The Rising of Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

“That’s hogwash!” I exclaimed. “Don’t you dare downplay what you did. You put your own neck on the line to save a lot of lives, and because of that, they’ll be around to tell their children about it, and their grandchildren…”

  “Okay, okay,” he laughed. “I get it.” Suddenly, he lost his smile and the expression on his face grew very serious. “Y’all go find Ma and Pa.”

  “We’re going to,” I assured him. “We’re going to,” I repeated, though I wasn’t sure if I was trying to convince Dylan or myself. Going up on my tiptoes, I kissed his cheek and then joined Striker down in the boat. Watching my brother as we pulled away, I was too choked up to say anything else so I simply lifted my hand in farewell. He waved back from the dock, and then started up the ladder to resume his duties as keeper, while Striker turned the bow toward the south and we resumed our journey into the unknown.

  Chapter 29

  Long Gone

  We stayed as close as we could to the barrier islands, while keeping an eye off the port side for any sign of Papa’s trawler. Bits and pieces of boats could be seen throughout the shallows and on the shorelines, and we guessed that some of the crews had sought refuge on the islands. But if Mama and Papa had done that, where were they now? Had they been picked up by rescue boats, or had they succumbed to the storm?

  As we passed Grassy Key, we saw a man’s body lying in the mangroves at the shoreline. The victim’s legs were stretched out toward the beach, and each wave that rolled up onto the sand washed his feet in a macabre ritual.

  “I gotta see if he’s still alive,” Striker said as he edged his boat closer to the shoreline. “From the looks of it, I seriously doubt it, but I’ve got to check. You wait here.”

  Striker threw the anchor and waded ashore, carefully approaching the body. Suddenly, he swatted his hands vigorously at something near the man’s face, and two large black birds immediately flew up, caw-cawing their resentment. Bending over the body, Striker took a quick assessment of it, then, after quickly scanning the area, he returned to the boat.

  “He’s long gone and there’s no one else with him. He was probably washed in from a wreck further out. I wish I could bury him, but we’ve got to keep going. We’re losin’ daylight fast.”

  As we neared Marathon, we saw the back of a sailboat sticking up from a sandbar. Carefully avoiding both it and the end of the sandbar, we had nearly passed it when I saw the last few letters of the boat’s name: DOG.

  “Wait!” I shouted. “Striker, hold up!”

  He threw the gear into neutral. “What is it? You know that boat?”

  Lying flat on my stomach, with my top half hanging over the end of the bow, I peered into the darkening turquoise water. The boat was the Salty Dog, and it belonged to Art Hennessey, our family friend and part-time keeper at the Biscayne Bay House of Refuge. He was the one who had relieved Dylan there.

  “It’s Art Hennessey’s boat, the Salty Dog. Do you know him?”

  “Yeah,” Striker replied, looking grim. “He’s a good man. I think we should take a look over there.” He nodded toward the mangroves. “His sailboat is pretty close to shore, so he might be up there somewhere.”

  “I know,” I sighed. “I was thinking the same thing. If we don’t check for him and he’s never seen again, I’ll always think that we should have looked. That maybe…”

  “I know,” Striker agreed. “But, if we do that, then we’re not going to have enough daylight left to get over to Sombrero Light today. It’s over five miles out.”

  My heart told me to do one thing, but my conscience told me to do another. “We’ve gotta look.”

  “Alright,” he said, throwing out the anchor. “We’ll camp here tonight and then make a beeline for Sombrero at first light. Okay?”

  “Not really, but yes.”

  We waded through the water and began to search among Marathon’s mangroves. And though we saw an enormous amount of debris hung up in the vegetation; including a perfectly preserved small porcelain angel adorned with a Christmas wreath upon her head, we didn’t find Art, or anyone else—alive or otherwise.

