“Thank you, ma’am,” nodded Sam, and replaced his cap. She turned towards the door of the house and left him, a small trail of pink petals fluttering to the ground after her.
He did want to complete his work, but for a time after she had gone he stood as if in a trance, hammer useless in his grip. The scent of the wildflowers underfoot was intoxicating, and the heat of the sun overwhelmed him.
Eventually, he stooped to retrieve the nails that he had dropped. With the slowness of a man just roused from bed, he climbed back up on the log and began to work again. He felt differently about the task before him. This was Anna Daisey’s home now.
Just before sundown, Ethan came to retrieve Sam. His work so far had not been too taxing. Reverend Carter had sent him to see an elderly widow called Lovey Copes. How old she was exactly, the Reverend had not revealed, but she was very, very old. She did not mind telling everyone, including him. “She has some recollections of the Revolution,” Ethan began, as they walked back to the wharf. “She remembers the day that the new U.S. Constitution circulated through Virginia. The way she tells the story, it was brought to the Accomack County Courthouse, so that everyone around here could see it. The delegate who was carrying it was about to leave for another county when someone asked if he had been to Chincoteague. He hadn’t, so he rowed the Constitution over here in a boat, rolled up in an oilcloth, and Lovey saw it with her own eyes!” That, Ethan reckoned, was old.
“What did she want you to do?” asked Sam.
“Well, she’s kept pigs and chickens all her life, but her arthritis is so troubling to her, and her eyesight is so poor, that it’s too difficult now. The neighbors send children to her house from time to time to help with feeding and so forth, but the chicken coops and pigpen are in very poor condition. She was happy that the Captain sent us.” Ethan went on to describe the henhouse and the pigpen, the latter built around a row of holly bushes that the pigs had begun to uproot. “Those pigs would have been running wild all over the town soon,” said Ethan. “I patched it up today, and I’m going to put in some cedar posts for a proper fence with split railings. It’s no trouble to find cedar on this island, Sam.” Sam nodded. “The henhouses are going to be a lot more work, though,” Ethan concluded. “They’re about to collapse. I can’t fathom why they were built the way they were.”
The two men had nearly reached their destination. Four of their fellow sailors were already waiting on the wharf. Two more leaned against the railing of the Atlantic Hotel, in a jolly mood. The tavern keeper stepped outside his door to say goodbye. As they turned towards the launch, a group of women bade them a good evening. An oysterman, securing his boat for the night, nodded and greeted them. They heaved off from the wharf and made for the Louisiana, Sam and Ethan side-by-side at their oars.
As they rowed, each man had a tale to tell of the islanders he had met and the good he had done.
“And what sort of work did you manage today?” asked Ethan. Sam hesitated. It would be easy to tell Ethan about the work; he was not certain he wanted to share the rest. Ethan was like a brother. Each man had rescued the other from many a tight spot. For once, though, Sam could not trust anyone, even Ethan, with his thoughts.
“The owner of the home is a widow, too,” he answered, pulling at his oar. “Just as the pastor told us. Much younger than your widow, though. There’s a son and a daughter about our age.”
“Did you meet them?” Ethan asked. He was curious.
“I did,” Sam replied. “The house is in bad repair.” To Sam’s surprise and relief, Ethan didn’t question his evasion. Perhaps he was too tired from his work for the Widow Copes.
The launch was hauled aboard ship by a waiting crew supervised by Benjamin Harvey, who scrutinized each man as he disembarked. They all must have looked sufficiently tired and dirty, for the boatswain seemed pleased. Even the two sailors who had visited the tavern at the Atlantic Hotel passed muster.
“The meal’s waitin’,” Harvey growled, and they trudged off to the mess. “Dreher, the Captain wants to see you.” Sam stood for a moment, surprised. Harvey jabbed his thumb in the direction of the Captain’s quarters.
Sharpe’s cabin was in the stern, just below the upper deck. It was a place best avoided by an ordinary seaman. Nothing good could come of a visit with Captain Dull; he always found something out of place, or a violation of the Navy Operations Manual. Sam ran his fingers through his hair and adjusted his uniform as he walked. He was hardly ready for an inspection. Descending the ladder, he found the door open and the Captain seated at his desk, reading.
“Come in, Dreher,” he beckoned, turning in his chair and laying his spectacles on his book. Sam stood at attention just inside the doorway. “At ease.” Sam waited for the usual critique. “I would be interested in your observations about the island,” Sharpe began. “Any and all observations.”
Sam was relieved. He described the meetings with the pastors, the work they had done, and the gratitude of the families, paying particular attention to Ethan’s reception by Lovey Copes. The Captain hung on every detail.
“You would say, then, that your visit was successful? That you made a positive impression upon the citizens of the island?”
“Aye, sir, without a doubt, sir,” Sam responded. Sharpe nodded, reaching for his tobacco pouch and filling his pipe.
“That’s very good news. Excellent news.” He rose to his feet, gazing out the starboard porthole towards the village, now settling into darkness. The final glow of the sun setting over the mainland filled the cabin with coppery light. Carefully lighting his lamp, then his pipe, he waved Sam away. “Well done, Dreher. We shall continue this routine tomorrow, beginning early in the day.”
