4
Wreckers’ Cay
August 1839
The stress of Martin’s disappearance and my sadness at his loss had affected my appetite, which caused me to lose weight and brought about other changes in my body. But there was no denying my morning sickness. By the month of August, I had accepted that another child would be arriving to bring joy to our family—and additional responsibility to what I was already shouldering.
It was proving a di?cult pregnancy. By the third month, I was experiencing unusual physical problems, and I was close to exhaustion from tending the light.
Martin and I had never felt quite the same way about the lighthouse. He regarded tending it as a job, while I had always intuited its magic. The ?ame we created each evening spoke to faceless people beyond the reef, warning them of its dangers. And I loved the feeling of being high up in the tower, surveying my world from its vantage point. But now that I had to tend it, day in and day out, I came to understand Martin’s attitude better.
The superintendent of lighthouses, Inspector Stephen Pendleton, ?nally came to see if I was doing things correctly. “You surprise me, Mrs. Lowry … Uh, for a woman, you appear to manage rather well.”
“Thank you,” I replied, bristling at his reference to my gender. There was no reason for him to act as if I were unique. There were other widows nearby who had become lighthouse keepers, like Barbara Mabrity in Key West, and Rebecca Flaherty at Sand Key. And I had read about women up north in the Great Lakes region and New York who were also in charge of lights.
“I didn’t really expect that you’d be able to,” he continued. “But after spending today here, I would have to say that everything appears to be in order …” He was checking off items on a list. “Lamps … re?ectors … the oil-storage house—yes, everything has been well tended … Good log on fuel consumption, matching our records … Even your home looks good”—here he gave me a condescending smile—“despite your having children.”
Pendleton was a tall man in his early ?fties, with a large mustache that turned up at the ends, and a belly that threatened to pop the buttons of his vest. And while I found his manner businesslike, he wore a kindly expression.
“Would you care for some tea?” I asked him when his inspection was done.
“I would be delighted!”
I poured him tea on the veranda, served with freshly baked scones and some of my mango jam. Chewing appreciatively, he regarded me with a combination of suspicion and growing admiration. “How long have you been doing this on your own now?”
“Since my husband disappeared in May.”
“Three months. You’ve managed well.”
“I’ve worked alongside my husband ever since we lost our land in Key West and moved here.”
He nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, yes, of course. That was an unfortunate thing, taking your land. Quite regrettable.” Possibly, o?cials in Key West did feel some guilt at the way we had been treated. As he seemed sympathetic, I pressed my advantage.
“Until my husband has been found, there is no reason to make any radical changes in my life or that of my family. I trust you’re satis?ed that we can keep the light in good running order. We’re still con?dent that my husband will be returning.”
He nodded slowly. “I must confess I came out here to tell you I would be replacing you.” I held my breath until I saw that under his mustache a smile was taking shape on his thin lips. “But I admit I have been most impressed today.”
I exhaled with relief.
He looked down for a moment, choosing his next words with care. “Mrs. Lowry, has it ever occurred to you”—he fumbled for words to express his question with tact—“that your husband might have … well … just left, gone off … or might have decided to end his life? Perhaps he was troubled. The isolation here … it wouldn’t be the ?rst time someone lost his sanity tending a light. It has occurred to some of us at the Lighthouse Services …”
I felt my face ?ush with indignation that such a notion might be circulating in Key West.
“No,” I asserted ?rmly. “My husband and I were devoted to each other. And Mr. Lowry was a wonderful father. I believe that he is still alive, having survived a mishap or some kind of attack. If he were dead, his remains would most certainly have washed up by now. No, my husband is alive; I’m certain of it.”
I began to clear the tea things from the table to indicate that our social time together was over. In truth, his words had stung me, echoing a faint suspicion that had festered in the depths of my own mind from the beginning.
Sensing my agitation, he stood up. “Yes, of course. But you must admit that his disappearance was—is—rather mysterious.”
This required no comment from me, so I remained silent. Gathering his things together, he prepared to leave, and I walked him down to his boat.
