“Show me more of them, please,” he asked. She turned the sheets slowly. Here was a Canada goose, head tucked beneath its wing, floating in shallow water. There was her father again, this time rowing the little skiff that now lay overturned in front of them. In its stern was a mountain of ducks.
“Days such as that made him smile,” said Anna.
“What was his name?” Sam asked, finally.
“William Daisey. He was called Sweet William. Sweet William, the name of the flower.” She found another drawing, a very small one, of a pale lavender wildflower. She handed it to Sam.
Sweet William.
“You went with him when he hunted, then?”
“Not often. Never at night, or during rough weather, but when the sea was calm, and the day not too cold, he would wrap me in a blanket and take me with him in the skiff towards Assateague. The roar of the gun was fearsome, but I became accustomed to it, and I would stay as long as I could. When I grew older. I would draw. He would take me to Assateague just to draw, and to ride.
“I fear that I ruined his hunting some days. He always set out his decoys just so, and kept to certain places on the marsh where the rafts of ducks would gather. I had to be very quiet and still. No doubt he took fewer ducks when I was with him, but I would beg him to go again, and when the day was right I would follow him to the creek and he would carry me into the skiff and row away with me. He would tell Mother just as we were leaving so that she had less chance to make an argument. Then we would row away.” She laid both hands flat on the hull of the skiff. She closed her eyes, and tears rolled down her cheeks.
“I am so very sorry, Mr. Dreher,” she said, very quietly. “This is not your burden to carry.”
He covered her hands with his. “Please do not be sorry, Miss Daisey.” Their eyes met again, and there was silence; for both of them, the light fell away from all things but the other's face, and each speck of dust hung motionless in the air.
Sam broke the quiet. “I should finish repairing your shutters, Miss Daisey.”
“Yes,” she assented. “It is a great comfort to my mother.”
“Would there be a few planks here?”
She showed him a stack of oars and paddles along the wall. Several pine boards stood among them. They would do.
“Afterwards,” he asked, “I would be grateful to know more about your father's boat.”
The growl of Sam's handsaw and the report of his hammer soon filled the air. Anna remained as she was, by the skiff. The tools of her father’s trade surrounded her, undisturbed. Wooden crates, stacked high in the corners, were full of canvas bags that he filled with corn to bait the ducks. Larger bags lay folded with them, awaiting a successful day's hunting. Pegs along the wall held an oilskin coat and hat, creased and darkened by time and hard use. How peculiar the oilskin smelled; to Anna, it was the smell of autumn on the marsh, the good weather fading, the cold not far off.
His loading supplies were there, too: cans of lead shot, tins of grainy black gunpowder, long wooden rods and brass-bristled brushes for cleaning the bores of the shotguns. So was a tiny notebook he had kept to record the prices he had received at market: Canvasbacks and bluebills, 50c the pair; Geese, 75c. Edmund Bagwell bought them, and shipped them north in barrels to grace the tables of fine restaurants and households. The rich, dark meat brought a good price there; Bagwell thrived, and the Daisey house made a living.
A market gunner had to make his money quickly. The season was all too short. To be sure, there was oystering and fishing in other seasons. Sweet William worked at both from time to time as he needed to, but he had no stomach for either. A gunner who knew the marsh and made the most of his powder and shot could out-earn the watermen who dragged heavy nets all day in the sun. He lived by his keen eye, his weatherproof hide, and his readiness to stake his life on his knowledge of every twist in the shoreline. A map of the islands of Chincoteague and Assateague was etched into his mind in perfect detail. It led him to his ducks. He hunted at night by preference, using the large wooden gunning light. Such lights had been illegal in Virginia as long as anyone could remember. Sweet William understood why; set in the bow of the skiff, the glow of their lanterns attracted and confused the ducks, making an effective shot easy. The brief season and the cost of ammunition left men like him with little regard for the fine points of the law. His light always accompanied him on his boat. His favorite hunting spots were well-guarded secrets. Cloaked by the blackness of the nighttime marsh, they were not easily discovered by rivals.
