by Janie DeVos
There was a crowd of people at the trading post when we arrived at the dock. Some of the pilings were broken off, while others had two and three boats tied up to them. Rather than trying to maneuver his boat in among them, Striker called out to several people milling around talking, one of whom was my employer, William Burdine.
“William, what’s the latest?” Striker called out.
Mr. Burdine walked to the edge of the dock. “Striker! Eliza! I’m glad to see you both in one piece. Your folks okay?” he kindly asked me.
“I don’t know. They left for the Keys a couple of days ago. We’re on our way down there now.”
The relief on Burdine’s face at seeing us abruptly shifted to one of deep concern. “Storm hit hard down there,” he honestly stated. “Took out the railroad tracks they’d already laid. We’re hearing there’re lots of casualties, though they’ve only been able to give us a list with a few names so far.”
I could feel my heart increasing in tempo. “Were any of my family’s names on that list? Dylan and Uncle James are down there, too,” I reminded him.
He offered me a small, encouraging smile. “Didn’t see their names, and didn’t hear mention of them either. Y’all be careful goin’ down there. The St. Lucie wrecked off Elliot Key. It was bringin’ a bunch of railroad workers up from the Keys—more ’n a hundred of ’em. A couple of folks from here took their boats down there and they’re pullin’ bodies out of the water—both dead and alive. Heard another boat sank around Elkhorn Reef, northeast of Key Largo. God only knows how many casualties there are from this storm,” he said, shaking his head.
I asked Mr. Burdine to let my family know that Striker and I had gone down to look for them if he should happen to see them. After he assured me that he would, we thanked him for the information, then Striker threw his engine in reverse, and we pulled away from the dock. A moment later, we drove out of the mouth of the river, and into Biscayne Bay.
All along the coastline and the barrier islands beyond, debris floated and bobbed atop and below the water. Striker drove out into deeper water to avoid what he could while still staying close enough to shore so that we could keep an eye out for any shipwrecked survivors. But we saw nothing as we passed Virginia Key and Key Biscayne. Then Fowey Rocks Light loomed up in the distance.
Neither Striker nor I said anything as we got closer to the lighthouse. All along, we’d been discussing what we might come across as we made our way down through the Keys, but, as we drew nearer to Fowey a thick, uncomfortable silence replaced all conversation. Suddenly, instead of steering clear of the lighthouse, as I’d assumed we would, Striker made a beeline straight for the dock.
“Striker?” I said, turning to look at him from where I sat on the ship’s bow. “We don’t need to stop. Please, let’s just keep—” But before I could even finish my sentence, he pulled up to a piling with far more speed than necessary, shut the boat off, threw a cork bumper over the side to keep us from slamming against the dock, and snatched up the bow line that was coiled next to me. Before stepping up onto the dock, he turned to me and said in a low voice that left no room for argument, “Don’t move.” Anger flashed in his dark brown eyes. I’d never seen him look that way before, and it scared me.
Striker quickly tied up the boat, and then started up the ladder. As he did, I saw Owen come out of the keeper’s quarters, looking both confused and perhaps a little apprehensive. When Striker bounded up onto the second platform, Owen forced a small smile and started to say something, but he never got the chance. Striker grabbed him by the front of his shirt and pushed him back against the platform’s railing, knocking Owen’s cap off in the process, and forcing him to lean precariously over the rail.
“You like hittin’ women, Owen?” Striker asked, pulling him off the railing and then slamming him back against it again. “Is that how it works for you?” He shouted loudly enough that I could hear every word.
“Get off me!” Owen shouted back, trying to push Striker away from him.
Striker pulled Owen to within inches of his face. “Hear me when I tell you this, you disgusting son of a bitch: You ever hurt Eliza again, I’m comin’ for you. You’ll be dealin’ with me, and there won’t be another time after that. You understand me? Even if you just step on her toe…” Striker didn’t finish, though he added an exclamation mark by slamming Owen back against the railing again. Then Striker released him with a look of contempt on his face, as if Owen was something he just couldn’t stomach touching for another second. Owen didn’t move. Instead, he stood there watching Striker descend the ladder to the platform below. Once Owen lost sight of Striker, he turned away without even glancing in my direction and retrieved his cap from the deck. Dusting it off, he calmly placed it back on his head and adjusted it so that it was sitting just right. Then, walking perfectly erect, Owen went into the keeper’s quarters without ever looking back.
