23
Key West
January 1842
Over the holidays, my duties were lightened as many of the men were away. After Christmas, I left work early one evening and saw a shiny new cabriolet, hitched to a ?ne horse, under the lamplight outside the boardinghouse. The driver was none other than our old friend and supply courier, Captain George Lee, looking handsome in a new suit and a tall silk hat. How different we both appeared from that ?rst time I’d seen him so disheveled and badly dressed at Madame de Saumur’s home in New Orleans. Now it was I who looked poor and shabby.
“Ahoy there, Miss Emily,” he called out. His greeting brought back the memory of his arrivals at Wreckers’—always a welcome sight. “Heard you were workin’ here and thought I’d stop by to wish ye a Happy New Year.”
“Why, Captain Lee,” I called out, smiling. “I’ve not seen you for ages.” In fact, I had seen nothing of him since my escape from Wreckers’, but I had never forgotten his past kindness.
“Wanted to offer my condolences,” he said as he tipped his hat. “Heard they found Martin’s remains.”
I nodded sadly. “Thank you, Captain. Have you recently been to Wreckers’ Cay?”
“Yes, ma’am. I bin mighty busy out there,” he replied.
No doubt, I thought, with all those wrecks on the reef now that the lighthouse is not functional.
“Well, it’s very nice indeed to see you,” I said warmly.
“I was hopin’ to catch you. Was wondering if you’d like to join me, along with your grandmother, for supper at my home this evening?”
I was tired and would have appreciated an early night. But I owed the captain so much; I did not want to be rude. I certainly owed him a friendly dinner, especially after the way I had treated him once Andrew came into my life.
“I would love to,” I said. “But I shall have to go home and change, and tell Gran.”
“No need,” he called out. “You look wonderful as you are, Miss Emily. And I already took the liberty of inviting your Gran. She’s probably already waiting for us.”
Ah, so this had all been planned out. I was warming to the idea. “Well, we musn’t keep Miss Hester waiting.” I smiled.
“Indeed!” He extended his hand to help me mount the carriage steps. “Hop up.”
Captain Lee’s home was well lit and inviting as we entered the foyer, and we were greeted by the delightful scent of rosemary and garlic, lamb, and roasting vegetables that wafted in from the cookhouse. I expected to see my grandmother in the front parlor, but she had not yet arrived.
“My housekeeper’s just left,” he said. “But I had her make a nice dinner, and it seemed a shame to set out such a grand feast without sharin’ it with good friends.”
“It smells wonderful!”
I looked around his home. Like Captain Loxley’s, it was built in the New England Greek Revival style. And like the Loxleys’, it was beautifully decorated with objets d’art from disabled ships. He led me through the well-appointed dining room to the cozy conservatory, where we chatted while waiting for Gran. Because the evening was cool, the captain lit a ?re. I relaxed in its cozy warmth as I watched the ?ames licking the air and little Roman candles of sparks swooping up the chimney.
“I understand they are nearing completion of the new lighthouse,” I said.
“It’s comin’ along,” he agreed, but without enthusiasm. For a successful wrecker, replacing the lighthouse was bad for business.
After nearly an hour of inconsequential chatting, I stole a glance at the clock—a gesture not lost on him. “Well, now,” he said, “your grandmother seems to have been delayed. We should eat while everything’s still hot. I’m sure she’d want us to start.”
He rose from his chair and led me to the dining room, where the glowing mahogany table had been set for three people. His late wife’s sterling silverware and Waterford crystal goblets softly re?ected light from the candles.
I had to smile at the situation: It wasn’t like Gran to dine at this hour. But I knew she liked the captain, and had previously encouraged a romance between us. Her tardiness now was surely a ruse to give us time alone together. How predictable, and even oddly charming.
The captain served the meal and decanted some ?ne wine with uncharacteristic sophistication. “This Bordeaux came off the Dumfries,” he announced grandly as he swirled it around in his glass. He sniffed it, held it up to the light, and took an appreciative sip. I sti?ed a laugh; these affectations were quite transparent, but he was trying hard to impress me, and I did enjoy the meal. It was a pleasure to be eating a dinner I hadn’t cooked, not one grabbed in a few spare minutes in the cookhouse—or one eaten while seated at Gran’s table, listening to her correct my children’s table manners.
