“Is Beau gone?” she asked.
Her mother did not look up from the seam. “He is. He left while you were outside.”
“Fishing?”
“I am hopeful that he is. He did not say.”
It would be good if her older brother were indeed fishing and would bring home a whole day’s wages. Within a month the weather would turn, and the steady crews would be sufficient for the needs of the captains. Beau would be turned away when he did choose to appear at the docks. Instead he would sit in silence by the wood stove and carve decoys that brought very little money.
“Can you help me, then?” Mary asked. Anna sighed. “Not grudgingly,” Mary scolded, her voice sharp. Her fingers flew to the pincushion, setting up another perfect pleat in the curtain.
“Yes, of course, yes.” Anna searched the table for scissors and a measure. The room was warm. The October day would be fleeting. Perhaps after an hour or two Mother would release her, and she could row to Assateague, to ride and sketch. An hour or two wouldn’t steal the whole day. “I’ll show you where to hem these,” Mary told her, reaching for the bottom edge of the fabric.
Anna found the measure of the curtain and began to set up the hem. They did work well together, mother and daughter.
“Did Mr. Dreher repair the shutters?”
“Every one of them, Mother. Like new.”
Mary shook her head. “I never imagined such a blessing would come to us.”
“A blessing indeed.”
“And what of Mr. Dreher?”
“Mother?”
“Mr. Dreher, Anna. What of him?”
“I—don’t understand your meaning, Mother.”
Mary dropped her work into her lap, looking to heaven and sighing in frustration. She had hoped that her daughter would be more forthcoming with her. “How old you think I was when I met your father?”
Anna thought back. Father had told her of how they met at Pony Penning, but not when. “My age?” she ventured.
“Beau’s age,” said Mary. “And so I will tell you what you must know about Mr. Dreher.” She turned and looked intently at her daughter. “He is a Union sailor, serving on a ship that is visiting Chincoteague—for a time. When that time ends, he will sail away to another place, and another, serving the Union.”
Anna interrupted her. “And is Chincoteague not loyal to the Union?”
“Chincoteague voted to remain loyal to the Union. Half the men who voted owe their livelihoods to Edmund Bagwell, whose loyalties are clear. Virginia is at war with the Union, and the outcome is most uncertain.”
Anna’s temper flared. “You are ungrateful for the good work Mr. Dreher is doing!”
Mary took her tightly by the arm. “You mistake yourself, Anna; I am most grateful, and have thanked God daily. But I am not willing to trade my daughter’s broken heart for new shutters. He will not stay here long, Anna. He cannot stay long. Do you understand me?”
Anna bit her lip. Her tears were rising. “He would like your permission to repair the skiff.”
Silence.
“We have the rowboat. It is sufficient.”
“We could sell the skiff, Mother. You’ve said so.”
Mary reflected. “We could.” Gently, she took Anna’s hand. “Do you understand me?” Anna nodded. “Let him repair it, then.” She embraced her mother, and for the moment the curtains were forgotten.
CHAPTER FOUR
A Visit from the Captain
Days passed, and the weather cooled. The green-headed flies declined with the season. The sunsets over the Virginia mainland arrived a bit earlier each evening, and ripened to the fiery scarlet of the Chincoteague autumn. Small bands of geese began to wing their way over the marshes, scouts for the endless flocks to come.
On board the Louisiana, time passed with dull slowness. The iron ship stood ready to repel any hostile vessel that might appear, but none did. Daily, her crew scrubbed the decks and polished the brass, paying particular attention to the heavy cannon that had proved so effective against the privateer Venus. In his heart, Captain Sharpe almost wished for another encounter with the rebels. Instead, his most pressing concerns were the drinking and gambling that occurred as he knew it would. Every few days a sailor had to be disciplined for such offenses. Such was life on board an idle ship.
