The Sea is a Thief

by David Parmelee

  “Welcome to our fair island, Captain! We salute you as the defender of the island of Chincoteague!” Their handshake went on interminably, South greeting North, the arm of the oystering industry reaching out to the guns that protected it.

  There was no band on Chincoteague, but there was a man who could play the bugle, and at that point he did. He knew two melodies, Reveille and Taps, and wisely chose Reveille. It rang out across the water in wavering tones. When the final note faded, Edmund Bagwell clamped his powerful hand on the Captain’s shoulder and directed him down the wharf towards the Atlantic Hotel. The sailors marched behind him silently in loose formation.

  On the steps of the hotel a second greeting had been staged. The alarm bell that rang when the Venus was first spotted was polished to a high sheen and decked in tricolor bunting. As the Captain approached, a group of well-dressed ladies burst into a patriotic song. In their midst stood Arinthia and Nancy Bagwell. Mrs. Bagwell’s dress was the opposite of her daughter’s in its color scheme: Navy blue, with royal blue accents. She wore a broad, flat royal blue hat with a velvet bow. Their song concluded, the group surrounded the Captain and escorted him to the Methodist church.

  Now, some two hours later, their spiritual duty was accomplished. The Bagwells led Sharpe back down the street they first travelled, towards the center of town. Their home was the largest residential building on Chincoteague by a wide margin, and as it loomed before them Edmund Bagwell directed some of his companions to show the crewmen of the Louisiana to the Atlantic hotel, where a huge kettle of oyster stew waited. They would not lack for a meal while their Captain dined with his hosts.

  The Bagwell home was decorated only modestly on the outside. Large as is was, anchoring the most important corner of the main street, it lacked the fancy woodwork that a prosperous Rhode Islander would have chosen to display his wealth. It reminded Henry Sharpe of the plain saltbox houses of Cape Cod. Three brick steps led up to a heavy central doorway framed by rows of windows upstairs and down. Chimneys capped both ends, while the soaring flagpole stood guard between the home and the edge of the channel not too distant behind it.

  The front door opened and party was greeted by the broad smiles of the Bagwells’ two servants, George and Ruth Broadwater. The couple was black, but they were not slaves. They had served the Bagwell family faithfully for years, sharing a corner of their home and drawing modest pay. The oyster trade had brought some leisure to a few local families. For them, the luxury of a cook or housekeeper, white or black, was well within reach. They could easily afford to pay the wages the position commanded. The Bagwells appreciated the loyalty of George and Ruth, and the couple felt fortunate to have their positions.

  Neither Edmund nor Arinthia were proponents of the Southern tradition of slavery. They did not make their opinions known when they travelled on the mainland of Virginia, which owed much of its wealth to that custom. In their hearts, though, neither husband nor wife believed that slavery had done their state much good. Both had been raised on small farms on Chincoteague Island, with few comforts, doing their share of the unending work that farming offered up each day. Though Chincoteaguers had kept slaves in the past, their numbers were never large, and no slaves remained there. Many a white man worked as though enslaved. Their bondage was to the land and the sea, demanding and fickle masters that gave and took away on a whim. It seemed unhealthy that an entire region of the United States should owe its livelihood to the unwilling labor of another race of men. The world had turned against slavery already. Though the Southern Methodist Church supported it, no other Methodists did. It appeared likely that the nation would soon turn from it as well, whatever the outcome of the hostilities, and the Bagwell family had cast its lot with the Union. The issue of slavery did not divide them from their Northern neighbors.

  Today George and Ruth had outdone themselves. Important guests did not visit every day. Arinthia’s instructions had been clear. The Captain was a distinguished man, to whom everyone on the island owed a great deal, and his meal was to be memorable.

  The family gathered in the parlor as the table was made ready. The signs of the Bagwells’ prosperity did not escape Henry Sharpe. Their taste was a bit odd, but their home was filled with items he was surprised to find on Chincoteague. Persian rugs of diverse colors and patterns covered every square foot of the floor. Curtains with long silk tassels framed the windows. The furnishings were mahogany, well-made and richly upholstered. A towering grandfather clock guarded the staircase.

