âWe should always be prepared for storms.â
âYes, maâam,â was the best Sam could offer. Â No more words came. Â âPerhaps I should be getting underway.â Â He lingered a moment too long before he left, disappointed with himself. Â He had hoped to do better. Â
The shutters had been made with care by some carpenter years ago, but time and the damp air had taken its toll. Â The kitchen window was the worst; the frame behind the shutter was soft with rot. Â Sam pried the ruined wood away from the siding with an iron bar. Â Underneath, things looked better. Â After he replaced that section the window would hold for a while. Â He set out to look for some suitable lumber in the shed that Mary had pointed out the day before. Â
The building stood behind the cottage, not far from a creek that drained slowly into the marsh. Several small white egrets perched in a nearby willow tree. Â Another stood in the creek, feeding. Â His approach startled it, and it lifted off, yellow feet dangling from thin black legs. Â It settled into the tree near the others, where they watched him with their round eyes.
Two doors, latched in the center, secured the shed. Â He threw them open, their rusty hinges creaking, and the long, narrow space flooded with sunlight. The building wasnât large, but it was full; it appeared to be was a workshop of some kind. Â Along one side ran a workbench, covered with tins, jars, and tools. A high wooden stool was tucked underneath. Â Plank shelves above it held more tools, and long, canvas-wrapped bundles. Â In the rafters hung wooden duck decoys, dozens upon dozens of them, the rings on their undersides joined by endless coils of slender line. Â Their eyes, some glass and some painted, surveyed him. Â Most displayed the dark-red heads of canvasbacks or the green and black of mallards and bluebills. Â A group of larger ones were made in the shape of geese, and a few with long, graceful necks mimicked white swans. Â
Overturned on two wooden horses in the center of the room lay a boat.
In so small a place, the boat seemed larger than it actually was. Â It was no more than four feet across at its widest, and perhaps twelve feet long, a tight fit in the little workshop. Â Sam approached it, fascinated. Â This was something altogether different from the boats that worked the canal in Port Clinton. Â He ran his hand over the upended shape, taking the measure of it.
The cedar hull had not been painted, but allowed to weather to a soft grey that would blend into the landscape. Â Ten narrow planks ran the length of the flat bottom. Â Clearly it had suffered a collision; six or seven of the planks were bent or shattered near the bow, sharp splinters protruding from their surfaces. Â Two wider planks, no more than a foot deep, formed the sides: one plank on the starboard side, one on the port. Â They were bent to form a graceful curve from the pointed bow to the narrow transom. Â The plank on the starboard side had been driven backwards, its clean arc now misshapen. Â The stem had been broken, or split. Sam marveled at the boat's shallow draft. You could run it through water that wouldnât come over the tops of your boots. Â And it must be light as well. Â What had it struck it to cause such damage? Â He crouched underneath the horses to examine the topside. Â
This was no common fishing boat. The little craft was almost completely covered by a deck, save for a rectangular opening in the center, large enough for one man, maybe two. Â The oarlocks, rusty with disuse, sat astride this opening. Â A low coaming, an inch or two at most, shielded it on all four sides. Â Three shallow boards surrounded the deck at the stern, forming a place to stow cargo. Â The twisting of the boat had loosened some of deck planks, which now hung free in midair. Underneath, on the dirt floor, sat an oversized wood-framed