The
SEA
Is a
THIEF
DAVID PARMELEE
The SEA Is a THIEF
Copyright © 2013, by David Parmelee
Cover Copyright © 2013 by Sunbury Press, Inc. Cover art by Kevin Deal.
NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
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FIRST SUNBURY PRESS EDITION
Printed in the United States of America
March 2013
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-62006-212-8
Mobipocket format (Kindle) ISBN: 978-1- 62006-213-5
ePub format (Nook) ISBN: 978-1-62006-214-2
Published by:
Sunbury Press
Mechanicsburg, PA
www.sunburypress.com
Mechanicsburg, Pennsylvania USA
Dedication
To George A. Germak, incomparable teacher of English, mentor, and friend, who inspired my lifelong love of language.
Acknowledgments
My gratitude to my daughters Susanna and Andrea, who plotted out the story in a striped notebook on the way to Chincoteague; to my wife Toni Jo, who always says, yes, you should; to my patient and kind editor Allyson Gard, to advisor Jeff Stone, to Nancy Cline, Anna Cline, David Greaves, my brother Mark and sister-in-law Annette, poet and Interim editor Nancy Flynn, Carol Hanna, Michael J. Lewis, and Lisa Rowe Fraustino. Thanks for the invaluable resources of the Chincoteague Library, the Chincoteague Oyster Museum, and the Refuge Waterfowl Museum.
Special thanks to Nautical and Maritime Affairs Consultant Alda Maturi of Classic Boats, who knows why things float.
And in the fourth watch of the night, he came to them walking upon the sea.
And they seeing him walk upon the sea, were troubled, saying: It is an apparition. And they cried out for fear.
And immediately Jesus spoke to them, saying: Be of good heart: it is I, fear ye not.
And Peter making answer, said: Lord, if it be thou, bid me come to thee upon the waters.
And he said: Come. And Peter going down out of the boat, walked upon the water to come to Jesus.
But seeing the wind strong, he was afraid: and when he began to sink, he cried out, saying: Lord, save me.
And immediately Jesus stretching forth his hand took hold of him, and said to him: O thou of little faith, why didst thou doubt?
And when they were come up into the boat, the wind ceased.
CHAPTER ONE
Gunboat in the Channel
The Chincoteague Channel was busy with all kinds of boats nearly all the time. The twin-masted buckeyes with their billowy leg-o-mutton sails served the fishermen who supplied the packing houses; plain and fast, they ran straight through the waves they couldn’t climb. The slow, flat-bottomed sharpies worked the oyster beds in shallower waters, crewed by three or four. Scattered among them were the smaller boats sailed or rowed by the islanders as they made their meager livings. There was never a day without boats. Still, until a few days before the final morning of September, 1861, not one of the large group of islanders assembled on the Chincoteague town wharves had ever laid eyes on a boat such the one that made its way back up the channel. Masts it had, yes—three of them, but not a sail was rigged to any. Instead, two smokestacks tossed cinders into the warm blue sky. The smokestacks betrayed the source of its power: steam.
“I don’t believe there’s been a steamship in our channel before,” commented Edmund Bagwell, as he could be depended upon to do.
“Thanks to God it arrived in time,” added his wife Arinthia, who could be depended upon to agree with her husband.
“It doesn’t appear to be made of wood, Father,” added his daughter Nancy, squinting into a brass Italian spyglass from beneath her red-and-white-striped English bonnet. And indeed it was not.
She was an iron ship. The bright gold lettering recently applied to her stern identified her as the Louisiana. She was a hundred and forty-five feet long and sprouted four heavy guns, each being cleaned and returned to readiness by a crew of four men. On her decks stood the remainder of her contingent of ninety Union sailors, their blue United States Navy tunics flapping victoriously in the morning breeze. They were proudly returning to anchor not far from the Bagwell Oyster Packing House.
Across Chincoteague Channel, the wreckage of the Confederate schooner Venus burned at the mouth of Cockle Creek. The huge gaps opened by Louisiana’s cannons would soon sink the mortally-wounded vessel. Already a few ambitious men from amongst the crowd at the wharf were slinking away quietly to small skiffs, their eyes gleaming, eager to lay hands on anything salvageable. Shipwrecks were a godsend to the speedy, and this sinking warship would soon be as well. It had happened so quickly: less than an hour. The looming threat of the schooner was now a memory, and hearts on Chincoteague were light.