  Ruth Broadwater emerged from the dining room, the full sleeves of her simple grey dress pushed up nearly to her elbows. Her perfect white apron identified her as the chief cook. She nodded to Mrs. Bagwell. “We would be pleased if you would join us in the dining room, Captain,” she announced, and the meal commenced.

  The Captain was seated at one end of the long table. Edmund Bagwell faced him at the other. His wife and daughter sat across from each other on either side. Clear autumn light streamed in from the two windows overlooking the channel. A wood fire crackled in the brick fireplace between them. The Louisiana rode calmly at anchor in the distance, a comforting presence to which the Bagwell family had long since grown accustomed. As Edmund said grace, his little corner of the world was in good order.

  The meal began with oyster stew, as many Bagwell meals did. China bowls, the blue willow pattern, were filled from an outsized tureen. Plump, succulent Chincoteague oysters floated in a broth of the freshest butter and cream. Nancy Bagwell plunged her spoon into the savory liquid with gusto. She loved oysters. The Captain sipped his stew more delicately. Usually, the dish was not to his taste, but of course he would be a model guest. The Bagwells watched carefully for signs that he was enjoying their oysters, and enjoy them he did, quite purposefully.

  Edmund wasted no time before starting dinner conversation. “You must tell us about your ship, Captain Sharpe,” he announced, wiping his mustache on a linen napkin. “She’s most unusual!”

  “The first such vessel we’ve seen in these waters,” added Arinthia.

  “She’s called the Louisiana, isn’t she?” added Nancy. “I have a spyglass. I read her transom during the battle.”

  The Captain cleared his throat. There was so much to tell. “Yes. She is an iron ship, an unusual design for the Navy, as you observed. She began life as a cotton freighter in New Orleans, hence the name, you see. She was in port in Philadelphia, carrying a load of cotton, when hostilities broke out. Would have returned to Louisiana, but the Navy intercepted her on the spot and converted her to wartime duty.”

  “Coal-fired, isn’t she?” queried Edmund, digging into his chowder.

  “Yes, primarily. The masts and sails are intended for use in an emergency, but on my ships we avoid emergencies.”

  “And her guns, Captain? Most effectively used, I must say. My compliments!” Edmund was enthusiastic.

  “Four guns, thank you, sir. Three heavy cannon and a twelve-pounder. My gunners and their mates are excellently trained.” For the first time the Captain permitted himself a modest smile. He was beginning to enjoy the company of the Bagwells. He went on to describe at length the details of the ship’s armament. Edmund and Arinthia listened attentively, while Nancy’s attention was taken up by her oyster stew.

  The soup course complete, Ruth cleared the china, as George Broadwater emerged from the kitchen with an oval platter bearing two pairs of roast canvasbacks, hot from the oven. Each rested on a bed of wild rice. Edmund was pleased at their appearance. “You’ll enjoy these, Captain. They are taken here on Chincoteague, then put on ice at our provision company and shipped up and down the coast. Most flavorful birds!” He picked up an ivory-handled knife and began working on his duck.

  “Is there a Mrs. Sharpe?” queried Arinthia, taking the conversation in a new direction. “What a fortunate woman she is, if so!” The Captain touched his napkin to his lips.

  “Actually, there is not,” he said. He felt the need to elaborate. “The Navy has always taken
precedence in our family. It’s a difficult life, you know, difficult for a woman, left behind. I should like to marry, should the opportunity…present itself.”

  Arinthia deftly changed the subject. “What a career you must have enjoyed in the Navy, Captain Sharpe! Please give us the particulars.”

  The Captain cringed a bit inwardly. He took justifiable pride in his career, a few shortcomings notwithstanding, but some details were not to be shared. The Navy’s memory was so very long when it came to those matters.

  His duck tasted too gamey and the texture of the rice was foreign to him. The Captain was glad to put down his utensils and converse. He took a long sip of water.

