The Rising of Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

A chill crept up my spine, and I said no more. Neither did Paroh. Some things were better left unsaid.

  Chapter 37

  Collision Course

  Two days after visiting Paroh, Papa asked me to go with Simon and him up to Jupiter. He needed our help, he said, but would tell us no more. Later that afternoon, as we approached the Jupiter Inlet, I could see the stately red brick lighthouse in the distance, standing out sharply against the backdrop of a brilliant blue October sky. It was the perfect day to be out on the water if one wasn’t depending on the wind for sailing, which we weren’t. Instead, we were test running a small tug boat that my father was thinking about buying. It was one he’d seen at the Standard Oil dock when it had come up for sale several days before.

  After losing the trawler in the storm, Papa was in the market for a new boat, and he’d been longing for a tug. As he told Mama, there was a real need for them now that more and more visitors were sailing the waters of South Florida. With what he could earn from towing as well as salvaging, the rig would more than pay for itself within the first year. A tug boat was a fine commodity to have in waters as treacherous as ours were, he said, and Mama really couldn’t argue that point. As a matter of fact, my parents did very little in the way of arguing in the days following their miraculous survival in the storm. Not that they had ever been ones to disagree very often with each other, and even when they did, it was always settled calmly and fairly. But, ever since the storm, I’d found them talking softly and intimately with each other on several occasions, speaking words that were only meant for each other. I realized that their horrific ordeal had only brought them that much closer, making them value each other even more, and I prayed that one day I’d have as strong and loving a relationship as theirs.

  I was standing by Papa at the helm, enjoying my time with him. Because we were eighty miles north of Miami, we’d stay the night at the Inlet, and then return home the next day. “So, if you buy the boat, Papa, what will you name it?” I asked as I re-tied my ponytail which had come undone from being wind-whipped.

  “Raffee Kote,” Papa laughed. “Muscogee for ‘Big Frog.’”

  “Good name for it,” I laughingly agreed. The tug boat’s cabin was painted a handsome shade of beige, but the entire stern was a bright, flashy green.

  “Eliza, would you yell down to Simon? Tell him not to add any more wood to the boilers and to come up here, please.”

  Once Simon was up on deck, Papa told us to get up on the bow and watch for the first sign of Jupiter’s deadly reef. After a couple of minutes, Simon spotted it about fifty yards up, in the ten o’clock position off the port side. Papa immediately told him to drop anchor and shut the boat down.

  “Before we head back in the morning,” Papa said, “I need y’all to check something out.”

  “What are you up to?” I laughed, narrowing my eyes suspiciously. “I do realize that we’ve gone much farther than necessary to test this boat.” Shielding my eyes from the sun so that I could better see him, I realized from the look on his face that whatever we were going to do in the morning was no joking matter. Papa looked extremely serious and focused.

  I rephrased my question. “What do you want us to do, Papa?”

  “I want you to dive a wreck,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “Which wreck?” I excitedly asked. “Are you thinkin’ about salvaging it?”

  “No,” Papa replied, immediately squashing my enthusiasm. “It’s nothing like that. Let’s get some dinner and I’ll tell y’all about it while we’re eating.”

  Mama had packed plenty of food for us, so we pulled out some of the roasted chicken and cornbread, as well as mason jars of tea. Then we sat down at the table in the small cabin to eat.

  “I need you two to go down to the wreck and tell me what you see; where the boat is damaged and how badly; if it looks as though the boat slammed up against the reef, as opposed to plowing into it head-on—that sort of thing.”

  “Okay,” I responded, unsure what my father’s thinking was at that point. “What wreck is it, Papa?”

  “It’s the Stricklands’ boat, the Strike One,” Papa grimly replied.

  There was absolute silence in the cabin. No one said a word. Chills ran through my body as I realized what I was being asked to do: I’d be swimming into the place where Striker’s parents had breathed their last.

  Papa finally broke the silence. “Until I know more about it, let’s leave it at that. Let’s get dinner cleaned up and then call it a day. We’ll get an early start tomorrow morning, so let’s get a decent night’s sleep.”

