The Rising of Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  “May I?” Striker said, reaching across the counter and pulling the log book to him.

  Mr. Conway never had a chance to respond, for the woman grabbed the poor man by the lapels of his vest and pulled him halfway across the counter, screaming her demands that he double-check the reported information. In all honesty, I couldn’t say I blamed her. I understood her despair.

  Grabbing the log book, Striker headed to the far end of the counter and began riffling through the pages until he found the year he was looking for: 1904.

  Below the year, the page was divided into columns. In the first, the date of the wreck was written. In the second, the ship’s name was logged. In the third was a list of the cargo carried. And in the fourth column was listed a landmark near the site of the wreck, such as an island, or a lighthouse.

  Striker scanned down the page with his right index finger and then stopped at two different wrecks listed on two different days in 1904. One took place on January 24th. It was a merchant ship, and its cargo was listed as “assorted,” which usually meant there was plenty of value on board, sometimes in the form of gold or silver. The landmark nearest it was the Hillsboro Inlet Light. The second wreck took place later in the year, on October 3rd. This one was a merchant ship as well, though it was carrying some passengers. Again, the cargo was listed as “assorted,” and the landmark closest to it was Jupiter Inlet Light. Striker flipped the page to 1905. Running his index finger down the column listing the landmarks, he found another listing with Jupiter Light being the closest to the wreck.

  “There are a lot wrecks,” Striker explained as he continued to gaze down at the pages. “And some of the same landmarks are listed over and over again. But those landmarks are the ones closest to the most dangerous reefs to navigate, so it only makes sense that they would be listed more frequently than some of the others.

  “For example, there’re a whole lot of wrecks off the Keys’ reefs, and the Dry Tortugas,” he continued. “But those reefs are in areas that are notoriously hard to navigate. There’s little room for error. But that’s not what I’m looking for.”

  “Then what are you looking for?” I asked. But instead of answering me, he flipped the page to 1906, and quickly ran his finger down the columns. Near the bottom of the page his finger stopped, and I heard him mutter, “Son of a bitch!”

  “What? What did you find?” I asked, peering over his arm, straining to see what he was reading.

  “Look,” he said, angling the book toward me so that I could see it better.

  Unlike the other wrecks in 1904 and 1905, I recognized the names of the 1906 wrecks: The Paso Rápido, and the Esmeralda.

  “The Paso is the one Papa and I salvaged with Ezra Asher,” I said excitedly. “And the other—the Esmeralda,” I said more softly after Striker told me to keep my voice down, “is the one Papa and I were going to salvage until we learned that Ezra was the wreck master. We didn’t want to work with him again, and I know the feeling was mutual.”

  “C’mon,” Striker said, closing the book. “Let’s get out of here.” He returned the log to Mr. Conway, who was busy trying to calm a young woman who was crying hysterically while holding a screaming baby in her arms.

  Striker ushered us through the throngs of people and out of the building. He was walking fast and I struggled to keep up with him. He finally stopped halfway down the block, beneath a massive, leafless banyan tree. The storm had stripped away every bit of green on it. Placing one of his hands on his hips and running the other through his hair, Striker looked upward, as though trying to find one small leaf among the naked branches.

  “Striker, what are you thinking?” I anxiously asked.

  “The landmarks for every one of those five wrecks I pointed out to you were lighthouses,” Striker explained. “And in every one of those lighthouses, either Owen Perry or Adam Wilson was the keeper at the time.”

  I was absolutely at a loss for words, but it didn’t matter, because Striker wasn’t finished talking.

  “And if I had a hundred dollars left to my name,” he continued, as the anger became ever more evident in the tone of his voice and the flashing of his dark brown eyes, “I’d bet every penny of it on the likelihood that Ezra Asher was the wreck master on every damn one of them, too.”

  Chapter 31

  Chasing a Tiger

  Striker and I started walking toward Duval Street, and as we did, a thousand questions filled my head; including what he planned to do with this newfound information.