Sharpe’s greatest satisfaction was his effort to help the islanders. By all accounts it was a resounding success; he counted it among his best decisions of the campaign. The enthusiasm of the crew was surprisingly high, especially from the young Ship's Carpenter, Dreher, and his mate Platt. The eagerness of those two crewmen was admirable indeed. At reveille, Dreher was out of his hammock and ready on deck in less than the seven minutes that Navy regulations allowed. His uniform was always the picture of good order. If the man assigned to make breakfast was tardy, Dreher would step in without complaint—unusual behavior from a young seaman. Dreher even took responsibility to be sure that Platt was up and on deck when he should be. The two joined the detail whenever it went ashore, never missing a day’s work, even when their shipmates drew very light duty on board. Each morning, when the launch for Chincoteague was dropped, they were at the oars.
The Ship’s Carpenter had become the unofficial spokesman for the project. Each evening when the tired and grimy men returned, the Captain would hear Dreher’s report. Nothing could have pleased Sharpe more than the accounts of the building of fences, the digging of wells, and the patching of roofs. The gratitude of the islanders knew no bounds—at least to hear Dreher tell it. As time passed and the accomplishments of his crew mounted, the Captain grew less concerned about violent resistance from the island. It even occurred to him that a commendation from the Secretary of the Navy might come his way when hostilities drew to a close. That, he calculated, would be soon. The end of southern rebellion would allow a happy return to New England waters for Henry D. Sharpe.
What the Captain did not know was that Sam Dreher visited only one house on Chincoteague Island. That house was Anna Daisey's. He would never have guessed it from Sam's descriptions of the work being done. Sam was familiar with every project that the crew undertook, but only because he questioned each man carefully as they returned. Though Sam never said so, his shipmates all came to believe he was acting on the Captain's orders. Later in the evening, after Sam had been observed reporting to the Sharpe, a word of praise might be offered to some of the crew. Now and again, an extra rum ration would be sent around, and Sam Dreher got the credit. Soon the connection was made: tell Sam Dreher a good story, Sam Dreher tells the Captain, and you're on the Captain's good side. No one objected.
The only trouble was that Sam Dreher was never present when any of the actual work was done on Chincoteague. Sam was with Anna Daisey. They were repairing William Daisey's skiff while Sam was falling in love.
Every morning when the launch tied up at the wharf, job assignments would be made, and Sam would find a reason not to be included in any of them. Few took notice; different men came ashore each day, in greater or lesser numbers, and they set out for different parts of the island. Each little group assumed that the ship's carpenter was somewhere else. Only at the end of a long work day, tired and hungry, did they all reassemble, and by then they were in no mood to care. Before they knew it, they were back on board the Louisiana, Sam had disappeared to meet with Captain Dull, and all anyone wanted was a meal and some sleep.
Ethan Platt made sure everything went smoothly. Ethan himself had actually caught the eye of several girls in Chincoteague, but Sam's feelings for Anna were altogether different. Ethan had never seen Sam in such a state. Normally he was self-assured and confident. Sam knew his trade and was on equal footing with any man, whatever his station. Now a different Sam had emerged, like a scrawny little chick hatching from its shell. Ethan could tell that his friend in over his head.
“I can't keep coverin' for you, Sam,” Ethan complained as they lay in their hammocks one night after tattoo.
“Sure you can, Et
han. You've got to. Do this for me.” What could he say? Nothing had ever mattered so much to Sam. Perhaps there was no harm done, as he kept insisting. Perhaps no one would ever put two and two together. Or perhaps they would both end up in the brig. All Ethan knew was that Sam Dreher was not taking no for an answer. He meant to go and see this girl every day, and Ethan was left with no choice but to cover his tracks.
It wasn't easy. While Sam was nowhere to be found, Ethan had to be in all places at once. Wherever Sam Dreher should have been, Ethan Platt somehow managed to be. He always did more than his share of the work. For all his labors, Ethan had Sam's sincere thanks, if nothing else. In a moment of solitude, Sam would clap him on the back and swear his undying gratitude. “I can't tell you what this means to me, friend,” Sam would say, and indeed he could not. It meant far more than anything had ever meant.
Ethan knew there was no getting out of the spot he was in. And so it continued, day after day. The launch would come ashore. The crew would disperse to their tasks. Sam would disappear to meet Anna, and Ethan would hasten from place to place, making up for the missing man, while Sam rebuilt the little boat.
