2
Wreckers’ Cay
May 1839
“You really should think about returnin’ to Key West,” Lee said as he stepped onto the Outlander and rolled down his sleeves. His face was red from the sun, and his clothes were drenched with sweat from digging. “If you need help with packin’ up, I’ll bring your sister and one of her servants next time.”
I frowned. It was as though he had not heard me the night before. He removed his cap and wiped the sweat from his pate before he spoke again. “I’ll let Mr. Pendleton know what’s happened, so he can start lookin’ for a new light keeper. May take a month or two, if you can manage till then.”
Pendleton was the eighth auditor of the U.S. Treasury Department and superintendent of lighthouses for the whole country. Lighting up a Cuban cigar, Captain Lee looked at me expectantly.
“Martin may be missing, Captain George, but we do not know that he has indeed perished. I will have many decisions to make eventually, but as I told you last night, I’ve no intention of leaving for Key West—at least not at the moment.”
“I’m concerned, Miss Emily,” he muttered. “It’s not the best place for a woman, out here alone. This is the most remote lighthouse in the Florida Territory—perhaps in the whole country.” He took a deep puff on his cigar. “You should reconsider.”
“Perhaps. But for now at least, I want to remain.” I managed a slight smile. “You forget that I’ve been tending the light here with Martin for three years. I’m not without experience.”
“Ain’t a question of experience. It’s havin’ th’energy and time to do it all. And out here on your own? Ain’t much to do, for a well-born lady like y’self.”
The company of others was an issue. My sister, Dorothy, tried to come to the island as often as she could, and continually implored me to return to Key West in her letters. But I was not about to admit how much I missed Dorothy and her family—and even my cantankerous Gran. Or how lonely I was sometimes when Martin and I were here together. So I just smiled, “I’ll carry on as long as I’m able.”
We were silent for a moment. Al?e watched us from the stern of the Outlander, looking back and forth between me and the captain.
Lee was nodding, but his expression was dubious.
“Besides,” I added, “I shall need the money more now than ever before. This position at Wreckers’ Cay was supposed to be compensation for the loss of our property.”
Lee nodded again. Money was something he could understand. “Yes, ma’am. That’s so.”
Finally, he sighed with resignation.
“I’ll make out a report when I get back to Key West. Pendleton will be out sooner rather than later. He’ll want to make sure you’re doin’ right by the light. Should warn you, though: The Treasury Department people don’t even like to see young families in isolated places like this. A woman by herself …” He shook his head. “I’d be mighty surprised if they’d go along with that.”
Then, smiling, he leaned over and said good-bye to little Hannah, who, clutching a small stuffed rag doll, was chattering in her own kind of baby talk, which only the family understood. An ear infection had left her unable to hear, and when strangers addressed her, as the captain now did, she would laugh and hide behind my skirts.
Lee’s parting words were no more reassuring: “Good thing Martin taught you how to use a gun. There’s been news of more Indian massacres on settlers up the Keys. Then there was the light keeper’s assistant that got killed off by some Seminoles up at the Cape Florida lighthouse recently.” He lowered his voice. “I’d hate to tell you what they did to that woman in the attack on the settlement at Indian Key.” He then turned his back to me and fussed with the sails. “Good luck to you, Miss Emily. We’ll see you in two weeks.”
“Godspeed,” I managed to say as they prepared to shove off.
While serving in the army during the War of 1812, Martin had accumulated a collection of pistols, muskets, and ri?es, keeping them in the locked cupboard of our bedroom. Every week, he made a ritual of cleaning them, and he would set up targets to teach me the rudiments of shooting. Personally, I hated the guns. I loathed their noise, the hardness of the metal, the smell of the gunpowder, and the way a ri?e could jump out of my hand and hit me in the cheek as I ?red it.
Because Martin was adamant about teaching me, I had persisted in my shooting practice. But when I discovered he was planning to teach our son, Timothy, I was horri?ed. “He’s still only a young child!” I had protested.
“If ever you and I are unable to defend ourselves, we may need to have Timothy use these weapons,” Martin said.
Initially, our son had no interest in even holding a gun; the noise frightened him. But he was always trying to please Martin. Gamely, he listened to his father’s instructions, and though he practiced only with reluctance, Timothy eventually learned to handle our ?rearms with a modicum of dexterity.
