I smiled while remembering Jonathan’s accounts of his life as a sea captain. He was a good spinner of yarns. But sailors’ sea stories are rarely realistic, omitting the privations and boredom and uncertainty. Naval life is even more difficult. Many a man and boy has gone to sea to learn, far too late, that the life of a sailor is nothing like what they’d heard around the fire on a cold winter’s night.
The reverend asked, “How did you find your way to Saint Augustine, Mrs. Saunders?”
“Trying to get to Washington. I got a steamer to Havana, then a Plant company steamer to Tampa, where I boarded the train to go up north. My plan was to head to Washington,” she turned back to me, “—to find you, Peter. I knew you would help me. You’re the only man I know in the States that can help me find my baby.”
She paused, staring at me with awe. “But I never dreamed you’d be here. The train stopped at Palatka on the St. Johns River—some sort of trouble with the engine—and they brought the passengers here to find lodging for the night while they repair it.”
“You can stay with my wife and me, Mrs. Saunders,” offered McLean.
Cynda never heard him. She was still looking intently at me, unnerving me with those blue eyes I remembered so well. “Did you move to St. Augustine, Peter? Your last letter years ago said you had an island down on the Gulf coast. I almost tried to find that, but you wrote that you were only there when on furlough, so I thought I’d find you at Washington. Didn’t you get my letter? I never got a reply.”
“For the last four months Rork and I have been in transit, Cynda. My private mail hasn’t caught up to me yet.”
“Rork! Is he here too?”
When I nodded in the affirmative, she let go another shriek toward the altar. “Thank you, dear Lord, for sending them both to me in my hour of need!”
McLean tried again. “Madam, my wife and I would like you to stay with us for however long you may be in our area.”
She nodded to him. “Yes, I will. Thank you so much, Pastor.”
Then she turned back to me. There were no more tears, no weakness in the voice. It was the Cynda I’d known, a woman who wasn’t frail or afraid of anything, the female who could turn grown men into devotees with a single glance.
“Luke is not dead. I know that absolutely, Peter, as only a mother can. And Divine guidance has brought you and me together, here in this church. You will help me find him.”
The last wasn’t said as a request, but as an assumption of fact. After what seemed a long time, I heard myself say, “Yes, Cynda. We’ll find him . . .”
Her eyes softened and she slid her hand delicately over mine. “Peter, I must apologize for my self-absorption. I haven’t asked about your current life. You’re not in uniform—have you left the navy? And have you found a lady to share your life? It must be, what, six years since your dearest Linda passed on. And your children! How are Useppa and little Sean?”
So much had changed. “Well, yes, I’m still in Uncle Sam’s Navy, Cynda. In fact, I’ve got twenty-five years in now. I do special assignments, keep pretty busy. Useppa is twenty-three now and headmistress of the school for black children in Key West. Little Sean isn’t so little anymore. He’s at the naval academy and due to graduate in two years.”
Holding the worst until last, I tried to hide the ache inside. “And it’s been seven years now since Linda passed on.”
Those words were so hard to say, even after all that time. “No, there isn’t a special woman in my life. I’ve occasionally gotten to know some nice ladies, but nothing lasted—usually because I had to leave to go somewhere and that angered them. I guess Rork and I are resigned to our fate as bachelors.”
I shook my head in wonderment at my friend. “Although, Sean Rork still never ceases to amaze me. He finds female companionship wherever we go on assignment. That Irish rogue has the gift of attractiveness to your fairer sex. Ladies simply adore him. One told me once that he makes them want to cuddle and protect him. Imagine that, cuddling up with a big brute like him.”
“I can, indeed, Peter. And I imagine they think the same of you, but you probably don’t even notice. You’re not open to them. You can be very distant, Peter Wake. Like your mind is far away. That scares women.”
“Really? Well, I never got that impression. How so?”
She cast me that look I remembered so well. A combination of sultry jest and innocent interest. “Because they know that if your mind is far away, they can’t hold you under their spell. Women don’t like that sort of competition—the kind they can’t see to defeat.”
