The Sea is a Thief

by David Parmelee

  Sam Dreher was gone.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Remembrance

  Anna Daisey fidgeted in her chair. As many times as she had watched others examine her drawings, she was always uncomfortable, as though a schoolteacher were checking her spelling. This gentleman seemed satisfied; he nodded his head as he eyed the sketch he was holding. Finely-made gold eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose. Anna liked the drawing as well. Its subject was a black duck emerging from the shelter of a stand of reeds. She was pleased with the way the reeds rose from the water as if actually growing, and with the contented expression in the eyes of the duck. He laid the drawing gently on the table beside those he had already viewed, a dozen or more.

  His companion spoke. “Now, Mr. Breckenridge, I didn't steer you wrong coming to Chincoteague, did I?”

  “Certainly not, Captain Ochs,” Breckenridge replied. “I am most pleased to meet you personally, Miss Daisey, and to express our interest in your work.” Anna smiled, flattered, but unsure of how to take the compliment. To meet a man such as Henry Breckenridge was altogether new. She had sent many drawings north to the cities with John Ochs, and with other captains in the oyster trade. Some returned unsold, but when a drawing did find a buyer, the money the ship captains brought was a godsend to the Daisey household. They brought her supplies as well, paper and drawing pencils, and paints. The paper was beautiful, and the pencils and brushes a joy in her hands. The sale of even a few drawings would cover the cost of it, and she could make many more.

  “Captain Ochs tells me that you have some watercolors, also?” Breckenridge asked with studied politeness. His manner was formal. He wore a well-tailored suit in a soft shade of grey; his shirt was snow white, its stiff collar impeccable. His beard and mustache were closely and perfectly trimmed. “I do, sir,” Anna replied, reaching for the canvas portfolio, one of several that her mother had sewn. She untied its fastenings. Breckenridge sat a little taller in his chair, leaning forward to watch the paintings emerge. As Anna presented them to him, he laid them with care before his place at the table.

  One by one he inspected the watercolor images of Anna Daisey's world. Willow ran alongside a young foal, the smaller horse straining its neck to match his pace. His champagne coat glowed on the page. A marsh hawk landed on the twisted limb of a tall pine, yellow talons extended wide, its hard eyes intent on its target. The wings of the hawk were spread to their fullest, each primary feather rendered in white and black. An oystercatcher strode along the sand, bright orange bill and stick-like legs angled towards the rough grey shell that would be its meal.

  Anna awaited Breckenridge’s reaction, barely breathing. These paintings were far more difficult for her. She lacked confidence in her ability to use the paint correctly. She spent hour upon hour discovering how the watercolors behaved, trying and re-trying to capture color, light and shadow. Finally she made paintings that satisfied her, but she was entirely unsure of how a man like Henry Breckenridge would react to them. Captain Ochs had told her about his business in Philadelphia; he sold the work of real artists. How fortunate it would be if her efforts met with his approval.

  He laid down the last of the watercolors, removed his eyeglasses, and folded them into a pocket of his coat. He took a short pencil and a small piece of paper from another pocket and began to make quick notes. Anna glanced out the window of the dining room. It was a lovely June day, the sky filled with layer upon layer of thick white clouds. Breckenridge set down his pencil.

  “As we discussed, Miss Daisey, I will be meeting with many artists such as yourself...”

  Artists!

  “...as Captain Ochs has been kind enough to arrange several appointments in ports of call that he visits.”

  Ochs chimed in. “Mr. Breckenridge asked me if he could come along on my next trip south,” he added. “He's never seen the area. Stays in Philadelphia far too much, if you ask me, don't you, Mr. Breckenridge?”

  “Probably so,” Breckenridge replied, smiling gamely. “The opportunity to meet the artist personally, and to observe for oneself the environment in which he—or she—works, can be invaluable.” Anna listened, hardly daring to move. “You may be aware, Miss Daisey, of the growing popularity of Mr. Audubon's folios?” The name was not familiar, and she looked blankly at him. “Forty years old now and continuing to gain wider acceptance both here and in England. Very well-liked. That has led to a certain increase in demand for subjects such as yours, ma'am; birds, and waterfowl in particular.” He paused. “I would not judge you to have mastered the watercolor at this point, Miss Daisey, but not every household demands the work of a master. What you have created here should readily find a home at the right price. Now, that being said,” he leaned forward, tapping on the sketches with his finger, “your ability to sketch is most remarkable. It is your strength! When you have developed your skill in painting to match it, then,” he sat back, “then we will have even more to discuss. A sketch, you see, even as capable as these, simply cannot command the price of a painting.”