When bad weather moved in, the water showed a different face. Fog could descend like a phantom, making all points of the compass look the same in the pale mist. Fast-rising wind and powerful tides could pull a skiff out to sea, or send it spinning defenselessly towards an unfamiliar shore. After a day or a night on the water, the deep cold seeped into a hunter’s bones. The arms that brought him out onto the marsh turned stiff and disobedient, refusing to bring him back home. Ice was the most feared enemy, and the least predictable. As winter deepened its grip, it formed in huge glassy sheets. Wind and waves could send a huge frozen plate adrift without warning, slamming it into a boat, shattering its hull or trapping it on the water. No gunning skiff could break though any but the thinnest of ice. If more than a quarter of an inch formed, a boat was penned in. The hunter could not row; the ice was too thick. Neither could he walk to safety, for the ice was too thin. If the boat took on water, there was no escape. Swimming for the distant shore in the cold water, dragged down by leaden clothing, offered only a slim chance.
A certain sort of man was called to that lonely and risky life, on the fringes of the law, away from the comfortable embrace of the land and the watchful eye of his fellow islanders. The independence the hunters prized could turn to helplessness when they found themselves caught alone in the midst of a storm. They guarded the locations of their best spots jealously, but when the sun rose and they had not returned to their homes, no one knew where to look for them.
Rivalries flared among them. Only so many ducks flew in. When money needed to be made, there were no friends on the marsh. Now and then talk of foul play made the rounds of the town. Gunners were not generally churchgoing family men, and more than one were genuine recluses, living at the far end of the island in Deep Hole or out in the wilds of Assateague. Sweet William was the most kind-hearted among them, earning him his nickname. His toughness was never in doubt. He was the first man to set his decoys out and the last to bring them in. He was known to drink whiskey. He didn’t hesitate to use his fists to settle a dispute. Above all, though, he was known for his love for Mary and his children.
When he lay in the skiff behind his gunning light, shivering in the darkness, he thought of them. His eye was on his quarry, but his heart was with his family.
John Grinnald brought his body home. No one really knew Grinnald, though everyone recognized him even from a distance. He rarely spoke more than a few words. He was huge, with the powerful arms and sloping shoulders of a bear, as stout as William Daisey was slim. His piercing blue eyes were set in the permanent squint of a waterman. His nose was as sharp as the bill of a marsh hawk. His beard grew longer and his eyebrows bushier with the passing years. He lived out on Assateague in a one-room cabin he had built. He had no wife or children, only a scrawny brown dog that set up a howl if anyone came around. Few did. He walked with an odd twist, the legacy of some old injury. There was no mistaking his approach for anyone else’s. When he visited Chincoteague, clad in the creased canvas coat and broad brown hat he wore in every season, Grinnald was given a wide berth. No one could read his mood; if that mood were foul, the man who crossed him would regret it, so he was left alone. He bought his gunpowder, or bacon, or flour, and returned the way he had come, rowing back across the channel in his skiff. People were happy to see the back of him.
He made white dog whiskey with a still somewhere on Assateague, the barrier island by the sea. If he had wished, he could have aged it in barrels to give it
the amber color and smooth flavor of commercial liquor, but his customers didn’t care. They wanted high proof and low price, and bought it as soon as it was ready. Grinnald’s product was famous. It often made the rounds at a gathering of oystermen on a Saturday night. Any number of fistfights were born in one of John Grinnald’s whiskey jugs.
Grinnald was the second-best market gunner on Chincoteague. William Daisey was the best. It made Grinnald angry. When the ducks were on the water he wanted them all, but especially the ones William Daisey got. They were the greatest rivals the island had ever seen, and the two best market gunners in its history.
The tally at Bagwell’s Waterfowl and Provision was always clear. Each season, without fail, Sweet William Daisey went home with more money in his pockets. Grinnald sometimes came close, but he never surpassed Sweet William—not once. It was a topic of whispered conversation everywhere he went. Grinnald imagined he could hear the room turn quiet just as he entered the Dry Goods, or passed the open doorway of the Atlantic Hotel. He burned to shoot more ducks than William Daisey.