  “You do flatter me, madame,” he began, though the flattery was not unwelcome. “The Sharpes have been seafaring men as long as we remember. My grandfather served with Commodore Perry at the Battle of Lake Erie during the war of 1812.”

  “The Commodore Perry?” interjected Edmund.

  “Yes, Oliver Hazard Perry,” the Captain continued. “The very same.”

  “He’s in my history book, Father,” Nancy commented enthusiastically. “Three towns and two counties are named after him!”

  “Your studiousness is most impressive, young lady,” nodded the Captain. Arinthia and Nancy beamed. Henry Sharpe had been well aware of the towns and counties since childhood: Perrysburg, Perryopolis, Oliver Township. When he was a young officer he imagined Sharpesville, Sharpsburg, and Sharpetown. Why not? Grandfather and Commodore Perry had been close colleagues. Perry was a Rhode Islander as well, both men educated in Newport. The Captain was born the year after the Battle of Lake Erie, to a father who was already rising in the Navy. It was a settled matter in the Sharpe household that Henry would follow in the family tradition.

  The Captain continued. “You may be aware that the Commodore’s younger brother, Matthew Perry, also a Commodore, founded the United States Naval Academy at Annapolis. It was my privilege to graduate in its first class, 1845.” The Captain threw back his shoulders, pleased to have reached the high point in his personal history.

  “You must have been first in your class, Captain!” exclaimed Nancy.

  “No indeed, young lady, not nearly so well-placed as that,” he responded, suddenly desiring another bite of duck. In fact, he had been last in his class. His father adopted a stony silence for days after the letter arrived. His mother was more pragmatic. “Someone had to be last,” she said haughtily. “You graduated, did you not?” At the time, it did not occur to Henry Sharpe that Matthew Perry might have played a role in allowing him to graduate.

  “And what was your first command, Captain Sharpe?” asked Edmund, his duck picked clean down to its breastbone. “A warship?”

  “A warship indeed, sir. Just two years out of Annapolis, I joined Commodore Perry at Veracruz in the Mexican War.”

  Bagwell nodded. “I’m familiar with it. A brilliant and well-deserved American victory. One of the merchants I do business with was involved. What role did you play, sir?”

  There was a long pause. “Not a decisive one, I’m afraid, Mr. Bagwell. Owing to navigational discrepancies, the mission was—” he paused—“largely accomplished by the time of our arrival.” The event had boiled down to so few words in the fourteen years since. The mission was largely accomplished. That was sufficient in polite company. At the time the story was much longer. He recalled the southward tangent he had somehow taken, a day or more too far south, bypassing the main amphibious fleet that his gunship was supposed to support. He missed Veracruz altogether, arriving instead in a tropical pit called Coatzacoalcos. When he finally determined in a panic where he was, the wind was against him. The trip northward took far longer than it should have. By the time he arrived the troops had landed. Robert E. Lee and Winfield Scott were laying siege to the city. Henry Sharpe could only hang his head while his bewildered crew wondered how he had gotten them into such a predicament.

  An awkward silence fell over the table, broken by the arrival of a flounder fried with lemons. It seemed a good opportunity to tell the Captain about the island’s famous flounder. “Some of ‘em are so broad they span a man’s shoulders!” Bagwell thundered. “Delicious eating, sir, in season. You’ll enjoy this fish, I promise you. They run right in this channel in the spring. Then they run out to sea again come the first of June, right on time.”

  Yes, thought Captain Sharpe, raising a bite of the delicate fish to his lips. Right on time.

  The Bagwells did not often indulge in spirits, especially on the Sabbath, but in celebration of Henry Sharpe’s visit, glasses of sherry were poured after dessert. Even that small amount seemed to lighten everyone’s spirits, and before long Edmund was ordering a pair of horses to be saddled up for a brief tour of the island. Sharpe bade a temporary farewell to the ladies, and the two men strolled out to the Bagwell Oyster Packing House to await their mounts. Edmund Bagwell insisted on showing the Captain the facility. It was a large white building, one end open to the wharf where the oystermen unloaded their catch. Outside its open windows, immense piles of rough grey shells mounted up. Its many rows of shucking tables would be busy early the next morning.