  She could hardly believe what she was hearing.

  “I am prepared to offer you, for this lot you have presented here,” he held out the paper. “Well…” he handed it to her silently, folding his hands and resting his arms on the table. Anna read the carefully-penciled column of figures and then re-read it to be certain. Surely her eyes deceived her. Dollars. More dollars than her mother had earned for her sewing since Easter. She could feel the beating of her heart in her chest.

  Breckenridge was puzzled by her silence. “Do you find the amount acceptable?” he asked. She smiled, not wanting to appear unseemly, though inside she was overwhelmed.

  “Yes, Mr. Breckenridge,” she replied. “Yes, I do. Will I be able to send you more in the future?”

  “Oh, yes, I should say so,” he answered. “In good time, of course. The Henry Breckenridge Company is a large one, but even we have only so many customers for this sort of work. Many more now, naturally, since the war has come to an end. We are gradually returning to normal. I believe our trade will continue to increase.” He rose, reaching for the glossy beaver hat that rested on the chair beside him. “It has been most pleasant to meet you, Miss Daisey, but I am told by Captain Ochs that we must sail presently. Correct, Captain?”

  “Sir,” said Ochs, standing as well. Anna rose as Breckenridge extended his hand. She had felt so small as she sat across from him at the table, but now she saw that he was no taller than she; a little shorter, in fact.

  “I am pleased to have made your discovery before others did, Miss Daisey, and I hope that you may reward the Breckenridge Company with a measure of loyalty once you have travelled northward to meet other dealers in art.”

  Anna felt lightheaded. She could not imagine such a thing: to sail to the bustling cities, and see her drawings on display in shops. Their hands parted.

  “When you are in Philadelphia it would be my pleasure to meet with you again. In the meantime I am sure that Captain Ochs will continue to serve as go-between.” The Captain nodded. Breckenridge withdrew a slim leather wallet from his jacket and began to count out bills. He paused. “Did you wish to keep the portfolio, Miss Daisey?”

  “My mother made it for me...” she began.

  He waved his hand. “No trouble whatsoever!” he said pleasantly, ending his counting and handing her the money. “No doubt this hotel can supply us with some brown paper to protect them. And with that we must take our leave.” They headed for the lobby of the hotel, Ochs leading the way and holding the heavy door for Anna.

  “Goodbye!” Breckenridge waved, and she was off, through the front doors and into the sunlight, the bills tucked into her sleeve, her empty portfolio weightless under her arm.

  Edmund Bagwell stood at the landing of the wharf not far from the Atlantic Hotel, arms folded across his chest. He watched as Anna turned up the main street.

  “That’s your sister, isn’t it, Beau?” he asked. Hearing no reply, he turned to see what occupied the
young man. “Is it giving you some difficulty?” He strode forward to inspect Beau’s progress. He was struggling with the ramrod as he loaded the howitzer that was in place just off the landing. “I believe you’ve rammed it crooked again,” offered Bagwell. “When the ball is halfway down, you’ve got to hold the ramrod as straight as you can, or the sabot will jam in the barrel.”

  Frustrated, Beau heaved his back into the wooden ramrod. It sank home. Once he was sure the ball was solidly in place, he withdrew it and returned it to its bracket on the mount of the gun. Bagwell took the spyglass from his jacket and scanned the horizon for the third time. Not a vessel was in sight; his warnings had done the job.

  “Light her off, Beau!” he trumpeted. Beau ran a long brass wire down the vent to prepare the charge, following it with a length of fuse. Setting it alight, both men ran to the shelter of the nearby warehouse. In seconds the calm of the waterfront was shattered by a thunderous roar. Dense clouds of white smoke blanketed the wharf as the distinctive odor of burning black powder wafted over the main street. Bagwell and Beau scurried back to observe the path of the shell. Its destination was the rotting remnant of the Venus, far across the harbor. The shell whistled over the channel, then burst through the hull of the old wreck and buried itself in the mud.