“Cynda, I don’t think of companionship on adversarial terms.”
It dawned on me that she was free now, as I’d been for seven years. She slowly patted my hand, or was she caressing it? The blue eyes had deepened to indigo in the dark church, and no longer looked so innocent. “I know you don’t, Peter. That’s why women like you. You’re a good decent man, and you deserve to be happy.”
Hearing someone clear his throat, I realized the pastor was still beside us. Reverend McLean sat there, visibly perplexed by the two strangers who’d entered his life on a quiet summer Sunday. I understood his confusion completely. My best laid plans had just crumbled, replaced by a commitment to accomplish what I knew was a daunting, probably impossible, task. With a woman who always made me feel uneasy.
***
I never doubted that Rork would support my decision and join the endeavor. Cynda joined us for lunch and explained the situation to him as the preacher and bishop looked on. Rork sounded far more confident than I had when he looked at her and said, “Aye, we’ll find the lad. An’ no worries ’bout that, me dear.”
Over dinner that evening at the parsonage, the chief topic was how to go about the search. It was decided that we would begin at the last place Luke was known to be, Key West, and go on from there by whatever means available. The search would be expensive. I found myself insisting on sharing the cost with Cynda.
Another unpleasant aspect was that the next day my friends from Washington would arrive in Saint Augustine, happily bound for their fishing holiday in southwestern Florida. They were en route already and out of communication. At the station depot, I would have to tell them the grand expedition was cancelled and they should turn around and head north.
Walking back to the Saint Francis Inn later that night in the patter of soft rain, Rork asked, “You’re thinkin’ that poor lad’s dead an’ bleached by now, ain’t ye?”
Remembering the scene when Cynda had poured out her dilemma to McLean and me, I shook my head with misgiving. Rork was right, that’s precisely what I thought, but I couldn’t say those words.
“Not sure. I just know we’re honor bound to find out, Sean.”
5
The Entourage
Railroad Depot of the
Saint Augustine & North Beach Railway
East Orange Street
Saint Augustine, Florida
Monday, 2 July 1888
The whistle sounded while the train was still a half mile out, eliciting whinnies from the dray horses of the St. Augustine Transfer Company, who knew they’d be working soon. Mr. Colee, owner of the company, sat atop a small cargo wagon that was loaded down with four steamer trunks, two hat boxes, a portmanteau, and two seabags. The seabags belonged to Rork and me. Everything else was Cynda’s.
Colee thought it amusing. Since I was paying for his services, I didn’t. It was hard to fathom what might be in all that baggage, or why Cynda would need it. However, I knew enough about women not to ask.
The train was short, only three passenger cars, and those only half-full with local people from Jacksonville, the northern tourist season being long over. My associates trooped off together, disheveled but happy to be nearing their ultimate destination. It was, as the novels of Mr. Twain might describe: a motley crew, unfettered by the latest fashions of attire or
comportment.
Dr. Cornelius Rathburn, or Corny, as his friends called him, was a fifty-two-year-old ethnologist for the Smithsonian Institution. He’d worked with Clay MacCauley, the well-known Indian ethnologist who had recently documented the culture of the Seminole people still living in the Everglades. Corny was an amiable fellow, slightly rotund, doubled-chinned, balding, bespectacled. Always ready with a laugh. A bon vivant, especially with the ladies, who loved his courtly manner and smooth French sayings. He held his own in men’s company too, the sort who could tell a good tale of danger around a campfire.
His easy-going appearance belied considerable endurance. He’d been with Major John Wesley Powell on several expeditions through the rugged territory of the Colorado River. Rumor had it that he’d killed a man in Nevada.
Corny bounded over and slapped a handshake on me and Rork, one eye taking in the lovely but sad-eyed form of Cynda, who watched from five paces.
“Powell says hello, Peter. Hey, the boys in the office want a tarpon fish stuffed and brought back!”
Then he said, sotto voce, “And just who is the fetching lady, Peter?”