He had every opportunity to do so, and no excuse to fail. No one dared compete for the spots where he set out his decoys. Grinnald had a signature decoy: a black swan with a big G carved on the side. Years ago he had given a passing schoolboy a nickel to carve it with his jackknife, for he did not read or write. Unbeknownst to him, the schoolboy was Beau Daisey.
When any hunter came upon the black swan he quickly looked for another place to shoot. It was said that both Grinnald and Daisey each knew where the favorite spots of the other man were. Sweet William Daisey was simply a better hunter. He was skillful, patient, and relentless—just a little more so than his larger competitor.
The two could not be called enemies. They had never exchanged a cross word. In fact, they barely spoke at all. As strong as their rivalry was, it was a private matter. William Daisey even came to Grinnald’s aid once. Coming close to him on the marsh, Daisey saw that his face was pale and his arms labored at the oars with unusual fatigue. He let it pass, but it preyed on his mind, and as the sun began to set he made a rare trip to Grinnald’s corner of Assateague. The big man lay in his bed, feverish and sweating, cursing Daisey, but terrified by whatever illness had seized him.
Daisey brought Elizabeth Reynolds, the medicine woman, and Reynolds treated Grinnald, staying with him until he was over the worst. William Daisey returned two days later with a chicken stew that Mary had made. Only when he saw that Grinnald could eat again did he leave, bringing Elizabeth Reynolds back to the lighthouse. He brought a jug of whiskey back as well; John Grinnald did not take charity. Grinnald never mentioned it again, and neither did Daisey, but the story made its way around the island, with added embellishments. Daisey would dismiss it whenever it was brought up. “A pot of stew,” he would say. “That’s all it was.” Their quiet rivalry continued.
Then, one night, it ended. It was a cold, raw day in late November. The hunting had not gone well. Sweet William had been out longer than Mary expected. She was working late into the night at her sewing machine, as she always did until he returned. After sunset the wind was howling. Hard sleet began to fall. Driven by the gusts, it scratched at the windowpane like the claws of a hungry animal. Beau was sound asleep, but Anna tossed in her bed, unable to rest. Seeing the lamps still lighted, she wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and descended the twisting staircase.
She turned into the front room to see her mother unlatch the front door. It had to be her father coming home. Leaping down the final step, she ran to greet him, but when the door swung open its frame was filled by the giant form of John Grinnald.
He carried William Daisey. Sweet William was dead.
They stood together in the little room, not speaking or moving. Grinnald’s hands were red with cold. Water and sleet ran in rivulets down his shoulders. It coated his beard and dripped from the brim of his hat onto the floor. William Daisey’s face was pale white.
“I found your William out on the marsh,” Grinnald said, finally. “I’m sorry to tell you it was too late for him.”
Mary clasped her hands to her mouth and closed her eyes tightly, then quickly whirled around and climbed the stairs, beckoning for Grinnald to follow. Anna sank into a chair by the fireplace, not knowing what to do. She sat for hours.
After the storm abated and the sun rose, Grinnald left. Mother and Beau went to bring Reverend Carter. Anna climbed the stairs. William Daisey lay in his bed, dressed in dry clothes, but still white. She sat with him for a long time, saying to herself all the things she could never say to him now.
When the Reverend arrived they prayed together, and Mother made breakfast. That day faded into other days; people came and went, some bringing food, and they all prayed. Soon, he was gone.
Beau was kind to her during that time, and Mother kept her very close. The world turned grey, and remained so. There was no light inside her. When a little light began to glow, it vanished quickly, as though some horrible sharp-toothed animal lived in her body, feeding on light. For a while the animal would sleep, but when light appeared it roused itself and devoured it. Anna could almost see the animal. She drew it once in the corner of a drawing of something else, but it frightened her and she burned the drawing in the fire.
Very slowly, the greyness faded. One day she could no longer feel the animal inside her. Beau took her out to Assateague to draw. They stayed until he grew impatient, and as they rowed back she could breathe deeply and smell the air.
