7
Wreckers’ Cay
August 1839
The slave’s silence and proximity to me in the lantern room was unnerving, His normal breath was beginning to return, and ?nally I had to speak. “I hope you don’t sleep too soundly. Our posting here calls for lighting the lamps every evening at sunset and to keep them burning brightly until sunrise. It’s important to train yourself to be alert to the workings of the light.”
“I’m a … light sleeper … ma’am,” he assured me.
I launched into explanations. “On a clear night, our light can be seen for quite a distance out to sea. The reef extends for several miles. If a ship goes aground, it can mean disaster. The ship captains know from their charts that it’s here, and they look for the light.”
“You ever … git any wrecks?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “A few accidents have occurred in the past three years, despite our diligence.”
I showed him a chart of the area. “I know you can’t read their names, but these are the Florida Keys, the tiny islands along here. Earlier charts referred to them as Islas de los Mártires, or the Martyr Islands, for the suffering of those whose vessels perished. The whole area has coral reefs and shallow waters that can be extremely perilous. It’s one of the graveyards of the Atlantic.”
He looked at me and smiled bitterly. “Florida Keys?… I didn’t even know,” he said. “Nobody explains things to passengers that is shackled.”
“No,” I observed drily. “I don’t suppose they discussed the route with you.”
He looked around the lantern room. “Does this lamp move around?”
“No. It’s ?xed, like the light twenty-three miles east of here, in Key West.”
He was listening carefully. Occasionally, he would nod.
I read over my notes. “To make sure the light can be seen, we must keep the lamps, re?ectors, and lanterns very clean. They call light keepers ‘wickies’ because of our attention to the wicks. We have to trim them frequently, and evenly—usually around midnight. I shall come with you tonight and show you how.
“If the lights go out in the middle of the night, you have to rise from your cozy bed and head for the tower to get them blazing again, even in a storm. And do it quickly. There are ships passing all the time. We use whale oil here. It’s very expensive, and the superintendent wants an accounting of how much we use, so this must be logged.” I hesitated. “Do you know how to do sums?”
He shook his head.
“Well, then, that’s something I’ll see to myself.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Carbon has to be cleaned from the re?ectors. Every few months, we have to polish the lens with alcohol we keep in that cupboard. Once a year, we give it a cleaning with a compound the superintendent provides. The fuel is kept down in the little oil-storage room.
“We keep this little cot up here for nights when it’s stormy and the lights get blown out. When that happens, you can just spend the night here. I keep some blankets in this box over here. And we keep the tools we need up here separately. They’re in that case under the workbench.”
I wondered what he was thinking. Surely this heaven-sent help was too good to be true. I imagined he was already planning a dash for freedom, possibly stealing one of my boats to escape. But his expression betrayed nothing.
“To keep the light bright, we have to clean the steps, landings, ?oors, and windows of the tower often, so they’re dust-free. The brass and copper ?xtures on the apparatus in the lantern room and the window over the little balcony all need to be kept polished.
“That’s important, as we never know when the inspectors from the Lighthouse Services will pay us a surprise visit just to check up on me. You will have to hide somewhere when they stop by.”
He looked alarmed. “How often do they come?”
I shrugged. “Our dog will give us fair warning when they approach. You’ll have time to hide.”
“How long do they stay?”
“Not long. They do an inspection of all the lighthouses in Florida a couple of times a year.” He absorbed this with a concerned frown. “All they care about is that the light stays lit, and that they don’t have to pay me very much,” I reassured him. “They have no idea you are here, so they won’t be looking for you. And there are many places for you to hide on the island.”
He looked dubious, and I could understand what he was feeling. A slave like him was worth money—though he probably wasn’t aware of how much. He also knew that if he were found, the lighthouse inspectors would immediately take him to Key West.
“How long you bin doing this by y’self?”
“Since my husband left in May,” I replied. “About three months.”
This raised yet a new fear. “He comin’ back?”
I was reluctant to reveal more about my situation just yet. “I’m not certain,” I said vaguely. Then I continued. “As you can see, tending a lighthouse is very demanding.”
“What time you turn off the lights?” he asked.
“It varies with the time of year. It’s always at sunrise. After you turn them off, you must trim the wicks and get ready for the evening. I’ll do it along with you for a few days. Small birds and insects frequently hit the lights out here, and they must be swept up every morning.”
He nodded slowly.
I smiled. “I know it’s a lot to learn at once, especially if you can’t take notes. Can you repeat it all back to me?”
To my surprise, he did, and I had to admit to myself that in just a few minutes he had already picked up a better understanding of the light’s workings than Captain Lee or Al?e.
He spoke with an accent I placed around Georgia, without the incomprehensible patois I’d been accustomed to hearing when slaves spoke among themselves. Yet, being a Negro slave, he was not educated. My guess was that he’d spent a lot of time as a handyman or house slave and had picked up a decent command of proper English.
“Good,” I said when he’d ?nished speaking. “Very good.”
“That be all for now?” he asked as he started for the stairs.