After a delicious Key lime pie, he made us coffee, then offered brandy, which I declined. He poured himself several generous shots, and soon I made ready to excuse myself and head back to Gran’s.
“There’s somethin’ I want to talk to you about, Miss Emily,” he said. “I read in the Key West Enquirer that you might return to Wreckers’ to run the light again. Now that you’re back here and your children are in school, well, it don’t make much sense to go back out there.” I remained silent. He was clearly working up to a bigger question. “What I’m sayin’ is … well, would you consider marrying me?”
His question didn’t take me completely by surprise. I let him continue, and he rambled on somewhat nervously.
“You can see what a nice house I got here. It’s right next to your sister’s and not far from your granny’s. I’d love to have your children around. And you wouldn’t have to work for the Spaniard no more. I bin thinkin’ about it for a long time, Miss Emily, for I’ve always fancied you. Broke my heart back in New Orleans that Martin wooed you ?rst.”
This declaration now saddened me. It had been a pleasant evening, but as I had no such romantic inclination for him, I felt awkward. After being happy with Andrew for so long, the idea of marriage now … well, it was unthinkable.
“Dear Captain George,” I said, placing my hand over his, “I had no idea you had such feelings. I care for you very much as a friend. I don’t know what I would have done without you and Al?e after Martin disappeared. But”—I lowered my eyes—“I’m not ready to marry again.”
“Well … when d’ye think you might be ready?”
I smiled. “Perhaps never.”
He sat up. “Never? You won’t think it over?”
I shook my head slowly. “No, Captain George. I am greatly honored that you have asked me, but I’m sorry. I do hope we’ll stay such dear friends.”
He looked petulant for a moment. The brandy was clearly affecting him. “I don’t want you as a friend,” he said evenly.
I sucked in my breath, suddenly very uncomfortable at his abrupt change of attitude. It really was time for me to leave. I rose from my chair.
“I must go, Captain. I rise very early to make breakfast at the boardinghouse. Thank you so much for this lovely evening,” I said, extending my hand. “I’ll see myself back to my grandmother’s.”
“Wait. Don’t go just yet,” he said, his voice softening. Taking me gently by the elbow, he led me into the parlor. “I want to show you some of the things I’ve acquired recently from the wrecks.”
I feigned polite interest for several minutes, murmuring appropriate compliments, and then again announced it was time for me to take my leave.
Suddenly, he spun me around and pushed me gruffly into the large cranberry velvet couch behind me.
“Captain!”
I was horri?ed to see that he was fumbling with the buttons of his trousers. “My dear Miss Emily,” he said, his face red, “the evening is still young.”
“Captain!” I screamed. “That is quite enough!”
He tried to kiss me, the smell of brandy heavy on his breath. Though a strong man, he was also quite intoxicated. I shoved him away and was back on my feet in a moment. Then I kneed him hard to get free of his grasp. He did not expect it, and doubled over for a moment, which gave me a chance to run toward the foyer, leaving my reticule behind. The door yielded easily, and I was on the porch, when I felt him grab my arm and spin me around. He was glaring at me.
“Well, now, ain’t you Miss High-and-Mighty. What’s the matter? A wreckin’ captain ain’t good enough for you? All’s you are now is just a scullery maid. Or do you offer the Cubans more than just their meals? Lots of talk about you in Key West, Emily. You’re lucky I’m offerin’ you a good life for all of that, especially since I could have some interestin’ things to tell Superintendent Pendleton. And your Se?or Salas.”
He had my attention, and because I was already outside, I felt safe enough to stop. “What interesting things?”
“I can tell them how you practiced black magic out there, with those little sacks you put around your children’s necks. And your retarded daughter … did you sacri?ce her in one of your voodoo rituals? I know you bin practicin’ witchcraft, Emily. Don’t deny it. We used to hang witches, y’ know, and not that long ago, neither.”
“Enough,” I said. I turned to go.
“And what about the nigger?”
I froze.
