Gulf of Mexico
September 19, 1855

The storm raged around us like a mad beast intent on taking our ship and all aboard down to the briny depths. The men assigned to the watch had given up and lashed themselves to their posts. At least two had already been lost to the waves.

For once I gave thanks that my wife had been too ill to travel with us. The illness that forbade her travel just may have saved her life.

Galveston lay behind us now, the storm’s surge making it impossible to put in at port. So we sailed on, heading into the eye of the monster rather than out to sea where the waves would likely have already been stilled.

The reason for this decision, the cause for the choice to chance death and find a port to drop anchor, lay down below on a bunk in the captain’s quarters. For tonight, regardless of the tempest that raged, a child would be born.

The child’s father came to stand behind me, his face etched with nearly a full day and night of watching the one he loved endure indescribable pain. Behind him, the woman hired as nursemaid shook her head.

“So the child did not survive?”

A single tear traced my son’s cheek. “The child, she is weak but alive.”

“And Eliza?”

Again the nursemaid shook her head. This time she too showed tears. “Gone.”

A groaning sound roared from the depths of the ship, and warning bells rang. We had been taking on water since an hour after sunset. I looked beyond these two to the man standing in the door.

He was waiting. No words were needed. The vessel and its occupants were done for. With only two small boats with which to evacuate, I knew what must be done.

“Turn for Indianola,” I said. “We race the wind and hope for the best.”

“But sir,” my loyal crewman protested. “We will not make land in this vessel.”

“We will get close enough,” I told him.

And we did. The storm still raged farther south, but the winds were more companionable to sailing into port at Indianola. We did no such thing, of course, for to sail into that port in this ship would be to invite unwanted attention, even in this abysmal weather.

I ordered two small crafts sent out. One carried my son and the remains of his wife along with a loyal crewman to row. The other carried the child and her nursemaid. On this vessel, I sent my most trusted man to see to their safety.

“No matter what,” I told him. “See that the child lives, even at the cost of your own life.”

And he had vowed it would be so.

My son, a devoted sailor always, went on my orders but under a protest I understood. Even my answer, that separation from the child meant one might arrive safely if the other did not, did not dissuade him from his despair.

“Go and bury your wife,” I told him as my crew fought to keep the ship from ruin. “Take rooms and wait for me here. Find a wet nurse for your daughter. I will come to you.”

With that, I sent my son off into the night with the body of his wife wrapped in the same blankets where she had so recently given birth.

A moment later, I heard a sound like the mewling of a cat. I turned to see the nursemaid holding a bundle.

“She will live?” I asked her, for I knew I must make a report to my wife should the Lord allow us to be reunited this side of heaven.

“She will live.”

I pulled back the wrappings to see wide brown eyes peering up at me. One tiny fist had found its way free of its prison and now shook at me like an angry fishmonger.

“Hello, little treasure,” I said to her. “Go with God. We will be together soon.”

And then I released my granddaughter to the waves and the wind and the care of God. Most certainly and especially the care of God.