Free Storm Warriors by Elisa Carbone

would walk the midnight-to-three-A.M. patrol.
    They asked me if I could find my way home in the dark, and I told them I could. I stumbled, yawning, through the brush to our cabin and collapsed in bed next to Grandpa.
    Grandpa and Daddy were both sound asleep, their breathing deep and rhythmic. I wanted to tell them about the patrol, but I didn't dare wake either of them. Still, I felt like I'd burst if I didn't tell someone. So I decided to tell Mamma. That's the way I fell asleep—talking to Mamma in the dark, telling herhow even if I couldn't become a surfman, I already knew more than any of the boys on Roanoke Island about walking patrols, pulling the surfboat and beach cart to rescues, and taking care of wounded sailors.

NINE
    If my wanting to become a surfman was like a fire I'd managed to mostly put out, then walking the patrol with Mr. Bowser was like a flame that lit it all up again. After that night I couldn't hardly stop myself from thinking about it. And my mind started working to make it seem possible, too. What if William and Floyd and all the other colored boys on Roanoke Island decided that what they really wanted was jobs at the fish market in Wanchese so they could live with their families instead of out on Pea Island away from everything? What if Mr. Etheridge retired—his hair and beard were already white—and Mr. Bowser became keeper and needed me to be his right-hand man in doctoring the wounded sailors? I knew it was crazy, but I couldn't help thinking that way. I guess there are times when the whole world tells you that you have to be one way, and you go on ahead and be how you want to be, anyway.
    I was still fishing with Daddy every day. One morning after a heavy rain, Daddy and I were bailing out our skiff when we spotted the government sloop
Alert
just north of us on the sound. The
Alert,
with Lieutenant Cantwell and Superintendent Morgan aboard, was a regular sight at Pea Island. They came about once a month to bring the men's pay, deliver equipment like paint and stove brushes, and inspect all the stations along the Outer Banks. But today, as I watched, I saw that the
Alert
was not sailing smoothly. She was struggling to keep on an even tack.
    “Something's wrong,” I said to Daddy.
    He put down his bailing pail and stood up to look. The
Alert
's sails luffed and snapped in the wind, but she didn't come about. Suddenly we saw the red burst of a Coston flare.
    Before Daddy had finished saying, “Go get the surfmen,” I was running through the marsh toward the station.
    The crew was in the middle of practicing with the signal flags. I called out, “The
Alert
is in distress! She's just sent up a flare.”
    Mr. Etheridge said not to bother with the surfboat, that the fishing skiffs they had moored sound side would be enough. I ran ahead, hoping that our fishing skiff could be one of the rescue boats, especially since it was the only boat already bailed out.
    By the time I reached the sound, Daddy already had the sails rigged.
    “George, can you take me out there to see what the trouble is?” Mr. Etheridge asked Daddy.
    “Exactly what I had in mind,” said Daddy.
    I was so excited I almost tripped over the mooring ropes. I helped Daddy push the boat off, then jumped in and took my place at the rudder. Daddy sheeted in the sails and we were on our way—me, Daddy, and Keeper Etheridge heading out to rescue the officials from Washington, D.C. If William or Floyd found out I was getting to do such a thing, I'd be in for another shiner for sure.
    We sailed up alongside the
Alert
and luffed our sails.
    “Lieutenant Cantwell, sir,” Mr. Etheridge greeted a tall white man in uniform with a blond mustache and a grumpy look on his face.
    “The damned rudder's become unshipped,” said Mr. Cantwell. “She's gone out of control, and I've had to drop anchor.”
    Another, shorter white man, also in uniform, appeared along with several young men—members of the crew.
    “Superintendent Morgan,