  “Nothing right now,” Striker replied when I asked him. “I’ll wait ’til we get back to Miami. They’re overwhelmed down here. No one has the time to hear about some corrupt lighthouse keepers. But once we’re back home, I’ll contact the Secretary of the Department of Commerce, in Washington, D.C. I imagine he’ll open some kind of formal investigation.”

  One question nagged at me. “Striker, was your parents’ wreck listed?” I hated to bring up the subject, but if the wreck had been caused on purpose rather than the result of a structural failure, then the fault would not lie with Striker.

  “No.” He quickly replied, as though he’d checked for that very same thing. “Their wreck wasn’t recorded. The boat was a small, personal craft. Nothing large went down that night.”

  Neither of us said anything for a little while after that. We were both lost in our own thoughts, though I had a feeling they were the same. The fact was the night Striker’s parents wrecked on the reef, there’d been no storm to have caused them to slam into the deadly coral, and Striker’s father knew the reefs well, so an error on the part of the captain was extremely unlikely. As a result everyone had assumed the wreck was caused by a structural failure.

  We turned onto Duval Street, and the medical tents were the first sight that greeted us. “Striker, before we leave, I have to check them again,” I said, pointing at the makeshift hospitals.

  We checked there, and again at the private homes we’d been told were housing patients, but my parents had not been brought in.

  “We need to start back, Eliza,” Striker said quietly as we walked down Francis Street, after checking the last private home.

  “I know,” I whispered. Then, unable to hold it in any longer, I walked over to a tattered palm tree, rested my right arm high up on its trunk, buried my face against it and began to sob. Suddenly, I felt Striker grip my shoulder. He said nothing as I let my anguish out. He just stood behind me, patiently waiting as I released every last tear in me. Finally, after several minutes, I moved away from the tree, rubbed the wetness off my face, and firmly said, “Let’s go.” There was nothing else I could say or do. There was nothing more to be done.

  We resumed walking and then Striker reminded me that he needed to get fuel. “I’m going to grab the cans from the boat and see if I can get them filled up. Instead of you coming with me, why don’t you see if you can find some food for us? Anything’ll do. More than that, though, we need fresh water. I’ll bring the water jug back with me and I’ll see if I can find a place to fill it.”

  Agreeing, I headed down Duval, towards town, keeping an eye out for anybody selling anything along the sidewalks, and peering down side streets when I intersected them. I found a woman selling coconuts, and bought a couple. A block or so down, I found a woman selling cookies. It was an enterprising move on her part, for people were buying anything edible that they could find, and making the cookies was a cheap and easy thing to do. I bought the four remaining oatmeal ones, and moved on.

  Crossing the intersection of Catherine and Duval Streets, I saw a small table set up about fifty yards down on Catherine. From where I was, I couldn’t tell what the young woman was selling, so I went to take a look. Fortunately, she had various sized jars of water. On the front of her table was a handwritten note that claimed the water had been drawn from her well. It looked clear, but before purchasing it, I took the top off of one of the larger jars, pour
ed a small amount into my cupped hand and tasted it. It was fine, so I decided to buy it and ask her if we could pay her to fill up our water jug when Striker returned with it.

  Pulling a dollar from my pants’ pocket to pay for the water, I waited for the young woman who was selling it to finish up with another customer. As I stood there, I studied her face and decided that she must be about seventeen or so. With her blond hair and blue eyes, she was rather pretty, but there was something hard about her, too, even at that young age. She looked as though she’d not lived an easy life, but in Key West, that wasn’t difficult to imagine. This wasn’t the kind of place where women with delicate natures were often found. To live in this place required a certain amount of strength and determination that pampered ladies didn’t possess. There was a hardness to the young woman’s eyes, and around her mouth. Her neck looked as though it hadn’t been washed in—

  “Where did you get that pendant?” I asked the young woman in a near-panicked voice, interrupting her transaction with an older lady.

