Every stick of lumber and supplies, down to the last three-penny nail, had disappeared while he suffered at Point Lookout. No one seemed to know anything about it. Forced to start afresh, Grinnald did the only thing he could: he bargained for an old gun and took up hunting ducks again. Not many weeks later a telltale plume of smoke rose from the mosquito-infested clump of cedars where his still had stood. When he sat in the evening sipping the fresh white dog that dripped slowly into its waiting reservoir, Point Lookout faded to a memory.
A very bad memory, but a memory nonetheless.
Anna Daisey continued her trips to Assateague. Elizabeth Reynolds was missing; Sam Dreher was gone. When either might return was not hers to know. The island was a very different place. The bright empty seashore that had always been her comfort seemed dreadfully lonely now. So many of the wild plants reminded her of Elizabeth. She recalled their names, their uses as medicine, and where Elizabeth had kept her stores of them. All that had been blown away by the wind. She saw visions of Sam Dreher in the places that were their own. She could not sit in a certain grove of cedars, or on a particular grassy spot by the seaside, without sensing him beside her and feeling his arms around her. The loss of being there without him was akin to physical pain. Still, she could not keep herself away from the island long. Despite the ache that it brought to her, Assateague was part of her spirit. Its land and its creatures fed her eyes and inspired her hands to draw. She searched diligently for new subjects, though she knew that the same drawings that sold before would easily sell again. Mr. Breckenridge’s visit had meant more to Anna than he could possibly know.
The sneak skiff was lost somewhere in the channel between the islands. Beau borrowed a rowboat that was kept behind the Bagwell Waterfowl and Provision Company and rarely used. Bagwell said that he would come to get it if it were needed; for the time being, he was just as happy to see it moored on the creek behind the Daisey home.
As soon as Anna recovered her strength, Beau took her to Assateague to look for Elizabeth. The day was cold, strangely quiet and still, and soft low rollers lapped at the shore. A few ponies were about, foraging. Willow was in good health, uninjured in the storm, and welcomed his Anna. She threw her arms about his neck and thanked God that he was spared.
The lighthouse was empty. Beau laid his shoulder to the door of the little cabin where Elizabeth normally spent the winter, and forced it open. Dampness and a musty odor greeted him. The wind and water had left chaos in their wakes. Her few pieces of furniture were smashed and scattered about. Shards of broken crockery crunched underfoot. Sand coated the floor and mud was caked in the corners of the room, slowly drying and cracking in long, jagged furrows. No attempt had been made to undo the damage. Clearly no one had stayed there since the storm passed. Not a trace remained of the linen tent under whose blessed shade Anna had passed so many hours. Elizabeth’s favorite bench, a lone witness to what had been, lay buried in the shifting sand many yards from the place where it belonged.
Anna entered the cold, dark lighthouse, ascending the winding brick stair as she had done so often with Elizabeth. She could sense immediately the odd angle at which the tower now leaned. She clung to the wall to lessen her feelings of vertigo. Drawings still hung on the rough bricks, stuck there by their creator. Anna gathered them up one by one, sliding a finger gently beneath the paper to release the grip of the pine pitch that held them. When she was close to the top of the stair she paused at the loose brick that concealed Elizabeth’s store of money. The best thing to do would be to take it back with her and hide it somewhere in her home. She slid the brick loose, only to discover the space behind it empty.
She stopped, staring at the empty hollow that Elizabeth had kept filled with coins. What could it mean? No one was aware of the hiding place. It was impossible to tell that the brick was loose simply by looking at it. Why would a passer-by think to remove it? She must have taken her money along when she fled the storm—but how did she leave Assateague, and where was she? Anna smiled to herself. This was just like Elizabeth.
She is alive, she thought. Joy flooded through her. The lighthouse was all but destroyed, and with it most of Elizabeth’s living, but she had left to seek solace somewhere else. When and where she might see the medicine woman again, Anna did not know, but she was sure that she would see her. They would draw and laugh together again. No storm could divide them forever.
