The Sea is a Thief (10 page)

“You must have been first in your class, Captain!” exclaimed Nancy.

“No indeed, young lady, not nearly so well-placed as that,” he responded, suddenly desiring another bite of duck.  In fact, he had been last in his class.  His father adopted a stony silence for days after the letter arrived.  His mother was more pragmatic.  “
Someone
had to be last,” she said haughtily.  “You graduated, did you not?”  At the time, it did not occur to Henry Sharpe that Matthew Perry might have played a role in allowing him to graduate.

“And what was your first command, Captain Sharpe?” asked Edmund, his duck picked clean down to its breastbone. “A warship?”

“A warship indeed, sir.  Just two years out of Annapolis, I joined Commodore Perry at Veracruz in the Mexican War.”  

Bagwell nodded.  “I'm familiar with it.  A brilliant and well-deserved American victory.  One of the merchants I do business with was involved.  What role did you play, sir?”

There was a long pause.  “Not a decisive one, I'm afraid, Mr. Bagwell. Owing to navigational discrepancies, the mission was—” he paused—“largely accomplished by the time of our arrival.”  The event had boiled down to so few words in the fourteen years since.  
The mission was largely accomplished.
  That was sufficient in polite company.  At the time the story was much longer.  He recalled the southward tangent he had somehow taken, a day or more too far south, bypassing the main amphibious fleet that his gunship was supposed to support.  He missed Veracruz altogether, arriving instead in a tropical pit called Coatzacoalcos.  When he finally determined in a panic where he was, the wind was against him.  The trip northward took far longer than it should have.  By the time he arrived the troops had landed.  Robert E. Lee and Winfield Scott were laying siege to the city.  Henry Sharpe could only hang his head while his bewildered crew wondered how he had gotten them into such a predicament.

An awkward silence fell over the table, broken by the arrival of a flounder fried with lemons.  It seemed a good opportunity to tell the Captain about the island's famous flounder.  “Some of ‘em are so broad they span a man's shoulders!” Bagwell thundered. “Delicious eating, sir, in season. You'll enjoy this fish, I promise you.  They run right in this channel in the spring.  Then they run out to sea again come the first of June, right on time.”

Yes, thought Captain Sharpe, raising a bite of the delicate fish to his lips.  
Right on time.
 

The Bagwells did not often indulge in spirits, especially on the Sabbath, but in celebration of Henry Sharpe's visit, glasses of sherry were poured after dessert.  Even that small amount seemed to lighten everyone's spirits, and before long Edmund was ordering a pair of horses to be saddled up for a brief tour of the island.  Sharpe bade a temporary farewell to the ladies, and the two men strolled out to the Bagwell Oyster Packing House to await their mounts.  Edmund Bagwell insisted on showing the Captain the facility.  It was a large white building, one end open to the wharf where the oystermen unloaded their catch.  Outside its open windows, immense piles of rough grey shells mounted up.  Its many rows of shucking tables would be busy early the next morning.

The horses arrived.  “I understand that your crewman have been doing a great deal of good for some of our neighbors,” Bagwell confided.  “Perhaps you might care to have a look.”  

“It would be my pleasure,” responded the Captain, “If you will direct me.”  

“No trouble whatsoever!” exclaimed Bagwell. “Aren't a couple of those sailors with you today?”  In the blink of an eye, Bagwell had sent a man for two additional horses, and dispatched another to the Atlantic Hotel to fetch Dreher and Platt.  The Captain judged that they would be the best choice to serve as guides.  Both were flattered to be introduced to Edmund Bagwell.  They mounted up quickly and rode alongside the Captain, who was already attracting attention.  Window curtains were pulled aside as he passed so that curious faces could catch a glimpse of Henry Sharpe, the hero of the Battle of Cockle Creek.   

On rare and precious occasions a young man gets a chance to settle a score with a close friend without doing him any actual harm.  That Sunday afternoon ride down the lanes of Chincoteague presented Ethan Platt with just such an opportunity.   He had lost count of the days he had spent scurrying about the island, laden with heavy lumber or buckets of foul-smelling tar, while Sam Dreher courted his new lady friend.  He had pacified his crewmates by working all the harder himself, digging holes and clambering on rooftops while Sam repaired a boat.  It was beginning to wear on him, and there was no end in sight.  Perhaps it was time for a small lesson.  

