The Rising of Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  Chapter 3

  An Isolated Heart

  The refuge keeper replacing my brother was Art Hennessey, and he was due soon after daybreak. As we waited for him, I stood out on the veranda enjoying the colorful sunrise. The sun crested the horizon like a red ball aflame, and then transformed itself into an intense orange orb. Bad omen or not, the sight was one to behold, and as the family came out of the house to join me, the volume of their conversation dropped as if in respectful reverence to its powerful beauty. No matter how long someone lived in Florida, the sunrises still took one’s breath away.

  Before long, we spotted Art’s sailboat, the Salty Dog, curving sharply in the wind and then heading for the dock. Grabbing the last of our gear, we walked out to help him tie up and unload.

  “Hello, Harjo clan! Ain’t it a purty mornin’?” Art enthusiastically called as he tossed the spring line to Dylan. Art was a transplant from Orangeburg, South Carolina, and his heavy southern accent was both endearing and warm.

  “It sure is, Art,” Mama agreed. “But what the afternoon might have in store for us has me a little wary.” She reached down to take a crate of eggs nestled in a large amount of sawdust that Art handed up to her.

  “Pshaw, Eve! That sky is clear as all get out. It looks to be a fine day in the makin’. Lord, but you’re lookin’ good! Listen,” Art continued conspiratorially as he threw the stern line to Papa, “if that no-good husband o’ yours don’t treat you like the queen bee, then you let me know about it, ya hear?”

  “I will, Art,” Mama laughed, looking over at my smiling father as she did. Papa thought a lot of Art, and they enjoyed ribbing each other whenever the opportunity arose.

  “Now, Art,” Papa chided. “You know I’m not about to give her up. It took me a while to get her. Besides,” he continued as he reached down to grab a duffle bag from the man, “she cooks the best fried fish and hushpuppies this side of the Mississippi.”

  “Well, doggone it!” Art said, looking crestfallen. “That was the one and only thing you coulda said to keep me from snatchin’ Eve away. Seein’ as how I’m a man of integrity, I wouldn’t think of deprivin’ another man of a great fish-fryin’ hushpuppy-makin’ wife. Anything else, maybe, but not a good fish-fryin’ gal!” We all laughed as Dylan gave Art a hand and pulled him up onto the dock.

  “Where y’all headed from here?” he asked after shaking Papa’s hand and giving both Mama and me a bear hug.

  “We’re droppin’ Dylan off at Fowey Rocks,” Papa replied. “The regular keeper, Jim Altman, fell and hurt himself pretty good—mainly ribs ’n such, we hear. They need a third man for the crew right now and Dylan’s it.”

  “Well, son,” Art said, turning to address Dylan. “You keep an eye out for any purty mermaids, y’ hear?”

  “Yes, sir,” my brother laughed, as he stepped down into our boat, and then raised his hands to help Mama down. “I will.”

  “And if she has a sister,” Art continued, “you send her up the coast to me.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Hennessey, I sure will,” Dylan laughed as he helped me down next. Papa threw our spring line onboard and then jumped in.

  “Have a safe journey, folks,” Art said as he pushed us away from the dock.

  “We’ll be seein’ ya, Art,” Papa replied. Then, turning away, he focused on setting our course, which would run south on the Atlantic ocean, staying well away from the barrier reefs, and on down to Fowey Rocks Light.

  The wind was stiff, and Papa and Dylan were constantly adjusting and trimming the sails to allow for it. Everyone’s hair whipped like the sails, and salt water sprayed our faces. There would be nothing leisurely about this trip. We rode parallel to the long island of Miami Beach, and noticed there were no sunbathers or picnickers yet. The only way to access the island was by boat, and the ferry hadn’t started his daily runs at this early hour. All along the beautiful white-sand beaches, palm trees swayed in the wind, with their fronds slashing around like frenzied dancers.