Less than a week earlier, a worker at Bagwell Waterfowl and Provisions was dumping a barrel of duck entrails just at sunrise when he spotted eight small boats crossing from the mainland in close formation. Their intentions were suspicious. Running to ring the brass alarm bell on the front porch of the Bagwell Atlantic Hotel, he quickly summoned nearly a hundred men, armed with axes, long knives, and the well-worn shotguns and rifles normally used to put food on their tables. Edmund Bagwell, captain of the militia, emerged from his nearby home with suspenders only half attached. Quickly, he divided the frightened but determined assembly into small groups and dispatched each company to one of the many wharves, there to defend their homes from a rebel attack. It never came. Instead, the suspicious string of boats dispersed to the south, marking the channel with oil lanterns. To the horror of the Chincoteaguers, the lights led the way for a large schooner. As it sailed, its British flag was being taken down from its mainmast and a Confederate stars and bars was being run up. Venus was the privateer’s adopted Confederate name, crudely painted on its transom. Within a day, men in supply launches were loading cannon, shot and supplies on board in large quantities. The purpose of the ship anchored in Cockle Creek, not far from the mainland, was clear. Chincoteague Island had chosen by a vote of the whole populace to remain loyal to the Union. Mainland Virginia, of which the island was legally a part, stood solidly with the rebel South. The bread and butter of Chincoteague were the oysters, ducks and fish it supplied by the barrel to restaurants in large northern cities such as Philadelphia and New York. Now the Commonwealth of Virginia would punish its upstart little island with a crippling blockade, just as Union ships were doing to the major southern port cities. If nothing could move by ship, all commerce would grind to an abrupt and painful halt. The blockade would not be difficult; the channel was narrow. The outlook for Chincoteague was grim.
What the Commonwealth hadn’t taken into account was the resourcefulness of Edmund Bagwell. The proprietor of the Bagwell Oyster Packing House, the Bagwell Waterfowl and Provision Company, the Bagwell Dry Goods, and the Atlantic Hotel was not about to let a gang of grey-coated ruffians snatch away the comfortable life his many thriving businesses had prov
ided for him and his family. The slender moon of that same night shone on the sails of a sloop bound for Union Navy headquarters at Hampton Roads. At its rudder was Bagwell himself, accompanied by a crew of four trusted friends. They were dressed in black flannel for stealth, and were determined to convince the Navy of the urgent need to send assistance to Chincoteague.
As any of the oystermen who dealt with Bagwell would attest, the merchant could be very persuasive when it was in his interest. He was at his most persuasive with the Commander at Hampton Roads. He happened to bring along a small barrel of Chincoteague oysters, the largest selects, and a half-dozen canvasbacks plucked and ready for the oven. As it was mealtime, he and the Commander shared his delectable cargo as they studied maps and charts, Bagwell stabbing with his finger in between bites to indicate the strategic points. Later, over strong cigars and captured Confederate whiskey, the two agreed on the necessity of protecting the island and, by happy coincidence, the many interests of Edmund and Arinthia Bagwell. The Commander thought a gunboat would do the trick. A toast was made to victory in war, a second to Abraham Lincoln, then a third—as Bagwell later told the story—to the Founding Fathers, all of whom, the two men figured, would approve of this particular mission. Edmund Bagwell was a good Methodist; he seldom took anything stronger than tea, but when the occasion demanded, he could do what was necessary to achieve his purpose.
And so the sloop and its tenacious captain made its way quietly back to the wharf at the Bagwell Oyster Packing House, mission accomplished, to await support from the Federal government. That support soon arrived in the form of the Louisiana. Its captain wasted no time; after less than a day riding at anchor, the gunboat had made good on the Commander’s promises of military aid. At nine in the morning precisely, two dozen of its crew set out in longboats, powerfully rowing. They surprised the rebels and stormed the schooner through a hail of gunfire. The four potent cannon of the Louisiana finished the job, thundering their heavy rounds into ship over the heads of the advancing Union sailors. Peering through spyglasses, islanders could spot Confederate troops diving headfirst and feetfirst into the waters of the channel and striking out for shore. Some tried to flee in a pair of small boats, but rifle fire discouraged them, and they, too, were soon seen dog-paddling towards the muddy bank, relieved to escape with their lives. They would not be heard from again.
It was a productive hour of work for Louisiana, the former cotton-shipping boat now transformed into the Federal protector of the island of Chincoteague. To the astonishment of everyone watching the unfamiliar smoke and tumult of naval warfare, nobody had been killed. Only a few were wounded; as it turned out, even they would recover. The rebels’ pride would not. They were in a predicament. Though they bristled with resentment at their neighbors across the channel, they would simply have to put up with the Chincoteaguers’ loyalty to the Union cause. The Commander at Hampton Roads had relished his oysters and canvasbacks, and an uninterrupted supply to the greedy tables of the Northern cities would be assured, despite the hostilities on the mainland. “Thanks be to God for that iron boat!” Edmund Bagwell had crowed. “She’s a fighter!” He glowed with pride at success of his little mission. His wife, smiling, nodded her agreement. Nancy, her elaborate English dress, bonnet, and patent shoes beginning to cause her discomfort in the warm September sun, lowered her glass from the now-uninteresting spectacle and began to cast her gaze about the crowd in search of Beau Daisey.
Beau and his sister Anna stood far from Nancy, behind most of the others, back by the gate of Bagwell Waterfowl and Provisions. They took no notice of the Bagwells, and few in the crowd took any notice of them. It had been three years since their father’s death. The urgent concern of their neighbors, and the charitable kindness that accompanied it, had long since faded to the dull disregard of hard-working people who owned little and rose early each day to maintain it. Beau and Anna had trouble, it was true, but who on the island did not? Trouble came in a dozen or so varieties, like the hard candies in the wooden barrels at Bagwell Dry Goods, and most every man tasted each flavor from time to time.