  “Good work, man!” Bagwell crowed, extending his hand. Beau looked pleased. “She’s as accurate as ever. And your aim’s improved.”

  “Thank you,” said Beau, not looking up. The maintenance of the howitzer was Beau’s personal responsibility. Twice a year it was test-fired; today it had passed with flying colors. He was already cleaning the cannon, swabbing the bore with a wooden-handled wool mop.

  “Looks as though you’ll be all right on your own here.”

  “That I will,” answered Beau.

  “Well done,” said Bagwell. “Well done, Captain.”

  Beau appreciated the formal term of address. On occasion, Edmund Bagwell tended to forget who was Captain of the militia. As ragged a group as they were, Beau was still their commander. He had volunteered for the post. At their infrequent gatherings and exercises he had no problem giving orders, and the men did not hesitate to carry them out. They had come to appreciate his leadership. Each militiaman knew the details of Anna Daisey’s rescue during the storm of ’61, and each had to agree that he himself would likely have fallen short by comparison.

  The large bronze gun—six men had strained to lift it onto its mounting—was a legacy of Henry D. Sharpe, who ordered it removed from the Louisiana and installed at the Chincoteague wharf on the morning of his departure three and a half years earlier. He left an ample supply of ammunition as well. The howitzer was his pride and joy, along with the three larger guns that made up the chief armament of the ship. Regrettably, the orders he held in December of 1861 had promised no further combat activity. Little could be found for a coastal patrol vessel. The Union Army had taken control of the entire Eastern shore of Maryland and Virginia late in 1861, declaring the whole area secure. The fighting was elsewhere. The rebels in the region, at least the two thousand or so who had revealed themselves, had been captured. All was quiet.

  The Louisiana was badly in need of repair after her long deployment. She sailed to the Philadelphia Navy Yard in mid-December. Chincoteague no longer required her services. The single ill-considered rebel assault on the island had faded into memory. The word from the Department of the Navy to Captain Sharpe was brief: mission accomplished. The Captain hoisted anchor in time to spend Christmas in Providence.

  Before he took his leave of the island, Henry Sharpe made it his personal business to distribute twenty-one licenses entitling merchants to ship and sell oysters. The first went to Edmund Bagwell; many of the remaining twenty did as well, through roundabout routes. The licenses were the reward that Bagwell, and those of like mind, had earned for their loyalty to the Union in the face of a serious threat to their lives and fortunes. The risk had paid off handsomely. Without the licenses, no shipping could penetrate the strangling blockade that Union warships enforced up and down the coast.

  The main intention was to cut off the supply of arms to the South. The effect was to cut off anything that travelled by ship. That included all the most common things used in everyday life—oysters among them. With shipping licenses in place, a dry spell in Chincoteague commerce was over. Oysters could travel safely over water without the risk of seizure by Union ships. They were among the few commodities that could. Not a jar of jam, a bolt of cloth, or an ingot of steel could reach the mainland without Union Navy approval, and in the rebel South approval was not forthcoming. When Edmund Bagwell loaded the first barrel of oysters onto a ship bound for New York he knew that good times had begun. Wartime prices would only rise. Thanks to his clandestine voyage to Hampton Roads many months ago, his oysters, and those of his friends and associates, would be the only Eastern Shore oysters available in the restaurants of the northern cities. Everyone knew that Eastern Shore oysters were the finest. The rest was a foregone conclusion. Edmund Bagwell would thrive and prosper.

  He gave thanks.

  As Edmund Bagwell calculated how he would profit from the Union blockade, John Grinnald already made a good living evading it. Reclusive as he was, he was no fool; when the storm robbed him of his home and the few possessions he could claim in the world, he knew he had to recover quickly. With his still ruined, his whiskey money was gone. The remainder of duck season didn’t look good. He was too old to live like in a tent like an Indian for long, and he would not stoop to thievery.

  Blockade running looked like the best choice.