“You’re a strong woman,” he said in an unctuous tone as he took my arm. “If you think you can manage without your husband, then we’ll try it this way and see. Since you’re already here and seem to be managing, I would have no objection to having you continue.” He smiled benignly and tightened the hold on my arm. When he ?nally released it, I felt his hand at my lower back, and it began to slide down over my buttocks.
“I will require a new contract with your department,” I said, moving away. “As you can see, I have the same family responsibilities and work tending the light as my husband did, and without an assistant, which he had. I will expect the same salary of seven hundred dollars a year that my husband earned.”
His mouth opened to speak, but no words came out. And his eyes widened with genuine shock. “My dear lady!” he said when he regained his composure. “Women cannot be paid the same as men!”
I had expected him to say that, so I said nothing. At least my demand had ended his groping as he contemplated what I’d asked. In the end, we negotiated a compromise. He would pay me six hundred dollars annually to do the work of two people, with a promise of more in a year if I performed well. He would send out the new contract with Captain Lee on the next tender.
Had I not been pregnant and in a weak bargaining position, I might have pressed on. My condition was a secret I could not keep forever, but I wanted to hide it from him until he was convinced that I could manage. Fortunately, my height could carry and conceal added weight. Corsets and shawls helped when the supply tender was expected, but as I usually wore neither of these on the island, I was vulnerable to surprise visits.
Truthfully, I had no idea how I would tend the light and look after everything else once I was in labor and during the time immediately following my delivery. My fervent, if fading, hope was that Martin would soon return and life would be the same as it had been before.
Cautioning me about Indian attacks as Captain Lee had, Pendleton untied his boat and left, while I hurried back to the children and the evening’s chores ahead of me.
The night following Pendleton’s visit, a heavy gale ravaged Wreckers’ Cay. This in itself was not unusual for the summer season, when storms frequently brewed in the Caribbean. Still, the winds that night had been strong enough to suck the very breath from me. While my children slept soundly through the storm, I was mostly awake and alert to the lamps. Drafts swept eerily through the tower, their whispers rising to shrieks as they extinguished the lamps in ghostly puffs of smoke. More than once during that night, I had to leave the house in pelting rain and run up the stairs to trim the wicks, clean soot from the lenses, and rekindle the light.
The heat and anxiety were a di?cult combination during the long hours of darkness. When I tried to nap, I was jolted awake by a curious clanging sound that stirred bad memories through my veil of mu?ed dreams. I was also awakened by the barking and howls of our dog, Brandy, who was terri?ed of the crashing thunder.
Outside, the wind was blowing savagely, creating its own high-pitched hissing. It whistled through palm fronds, bending trees with a frenzy against the roof of the house. A loose shutter I had forgotten to close beat reproachfully somewhere at the back of the house. “I can’t think of everything!” I wailed miserably into the storm. “Why isn’t Martin here to help with battening down the house? To look after us when it’s stormy?”
And further, I thought, I needed him in our bed, to hold me tightly and assure me that all would be well.
The next day, I rose at dawn to a blessed calm. I collected small branches that had snapped off our mahogany tree and tried to tidy up the minor damage to our outbuildings. Mercifully, no large sheared boughs had landed on our rooftops.
A bad case of morning sickness made me too ill to eat. Numbly, I assigned chores to Martha and Timothy. Brandy seemed more interested in staying outside, and I kept hearing her bark and whine over by the storage house.
Though feeling ill, I began my early-morning tasks at the light, climbing the tower staircase to begin extinguishing the ?fteen wicks. The lantern room was hot from the ?aming lamps and the heat from the rising sun. I was already warm from the exertion of the climb, and by the time I began turning down wicks to quench the ?ames, my clothing was drenched and sticking to my skin.
Once the lamps had cooled enough to touch, I took off the glass chimneys and removed them from the candelabra. Wiping down the silvered ?fteen-inch parabolic re?ectors, I covered them with protective cotton covers. Next, I poured the whale oil from each lamp through a strainer into a clean copper oil can, disassembled and cleaned them, and trimmed the wicks. Finally, I put the lamps back together and mounted them again on the candelabra. After I polished the brass oil-reservoir chambers, I re?lled them with the ?ltered oil, and the circular wicks were reset for the evening lighting. Mindlessly, I completed these tasks, wondering if I could realistically continue this routine every morning. My back ached as I swept up insects and small birds that had been attracted to the lights during the night and died in the heat from the lamps.
