The Sea is a Thief (4 page)

The company turned onto the broad, packed-earth street.  It was speckled from edge to edge with clam and oyster shells, some broken in bits.  Clearly this was the center of the town.  There was a Post Office, displaying the U.S. flag.  It looked as if a dozen parcels might fill it up; at present it was closed.  A large home dominated the southern corner.  Its flagpole towered into the sky a hundred feet, proudly displaying an oversized Stars and Stripes that was visible far out into the channel.  Some distance behind it, alongside the water, two big square warehouses stood, each bearing its own colorful sign:
Bagwell Oyster Packing House.  Bagwell Waterfowl and Provisions.
 

The tall windows of Chincoteague Dry Goods framed one side of the street, their displays of brightly checked cloth standing out above the dull brown roadway.  Facing it on the waterfront side was the Bagwell Atlantic Hotel, its outsized double doors opening into its parlor and common room.  A large brass bell was mounted on its long porch, and a white-painted railing extended the length of it.  Two women passed the time in wicker rocking chairs, while an older man wearing an apron swept the porch clean of sand and dust.  The sweeper stared at the contingent in blue.  Sam approached him, removing his cap.  

“Good morning, sir!” he called out.  “Where might we find a clergyman?”  Ethan noticed a beetle climbing up his sleeve.  It made good progress before the man spoke.

“Baptist or Methodist?” he asked, stroking his mustache.  

“Both, I should think,” Sam answered in a low voice.   

“The Methodist Protestant Church is one street over on the right side.  That would be Reverend Kearney.  Christ Union Baptist is within sight of it, a little ways father down.  Reverend Carter.”  With that, he resumed his sweeping.  Sam offered a word of thanks, and they were off, not terribly encouraged about the day to come.

They found the Reverend Kearney, a slender man with a booming bass voice, in his shirtsleeves, sawing up a downed tree limb.  Afterwards, they located Reverend Carter, older and much quieter, in his study busily scratching out a sermon.  Both were well aware of the
Louisiana's
role in sinking the
Venus
.  Kearney had commented favorably on the battle from the pulpit.   He offered apologies when Sam described the cool welcome they had received.  “We take our time with newcomers,” he explained.  Neither man had expected eight Union sailors in his parsonage on a weekday morning.  Both took a little while to grasp the Captain's intentions.   Once they did, their skepticism turned to optimism, and much thought was given to which households might benefit most from the Navy's generosity.  After careful consideration two lists of names were produced, one for each congregation, with directions to each home.

The names were divided up and six of the sailors were on their way to various parts of town when Reverend Carter came rushing out of the side entrance of his little church.  He hailed Sam and Ethan.  “One more,” he called.  “The Daiseys.  Mary lost her husband some time ago.  There are two older children, but I believe she could do with some help.”  He held out a scrap of paper with a penciled map.  Ethan looked at Sam for direction.  The two men would have to take on a double burden.  Sam's reply was quick.  “We'll see to it ourselves,” he said, and with a handshake they left the grateful minister to his writing.  “I'll visit that first family,” Ethan offered.  “You take this new one, and we'll meet at the launch at sunset.”  Sam nodded. “Thanks for the extra work,” Ethan called out over his shoulder.  

 

Sam's first glance at the Daisey cottage told him that Reverend Carter had been right. He took stock of the many things in need of repair.  The roof had seen better days. Some of the shutters were hanging by a thread, and a number of clapboards were loose. When he knocked on the door of her little house and explained his purpose, Mary Daisey came outside so that Sam could point out the problems he had spotted. Her eyes darted about nervously.  She seemed reluctant to accept charity, but the look in her eyes told him that no other help was forthcoming.  She struggled to find words to express her gratitude, her long, thin fingers meeting and then folding with tension.  It was clear to Sam that he had come to the right place.

“It may seem foolish,” Mary said, “but may I ask you a great favor?  Would you begin with the rain barrel?”  It stood just in front of her, under a downspout.  Placing a hand on either side, she tipped it forward to show Sam the trouble; years of use had weakened the staves, and two of them were partially missing.  As if to emphasize her point, a large salamander escaped from underneath, scurrying into the weeds.  “It's so much more difficult to carry water from the well,” she explained.  Mary said she had some lumber in the shed behind the house, and hurried off to bring it.