He began innocently enough, pointing out to the Captain the front door of a fisherman's cottage that he had repaired.  The Captain nodded his approval. Sam kept silent; he didn't know one cottage from the other.   As they passed a cow pasture, Ethan was full of details about a well they had rebuilt.  

“It's a community well, you see, sir.  How many people came by to draw water while we were there, Mr. Dreher?”  

Sam was taken aback.  
What was Ethan doing?
  He had never even visited that well.  

“How many would you say?”

“Six or seven, I suppose?”

“Six or seven?  Oh, many more than that!  I must have counted twenty people!  Wouldn't you say twenty, Mr. Dreher, at least?”

 Sam could see what he was in for.  This wouldn't be easy. “We were very busy that day.”

“Yes, we were indeed.  And it was an unusually warm day, was it not?”

“Very warm.”  This day was quickly becoming warmer as well.  

“The problem with that well, sir,” Ethan continued, gesturing towards the pasture,  “was one of drainage.  The pasture was draining into it, fouling the water.  Very dangerous, as you know.”  He had the full attention of the Captain and Edmund Bagwell.  “Here is how we dealt with it.  First, we built up the foundation stone to the well, then—well, I should let Mr. Dreher continue.  Continue, Mr. Dreher!”  Sam scanned the pasture, searching for signs of recent changes to the lay of the land. Already a new growth of grass covered everything.  His mind raced, imagining how he would have addressed such a problem.

“Yes, after the foundation was built up, as Mr. Platt described--" he stammered.

“..the next step, you see, was to…”

Ethan came to his aid, briefly.  “Dig the drainage ditches, of course, Mr. Dreher.”

He saw it now. “That led the runoff during heavy rains away from the well, towards…” his eyes searched for a telltale ditch, finally spotting one some yards down the road. “This road!  I'll show you, sir.”  He led his horse towards the outlet of the ditch.  The party followed.  The ditch ended in a deep circular bed of rock and shells.  “It now drains into this culvert, where the water sinks into the ground, keeping the well clean.  How deep did we make this culvert, Mr. Platt?”  

Ethan stared at Sam.  “Five feet deep, and it was difficult digging, too.”  

Edmund Bagwell was impressed.  “Ingenious, men!” he laughed.  “We need no longer avoid that well after a rain.  Ingenious!”  

Sam locked eyes with Ethan.  
No more, please
, he was pleading, but Ethan was just getting started.  

They rode on.  “Just ahead of us here, sir, lives a widow named—what was her name, Mr. Dreher?”  

Sam was at a loss. “Smith?” he offered weakly.

“No, no—the one with the pigs.  You would recall!”  

Edmund Bagwell interjected.  “Lovey Copes?  That widow?”  

“Why, yes, sir, the very one.  Thank you, sir.  Lovey Copes' pigpen was so run down that two of the pigs escaped the day after we arrived, and we had to chase after them and return them.  Was it not you who brought one of them back, Mr. Dreher?  And Mr. Watson the other?”

“No, it was not I.  I believe perhaps Mr. Watson caught both pigs.”

“You may be correct, Mr. Dreher.  I myself chased after the animals for some time without success, pursuing them into a marsh.  I tell you, it took some effort to clean that marsh mud from my boots and uniform.”  

Bagwell chuckled.  “Once you've been baptized in that mud, you're an honorary ‘Teaguer'.”  Ethan looked puzzled. “A Chincoteaguer, lad!”  

Ethan smiled.  “I understand, sir!  Yes, I suppose we would all qualify for that honor by now, except perhaps for Dreher here.  He's been most fortunate so far.”   

Bagwell smiled, stroking his mustache.  “Your good fortune won't last forever, sailor.”

The Captain was delighted to see how well Bagwell was getting along with his two crewman.  Platt was charming the man, though he was puzzled by Dreher's unusual quietness.   He was typically the more talkative of the two; not today.  They reached Lovey Copes' home, and he spotted her pigs, content in their new split-rail pen.   He felt a twinge of pride as they rode by.  

“I am eager to show you a cabin that lies not far from here, after the road forks,” continued Ethan.  “I must admit that it posed a challenge to us.  The foundation had collapsed in one corner.”  

Suddenly Sam saw where they were.  
After the road forks!
 The opposite fork led to Anna's home.  He recalled hearing the sledgehammer blows when the crew was breaking rocks to repair that foundation.  