  I slept in one of the staterooms, while Papa and Simon shared the other. I was so tired that it didn’t take me long to drift off to sleep, but that’s when the nightmares started. In them, the Stricklands beckoned to me from their watery grave to come help them, but I was too frightened to do so. Instead, I turned to swim away only to come face to face with other victims of other wrecks swimming beneath the waves.

  Right before first light, I was awakened by Papa gently shaking my shoulder. “Dawn’s breaking,” he said softly. Throwing back the covers, I slowly got out of the bunk, grabbed a cup of coffee Papa had already brewed on the small wood-burning kitchen stove and walked out to the deck. The dawn’s light was turning the darkened sky into a breathtaking blue, and I was glad that we would have clear weather.

  Once we were done eating, it was light enough to start diving. Papa reminded Simon and me what we were specifically looking for, so, after stripping down to my diving outfit, I dove in. A second later, I heard a splash to my right as Simon joined me.

  We started to swim toward the reef, which was quite visible in the calm water, and as we did, I could easily make out the eerie sight of the ghostly wreckage of the medium-sized sailboat lying on its starboard side in about twenty-five feet of water. The mainsail mast was broken in two, with half of it still secured to the boat’s deck so that it pointed off to the right, while the other half of it was lying on top of the reef. Once I got closer, I could make out the name, which was painted white on the transom: Strike One. I instantly stopped moving forward and could feel the rapid beating of my heart. Finally seeing the wreck affected me far more than I had ever thought it would. Treading water for a moment, I tried to calm myself while Simon swam along the exposed hull of the boat, carefully inspecting it, as well as the port side for any damage. Finally, I swam forward until I was within ten feet of the back of the boat.

  Lying dead beneath the waves, the vessel looked as though it had been slain by some nautical beast. Part of the mainsail was twisted and wrapped around the broken mast like a useless bandage, but from this vantage point, I could see no other damage. Reaching out, I laid my hand against the ship’s name, saying a silent prayer for Mae and Jerry Strickland, and then I moved on.

  Just as Simon had done, I carefully inspected both the bottom of the boat and the exposed left side, but saw no damage, so I swam up toward Simon at the bow. As soon as I joined him, he pointed to something. Turning to look, I was shocked by what I saw: There, where the lower part of the bow should have been, was a massive, jagged gaping hole. A front portion of the sleek, beautiful sailboat had been totally crushed and ripped away, and I was actually able to see inside the vessel’s cabin. The Stricklands aren’t inside, I reminded myself. Thank God. Their bodies had been washed ashore, and were buried in the Miami City Cemetery, on Second Avenue. My family and I had attended their double funeral. But, even without their human remains onboard, I could see small reminders that they’d been there.

  Sitting upright on the floor was a small black pot, which was turning to rust. Behind it was a bait bucket with the word Strickland hand-printed across it. But what affected me the most was the pair of gold, wire-rimmed glasses that had gotten caught up in some netting. They had belonged to Jerry. The netting gently flapped around as if in slow motion from the current moving in and around the boat, and the glasses
were fated to move endlessly with it. The sight was too much, and I surfaced. Refilling my lungs with a great gulp of air, I swam away from the wreck as quickly as I could, vowing never to go back, and made my way to the tug. Grabbing the rope ladder hanging off the stern, I climbed onto the tug and sat down on a large equipment box. Looking over the side, toward the front of the boat, I could see Simon making his way back to us.

  “What’d you see?” my father anxiously asked, handing me a towel.

  “Lower section of the bow’s gone,” I said, toweling water out of my left ear.

  “Any other damage?” he asked.

  “None on the portside, but I couldn’t see the starboard side. She’s resting on it. From what I could tell, though, the front took the entire impact. But maybe Simon saw something I didn’t.”

  A minute later, Simon climbed onto the stern. He confirmed what I had seen: The only damage visible was to the lower portion of the bow.