Same dropped his sea bag and began to lay out his tools. The air was warm.  The scent of overripe vegetation was strong in his nostrils.  This was the smell of Virginia.  Wildflowers with tiny yellow blossoms swarmed the foundation of the cottage, and waxy green-leafed vines climbed its corners.  Mary returned carrying three long oak planks and excused herself to tend to her work inside.  He cut the planks to size, weighted them with rocks and soaked them in the creek.   They needed to soften before he could bend them into barrel staves. He paused to eat some hardtack, and Mary brought him tea.  

“You're like an angel sent to this home,” she told him.  

“Only a ship's carpenter, ma'am,” Sam responded.  He was flattered. When the planks had soaked for a while he began to fit them into place.  

For him, it was a simple task.  He had made the same repair many times.  Much of the freight that the canal boats carried down the Little Schuylkill River arrived in barrels.  Careless longshoremen damaged enough to keep a young carpenter busy. The canal boats themselves fared no better; rocks and snags took their toll.  They came to his uncle's shop for patching up.  Sam's skill grew rapidly as he worked in the shop, first by his uncle's side, then by himself, and finally with Ethan assisting him.  The river pilots hovered over him at first, watching with a jaundiced eye, but Sam was good at his work, and Ethan was not bad at all.  The pilots were big, rough men with little tolerance for the errors of a journeyman carpenter.  Sam spoke to them with ease about what he was doing.  He learned his trade faster than others his age.  The tools obeyed him: his file never slipped, and the cuts made by his saw were always straight.  It seemed that his hands had been created for the drawknife and the plane. The structure of the boats became second nature to him; the ribs and planking fit together in his mind's eye.  The pilots came to trust him with their vessels and cargo.   In time, most of them developed the habit of visiting the tavern at the Port Clinton Hotel while Sam Dreher worked.

Sam clinched a final nail and the barrel was sound once again, the stripes of fresh oak pale against the weathered wood.  He rolled it into position under the tin downspout.  As he heaved it into place, a protruding nailhead caught the sleeve of his tunic, leaving a long, L-shaped tear in the dark blue fabric.  Sam studied it with dismay.  Such a defect wouldn't survive ten seconds at Captain Sharpe's daily inspection.  

The door opened, and Mary Daisey emerged with a smile on her face as she saw her rain barrel.  She noticed Sam fingering the hole in his tunic.  

“What have you done there, young man?” she asked.  

“It's a small thing, ma'am, I'll fix it this evening,” Sam offered, but she would have none of it.  

“Nonsense!  Didn't anyone tell you I was a seamstress?”  In fact, no one had.  The Reverend Carter, in his haste, had neglected that detail.  “Come with me.”  She beckoned him inside.  

Sam climbed the three steps into the front room of the cottage.  There was little furniture: a settee, a few chairs.  Five carved wooden ducks sat on a table as if they had just landed.  Mary retreated into a second room.  Against a large window stood her sewing machine, its graceful iron mechanism mounted on an oak cabinet with a cast-iron foot treadle.  Fancy gilt letters proclaimed it
The Singer Sewing Machine, patent 1851.
  Oil lamps hung beside it on the near wall and the staircase.  Wooden racks and cabinets held bobbins and ribbon; a table across the room was laden with bolts of fabric.  She motioned to a cane-seated chair and swept away a basket that occupied it.  

“Give me that jacket and take a seat,” she said.  There was no arguing the point.  Carefully, Sam removed his tunic, leaving him in his long-sleeved knitted undershirt.  

“Pardon me, ma'am,” he said, coloring a little.

“Think nothing of it,” clucked Mary.  She rummaged through a wooden apple box, overflowing with fabric scraps, for a patch.  A cascade of white muslin was already in place on the machine; she set it aside carefully.

Sam sat quietly, observing the room.  Here, too, he saw carved duck decoys: two on the table, one on the tiny staircase landing, one decorating the mantel.   A doorway led to the kitchen, where a teakettle perched on an enameled cast-iron stove beneath a little window.  Dark water stains on the kitchen wall betrayed its poor state of repair.  A fireplace in Mary's workroom shared its chimney with a larger one in the front parlor.  Above it hung two carefully-framed daguerreotype photographs.  On the left was a handsome, wavy-haired young man in his best suit, accented by a broad silk bowtie.  His eyes were kind, and a trim mustache covered a smile at the corners of his mouth.  Its neighbor, a smaller image, showed the same man, but older.  His hair was thinner, brushed smoothly back from his temples, and his mustache was gone, but the gentle eyes and hint of a smile were still there.  He was holding a little girl on his knee, five or six perhaps, all dressed up in ruffles, a hat, and a silver locket.  She stared nervously at the photographer.   Sam recalled the late husband that the Reverend had spoken about; this must be him.