Anna rolled the drawings into a tight bundle and held them close as Beau rowed back home. She would keep them just as they were, a reminder of her friend. She decided to believe that they still walked the earth together, now on separate paths.
There was not one moment during the years of the war that Anna Daisey despaired of Sam Dreher’s return. Often, her mind was not her friend; it reminded her of the many reasons that she might never again hold her love in her arms. She dreaded most strongly the possibility that he might be killed in the fighting. That possibility was not small. Word often travelled to Chincoteague of battles that had been fought, and the thousands that had perished on both sides. As time passed, it became undeniable even in the south that the Union armies had gained the advantage, but it was gained at the price of lives lost. How could she assure herself that her Sam was not among them? The war dragged on for more than three years after he was taken from her.
Still, her hope lived.
Even if he survived the conflict, what prevented another girl from catching his eye, just as she had? They had known each other such a short time when he sailed away. He could find a girl in any port he chose—a prettier one, eager to make the acquaintance of a handsome young carpenter. How could he resist such a temptation? Why should he? She received not a single letter from him; this was perhaps the most difficult of her trials. She knew that his writing was poor, and that few letters of any kind reached the island. Confederate post carried Confederate mail, and Union mail did not reach Virginia. But not one letter? She could hardly imagine circumstances so bad and luck so fickle that she did not receive even one.
Even after months, then years, without a word, she did not yield to despair.
Beau was different after the storm. While Anna recovered, he stayed very close to his sister, hovering over her in his own way in case she took a sudden turn for the worse. When he could see beyond any doubt that she was well again, he began to disappear nearly every day between the hours of sunup and sundown. At the end of two weeks he brought home a good amount of money. He explained to Mary that he had been out fishing every day with Elijah Bunting and others and intended to continue. He did, fishing, sometimes oystering or clamming, and earning the trust of the captains of some larger boats. Anna rejoiced at his new success and the change in his humor, but in her lonelier moments she often sought him out, only to find him away from home, out on the water. He did not produce so many ducks now that his daytime hours were spoken for, but it felt good to sit beside him in the evenings as he carved. He and Anna did not talk about Sam often. When they did Beau could not offer encouragement. It was clear that he did not expect to see the young sailor again.
The money that Beau and Anna brought into the household allowed Mary Daisey a blessed respite. For the first time in years, she was unchained from her sewing machine for a small part of the day. Worry and work had worn deep lines in her face that never truly left her, but when she sat with Anna and drank tea, her careworn mask faded, and the happy young woman who had been courted by Sweet William Daisey came out for a visit. Those were the times that Anna held most dear.
She knew her mother too well to bring up the subject of Sam Dreher. She recalled her advice with perfect accuracy. He is a sailor in the Union Navy. He'll move on to another place, and leave you. By an unimaginable turn of events, Mary's counsel had proved correct. There was little point in giving her an opportunity to point that out. Anna chose to enjoy their brief unburdened time together without introducing strife. Of the dreams that had come to her while she lay in her bed, burning with fever, she remembered only bits and
flashes. She recalled the reunion with her father, familiar and safe as if he had never left. In those same dreams, her mother was distant. She resolved not to let the distance remain between them.
The sea had taken Sweet William, and, in a different way, it had taken Sam. That was not Mary Daisey’s fault. Mary had done all that she could. The sea is a thief; it takes what it wishes.
The War Between the States had drawn to a close in early April of that year, 1865, at Appomattox, a pretty little town surrounded in springtime by green fields, far from the islands of the Eastern Shore. News of General Lee’s surrender took time to reach the most far-flung outposts. Two battles were fought in Georgia a week later, and a few ships at sea, always the last to get information, remained on patrol for some months afterwards. Chincoteague, the only Virginia town exempt from the Union blockade, heard the story more quickly than most. Edmund Bagwell was the first to be told. He sent a man to ring the brass bell at the Atlantic Hotel. Men, women, and children came running, some in a state of panic, fearing another attack was in progress.
