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PROLOGUE

The old wicker rocker creaked as Josh pushed back and forth in it,
back and forth, back and forth, his bare feet slapping against the
boards of the pizer with each rock. His chin rested on his chest
and his hands restlessly worked up and down the arms of the chair.
Every minute seemed to last an hour and it was only nine in the
morning. According to the chart his father had told him to follow,
sunset would occur fifteen minutes after six and then "civil
twilight'' twenty-five minutes later. That meant there were nearly
ten, unending hours that had to pass until he could do what he most
wanted to do, what he had always wanted to do. Josh was not a boy
who cared much for waiting, especially not today. It was going to
be one of the most important days in his life, but first darkness
had to come. Today, September 12, 1924, Josh would light the lamp
in the Killakeet Lighthouse and he would do it all by
himself.

Before Josh lay an apron of brown sand and the vast, great Atlantic
Ocean, but he did not look at the blue-gray sea as either vast or
great. It was simply his front yard and had been for all of the
fourteen years of his life. The tall spire of the Killakeet
Lighthouse cast its shadow across the sand toward the Keeper's
House where Josh impatiently rocked on the pizer, as a porch was
called on the island. As the day wore on and the sun sank lower,
Josh knew the shadow of the tower would gradually move until it
pointed at the ocean. Then, just before the shadow dissolved into
the encroaching darkness, he would follow the schedule his father
kept every day of every week of every month of every year. He would
climb the 266 steps of the black iron staircase that spiraled
inside the tower, carrying with him a three-gallon can of kerosene.
Along the way, he would pass the brass plaque his grandfather, the
second keeper of the Killakeet light, had placed at the third
landing. It was inscribed with the words from the old hymn "Let the
Lower Lights Be Burning'':

Brightly beams our Father's mercy

From His lighthouse evermore
But to us He gives the keeping

Of the lights along the shore.

Near the top, the stairs spiraled into the watch room where Josh
would pour the kerosene into a holding tank, then pump air into it
until there was enough pressure to feed the mantle in the lantern
room above. Next, he would crank a clockwork mechanism and raise a
sixty-pound weight on a wire rope. As the weight descended, it
would turn the giant lens.

A dozen more steps would take him to the lantern room where the
Fresnel lens sat like a huge glass beehive. He would pull back the
curtains that protected the lens, then light an alcohol-spirit lamp
to vaporize the kerosene coming up from the watch room. After the
vaporized kerosene soaked the silk and zirconium mantle, he would
light it with a long candle. If he had done everything just right,
the kerosene would ignite and the mantle would begin to burn, to
incandesce as the chemical reaction was called. Next, Josh would
activate the clockwork mechanism, and the great glass structure
would begin to slowly turn on chariot wheels along a circular
track. There were eight prism panels, each with a glass bull's-eye
that was designed to transform the illumination from the mantle
into an intense cylinder of light. As the lens turned, its bright
shafts turned with it, like the projecting spokes of a fiery
wheel.

At sea, the light would appear as a brilliant beam for precisely
two and three-quarters seconds with an equal period of darkness,
each flash a warning of the deadly shoals offshore. To the north
sat the lighthouses of Ocracoke, Hatteras, Bodie Island, and
Currituck Beach. To the south was the lighthouse at Cape Lookout.
Up and down the sandy islands off North Carolina, the Lighthouse
Service had set up these great towers with their flashing spokes of
light to warn the freighters, tankers, warships, fishing boats,
banana boats, and every other kind of vessel that they were passing
through what had been called for centuries the Graveyard of the
Atlantic. Below the waves were the skeletons of hundreds of ships
put there by sudden storms bashing them against hidden shoals. But
the ships would be safe as long as they heeded the flashing towers,
and as long as the keepers on those shores kept the light.

Josh glanced at the shadow of the lighthouse. It had barely moved
since he'd last looked at it. It was as if the sun had gotten stuck
in the sky. Frustrated, he took in a deep breath, let out a long
sigh, and rocked some more. Josh's father, Keeper Jack Thurlow, had
gone up to Bodie Island to see the keeper there and inspect a new
rotation clockwork design. Keeper Jack had worried for days about
leaving Josh alone, not only with the responsibility of lighting
the lamp but also having to tend to Jacob, his baby brother just
turned two. Josh knew his father wanted to go and finally convinced
him to make the journey. Josh was, after all, fourteen years old
and had proved himself a responsible son. He had done so much since
his mother had died, not only working around the lighthouse, but
also raising Jacob.

