Lightkeeper's Wife

by Sarah Anne Johnson

  The man’s eyes bulged. He spat and drooled venom until Billy picked him up by his still-damp shirt collar and shoved him to the barn door. She slid it open enough for him to step through and then pushed him into a heap on the cold ground. “Get up, or I’ll kill you!” Her hands trembled with the lightning force of her rage, and it took all of her strength not to unleash herself, wrap her hands around his throat, and squeeze the breath out of him.

  “You think I’m the first you’ll find along these shores who’ll know you? You’re on a major shipping lane.”

  “Shut up,” Billy said. Maybe he was right, but she’d deal with others as she dealt with him. She could be ruthless if she had to.

  The man leaned against the barn to leverage his hideous weight into a standing position and started walking in his stocking feet toward the road. Every few steps he swung his head around to see if Billy was still watching, and after a while he stopped turning and just walked.

  Billy turned back toward the house and saw Hannah standing on the front porch, a blanket wrapped around her shoulder. She went back into the barn, and Hannah returned to the house, where men huddled around the fire and shifted about, hungry and adrift. Billy’s violence both frightened her and put her at ease. That Billy was capable of such spitting rage on behalf of the girl. Hannah had watched her kick that man, punch him, and shove him around. Billy could’ve killed the man if she’d chosen to, like Tom on the beach, who’d been ready to kill to save her. She hadn’t been able to hear what Billy said to the man, but he left at her command.

  There were things Billy would never tell her, things she didn’t need to know. Wherever Billy had been before she’d arrived at the lighthouse, whatever she’d done, she meant to undo it, that was clear.

  Hannah moved among the sailors, some of whom coughed or spoke softly to one another, recounting the wreck. Their words rose like mist into the room. Splintered like a toy boat. Nothing left to hold on to. Did you see him go under? There was men in the hold. I know it.

  One of the men pulled out a chair for her. “Here you go, missus. You set yourself down.” He shivered even now in the heat of the kitchen. His hair had dried into a blond frizz, bushy eyebrows to match, and a sharp chin with barely any stubble. “Ellis here was our galley cook, and he’s pretty decent, though I’ve never seen him at it on flat land. My name’s Jody Evans.”

  “One of your men is missing,” Hannah said, the image of him walking shoeless down the drive fresh in her mind.

  “Hope that coot took a long walk off a short pier’s what I hope,” a man called Izzy said. He was short and squat with wild black hair and a beard to match. First thing he’d done when he came inside was take off his jacket to reveal a blouse with the sleeves ripped off and arms tattooed to the shoulders, proud as a lion. He could’ve been trouble anywhere else, but in the wake of a wreck and the humility of being rescued, and by a woman no less, he was tame.

  “He didn’t seem the type to be caring for the girl.”

  “If he was caring for that girl, she’d be better off drowned,” Izzy said.

  “Girl looked desperate the minute she came onboard,” Ellis said. “She was afraid for her life. You could see it clear as day.”

  “I used to see her and her little brother down by the docks near Montego Bay,” Jody said. “They scavenged fruit and vegetables that fell off the carts. Sometimes they dove from the pilings for coins.”

  “The little buggers get rich doing that. I swear.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “Still.”

  Their voices drifted over the room like one voice. “Her father sold soup right where our ship docked. Scrappy little guy, good for nothing. Most his teeth gone but that gold one in front.”

  “Where will she go now that her keeper has gone?”

  “Just another cast-off nigger child.”

  “We’ll take her with us. I’ll get her sorted out, ma’am. Name is Joe.” He reached a large hand across to her and shook her hand firmly but not hard enough to hurt her. “She has family, as you’ve heard. I came to know her aboard the Alexandria. I hope to ship out of Boston on a southbound ship promptly. I’ll see to her transit to Montego Bay.”

  “You’re very kind,” she said, searching beyond his sincerity for any signs of ill will, but the man was warm, genuine.

