Old Betsy

The Maine October storm had been raging outside the lighthouse all afternoon. Captain Jacob Turner stood at the window of the lantern room, gripping the window frame tightly as powerful gusts buffeted the glass. Through the sheets of sideways rain, all he could see was an endless gray void. 

Down below, his 12-year-old twins Jules and Julie huddled nervously by the fireplace in their living quarters. “I don't like storms, Uncle Martin,” Julie said quietly. “They sound scary here at the lighthouse.” 

Their friend and father's former first mate Martin Gordon smiled reassuringly at the twins from his armchair. “Aye, the sea can be a fearsome beast during a gale,” he said in his weathered voice. “But ye have nothin’ to fret over. Old Cap'n Turner knows these waters better than anyone. As long as that light keeps shinin’, any ships lost at sea will find their way.”

Martin stoked the crackling fire, sending sparks dancing up the chimney. “Now who wants to hear a tune?” he said, taking up his weathered banjo. The twins perked up as Martin began to sing a sea shanty, strumming along expertly despite his missing left hand. His voice drowned out the howling wind that wailed mournfully like a banshee as the children joined in the chorus. 

Upstairs, Captain Turner peered through his telescope, checking that the light was still revolving steadily through the raging night. At 63 years old, he had manned this lighthouse for over 40 storm seasons, but none quite like this. Even he was feeling uneasy about the coming hours. 

A crack of thunder exploded directly overhead, shaking the entire tower. Jules jumped with a start, spilling cocoa down the front of his shirt. “S-sounds like it struck the rocks!” he stammered. All color drained from his face as another boom echoed across the sea within seconds, even closer this time. 

Julie put a comforting arm around her brother. “Papa knows what he’s doing, don’t be scared,” she said, though she was rattled herself. Her words did little to ease Jules’ nerves as flashes of lightning began to illuminate the windows in an ominous flickering glow. 

The minutes turned to hours as the storm raged on around them. Martin sang song after song, telling tales of his voyages to keep the twins entertained. But even he was growing weary as midnight came and went. Julie had long since dozed off, leaning against her brother, but Jules found no rest. 

Just then, a blinding flash lit up the room, swiftly followed by a deafening crack directly overhead that shook the whole tower to its foundations. It was as though someone had tied up a bundle of dynamite, lit the wicks, and cast it against the rocky bluff. Or was that a stray cannon shot from a ship? Jules leapt up with a yell just as the lights flickered and died, plunging them into blackness. “Dad!” he cried in a panic.

In the upstairs lantern room, Captain Turner had seen the lightning strike a massive boulder only yards from the tower. The concussion wave nearly knocked him off his feet. His ears rang and his vision burned white for a moment as an acrid smell of burnt wiring reached his nose. Grabbing an emergency lantern, he raced down the spiral staircase two steps at a time.

“We’ve lost power,” he announced, breathing heavily. Martin stoked the fire higher while Captain Turner checked the generator and breakers to no avail. With the telephone lines down, calling for help was impossible. They were trapped in an unlit lighthouse as the storm continued its ferocious assault—with Poseidon from below, Zeus from above, and Zephyrus all around them. 

Jules gripped his father’s arm, on the verge of tears. “I’m scared, Dad!” Captain Turner gave his son a bracing hug. “Now now, don't you worry. I’ve weathered worse than this, and so has Old Betsy,” he said, patting the limestone tower fondly. “We’ll batten down and ride it out until dawn. Then I’ll see to repairs first thing.”

The four huddled close by the fire for warmth through the long night. Captain Turner regaled them with tales of navigation by stars alone to keep their spirits up. Uncle Martin led them in singing more sea shanties.

“Have you heard Bully in the Alley?” he asked, with a twinkle in his eyes.

“How does it go?” Jules asked, curious.

“It goes like this… Help me, Bob, I’m bully in the alley! Way-hey, bully in the alley! Help me, Bob, I’m bully in the alley! Bully down in Shinbone Al!”

“But what does it mean?” Julie asked.

“Well, bully is the old word for drunk,” Uncle Martin explained.

“And Shinbone Al is short for Shinbone Alley, a very well-known alley in a port city where you can find drunk sailors passed out against the wall or lying on the cobblestone streets.”

“Did you drink, Papa?” Julie asked the old captain.

“Most of my contemporaries did,” Captain Turner recalled. “It was a sailor’s tradition. But I did not. I had a ship to sail, a crew to command, and wind, fog, and waves to battle against. I liked to have a clear head. Can’t have that when ye have grog in ye.”

“Aye,” Uncle Martin added. “Your father ran a tight ship. The only time I could drink was on shore leave.”

“I will have you know, however, I am not as stiff as your Uncle Martin makes me out to be,” Captain Turner interjected. “We did have fun on the high seas—especially when crossing the Equator.”

“Ah, yes,” Uncle Martin said with a laugh. “The Court of King Neptune! The crew always looked forward to it.”

He then proceeded to regale the twins with their antics at the crossing of the Equator. He spoke of many things, including sailors forming a line to kiss a fish, which made Jules laugh and caused Julie to make a face.

Slowly, even the howling wind faded as grey morning light peeked through cracks in the blackout shades. They had survived yet another epic storm, thanks to Captain Jacob Turner and his faithful lighthouse that had guided lost sailors to safety for over a century.