  We sailed past the newly dredged Government Cut, which provided a shortcut for mariners between Biscayne Bay and the Atlantic. While it meant not having to go to the south end of Miami Beach to get in and out of the Atlantic, the cut across the mangroves was an enormous example of how the need for convenience was quickly and permanently changing Florida’s landscape—both on land and at sea. The fact that it seemed to change overnight was both frightening and exciting to me, though more of the latter than the former. But I knew there was nothing I could do to slow the changes down, and I doubted many people would want to anyway. The more progress that took place, the higher the returns for those who dared to invest in this land early on.

  The northern-most barrier island of Virginia Key came into view, and soon after, the far bigger island of Key Biscayne, where the Cape Florida light was. Key Biscayne had been used as a vantage point for pirates lying in wait to raid ships moving through the shipping lanes. The nautical marauders hid their boats deep within the cover of Key Biscayne’s thick mangroves, waiting for their unsuspecting victims. At times, crews on the cargo ships would throw their goods and treasures overboard with the intention of coming back for them later on. They stood a better chance of salvaging some of it from the sea floor than recovering it from the pirates. But once dumped, it was hard to find their cargo again, and even if it was located, much of it was overlooked, or carried off by the strong currents, especially during a storm. Years later, Papa had been able to successfully recover many valuable things simply by combing the seabed in that area.

  As we sailed along the island’s coastline, an eruption next to our boat startled us. A pair of gray and white porpoises shot out of the water, arcing gracefully before diving back down into the watery depths again to continue racing alongside our boat. Every several yards, they exploded from the water, jumping high above the surface in a beautiful display of strength and agility. It seemed as though they’d been sent to escort us. I looked toward the south and saw our destination about six miles away.

  The Fowey Rocks lighthouse looked like a ghostly mirage hovering above the water. In actuality, the structure was anchored firmly into the seafloor, allowing it to withstand every storm that had tried to bring it down for nearly three decades. The cast iron skeletal framework soared a hundred and ten feet high.

  Looking off to the west, I could see storm clouds building over the mainland, just as they had the day before. From the direction the wind was blowing, I knew it was just a matter of time before they reached us.

  As we neared the lighthouse, Papa was well aware of the reef just to the west of us. The current was especially strong in that area, and with the tide coming in, and the winds building in advance of the storm, our approach was difficult. If the wind shifted even slightly, and we were caught up in one of its powerful gusts, we could easily end up on the rocks. When we finally slipped past the reef, I exhaled and shifted my attention back to the lighthouse. I spotted Striker hurrying down the steps from the keeper’s quarters to the first platform. Aside from the tanks and the outhouse on the platform, there were davits which could be used to hoist a boat out of the water.

  Striker came to the edge of the platform and shouted down to us. “If y’all want to stay awhile, let me drop this boat so Adam can get out of here, and then I’ll hoist yours up. Seas are gettin’ too rough to just tie up.”

  “We’re not stayin’,” Papa shouted back. “We need to be out of here before that weather hits. We’ll unload Dylan and head on.”

  Striker nodded and waited while Papa maneuvered the boat into place by the ladder, and then climbed down to help us unload supplies.

  “Sure wish y’all could come in for a while,” he said with a warm smile. “It’s not often we get company out here.”

  “I wish we could, Striker,” Mama said. “But Max and I have to work tomorrow, and we can’t take the chance of getting caught out here.”

  My mot
her had started writing for the local newspaper soon after we arrived in Miami, when I was almost eight. Over supper most nights, she’d entertain us with stories that were born from the daily events of a fast-growing town that was being erected by people from different places, social statuses, and viewpoints.

  Striker then focused his attention on me. “Eliza”—he nodded slightly—“You doin’ all right?” His voice was an octave lower when he addressed me, and I wondered why.

  “Doin’ well, thanks,” I answered just as the wind flipped his cap off his head, revealing a full head of thick, wavy, golden hair. The cap landed right behind him and he snagged it before it was lost to the sea.

  “Already lost two this month,” he laughed. “Not sure they’ll issue me any more if I lose this one.” Then, his broad smile gentled into a softer one. “Well, it’s good to see you,” he said to me. Almost as an afterthought, he added, “And you, too, Eve. Next time you’re out here, we’ll do some fishin’.”

