10
Wreckers’ Cay
November 1839
My latest pregnancy, coupled with Andrew’s arrival on the island, had turned me into a rather secretive person. The effort it took to disguise my condition and make sure Andrew took to hiding in time when outsiders approached our island was wearing on me. And it disturbed me that my children were having to learn to tell untruths, as well.
Of my pregnancy, I told only Dorothy, and swore her to secrecy. She had been appalled to learn of my condition—still thinking I was actually doing all the work at the light myself—and wrote to me that I should return to Key West at once:
You are quite mad, Emily. How on earth are you to continue with all your own responsibilities while nursing a new baby? Martha and Timothy are only children, after all. But of course I shall help you—I shall come this last time, but please consider winding up your affairs there and returning to Key West with me afterward. I will contact Mr. Pendleton to ask him about a replacement, if you wish. I cannot bear to think of you alone out there on that wretched island! Besides, your children need to be in a regular school, and to hear the word of God on Sundays.
The last paragraph raised my hackles. Although Dorothy and I had gone to the Ursuline convent on Chartres Street in New Orleans, our religious convictions had become very disparate. She had embraced her husband Tom Farrell’s Anglican faith with great devotion, whereas the lack of a church in Key West—and the total absence of any organized rituals here at Wreckers’ Cay—had radically altered my own fervor. Over time, I had moved to being a deist, or perhaps a pantheist; I wasn’t sure what the difference was.
I now intuited God’s divine presence everywhere, and with all my senses. From the moment I rose in the mornings, I saw it in the continuity of the bucolic life we enjoyed on the island. I could feel it sweep through me in the balmy humidity that met me at dawn, the freshness in the air before the sun rose to its apex at noon. I could see it every evening in the ?ery sunsets that rimmed clouds with gold and purple in the twilight afterglow, and in the brilliant stars that stabbed the indigo sky.
God’s touch was in the wings of colorful butter?ies and in our bougainvillea. God’s scent was in the jasmine and frangipani that we grew on the island. The word of God was not in in the oration of a preacher, but in the splashes of the pelicans and gulls diving, the calls of mockingbirds, the hums and chirps of insects and tree frogs, and the gentle winds rustling in palm fronds.
When I prayed—and since Martin’s disappearance, I prayed often—it was to this benign spirit out there on the water.
Martin had done much to make life comfortable for us on Wreckers’ Cay. In the few years we had been there, even though the lighthouse keeper’s home was government property and we had no pride of ownership, he had nonetheless modi?ed it to accommodate our family. He had enlarged our latrines, added a chicken coop, rabbit hutches, a smokehouse, and a small barn to house our little goats.
An oil-storage shed was needed next to the tower. Then he had constructed a washhouse, cleverly rerouting water from the existing cistern to the little building with a copper tube so we could heat it in tubs for laundry and bathing. He had built our storage house with pine siding, and even carved some lacy gingerbread for trim.
The island already abounded with native fruit trees like custard apple, sapodilla, mamey, and guava, the seeds of which had probably been delivered by droppings from birds many years before our arrival. Martin supplemented them with plantings of Key lime, mangoes, papayas, pineapples, breadfruit, carambola, and avocado in our garden. Bushes of Surinam cherry, carissa, and sea grape yielded other fruit I could preserve. We kept chickens, so we had plenty of eggs and, of course, poultry to eat.
There were rabbits, which the children adored, and yielded up for our sustenance only with di?culty and copious tears. The goats supplied fresh milk, and we had a big vegetable garden. I blessed Andrew’s arrival, for he was adept at gardening, and showed great sensitivity in slaughtering the animals when it was time, removing them to the lagoon area, where the children would not hear the proceedings.
Fishing around our island had always yielded far more ?sh than we could use at any one time. Timothy showed Andrew how to smoke surplus meat and ?sh—a skill that Martin had taught him.
Martha would join them in diving for conch, the mainstay of Key West and Bahamian diets. They would catch cray?sh and tasty pink-and-black stone crabs. Occasionally, the light keeper from Garden Key, in the Dry Tortugas, would stop off with a catch of deep-sea creatures like dolphin ?sh, cobia, mackerel, turtle, tuna, or even shark, sharing them with us in exchange for some of our garden produce. Andrew would happily clean the ?sh and cook them for us over an open ?re outside.