  We searched until it was nearly dark, and as our first day of searching came to an end, my spirits seesawed back and forth between high and low. On the one hand, not seeing evidence of my family or any sign of their wreckage was good, and I was still able to hope that they were safe somewhere. On the other hand, not seeing any sign of them was extremely frightening. There was the very real possibility that they’d gone down between Miami and Key West, and that they would never be found. To me, that would be the worst outcome of all. I’d spend the rest of my life standing on the shore, staring out at the sea, watching for a ship that I knew, in my heart, would never return to port again.

  Striker went back to the boat for supplies, including a large tarp to make a lean-to. Since there were so many downed trees, making a shelter took no time at all. Using a palm tree that had blown over but whose crown had gotten wedged between two red mangrove trees, leaving the trunk about five feet off the ground, Striker threw the tarp over it and we instantly had a tent. Using some railroad spikes, he secured each corner to the ground. While he set it up, I went in search of driftwood to get a fire going. Without a doubt, the mosquitoes would eat us alive if we didn’t have the smoke to chase them off. Striker said if it got too bad we could sleep in the boat. There was a place built into the bow that had room enough for two people, but it’d be tight and like an oven in there, so we opted to sleep on the beach.

  Off in the distance, thunder sounded. Thick cumulus clouds were backlit by lightning, giving them an eerie orange glow. We sat between the tent and the fire, eating biscuits and smoked kingfish. Both of us were tired, as well as worried, so we talked quietly about where we would go after Sombrero Light. Our plan was to scan the shorelines of the islands en route to Key West, as well as to stop at American Shoal lighthouse, by Sugarloaf Key. The lighthouse was at the very north end of Key West, and my parents wouldn’t have gone any further south than that.

  “It’s starting to sprinkle,” Striker said, holding his hand out and catching a few tiny drops. At the same time, the fire sizzled as a few of the drops landed on the embers. We moved further back into the tent, taking the remains of our meal with us and silently watching the fire sputter.

  “Mosquitoes will come out in droves once it stops,” Striker said, as though he felt the need to fill the silence in the tent. From the pensive look on his face, I could tell there was something on his mind that was far more serious than mosquito bites.

  “Are you thinking about my folks, Striker? Are you thinking that they didn’t make it and that I’m leading us on a wild goose chase?”

  “No, no,” he quickly assured me. “Not at all. But, if you’re asking me whether I think they survived the storm or not, I’d say they had a better chance than most people. Your father knows how to read the weather, the smell of a storm when one’s coming, how it’s moving, and how intense it’s gonna be. He’s lived off the land a lot in his life. He knows how to read it, and he knows how to read the sea now, too. And so does your mother. Between the two of them, I think there’s a real good chance they’re holed up somewhere. We’re gonna keep believing that, too, until we’re out of places to look. Okay?” He searched my face as if gauging whether I believed him or not. I did believe him, because I needed to. I had to. Otherwise, I had no hope to hold on to.

  A sharp crack of thunder made me jump, and I scooted further back into the tent.

  Striker stayed where he was, looking at the approaching storm as lightning slashed the sky.

  “You know, Eliza, sitting under a tree is one of the worst places we could be right now,” he said with a mischievous smile.

  “So, what’s our other option? Wait it out in the boat?” I asked sarcastically.

  “No,” he laughed. “That’s the worst place to be!”

  In the dying firelight, I wat
ched the smile on Striker’s face evaporate as he turned away from the storm to look at me.

  “I’ve been asked to take the job at St. Augustine Light,” he simply stated.

  I felt as if the wind had been knocked out of me. “Did you take it?” I asked, forcing the words out.

  “Yes,” he replied firmly. “I leave in three weeks.”

  Thunder boomed loudly. But I felt as though I’d been hit with a bolt of lightning. It felt hard to breathe. I needed to be out of the tent. I needed fresh air and the feel of the cool rain on my face. But, most of all, I needed to be away from Striker.

  “Where’re you going?” he asked, startled, as I pushed my way past him.