This was his chance to end Ethan's game.  

“If I may suggest it, an even better choice might be Mrs. Mary Daisey's home.  Another widow, she is, Captain.  No doubt you know her, Mr. Bagwell.”  

“I do.”

“She and her family share a fine little home just on the other fork of that road. 'Twas in some disrepair when we arrived, but it's as pretty a thing as you'll see now that we've finished with it.”

He had piqued the Captain's interest. “Lead on, Dreher.”

Sam breathed a sigh of relief.  He could handle this one.

When he stepped outside his house, Beau Daisey had not expected to encounter three Union sailors and Chincoteague's most prominent citizen.  Sam Dreher had not expected to encounter Beau, either.  His face went cold when he saw him.
Why hadn't he thought of that possibility?
  During the many days he spent with Anna Daisey, he had exchanged few words with her older brother.  Sam was grateful that Beau was almost always sleeping or out fishing when he was there. Their first meeting had left him with low expectations. Beau spoke little when their paths happened to cross. Thanks to Mary's good words on Sam's behalf he held his strongest feelings in check.  Now they were face to face, and the wrong word from Beau could prove disastrous.  

Sam dismounted.  “Mr. Daisey,” he began, with obvious deference.  “The Captain of the USS
Louisiana
wishes to visit a few moments with you and your family.”  The young man stood ramrod-straight, his face showing no emotion.  Sam's heart stood still.  One of the horses whinnied, pawing the ground.  Beau's gaze shot from one man to the other.  

Bagwell knew Beau quite well. William Daisey had been the Bagwell Waterfowl and Provision Company's best supplier.  Since his death, Beau had worked many a day on the fishing boats and oyster tongers that traded at Bagwell's wharf.  He had never worked an entire week end to end.  Two or three days appeared to be his limit, and then he wouldn't be heard from for a while.  The boat captains complained about him, but Bagwell knew his family's situation, and encouraged them to hire him on when he appeared.  

Nancy Bagwell wanted to know Beau much better, though both her parents disapproved.  Arinthia could understand her daughter's interest.  He was a roughly handsome young man, well-built, with curly hair and strong features.  There was no half-way with Beau; he did everything with the sort of intensity he was showing at this moment, or he didn't do it at all.  A girl of sixteen could find him intoxicating.  Still, both Bagwell parents felt that he was likely to offer nothing but heartache to any woman who shared his life.  They discouraged their daughter's interest.  That didn't stop her from seeking Beau out whenever she had the opportunity.   Beau rebuffed her, showing no reaction to her little public flirtations.  That didn't stop her either.  Relentlessness was perhaps Nancy's greatest virtue.     

Edmund Bagwell dismounted.  “Are your mother and sister in, Beau?   Captain Sharpe here would like to meet them.  Captain Sharpe?” He held the reins of the Captain's mount as he stepped to the ground.  

The Captain removed his glove and extended his hand.  “Henry D. Sharpe,” he announced.  For a moment the words hung in the air.  

Bagwell broke the silence. “Beau Daisey here is a capable fisherman.  All the boat captains here on the island tell me so.  You could do far worse than to have him aboard your ship, Captain.”  Beau cocked an eyebrow at Bagwell and showed a tight smile as he took Sharpe's hand.  

“I'll enlist in the morning,” he said.  “Captain.”  He broke the handshake and turned towards the house.  “I'll tell my mother…” With that the door opened, and Mary Daisey stepped forward.  

“Gentlemen,” she greeted them.  “Won't you please come in?”

Sam could breathe again.  Perhaps this visit might proceed without incident.  The group climbed the steps into the house.

Anna Daisey could not recall hosting a group of visitors to equal this one.  When Mary spied the approaching men through the parlor curtains, she dispatched Anna to boil the kettle while she hastily put away her sewing.  This Sunday was a working day like any other.  Two dresses with petticoats were stowed upstairs to clear the room for guests.  As the teakettle heated, Anna measured out black tea and brought the good china cups and saucers down from their roost in the kitchen cupboard.  There weren't many, but they would have to do.   Before she knew it, her mother swept into the kitchen to collect the tea tray, beckoning her into the front parlor.  She arrived to find Beau glaring uneasily at three men in Federal uniforms.  Among them was Sam Dreher.