Before I could say a word in reply, George Brown Goode loped on over. George, an accomplished ichthyologist, was the chief administrator of the United States National Museum and had been, until the previous January, the chief commissioner of the U.S. Fishery Commission. He had the gentle eyes and quiet manner of an administrator, but there was another side to him as well.
I’d met him in Washington back in seventy-nine, after his arduous scientific research journey through the islands of my coast. It had been an extensive assignment to ascertain the seasonal mullet fisheries of the islands, several of which were run by Cubans, the rest by Key Westers. While there in the worst season of the year, early autumn, he battled tropical storms, heat, and incessant biting insects. His report that year, and a subsequent one in eighty-five, were the first of their kind about Florida, and had generated serious attention in Washington, for they documented that the mullet fisheries made considerable money.
That first meeting with him was four years before I bought Patricio Island, but I’d known the coast well during the war, so we’d had some pleasant discussions of the area. In fact, it was those conversations with George that had planted the seed in my mind of returning to the islands and building a place there. Now, at thirty-eight years of age, he was nearing the top of his profession, but he still loved going off into the unknown on field trips. George was the de-facto leader of the fishing mission to capture a record-sized tarpon.
Shaking my hand, he said, “Cushing says that he wants to visit your islands someday, Peter. Says no one’s done a decent study on those pre-Columbians you mentioned to him. I told him what I’d seen, the mounds and such, and he’s definitely interested.”
George referred to Frank Cushing, another ethnologist I’d met in Washington who worked with the Smithsonian. We’d spoken about the Calusa, a highly sophisticated native empire that had already occupied Florida’s Gulf coast for a thousand years by the time the Spanish arrived.
“He should’ve come on this trip, George,” I said, forgetting for a moment the bad news I was about to announce.
“No, he’s busy now. Heading off next month for a survey.”
The oldest of my comrades came forward. At fifty-eight, Daniel Horloft, naval architect for the government, still had a sailor’s face tanned the color of driftwood, with pale green eyes narrowed by decades of squinting into an ocean sun. A small set of trimmed side-whiskers descended from long gray hair. Lanky and tall, Dan was the physical opposite of Corny.
He was a recent acquaintance. He did work in warship design and construction for the navy. A man of few words, Dan was a product of growing up as a fisherman on the coast of Maine. He kept his flinty attitude when he left the sea and entered the academic world. His hard work and inherent abilities led him to graduate with distinction from the Lawrence Scientific School at Harvard University. Dan Horloft was nationally known as a brilliant engineer, specializing in hydrodynamics and its effect upon ships.
He and the others shared a common bond that I did not—they were all members of the Theoretical Society of Washington, an intellectual organization of accomplished leaders in their fields, who met monthly at the Celestial Club, on Lafayette Square by the Executive Mansion, and discussed topics of the day. A heady group, to say the least. Occasionally, I had been invited to share a meal or a drink with them at the club and our friendship had deepened. Now they had come almost a thousand miles in response to my depiction of the islands and sport fishing on the southwestern coast of Florida.
Horloft put a callused hand out and locked mine in his grip. “Where do we go to get a decent washup and meal? It’s like a Turkish bath down here. And what time tomorrow do we get under way for this island of yours, Peter?”
“Very good to see you, too, Dan,” I said, mocking his stolid mien. He, as usual, didn’t appreciate the satire and grunted something back.
I forwent any further humor and addressed his queries. “The washup will have to wait, the meal will be a picnic lunch, and we get under way in an hour.”
Now was the time to give everyone the bad news, so I spoke up so all could hear amidst the commotion on the platform. “Well, gentlemen, please give me your attention. The plans have changed. Regrettably, Rork and I can’t go fishing with you. We must head south to Key West right now. We’re taking this train. It leaves in an hour and will take us back to the main line at Palatka, on the Saint John’s River. You can come with us to the main line and head north now, or stay the night and head north tomorrow. I’m sorry for the last-minute change, but Rork and I have been advised of a tragedy and must decline the fishing expedition. We’re badly needed to help a long-time friend.”
