1825 Ocracoke Lighthouse
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Farley L. Dunn THE FERRY WAITS FOR NO MAN, Dunn, Farley L. 1st ed. www.ThreeSkilletPublishing.com Cover by Farley L. Dunn Cover image from Clean Public Domain www.CleanPublicDomain.com All characters are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part, by electronic process or any other means, without permission of the author. ISBN: 978-1-943189-77-9 Copyright © 2019 by Farley L. Dunn All Rights Reserved Dedication My aunt, a history buff, encouraged me to visit all things military in North Carolina. From Fort Fisher in the south to Fort Raleigh in the north, I followed her lead, and her encouragement turned my travels into ink and bindings. Thank you, Aunt Malania, for your encouragement and the many ideas you sent my way. The Author at the Historic 1825 Ocracoke Lighthouse Table of Contents Thomas Percy 1 Early Native Americans 7 Shell Castle Rock Lighthouse 13 Ocracoke Lighthouse 19 Fort Clark, Hatteras Island 25 Chicamacomico Races 31 William H. Van Houten 37 USS Minnesota 43 Chicamacomico Station 49 USS Huron 55 Keeper Benjamin B. Dailey 61 Plymouth to Nags Head 67 Rasmus Midgett 73 The Bluejacket’s Manual 79 Wilmington Ferry 85 Cape Hatteras Station 91 Life-Saver Urias B. Williams 97 RMS Titanic 103 Diamond Shoals Light Vessel 109 SS Mirlo 115 Captain Unaka Jennette 121 Captain J.B. “Toby” Tillett 127 Hatteras Island’s Plank Roads 133 Bodie Island, The Outer Banks 139 The Monomoy Surfboat 14 6 Aleta , the Ocracoke Mail Boat 15 2 USS Roper 15 8 HMT Bedfordshire 16 4 T.A. Baum 17 0 USCGC Cape Fairweather 17 6 Introduction The first time the term Outer Banks can be found is May 29, 1939, in a newspaper headline. 1 I’ve used it to weave my stories together, even when the timeframe doesn’t fit. All my stories are based in fact and reference real people, places, and events. What I couldn’t uncover through research, I filled in from my imagination. When I felt it was important, I noted what was mine at the end of each story. This is a work of fiction, so please enjoy my tales, even when I wander into my imagination. 1. Kozak, Catherine (April 27, 2009). “What’s in a name? Outer Banks, North Carolina.” The Virginian-Pilot. 2019. www.pilotonline.com/news/local/ history/article_cedd743f-5217-51d3-9129-9f164e0ed31f.html. No. 1 1699-1760 Thomas Percy Thomas Percy felt winter’s fingers through the stone at his back. The sun shone outside, not that he could see it, but it was there nonetheless, telling the rest of Williamsburg that the long cold was over, and those that had survived might live to see another summer solstice. Thomas wouldn’t. What he had done still haunted him, buried in the snow within walls of trees, with a fire that refused to burn, and only oiled cloth to fight back the slashing scream of winter’s anger. At the time, he’d been crazed with hunger, and it wouldn’t have mattered who was in the cabin with him. Thomas closed his eyes to fight back the tears, and he wrapped shrunken arms around his dissected rib cage as he shook with sobs that would tear him apart if they could. Elizabeth! Oh, my holy God, Elizabeth! I will never see her again, never hold her again. Why, in the name of my father, my mother, and my whole life, did we come to this God-forsaken land where the unending brutality of snow and ice and winter winds tears away the most precious thing we possess and casts it away, forever – 1 – gone. “Elizabeth,” Thomas moaned. “I would that you were at my side, as our marriage vows promised, to have and to hold, to cherish forever.” Clanking of metal against metal jarred Thomas out of his misery, and he turned burning eyes to the slit allowing light through the heavy, scarred and battered door. The iron bands holding the greasy, discolored wood together mocked him. Trapped, Thomas. Trapped forever. Not forever, he knew, for the warm sun would soon be his, if just for a few short minutes. He would have that, a taste of spring, before his time would come. Winter’s chill fingers would be left behind in the stone and dirt and wood and metal strapping that held his body as tightly as his memories held his soul. “Thomas, friend, it is I, Judge Binghamton.” The words entered the slit in the door, and Thomas turned his head. He couldn’t, he simply couldn’t face the man who had been his benefactor, funding his passage, and