  “I swam inside the cabin but I couldn’t see any holes in the starboard wall,” Simon said as he wiped his face with a towel my father handed to him. “It looks completely solid on that side. It was like Mr. Strickland got off course or somethin’, and plowed head-first into that reef,” he said, shaking his head. “But, still, even if he’d been off course, he shoulda been able to see the lighthouse. Odd,” he said, his brows furrowed. Simon walked toward the cabin, looking as though he was trying to figure out a puzzle. “I’m gonna grab a clean shirt.”

  Once he was out of sight, Papa and I just stared at each other. There was no need for words. Both he and I knew that Jerry Strickland had been an accomplished sailor, completely at home in these waters; he wouldn’t have made novice mistakes. The cause of the wreck was crystal clear to us: The Stricklands had intentionally been driven into that reef.

  “Owen was on duty then,” Papa said softly, but said no more as Simon reemerged from the cabin.

  “Go ahead and fire up the boiler, Simon,” Papa said. “We’re headin’ home.”

  As we made our way back to Miami, I racked my brain trying to figure out why Owen would have wanted to bring the Stricklands’ boat down. They had no cargo on board to speak of, certainly nothing of such value that it was worth the risk of being caught extinguishing the light. So, what was the reason? The answers—if there were any—would have to wait until we got home, where Papa and I could talk openly. Until then, nothing more could be said. Striker and my family were the only ones who knew the investigation was going on, and until Secretary Chaplain made a decision about an indictment, it would stay that way.

  Chapter 38

  Battling Demons

  When we got back to Miami after examining the wreck, Papa wanted to see the folks at Standard Oil about purchasing the tug boat. First, he dropped me off at our dock, then headed down river with Simon to drop him off closer to his little home near the fork. Fortunately, Papa’s righthand man wasn’t leaving with the rest of his tribe, but had elected to stay in Miami, where work was plentiful and the pay was good.

  As Mama and I waited for Papa to get back, we sat on the porch shucking corn for our supper while I filled her in on what we’d found, and what we suspected had caused the Strike One to slam bow-first into the reef. Mama was just as anxious as I was to hear Papa’s thoughts about it, and every time we heard the sound of a boat coming down the river, our heads quickly turned in that direction to see if Papa had returned. A little while later, as Mama finished working on an Apple Brown Betty, and I stirred sugar into a pitcher of tea, Papa walked into the kitchen.

  “Looks good,” Papa said, walking by the platter of chicken fricassee on his way to the sink to wash his hands.

  “Did you get the boat?” I excitedly asked as I chipped away at a large chunk of ice in a bowl and filled our glasses with the small pieces.

  “I did,” Papa confirmed as he turned and dried his hands on my mother’s apron.

  “Get a towel,” Mama laughed, playfully swatting his hands away. “Lord, you’re a nuisance—you know that, Max Harjo?”

  “Ah, but a nice one,” he said, winking at me as he snitched a piece of ice from my bowl and stuck it in his mouth.

  We sat down to eat, and after Papa said grace, we started passing food around.

  “So, the boat’s all yours, is it?” Mama smiled, handing my father a bowl of peas.

  “All ours,” he corrected her. “This is gonna be a good thing, Eve. She’s a steady rig and she burns through fuel more efficiently than the trawler. I think we’ll get a lot of use out of her.”

  I was trying to be patient about moving on to the subject of the Strike One, but my patience finally ran out. “Papa, I told Mama what we found today at the wreck; now tell us what you know about it.”

  “Let him finish his dinner first, Eliza,” Mama gently admonished.

  “It’s all right,” Papa said. The jovial mood immediately evaporated from the table. “I know y’all are anxious to hear.

  “You know how Striker and I have been goin’ over log books with Warren Chaplain, and such?” Papa began. “Well, I had a chance to spend some time with Chaplain, without Striker being around. I asked him if any real sizable ships had come into Jupiter Inlet, or even Hillsboro, the night the Stricklands wrecked. Don’t forget, Adam Wilson was at Hillsboro Inlet then,” he reminded us. I quickly glanced over at Mama and saw that she looked disgusted.

