Chapter Twenty-Nine #4
Colonel Edward Fitzwilliam hated boats of any size, from rowboats to the largest warships.
It was not that he held a fear of drowning.
He actually swam very well. But the rolling of the ship upon the water affected his sense of order, and he always felt weak and not much of a man when his stomach pitched and heaved on its own.
Even so, with Wickham’s coffin aboard, he clung to the inner railing of the fishing vessel as it cut through the rough waters of the North Sea.
The rocking had Edward counting to ten for the hundredth time as he took great gulps of air to settle the queasy feeling rumbling through him.
“Ye be lookin’ for one of St. Cuthbert’s miracles on the Holy Isle?” the ship’s captain asked out of curiosity.
Edward appeared confused, but then realized the fishing captain thought Edward wished to take his deceased passenger to the monastery of St. Cuthbert, known to bring about inexplicable healing.
“No … no, nothing of that sort. Just a dying wish I intend to fulfill.” He prayed God would forgive the lie.
“I see,” said the man, although he did not understand why it was so important to take the body to Lindisfarne on that particular day. “We be in harbor in ’nother half hour.”
“Thank you, Captain. I will be prepared.”
Landing in the harbor of a small village on the southwestern tip of the island, the colonel, Peters, and two of the men from the ship—whom Edward had agreed to pay extra—took off for the interior, carrying the coffin and several shovels.
Expecting sandy, barren beaches, the fertile rise of land surprised the colonel.
There were hundreds of birds, which did not shock him, but also rabbits and other small game, which did.
In the distance, he noted the ruins of the tumbledown monastery, and he chuckled at the irony of placing Wickham’s bones within view of holy markers.
“This looks good,” he said to the men as he prepared to lower the coffin to the ground. They had walked nearly a mile inland. “We were to choose a place close to running water.” He offered no other explanation, and the men asked for none from an outsider.
For nearly an hour, the four of them took turns digging a hole deep enough for a burial place. The process was slower than they had expected. Although the land was richly black and fertile, it was laced with rocks, and they good-naturedly stacked them in their own improvised altar.
“Here be ’nother one.” Peters handed a heavy stone up to one of the fishermen. He and the colonel took their turns in the hole while the other two men rested.
“At this rate, we will never finish. If we had not wasted so much time digging this far, I would choose another spot.”
Suddenly, the sound of running feet caught their attention, and Edward and Peters scrambled from the grave to discover the urgency. A boy from the ship scurried up the incline to meet them. Completely from breath, the lad gulped for air, bent over at the waist, unable to deliver his message.
“What be it, boy?” one of the fishermen demanded in gruff tones.
The youth caught a few more deep breaths before he straightened. “Captain sent me,” he began. “Bad storm comin’. We be weighin’ anchor within the hour.”
“It will take another hour to dig this grave,” Edward reminded them.
“Captain say he waits no longer. He be ’fraid of losin’ the boat. The sea be rough on the return as is.”
“What do we do, Colonel?” Peters looked about. There was nothing in sight where they might find refuge.
Edward looked at the coffin and then back at the men. “Could we put the box in the ground as far as it will go and then cover it with these stones?”
“Makes sense to me, Colonel,” one of the fishermen responded, and he picked up the shovels to move them out of the way. “Centuries ago, no one be put in the ground. Cold in the north and people used stones because the ground be frozen.”
“Then let us make haste,” Edward said, his military training taking over.
The coffin still required three inches to be fully flush with the surface, but they adjusted it as best they could. Then they placed the bigger stones upon the lid. The youth brought handfuls of small ones to fill in the gaps. Soon the rocky mound was complete.
“Grab the shovels, boy,” the larger fisherman ordered. “The captain be a man of his word. He leave us if we be late.”
They began their tramp back to the fishing village. Edward instantly regretted his choice: He promised Darcy he would oversee the burial, but he had failed. He recognized his constitution could not face a storm at sea in such a small boat, but that knowledge provided him little comfort.
Reaching the harbor, they found the captain pacing the dock, looking for them. “It be past time,” he called as they all clambered aboard. “Small boats already be in dock and tied down.” He hurried in behind them before barking orders to set them in motion.