The Rising of Glory Land

by Janie DeVos

  Knowing I needed to keep busy as well as make some money, since Papa and I hadn’t salvaged any wrecks of late, nor had any plans to do so in the foreseeable future, I went back to work for Mr. Burdine. And I planned on talking to Paroh Monday about resuming my teaching position until the time the Seminoles were forced to leave. I just hadn’t had the chance to go see him yet. The woman whom Mr. Burdine had hired to replace me hadn’t worked out well at all. The wonderful expertise and skills she claimed never materialized, and the woman left the job one afternoon without giving notice. The shop was in complete disarray when I went to see him. New merchandise had arrived some days before, and other than Mr. Burdine and one part-timer, there’d been no one else to help inventory it, much less attractively display it throughout the store. So, I spent the majority of the first week back in Miami setting the retailer’s business in order.

  No matter how busy I tried to keep myself, the one constant thought that kept interrupting all others was Striker. There was no doubt about it: I loved him. I always had and I was quite certain that I always would. I knew that even if I was to fall in love with a good man and marry him eventually, there would always be a part of me that would be untrue to him. There would be feelings for Striker that would leave a shadow on my soul, but I prayed that the passing of time would quiet those torturous feelings, easing them into something I could tolerate.

  I’d only seen Striker once since we’d gotten home, and that was the very next morning when he’d come by the house so that he and Papa could send a wire from the trading post to the Secretary of the Department of Commerce and Labor. Papa was gone for the rest of the day, but over supper that night he told Mama and me that the wire had simply stated that they requested a meeting with the Secretary, Warren Chaplain, to discuss evidence. Papa and Striker had stuck around the post to see if there might be a quick response, and within an hour one came in. Mr. Chaplain said that he took their allegations extremely seriously and would take a train from Washington the following week. Because Striker was due to report at his new job in St. Augustine in less than two weeks, he had just enough time to sit down with Secretary Chaplain before leaving. Until that time, he had to get back out to Fowey Light to relieve Owen. I wondered how the two men would react to seeing each other as one came and the other went. Hopefully, nothing more than a shift change would take place for it was vital that Striker keep his cool and allow an investigation to be conducted without anything else interfering.

  I said nothing when Papa finished telling us what had transpired, other than that I would get started on the supper dishes. Afterward, I went out on the porch to finish my glass of tea and watch the sunset. Mama joined me a few minutes later, sitting down in the rocker next to me. She took my hand, and simply said, “There’s a red sky tonight. Tomorrow should be a good day. We’re due a few, ya know.”

  True to his word, Secretary Chaplain got off the train at the Fort Dallas station in downtown Miami eight days later, and Papa and Striker were there to meet him. It was in the middle of the evening when my father finally returned home. He said the day had been very productive, just longer than expected.

  They’d started their meeting by giving the Secretary a detailed account of the correlation between the dates of specific wrecks and the lighthouse keepers who had been on duty, explaining that all of their information could be verified in the log books at the Port of Entry in Key West. But Mr. Chaplain had come prepared. He had copies of the logs with him, and the three men meticulously scrutinized dates, places, and keepers. In the end, the Secretary determined they had enough to begin a formal investigation.

  Mr. Chaplain surprised them with the news that my brother would be considered for the Key West lighthouse keeper’s job if charges were filed against Owen. But, even if they weren’t, Owen could still be deemed incompetent to handle the job of light keeper at the end of the investigation. Though it would take Dylan farther from us, the job was a prestigious one, and the lighthouse was land-based, making it a far less isolated and dangerous place for him to work. So, we would keep our fingers crossed that the job would be offered to him.

  The other bit of stunning news was not delivered by Mr. Chaplain, but by Striker: Owen had not been seen since right after the storm. When Striker had gone to relieve Owen the week before, he wasn’t at the light. Jim Altman was the only one there, and had been since Owen departed. All Owen told Jim was that he had urgent business in town and would be back the next day, but he never returned. Now, with Owen missing, and Striker leaving, the Commerce Secretary would be actively seeking two new keepers to work alongside Jim at Fowey. Mr. Chaplain said he felt like Pandora’s box had been opened because he wasn’t just investigating the criminal conduct of Owen Perry and Adam Wilson—not to mention Ezra Asher—but he now had to file a report about the missing keeper, as well. We all wondered if perhaps Owen had sensed he’d been found out, and had taken off for parts unknown. However, there was just no way he could have known that an investigation was being considered, so we discounted that as a possibility.

  Finally, after talking with my parents until well past midnight, I fell into bed, but once again, sleep was slow in coming. As I lay there, I watched the shadows on my ceiling cast by the avocado tree outside. Each time a breeze stirred the branches, the shadows moved like elongated abstract hands beckoning to me. I wondered where they might lead me if I was to jump through the ceiling into their light, ethereal realm. And if the pain I was feeling would be left behind or would follow me through infinite worlds.