Josh rocked a little harder, as if he could force the sun to move
along. Jacob was playing in the sand in the shadow of the
lighthouse. Josh had made certain his brother was well covered with
a sun suit and hat. He was a happy baby and knew how to entertain
himself, sometimes to Josh's consternation. He'd caught Jacob in
the sun-drenched room his mother had called her "art palace'' that
very morning, playing with a spilled box of beach glass. The room
had been left virtually untouched since Josh's mother had died
during Jacob's birth. Josh knew why. One time when Doc Folsom had
come by for a game of hearts, the Keeper had taken a little too
much whiskey with his cards. Tears streaming down his whiskered
cheeks, he'd confessed the "palace'' was the one place in the house
where he could still sense his wife's presence.

Josh felt the same about the room. After he'd carried Jacob
outside, he had returned and sat down in his mother's chair and
touched the implements of her art, the small pliers she'd used to
bend the silver and gold wire, the glass beads and beach glass and
shells she had strung with the wire to make bracelets, anklets,
broaches, necklaces, and pins. Then he'd taken a deep breath. He
could almost smell her, a wonderful mixture of soap and the vanilla
extract she liked to dab behind her ears. He'd scooped up the beach
glass Jacob had spilled and traced his fingers through the smooth,
translucent chips, loving the way they sounded like tiny, tinkling
bells. Josh had accompanied his mother on many expeditions up and
down the length of Killakeet in search of beach glass, which were
pieces of broken bottles ground smooth by the workings of the surf
and the sand. The rarest of all the beach glass was that off the
Alexander Hamilton, a bark-rigged screw steamer that had fetched up
on Bar Shoals and been battered to pieces. Among its cargo had been
a few boxes of a rare California syrah wine called Rose of Sharon.
Over the years since, the red glass of the Rose of Sharon bottles
had been turned into ruby-colored gems that occasionally washed
ashore. It had been those pieces that Jacob had spilled. "No,
Jacob,'' Josh had told him sternly, and even slapped the boy's tiny
fists, making him drop the tightly held scarlet glass. Josh was no
tyrant as a brother, but he knew Jacob needed discipline. The boy
had cried a little, but when Josh went outside to look after him,
he seemed to have forgotten all about it and was happily playing in
the sand.

As he rocked, Josh occasionally glanced at the ocean and the
seabirds flying past. He saw a trio of pelicans, a lone gull, a
squadron of mergansers, and a sea hawk. His mother had run a bird
hospital right there on the pizer of the Keeper's House, not easy
with more than a dozen cats on the premises. His mother had so
loved her cats. Many of them were still around, good mousers all,
and gentle creatures. They liked to sleep on his mother's grave,
which was soft with grass and warm in the sun.

Josh missed his mother. He missed her with all his heart, missed
everything about her, her gentle ways, her sparkling laugh over
something he or his father had said, her joy of life on Killakeet
Island, her dedication to taking care of its creatures. He would go
visit her just before he went up on the tower to light the lamp.
The Lighthouse Service had graciously allowed the Thurlows to have
a family cemetery behind the Keeper's House. Josh wanted to tell
his mother about getting to keep the light, and he also needed to
tell her how Jacob was doing, and how much of her he could see in
Jacob's face. He wanted to say he missed walking the beach with
her, looking for beach glass. There was always so much he wanted to
say, so much he could never possibly say it all. He always tried
very hard not to cry when he talked to her, although he rarely
succeeded. His father said there was no reason to cry, that she was
gone because God needed her more than they did. Josh hoped God was
happy but it seemed sad that the Almighty Creator of the Universe
might be so needy as to take a mother away from her children.

Something small drifting along on the blue water caught Josh's eye
and he stood to see it better. It wasn't a dolphin since it didn't
appear and reappear. He thought it might be flotsam from the wreck
of the Bertha Gaskill, a brigantine that had gone down in a storm
just off Hatteras the past winter. Ever since, her planks had been
floating in, and even a big section of her wheelhouse had come
ashore near the Crossan House, the summer cottage of a rich Yankee
family that sat about a mile south of the lighthouse.