“Peartree told me. He got up around midnight for a piss when he stayed in your storage house. He saw the light was waverin’, so he started off to go up and trim the wicks. But then he saw a nigger there, headin’ up the stairs of the tower.”
I turned to face him. “Your friend Peartree is senile, and he was drunk and blind from too much brandy, as I recall. Just as you are now.”
He tightened his hand around my arm so hard that I winced in pain, trying to pull farther away from him.
“Funny, Emily. Said he looked for the nigger next day but couldn’t ?nd ’im anywheres around. I told him”—he stumbled a bit and caught his breath, spitting—“I told him he should’ve looked in your bed.”
Lee roared with laughter, but suddenly his smile disappeared, and, keeping pressure on his grip, he said, “What kind of fool d’ye take me for, Emily? Didja really expect me to believe you put up that fence at Wreckers’ by yerself, with just the boy? Drilled through coral rock? I knew ye had help. How did you come by a nigger, Emily?” he persisted. “Did he drop off a slaver? That’s my guess. An African? Did you like it with him?”
I did not dignify his accusations with a reply.
Abruptly, he changed his tone: “Let’s talk business, Emily. You’ve got something of mine.”
I stopped in my tracks, confused. “What?”
“The money!” he replied harshly.
“What money?”
“Don’t pretend ye don’t know what I’m talking about. Where’s my damn money?”
I was bewildered. He thought I had money? It was almost laughable. Clearly, he was more intoxicated than I thought.
I’d had enough. I ?nally managed to pull my arm free, ?ew down the steps, and ?ed home. Thank heavens nobody had been around on the street to overhear our conversation. When I returned to Gran’s, the household was asleep. I rushed up to my room, locked the door, and sat on my bed, shaking.
I felt angry and violated. And what on earth had he meant? Martin had no money! I would have known. We had kept no secrets from each other.
Initially, I spoke to no one about the captain’s assault. I went over it in my mind, asking what I’d done to encourage him. I was a fool to have trusted him. Had I been too friendly with him in the past? Too ?amboyant in my dress out on the island? And Andrew! I had thought Peartree was sound asleep in the storage shed when Andrew got up to trim the wicks. And now this reference to money the captain thought I had. That had certainly come out of nowhere. Finally, as I went about my daily chores and helped the children with their homework, I decided to dismiss it as drunken babbling.
George Lee’s carriage arrived the next day with my reticule, Al?e at the reins. The captain had sent along a note.
Dear sweet Emily,
I’m sorry. I did not behave like a gentleman. It must have been the brandy. I still want to marry you. Let’s meet in the next few days so we can discuss the date, as well as the business about the money. Al?e will wait for your reply.
All my love, George Lee
The money again! I tore the note into pieces and pressed them into Al?e’s hand without explanation. “Take that back to him,” I said. Poor Al?e just looked confused.
The captain’s grip had produced a large bruise on my arm, which was not lost on Se?or Salas. I had rolled up my sleeves to wash dishes a couple of days later, and he come into the cookhouse. He waved away the woman he was with and examined my arm.
“What happened, se?ora?”
I shrugged, avoiding his gaze: “I … I fell.”
But Salas was not easily fooled. “Who?” he asked. “Who did this thing?”
For a second, the terrible scene with Lee ?ashed before me and I just lowered my eyes. This intensi?ed his interest.
“Who?” he persisted. He was angry now. “Was it one of my men?”
“No, no … it was a neighbor of my sister’s. I thought … I thought I knew him well. He used to bring our supplies when I tended the lighthouse at Wreckers’ Cay. He was even a good friend of my late husband.”
“Do I know this man?” he demanded.
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“His name? Give me his name.”
“Captain George Lee.”
He shook his head and frowned as he tried to make a connection. “A Bahamian?”
“No. American. A New Englander. You may be hearing from him. He said he had things to tell you.”
He looked at me quizzically. “What could he say that would interest me?”
“He said he would tell you a pack of lies about me, that I was a … a witch, and that I’d murdered my daughter and kept a Negro slave at the lighthouse on Wreckers’ Cay. Foolish things.”
“Why would he do that?”
“He had asked me to marry him, and when I said no, he became angry. He … he tried to attack me and … he wanted to extort money from me.”