  “Chaplain brought detailed copies of all the logs with him,” Papa continued, “from each Port of Entry and every lighthouse, between here and Dames Point, on the St. Johns River in Jacksonville. They covered the last five years. It seems as though a steamer ship ported in Spain, named the Mandori, came into St. Augustine the same time every year, but would offload a small amount of its cargo at Jupiter Inlet while en route. Her cargo varied, but on her last trip, she carried silverware and fabrics, as well as beer and wine. The estimated value of her cargo was about a quarter of a million dollars. Have any guesses as to when the Mandori was due to arrive in Jupiter Inlet?” Papa sarcastically asked.

  “The same night the Strike One went down,” Mama said matter-of-factly.

  “Right,” Papa confirmed. “And that was why the Stricklands wrecked. We figure that the Mandori didn’t take the last-minute turn into the inlet when Owen thought she would because there was just no cargo to offload at Jupiter like there usually was, or the captain thought the light was having problems and didn’t want to chance it. The reality was the Strike One was in the worst place possible when the light went out. The Mandori did arrive in St. Augustine the next morning, and if it had cargo for Jupiter on board, it was either sent down via the train, or another ship coming back this way delivered it. Chaplain even suggested the possibility that Adam tried to snag the rig down at Hillsboro first, but when he failed, he sent a telegram to Owen, letting him know the ship was en route. Owen may have wrongly timed dousing the light ’cause he was jumpy about missing the Mandori, too, and if that was the case, then his bad timing saved the Mandori, but caused the wreck of the Strike One.”

  “How could Adam and Owen have communicated?” I asked.

  “You forget that the Jupiter and Hillsboro lights are land-based. They have telegraph machines,” Papa replied.

  “Why wouldn’t the captain of the Mandori have reported the lights going out?” Mama asked.

  “Who knows?” Papa said. “Could be that Adam didn’t try to catch the ship, but just alerted Owen that it was en route, and then Owen doused the light for only thirty or so seconds. Maybe the captain thought it was some kind of momentary glitch, or that he’d just lost sight of it for a moment. We’ll never know, though, ’cause he died of consumption earlier this year.

  “Look,” Papa sighed, “the bottom line is this: The wreck of the Strike One was not due to a lack of nautical know-how, or because of substandard craftsmanship. From what Simon told me after we dropped you at the dock,” Papa said, looking at me, “
Striker’s boat was exceptionally well made. After more than a year in the water, that thing is still solidly intact. It’s a shame. What a terrible, terrible shame. It was a matter of the Stricklands being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “As much as I hate to say this,” Mama said, reaching for my hand, “I think that Owen wanted to marry you because you could help dive the wrecks they were causing, and having someone as well-respected as your father helping on some of them would keep people from taking too hard a look at Ezra, Owen, or Adam. I’m sorry, honey. I really am.”

  “Don’t be, Mama,” I said, covering her hand with mine. “I was a fool to trust him so quickly. So what now?” I asked, turning back to Papa.

  “Chaplain is going to question Adam out at Carysfort, and Ezra Asher will be detained at the next Port of Entry he walks into. Obviously, Ezra’s making a ton of money salvaging those wrecks. And,” Papa added, “they’re gonna be lookin’ for Owen. My guess is warrants will be issued for all of them, and the indictments will include murder charges. The Stricklands will be among those they’re being prosecuted for.”

  Mama and I didn’t say anything for a moment as we digested the news. Even though the truth was terribly upsetting, we were all relieved that the answers to things that had plagued us were finally coming to light.

  “Now,” Papa said as he slowly rose from the table. He suddenly seemed tired. “I’m gonna go see Striker and tell him what we found. He’s leaving first thing in the morning, you know.”

  I did know. And I also knew that the Seminoles were leaving in the morning, too. My heart felt as though it was breaking; one half going with Striker, and the other half with the tribe.

  Without saying anything more, I carried my half-eaten supper to the sink and began to rinse the plate. I wanted to go with Papa to talk to Striker about his parents’ wreck, but it would be better if Papa went alone. If Striker wanted to hit a wall, or cry, or use every uncouth word in the world, he could do so without holding back, and without feeling shame or embarrassment that a woman was standing there to witness it.