  “I just…I need some air. I just need…” I couldn’t finish. Tears were starting to take the place of words. Not caring what dangers might be concealed in the darkness, I ran, stumbling over small obstacles in the sand as I did so. Trying to put some distance between myself and Striker, I moved higher up onto the island, away from the beach and the mangroves, until I found a stand of palm trees that had survived the storm. Stopping there to catch my breath, I didn’t hear Striker come up behind me. Grabbing me by the arm, he spun me around to face him.

  “Why the hell did you run like that, Eliza?” Striker cried, sounding both bewildered and frightened. He held my upper arms firmly so that I couldn’t run again. “Why would you do that?” he repeated.

  “Every time you and I start to get closer, you find a way to pull away from me!” I shouted as tears began to run down my cheeks, blending with the rain. “Every time!” I sobbed.

  My eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough so that I could see conflicting emotions play across Striker’s face.

  “Stop it, Eliza!” Striker shouted, still gripping me by the upper arms and shaking me once to emphasize his words.

  “Stop what?” I cried, totally at a loss.

  “Stop trying to make me love you!” he shouted. “Stop it!”

  For several seconds, he seemed frozen in place as though he was involved in some inner battle. I heard him swear under his breath before he pushed me back against the palm tree and covered my mouth with his, powerfully forcing his tongue inside, drinking me in, possessing me. He pressed himself fully against me so that I felt all of him, and as my body pressed back against his, and our tongues intertwined, it felt as though we were trying to fuse ourselves together. It was urgent and passionate, and far more intense than anything I’d ever felt with anyone before.

  Suddenly, he pulled away from me. As quickly as the kiss had started, it stopped. Completely at a loss, I stood there watching him as he stepped back, putting a couple of yards between us. He held his face up to the rain as if he was trying to wash something away; then he turned to me and said, “I can’t go back to what we started. I’ve changed too much to do that, Eliza. I’ve just changed too much.” He sounded defeated.

  “You didn’t change,” I said, my voice seething. “You broke.” Turning on my heel, I walked away from Paul Strickland, for the Striker I knew and loved so well was long gone.

  Chapter 30

  Planned Coincidences

  We resumed searching for my parents at first light, after I’d spent a sleepless night in the boat, while Striker stayed onshore in the tent. We said very little to each other, only speaking when we needed to and keeping the conversation focused on the task at hand.

  We crisscrossed back and forth between the remaining lighthouses we needed to check, the shorelines of the barrier islands, and the Keys. Over and over again, we were told that my parents hadn’t been seen. But as the keeper at the American Shoal lighthouse was quick to point out, my mother and father could be among the corpses still being collected on the barrier islands, or perhaps buried beneath one of the collapsed buildings in the Keys. Afraid of what might come out if I responded to his insensitive statement, I said nothing at all. Instead, Striker thanked him for his information, and quickly drove away from the dock.

  When we finally entered the waters of Key West, there was no rhyme or reason to the destruction. It was as if Mother Nature had decided she liked one building but was offended by another.

  After looking for a dock where we could tie up, and only finding either badly damaged ones, or docks that were completely full, we settled for a tree, then walked to town. Every street was bedlam as people searched for missing loved ones, or looked for help, or tried to find fresh water and supplies.

  Tents had been set up as makeshift hospitals along Duval and Eaton Streets. The wounded rested on long tables or pallets, while anyone with any sort of medical knowledge participated in caring for them. Blood-curdling screams rang out every now and then as people lost ruined appendages to the hacksaw, while moaning filled the air like some dreadful hum. We went from tent to tent, checking one pain-racked face after another, but my parents weren’t among them. And those we asked either hadn’t seen them, or wouldn’t know who they were if they had.

  Nearing the end of the day, I sat down beneath a palm tree on one of the side streets, while Striker went over to talk to a group of men. They were standing around a fire burning in a metal barrel, and every minute or so, they’d drop something else into the flames. From the greasy stench, I assumed they were burning human flesh, and from the size of the pieces being disposed of, I figured they were most likely the limbs that had been amputated throughout the day. Striker spoke with the men for only a moment, and then walked back to me. From the look on his face, I could tell the news wasn’t good, or at least not the news I so wanted to hear.