  There, around the blond woman’s neck was the mother of pearl pendant with the carved tiger’s face that my father had made for my mother many years before. There was only one like it in the world, and this stranger standing before me was wearing it.

  “What? Oh, that?” she replied, looking down at the pendant and then giving the older woman the change due her.

  “Yes! That one! Where did you get it?” I cried. People turned to look at the ruckus I was beginning to make, but I paid them no mind.

  “Someone gave it to me,” the girl said dismissively. She started to turn away, to assist another waiting customer with money in hand.

  “Wait a minute!” I shouted, grabbing her by the arm to stop her.

  She pulled her arm out of my grasp. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are, or who you think this necklace belongs to,” the young woman said, clearly angry now. “But someone gave it to me, and I can’t remember who!” Again, she started to turn away, but a hand shot past me and grabbed the woman’s arm, stopping her once again.

  “Where’d you get the pendant?” a low voice demanded. Though I recognized the voice instantly, I turned around and confirmed that Striker was behind me.

  “Like I told her,” the young woman replied, trying to pull free from Striker’s grip. “It was a gift.”

  “You’re lying,” he flatly stated.

  “I ain’t!” she shouted.

  “Tell you what,” Striker said. “Let’s get the sheriff over here and he can decide.”

  The young woman scoffed at that. “Yeah, you go find the sheriff! You think he’s gonna give two rats’ asses about a stupid pendant when he’s got all the rest of this shit goin’ on?” she laughed, referring to the bedlam around us. She had a point, and both Striker and I knew it.

  “Yeah, you know, you’re right about that,” Striker agreed. “Which means he isn’t gonna pay us much mind while I’m whippin’ the hell out of you until you tell us the truth, is he?” That got the young woman’s attention. “Now,” he continued calmly, “here’s what we’re gonna do: I’m gonna give you ten dollars to stop what you’re doin’ right now, and take us to the place you got that pendant—specifically, the woman you got it from.”

  Striker finally let the girl jerk her arm free from his grasp, but instead of running off, she leaned in toward us so that only he and I could hear her. “I can’t take ya there or I’ll lose my job,” she confided. “It’s a house I clean a couple of times a week, and I need that money.”

  “Okay, go on,” Striker encouraged.

  “It’s Mrs. English’s house, and she took in a few folks who got hurt in the storm. She’s got three of ’em there now, and I snitched the necklace off of an end table in one of the bedrooms. Please, mister, don’t tell her. I gotta keep this job! I got a young ’un to feed, and no one helpin’ me do it.”

  “What did the woman look like—the one whose bedroom you took the pendant from?” I asked, barely able to breathe. God, please let the woman say she has red hair, I prayed. Sweet Jesus, please!

  “Well…” The girl’s brows furrowed as she tried to recall. “I think she had red hair. Yeah, it was red!” She said with more certainty. “With a few bits of white in it!” she added.

  My hope soared! “Where? Where is she? Was there a man with her? A big man with black hair—with bits of white in his, too?” My voice was shaky, just like the rest of me.

  “Maybe.” She shrugged. “Honestly, I wasn’t much interested.”

  “Only in things you could steal,” Striker sarcastically added.

  I shot him a look. The last thing I wanted was for him to antagonize the girl.

  Turning back to her, I said in a kind, soft voice. “Would you tell me where the house is?”

  “On White Street,” she said to me. “It’s the big pink Victorian—the only one painted that ugly bright pink color. Just go four blocks up and turn right. It’s the third house on the right. But please, I’m beggin’ ya, don’t tell Mrs. English I stol’ it. Here,” she said, slipping the pendant’s chain over her neck and thrusting it at me. “Take it. Just don’t tell her.”

  “Here,” Striker said, holding the promised ten dollars out to her, plus another five. “Feed your baby with this.” The young woman snatched the bills from his fingers. “And quit stealing,” he added, before hurrying away to catch up with me as I headed toward White Street.