Yet I still relied on our provisions from Key West for many basic foods. And as my stores of rice, grits, beans, sugar, and ?our became depleted, I would ?nd myself looking anxiously out toward the water, hoping for some sign of the worthy Captain Lee, who was my lifeline to Key West.
In the months after Martin’s disappearance, before Andrew’s arrival, I found myself anticipating the captain’s arrival as never before. Besides parcels of clothing and books he delivered from my sister, Lee had begun to bring me small presents that he purchased at his own expense: a new utensil for the cookhouse and, one week, a new Bible. For the children, he brought small toys.
He would also bring music sheets for Martha and me to play on the piano, or for Timothy to learn on his violin. Often, he brought me cotton fabric remnants, which I sewed into clothing for the children. Lee had spread the word about Martin’s disappearance and delivered many letters of cheer and sympathy from friends and family in Key West, New Orleans, and the Bahamas. I treasured these words of comfort, even as I thought them premature, since Martin had not yet been found, nor his death con?rmed.
The captain also offered to bring a marker for Martin’s grave, as yet unoccupied. But to me, this signaled a ?nality I was not yet ready to accept.
When Martin was still with us, he and the captain usually visited for a short time on the veranda, drinking Cuban rum. Sometimes their voices would drop to a low hush, followed by loud guffaws and an embarrassed smile from Martin as he looked to see if I had overheard.
After his disappearance, Captain Lee and Al?e started spending longer periods at Wreckers’ Cay. Initially, I delighted in having them to dinner, just to have other adults to talk to. They always volunteered to take over the light on their visits, but on the basis of their initial performance, I did not relinquish this chore to them.
The delivery of provisions to lighthouse families kept the pair busy a couple of times a month. But they were still primarily ?sherman who supplemented their income by salvaging at wreck sites. It was clear that wrecking, with its substantial pro?ts, was their greatest love, and Lee was continually talking about it. “As Martin well knew, wreckin’s a ?ne business,” the captain often said to me, usually over dinner. “Mostly, we happen upon the wrecks when we’re out ?shing, then head for the reef to lay our claim—” Then he caught himself. “And … to help out where we can, o’course.”
I’d heard all this before, but the captain delighted in repeating it, overlaying the procedure with color. “Often the spoils are such that we have to send for help in town. When they call out ‘Wreck ashore!’ the lot of them head for the water, and never mind the weather or what they’re doin’ at the time.”
The scene he described was legendary. There were many tales of Key West judges abandoning the bench, or ministers leaving the pulpit in mid-sermon when the shouts came in like a clarion call. The rush to get to a lucrative wreck ?rst was tantamount to a stampede.
As their visits continued in Martin’s absence, I found myself more relaxed with Al?e Dillon, who, unlike the captain, did not continually urge me to leave Wreckers’ Cay. When they were leaving, Captain Lee usually pressed my hand and repeated what he’d said that ?rst time he brought Martin’s skiff back to the island: “A lot of people would love to see you come back to Key West, Miss Emily.”
My answer was ever the same: “And how would I live?”
“Miss Hester has that ?ne big house, with plenty a’room for a big family, and lots of help. Three or four darkies from South Carolina, if I’m not mistaken. Can’t keep ’em busy enough. Rents ’em out t’other folks who can’t afford to buy Negroes th’selves.”
During one such visit, his gaze was steady on my face. He added, “A ?ne-looking woman like y’self should have no trouble ?nding a gentleman who’d have her.”
His suggestion was so tasteless that I laughed out loud. “I rather doubt that, Captain George. And are you forgetting that I’m still married?” It occurred to me then that his gifts were not just gratuitous. I made a mental note to steer future conversations in other, less personal directions. I withdrew my hand, which he seemed to press longer than was necessary. “Godspeed,” I said. “I will pray for your safe trip back to Key West. I am most appreciative of all you’ve both done.”
He waved away my gratitude. “Believe me, Miss Emily, it’s my pleasure. Always good to see you, ma’am. And your charming family, of course.”
With Andrew’s arrival, however, all this conviviality was about to change.