  “One man knew—knows—your father, but hasn’t seen him.” Striker quickly corrected himself, but not before I heard the slip. Just like me, he was losing hope that my folks would be found alive.

  “We’re gonna keep looking until we can’t go anymore tonight. Then we’ll sleep on the boat and start again at first light. We’re not gonna give up yet, Eliza,” he said determinedly.

  “Thank you, Striker,” I said softly. I was beyond grateful for his tireless efforts to find my family. And though a part of me was still intensely angry with him, as well as with myself, I knew that my anger was helping no one. I needed to put it aside for my parents’ sake, if for no other reason.

  The night was nearly as hot and humid as the day had been. Little air stirred, so we decided to sleep on top of the bow, instead of inside of it. The terrible noises in the town continued throughout the night, but because we were anchored some distance away, I was finally able to fall into an exhausted, but restless, sleep.

  At first light, we ate the reminder of our biscuits and then resumed our search. We checked the hospital tents again in the event that my parents had been brought in overnight, but they had not. We also checked with a couple of private homes that had been opened up to the wounded, but we had no luck there, either. Finally, in the late morning, Striker said aloud what we’d both been thinking for the last hour or so: “Eliza, I think we’ve done all we can here. What do you think? You about ready to go?”

  “Yes,” I said in a whispered voice. I felt tears rush to my eyes, and I looked away from Striker, not wanting him to see me start to break.

  “Listen, we’re not giving up yet,” Striker said, obviously seeing me start to crumple. “We’ll run up the Gulf side of the islands and check every one of ’em if we have to. But I’ve got to try to find some fuel first. And I also want to take a quick look at the log books over at the Port of Entry. You okay with that?” I told him I was, and we headed away from the frenzy of people on Duval Street.

  The Port of Entry was several blocks over on Simonton Street, and it was still standing, much to our relief. But the large two-storey stucco building was crammed full of people trying to find out the names of the ships that had gone down in the storm, and whether their loved ones were on them. Lists of the doomed ships and their passengers had been posted on the walls inside, and crowds gathered in front of them, readi
ng aloud the ships’ names, and the passengers they carried. Cries of grief echoed through the building, completely drowning out the much softer sighs of relief coming from those who didn’t find their loved ones’ ship on the list.

  Standing on my tiptoes next to Striker at the back of the crowd, I strained my eyes to see if I could make out the name Deep Secrets on the list. From where we stood, it was impossible to see, but as people moved on, we pushed our way to the front.

  “It’s not on it,” Striker said, turning to me with a smile of relief. But both he and I knew that just because the boat’s name was not there, that didn’t necessarily mean it hadn’t gone down. Because their trawler was a small, privately owned boat, rather than a large passenger ship, merchant vessel, or government-owned military ship, my parents were not required to file a report about who they were, where they were going, or what they were carrying when they left any port. The Department of Commerce did its best to report all lost vessels, but at times like these, it was an impossible task.

  Striker guided me over to a counter that was being manned by an agent of the Department of Commerce. Before Striker could even ask a question, the agent pointed to the list on the wall where we’d just been. “You’ll find all the names there.”

  “Mr…” Striker began, but had to lean down slightly in order to read the badge on the shorter man’s vest. “Conway,” he continued. “My name is Paul Strickland, and I’m one of several keepers at the Fowey Rocks light. I need to see your log book, if you don’t mind.”

  The man might have argued the point if the situation wasn’t what it was. Or he might have offered to look up the information Striker was requesting, but at the moment, the man had his hands full. Just then, a rather large woman, close to hysterics, came up to the counter and demanded that Mr. Conway review the information that was listed on the lost ships, saying she was quite sure he must be mistaken about some ship named the Franny Bee, that had her beloved son Cyril on board.