  Chapter 32

  Soundly Whupped

  I repeatedly knocked loudly on the front door of the pink Victorian until a woman cracked it opened and peeked out. Seeing that it didn’t look like anyone too threatening, she opened the door wider. The middle-aged woman was tiny. I guessed her to be less than five feet tall. She wore her hair pulled back in a tight bun, and she had broad hips and round rosy cheeks. She wore a cream-colored dress with small purple violets scattered over it, and tied around her ample waistline was a clean, crisp white apron.

  “Lord, child, you got to give a body a chance to get to the door before you go knockin’ it down,” she scolded, but there wasn’t any anger in her voice. “Now, how can I help you?”

  “Are you Mrs. English?” I asked. When she confirmed that she was, I went on. “I was told you’re caring for several people who were injured in the storm. My parents are among the missing, and I was wondering if they might be with you. Their name is Harjo—Eve and Max Harjo. Mama has red—”

  I didn’t have to finish describing them. Mrs. English beamed, and the smile made her soft brown eyes bright and her cheeks even rosier. She opened the door wide and stood aside. “Come in! Come in! Thank the good sweet Savior you’re here! Lord, that poor woman has been worried sick about you and your brother. She’s even been talkin’ in her sleep about y’all.”

  “Is Papa with her?” I anxiously asked as I stepped inside the foyer.

  “He is.” She smiled even more broadly. “Come,” she said, motioning for us to follow her up the stairway directly in front of us.

  “Mrs. English, when did they come in, and how badly were they injured?” Striker asked as we followed her up. He’d taken the words right out of my mouth.

  “Yesterday morning,” she said, lowering her voice as she reached the second floor and turned left. I started to repeat the question about their condition, but she stopped in front of a door. She held her index finger up to her lips to quiet us, and then knocked softly. When there was no answer, she opened the door slightly and peeked around it. “Sweet,” she whispered, apparently referring to the scene inside. Then, she stepped aside so that we could enter, but Striker said he’d wait out in the hallway to give me some privacy. Nodding at him, I stepped past Mrs. English, and into the room.

  Lying on her back in a full-sized bed was Mama, and next to her was Papa, who was lying on his right side with his left arm draped protectively across her. Mrs. English was right; it was a very sweet
scene, indeed, and, to my mind, the most beautiful thing I’d ever seen. However, their bodies were battered.

  My mother had a bandage around her head, and there was a red spot on the white cotton material above her right eye where a wound was still oozing blood. There were also several cuts and bruises on her face, and an especially bad bruise on her right cheek. Papa’s face and head looked uninjured. However, his entire torso and shoulders were bandaged.

  I looked behind me and saw that Mrs. English was standing just inside the door. I assumed she had stayed to answer any questions I might have, or to be sure that my parents didn’t further injure themselves by moving too much when they saw me.

  “What’s wrong with them?” I whispered, terribly afraid of what the answer would be.

  “Nothin’ that a little time and God’s tender lovin’ care won’t take care of,” she assured me. “From the little they’ve been able to tell me, your mother was thrown against somethin’ on the boat. Said it happened when they hit a reef off Boot Key. The fact they were able to get to shore was through the grace of God, and the sheer determination of your father.”

  “What happened to his mid-section?” I reluctantly asked.

  “Well, I think he’s got a couple of broken ribs, or at least badly bruised, but it’s his back that’s a real mess,” Mrs. English explained. “But what exactly happened, I couldn’t tell you. Your father said the storm whupped him good, that was all. To me, it looked like someone had taken a cat o’ nine tails to him and shredded him. But other than kind of makin’ light of it, your father wouldn’t say what happened. You go ahead and wake ’em now.” She smiled and winked, encouraging me. “You’ll be the medicine that’ll mend ’em in no time.” She stepped into the hall and quietly closed the door behind her. Turning back to my parents, I walked over to my mother’s side of the bed and knelt down by her.

  “Mama?” I said softly, gently rubbing the edge of her face with the back of my hand. “Mama, can you hear me?”