At the time, I could not picture an unlikely or ridiculous situation like the one Martin had described, but now, as Captain Lee and Al?e pulled away from the dock, I remembered his words. And for the ?rst time since my husband’s disappearance, another possible theory occurred to me: Could Martin have met with a war party in canoes? I shuddered, unable even to contemplate what horrors might have befallen my husband if that were the case.
For many long days and nights after Martin vanished, I walked the beach at Wreckers’ Cay, shielding my eyes from the sun as I trained them out to sea. In the late afternoon, when the tide was low, I took the children to the sandbars to swim and play on the shallow ridges of ?rm sand carved by the waves. These were happy times for them and good moments to scoop up a ?sh that strayed from its school, or to seize scurrying stone crabs or cray?sh for our supper. It was always the best part of the day, when breezes were cool and soothing and the sun’s relentless blaze began to abate before it dipped into the sea.
Timothy and Martha understood that our playtime was yet another search for their father, and together we scanned the beach and the horizon, examining anything that washed ashore, no matter how trivial, as Hannah played in the sand.
“We’ll ?nd him, Mama,” Martha assured me every evening, taking my hand in hers.
“Yes,” I replied vaguely, ?nding solace in her touch. I refused to let myself cry in front of the children. With a hug, I assured her: “He’ll be home soon. I’m sure of it.”
Timothy offered his own explanations as the days continued. “I think he just got lost and ?oated to a nearby island. He’s probably living on local animals and ?sh, and fruit. Father knows how to take care of himself.”
I would smile, ru?e his hair, and agree with him—though as each day passed, I knew such possibilities were the false hopes of a child. On one occasion, Timothy frowned and said, “If you’d only let me go out on the skiff—or on the Pharos—I’m sure I could ?nd him. I could explore some of the little cays nearby.”
“Absolutely not, Timothy,” I said firmly. Secretly, I felt proud of my son’s ambition, but the thought of him going out to sea alone was beyond consideration. In truth, I had thought of trying it myself, but with my husband now missing, if anything happened to me, it would be disastrous for my family.
“If Captain Lee and Mr. Dillon couldn’t ?nd him, and if the rescue crew from the Lighthouse Services was unable to, how could we? Besides, darlin’”—I knelt down to give him a hug—“I need you here.”
This was true. Since Martin’s disappearance, I was desperate for the children’s help; the responsibility of guiding ships through channels, warning them away from the treacherous coral rock, was daunting. Even before Martin’s disappearance, it had become something of a family affair, and in his continued absence, I needed my children close by—now more than ever.
Yet the actual lighting of the lamps was a task only I could perform. Each evening just before sunset, as the tide began its long slow roll toward the shore, its waves gently blanketing the sandbars, I headed for the tower. Against the shrill calls of seabirds plunging hungrily into the water for ?sh, I watched the sun reaching downward toward the horizon.
I made my way up the circular wooden staircase to the lantern room of the tower and, breathless, ?nally entered the cocoon of glass perched at the top like a glowing jewel. The glass enclosure was warm from the heat of the day, but I welcomed the soaring vista it offered. High above the island, it was perfect for viewing the luxuriant foliage on the one side and the glittering waters on the other.
“Martin, where are you?” I whispered. His familiar words—“Don’t worry, I’ll be home in plenty of time for the light”—resonated still. But now I heard only the low roar of the tide. As I prepared to light the lamps, my eyes continued to sweep across the shallow water surrounding the island, always searching for a lone ?gure in a ?shing skiff.
When I lit the lamps, their soft glow immediately ?lled the little room, spilling brightly out to the ships at sea. I often remained at the south windows of the lantern room for a time, watching the afterglow of pink and golden clouds after the sun dipped below the horizon.
And always when I emerged from the door of the tower, little Hannah, my two-and-a-half-year-old, would be standing there waiting in her little white nightgown, looking like an angel in a nativity scene. She was happy to see me, but she still expected to see Martin. This had normally been her time with her daddy, not me. I would scoop her up in my arms and kiss her soft skin, nuzzling my face into her neck, which smelled of soap from her bath, and bury my cheek into her soft, damp curls. I could not make up for Martin’s absence, but she would still lift her face for the little kissing game they had played together, and I gamely tried to do it properly—one kiss to the right cheek, one on the left, and then we rubbed noses Eskimo-style.
She would giggle then, and seem happy as I took her hand. We’d stroll back to the house for supper with Martha and Timothy. And as I did, I realized that I was becoming both father and mother to my children.
And to the new baby I was beginning to suspect I was carrying.