Like many things that men make with their own hands for use in their own work, the skiff was intricate and beautiful. It was proving difficult to repair. William Daisey had constructed it without plans, according to a time-honored pattern. Sam had learned his trade on boats that were big hulking things, constructed fast and cheaply. Their timbers and planking were heavy. They were slow and hard to steer.
This was another kind of boat altogether: She was sharp at the bow and tapered at the stern like an Indian arrowhead, with gunwales low to the water and the shallowest of drafts. Sam could picture her slipping through the tall marsh grasses like a grey cedar ghost, appearing out of nowhere and disappearing as quickly as she came.
She was small and light, built to carry one man. Two could fit in a pinch if one knelt far forward in the tiny cockpit and another perched on the deck behind it, but the boat wouldn't be happy. She was built for speed and stealth. Every part of her said so.
She was in a sorry state, but all the materials Sam needed to make her whole again were right there on the Louisiana where a ship’s carpenter had ready access. Each night Sam would wrap cedar planking in canvas and stow it in the stern of the launch where no would take notice. A few handfuls of tacks and nails from the ship's hardware supplies would happen to fall into his sea bag, and he was ready for his day's work. Once he got to the Daisey home he would plane the planks down until they were thin and smooth. The finished boards could be no thicker than the sole of his boot.
Anna Daisey knew when Sam would arrive. She would leave her mother at her sewing machine and slip quietly out to her father's workshop to join him. He might present her with a bunch of purple coneflowers he had picked along the lane. She would bring him something to eat. Often they would work silently together, but more often they would talk, more freely each day. After they parted, they could not always remember what they had spoken about, but they were eager to resume when morning arrived. When Sam would plane a long spiral of cedar from a plank, he would tuck it into Anna's hair. She would laugh and pluck it out, laying it on the workbench, but later she would return for it, saving it with others in a wooden box beneath her dresser. She made him a drawing one afternoon, a green-winged teal floating near a clump of saltmeadow hay, and it seemed so real that it might launch into flight. He carried it back carefully in his tunic and pressed it in the pages of his Bible.
Rebuilding the skiff was a puzzle they solved together. Gradually the boat gave up her secrets. Anna knew the skiff better than anyone. He drew on her knowledge as they went along, and she shared what she knew of his father's life on the water.
“Why did he use such light planks, Miss Daisey? He could have built her much stronger if he wished.”
“He would often drag her for a short distance, Mr. Dreher. A creek might run a hundred yards before it spilled into a pond, but walk fifty feet across the mud and you'll find yourself in that same pond.”
“Why is there no seat for rowing?”
“He rowed seated on the deck, or lying forward, watching the ducks on the water.” She showed him the small hand paddles that her father had carved. “Often they needed to move very silently.”
He came to understand the little boat, and as he did, he came to know Sweet William Daisey through the veil of time.
When they were finished, the skiff’s lines would have to be true to the original, or she wouldn't track through the water. Her bow had to rise above the chop, and her deck had to shed taller waves. William Daisey had beveled the edges of her planks and cut them perfectly straight to leave the narrowest of gaps. A thin rope of cotton was tapped down between them with a dull-edged caulking chisel and heavy hardwood mallet to seal the tiny space so that she would be watertight. Sam had to match Sweet William’s skill and care. The work might have been tedious for someone who did not love boats, or discouraging for someone working alone, but for Sam, standing beside Anna, it was a small taste of heaven.
To work hour upon hour with her nearby was his greatest joy. When she left to assist her mother or prepare a meal, the workshop would seem to darken; when she returned it would brighten again. While she watched him, the plane cut cleanly and straight, and the hammer was light in his hands. He would measure and cut a plank, then scribe a deep groove along the length of its surface. With his plane he would cut a perfect bevel along the edge. When he was satisfied he would fit it to its neighbor, tapping it with the heel of his hand, and it would slide obediently into place. Nails were sunk flush to the smooth surface, and the board was secure.
