The Sea is a Thief

by David Parmelee

  The beach began to unroll, arrow-straight. There were few landmarks now, and there would be little to see for miles.

  “Nancy, do you—” Beau began. He wanted to ask how far north she wished to go; there was no passage across Assateague. They would have to retrace their path when they returned. As soon as he spoke, Nancy held her hand aloft, palm towards Beau; she wanted silence. Immediately she turned her glass northward, and her back stiffened. Beau knew instantly that something had appeared. He squinted in the bright sun, straining to focus on the most distant part of the beach. It was hopeless. They would have to get closer.

  Beau held the tiller steady, finding a good line. The wind shifted a bit, carrying them towards land but giving them speed. As long as he avoided the surf he could hold his course. The strand of beach rolled past them. Nancy was silent and still.

  When a little time had passed Beau thought he could make out something on the sand, well ahead of them, moving parallel to them as they sailed. At first he took it to be a horse, then two horses, but something didn’t look right.

  In an instant it came to him: they carried riders.

  That day in the boat, it took a very long time for Beau Daisey to identify the two riders on the sand. When he remembered it later, the time seemed to shorten, as the story of a painful loss grows shorter in the retelling. Beau’s hearing was damaged, but his sight was not. As the riders grew closer a knot tightened in his stomach. He did not want to accept what his eyes told him. At such moments a battle rages between evidence and the will. Eventually the will must yield, and the sadness that follows streams over its battlements into the soul.

  Along the surf rode Sam Dreher. Beside him, Beau saw his sister Anna.

  Sam and Anna spotted the boat as soon as it pulled abreast of them, Sam first. Beau watched him stretch his arm towards the sail, Anna’s gaze following. The pair reined in their horses. He watched them talk excitedly and look again at the boat. Suddenly Anna wheeled her horse about and set off towards the lighthouse at a gallop, her skirts billowing wildly in the wind. Sam followed, losing distance as they fled. Neither looked to the side again.

  Nancy’s voice took Beau by surprise. “Back we go,” she snapped, tapping the sections of her telescope together and re-holstering it in her belt. “The wind will be with us now. Be quick.” Beau knew it all too well. Anna and Sam outdistanced them easily on horseback, but they stood no chance once they dismounted. Beau had not seen a sailboat anchored near the lighthouse; the two would have rowed to Assateague, taking their time as they came up the creeks and across the ponds. He would easily beat them back to town, where Nancy would do as she wished with the news she had just gathered. He knew exactly what she would do.

  They came around, setting their course southwards. The wind was brisk and the boat flew. Nancy turned to Beau. Her smile chilled him. He had seen it before; most recently, through the doorway of the dining room at the Atlantic Hotel. Beau’s heart sank.

  “Nancy…” he began.

  “I do not wish to discuss it, Beau,” she said. She turned away, her eyes upraised, seeming to enjoy the salt air on her face. Anger rose up inside him.

  “What trouble do you mean to cause?”

  She spun on her seat. “What trouble do I mean to cause? In what way would I be the cause of trouble?” She turned away again, dismissing him.

  Beau was silenced. Nancy was right. She needed to do very little. His sister had called down a whirlwind upon herself and the Union sailor. It was clear that the two of them had visited the island many times. The ponies were difficult to ride. Sam showed too much confidence to be a newcomer. Even from a distance, Beau recognized the bond between Sam and his sister. Riding together, unaware that they were being observed, it was clear. Somehow, in a very short time, Anna and Sam Dreher had come to love each other. Beau cared little for the sailor, but all the world for his sister. He could only imagine what the consequences would be when Nancy—or, more likely, her father—told the captain of the Louisiana what she had seen.

  It would not go well for Anna. All the worse, he had helped to bring it upon her, and he could do nothing to stop it.

  As they passed the lighthouse, Sam and Anna were nowhere in sight. Their two ponies had joined the others grazing calmly nearby. Just outside the lighthouse door stood Elizabeth Reynolds, feet planted wide on the sand. She held an ancient shotgun in her folded arms like a shield against her chest. She remained motionless and silent, her eyes tracking them as they sailed past.

