“I don’t like going there,” said Maria Anna, pointing at the mountain with her head bowed. She tripped along barefoot on the cobblestones lining the street of Heraklion.
“Why?” asked the tall man limping next to her.
“I don’t like seeing the dead ones,” she replied, “but we have to. What’s you name?”
“George.”
“Jor?”
He laughed as he took the hat off his head and wrung it out like a washcloth, leaving small puddles of salty water on the road. “George. Frederickson.”
Maria Anna laughed hysterically while she spun around in the street holding the waist of a small doll.
“Is this Nags Head?” he asked.
“What?”
“Or the Cape? I was just off Cape Hatteras. I think this is Nags Head.”
“We live in Heraklio,” she said, with an air of authority that belied childhood. “I better take you to George.”
“Huh?”
“Oh!” she giggled behind her doll. “Not you, the other George. George Carow. We all know him.”
“Where is your father?”
“The mountain. Everyone is there. It’s the Day of the Waves. It’s my sixth.”
They walked down the narrow road for a few minutes before coming to a small blue house. An old grey bearded man sat outside in a rocking chair, and he stood when they approached.
“Who have you there, Maria Anna?” he asked.
“This is George. Another one! And he’s like you!” she replied.
George Carow walked toward them, his left arm in a white sling.
“Which ship?” he asked.
“Sir?” said George Frederickson.
“Which ship?”
“Uh, Monitor, out of Brooklyn.”
“Brooklyn…nationality?”
“What nation? The United States of America.”
“America…incredible. What year?”
George Frederickson stood in disbelief. The girl had taken him to the town lunatic.
“My good sir, 1862. Well, it should be 1863 by now…”
“1863…incredible. My son, I am Sir George Carow, of King Henry VIII’s navy, from Portsmouth, England. 1545.”
The two men stood and stared at each other. Finally, George Frederickson turned to the girl.
“You better take me to someone in charge,” he whispered.
“We will. But we have to go to the mountain.”
“Oh, there, there young Maria Anna,” said Sir George. “You understand why we do what we must. The kids will find any others down here…your father will be so proud you found this man!”
“Yeah…” she said.
“She found me,” said the old man, winking at the younger.
At the foot of the mountain the three found stone stairs. With a sigh Maria Anna took the hand of the younger man, and the older George followed slowly. They made their trek up the mountain until they reached a clearing full of people. A small stream trickled out of a fissure in the rock mountain face.
“Pateras!” called Maria Anna. “I found another one!” The people turned to face them.
“Wonderful! Is this him? Hello, and welcome! I apologize if she hasn’t been very friendly. My little girl does not like seeing the dead men.” The man pointed to a row of men, all in similar uniforms, all soaking wet.
“What is this?” gasped George Frederickson, running toward the row of corpses. “Campbell…Lewis…I think that’s Cook…my God.”
A bright light began to grow within the rock face. The onlookers turned to face the light as a tunnel appeared and the small stream became a river pouring out, soaking the feet of the audience. A man was washed onto the ground, face down. The water subsided and the townsfolk stepped forward to carry him to the row of fourteen others.
“Will Allen,” said George Frederickson, closing his eyes as the body was turned over to reveal the face of the drowned man.
The light faded and the water stopped flowing all together.
Maria Anna’s father walked forward to address the crowd.
“Friends! The mountain has brought us these men, valiant all, who perished in the waves.” He spoke as though he had spoken the words countless times, but his emotion was still strong. His arm raised toward George Frederickson, and he beckoned him forward. “Your name?”
“U-uh, George Frederickson, acting Ensign, USS Monitor.”
“MON-EE-TOR!” repeated the crowd. They bowed and walked forward.
“My friend, welcome,” said Maria Anna’s father as the crowd began picking shovels and started digging graves. “Tonight is the feast for the memory of your friends. You will be the guest of honor. You are the last of the Mon-ee-tor, and this site will always be remembered as the resting place of your friends.”
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