  The horses arrived. “I understand that your crewman have been doing a great deal of good for some of our neighbors,” Bagwell confided. “Perhaps you might care to have a look.”

  “It would be my pleasure,” responded the Captain, “If you will direct me.”

  “No trouble whatsoever!” exclaimed Bagwell. “Aren’t a couple of those sailors with you today?” In the blink of an eye, Bagwell had sent a man for two additional horses, and dispatched another to the Atlantic Hotel to fetch Dreher and Platt. The Captain judged that they would be the best choice to serve as guides. Both were flattered to be introduced to Edmund Bagwell. They mounted up quickly and rode alongside the Captain, who was already attracting attention. Window curtains were pulled aside as he passed so that curious faces could catch a glimpse of Henry Sharpe, the hero of the Battle of Cockle Creek.

  On rare and precious occasions a young man gets a chance to settle a score with a close friend without doing him any actual harm. That Sunday afternoon ride down the lanes of Chincoteague presented Ethan Platt with just such an opportunity. He had lost count of the days he had spent scurrying about the island, laden with heavy lumber or buckets of foul-smelling tar, while Sam Dreher courted his new lady friend. He had pacified his crewmates by working all the harder himself, digging holes and clambering on rooftops while Sam repaired a boat. It was beginning to wear on him, and there was no end in sight. Perhaps it was time for a small lesson.

  He began innocently enough, pointing out to the Captain the front door of a fisherman’s cottage that he had repaired. The Captain nodded his approval. Sam kept silent; he didn’t know one cottage from the other. As they passed a cow pasture, Ethan was full of details about a well they had rebuilt.

  “It’s a community well, you see, sir. How many people came by to draw water while we were there, Mr. Dreher?”

  Sam was taken aback. What was Ethan doing? He had never even visited that well.

  “How many would you say?”

  “Six or seven, I suppose?”

  “Six or seven? Oh, many more than that! I must have counted twenty people! Wouldn’t you say twenty, Mr. Dreher, at least?”

  Sam could see what he was in for. This wouldn’t be easy. “We were very busy that day.”

  “Yes, we were indeed. And it was an unusually warm day, was it not?”

  “Very warm.” This day was quickly becoming warmer as well.

  “The problem with that well, sir,” Ethan continued, gesturing towards the pasture, “was one of drainage. The pasture was draining into it, fouling the water. Very dangerous, as you know.” He had the full attention of the Captain and Edmund Bagwell. “Here is how we dealt with it. First, we built up the foundation stone to the well, then—well, I should let Mr. Dreher continue. Continue, Mr. Dreher!” Sam scanned the pasture, searching for signs of recent changes to
the lay of the land. Already a new growth of grass covered everything. His mind raced, imagining how he would have addressed such a problem.

  “Yes, after the foundation was built up, as Mr. Platt described--" he stammered.

  “..the next step, you see, was to…”

  Ethan came to his aid, briefly. “Dig the drainage ditches, of course, Mr. Dreher.”

  He saw it now. “That led the runoff during heavy rains away from the well, towards…” his eyes searched for a telltale ditch, finally spotting one some yards down the road. “This road! I’ll show you, sir.” He led his horse towards the outlet of the ditch. The party followed. The ditch ended in a deep circular bed of rock and shells. “It now drains into this culvert, where the water sinks into the ground, keeping the well clean. How deep did we make this culvert, Mr. Platt?”

  Ethan stared at Sam. “Five feet deep, and it was difficult digging, too.”

  Edmund Bagwell was impressed. “Ingenious, men!” he laughed. “We need no longer avoid that well after a rain. Ingenious!”

  Sam locked eyes with Ethan. No more, please, he was pleading, but Ethan was just getting started.

  They rode on. “Just ahead of us here, sir, lives a widow named—what was her name, Mr. Dreher?”

  Sam was at a loss. “Smith?” he offered weakly.

  “No, no—the one with the pigs. You would recall!”

  Edmund Bagwell interjected. “Lovey Copes? That widow?”