setting up his blacksmith shop out of his own coin. Elizabeth’s benefactor, also, God rest her sweet soul. His was the tortured one, the soul that would burn for what he’d done. Sweet Lizzie had been goodness and light, even when the food had run low, and the cold had squeezed their hearts like a fist of ice. The iron key in the weathered locking mechanism squealed in protest, and with the thump of a musket – 2 – butt, the behemoth began to swing inward. Thomas felt his face go cold. Dear God, he pleaded, why couldn’t someone else have come to do the deed? Why must I face the one man who still claims to see good in me? “Thomas, please stand for your old friend. Were it not for the demands of the people, I would be lenient, but the law must be upheld. Even so, I think of you as my son, and I would that your dignity be preserved, as much as it might be, before God and man.” “You must hate me, must wish for me what will happen.” The words scarred Thomas’ throat, and as a rat scrambled through a fetid pile of rotting refuse, Thomas tore his tear-blurred gaze from the filth and looked into the judge’s kind face. “I hate no one, least of all you. Make this easy on yourself, Thomas, and on me, too. For Elizabeth, and most of all—” he began to whisper “—for the child, my God, for the child, let honor rule this day.” “What honor? I have none.” “History will record what you’ve done, but I do think history will be kinder than those who have gathered to view today’s spectacle. Stand tall, friend Thomas, even with what you’ve done, and someday, those who come after, in a generation or two, may find the understanding to forgive, as I’m sure God in Heaven understands what drove you to do such a deed.” Judge Binghamton motioned to the fusilier at his side. “Forward, Jameson.” – 3 – “Yes, sir,” the man said, setting his long-muzzled musket butt first on the ground and leaning the barrel against the darkened stone wall. Another fusilier stepped forward with a light, and the blackened smoke from the oiled grass fag washed against the ceiling, exiting through a small hole in the peak of the chamber, and exciting a greasy, sweat-infused odor of unwashed and unkept flesh from the sour stones. It only took moments before Thomas found himself on his feet—not of his volition, as he tried to fight off the fusilier’s advances—but he was weak from his time in the cell, and the oil of life had drained from him months before. He had no inner strength to fight that which would soon happen anyway. The man— Jameson—wrapped a coarse black robe around Thomas’ shoulders, and he tied it with a black belt from the same material. The judge stepped forward and pulled a hood up and over Thomas’ head, and as the black material swathed his cheeks, he felt his dread ease. The four men walked from the cell, the judge at Thomas’ side, and the two fusiliers coming behind. In the distance, the hubbub of the townspeople’s animated conversation was bright and harsh to Thomas’ ears. They stepped into the sunlit afternoon, and the air grew silent. Thomas peered through the cloth surrounding his face, and he saw it for the first time, the three heavy posts with the pyramid-shaped center, and the iron cage with the rope noose already inside. He let himself be led up the movable steps, and when the noose was placed – 4 – around his head, he let the judge draw the hood tight to seal his face from the crowd before turning and speaking in a loud voice. “Today, Thomas Percy, for the crime of canni- balism against your wife and unborn daughter, I hereby sentence you . .” – 5 – About Thomas Percy . It’s well known that cannibalism was practiced during desperate times in the early Colonial settle- ments. One report written by the interim president of the Jamestown colony, Sir George Percy, tells of a man accused of killing, salting, and eating his pregnant wife, just like Thomas Percy (a man created in my imagination) in this story. 1 The punishment was certainly death. Evidence has been found by archaeologists just north of Colonial Williamsburg of a tri-posted gallows similar to those used at London’s famed Tyburn Tree. The gallows may have included a metal cage built from flattened strips of iron, with a noose attached from the top. 2 The guilty party would have been hanged inside until dead in a public display of penance for his or her crimes. 1. Nicholls, Mark (Winter 2007).