  “She’s a good girl. She worked in the kitchen and swept the berths for the crew. She fed the small goat and the chickens they kept onboard for food, and she played with them and loved them with the reserve of a child who knows that the chickens are grown for eating.”

  “We owe you and your man our lives,” Joe said.

  Hannah was relieved. They believed that Billy was a man, as she had believed. She hadn’t been so naive after all. And if they hadn’t believed it, what then? Rumors and scandal that could jeopardize her position at the lighthouse.

  Joe sat down across from her, his arms folded like tree branches, thick and difficult to maneuver. The bones of his face were built like a wall, and his forehead rose to a sea of dark hair.

  “Quite seriously, ma’am, we owe you our lives. We would’ve perished out there if you hadn’t come along. We want to repay you somehow, with work or money or whatever it is you want.”

  But she was tired and there were too many people hovering around her fire. She only wanted them out of her house. “That’s very kind,” she said. “I only want your health, and your safe journey home.”

  Feb 16: Winds > 30 NE, rain

  Feb 17: Ship aground, Alexandria, 7 survivors, NE 10

  Feb 18: Alexandria sunk, no sign left of wreck, crew to Boston, wind SW 12, two brig, one schooner

  The sailors packed themselves into the wagon like chickens in a crate. Mesha sat amid their heat and comfort, an oversize wool coat fastened at her waist with her former owner’s leather belt, the silver buckle glinting at her midriff. The coat sleeves frayed at the wrists, and she pulled at the loose threads with her teeth. Joe stood by the wagon and adjusted his cap in a line over his eyebrows. He shook Hannah’s hand and climbed onto the seat beside Billy. He watched Hannah recede into the distance until he couldn’t see her anymore. They traveled the rutted road toward the harbor. The girl whispered with one of the men and then cried halfway to the harbor, and after that it was quiet except for the wheels clamoring over rocks in the road and men coughing and spitting over the side of the wagon.

  After a while, the sounds of the harbor rattled on the wind. The men moved around in the back of the wagon to get a view of the water.

  “I’m de only girl,” Mesha said. “Girl. Boy. Girl. Boy.” She pointed to one of the men, then herself, then another of the men, then herself, on and on, until Izzy hushed her with an arm around her shoulders. “Whe we goin? Will dey be chilren? Why me de only one?”

  The sight of masts rose above the trees, then around the next corner, sails curved like wings. “The packet’s docked along the back here,” Billy said, guiding the horse through wagons and skiffs up on cradles and men milling about with duffel bags or standing around smoking their clay pipes.

  When Billy brought the wagon to a halt, the stronger men climbed out and walked along the dock eyeing the packet. Billy introduced Joe to the packet captain, Henry Mechum, whom she had gotten to know during her visits to the harbor. As the men climbed aboard, Mesha cried furiously. She stood on the dock and held fast to a piling. “No. No. No.”

  The men gathered around her, cooed and cajoled her. “It’s okay, miss, you’ve seen the worst of it.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with being afraid,” Joe said. “We all are, but we’re going to get on that boat together and sail to Boston, and when we step foot on those streets we’ll all feel much better because we’ll know there was no reason for us to be afraid.”

  “I don’t want to go. No.” The girl cast a pleading look toward Billy, who could only turn away. She’d gotten r
id of the man who’d taken Mesha from her family. There was nothing else she could do for this girl. That was what she told herself as she walked off, passing a cluster of sailors standing in front of the grocery.

  “G’morning,” one of them said.

  Billy tipped her hat without showing her face, and the rest grunted in her direction. A flock of boys huddled over a game of marbles with the focused intent of men at the helm. Boy. Girl. Boy. Billy did not look back at the packet or listen for the girl. At the fishmonger she bought a big piece of cod, some shrimp, a strip of haddock, and a bunch of scallops. Her next stop was the bakery for bread, and then over to Millie Bragg, who worked on the cod flakes with an authority that frightened most men.

  “How you doing today, Millie?”

  “Same as every other day.”

