The Sea is a Thief (21 page)

Henry Sharpe replaced his pen in its holder.  He rose and walked to the window, staring forward intently.  His hands were clasped behind his coat, fingers twitching.  He shook his head as if he could shake off this new burden like stray raindrops.  Shortly he turned to face Sam Dreher.   A thought had occurred to him.

“Were you alone in this?”

Sam could not think.  His actions spoke for themselves.  He was prepared for the worst.  But Ethan could not suffer because of what he had done.

“The…the fault is mine, Captain.  Entirely.”

The pause before he spoke told Henry Sharpe most of what he needed to know.  He had not spent a career in the Navy to be fooled by the same sailor twice in one week.  

“Yes.  The fault is yours, Dreher, but the responsibility is not, is it?”

Sam kept his silence.  

“Come, now, Dreher.  If I were to interview every sailor on this vessel—and I am entirely prepared to do so—do you think for a moment that I would not discover the truth in all its dimensions?”

Sam knew that he had taken the man far too lightly.  Captain Dull had been given his command for a reason.  
How had he hoped to avoid detection forever?
  

It had come to an end.

Sam looked Henry Sharpe square in the eyes.  The two men were alike in few ways.  They were Captain and carpenter, New England gentry and commoner from the hills of Pennsylvania, over fifty years of age and barely twenty.  Sam hoped against hope that he could appeal to what they might have in common as men.

“Captain,” Sam said.  Sharpe lifted his chin, not looking away. “Have you ever been in love?”

Sharpe raised his eyebrows.  It was a question he did not welcome.  He was certainly not obligated to answer, but something in Sam Dreher's earnest gaze drew the truth from him like water from a well.  

“You are a brave man, Dreher, and perhaps a reckless man.  Since we find ourselves speaking freely, I will tell you truthfully that I have not.  And what will you say to that?”

Sam swallowed hard.  “I will say, Captain, with respect, that if you had, you might see my actions with merciful eyes.  And the actions of any who have aided me with the same eyes.”

How had it come to this?  A ship's carpenter.  A forbidden liaison with a young woman in port.  Willful disregard of orders.  He could have Dreher shot if he wished.   The regulations were clear and penalties severe.  He knew without question what his father would have done—and what his grandfather would have done.  Yet, he was inclined to do none of it.  Sharpe took his seat.  

“You have not provided an answer, Dreher. Who aided you in this…this deception?”  Sam could not bring himself to speak.

Damn it all,
thought Sharpe.  
Make it easy on yourself.  I can see it without any help from you!
 “Your bunkmate, Platt?  Your carpenter's mate?”  Sam looked away.  “He is your friend of many years, is he not?  Who else would have remained so faithful to you in all this?”

Sam answered a bit too loudly for one denying an accusation.  “He did work that I ought to have done, sir, so that I could do as I pleased.  He has done no wrong.  He has disobeyed no order.”  

“But he was aware of your whereabouts and of your meetings with the young woman, yes?
Was he?
”

“He was, sir. God save me, I must admit it.”

“Anyone else?”

“None, sir.  An oath to God, sir.”  Sam closed his eyes tightly.  His legs felt weak.

Henry Sharpe's work was concluded.  He had the full story, he was certain.  In the strangest of ways, Dreher's ability to deceive him over the course of these many weeks had made his admission of guilt all the more believable.  “Are you aware, Dreher, of the penalties the United States Navy allows me to impose upon you and your accomplice?”

He was not.

“In time of war, death.  Immediately.”

In the face of death, Sam Dreher had nothing to say.

“Dismissed.  Confined to quarters until further notice. “

“Sir.”

It was over.

 

Henry Sharpe was left alone, floating in the Chincoteague channel, the fate of two young men entirely in his hands.  Fifteen years of service to his nation had not prepared him for this.  The regulations were explicit.  One word from him, and Benjamin Harvey would assemble a firing squad at first light.   No one would fault Henry Sharpe.  In fact, he might be praised.  It was known throughout the fleet that he ran a tight ship.  The war took its toll; two more, for justifiable cause, documented and admitted, would likely pass without comment.  