  Strong as Sam Dreher might be at the oars, Nancy would make it back long before than they would. The fire would be lighted before Anna reached home.

  They were caught.

  CHAPTER NINE

  A Storm Breaks

  The port tasted flat in Henry Sharpe’s mouth. He had poured it from a bottle that he carried carefully sequestered in his cabin, reserved for the most special of occasions. After the defeat of the Venus, he had drunk a small glass in silent celebration. How excellent he had judged it to be on that evening: its aroma intense, its flavor round and complex. It had given him particular joy. Today, he reflected darkly, it might as well be seawater.

  The port was a gift from his father on the day of his graduation from the Naval Academy. They shared a toast from a matching bottle that evening at dinner. He was far too young then to appreciate it. His father had chosen thirty-year-old Dow’s; now, its age was approaching fifty. A grand old age for port. How sad that it should be ruined so.

  When Edmund Bagwell sent word that he wished to see him aboard the Louisiana, Sharpe had responded with an invitation to dinner. He presumed that Bagwell’s agenda involved the oyster trade. He was prepared to be generous in entertaining any proposal Bagwell might make. He set a fine table for the two of them in his cabin. The china, silver, and linen were impeccable, in the naval tradition. Henry Sharpe felt that a meal with a Navy captain should be memorable.

  It had gone well, at first. Bagwell was welcomed aboard by Benjamin Harvey and a small detachment, who escorted him to Sharpe’s quarters. A brief tour of the ship, highlighted by a review of the four cannon, followed. All hands were on deck and at attention. Sharpe thought that they looked unusually presentable. Dinner followed: local oysters, a fish course, beef, and then a bread-and-apple pudding, all quite extraordinary on board ship. Bagwell had allowed the captain little time to prepare. Nonetheless, the chief cook had done a superlative job. Sharpe made a mental note to send him an extra ration of rum.

  The meal passed quickly. Sharpe found Bagwell not very talkative; he was not at all the jovial fellow who had entertained him on the island a short time ago. Their dinner concluded, Sharpe made a gesture of presenting the bottle of port on a fine silver tray, with two crystal glasses. He poured it himself. Edmund Bagwell stopped him politely before he could raise a toast. He seemed anxious to broach the subject of his visit first. Sharpe was struck by his uneasiness. Bagwell was not a man to mince words; yet, he proceeded with difficulty.

  “You will recall my daughter Nancy from your visit to my home?” he began. Sharpe nodded.

  “A lovely young woman,” he offered.

  “Thank you,” Bagwell replied mechanically, absorbed in the effort to put his thoughts into words. “My daughter has brought to me a disturbing report. It pertains to one of your sailors.” He had the Captain’s full attention. Sharpe had found himself in this situation more than once: one of his sailors involved with the daughter of a local citizen. The possible complications were almost infinite. A great deal of unpleasantness could be in store.

  “If I may say so, between the two of us, it seems to me that my Nancy often takes too much interest in the personal affairs of others. I say this,” he held his finger aloft to make his point, “not as a criticism of her character,” Sharpe nodded. He was bracing himself for what would follow. “But only by way of explanation for what I must tell you, Captain.” Bagwell stared out the porthole at the shore of Chincoteague. His packing houses were prominently visible. “Do
you recall, Captain, the trip we made to some of the homes on the island?” Sharpe nodded. It had been a highlight of the visit.

  “We visited the Daisey home.” Sharpe showed no sign of recognition this time. The names had not impressed him.

  “A widow with two grown children. The young man is a carver of decoys?” Bagwell prompted him

  Now he remembered. The one he had not liked at all.

  “The young woman’s name is Anna Daisey. Very quiet. A bit unusual. And the carpenter who accompanied us that day?”

  “Dreher,” responded the captain. “And Platt, the carpenter’s mate.”

  “Dreher is the man,” Bagwell agreed. “The same carpenter who worked in my home for a number of days.” Sharpe nodded.

  Bagwell shook his head from side to side. “We all thought very highly of him. Nancy came to know him rather well, apparently, and she is sure that this is the very man she saw just yesterday.”

  “In what context did she see him?” asked the Captain, his nerves beginning to strain beneath his composed expression.