  Papa handed Striker a burlap bag of fresh vegetables and another with a smoked ham, and then Striker climbed the ladder up to the platform while Dylan hugged Mama and me good-bye; then he, too, went up the ladder. At that moment, Adam Wilson came out of the keeper’s quarters with a duffle bag over his shoulder. Dropping it, he hurriedly clomped over to the ladder, reached down and grabbed Dylan’s duffle bag, then enthusiastically pumped his hand when my brother came bounding up onto the platform. Adam, who was a stocky man in his thirties, was good-natured and jovial, but there was nothing graceful about him. He was the complete opposite of my tall, slender brother, and Striker, who was built much like Dylan, but maybe an inch shorter. Clunky and round though Adam was, he had pulled shipwreck survivors from the sea on more than one occasion. He was a well-respected keeper and rightly so. Adam had been working the Fowey Rocks Light for the last year, and had been about forty miles north at the Hillsboro Inlet Light for several years before that. I always wondered why a man who seemed to enjoy people decided to make a living in such an isolated way, especially at an offshore lighthouse like Fowey. But perhaps he liked people so much because he didn’t have to be around them all the time.

  “Adam, you want to hitch a ride in with us?” Papa called up to him. “Then you won’t have to mess with gettin’ your boat in the water, plus they’ll have a boat here if it’s needed. I’d tell ya we’d bring you back out, but Eve and I have full plates this week, but someone’ll be headin’ out to do some fishin’ and can bring you back.”

  “I can, Papa! I’ll bring him whenever he’s ready.” It wouldn’t be the first time I’d sailed out that far alone, although I hadn’t done it but a couple of times. Papa didn’t look too sure about my offer, but Mama spoke up.

  “She’ll be fine, Max. She needs the experience. We won’t always be around, you know.”

  “Yeah, but by then maybe a husband will be,” Papa teased.

  I could feel the blush spread across my face all the way to the roots of my hair, and quickly bent over, busying myself with coiling a rope that was already coiled.

  “No doubt there will be, Max, no doubt at all!” Adam enthusiastically responded, but Striker said nothing. I wondered if there might be something in his eyes that would give away what he might be feeling, but I wouldn’t look at him, not for all the Pieces of Eight on the ocean’s floor.

  “I’ll take ya up on that ride in, Max!” Adam said. He descended the ladder to our boat and jumped aboard, causing the boat to dip significantly when he did so. After a quick handshake, Papa and Adam pushed the boat away from the iron structure and then Mama and Adam began raising the sails as Papa manned the tiller. I stood in the stern, out of the way, watching as the lighthouse grew smaller. I saw Dylan climb up to the keeper’s quarters and go inside, while Striker worked with something over by the davits. When he was done, he stood at the edge of the platform with his arms folded across his chest and watched us for several minutes before raising his hand in farewell. I lifted mine in response, and then we both turned away.

  I would have liked to stay for a little while, but I had to work in the morning, too. I had to be at the trading post early to help stock new inventory, and both of my parents had to be at the Royal Palm Hotel. Papa was taking several of the guests out to the Everglades for a day’s hunting trip and they were leaving at first light. And Mama had a breakfast meeting scheduled with the railroad baron, Henry Flagler.

  She’d been excited to get the interview. Mama would be talking with Mr. Flagler about the building of the overseas railroad to Key West, which was an enormous undertaking and unlike anything that had ever been attempted before. Once completed, the train would run one hundred and twenty-eight miles, connecting the mainland to the Florida Keys, with the last seven miles of track spanning open water. If successful, it would be the world’s longest bridge and considered the “Eighth Wonder of the World.” Undoubtedly, it would be Flagler’s crowning glory, and Mama was anxious to hear all about it.

  Another reason my mother had such an interest in the project was that her brother, James Stewart, had been employed by Flagler’s company, the Florida East Coast Railway, to help with the engineering and design of a large hotel in upper Key Largo, which was the gateway to the railroad’s massive extension. There was very little doubt in anyone’s mind that once the Keys were attached to the mainland via the railroad, investors would swoop in to capitalize on the area, and a building frenzy would ensue. The Florida Keys would join Miami as a tourist destination. Hundreds of workers would be employed, if not thousands, in just the Keys alone, and my family couldn’t have been more proud of the role Uncle James was playing in it.