 

What Sam Dreher did not know about was the incident that had taken place just that morning.  Very few men did know about it.  On a clear day, under the very eyes of the forenoon watch, a lone man had approached the
Louisiana
undetected.  He tied up his tiny boat to the anchor line of the warship and climbed hand-over-hand onto the deck.  Had he been a Confederate raider there was no telling what sabotage he might have accomplished; the ship could easily be at the bottom of the channel.  This man had other purposes.  Quickly ascending the rigging farthest astern, he snatched the Stars and Stripes from the line where it fluttered in the breeze.  Drawing a long knife from his belt, he cut the flag from its halyard, tucked it into his shirt, and leapt to his boat.  By the time he was noticed he had put some distance between him and the ship.  He was away clean before any pursuit could be mounted.  The watch commander observed him through a glass.  He was an unusually large man with a long beard, wearing a dark brown broad-brimmed hat.  His motives were a mystery.  Whatever they were, he had accomplished his purpose and put the crew of the
Louisiana
to shame.

The flag was replaced within minutes.  The security of the ship was another matter.  Some citizen of the island had demonstrated his ability to threaten the
Louisiana
at will.  It was a lesson learned for Henry D. Sharpe; the cooperation and peaceful intentions of the islanders were not to be taken for granted.   

Sharpe took a bottle of rum from its place in his cabinet.  It was not the ghastly swill that the sailors guzzled, but old Jamaican rum, as men drank in Providence when they desired rum.  He filled a glass half-f and began to write his orders.

Death was no fate for such as Dreher and Platt.  He could not bring himself to condemn them—not, at least, for the crime of love, or for loyalty to a close friend.  Even so, he could no longer trust them, or tolerate their presence on his ship.  His victory over the
Venus
was hard-earned, and the recognition it would bring him was well deserved.  The good will of the islanders was fragile.  He could not allow any of this to be jeopardized by a lovesick carpenter.  Another ship could have them.  Union vessels moved up and down the coast freely, carrying coal and supplies.  They could transport sailors as well.  There was plenty of action to the north and south.  In two days, three at the most, both men could be in the thick of it.   

He signed his name to the orders of transfer for Dreher and Platt: Henry D. Sharpe, Captain, USS
Louisiana.

 

CHAPTER TEN

Storm Surge

 

Sam Dreher lay hidden in the stern of the launch, wrapped in a sail.  Two heavy lines held the launch suspended from the side of the
Louisiana.
 Soon a team of sailors would lower it to the Chincoteague Channel, sending it ashore.  Sam calculated that his chances of making it undetected were about one in three.

Fortunately for him, the stern of the launch held all the flotsam that no one wished to secure. Despite the Captain's insistence on tidiness, things somehow found their way to the back of the boat: a set of oars, a wooden bucket, several coils of line, and the sail.  In theory, it could be used to sail the launch.  The mast that would carry it lay along the seats.  In practice, the sail was never set; the launch was always rowed.  The sail lay forgotten.  No one might notice if its rolled bulk was somewhat thicker than usual.

No more than a day remained before a passing ship would carry him away from Chincoteague, and from Anna.   He was determined to spend that last day with her, come what may.  He had called in a couple of favors to set his plan in motion.  Sam had made friends during his days aboard the
Louisiana
.  When his friends heard of his predicament, they returned his friendship while they still could.  

Within hours word came:  The launch would depart at first light.  A routine run for supplies.  Two men aboard.  Room for one more, hidden.  Sam arranged for two rations of rum to be sent to the mid-watch, who took their posts at four in the morning.  It was chilly on deck at that hour, and there was nothing to watch but the stars.  When one member of the watch was asleep and the other strolled to the foredeck, a dark figure stepped softly towards the davit that held the launch, a hundred feet away.  Gripping the support line with strong, calloused hands, he dropped noiselessly into the boat.  In a few minutes he was invisible, cloaked in sailcloth and awaiting the dawn.