She and Mother spoke only once about how her father died. John Grinnald told Mary the story out of earshot of the children the night he brought William home. It was brief. They were hunting near each other as the weather worsened. Grinnald decided to make for home, but saw a steady light burning in the distance, unusually still. He set a course for the light. When he arrived he found William Daisey in the water, his arm wrapped tightly around a broken oar, his shattered boat half-submerged, shotgun still ready in the bow. His gunning light was burning.
The man was dead when he arrived, Grinnald told her. He could do nothing more than bring him home to his family.
Anna asked her mother the only question whose answer she truly needed. “Did John Grinnald kill Father?” she asked. Her mother stiffened, and stared straight out the window at the empty crepe myrtle tree.
“No,” she answered, finally. “I am sure he did not. Your father is with Jesus, dear girl. Rest your heart.”
Some fishermen from the congregation retrieved his boat from the marsh, setting it on the horses in the shed. Beau oiled his shotgun and wrapped it in canvas, and put the gunning light on the ground beneath the boat.
Three years passed.
Mary and Anna did not speak again of the way William had died, though many in Chincoteague did. The popular idea was that Grinnald had grown tired of losing his ducks to William Daisey, and finally decided, on a dark night in a remote place, to do something about it. Late at night when the whiskey flowed, many were certain of it.
Legally, it was a settled matter; among the islanders it was not. John Grinnald was as quiet as ever. Conversations still ended the moment his shadow passed a doorway, but they were different conversations now. He did not seem to care.
Sam returned to the workshop. “Good as new, Miss Daisey,” he said, and she looked at him, startled. She had no idea how long he had been away. He pointed to the shutters, now sound again. “Your shutters. Good as new.” Sure enough, they were, suspended square and trim from their frames. “Now, what about this boat?”
“The boat?”
“Yes, Miss Daisey. When can we begin repairing this boat?” He crouched underneath to see the extent of the damage to the interior of the hull. “I’ve worked on every type of boat, but never one such as this. She’s a delicate little thing compared to what I’m used to, but I believe we can make her seaworthy again. What do you call her?”
“She doesn’t have a name. None of the sneak skiffs do.” He stood upright.
“Snea
k skiffs?”
“Yes, Mr. Dreher. That’s how they are known. No two are the same. Each hunter builds his own.”
“Your father built her well and fair, Miss Daisey. There’s no damage here that can’t be undone. I’m certain of it.”
She was unsure of what to say. Her fingers traced the worn grey cedar, stopping where the splintering began. “Mother has spoken of selling it,” she explained, “but it has no value as it is, and we have no means to repair it.”
“I have the means.”
“Perhaps it can be repaired, then, Mr. Dreher.”
He smiled a broad smile such as she had not seen from him before.
“It will be my pleasure.”
He explained to her how he had promised to meet the rest of his crew at midday, and described the fence that they were building for Lovey Copes. The sun was high. They bid good-bye, and he asked her to offer his best to her mother.
He set off down the dusty road, sea bag slung over his shoulder, turning one last time to wave at her. She had not looked away.
She stood by the crepe myrtle tree, smiling perhaps as broadly as he had. In the branches high above her head, a warbler sang.
Mother had made oyster stew. When Anna opened the door, its aroma met her, and she realized how hungry she was. Mother was at work at her sewing machine. Normally, she took little time to eat. Anna ladled stew into a bowl and dipped a biscuit in the warm, salty broth, seating herself next to Mary. She was intent on her work, a patterned curtain with endless pleats.
“The curtains are new,” Anna said.
“Yes, seven sets, for the second floor of the Atlantic Hotel. A godsend.” She sewed as silence as Anna ate.
“You were outside a long time.”
Anna cringed. It was a talk she had heard many times. She knew that she should help her mother in her workroom, but she lacked Mary’s skill, and the task was so distasteful to her that she avoided it whenever she could. Whether she helped or not, mother was always at her machine. There seemed to be little point in chaining herself to the sewing table to cut fabric and baste hems. Mother would be there after she went to bed, and she would be there again in when she awoke in the morning. Since her father’s death Mother took all the work that she could do, at whatever price she could get. She once had time to walk the beach and keep a flower garden; now she did little but sew. Anna did not ask Mary how she found the money to run their household.
The Sea is a Thief Page 5
