Mail Order Sweetheart. Christine Johnson
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in Singapore. Most got into port safely, but some had grounded on the shifting sandbars. With the southwesterly gale blowing in and the sandbars that formed over winter, a ship could easily find itself aground.
He squinted at the lighthouse and made out the light. The sun must be near the horizon by now, but heavy clouds obscured it. Soon enough it would get dark. Hopefully the ship would reach the river mouth before then.
The lighthouse was perched atop the big dune that separated Singapore from the shores of Lake Michigan. Since the first lighthouse had been undercut and toppled into the river, this one was built farther from the water, and the dune had been reinforced with slabs of limestone to stop the seas from eroding the sands beneath it.
The town was nestled between the growing lakeshore dunes and older ones that had once been covered with trees. These days, any gale filled the streets with sand. It even worked its way into the buildings and had to be swept out and shoveled away constantly.
He hurried up the dune. Roland Decker and a handful of men were gathered near the lighthouse, peering at the lake. Already the waves were crashing onshore. Six to eight footers, he’d judge, and they would only build. A passenger steamer rolled in the trough maybe a quarter mile offshore. No smoke trickled from the stack.
“Engines must be down,” Sawyer noted to the group, which included mill workers Edwards and Tuggman plus Ernie Calloway from the boardinghouse and Roland’s brother, Garrett. The lighthouse keeper, Blackthorn, must be up in the tower, but two of his boys had gathered with the men.
“That’s what we figure,” Roland confirmed. “Mr. Blackthorn says there’s a sandbar about a hundred yards from shore, directly in their path. If they ground, the waves will tear them apart, and that water’s too cold for anyone to survive.”
Sawyer whistled. “Better hope they get their engines going.” How many people were aboard? It looked like the ship that had brought Fiona to town. The thought of women and children going down made him ill. “Have they put up any sail?” He couldn’t see if the ship had masts, not without looking through the glass.
“Don’t think they got any,” Edwards muttered.
Sawyer clenched his hands, visions of Fiona flailing in stiff seas flashing through his mind. “They need something to generate enough power so they can steer toward the river mouth.”
“That’s something we can pray for,” Roland said. “Let’s do it.”
Sawyer hesitated. Like most, he tossed up the occasional plea, but the barbarities of war had dimmed his belief that God answered every prayer. This was crucial, though, so after Roland led the prayer, Sawyer answered amen.
God often worked through men, so he pointed out, “We need to be ready to rescue them.”
The keeper appeared at his elbow. “Too dangerous. We can’t go risking people’s lives when there’s not much chance we could reach ’em.”
Sawyer couldn’t accept that. “What boats are available?”
Roland shrugged. “We could launch a rowboat.”
Even the strongest men couldn’t row into that sea. “We need sail or steam. Anything around?”
“My mackinaw boat,” Blackthorn offered.
Sawyer was familiar with the small sailing craft. “That’s got an awfully shallow draft. It’ll struggle to make any headway in these waves.”
They all knew it.
“We need a deep-draft sailboat or, better yet, a steam tug,” Sawyer pointed out. “Can we get the Donnie Belle down from upriver?”
“She must be all the way up to Allegan by now,” Edwards said. “She left here Monday and don’t come back this way for another week.”
Sawyer frowned. Singapore didn’t have a steam tug. Neither did Saugatuck, not one that was running this time of year. Without a tug, the people on that steamer didn’t stand a chance.
“There’s a passenger ship in trouble,” Mrs. Calloway announced to Fiona as she hurried through the dining room on her way to the kitchen. “We’re going to need every bed in the place made up and every spare blanket brought over to the lighthouse.”
A passenger ship! Fiona’s heart leaped into her throat. Mary Clare. What if her niece was on that ship? She pushed aside the newspapers, husband-hunting forgotten, and raced to the entry hall. In a second, she donned her cloak.
“Where are you going?” the boardinghouse proprietress asked.
“I have to do something to help.” Fiona couldn’t bring herself to mention the fear that was building in her chest. A seven-year-old girl. A sinking ship. Icy water. What if?
“You can help right here. We need to carry blankets to the lighthouse.”
The lighthouse would do. From there she could see what was happening and learn what would be done. If the passengers were brought ashore, she could then bring Mary Clare here and warm her up.
“What about the rooms?” Fiona headed for the staircase without removing her cloak. “We’ll need to warm the beds and have something hot for them to drink.”
“All taken care of, dear. Louise has already begun preparing the rooms, and Pearl and Amanda are on their way. Come with me to the linen closet, and we’ll grab the extra blankets.”
Fiona took a deep breath. There wasn’t anything she could do right now. Mrs. Calloway had said the ship was in trouble, not that it had sunk. “The ship is still afloat, then?”
“Aye, bobbing like a cork, I understand.”
Fiona breathed out a shaky sigh of relief. “Is it a large ship?” Maybe if it was very small, Mary Clare wouldn’t be aboard. Lillibeth had said something about a group of orphans.
“From what I hear, it’s like the one you came in on.”
Oh, dear. There had been scores of passengers on the Milwaukee. If rescued, where would they go? Mary Clare could join her, but the rest? “We’ll never have room for everyone.”
“We’ll squeeze them in. Some can sleep in the parlor or on the dining-room chairs.”
As Fiona followed Mrs. Calloway upstairs, she recalled all too clearly the crowded conditions when she was growing up. Parents, two grandmothers, seven siblings—one with a husband—and a baby all squeezed into the tiny tenement apartment. She and three sisters and the grandmothers shared a single bed—three facing one direction and three the other. She’d been kicked in the back and shoulders numerous times, but the boys had it tougher. They’d line up the wooden chairs for beds—three chairs per bed. Ma and Pa gave up their bedroom to her oldest sister’s family, while they slept atop the kitchen table.
Mrs. Calloway was suggesting the same sort of discomfort, except this would be temporary. Fiona hadn’t known relief until she began getting paid to sing and moved to a boardinghouse room of her own. It had felt like the height of luxury, and she would never go back.
At the linen shelves, Mrs. Calloway grabbed a stack of blankets and handed them to Fiona. “Is that too much, dear?”
“I can carry more.” Fiona had always been strong. As a girl, she’d prided herself on the ability to lift more than boys her age. Contrary to common belief, she did not shirk manual labor.
Mrs. Calloway added a few. “No more, or you won’t be able to see in front of you. Come now, let’s get these downstairs and then head over to the lighthouse.”
After Mrs. Calloway donned her outerwear, they trudged through town. The wind howled off the lake, filling the streets with sand and whipping those particles through the air so they stung every inch of exposed skin. Fiona lowered her head against