No one spoke, but their expressions said it all. Corny studied Cynda again, this time suspiciously. George sent me a quizzical look. Dan scowled.
I introduced Cynda and briefly explained her plight. My friends’ attitude moderated, then transformed into sympathy while I elucidated the situation. I then offered them my island if they wished to use it in my absence. They could stay there and still go after their tarpon, but Rork and I would have to leave, bound ultimately for the Bahamas to search for Luke Saunders.
“Bahamas, you say?” asked Corny.
“Yes. Luke was supposedly lost somewhere there.”
“Always wanted to go there. Studied the West Indian culture. Did some poking about a few years ago, but never made it to the Bahamas—it’s so removed from the main West Indies. Do you need an extra hand in this effort? I’ve got the time.”
I didn’t hesitate. Corny would be good to have along. “Yes. Thank you.”
George held up a hand. “Peter, I wouldn’t mind helping the lady too, but I needed to get back before everyone else anyway. So I’ll go to your island, get the fish, and ride the train back to Washington. Please cable me an update on your efforts when I get back to my office.”
Before I could say anything in reply, Dan grumbled in a low tone, “I’ll go on that search party too. I’ve sailed through some of those islands. I can wait for the tarpon fish, but we need to find that boy, Peter. Especially since it sounds like no one’s done a proper search yet.” He cast a faint smile at Cynda. “I know the weight upon your heart, ma’am. My brother was aboard a whaler lost in the South Sea, and no proper search was ever done among those islands.”
I was grateful. “Thank you for your understanding and your help. I’m very appreciative and I know Mrs. Saunders appreciates your understanding too. George, please use my island as long as you need and, yes, I’ll send you a telegram as soon as we know something. Dan and Corny, thank you for volunteering to come along on the search.”
I gestured at the mound of baggage. “Now folks, Mr. Colee advises that the southbound train has steam up, so let’s get our gear aboard this train so we can get to
Palatka and catch the main one. We also have a basket of food for all hands and some real orange juice to rejuvenate your health.”
***
The route south had improved over the past few years, both in physical ease and speed. Modern passenger cars with improved springs were available, and the time needed for a run from Palatka in upper Florida to Punta Gorda on the lower Gulf coast had been trimmed to a mere nine hours. At the depot on the west side of Palatka, we joined Henry Plant’s misnamed Jacksonville, Tampa, and Key West Railway and sped south through the rolling oak-forested hills of upper Florida’s lovely heartland.
Since the carriage was new, all of the windows could be opened, a huge blessing during a Floridian summer. Once the train began moving, a gentle breeze swept through the interior and took away the growing heat of the day, making the passage comfortable, even pleasant. I suspect my companion also had something to do with that impression.
Cynda and I sat together on a double seat, she at the window, quietly watching the passing greenery. Her face had aged, but gracefully. Lines around her eyes reflected her life, sadness and laughter, and I found myself surreptitiously studying her, still fascinated by this most unusual woman.
Beyond the usual pleasantries about the vistas going by us, we didn’t say much, each lost in our thoughts. Mine turned to assessing what might lie ahead. The appeal of my surroundings faded when I began to ruminate on the various scenarios that could account for the disappearance of Luke Saunders. Most of them ended in heartbreak. While I was thus soberly engaged, a sideways glance showed me that my seatmate was revisiting her past. Cynda’s face was drawn, with none of the brightness I remembered so well. She’d seen more than a fair share of misfortune in her years, but I knew she also had an uncanny knack for landing on her feet after all was said and done. I hoped she could now.
Swaying along, the train lurched frequently and we occasionally touched, glancing shyly at each other—a silly reaction at our age. Neither of us was innocent anymore about the natural attraction between men and women. However, our behavior was more than timidity. It was as if we were going out of our way to preserve our emotional defenses, not let down our guard, lest something happen that could endanger our quest. In candor, I suppose I was the one most reticent, a feeling born of my memories regarding the lady beside me.
Honor Bound Page 4