He slept only an hour or two.  At the smallest noise he awakened, ready to be discovered, but no one found him.  At dawn two shipmates joined him in the launch.  If they were aware that they carried a stowaway, they gave no sign.  The blocks above him creaked as the lines sped through them.  He felt the sea take the boat in its arms.  The two men pulled on the oars and they lurched forward.  He was underway, alive and a free man, at least for now.    

No voices announced their arrival at the wharf.  Only the gentle impact with the piling told Sam that the launch had reached its destination.  The two sailors clambered onto the deck and strode away, boots scraping on the dirt path.  He strained to listen as their footfalls receded into the distance.  Sam pulled himself from the enveloping sailcloth like a caterpillar from its cocoon.  Luck was with him.  A shifting fog cloaked the empty wharf.  The light was still dim.  The day was his.   

He ducked quickly behind the Atlantic Hotel, his lean body sliding along the gray clapboards.  Barrels of refuse lined the grassy border between the hotel and the channel: hambones, fish entrails, duck feathers.  He slipped from barrel to barrel until he reached the next building, and the next.  Figuring that the two sailors had headed south, he emerged onto the empty main street going north.   Following the avenue posed too much risk.  He darted across the broad boulevard, finding cover under the portico of the bank.  He concealed himself in its shadow, scanning the way north.   By angling away from the curving main street, he could rejoin it a little farther up.  He ran silently across the grassy lawn behind the bank.  When he rejoined the street, he looked back.  The wharf was lost in gloom.  It would be an overcast day.  A damp wind was already kicking up over the water, and the sky was mottled with grey.  The weather had worked to his advantage.  He had gone unseen.

He knew the way to Anna's blindfolded.  His feet flew, picking out his path like a wolf tracking prey.  He stayed just off the main road, leaping the rivulets and boggy spots, picking his way between cedars and pines.  Twice he heard an approaching horse; he pressed himself flat to the earth and lay still until the sound passed.   He was a ghost, silent and invisible.  

By the time he reached Anna's home, the sun was well up behind its hazy cloak.  Inside the house, a single lamp glowed.  He hoped against hope that Anna, not Mary, was awake.  Climbing onto a chopping block, he pressed his face against the kitchen window.  

It was she.

She noticed the very slight motion in the window and dashed to the doorway.  In a moment she was with him.  He grasped her arm and they ran to the shed, hiding themselves inside.  He took her face in his hands, showering her with kisses.  She wrapped her arms tightly about his neck.   Over and over again she whispered his name.  

“I had to see you, Anna, if only to say farewell.”

Her voice caught in her throat. “Farewell?  What have they done?'

“It has happened as we feared.  The Captain has sent me to another ship.  I will return to you as soon as I can.”

“How long, Sam?”

He shook his head, his voice tight.  “I have no way to know.  But I will return to you.  I will, Anna. I will.”

“When must you go?”

“Today, I fear.  I had to see you before I was sent away.”

“Let us go to the island, then.”

“Go inside and bring a cloak for yourself.”

She stood quickly.  “And what if I am seen?  Mother is beside herself with fear already.  Beau's loyalty is not certain.”

“Was it your brother who betrayed us, Anna?”

“No.  Nancy Bagwell used him to accomplish her purposes.  It was never his intention.  Still, I am unsure of his feelings.”  She took her father's oilskin coat from its hook. “This will serve.  Go!”  She opened the door with her arm, just a crack, as Sam looked to the right and left.  Seeing nothing, he ran to the creek where the skiff was tied.  Anna followed, holding onto his hand.  In moments they had slipped free of the mooring, headed to Assateague.

 

Elizabeth Reynolds was napping in her little brick cottage when they arrived.  She answered Anna's knock and welcomed them in.  She knew from their faces that they brought no good news.  While the teakettle warmed on the wood stove, she listened to Sam relate the story of Captain Sharpe's judgment, shaking her head.  

“Military men!”  she scowled.  “No use for them.”  She poured them hot tea.  

“Do they know you are here?”  

“Not yet.”

“Stay for a time.  Ride the horses.  Say your farewells.  You will not forsake our Anna, Sam Dreher, will you?”

He took Elizabeth by the shoulders.  “I will not.”