The Sea is a Thief (17 page)

“This is Nettle,” she said.  “He's the most agreeable pony on the island.  Even Beau rides him when he comes here.”   Sam ran his hands along the pony's sides.  The horse's dark brown eyes showed no fear.  

“Whose herd are they?” Sam asked her.  “Why are they roaming here, so near to the sea?”   

“They belong to no one in particular,” she replied, “but they have been here as long as we can remember.  If you spend enough hours in the Atlantic Hotel when the ale is flowing, you will hear stories about horses fleeing the shipwrecks of Spanish galleons long ago.  Each man will swear to you that his is true.  Buy them more ale, and the stories will improve. My father told me some of his favorites, but he always cautioned me afterwards that it was sinful to lie.

“The horses do not leave the island, even when the tide is low.  Elizabeth and I have befriended some of them.  My father found Willow when he was a very young colt, and made him mine.  In the summertime islanders come over and drive the ponies to Chincoteague, where the new foals are sold.  Pony penning, we call it.  But Willow is spoken for.”  

“May I fetch saddles for us?” he asked.  

She shook her head. “We ride without saddles.  The ponies are not used to them, nor are we.”  He paused.  He had ridden tired old farm horses bareback, but only at a walk.  These ponies would be altogether different.  She felt his sudden concern.  There was mischief in her eyes.  “Nettle is most agreeable,” she offered, “and the sand is far softer than earth.  Let me show you.”  With that, she twined the fingers of her left hand in Willow's long mane.  With a quick step she braced her right hand quickly on his withers, and threw her leg over his back, skirts flying.  In the blink of an eye she sat gracefully astride her horse, reins in her hands.  Her boots stood abandoned in the sand; her bare feet dangled just behind the pony's forelegs, her ankles framed by the hem of her petticoats.  

“Shall we leave you behind, Sam Dreher?” she called.  Willow was stamping the ground, ready to go.  Sam swallowed hard.  He did not so much fear a fall; he dreaded the look on Anna's face as she watched him get up.  

With a broad leap he clasped his hands around Nettle's neck and flung himself upwards and sideways.  He nearly overshot the mark and ended up on the other side, but a sudden grasp on the horse's mane steadied him.  He lunged for the reins and balanced himself, not a moment too soon, as Anna wheeled Willow about and cantered away, the hooves of her mount spraying little tornadoes of sand in her wake.   He thought he might have a few minutes to get used to her style of riding, but he was mistaken.  He could only follow northwards at her chosen speed, concentrating on staying upright.

In time, he caught her.  Nettle was mild-tempered as promised, yielding easily to the urging of the reins.   Sam soon found himself able to use the Indian bridle to direct the horse with gentle pressure.  Working without stirrups, he held himself in balance with his knees.  He began to think he might survive the ride.  Anna's pony was eager to run; shouting a command, she moved forward slightly on her horse and took off at a gallop.  Sam followed at some distance.  Anna veered into the surf, her mount carving deep hollows in the wet sand.  Tiny crabs scuttled from their path.  By turns they climbed up onto the dunes, then back into the shallow water, then at full speed down the hard-packed beach.  When she pulled up and spun about the lighthouse was no longer visible on the horizon.  She waited some minutes for Sam to join her, her pony's flanks heaving.  He reined in his horse.  

“You might have ridden faster, Mr. Dreher,” she said, “But you've done well to stay mounted your first time on a Chincoteague pony.”  

Their horses exercised, they trotted side-by-side.  Anna's skirts were damp with salt spray, and long strands of hair had come loose from the braid at her neck.  Sam had pushed his cap far down on his forehead against the wind.  The cool air reddened their faces.  She pointed to a grove of small evergreens in the distance.  

“There's a place with some shelter, where we can rest.”  

They reached the little grove at a walk.  A dozen short loblolly pines had grown in an almost perfect semicircle, just over the dunes facing the sea.  They surrounded a little hollow banked by three huge flat rocks.  A ring of smooth stones had been fashioned just in front of them.  The ashes of past campfires remained within it.  Anna dismounted and Sam followed, taking the reins in hand to tether his horse.  

“No need,” said Anna. “They both know where we are.  I come here frequently to draw.”  He looked about.  It was a fine little place, serene and separate from the surrounding island. Long copper-colored pine needles lay everywhere, cushioning their steps as they walked. They sat on the largest rock as Anna opened her bag.  