Josh wanted to see what the thing was on the water. The best way to
do that was to climb the tower and have a look with his father's
binoculars. He didn't want to leave Jacob alone so he picked him up
and carried him on his hip and started up the spiral staircase.
Jacob burbled happily and clutched Josh's shirt with his tiny
hands. He was a cute little boy with a mop of sun-whitened hair and
big, blue eyes and strong, inquisitive hands. Josh had to remember
to always empty Jacob's pockets before he took him in the house. He
never knew what he would find in there, sand, sea oats, even the
occasional cricket or beetle. Once, he'd even found a flattened
penny with Josh's name stamped on it. Josh had forgotten who'd
given him that penny or that he'd even lost it, but crawling around
in the sand, Jacob had found it.

Josh tediously climbed the steps, one after the other, until he
reached the lantern room. He picked up the binoculars off a hook on
the wall and shifted Jacob with one arm onto his hip, then went out
on the high parapet that encircled the lantern room. The wind
struck him there as it always did. Wind ran like a constant river
across Killakeet but it was always especially strong atop the
lighthouse. Jacob giggled and squirmed and Josh worked to control
him. "Stop wiggling, Jacob,'' Josh scolded. "Hang on to me and
don't let go! It's a long way down!'

Jacob settled into his arm, chewing on his collar, giving Josh a
moment to look at the dot on the ocean. He was astonished to
discover it was a little boat, with its mast neatly stowed on its
deck. Josh had never seen anything quite like it. It had a blunt
bow and a square stern and a tiny cockpit. It looked very
fast.

Josh wanted the little boat. The people of Killakeet had made their
living for years fishing and what they called "wrecking,'' the
taking of what the sea had stolen from one to give to another. Josh
could already imagine how proud he'd be to show the little boat
he'd "wrecked'' to his father and how jealous the other boys would
be when he sailed circles around them with it. He managed to play a
neat little scenario across his mind, how the people up in
Whalebone City would say what a clever boy Josh Thurlow was to go
out and catch that smart little boat.

"Look, Jacob,'' he said. "See the boat?'

Jacob proved himself a true Killakeeter. He looked and squealed,
"Bo!'

"Yes, bo! Our bo! You want it, too, don't you?'

"Bo! Bo!'' Jacob giggled.

Josh took another look, noted the direction of drift, and went back
down the staircase, arguing with himself all the way. What he
wanted to do more than anything was to hop in his father's workboat
and give chase. The workboat was a boat better sailed with two men
but he'd taken it out alone before. He could easily do it. Why, he
said to himself, he could be out and back in just a few
minutes.

But what to do with Jacob?

The solution, when Josh forced it into his little scenario, was
simple. He would take Jacob with him. Jacob had been on the
workboat many times. He was a Killakeet baby, after all, and
naturally loved the ocean. The more Josh thought about it, the more
perfect his plan seemed. He would get a tarpaulin in case of rain,
put Jacob in the workboat, and they'd both go out and catch the
little boat.

It was a glorious day, the skies blue with just a cotton-puff cloud
or two, the winds fair and light. Tonight, it was going to be a
full moon, which meant a high tide and the water would be deeper
over the shoals. It was going to be an easy sail. Josh expertly
steered the workboat through the breakers and they were off on the
chase. Jacob squealed with delight as they bounced through the
waves, but once past the breakers, Josh realized it was going to be
more difficult to find the little boat than he'd thought. He stood
up and still couldn't see it. It was too low in the water and his
own sail blocked his view. All he could do was head off in the
direction he'd last seen it drifting. He tacked back and forth to
cover more area. As he did, Killakeet slid past him. Before long,
he'd passed Miracle Point, seven miles south of the lighthouse, and
was out on open water.

There it was! Josh saw the little boat for just a moment as a wave
tossed it up. It was farther out than he expected and he realized a
little piece of the Gulf Stream must have grabbed it and drawn it
east and then north. Josh tacked toward it, beating up against the
wind until he was in the Stream, too. He felt the insistent river
of warm tropical water grasp the workboat. Josh knew he'd have to
work hard to get out of it after he caught the little boat. He
looked at the sun and realized it was already well past noon. From
willing the time to pass faster, now he wanted it to slow down. The
lighthouse was just a tiny sliver of alabaster on the western
horizon. I'd better catch her quick, he said to himself, even as he
knew he should give up the chase, take Jacob home, and be ready at
twilight to light the lamp.