He raised his eyebrows in surprise.
“Se?or Salas, I have no money … other than what you pay me. I cannot explain his behavior.”
He rubbed his chin, looking steadily at me. “If I thought you needed money, se?ora, I would be pleased to lend you some. But not for an extortionist.”
“No, of course not. And I would never accept your help in such a situation! I must get back to my work.”
“Leave this with me, se?ora. Please. Tell me if you hear from him again. And don’t worry any more about it.”
Telling him had left me feeling liberated, like when I was a child and whispered my sins to the priest in the confessional. I suddenly felt protected and at peace; I had to admit that there were some situations where the commanding presence of a man was essential for a woman on her own.
The sheriff’s office released Martin’s remains in January and we had his funeral on a cool, drizzly day. After the requiem service, we laid him to rest in a grave on Gran’s plot, next to her vault. My sorrow was intensi?ed by the sight of Martha and Timothy, who stood at the graveside, looking disconsolate. My mind ?ew back to the humble service years ago, when we laid their sister Hannah to rest, and Andrew had been there to console us all.
Se?or Salas attended the service with some of my Cuban boarders. Barbara Mabrity and her two youngest daughters, Stephen Pendleton, Rebecca Flaherty, Ellen Mallory, the Watlingtons, the Hackleys, and the Marvins all came. John Whitehead and Pardon Greene also went to the church, as did many of the men Martin had ?shed and crewed with on salvaging expeditions. Al?e Dillon stopped by and offered his personal condolences to our family; nothing was said of Captain Lee, who, thankfully, stayed away.
Sheriff Patterson was there to pay his respects. He assured me that he and his deputies were still doing their best to ?nd out who was responsible for the murder. “If it was Indians … or pirates … I’m not sure what we can ?nd out, especially after all this time, but we won’t stop trying,” he told me.
The discovery of Martin’s remains was sad but also anticlimactic. He had, after all, been missing for quite some time, and the children and I had eventually, each in our own way, accepted that he was not coming back. But the funeral at least gave us a greater sense of closure. It meant, ?nally, that I was now o?cially a widow.
When I arrived back at Gran’s, there was a note slipped under the door. As I read it, I felt my breath catch. “Emily, where is my money? If you don’t want all of Key West to know about your nigger lover, you’ll hand it over. I’ll be aboard the Outlander at the docks all weekend. Bring it there. George Lee.”
The next day, as I had promised, I took the letter to Se?or Salas. I could see the muscles around his jaw quiver as he read it.
“Do nothing. Leave it to me,” he said. “I think it’s time I talked to this man.”
The following Sunday, the Key West Enquirer’s headline read TWO KEY WESTERS BADLY BEATEN. With growing horror, I read that the victims were Captain George Lee and Al?e Dillon. The article described how the pair had been viciously beaten as they’d staggered out of the Gem, a grog shop near the wharf, in the early hours of the morning on Friday. A witness who saw the assailants from afar said that there had been ?ve or six of them. The beatings had been brutal: Captain Lee was in the navy military hospital with a fractured jaw, a broken arm, and numerous internal injuries. There was also the possibility of a paralyzing spinal injury. Dillon, too, was at the navy hospital, suffering from severe internal injuries and lacerations. The motive for the assault was attributed to robbery, as their money and pocket watches had been stolen.
As I read the story, a lump formed in my throat. It would be a lie to say I was sorry about Lee’s injuries, but I was shocked to hear that Al?e Dillon was also severely hurt, for he had always been a kind and gentle man.
Suspicion gnawed at me. Remembering his anger, I was convinced Se?or Salas had something to do with the attack on the men. When I dropped into his o?ce to present him with bills from the grocer’s, I showed him the Enquirer. “Did you see the paper this morning?”
He was sitting at his desk with his Cuban coffee and a pastry, and he barely gave the paper a glance.
“No, I have not.”
I placed the paper in front of him and pointed at the article. “Do you know anything about this?”
He took a quick look at the headline.
“Me? No. Why would I? I don’t know these people,” he said dismissively.
“That’s the New England captain I spoke to you about. And his mate.”