“What do you draw when you come here, Anna?”  She pulled the cork from a bottle of cider. Setting out two metal cups, she filled them and held one out to Sam.  He took it readily. He had not realized how thirsty he was.  The tangy sweetness of the cold cider cut the dust and salt from his throat. Anna sipped from her cup, looking towards the sea, then high into the sky above them.  He heard a booming sound, like distant thunder.  A gun.  

“Are there hunters about?”

“Surely. It's early still, but the geese are arriving.  Look!”  As if on a silent cue, two snow geese crossed the sky above them, headed for the marsh just beyond.  Their white plumage glowed against the bright blue sky.

“I like to draw the snow geese when they gather on the marsh in cold weather,” she said. “They cover the water like a carpet.” Three more geese followed the first pair.  “See how black the primary feathers are, contrasting the white. And their bills are so pink.”  She turned to her right, gazing towards the marsh where the geese were headed.  

Suddenly something caught her eye.  She pointed to the horizon.  He saw what she had seen: a large predatory bird, hovering over the marsh, talons extended towards the ground.  Its long, tapered wings were striped in chocolate and ivory.  It hung nearly motionless in the air, eyes fixed on the grasses below.  Without warning it folded its wings and dropped, emerging again with something gripped tightly in its feathered talons.  The bird wheeled off towards a cedar tree.  

“A vulture?” asked Sam.

“A marsh hawk.  A hunter.  Sometimes I can watch them for hours.”

Ana reached into the bag and brought out a loaf of bread, breaking it and handing half to Sam.  He was glad to eat.  The hard crust was dark, almost bitter, but the inside was golden-white and soft as air.  From the pocket of her skirt she took a packet of paper and a short pencil.  Laying it on the rock beside her, she began to draw an outline: a feather, then another, then a sharply rounded head and a wickedly hooked bill.  It was the marsh hawk, hovering on her page just as it had just behind them.  She handed Sam the pencil.  

“You draw the tail.”  He protested.  “I couldn't begin to make such a drawing, Anna.  I would ruin your work!”  She laughed.  His concern charmed her.  

“It is nothing, Sam.  I make so many of them.  Try to draw the tail.”   She watched him hesitate, then put the pencil to paper and make a cautious line.  In his mind's eye he saw the bird's wide tail, mottled with dark stripes.  He drew six feathers, then another, and joined the tail to the body Anna had created.  

“There is no resemblance!” he shouted, frustrated.  

“Good enough, Sam Dreher,” she clucked.  “For a first try at least. This is the first drawing we have made together.” She gazed on it for a few long moments and folded it carefully in two.  Reaching for him, she held his tunic open at the neck, and gently slid the drawing inside the fabric.  

How easily she might have let go of his tunic and gone back to her meal, but she did not.  Instead, she pulled him gently closer with both hands, as she might pull a cape about herself when she felt rain begin to fall.  He yielded willingly to her grip, and in the softness of his eyes she saw what she longed to see.  Their lips met in an inevitable kiss, his hands brushing the wayward strands of her hair away from her face and cradling her shoulders as her neck arched backwards.  Their kiss lasted an eternity, their lips parting, then meeting again, drawn together as if they could find breath only in each other.  She felt his kisses on her cheeks and her neck, and she held his head against her.  His cap had fallen away, forgotten, and the sun cast showers of light onto his hair.  She sank her fingers into it and kissed him again.  This time, no tears or remorse drew a veil between them; the bittersweetness of his near loss had faded, replaced with a joy so great that she did not know its name.  

Neither could measure the time they held each other.  It was not enough, but both knew it was too long.  Duty awaited both Sam and Anna; their sweet, stolen time had an end, and they had reached it.  Without a word they rose to their feet and remounted their horses, their silence that of parishioners exiting an hour of devotion, unwilling to profane the air.  In silence they rode, as slowly as the impatient ponies would permit, until the lighthouse emerged unwelcome onto the horizon again.  The smoke from a cooking fire rose behind it; Elizabeth would be waiting for them.  

“Will Elizabeth disapprove of us having been here together?” Sam asked.  