From the balcony of the tower, I could see vessels in the distant shipping lanes as I cleaned the windows to remove the heavy salt spray. For a ?eeting moment, I envied those men aboard the ships. They were heading somewhere—anywhere. They were free in a way I could never be again. Going to places I would never see, to do things I would never experience.
Back at the house, Martha had taken charge of things.
“Timothy, after breakfast you should rake up outside for Mama,” I heard her say as I came in. He had just lit the ?re to boil water for coffee and grits. “Hannah, go check the coop for eggs. Then you can help me set the table. There’s a good girl.”
I smiled as I watched Martha sign and enunciate clearly to make Hannah understand. Our situation was making her ef?cient beyond her years. We had breakfast like any normal family, and it marked the ?rst day I could remember in which none of the children asked about Martin.
Afterward, too tired to sleep, I strolled along the lower beach and scanned the shallow waters of the sea with Brandy, who whined restlessly. As always, my eyes swept the horizon; it was now second nature to me. But then as I looked down, I stopped in my tracks. Footprints! Barefoot prints in the sand, tracing from the sea into the low shrubbery.
Martin had returned. My prayers had been answered! But on closer examination, I realized the footsteps looked much larger than my husband’s could have been. My joy was replaced with terror. Perhaps it was an Indian scout, sent ahead to spy on our supplies and the island’s defenses. This prospect gripped me like a python, robbing me of breath.
I hurried back to the house, trying to act normal in front of the children, and quietly selected one of Martin’s ri?es from the locked cupboard. Thus armed, I toured all the outbuildings, except the locked storage shed—I saw no signs of a break-in there, and the keys were kept in my bedroom. With Brandy whining at my heels, I stalked the island in silence but found no one.
Finally, exhausted from the heat, I returned to the house, satis?ed, at least, that our boats had not been stolen, and relieved that I’d had no cause to use the ri?e. Later, as the tide rose, the footsteps washed away, but my fears remained. Someone had invaded our island and might indeed still be with us.
Over the next several days, I was jittery at every sound. And my suspicion about an intruder strengthened with each day. It occurred to me, for instance, that our stores of food were suddenly being used up at the same rate as when Martin was with us. My children were growing fast, I reassured myself, and eating more.
It was time I discussed my pregnancy with Martha and Timothy, for I had procrastinated long enough. After their studies one night, I settled Hannah into bed and summoned them to our front parlor. The room was sparsely appointed with household items barged over from our home in Key West. The furniture and rugs were becoming worn and seedy, with spots where Brandy had accidentally made her mark. But even in its genteel shabbiness, it was still our most o?cial-looking room, where I could feel most comfortable sharing this news.
They quietly settled themselves onto the plush horsehair couches, resting their heads on the antimacassars.
“I want to tell you,” I began, “that you are going to have another brother or sister.”
They met this announcement with silence.
“You’re probably surprised,” I continued, “since your father is no longer—”
“Oh, we knew,” Timothy said. “We’ve heard you being sick.”
“And we hadn’t seen your … hygienic cloths on the line for a few months,” added Martha.
Then they both started to giggle. I, too, began to smile, but not without considerable embarrassment. Seeing my color rise, Martha came over and put her arms around my neck. “Don’t worry, Mama,” she said, kissing my cheek. “We’ll manage. You can count on us.”
I hugged her gently. I suspected that Martha knew she might even have to help with my delivery if Dorothy did not come over in time. And I had to ask myself if I wasn’t placing too much on her young shoulders.
Before I could say anything more, she and Timothy looked nervously at each other, smiling. He nodded. She turned back to me. “Timothy and I have something we want to tell you, too. Something we’ve been keeping a secret.”
I smiled. “Oh! What kind of secret?”
Martha nudged Timothy, urging him to speak. He was silent for a moment, taking the measure of my mood. “Well,” he began, “we think we have some help for you. We have … well, we have a slave.”