  Blockade runners filled the role that daring individuals always fill when the law denies people the things they want. When Operation Anaconda closed Southern ports, the captains of fast ships defied their Northern gatekeepers by sailing under their noses—usually by night—with the goods that their Southern neighbors would pay most dearly for. The profit in blockade running was far greater than any lawful commerce, and it wasn’t nearly as dangerous as it appeared. Though ships would be fired upon, a fast one would never be caught. Large schooners were the main players in the game of cat-and-mouse, but tiny one-man boats could find a place at the table as well. John Grinnald decided to try his hand.

  He had no boat, no money to buy one, and no supplies to build one. He would have to borrow one. Many had taken damage in the storm. In exchange for help with repairs, a captain might be persuaded to offer the use of his vessel after hours.

  The arrangements proved easier than he expected. Grinnald knew a fellow named Bennett Stott, a man with deep-set little eyes and a nose disfigured in some long-ago quarrel. He was known for a lack of principle and a thirst for whiskey. Stott lived alone on a small boggy plot at the edge of Wildcat Marsh. He fished to keep body and soul together; from time to time, his fishing trips led him to John Grinnald’s cabin, where he would barter a good portion of his catch for white whiskey. Most customers took their jug and left quickly, but Stott would linger for a few hands of cards over a pot of chowder. Grinnald liked him, as much as he liked any man.

  Stott’s boat, a New Haven Sharpie called Rahab, was well-suited for blockade running: twenty-five feet, with a broad beam and a shallow draft. She boasted a single lug-rigged sail and could be poled silently through the shallows. When loaded lightly she was fast as all getout. A light load would do; John Grinnald would carry only cargo that commanded the highest price per pound.

  The two men took six days to patch up the boat, slowed by bouts of drinking and frequent headaches. Afterwards, she wasn’t pretty, but when she proved seaworthy Grinnald loaded Rahab with patent medicine, sewing needles, and the remnants of his whiskey. He intended to sell most in Crisfield and the remainder at Lookout Point.

  The plan was a thing of beauty. The Louisiana was easily avoided; everyone knew the comings and goings of its crew. At twilight Grinnald sailed northwards, past Wildcat Point, crossing the channel just out of sight of the anchored gunboat. Then he swung south, keeping a
close eye out for the ships that haunted the Chesapeake Bay. If he was spotted, his plan was to set sail and run, hiding the boat in one of the countless inlets that pockmarked the coast. Let the Yankees try to find him.

  His caution proved unnecessary. He was a tiny and elusive target, and the Union ships were otherwise engaged. Grinnald swapped his minimal cargo for a surprisingly heavy pouch of silver coins, returning with an empty boat and a light heart. Two to three times a week the Rahab made her circuit, each trip more profitable than the last, as Grinnald tailored his cargo to reflect demand. He had no trouble finding merchandise. Sympathetic neighbors sought him out with goods to offer. They got a warm feeling knowing that had helped their compatriots on the mainland and an even warmer feeling from the coins that jingled in their pockets.

  He continued all winter and well into the spring. During the week the money accumulated, and on Saturdays Grinnald spent it. Lumber and hardware piled up at the site of his former cabin on Assateague while he planned for its replacement. He would make this one more comfortable, with a tar-paper roof and a porch with a rocking chair. He found a new dog. The dog ate well.

  Very late one ink-black night, with the smell of rain in the air and thunder rolling overhead, it all came crashing down for John Grinnald. He pulled up to his customary landing at Point Lookout. When he stepped out of his boat he was met not by his usual contact but by a dozen Union soldiers. He tried to flee, but the soldiers were far too quick for the old gunner. He didn’t go without a fight. Three of them wrestled him down, nearly drowning him. They blacked his eyes and knocked his hat into the ocean, but they felt no need to fire their weapons, and his life was spared.

  He was court-martialed that morning by officers of the USS Cumberland and was remanded to the federal prison camp at Point Lookout, a few miles distant. It was a hellish place, filthy and almost unimaginably overcrowded: ten or twenty thousand prisoners—no one kept much of a count—jammed onto forty acres in open tents. The water was putrid, and stank. The food rations served as a slow sentence of death. Each day men were carried to their graves, but John Grinnald was among the toughest of the lot. When the war ended he was released, ragged and emaciated, to find his way home.