But Josh didn't give up. He kept chasing until at last he tacked up
to the boat and got a hand on it. To his delight, he discovered it
was just as pretty and special as he thought and it looked
brand-new, too. Its hull was painted a bright, cheerful red. He
inspected the stiff new painter attached to its bow. Someone had
not tied it off very well and the sea, being the sea, had grabbed
it for itself. But now it belonged to Josh, and Jacob, too.

Josh took the little boat in tow, tying its painter to the stern of
the workboat. He checked the sun. "We got to get back and light the
lamp, Jacob,'' he said to his brother. Josh was worried now. What
would happen if he didn't get back in time to light the lamp before
darkness? Not only would his father hear about it and never trust
him again, true disaster might occur. The ships at sea depended on
the light. They could pile up on Bar Shoals without it. Josh had to
hurry but it was difficult to get across the Stream, which was
determinedly pushing him north. He would have to point the bow of
the workboat directly southwest, he decided, and let the wind blow
him across. With the Stream pushing him northeast, it would average
out and he'd go mostly westerly. But that meant the hull of the
workboat would be against the full power of the Stream. It would be
hard to steer but he was confident he could do it. He had to do
it.

The wind picked up, the way it will off the banks as September
afternoons wear on. There was a chop on the sea that hadn't been
there a minute ago, too. Josh got up to adjust the sail. Jacob kept
getting in his way. He tripped over him and Jacob started to cry.
"I'm sorry, Jacob,'' he told the baby.

Then, when he turned his back, he heard a splash and to his horror,
he saw that Jacob had fallen in. The workboat was moving along with
the wind behind it. The Stream was insistently carrying Jacob away.
Jacob's face was in the water. Josh had no choice. He dived in and
swam as hard as he could. The Stream carried him and within a few
strokes he had Jacob, who sputtered and started crying again.
"Please, Jacob,'' Josh begged. "Don't cry. It's going to be
OK.'

But Josh wasn't so certain. Now he had to catch the workboat. He
should have reefed the sail before he dived in. All the canvas was
shaken out and the workboat was, if not a fast sailer, a steady
one.

With one arm holding Jacob, Josh swam after the two boats. He had
always been a powerful swimmer, and even against the Stream, he
managed to catch the stern of the little red boat just before she
passed. Desperately, he grabbed her with one hand and with the
other lifted and dropped Jacob into the cockpit. Then Josh went
hand over hand to the workboat and climbed aboard. He was exhausted
from the swim and shaking from the terror of almost losing his
brother.

The wind had shifted and was blowing even harder. Josh had to get
to shore. He looked over his shoulder. Jacob was sitting in the
little boat and had stopped crying. In fact, he was smiling at his
brother. Josh got the tarpaulin and tossed it into the little
boat's cockpit. "Stay under the tarp, Jacob,'' he said. "We're
going home, don't you worry. We're going home right now!'

As he ran for shore, fighting the tiller, Josh looked over his
shoulder every few minutes to check on Jacob, not that he needed
to. He kept hearing him laugh as the little boat bounced across the
waves. He was such a happy child and even the shock of being tossed
in the ocean had not changed him.

The wind began to blow blister-hard now and it started to rain.
Josh was having to use every ounce of his strength just to keep his
heading, but still he kept checking the towed boat. Jacob had
crawled under the tarp. Josh looked over his shoulder and saw
Jacob's bare feet sticking out from under it. That was when the
wind piled into him, a terrific gust, and knocked the workboat
nearly over. Josh was tossed out into the warm fast current.

He came up swimming. The workboat had righted herself but her sail
was a flapping mess. That was good, Josh realized. Otherwise the
wind would have surely blown her past him. He climbed aboard and
looked to make sure Jacob was all right, and that was when the
greatest horror he'd ever felt coursed through his body. The little
red boat was gone. The new painter was tied off on the workboat but
the other end had come undone. Josh hadn't checked the knot. A
landsman had probably tied the thing, some sort of granny knot that
had come loose with all the bouncing around. The near knockdown had
finished untying it and sent Jacob off on his own across the
waves.

"I'll find you, Jacob!'' Josh screamed desperately into the wind,
then set the sail and clutched the tiller and began to turn the
workboat around against the mighty Stream.

Excerpted from THE KEEPER'S SON © Copyright 2003 by Homer
Hickam. Reprinted with permission by Thomas Dunne Books, an imprint
of St. Martin's Press. All rights reserved.