I was absolutely stunned. It amazed me that Owen had walked away without even trying to explain his actions or apologizing for them, though there was nothing he could have said that would have justified his hitting me. I knew it was over the minute he’d struck me. Before that, really. I knew it when I read the bill of sale for the Seminoles’ land. But I would have thought Owen would at least try to offer up some lame excuse, or ask for forgiveness. The fact that he didn’t was terribly disturbing. I realized that I knew absolutely nothing about this man—a man I’d come very close to committing my life to.
Striker walked onto the dock, untied the line and jumped back into the boat. His anger was almost palpable. Without saying a word or even looking at me, he walked over to the motor, pulled the rope that cranked the engine to life, and then turned us to the south.
As we motored along without speaking, I suddenly remembered what Striker had said that morning when I’d asked him what had changed his mind about taking one of his boats out again. He’d responded, “Anger conquered fear.” At the time, I’d had no idea what he meant by that. But now I did.
Chapter 25
A Cool Blue Hell
The scene that we came upon at Elliot Key could have been the inspiration for Dante’s Inferno. The difference, however, was that this version of hell was not red hot, but a cool blue instead. And the fact that the day had turned into one of calm winds and clear skies added a surreal horror to it.
We passed the remains of the St. Lucie sticking up and saw many survivors bobbing around in the water like corks. Those who were unable to swim clung to debris from the ship and some moaned in agony from their injuries. Many had already been pulled onboard several boats that were working as fast as they could to assist them, but Striker’s streamlined motorboat was able to reach them with greater speed and agility than the trawlers could. We pulled five of the injured from the water and delivered them to the larger vessels that would take them back to Miami. Then we began the horrific task of recovering the bloated bodies of the dead. We retrieved three of them, and transferred the battered bodies to the largest trawler, which was storing dozens of them below deck to keep them out of view of the living. As we went from one victim to the next, both the living and the dead, I continued to watch for floating debris, but I was also watching for quick-moving fins hunting down those flailing around in the water.
“Stay as still as you can,” Striker shouted. “The blood in the water will bring the sharks in. If you’re flailing around, you’ll get their attention. Just raise your arm and we’ll see you.”
The captain on board another recovery boat, the Little Pearl, asked Striker to search along the beach on Elliot Key, since he could get his boat in there more easily. As we slowly made our way along the debris-strewn beach, we spotted a body horribly twisted up in the mangrove trees, and then another. All in all, we found five. The noonday sun was quickly starting to decompose the bodies, and the sickly-sweet smell became overpowering. There was so much death around us that rescuers and survivors alike had to hang
their heads over the sides of their boats.
By mid-afternoon, we’d done all we could. Those passengers on the St. Lucie who couldn’t be accounted for were left to the care of the sea. As we pulled away, I looked back and said a silent prayer. I prayed that those who were lost had made it to a heavenly shore, with calm seas and a gentle wind blowing forever at their backs. Then I faced forward and tried to ready myself for what might be waiting ahead.
Striker set a course for Carysfort Light, where Adam Wilson was the keeper, on the off chance that my parents and Dylan might be there. If they’d already left Alligator Reef Light, but the seas had gotten too rough for sailing, they might have pulled in there. If they weren’t there, we’d continue on down to Alligator. I prayed that my family was in one of those two places, for they’d have been far safer in a strongly anchored screw-pile lighthouse during the storm than in one of the slipshod structures on land.
As we made our way along the coastline, we stayed vigilant in case we saw other wrecked survivors in the water or along the shore. We were quiet much of the time, only speaking when necessary, for the morning’s grisly task had marked us, leaving us both stunned and saddened, as well as terribly worried that my family had suffered a similar fate as the men aboard the St. Lucie.