Dismissed from the cabin, Sam strode back to the mess, eager to relate the news to Ethan. Tomorrow, then! He could see Anna Daisey again. This time, he resolved, would be different. He would be quicker with his words, and hold a proper conversation with the young lady.
Sam lay awake in his hammock, the time creeping by as slowly as the stars in their tracks. He almost always slept well onboard ship, for the darkness in the hold was nearly complete, but no darkness could quiet his mind that night. One berth over, Ethan turned in his hammock.
“Ethan,” hissed Sam. “You awake?” Ethan was.
Sam paused before he spoke. “The house I’m working on? The widow?”
Ethan was impatient. “Yes?”
“I had a fine conversation with her daughter.”
“Well, then? What are you tryin’ to tell me?”
“She’s a lovely girl, that’s all I’m tryin’ to tell you.” Sam could picture Ethan’s smile, even in the dark.
“I met some lovely ones myself. They passed by quite regular while I was working. Made it look like they were just happening past, but I could tell they came that way on purpose. You just tip your cap and they come right over to chat. Some right pretty lasses.”
“Never mind,” said Sam.
Ethan chuckled softly. “I was wondering when you were going to tell me what was up.”
“Am I that plain?”
“Yes. You surely are.”
CHAPTER THREE
Father was a Market Gunner
So eager was Sam Dreher to return to Chincoteague Island that he rose early to cook breakfast even though it wasn’t his turn for three days. After the meal the boatswain called the roll of sailors who would go ashore. Accounts of the previous day had travelled around the ship; Benjamin Harvey had the full attention of every seaman when he read his list. Dreher and Platt were first again. In minutes, gear was assembled and the launch was dropped into the channel.
Squinting against the light, the men put their backs into their oars, and the boat flew across the water.
“Ethan,” Sam asked, “Do you plan ahead what you’ll say in a conversation with a girl?”
“No,” Ethan replied. “I don’t believe you do.” Sam scowled. “Sorry,” said Ethan. “If it makes it any easier for you, I don’t beli
eve you’ve ever cared what you said to a girl.” They rowed in silence, Sam rehearsing his talk with Anna Daisey.
On the steps of the Atlantic Hotel, the party divided up their assignments. Ethan recruited men for the heavy work of splitting rails and setting fence posts for Lovey Copes’ pigpen. Sam set off for the Daisey home, citing the difficult carpentry it required. He promised to rejoin them by midday.
The closer he got to the house, the more loudly his heart pounded in his chest. All was quiet when he arrived; Beau was sleeping, and Mary Daisey was in the kitchen. She answered Sam’s knock with a broad smile.
“Mr. Dreher!” she greeted him. “Are we blessed with another visit today? Please come in.” He stepped inside the door, his nervousness all too evident. “We are so grateful for your excellent work yesterday, Mr. Dreher. Are we not, Anna?” Sam caught his breath. Anna appeared in the kitchen doorway, a mixing bowl cradled in the crook of her arm.
“We are, Mr. Dreher.”
Mary pushed a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I'd like to get to work on your shutters today,” Sam suggested. Several of the shutters were on their last legs. Mary was pleased.
“That would relieve my mind greatly,” she said. “We should always be prepared for storms.”
“Yes, ma’am,” was the best Sam could offer. No more words came. “Perhaps I should be getting underway.” He lingered a moment too long before he left, disappointed with himself. He had hoped to do better.
The shutters had been made with care by some carpenter years ago, but time and the damp air had taken its toll. The kitchen window was the worst; the frame behind the shutter was soft with rot. Sam pried the ruined wood away from the siding with an iron bar. Underneath, things looked better. After he replaced that section the window would hold for a while. He set out to look for some suitable lumber in the shed that Mary had pointed out the day before.
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. Another stood in the creek, feeding. His approach startled it, and it lifted off, yellow feet dangling from thin black legs. 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. He threw them open, their rusty hinges creaking, and the long, narrow space flooded with sunlight. The building wasn’t large, but it was full; it appeared to be was a workshop of some kind. Along one side ran a workbench, covered with tins, jars, and tools. A high wooden stool was tucked underneath. Plank shelves above it held more tools, and long, canvas-wrapped bundles. In the rafters hung wooden duck decoys, dozens upon dozens of them, the rings on their undersides joined by endless coils of slender line. Their eyes, some glass and some painted, surveyed him. Most displayed the dark-red heads of canvasbacks or the green and black of mallards and bluebills. A group of larger ones were made in the shape of geese, and a few with long, graceful necks mimicked white swans.
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. It was no more than four feet across at its widest, and perhaps twelve feet long, a tight fit in the little workshop. Sam approached it, fascinated. This was something altogether different from the boats that worked the canal in Port Clinton. 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. Ten narrow planks ran the length of the flat bottom. 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. Two wider planks, no more than a foot deep, formed the sides: one plank on the starboard side, one on the port. They were bent to form a graceful curve from the pointed bow to the narrow transom. The plank on the starboard side had been driven backwards, its clean arc now misshapen. The stem had been broken, or split. Sam marveled at the boat's shallow draft. You could run it through water that wouldn’t come over the tops of your boots. And it must be light as well. What had it struck it to cause such damage? He crouched underneath the horses to examine the topside.