Sam heard the clank of the front door latch, and suddenly Beau Daisey's short, stocky frame appeared in the sewing room. Under his arm was a worn oilcloth coat.  In his fist was a short-handled fishing gaff.  His curly red hair was askew.  His face was a mask of anger.  “And who are you?” he snarled, stepping onto the braided rug.  Sam rose to his feet in acknowledgement, ready to extend his hand, but before he could find words, he and Beau had met eye-to-eye in the center of the floor like two dueling rams.  

Mary dropped her sewing and leapt up. “Beau, would you kindly introduce yourself to our guest Mr. Dreher?” she asked him softly.  “Mr. Dreher is stationed on the ship in the channel, and his Captain—what was your Captain's name, Mr. Dreher?”

“Captain Sharpe, Ma'am,” Sam replied, not budging.  “Captain Sharpe has sent him to assist us.”

“Assist us, how?” growled Beau.  

“Carpentry, son.  He is the ship's carpenter, isn't that correct, Mr. Dreher?”  

“It is. ma'am,” agreed Sam.  “It would be my pleasure to assist you on behalf of the USS
Louisiana
and the United States Navy.” They were the words the Captain had given him for just such a situation, and he hoped they would somehow help him avoid the fistfight that appeared inevitable.  Neither man moved.  Sam was calculating how he might knock the gaff from his opponent's grip before it was thrust into his stomach.  

“Beau,” asked Mary, “Would you kindly hang your coat and go wash?”  Her words lingered in the thick air.  Sam tensed for an assault as Beau turned and slipped past him into the kitchen.  “Please forgive my son, Mr. Dreher,” Mary said.  “Our household voted with the rest of the island to remain loyal to the Union, but I'm afraid his emotions do get the better of him.”  A Rebel sympathizer, then—and here he was, a Union sailor, in his undershirt, visiting unannounced in the family parlor with the man's mother.  Sam was relieved; returning from this particular mission after a brawl would be most difficult to explain.  

Mary quickly finished the patch on Sam's tunic.  True to her word, her work was finely done.  He thanked her.  “While I'm here, ma'am, I might see to some of those loose clapboards in the back of the house,” Sam offered.  Mary was in no position to refuse.  Many times Beau had promised to make those very repairs, but his promises had gone unfulfilled, and cold weather was coming.  

“I would be most grateful,” she replied.  

As Sam returned to his work outside, Beau re-entered the sewing room.  “How can you have him in our home?” he demanded.  

“He's been a nothing but a gentleman,” Mary answered. “and the rain barrel is repaired.”  

“That would have been finished by Sunday,” he spat, and retreated to his workbench in the kitchen.  

“Did the boat come in early today, Beau?” she asked.   

“It was a poor day.  Most of us were idle.”  Then, silence.

At the back of the Daisey house, Sam studied the loose clapboards.  He was in luck; the bad ones were down low where he could reach them if he stood on something.   Near the shed he found a chopping block, rolled it into place, and began to work.  Sam drove the nails with a practiced swing, holding the extras between his teeth.  Moving quickly, he soon secured two clapboards across the whole width of the house.  He could see at least three more that needed attention.  Suddenly, in mid-strike, he paused.  Someone was watching him.  

Her dress was dark red, long-sleeved, with ruffles framing a white lace collar.  Her hair was parted in the center like her mother's, swept up into a braid held by a ribbon.  She carried a basket and a clump of pink Meadow Beauty, some of its too-fragile petals already falling at her feet.

Her eyes were dark, and her gaze was strong under delicate brows and a high forehead.  Her lips were full, and parted slightly as if to speak; indeed, she wanted desperately to speak.  Sam would find out much later that she had stood there for quite a long time, watching him work, waiting patiently for him to notice her.  So intent was he with his hammer and nails that she was afraid she might wait for hours.