  “Perhaps the best way to put it, sir, is that Mr. Dreher’s visit with us to the Daisey home was neither his first, nor his last. Far from it.”

  “I take you at your word, of course, sir,” Sharpe said calmly. He was prepared for the worst now. “But if I may ask, how do you know this?”

  Bagwell hesitated before spitting out the words. “While sailing just off Assateague Island yesterday, my daughter observed your Mr. Dreher keeping company quite openly with Miss Daisey, riding together by themselves. Is it possible, Captain, that he was sent there on your orders?”

  It was not. Sharpe began to contemplate what had taken place. “And your daughter Nancy was only an observer of this, Mr. Bagwell? Dreher has not acted badly towards her, I hope?”

  “Not at all, Captain. I have no personal issue with the man. My daughter’s interest in his whereabouts struck me as…” he frowned, “unusually strong. I am unsure of the reason for it. My primary concern is for you and your command. The reputation of your ship, as we both are aware…”

  Sharpe cut him off. He was all too aware. “Of course, Mr. Bagwell. Your concern is deeply appreciated. Deeply, sir.”

  Bagwell nodded. He was not finished. “Nancy was sailing with the young woman’s brother, the brother that you met, Captain, and the two of them saw your carpenter and Miss Daisey quite clearly. There was no mistaking it, she said. The brother stands with her on that point, though he was none too happy to admit it. I spoke with him myself, to be certain. He says that when the two of them saw that they had been recognized, they fled immediately.”

  Sharpe rested his chin on his folded hands. Neither man spoke. The ticking of the ship’s clock was like the pounding of a drum.

  “I am sure you realize,” Bagwell added, “this news will travel quickly on our little island. The local people may not take kindly to it.”

  Sharpe rose to his feet, gazing out towards Chincoteague. “I most certainly do realize it,” he said.

  “Measures will be taken?” Bagwell asked.

  “They will indeed.”

  Bagwell sprang up, clasping the captain by the shoulder. “I knew I had no cause for concern!” he bellowed. “I told my wife, no cause for concern—the captain will deal with this properly, and speedily, too!” He reached for the delicate glass. “But I disgrace your hospitality, sir, with these matters. They will soon be past us, but our friendship will endure!” He raised the glass, and gestured to Sharpe to do the same. They touched glasses briefly. “Enduring friendship.” said Bagwell.

  “Friendship,” Sharpe responded.

  Bagwell drained the glass. “Excellent!” he proclaimed. “And what is this, once again?”

  “Port,” said Sharpe quietly, taking a tiny sip. “A good port.”

  “I am in your debt, Captain,” Bagwell said, reaching for his hat and coat. “But I must take my leave. They await me at home.”

  Sharpe rang for Benjamin Harvey, who appeared in moments to see Edmund Bagwell to his boat. Sharpe watched his lantern disappear in the fading light. Silently, he descended to his cabin once again. He finished his glass of port.

  Because Sam Dreher was unaccustomed to deceit, he was unaccustomed to shame. Words came easily when he spoke with his superiors. He told the truth and thus did not need a good memory. Now he was on unfamiliar ground. He stood in Captain Sharpe’s cabin, where he had stood so many times recently. On all those occasions, he had told the captain barefaced lies. They had come back to haunt him, all at once. Sharpe sat at his desk, pen in hand, recording his every word.

  At first, Sam’s stories hadn’t been complete fabrications. He had rewritten the truth, placing himself where someone else had actually gone, or describing an event that happened days ago as though it had just occurred. Sam noticed that Captain Sharpe always accepted good news readily. When he spoke about some successful piece of work and described the good will it had created, there was no demand for particulars. Captain Sharpe came to rely on his testimony. Deepening trust allowed a deeper betrayal. By the time Nancy Bagwell made her voyage to Assateague, virtually nothing that Sam Dreher was telling his Captain was true.

  Henry Sharpe had believed it all. Edmund Bagwell’s revelation struck him like a rogue wave broadside. He had placed his complete confidence in Sam Dreher. His distress was all the greater; he had been made a fool.

  And by his ship’s carpenter, no less.