Thinking about seeing Adam brought to mind his involvement with F.L.E.A.C., and the acquisition of the Seminoles’ land. I knew this wasn’t really the time to talk to him about it, but I also knew that I might not have another chance since he was now stationed on Carysfort, and I’d rarely see him. As much as I wanted to talk to him about the land deal, I also wanted to talk to him about Owen and Ezra Asher. Specifically, I wanted to know how Adam knew them, for how long, and how they’d come to be involved in business dealings together.
From my seat on the bow, I looked back at Striker. He was scanning the shore, looking for more victims, and didn’t notice me watching him. I studied his strong profile, and how the wind caught his thick golden hair and blew it against the side of his face as he looked off to the right. This was a good man, I thought. But then, I’d always known that. How I’d missed his friendship, the ease and enjoyment of it. Though I had girlfriends from school that I saw every now and then, Striker had been my best friend, and I missed him. Terribly. I could no longer talk to him about the things that worried me, frightened me, or delighted me. I’d always felt as though I could tell him anything, and he wouldn’t judge me for it, no matter how wrong I might be, or how small the problem might have been. Now that I really needed to talk to him about the questionable business dealings of Owen, Ezra, and Adam, I couldn’t. It was just too complicated.
Up until a couple of days ago, I’d been engaged to Owen, and Striker would ask how I could have committed myself to spending a lifetime with someone I obviously didn’t know very well—at least not well enough to agree to marry. And he would be right to ask that. But I had too much pride to admit that I now realized Owen had just been a replacement for the man I couldn’t have, and a salve that I’d prayed would finally heal an open wound.
“Let’s pull in here,” Striker said, navigating the boat in toward the shore. “From what I can tell, it looks pretty clean. I need to refuel, and we need food, too. I know you’re probably not hungry after this morning, but we’ve got to eat something. The afternoon is likely to be a long one, and we’ll be no good to anyone if we run out of energy. Besides, I’ve got to try washing some of this stink off of me. It’s bad.”
We both needed a good dunking in the ocean. The smell of death clung to us like leaches. Striker tossed the anchor about ten yards from shore, then handed me a sack that he’d brought from his kitchen, and told me he’d meet me on the beach after filling the tank. As he pulled a gas can from a compartment built into the boat’s port side, I climbed overboard into the shallow water and waded to shore.
A line of red mangrove trees were set back from the water, offering us a dry place to eat. After quickly scanning the mangroves to make sure there were no victims hung up in them, I set the food down within the trees’ shady coolness, then walked back into the water. Startled angelfish scattered, as well as the tiny bait fish that had lured them in. But they weren’t the only fish to feed on the tiny ones, and I needed to keep an eye out for larger predators, especially sharks, since I had the St. Lucie’s survivors’ blood on me.
As I swam around below the surface, trying to wash both the stench and nausea away, I heard a splash. Quickly looking in that direction, I saw that it was Striker. He had removed the dark brown short-sleeved pull-over shirt he’d been wearing, and had changed out of his canvas pants and into a pair of old denim trousers that had been cut to about mid-thigh. His bare skin was a much deeper shade of gold than his hair was, and his body was slender but muscular. Looking over at me, and seeing that I was fine, he grabbed a handful of sand from the seabed, then stood up and began scrubbing his skin with the natural exfoliant. Though my skin wasn’t exposed like Striker’s was, I scrubbed the filth off my clothes using the same method. After we felt as though we could stand the smell of ourselves again, we left the water and sank down on the sand next to our food. Light blue waves gently lapped onto the shore in a lazy low-tide rhythm, and it seemed like an absurd contradiction to the horrors we’d witnessed just an hour before.
“It’s so peaceful here,” I said softly. “It seems strange after this morning.”
“I was thinking the same thing,” Striker said while looking out at the sea.
I would have loved to have spent the afternoon in the shade, being lulled into semi-sleep by the breeze and the sound of the waves, but I knew time wasn’t necessarily on our side. We needed to eat and be on our way.