Beau Daisey was unloading a catch when he heard the unmistakable peal of the bell. To his clear satisfaction, nearly half of the militia was already there when he arrived, and many showed up soon after, panting for breath.
A loud cheer went up when Bagwell made the announcement. A murmur ran through the crowd as each man or woman began to speculate on what the news might mean for him personally. It was agreed that special services should be organized that very evening at both large churches, and that hymns of thanksgiving should be offered to a generous God. The island and its oyster trade had survived the conflict that divided the nation, and all would now be well. The citizens of Chincoteague were most grateful.
Not ten days after Henry Breckenridge left Chincoteague with Anna Daisey’s drawings under his arm, another visitor arrived on the island. He sought out the Daisey household, and found it readily. When Anna responded to his knock on her door, he greeted her wearing pieces of a United States Navy uniform that had seen better days. On his head was an oversized straw hat, crisp and new, that shaded his square face and full beard from the midday sun. He carried a sea bag, patched many times.
“Good afternoon, Miss Daisey,” he said. A few moments passed before Anna recognized him; it had been more than three years since they last met, and his face, dusty from his long journey, was more than a little changed.
It was Ethan Platt.
Anna’s gaze darted quickly over his shoulder, hoping that Sam followed close behind him. Ethan turned, wondering what her eyes were seeking, then suddenly knew. “I’ve come alone,” he said.
“Forgive, me Mr. Platt,” she offered quickly. “I have quite forgotten my manners. We have had so few visitors since...” her voice trailed off, then recovered. “Please, come inside, please, Mr. Platt.” Anna turned towards her mother’s workroom. “Mother!” she called. “We have a guest.”
Mary Daisey emerged, still clutching a ruffle set with pins. Her tightly-set brows told Anna that she had been startled in the midst of her work.
“Mr. Platt!” she cried, rushing forward and nearly embracing him before she caught herself. “Thank Heaven you…” Again she stopped herself short. “You’ve come to be with us again,” she added. Silently she gave thanks to God that Ethan stood before them alive and well; so very many had perished. “Surely you will take some tea with us, will you not?” She scanned the young man’s face beneath its coating of dust, unfamiliar lines framing his eyes and creasing his forehead. His hunger showed plainly. “And it is time for our meal, Mr. Platt. You must join us, yes?” Mary did not wait for his answer, but turned to the kitchen and set to work. “Anna, please keep Mr. Platt company for a short while.”
Biscuits went into the oven and very speedily came out. The kettle boiled. Mary stirred up ham and gravy on the stovetop and served it with the last of the biscuits, to Ethan’s delight. The young man settled into his chair, the ache in his stomach quickly fading, as the distillation of three years’ history passed in conversation. At last, a long silence demanded they broach the subject that all had thus far avoided. Clearly it fell to Anna.
“Do you know Sam’s whereabouts?” she asked, keeping the urgency from her voice by sheer force of will.
Her heart sank when Ethan admitted that he did not. More than a year had passed since they last served together: May, 1864, at the second battle of Drewry’s Bluff.
Drewry’s Bluff, Virginia had seen two encounters between the rival armies. He and Sam and had fought in the first one as shipmates. The two left Chincoteague under Navy guard just days after the storm in 1861, exiled from Henry D. Sharpe’s command, bound for action somewhere in the Chesapeake. All winter they toiled at Hampton Roads, repairing and refitting the ships of the Federal navy.
Within two weeks of their arrival a sealed envelope appeared at the telegraph office, addressed to Sam Dreher. The messenger who carried it had disappeared by the time Sam was summoned to the office. The letter inside was written in a strong hand:
“Dear Mr. Dreher,
I feel the duty and obligation to inform you that Miss Anna Daisey is alive and well, having survived the grave illness with which she was suffering when you left her. Despite its gravity the illness appears to have had no lasting effect. We are grateful and relieved, as no doubt you will be as well.
