane, or whatever it was, had done most of the damage. After another few minutes, he grabbed the pipe and headed out the southern door. For a minute he stared at the ocean in the distance. He raised his left hand and shaded his eyes. It was hard to see the shoreline, but he was more interested in a ship on the horizon.

As he walked carefully around the east side of the building, he felt the sun again, and knew he would need to put his shirt on or use some lotion for protection. He looked at his watch again – it was now eight-thirty.

After a full walk-around, he noticed the clothes sprawled across the limestone. He flipped each of them. The Jamaican shirts were clean looking and surprisingly, almost dry. The rest were muddy and still wet. He put some Coppertone on his face and shoulders and headed east past the lighthouse base. There was a grassy and earthen mound some twenty yards from the tower, and it seemed the best option for Bonnye’s grave.

He walked to the top of the mound, just a two- or three-foot rise in the clearing, lifted the pipe and began prodding the soil. It was loose, and within another five minutes he had outlined an area that he thought would work best. After a few more minutes he went back in the building for a board he had seen. It was a broken ceiling panel – a one-by-ten, only three feet in length. It could work as a shovel.

Within a half hour he had dug a three-foot-deep trench. He decided to put in some more sweat and dig down another foot or two. The dirt was moist but loose. After another ten minutes he felt faint and sat back against the pile of dirt.

He was out of breath and exhausted, and thirsty. But there was no time to waste. He now had a plan and headed around to the back door of the building. The sun had shed more light on the inside rubble, and he quickly took another look hoping to find something he had missed before.

He kicked some more of the boards around, but eventually just grabbed the loosened canvas tarp and pulled it across the limestone yard to the mound. He guessed it was part of an old army tent, probably manufactured before the Korean War. Odd, he thought. What was it doing at a deserted lighthouse?

When it was fully stretched out, it looked to be eight feet by twelve with brass eyelets along all four sides. He slowly moved it to the top of the mound and slid it down in the hole, then flattened it against the floor and walls.

Now came the sad part. Something that would be difficult to do under the best of circumstances. He walked over to the shirts and chose a pink one, remembering that Bonnye had worn a pink gown to Bab’s concert. Back in the building, he noticed Elizabeth had turned to the left, like she had done an hour earlier. He knelt and adjusted her head and checked her pulse. Still good. Then he turned his attention to Bonnye.

He slowly removed his sport coat and set it over by Elizabeth, then took another look at her face, still beautiful, still smiling. He lowered his eyes, put his hand on her forehead and said a short prayer.

Lord, have mercy on me. You’ve gained an angel. She was innocent of all sin. She deserves so much more than I’m able to provide. Lord, forgive me.

Then he straightened her dress, removed the sling around her neck, and touched her hands, now cool. He took the shirt and covered her face, then reached under her back and legs and lifted her in his arms.

For some reason she seemed heavier, although he knew she wasn’t a burden. Carrying her one last time was an honor.

He walked carefully out the short hallway toward the shallow grave. As he reached the mound, he put her legs in first, then gently lowered her upper body and head. After adjusting the pink Jamaican shirt, he straightened her arms, legs, and dress. Then he folded the tarp over from the far side, then the one under his arms, then the two ends toward the middle. Then he flatted out the wrinkles and edges and pulled some dirt on top.

After standing, and straightening his back, and began shoveling dirt back onto the mound. In twenty minutes, it was fully covered, and he shoved the broken board in the ground as a temporary headstone.

His voice was shaken and tired as he finished. You’ll soon be back home, Bonnye. I . . . I am so sorry – so very sorry. I will not rest until I see you home, back with your family. I could not protect you in life, but I will not fail to protect you in your eternal rest. I give you my word before God, I will take you home. I promise! He looked skyward. As God is my witness. With my dying breath. I will carry you home.

He looked at his watch. It was now after eleven and the sun was overbearing. He looked across the courtyard, grabbed the pipe, and slowly walked back in the entrance. He was thirsty, hungry, sore, and tired. He looked at his left arm bandage. It was bleeding again. And there were now splinters across his fingers. As he entered the hallway, he picked up one of the soda’s, a ginger ale, and pulled off the tab. He took a few swallows as he wiped his brow. The taste was a welcome relief.

Eventually he walked back and looked at Elizabeth. She hadn’t moved. He knelt and felt her pulse. It was strong. He felt again around her head for any bumps or abrasions. Still nothing he could feel. He moved her hair away from her eyes and forehead.

Then he patted her on the shoulder and realized he had forgotten about the shirt. He stood, moved