I sat up suddenly. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“He came ashore the night of the storm. He escaped from a slave ship bound for the Caribbean.”
“A slave? Here on our island?” I realized I was shouting—something I rarely did with the children. “How—where is this slave?”
They cowered into the couch, and both pointed toward the storage shed.
“Promise you won’t hurt him,” entreated Martha. “He’s very nice.”
“You’ve been feeding him!” I exclaimed, suddenly making the connection about our missing food.
They nodded. “He said he could help you tend the light if you let him stay.”
Immediately, I was on my feet and ?ying up the stairs. I removed a shotgun from the locked cupboard, seized the keys to the storage shed, and raced back down the stairs.
The children watched in silence.
“Take me to him this minute,” I said.
“Don’t shoot him,” Timothy pleaded. “He’s a nice man.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”
“We were afraid … We thought you’d be angry,” Martha said.
“We think we should keep him,” said Timothy. “He could be a big help to you.”
They led the way to the storage house. I gave Martha the key and she unlocked the door as I kept the ?rearm aimed ahead of me. The door opened, and I nearly gagged on the malodorous fumes inside.
He was huddled by a slop pail in the far corner of the room. Palmetto beetles were feasting on the pail’s contents, and ?ies buzzed above it. As he stirred, I heard the clanking sound and realized that was the familiar sound I’d heard the night of the storm: the rattling of slaves in chains that I’d heard so often during my New Orleans childhood. His wrists and ankles were shackled. One of Martin’s toolboxes was open next to him, with a ?le and various other cutting tools the children had been using to try to remove his chains. Small bugs crawled around him, and I suspected that his hair was full of lice and nits. I could only make out his features with di?culty, but I immediately discerned that he was not an African slave; rather, he was the hybrid result of generations in the South. His skin was a much lighter brown than the rich ebony color of newly landed slaves I’d seen in Louisiana. Even more telling were his eyes, which were a light hazel.
Seeing the chains, I could feel my muscles relax with relief and my breathing return to normal. While I still kept the shotgun on him, I let my hand loosen its grip. “You speak English, of course,” I said to him, holding a handkerchief over my nose and mouth.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied. He was looking apprehensively at my ?rearm, yet I could read a certain de?ance in his eyes. It was the look of someone who understood how to ?ght for survival.
“Well, then, you’ll understand this,” I said. “I don’t know what my children told you, but you are not welcome on this island. When our supply tender returns, you will be on it, heading for Key West. Is that clear?”
He nodded slowly.
“Is that clear?” I repeated, my voice rising.
“Yes, ma’am,” he replied hastily, his eyes following my gun.
“Until then, we will feed you and look to your basic needs,” I said, trying to assert more control in my voice. “If you give us any trouble …” I paused here and raised the gun.
He stared back at me.
With that, I picked up the tools, turned, and left. Herding my children on ahead of me, I locked the door as I pondered just what his basic needs would be. He’d clearly been unable to wash for days. Shackled as he was, just getting to the slop pail must have been di?cult. And while the children had been feeding him, he couldn’t have been getting much sustenance.
“Mother, you are being so cruel,” Martha said when we were outside. “It’s not his fault he’s here. He was on a ship that got into trouble during the storm.”
I held out my hand to stop her. “Martha, there is something strange about this. He isn’t an African; he’s a slave born in the United States. What was he doing on a slave ship heading to the Caribbean?”
The children shrugged. It hadn’t been legal to transport slaves from Africa since 1808. But even my young children knew that illegal slavers were still out there. Importing free labor from that continent was far too pro?table to bring to an end. And in any case, the practice of slavery itself was still ?ourishing quite legally in the United States and in many islands in the Caribbean. It had to be an illegal slaver that he’d been on, one that had made a stopover at an American port on its way to the islands or to South America. With enough money, a rogue ship could always ?nd a place to dock for supplies or repairs en route. Such a stopover would be an opportunity for an American slave owner to sell off a fractious slave.
“This is not a question of begging for a pet and promising to look after it,” I said to Martha and Timothy, trying to speak more gently now. But they just looked ahead and didn’t respond. I sighed wearily as we all trudged back to the house in silence.