I will add that I had not anticipated the turn of events that occurred after I shared with your Capt. Sharpe the information given to me by my daughter. Though the results were perhaps unavoidable, for my own part I found them regrettable. Our family is in your debt for your many services to us. We pray for the safety of you and your fellow troops, and for success on the field of battle.
E. Bagwell
Chincoteague, Va.
Sam ran to Ethan, waving the letter, and his friend knew immediately from his joyful face that Sam’s prayers had been answered. Since leaving the island Sam had suffered mightily with the terrible fear that the few precious final hours he had spent with his Anna might have proved her undoing. Edmund Bagwell’s letter brought an end to the torture of wondering. Though they were separated, they had cheated the gale. Sam walked with renewed strength. Hope lived.
As April drew to a close they were ordered to the Galena, an ironclad gunboat fresh from the Mystic shipyard. They would be members of its first crew. Neither was aware that the handsome new ship would soon play a leading role in the first attempt to capture the rebel capitol at Richmond.
Not a week after they came aboard, Galena set sail up the James River. Richmond was her goal. She was a thing of fearsome beauty: a thousand tons altogether, steam-driven, her stout wooden hull shielded by two layers of thick iron plate. Her designers pledged that she was shot-proof. For offensive purposes she carried four of the newest Dahlgren guns, wickedly accurate, and two monstrous Parrott rifles that could lob a shell as heavy as a man four miles on level ground. On the 13th of May, 1862, she set her course for the heart of the Confederacy, meaning to break it quickly. Galena was not alone; she was the flagship of a fleet that included four additional gunboats, among them the indestructible ironclad Monitor. Each of the ships posed a threat. Collectively, the five were a force to be reckoned with.
The five vessels proceeded up the James with the purposeful slowness of a family of bears. Sam and Ethan, their services unneeded for the time being, watched from the relative safety of an armored gun port as their gunners fired occasionally at snipers hidden in the brush on the banks. Like the rest of the crew, their spirits were high; they were spoiling for a good fight.
There was, alas, an obstacle. Those who had drawn the battle plan had taken notice of it, but minimized its importance, as battle planners often do. It was known as Drewry’s Bluff, named after an army Captain, Augustus Drewry, and it was nothing more than an earthen cliff that rose a hundred feet above the water. Its location was what mattered: the bluff stood at a sharp bend in the James River just seven miles from Richmond. Artillery placed strategically
on the bluff could dominate the river for miles in both directions. What the Union strategists did not know was that the Confederate Navy commander in charge had already constructed fortifications on the bluff and fixed eight cannon in them. Unable to do much more on land, he had called in a gunship of his own, anchoring it just upriver from the bluff to toss shells over the defenses onto the attackers downstream.
The James ran shallow at that point, just deep enough for heavy warships to navigate. All manner of debris had been ferried to the spot: boulders, pilings, rock-filled corncribs, and the hulks of old sailing vessels. The whole assortment was linked with heavy chain and sunk mid-river to block further passage by the attacking fleet. If the Union was to take Richmond that day, it would have to be on foot—and no infantry had been sent.
Early in the morning, the five vessels anchored just a quarter-mile from the bluffs and commenced shelling. From their elevated and protected position, the Confederates shelled back. Within three minutes a cannonball had penetrated Galena’s armor; within five, a ball had gone through one side of the hull and out the other. As Sam and Ethan labored frantically to patch the damage, her captain signaled Monitor to come forward and take the offensive. She made a startling discovery: her guns, positioned for the close-quarters hammering of ship-to-ship sea battles, could not be elevated far enough to fire upon the fort. At sea Monitor was invincible. At Drewry’s Bluff, she was useless. Undamaged by the cannon fire directed at her, she retreated downstream to search for a better angle, firing over the heads of Galena’s crew, but by the time she did so the men on the bluffs held the upper hand.
The Sea is a Thief Page 20