“If Elizabeth has found your heart to be true,” she said, “you need not fear her disapproval in anything.”

Sam Dreher was mightily consoled when the medicine woman welcomed them back, embraced them, and gave them more food for their return to Chincoteague.  She offered Sam her compliments on the work he had done on the skiff, then bid them be off, lest they arrive later than they should.  As Sam rowed away from the bank by the lighthouse Anna saw that Elizabeth had already lain down for a nap.  

The gulls circling overhead seemed to mock them as they entered the channel and Assateague receded.   The gulls could remain; they could not.  Anna tried to focus her mind on the time that was left to them before Sam's oars took them back to her home, where they must separate.  She could not.  Imminent pain steals from current pleasure, as gulls steal scraps from one another, squabbling in the air over a crumb.  Her heart sank lower as the creeks led by turns to the town of Chincoteague.  

The sun was fiery in the west as they bid each other farewell, Sam pledging to return quickly, Anna urging him to be cautious and assuring him of her patience.  Inside, her greatest desire was to hold him and beg him to keep his word.  
Yes, return quickly, as quickly as you can, Sam Dreher.
 

 

Sam met up with Ethan in front of the Atlantic Hotel.  

“A couple of the lads went in for an ale, Sam,” he explained.  “I was glad they did, else you'd be here havin' to explain where you were all day.  We've been ready to shove off for a while now.”  Sam could only thank him, as before, but with a depth of gratitude he could not have felt just a few days ago.  Ethan cut him off.

“I told you I had you covered,” he said. “No need to slobber about it.”  

“You are my friend, Ethan,” he said.  

“Indeed I am,” said Ethan.  “Now go get in the boat.”

As he rowed the launch back to the
Louisiana,
Sam felt Anna's drawing inside his tunic, close against his heart.

 

CHAPTER EIGHT

The Interloper

 

If necessity is the mother if invention, then love is the source of cleverness, especially for young men.  Fueled by the fire of newfound love, a calm, careful man is transformed into a creature with the resourcefulness and guile of a ravenous fox.  No power, even that of the United States Navy, is strong enough to keep him from his love.  When the man is as smart as Sam Dreher, the transformation is both dramatic and lightning fast.  His feelings for Anna Daisey had been growing since the moment they met.  After the day they spent on Assateague, he reached that perilous place where all other things ceased to matter.  He had to be with her, come what may, and he needed a scheme that would ensure it.

He began to devise a plan while rowing towards the
Louisiana
that evening.  As he attached the launch to the lines that would haul it aboard, he found himself staring at the sleeve of his uniform.  Its color was dark in the fading light.  He noticed the repair that Mary Daisey had made during his first visit to Anna's home.  He had not thought of it since.  The work was so fine that it defied detection.  Captain Sharpe had never made mention of it, and he was notorious for fault-finding.   Each morning, as he reviewed the rows of sailors, Captain Dull took personal offense at the state of many of the uniforms—and these were the best the crew could muster up, not the sorry spare tunics and trousers they had stowed below deck.  Each small incident that damaged a uniform required a sailor to spend precious leisure time sewing it up as best he could.  Few could do a first-rate job.  Most drew Sharpe's wrath the next morning.  

Why not bring the work to Mary Daisey?
The sailors were paid regularly, and Chincoteague offered a man few opportunities to spend his money.  They could easily afford whatever Mary Daisey's handiwork would cost them. The best part of it was that Mary was Sam's personal secret.  He would deliver and retrieve the uniforms himself.  While Mary was busy at her sewing, he and Anna would be together.  

He presented his idea to Ethan as they finished their meal.  Ethan considered it carefully, eyes fixed straight ahead as they usually were when he was deep in thought.  

“It's good,” he said, finally.  “You're a quick one, Sam.  You always were.  To a degree, I mean.”  

Sam leaned back on his bench.  “High praise.  But where are the problems with it?”  

Ethan frowned, shaking his head.  “No, no difficulties.  This is good for everyone.  First, the crew passes inspection each morning.  That puts the Captain in a better frame of mind.  Second, it helps the islanders, as the Captain is dead-set on doing.  As for you, that goes without saying.  And as for me, I don't have to invent some yarn every day that explains where you have gotten to.  I believe that's what I like best about it.  You know, that Bagwell girl came around looking for you.”