  I sat down in the cockpit since the wind was picking up. It was coming in on the port side, so the going would be slower than usual with our bow toward the wind, making us tack all the way home. As Adam trimmed the mainsail, he filled us in on the latest news about the injured keeper, Jim Altman.

  “Jonas Lowery stopped by Fowey on his way out to catch some wahoo yesterday and said that Jim had a fit the night before. Said he started shaking like a rag doll and foamin’ at the mouth. Then he started tryin’ to swallow his tongue, but his brother, Ty, stuck a ruler in his mouth and held his tongue down. Doc Jackson came over right away and said that Jim’s concussion was worse than he first figured. Told Ty not to let Jim get out of bed and to shove a pan under him when he needs to take a shi—” Adam caught himself just in time but still turned a bright shade of pink. “Pardon me, ladies. I been around men too long and I’m afraid it shows.”

  “Never mind that,” Mama said. “So what more did Doc say?”

  “He said that if Jim ain’t no better by tomorrow, he’s gonna send him up by rail to St. Luke’s in Jacksonville. Doc was disgusted there wasn’t a hospital worth two beans any closer, and said he’s givin’ great consideration to building a small one in town.”

  “Tacking!” Papa warned loudly and we all ducked to avoid the swinging boom. Then, picking up the subject again, my father said, “Lord knows, we need a hospital in Miami. Besides, if the investors want to lure more folks down here, then a hospital is not only vital for the health of the people, but for the health of the economy, too.”

  “So, Adam, is there talk of bringin’ another lighthouse keeper in?” Mama asked.

  “I’d imagine so,” he replied. “My guess is the government’s lookin’ as we’re speakin’. They’d be pretty foolish not to. Costs them a lot when there’s a wreck, considerin’ court costs over salvage rights, not to mention the headache of it. Then there’s the cost of lost cargo—especially if it’s government-owned cargo. And if the lighthouse is undermanned, and there’s a wreck…Woo-wee, there’ll be hell to pay! And the government’ll be the one reachin’ into its pocket. Aye, I’d say they’re lookin’ for one faster ’n people are askin’ for the job. They’re gettin’ stricter on who can man the lighthouse. They’d rather not have a man and his family out there. It’s too risky.
They want someone who’s willin’ to be alone. But sometimes that someone might have reasons for wantin’ isolation, and some of those reasons ain’t too good. Say if a man is hidin’ out from the law, a lighthouse is a pretty good place to do it, while gettin’ decent enough pay. Shoot, if I were some Billy the Kid, I’d be in line for the job of a keeper. Then, I’d just sit back, count my money and let things cool off for a time, all while looking out at the purtiest turquoise ocean God ever did make, and catchin’ the finest fish, too. Not a bad life for someone wantin’ to lay low.”

  Or someone who wants to run from a broken heart, I thought, without fear of it ever breaking again. I changed the subject. “Adam, anyone been pokin’ around the Alicia lately?”

  “Actually, the Byron brothers were on it early in the week,” he confirmed. “Said they came up with a few things, too: couple bottles of wine and a man’s wedding band.”

  My head snapped around to look at my father. “See, Papa! I told you it was worth takin’ a look.”

  Adam laughed. “Well, you might come up with a little thing or two, but I’ll tell you what, three guys were anchored off of Star Reef, and they were pulling stuff up left and right from that wreck that went down the week before the Alicia.”

  That got my attention, as well as my father’s. “I heard about it but was told there were only hams on board and the sharks got both them and the crew,” Papa said. “Remind me, what kind of rig was it?” he asked before alerting us that he was tacking again so we could duck.

  Once we sat back up, Adam said, “It was a nice little trawler; single stack on it, one boiler, if I’m rememberin’ correctly. Little smaller than your trawler, I’d guess.”