“Where are you going?”
“Downstairs, to sweep up the birds and insects. Then I thought I’d see if young Timothy and I could start puttin’ up the fence around the garden and the playhouse. He told me that your palings had been delivered.”
He was actually eager to get started. Secretly I was pleased, but I couldn’t help feeling mistrustful. Was he just trying to curry favor?
“I bin shackled so long, ma’am,” he explained, “I want to git moving again. Doing things. Git my body strong again.”
“Ah.” I nodded. Then I realized something curious. “Why were you in chains? My impression was that once down on the slave deck, slaves were always put in irons.”
At ?rst, he just lowered his gaze. When he looked back up, his eyes were angry. “Well, ma’am, I reckon I must have been getting real special treatment.”
I stiffened. I could not let myself forget that here was a slave possibly so troublesome that he’d been sold off to an illegal slaver so his owner would be rid of him.
I changed the subject. “I don’t know if Timothy and Martha told you, but we have no money to pay you anything.”
“I have no use for money, ma’am.”
“I can give you food and shelter; that is all.”
“Yes, I understand,” he said. “That’s all I need now.”
Now? Was this his way of telling me he would not be with us for long? I decided then to get as much work out of him as I could. Perhaps if he felt well treated, he might stay until after I had the baby.
He seemed to read my mind. “Martha and Timothy said you was in a bad way, with another chile coming.”
I felt my color rise, but there was no denying my condition. I nodded. “Let’s go down, and I’ll show you the construction materials for the fence.”
Our fencing around the animal pens, garden, and playhouse had blown away during a storm the previous season, and Martin had been waiting for materials to replace it. Captain Lee and Al?e had promised me they’d put the new fence up, but so far they had not done so. By dinnertime, my new assistant had made an excellent start. I watched him working with my son and was pleased to see that, unlike Martin, who preferred to perform such chores alone, he was making sure Timothy was helping.
I invited him to sit at the family table at midday, smiling as I thought of how horri?ed my sister and Gran would be to see a slave eating with us.
The playhouse seemed to be the best place to lodge him. Martin had constructed a small sleeping alcove with a single bed for Dorothy’s rare visits. It was a tiny building with a high ceiling, and there were shelves that Martin installed to keep playthings in order.
Despite its diminutive size, the playhouse at least provided privacy for an adult guest. He was delighted with it, and it occurred to me that he’d probably never had his own quarters. I’d seen enough slave shacks in Louisiana to know how cramped and unsanitary they could be, with ten or so people in a room nowhere near as big or bright as our playhouse.
After several days, his hard work had, despite my original misgivings, impressed me, and I was beginning to relax more around him. I still did not trust him entirely—he was a runaway slave, after all—but my relief at having an extra pair of willing hands to help at the light made me feel much more kindly toward him.
“What do they call you?” I asked after dinner one day.
“They usually call me Hannibal.”
Hannibal was a typical slave name. Owners had different ways of naming Negroes. For some, it was customary to give them monikers that could be given to pets; others named them after cities. Still others gave them names of exalted persons in antiquity, a practice that poked fun at the slave.
“You have no other name, then? Just Hannibal?”
“I have my African name, which my mother gave me. That would be Dembi; it means ‘peace’ in her dialect.”
“That’s actually a nice name,” I said, smiling. “Peace. But I think since you’re starting a new life here, we should give you a regular name.” I thought of several possible names, mostly of politicians I had heard of. When I thought of the Virginia lawmaker, John Tyler, I said. “Perhaps I should call you John, after John Tyler of Virginia. Or John Dembi?”
He smiled at me for the ?rst time, revealing his even white teeth. “John Tyler? Ain’t he a slave owner?”
“Well, yes, but John is a ?ne name.”
He paused. “Seems to me, ma’am, you’re doing the same thing my master did.”
“Not at all,” I replied. But I felt the heat of a blush creeping around my neck. “I just thought you’d like to be rid of the name Hannibal.”
He thought for a minute, and I could tell the idea of choosing his own name amused him.
“I kind o’like the name Andrew,” he said.
“Andrew? Yes, that’s a good name.”
“How about … Andrew Dembi Tyler?”
“Perfect,” I said, relieved, for I’d begun to ?nd it awkward referring to him as “the Negro,” “the slave,” or nothing at all.
“The children will address you as Andrew”—I paused—“unless you would prefer Mr. Tyler.”
“Mr. Tyler?” he repeated incredulously. He laughed out loud, and I was surprised to ?nd myself laughing for the ?rst time in many weeks. Even little Hannah, braiding the hair of her rag doll at my feet and understanding nothing of our conversation, laughed with us.
Andrew reached down and picked her up. “Hey there, you laughin’ at Mr. Tyler, missy?” he asked playfully. She rewarded him with a happy smile and reached up to kiss him, giving him a peck on the right cheek, then on the left. After that, she reached over to rub noses.
I felt my blood run cold. My laughter stopped. “Come, Hannah,” I said, picking her up. “It’s time for your bath.”