Beau was angry. It hadn’t been much of a fight. These Virginia sailors, whoever they were, had proved an embarrassment. Three of his friends from the island had already left to volunteer for the Army of the Potomac under General Beauregard. They would surely not have disgraced themselves with so pathetic a display. In his heart, Beau burned to join his friends. He imagined them encamped at some wilderness outpost of the Southern line, cleaning their rifles as they roasted venison around a campfire, silently preparing a deadly ambush for the invading Yankees.
For Beau, it was not to be. At eighteen he was old enough to enlist, and, short as he was, he was strong. He already showed his father’s keen eye with rifle and shotgun. That wasn’t enough for the Sergeant-Major meeting new recruits at the Accomack County Courthouse. “Too deaf for this army,” he bellowed, shaking his bushy red beard. Beau stood frozen, not knowing what to say, though the Sergeant-Major’s words were unusually clear.
Beau knew he was half deaf. Everyone who knew him knew that, too; he made allowances for it, and so did they, as they had done since he recovered from the scarlet fever eleven years before. Elizabeth Reynolds, the medicine woman who kept the lighthouse, had tended to him. William Daisey fetched her from Assateague in his boat, as he always did when family was sick. She stayed three days, sleeping by Beau’s sickbed in front of the fire, as a winter storm blew up outside and the thin little boy tossed and sweated his way through the fever. When it finally broke and he rested, she knew he would live, but she feared the illness would exact its price. So it did, fleeing without his life but snatching away the hearing in one of his ears. Beau felt his deafness like an unhealed wound. The islanders didn’t much care about it, and he rarely encountered strangers. He spent most of his days carving decoys and sometimes fishing, when the local boat captains were short-handed enough to put up with his temperament. Neither profession was demanding on the ears.
The Sergeant-Major felt differently. “When you hear a command on the line, what will you do, boy?” he thundered. “Will you advance when you should retreat, or th’ other way round? How many of your fellows will take a Yankee ball because you cain’t hear?” Again the beard shook. “Go back home and do whatever good you can for your family.” Beau studied the black and grey chevrons on the man’s uniform sleeve as he made an x with his pencil on a long roll of paper. He waved a thick arm towards the courthouse doors and it was done.
Beau had returned home very late with a heavy black walnut branch in his hand and a look on his face that his mother and sister knew well. Anna sat with him and tried to talk as he carved. Beau would have none of it. She was only a year younger, and knew his moods, the many dark ones and the few light ones. She could tell the weight of his heart from his grip on the handle of the knife. Beau turned the black walnut branch into a hooded merganser, feathers trailing its slender neck. It was useless as a hunter’s decoy, like so many of the ducks he carved. He turned the words of the Sergeant-Major into a poison that settled inside him, bubbling up on occasions such as this, when he stood at the back of the crowd and watched the Venus burn.
He turned away, patience spent. Anna followed by his side, hastening to keep up. At times like these she made it her business to let her older brother speak his mind, calming him by doing so. The cottage wasn’t far away. When they reached it he would likely retreat into the kitchen behind his workbench until long after she fell asleep. “I know your feelings, brother,” she offered, “but this ship may be a blessing. Another attack may come at any time.” Both knew how the island felt about loyalty to the Union: though emotions ran hot in both directions, there would be no secession on this ragged little shred of Virginia. The oyster cast the final vote on that issue, and the oyster’s allegiance was clear. Beau spat on the roadway, kicking an offending shell from his path. “Damn Bagwell, and damn his packing house, and his stars and stripes,” he snarled. “The flag on his flagpole
is bought and paid for in Yankee greenbacks!” Anna bit her tongue. She hated when Beau swore. He wasn’t wrong. He was just letting this stir him up, as something did on most days. She fell silent as she realized that her effort was in vain. Soon she would see her mother, who might be ready to pause in her work, and Anna could relate the tale of the battle to her. She wouldn’t want to talk long. Mother’s work was always waiting.
The familiar lane fell away as Anna neared home, replaced in her mind’s eye by a vision of the Battle of Cockle Creek. First she saw the two lean, swift launches, leaping across the silver chop of the channel like water skimmers. The smart gold-embroidered caps were cocked on the sailors’ heads. Their tunics were kites in the morning breeze. Then came the rifle fusillade, momentary scarlet fire, the chalky bluish smoke floating spirit-like into the sky. The rifle reports had taken two heartbeats to drift across the water, the steady barking sounds distinguishing the real battle from what might otherwise have been a strange dream. As if on a cue, the waiting black ship had lurched into motion, its stacks sending basketfuls of cinders hissing into the air like so many miniature demons. It ran straight on its course, crawling across the channel as the horseshoe crabs do at the first high tide of the spring.
After that came the thunder and lightning: huge black artillery shells arcing towards the anchored privateer, a screaming, luminous hail that buried itself in the flanks of its quarry. The unseen explosions inside turned its wooden ribs inside-out, splinters and shards cascading downwards. The Venus wailed and groaned in its agony like a horse foaling, and then fell silent as its masts began to loll and tilt, its formerly brave defenders waving their arms and legs crazily as they leapt towards the surface of the water.
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