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. The oarlocks, rusty with disuse, sat astride this opening. A low coaming, an inch or two at most, shielded it on all four sides. Three shallow boards surrounded the deck at the stern, forming a place to stow cargo. 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 lantern, glassed all around. A metal smokestack and a wire handle protruded from the top. The thing was meant to be carried—but it was two feet high at least. What on earth was it for? Whoever built the lantern and the boat had a particular purpose in mind.
A shadow fell on the cedar hull. Sam turned to find Anna, a plate of biscuits in her hand. “I saw the door to Father’s workshop open…” she began.
“I’m sorry, I was looking for lumber, and…”
She interrupted him gently. “No need to apologize, Mr. Dreher. Are you hungry?”
“A sailor is always hungry,” he replied. She set the plate on the workbench.
“For you, then.” He took a biscuit. It was still hot, and smelled of fresh butter.
“Bless you, Miss Daisey,” he said, devouring it quickly. Anna laughed.
“The United States Navy doesn’t feed its carpenters?”
“Not like this, Miss Daisey.” Anna brought an empty cask from underneath the workbench and then pulled out the wooden stool.
“Sit down,” she said. They sat in silence. It was warm in the little building, and for Sam, warmer now.
“This was your father’s workshop, then?” he asked.
“It was.”
“And this boat?”
“Also his.”
“What work did he do, Miss Daisey?”
Silence again. He was afraid that the question was a poor one.
“What did Reverend Carter tell you about my father, Mr. Dreher?”
“He told me very little, Miss Daisey; only that you lost him some time ago,” he replied. “I am sorry.” She looked him straight in the eyes, measuring the sincerity of his words. Her gaze shifted slowly to the boat. She stood, resting her hands on the dusty hull. Her fingers, long and slim like her mother’s, moved to the gap left by the shattered planks. The cuff of white eyelet at her sleeve caught on a splinter, and she shook it loose.
“Father was a market gunner,” she told him. His face told her that the words held no meaning for him. “He hunted ducks and geese for the market.” She indicated the decoys in the rafters. “These were the things he used.” Sam began to make sense of it: Mary Daisey, a young widow; this broken small boat; the market gunner. Anna’s father had been killed suddenly, then—an accident.
“Please show me,” he asked.
“Wait here,” she said, leaving him.
Anna returned with an oilcloth pouch tucked under her arm. Carefully, she laid it on the workbench, untying the cord and opening the oilcloth to reveal a stack of drawings, each a different size.
“This was my father,” she said. She brought out a pencil drawing of a young man with a mustache. He recognized it as a copy of the photograph in Mary Daisey’s workroom. It was remarkably well done.
“Did you draw this, Miss Daisey?’ She nodded. He was astonished. No one he knew could make drawings such as this. She placed the sketch carefully behind the others in the bundle, revealing a scene of a man with a knife in his hand, carving a smooth, oval block of wood. The man in this sketch resembled the other picture above the mantel, older and more somber.
“He carved the decoys he used,” she explained. “Here in the workshop, in good weather, or in the kitchen, where my brother works now. All the market gunners do, but his we
re more beautiful.”
She stood and stepped onto the cask, reaching into a familiar nook of the rafters for a particular decoy and handing it to Sam. It was a canvasback drake. Its russet-red head had been shaped to a soft peak by a practiced hand. The bill with its delicate nostrils seemed ready to open; its perfect eyes were set in low relief. Sam turned the carving in his hands, wiping the dust from the smooth body.
“Your father was an artist before you.”
“Look how he did his feathers, with one stroke of the brush,” said Anna, her voice rising with excitement. The trailing edges of the wing arced towards the tail in delicate curlicues of inky black, now faded. She traced them with her fingertips.
Briefly, quite by accident, their hands met. For a moment, neither moved away.
Anna set the decoy on the bench. “My brother Beau may be even better in time,” she said. “He’s very young for a carver. The ones inside our house are all his. He makes what pleases him, of whatever wood catches his eye, with no concern for its usefulness.” She reached for one of the canvas-wrapped bundles on the high shelves. Laying it gently on the counter, she unwrapped the leather thongs that held it closed. Inside was a well-worn shotgun, a very big gauge, its massive barrel and lockwork burnished by time. Its stock displayed the scars of many outings. “This was his favorite gun,” she said, Sam’s eyes never leaving it. “It built our house, he told us.” She indicated the other bundles lying on the shelves, their canvas shrouds concealing their identities. “He used several, but this was his favorite.”
“You keep them all here?” Sam asked, surprised.
“All his things are still here, just as they always were. For Mother.”
“Won’t someone slip in by night and take them?”
“No one would. Everyone knows his guns by sight.” People live differently on an island, he thought.
Turning to her sketches, she selected one and brought it to the top. A slender man stood in a small boat on the marsh, surrounded by tall grass, his gun raised tightly to his shoulder. His eyes were locked on his target, out of sight above the horizon.
The Sea is a Thief Page 4