The hours danced away, and the days swept past them like the wings of the geese overhead, rowing powerfully southward.
On a calm Wednesday morning the watch came running to Benjamin Harvey, out of breath with the news that a boat from was approaching, carrying three men. A quick glance through his glass told Harvey that the men were unarmed and their intentions peaceful. They were welcomed aboard. They worked for the Bagwell Oyster Packing House. Their cargo was light: it was a letter, inviting Captain Henry D. Sharpe to dinner that Sunday afternoon at the residence of Mr. And Mrs. Edmund Bagwell.
The three men sat in the mess for a mug of tea. By the time their mugs were empty they were off to their employer with an elegantly-worded reply. Sharpe was no fool; he knew the role that Bagwell had played in bringing the Louisiana to Chincoteague. Surely there could be no harm in leaving his vessel for a few short hours, especially on a Sunday. The Captain was delighted to accept.
The invitation was for him alone, but he made plans to take a number of crewmen ashore as well. Protocol would demand it. The Captain made his selections. First, Dreher and Platt, who knew the island well and had done so much for its residents. Who else? He wrote out a list of names and sent them to Benjamin Harvey. Dinner was on.
The day was crisp and fine. Its highlight for the community at large was the service at the Methodist Church. The Bagwells proudly counted themselves members of its congregation. The Reverend Kearney’s sermon was on adultery; he was against it. The Bagwell family pew was directly in front of the pulpit, where Edmund’s leadership was displayed along with his daughter Nancy’s hats. They were her particular pride and joy, brought from all corners of the globe by sea captains who did business with her father. When a captain tied up at the Bagwell packing houses to haggle over a contract, it never hurt to bring a gift for the owner’s daughter. It might be a hat, a dress, or a colorful bauble from New York or Philadelphia. Its journey might have begun in a fashionable shop in Paris. No other girl on Chincoteague had such items in her clothes closet. It was difficult to find an occasion where they did not look out of place on the island, but that posed no problem for Nancy. Her clothing collection was continually on parade. Today was no exception. Her satin dress was a royal blue, with navy velvet trim at the waist and cuffs, in homage to the uniform worn by the Union forces. A blue rosett
e framed her throat. Her bonnet was trimmed in ivory lace and tied at the chin with a blue-and-white ribbon a yard long on a side. The pointed ends nearly touched her waist. The overhanging front of the bonnet revealed its decorative touches: straw flowers, a bunch of satin grapes, and a peculiar green bird that seemed to have winged its way from the jungles of South American to light in Nancy’s hair. Had Rev. Kearney’s pulpit not been so high, the people in the next three rows would have had difficulty seeing him preach.
But preach he did, and ended thunderously, calling up “Nearer, my God, to Thee” from the choir, and resting briefly. When he rose again to dismiss the congregation, he was lavish in his welcome for the visiting Captain and in his praise for the smartly uniformed sailors who waited patiently just outside the front doors of the little church. The Bagwell party exited slowly. Everyone took his chance to shake the hand of their new companion. Henry Sharpe had spared no effort to make a good impression. He stood tall and regal in his long double-breasted coat, its nine rows of brass buttons gleaming. His Captain’s stars rode proudly on his shoulders and his gold-plated sword hilt sat high on his hip, its silk tassel prominently in place. A rare warm smile beamed from behind his long grey moustache and curly beard. For those moments accompanying the Bagwells from Sunday services, he declared himself a happy man.
His day on the island of Chincoteague had gone well from the moment he arrived, early that morning. The boats full of sailors had landed at the Bagwell Oyster Packing House pier to a warm reception by a delegation led by Edmund Bagwell himself. The United States flag flew proudly from the hundred-foot flagpole above the Bagwell residence, while two large men at the front of the group carried smaller flags onto the pier. Bagwell was dressed in his finest black suit with matching vest, and wore a gold watch chain with an amber fob. His shirt front was heavily starched and his bowtie impeccable. His bushy dark beard flared outwards and his moustache was curled at the ends. He extended a meaty hand to Sharpe, roaring out his greeting.
The Sea is a Thief Page 6
