12
Wreckers’ Cay
May 1836
We arrived in the late afternoon at low tide, with clear, shallow waters gleaming a brilliant turquoise in the sunlight. My ?rst look at the island was a shock. Part of the jungle growth had been cut down for the new construction, and that area was bare and unsightly. Elsewhere, uprooted trees and broken limbs told the tale of a bad tropical storm the previous season. I stared at the harsh, inhospitable land, trying to visualize how a garden could be coaxed from the patches of coral sand that glittered before us. The rest of the island was still thick with wild mangrove, hiding only God knew how many species of vipers and biting, stinging insects.
From the dock, the Wreckers’ Cay lighthouse soared into the sky, a dramatic, elegant structure, which arrested my gaze and beckoned us to enter and explore it. I could only imagine the beauty that would emanate from its glorious rays as it illuminated the darkest nights.
“We’re home!” I announced cheerfully to Martha and Timothy, putting my arms around them for reassurance. They peered out from the boat, apprehensive for only a moment, for the lure of the lighthouse held them in awe, as well. And being children, they were eager to escape the con?nes of the boat and get their bearings on the island.
The big two-story house, the dock, and the cistern for the keeper looked raw and new; they needed ?nishing touches to complete them and make them truly home. Knowing how good Martin was with his hands, I could see its potential. I glanced at him when we docked, noting how, despite his ongoing melancholy, his eyes were already appraising what needed to be done, and assessing which materials and tools he would require.
Looking out to the straits, we could see the ships Martin had been hired to protect, with light tra?c moving steadily in both directions.
“Get used to looking at them,” he said sourly. “That’s all we’re going to see from now on.”
Clearly, it was going to take some time to get this latest humor turned around, but if only for Martha and Timothy, I was determined to be positive: “The view must be lovely from the top of the tower.”
“Bloody tower,” he muttered. “That’s going to be a ?ne muddle to maintain and repair.”
I sighed. In fact, I had meant what I said. I thought the tower was beautiful, and I was eager to see the sweeping vistas from the top.
The children were quick to discover the island’s two beautiful beaches. One was a long stretch of golden sand on the south side, facing the straits; the other was a protected little beach on a lagoon, hugging the northeastern shore. Timothy and Martha stripped down to their drawers and waded into the sea, soaking in the cool crystal water.
“I found some conchs!” Timothy called out proudly as he waved his catches in the air. “We can have them for supper.”
In Key West, we had acquired a taste for the meaty white mollusks burrowed inside the glistening iridescent pink shells.
“There are so many ?sh!” shouted Martha. I looked to the pristine water and saw a school of yellowtail snappers. At the very least, I knew we would never lack for food here.
The children loved the smallness of the island and exploring the jungle growth. Within a few days, they had declared the place their own, staking out hiding places and inventing games. Initially, Martin and I had to caution them, for we worried about insects and snakes. And I worried about sharks, barracuda, jelly?sh, and stingrays lurking in the water. But we soon learned that the island’s environment was a remarkably friendly one. There were far fewer insects on the island than we’d anticipated, perhaps because there were no pools of stagnant water. Or it might have been because of the steady trade winds constantly sweeping across it from the southeast.
The next few weeks ?ew by as we settled in. Martin constructed a tree house for the children in an ancient mahogany by the cookhouse. Later, he added the playhouse. Slowly, Martin emerged from his lethargy and put the hardships of Key West behind him. Over the next three years, we managed to make a decent life for our family on Wreckers’ Cay. Without the distractions of wrecking and overnight ?shing trips, and with no more fraternizing at grog shops, he immersed himself in constructing our new outbuildings, and tackled the tending of the light. Occasionally, though, I looked into his eyes and saw a yearning for his old life: the excitement of landing huge ?sh from the middle of the ocean, the discovery of a lode of valuable cargo aboard a crippled ship, and the bustle at the port of Key West. I knew he missed it all.
I eventually came to understand his moods—I could even predict them. Happily, his Calvinistic tendencies were dissipating and he was becoming gentler and more caring, especially with the children. To my delight, he was spending more time doing things with them, and it was clear that they adored him. He was still not always patient with them, however; he even seemed a bit stern sometimes, to my mind. I would hear him shout, “Timothy, that’s no way to bait a Fish! I’ve told you a hundred times.” Or “Martha, go help your mother and stop messing about. You’re wasting your time with all that drawing. And you’re wasting paper.” Later, even little Hannah did not escape his ?are-ups: “Hannah, I told you to pick up those toys! Don’t pretend you didn’t understand!”
But overall, he was greatly improved over the husband and father he had been. Our isolation also led to a new closeness between us. I like to think he was rediscovering a part of himself that had been worn down with hard work and worries about money. Perhaps, too, he was looking to recover some of what had sparked our love in New Orleans. He would often take my hand in his and smile affectionately at me, or reach over and touch my hair. If he were working at his desk, I would sometimes put my arms around him and he would turn for a kiss. We started making love more often, and he began to ask me questions in the bedroom, trying to satisfy me, and would hold me in his arms afterward.
Hannah was born in December of the ?rst year we arrived. Dorothy came out to assist at her birth, and when I met her at the dock, we bounded into each other’s arms and held hands as I led her up to our home, showing her our garden and the tower, while she marveled at my large belly. “How big you are,” she said, laughing.
As she looked around, she marveled at what had been accomplished in such a short time. “And how beautiful everything is here. My children would love this island! I must go up the tower at once. I’ve always wanted to climb a lighthouse. I can’t wait to see the views of the water from up there.”
The lighthouse had a seductive effect on people.
Yet, despite the changes in our lives that brought me joy, living at Wreckers’ Cay could also be di?cult. My joy at Hannah’s birth faded with the reality of the constant loneliness—even more crushing, I realized, after Dorothy left. I had previously missed New Orleans, but, to my surprise, I missed Key West still more, for I had come to regard it as my real home. Sometimes my need for adult conversations threatened to engulf me. The social gatherings, the interaction with Dorothy and Tom and other young families, even the card games and conversation I’d shared with Gran and her elderly friends—all these things I had taken for granted before, and when I thought of them now, I felt a great, indescribable aching in my heart.