He picked up the pastry and chewed thoughtfully, then looked at me and said, “Sounds like a man who makes a lot of enemies.” Then he turned the page over to glance at the previous night’s cock?ght results, as though the matter was closed.
After I left his o?ce, I let out my breath, standing frozen in the hallway outside his o?ce. What had I done?
For my next birthday, Gran received a few friends for dinner, and Captain John Geiger was among the invited guests. He brought along John James Audubon, who had become somewhat famous as a naturalist artist, especially for painting birds and other wildlife in watercolor. He was an attractive man in his early forties, with clean-shaven features and long chestnut hair sprinkled with just a hint of gray, giving him an artistic persona. As soon as I met him, I realized that we had previously met one evening at the de Saumurs’ home in New Orleans many years ago when he arrived in America. As the son of a French o?cer and a native Creole in Sante Domingue, he had grown up in France, and later had left to escape being conscripted into Napoléon’s army. Even after many years in America, he still spoke with a distinctly French accent.
Audubon was now back again, living in Geiger’s home on Whitehead Street. Meeting him was a moment of great excitement for Martha, for she had been wanting to for a long time. Her birthday gift to me was a sketch she had done, a small portrait of Andrew and Ebony. She handed it to me in the secrecy of my bedroom before Gran’s dinner.
“Happy birthday, Mama.”
My heart leapt when I saw it. She had captured them in a loving moment, with Andrew smiling tenderly down at our baby and her tiny face tilted up toward him, her blue eyes looking intently into his. I hugged Martha gently to me.
“Darlin’, thank you. Thank you so much.”
“It’s very, very good,” said Audubon sincerely when I showed him the portrait—at Martha’s urging. He discussed composition and technique with her, then asked, “Whom do you use as models?”
I held my breath, but Martha simply shrugged. “Just people I see.”
I doubted that she’d painted it from memory. Andrew had to have posed for her. I suddenly remembered her secretive forays down to the lagoon with her pens and paints, and I shot her a complicit smile, which she returned with a wink.
A short time after Martin’s funeral, I decided that I had managed to save enough for a trip to New Orleans. I desperately needed to see if there was any possibility of ?nding out if Andrew and Ebony had managed to survive and reach Andrew’s proposed destination. The alternative was not anything I wanted to contemplate, but I had to know. By living at Gran’s and saving frugally, I’d put by enough for my own return passage and their voyage back with me—assuming they could be found. If I didn’t ?nd them, the trip would not be in vain, as I would be able to visit with my aging Grandpère, and see Eurydice and Marie-Francine.
One evening, I con?ded this to Dorothy.
“Sugar,” Dorothy said softly, “you know that would be foolish. You don’t even know if they survived the trip from Wreckers’. That would have been such a long, perilous voyage … especially with a small baby. I know you don’t want to consider the possibility, but … even babies that are properly cared for and wellfed often don’t live.”
I was disheartened by her remark but by no means crushed.
“Besides, all that time you’d be away … and your other children need you here.… Se?or Salas would be left with no help. And it would be expensive.”
“I’ve saved the money, Dorothy.”
“Since you don’t know if they survived, you’d have no idea where to look for them,” she countered. “Why can’t you just try to make a life here without them?”
I bristled at this. “But they are my family, Dorothy!”
“Yes, dear, I know. But they are … well, they’re family that you have different obligations to. Think of Martha and Timothy. It would be very unsettling for them if you were to disappear and leave them with Gran right now. You’ve been back only a few months. They’re still just getting used to living in Key West again.”
Perhaps she was right, but still I fretted.
Dorothy looked thoughtful for a moment. “Listen, sugar. I have an idea. Tom recently took on a new client who lives in New Orleans, and he’s going to be going there for business reasons fairly often in the future. In fact, he’s planning to go in a couple of weeks. What if I went with him and looked for them?”
“Oh, Dorothy! You would do that for me?”
“Of course!”
I scooped her into my arms. Dorothy laughed and hugged me back. “Believe me, it will be my pleasure, darlin’. I’m very fond of Andrew, don’t forget. And I haven’t been back to New Orleans since before I got married. I’d love to go, if you think I could help.”