  Billy held out a folded wad of money that Millie stuffed into her bodice between two tremendous breasts. Their soft flesh bulged against her corset and dress so that the fabric looked about ready to burst and set loose its fearsome cargo. Millie’s face was full and square, her features stacked one on top of the other like rocks.

  “My oldest’s fourteen now and wants to go out on a whaler. Near died when he told me that. After his father, I don’t think I could live with another gone to sea.” She flipped the gutted cod and flung salt across the white meat and worked her way down the flake, her skirt hem shortened to keep the fabric from the mud and fish guts.

  “It’s hard to keep a man ashore in this town.”

  “Well, he’s just going to have to learn something else.”

  “No doubt he will,” Billy said, and received the bottle that Millie had strapped under her skirt, tucking it into her jacket. “I’ll be seeing you.”

  “No doubt,” she said, not looking up from the flake.

  Billy sat atop the wagon, the bottle a comfort against her chest. She wanted to erase the sound of Mesha’s voice from her mind. The girl was everything about Jamaica and all that came after. She reached for the bottle and took a hard swig. The rum ran down her chin and she wiped it on the back of her hand and took another drink. With the horse in motion, her mind wandered and she took the long way back to the lighthouse, around the Mill Pond and up Old County Road.

  ***

  Tom landed on the porch after the men left. He congratulated her on a successful rescue and made tea for her while she sat in front of the fire. “I’m glad you had Billy to help you,” he said.

  “Yes,” Hannah said.

  “But he can’t stay forever, Hannah.”

  Hannah drank her tea and stared into the fire. She didn’t want to think about Billy leaving.

  Tom placed his hand over Hannah’s where it rested on the arm of her chair.

  “I want us to be married, Hannah,” he said. “I’ll help you with the rescues if that makes a difference. My furniture business is doing well, and I’ve saved money. We can live here at the lighthouse, and I’ll keep my house for our retirement. We can have a good life together.” He got on one knee then, his face lit up by the fire, the ring he held flashing in the light.

  “Hannah Snow, will you marry me?” he said. “I’ll do everything in my power to make you happy.”

  Hannah placed her tea on the table. “Stand up,” she said.

  Tom remained before her on one knee. “I love you, but I can’t wait any longer. I must know. Please, Hannah, be sensible.”

  She placed her hands on his cheeks and kissed his forehead.

  “I know you love me,” Tom said.

  “Oh, I do, I do.”

  “So marry me.”

  “I can’t.”

  Tom stood then, and slid the ring into his pocket. “Don’t tell me it’s Billy. Please don’t tell me that.”

  “I won’t marry again, Tom, regardless of the circumstances.”

  “Don’t you see how wonderful it could be?”

  “Yes, but I was married to John for many years, and I don’t want another husband.”

  They went back and forth until Tom was utterly frustrated.

  “I need to take a wife,” he said. “My career, my age…if it can’t be you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “No.” Tom hesitated. He looked down into the leather creases of his boots and brushed his palms along the thighs of his linen trousers. “I’ve been courting someone in Barnstable. I knew you wouldn’t have me, Hannah, but I had to ask you one last time. You understand?”

  Hannah stiffened. “I’m not going to ask you who. Not yet.”

  He sat beside her and they held hands in front of the fire for a long time before Tom took his leave.

  19

  The letter arrived that afternoon, delivered by Sam Potts on special order from Mrs. Nora Paine. “I’ll need you to sign here, ma’am,” the man said.

  Dear Hannah,

  I’m sorry to write with this news. Your husband’s body has been found. Evan Pierce and his father were hunting near Dennis Pond and found John, covered in leaves beneath a lean-to of branches, where the men hide while waiting for deer. They were quite shaken and saddened to bring this news to our family, and they helped your father take John to the undertaker. We’ll bury him in the family plot on Summer Street, if that’s what you want. Please send word as soon as you can, and let us know when you’ll arrive.