  Sharpe did not consider himself a vindictive man. When wronged, he did not thirst for vengeance, but took it as a lesson. A lifetime of dedication to the U.S. Navy had taught him patience. On one principle he did not waver: regulations were to be obeyed. Disobedience carried consequences. Sam Dreher’s disobedience rose to a level that Sharpe could barely fathom. This was not the momentary flippancy of a sailor who spoke out of turn to an officer or the drunken violence that erupted late at night in a foreign port. Those were the flaws young men were heir to, sins committed suddenly and regretted immediately. In such cases punishment was swift and the sailor was soon back at his post.

  This matter was very different. “Willful disregard for Captain’s orders. Evasion to conceal that disregard, on multiple occasions. Shirking of duty. Endangerment of the ship’s mission, for selfish purposes.” Captain Sharpe could not resist the opportunity for sarcasm. “Tell me, Dreher. Have I overlooked anything?”

  Sam knew no reply was expected. He stood at attention, eyes forward. His thoughts were racing. What was known?

  “Your…relationship with this young woman, Miss Daisey. It commenced as soon as you went ashore?”

  “Very nearly, sir.”

  “And how often did you see her?”

  “Frequently, sir.” Sam could no longer bear lying about Anna. Now that the worst had already happened, it lightened his heart to confess their love at last.

  “As I suspected, given the report I have received. Now I must ask you, and you are to answer with perfect honesty. Have you behaved as a gentleman towards her?”

  Sam was unsure of the Navy’s definition of the word, but as for himself, he harbored no doubts. “I have, sir. With perfect honesty.”

  Captain Sharpe dipped his pen and continued to write. Several sheets of paper covered his desk, two of them already filled.

  “Did you take anything from her or her family? Money, or goods?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you fail to understand the question, Dreher?”

  Sam took offense at the very implication. “Certainly not, Captain. You saw when you inspected the Daisey home that I was of considerable service to the family.”

  His strong denial offered Sharpe some small comfort. At the very least, greed was not a motive. “And is this young woman the only such woman?”

  The words stung. That he might have been roaming about the island, seeking out the company of gullible women! His jaw clenched, and he stiffened his shoulders. “Miss Daisey is indeed the only such woman, sir.”

  H
enry Sharpe replaced his pen in its holder. He rose and walked to the window, staring forward intently. His hands were clasped behind his coat, fingers twitching. He shook his head as if he could shake off this new burden like stray raindrops. Shortly he turned to face Sam Dreher. A thought had occurred to him.

  “Were you alone in this?”

  Sam could not think. His actions spoke for themselves. He was prepared for the worst. But Ethan could not suffer because of what he had done.

  “The…the fault is mine, Captain. Entirely.”

  The pause before he spoke told Henry Sharpe most of what he needed to know. He had not spent a career in the Navy to be fooled by the same sailor twice in one week.

  “Yes. The fault is yours, Dreher, but the responsibility is not, is it?”

  Sam kept his silence.

  “Come, now, Dreher. If I were to interview every sailor on this vessel—and I am entirely prepared to do so—do you think for a moment that I would not discover the truth in all its dimensions?”

  Sam knew that he had taken the man far too lightly. Captain Dull had been given his command for a reason. How had he hoped to avoid detection forever?

  It had come to an end.

  Sam looked Henry Sharpe square in the eyes. The two men were alike in few ways. They were Captain and carpenter, New England gentry and commoner from the hills of Pennsylvania, over fifty years of age and barely twenty. Sam hoped against hope that he could appeal to what they might have in common as men.

  “Captain,” Sam said. Sharpe lifted his chin, not looking away. “Have you ever been in love?”

  Sharpe raised his eyebrows. It was a question he did not welcome. He was certainly not obligated to answer, but something in Sam Dreher’s earnest gaze drew the truth from him like water from a well.

  “You are a brave man, Dreher, and perhaps a reckless man. Since we find ourselves speaking freely, I will tell you truthfully that I have not. And what will you say to that?”

  Sam swallowed hard. “I will say, Captain, with respect, that if you had, you might see my actions with merciful eyes. And the actions of any who have aided me with the same eyes.”