I spread the contents of the bag out, and Striker began cutting pieces of cheese from a block of cheddar. There were crackers, as well, and apples.
“We’re not far from Carysfort, are we?” I asked before taking a large bite out of an apple.
“No. It’s just southeast of here. Look to the right, way off in the distance. That’s Carysfort, just off of Key Largo,” he said, before shoving a cracker and piece of cheese in his mouth. “From Carysfort, it’s about another hour or so to Alligator. It’s just off Islamorada.
“They’re gonna be okay, Eliza,” Striker said, correctly guessing what I was thinking. “If anyone can survive a storm, your folks can. From what you’ve told me, they’ve survived much worse.” He smiled. “And Dylan is in a lighthouse that can survive most anything Mother Nature can throw at it. These old lighthouses have been survivin’ storms for decades—bad ones, too. As soon as you’re done, we’ll get goin’.”
I reached over and covered his hand with mine. “Striker, thank you for helping me today. I know it was hard taking your boat out.”
“It wasn’t hard taking the boat out, Eliza,” Striker replied, looking a little surprised that I had thought such a thing. “It was hard taking you out in it,” he softly clarified.
“Let’s eat up,” he said, abruptly changing the subject before I could ask him exactly what he’d meant by that. “We need to get going.”
I stuffed a cracker in my mouth before I could ask him about a subject that he obviously had no desire to talk about…at least with me.
Chapter 26
Talking to God
Carysfort rose out of the water directly in front of us. At one hundred and twelve feet tall, it was the oldest of the six screw-pile lighthouses along Florida’s southern coastline, and just like Fowey Rocks, it seemed untouched by the hurricane.
A group of men were milling around the second platform, outside of the keeper’s quarters, and I anxiously searched for my family among them, but didn’t see them.
After tying the boat to the dock, we climbed the ladders to the second platform and were immediately greeted by Adam, who’d seen us approach.
“Good God in the evening!” Adam jubilantly exclaimed. “You’re the last folks I expected to s
ee out here, and in a fancy motorboat, no less!” He slapped Striker on the back and then pulled me into a bear hug. I felt myself stiffen in his arms, but Adam didn’t seem to notice. “Let’s get us some coffee,” he said, then turned and started for his quarters. Striker and I followed him.
“We’re not stayin’ long,” Striker said to Adam’s back. “Just long enough to get the latest news, if you have any, and fill our water jug.”
A few of the men standing around the platform greeted us in barely audible one-syllable words, with an almost lifeless look in their eyes. Others stood somberly silent as we walked by them. From the looks of things, it seemed as though they had little energy to do anything else. Much of their clothing was torn, while some had had entire sleeves and pant legs ripped away, and many wore bandages made from a variety of odd materials. They spoke quietly among themselves, almost whispering, as if to avoid alerting Mother Nature that they had survived her wrath.
“Where’d they come from, Adam?” I asked, closing the door softly behind me after entering the kitchen. There were several people asleep on the floor in the living area, and Adam told us that there were more in the bedrooms, two to a bed.
“Houseboat number eleven went down off of Long Reef,” Adam replied softly. “It was one of the houseboats the men building the railroad were living in. Didn’t offer shit protection—’scuse me, Eliza—from the storm. Hell, those piles of junk were put together with spit ’n a prayer. They weren’t much good in a li’l ol’ rainstorm, much less a blasted hurricane!”
“How many were on it?” Striker asked.
“Over a hundred. That steamboat, Jenny, rescued some of them. Those that were hurt the worst were taken to Miami. A couple other smaller fishin’ boats plucked these folks up” —he glanced toward the living room— “and brought ’em here. And they’ll be here until a passin’ ship can take ’em on to Miami. There just wasn’t enough room on the Jenny. Lord, what a scene that must ’a been. Heard a shark got two poor sons of bitches—’scuse me, Eliza. Thankfully, the Jenny was already there, pullin’ folks out, and one of the deckhands shot the shark before it could take anyone else.”