  I hesitate telling you in a letter but want to spare you the misery of not knowing. John was badly beaten and showed signs of having put up a struggle: bruises on his fists, blood beneath his fingernails. A bullet wound in his stomach ended his fight. With the wagon gone, we can only assume that he was robbed on his way home, perhaps mistaken for a merchant who carried money. Of course, there’s no way to know.

  I’m saddened for you, dearest Hannah, and my only consolation is that you will have some peace knowing that he is properly buried among loving family.

  All my love, and condolences,

  Your loving mother

  Hannah dropped the letter on the floor and stared out the front window toward the road, where her husband should’ve appeared atop his wagon all those months ago. The windowpane shivered in the wood frame. She placed her hand against the cold glass to steady it. When had she given up waiting for John? Her life had changed almost imperceptibly at first. Then day by day, week by week, she’d moved on without him.

  A dull ache clenched like a fist in her chest. She went to the kitchen window and stared at a line of three ships pointing south, sails ghostlike against an ashen sky. At John’s desk she opened the logbook to record the wind direction and speed she’d taken earlier. Notes made, she flipped back through the book until she reached John’s careful script, so different from her own loose marks. She ran her fingers over the square letters, down rows of numbers and names of ships, to his last marks in the logbook. The emptiness she felt upon turning the page to her own notations overwhelmed her, and she sobbed. The finality was what she’d wanted, but now she wished she didn’t have to know. Not knowing had allowed her to go on with always the possibility of his return.

  In the bedroom, she absently gathered her clothing into a suitcase. What do you wear to your husband’s funeral? Whatever she didn’t have, her mother would provide for her. She went to the kitchen to wash the dishes, but each plate felt unfamiliar in her hands. Each bowl seemed to take hours to wash. She didn’t notice that she was shaking, until a cup slid from her hands. Hannah left the rest of the dishes in the sink and rushed along the lighthouse passageway as if she would find John at the other end. She climbed the stairs to the lighthouse landing. This was the only place where she felt him with her. Not in Barnstable or in a cemetery or anywhere else. This had been their home, and this was where she’d said good-bye to him months ago. Saying good-bye to him again felt like an unnecessary grief. She wanted to feel the relief his body was meant to bring, but she only felt newly scathed by loss, and an emptiness around her
as wide as the ocean’s graveyard.

  ***

  Billy reached the lighthouse by early afternoon and half the bottle was gone. The girl’s voice still hung in her ears. Billy unbridled Nellie and leaned against the horse for balance as she led her to a stall. She spilled oats across the floor as she filled the bucket, then she let the horse eat a carrot from her hand. “Atta girl,” Billy said, patting the horse’s rump as she left the stall, waiting to hear the latch click before walking away.

  She slid the box of fish from the back of the wagon and carried it into the house. The smell recalled the early days of pregnancy when she couldn’t stand any strong odors.

  Billy lifted a heavy pot onto the stove and let the flames burn full blast. When she heard Hannah’s boots scrape the passageway, she wiped her hands distractedly on the dishrag and bent down to hide the bottle in the cabinet beneath the sink, behind the potatoes and onions where the bottle settled itself in the corner. She closed the cabinet and stood as Hannah turned into the room.

  “What’s wrong?” Hannah asked.

  “Nothing. Why?”

  “You look scared.”

  Billy shook her head. Hannah’s nostrils flared and her eyes widened as she smelled the liquor. “If you’re going to drink, at least have the dignity not to lie.” Hannah stood with her arms across her chest and stepped back from Billy. Everything about her, from the smell of liquor on her breath to her sullen expression, disgusted Hannah. She hated her then for wearing John’s shirt, hated her for living and breathing in the kitchen where her husband should be. She wanted to slap her, to shake her awake. Her mother pretended not to notice her father’s regular trips to the woodpile, but Hannah couldn’t stand it, not for another minute.

  “I want you out,” she said without raising her voice. “I can’t stand your lying and drinking. You told me you were done with that.”

  Billy walked past the chairs scattered around the dining table and felt Hannah’s eyes on her. “It’s just that girl, Mesha…just this once, that’s all.”