  Chapter 36

  Ol’ Blind Benny

  I finally had the chance to go see Paroh the day after Warren Chaplain came in from Washington. As I made my way along the Miami River toward the village, I looked out at the disrupted, ever-changing landscape that was the result of the horrific dredging. Before too long, the canals would run the water out of the Glades and into the bay, but as of late, there’d been some problems with government funding. Those problems gave us hope that the project would take far longer than expected, and might possibly be snuffed out altogether if the price was too high to accomplish the enormous undertaking.

  Not far from me was John Watson’s farm. Newly arrived from Kissimmee, John was raising sugarcane, but I’d overheard him at the trading post telling a fellow farmer that if they drained the Glades, he wouldn’t be able to raise an umbrella. And that was about the truth of it.

  When I entered the village, the mongrel dog, Fotcho, appeared out of nowhere and barked at me until I gave him the piece of biscuit he equated with my arrival. “How you been, buddy, huh? I see you’re still guardin’ the place.” I tossed him a second piece. I’d missed the little guy.

  “Miss Eliza!” someone shouted. Looking off to my right, I saw Rose hurrying toward me with a broad smile and a small load of logs in her arms. Gathering wood to feed their ever-burning cooking fire was a never-ending chore. “Miss Eliza, we worried about you. No see since big wind.”

  “I know, Rose. I had a family emergency after the storm. How did you all do?”

  “Everyone fine!” she said, smiling. The relief in her voice was evident. “The mangroves protect us real good.”

  “I’m glad,” I said, climbing down from Sundae. “Where’s Paroh? Is he around today?”

  “He’s over at Simon’s chickee,” she said, glancing off in the direction of his hut. “They kill big gator for gift to take to Chief Sam Church, in Immokalee. We go in four suns.”

  “How long will you be gone?” I asked. It wasn’t unusual for the different tribes to gather together for festivals or celebrations, such as a marriage.

  “Always,” she responded matter-of-factly.

  “What do you mean ‘always’? I don’t understand.” My first thought was that she was confused about the dates.

  “Paroh says we have to go before we have nothing to eat. Fish and animals don’t like those machines that chew up our land. So, we go to place that
still has plenty of food. Immokalee!” she stated again, as if doing so would clear everything up for me.

  “My Aunt Ivy lives there,” I said, my head reeling. Then, “Are you glad you’re going, Rose? Does it make you sad?”

  “Not so much,” she answered honestly. “My people are used to running from the white skins and their bad ways.” As if she realized she’d insulted my people, she hurriedly added, “Not all bad, Miss Eliza. But not so many good like you.”

  There wasn’t much I could say in defense of my own race. Looking off in the distance at the encroaching dredging machines, I couldn’t really argue her point.

  “I’m goin’ over to Simon’s,” I said. “I’ll see you before I go.”

  I left her to her chores, and as I made my way through the village, I could see various tasks being performed that certainly indicated a move was imminent. Many of the household and personal items that usually hung from the beams of chickees’ roofs had been removed and packed away. An unusual amount of clothing was being washed in anticipation of meeting their new extended family. These people had great pride and wanted to meet the Immokalee tribe as nicely dressed and neatly groomed as possible. Over on long racks, several beautiful large skins were being tanned. While that wasn’t an unusual thing, considering what I knew about their upcoming move, I guessed that they were preparing these as gifts for some of the Immokalee elders.

  When I reached Simon’s chickee, he and Paroh were not in it, but I could see them about fifty yards away working on the gator. Actually, Simon was cutting up the meat, while Paroh stood by supervising. The meat would be salted to preserve it, or perhaps smoked, and the skin would be carefully preserved as a gift for Chief Sam Church.

  “Greetings, Paroh and Simon!” I called from a short distance away.

  Simon’s knife stilled in the middle of cutting out a tenderloin as he looked up, while Paroh immediately turned to see who had called their names. Both men smiled so broadly that I realized they were just as relieved and happy to see me as I was to see them. These people had become family to me, and to think that they would soon be leaving stabbed at my heart as surely as Simon’s knife had cut into the gator’s.

  The skin of the beast was hanging from a large rack, and it appeared to be about thirteen to fourteen feet long, making it one of the biggest alligators I’d ever seen.

  “That’s a big gator, my friends!” I exclaimed. “Did it take the whole village to kill it?” I asked, walking toward them.

  “Believe it or not, Miss Eve, just Paroh!” Simon enthusiastically bragged about his chief’s hunting prowess.

  Paroh walked up to me and held me at arm’s length, as though to confirm that I was indeed all right. “I see the storm did not chew you up,” he said, smiling mischievously.

  “No,” I chuckled, “but it nearly did my mother and father.”

  Paroh’s smile was instantly gone. “What happened?”

  “Their boat went down off of Boot Key. Papa’s back was cut up pretty badly and he cracked a couple of ribs, and Mama took a good hit on the head. But they’re healing just fine, and nearly as good as new. I see y’all fared well,” I said, looking around and seeing that the camp had already been cleared of any debris. “No one was hurt or lost, Rose tells me.”

  “We made it through fine,” Paroh confirmed. “Simon,” he said, turning to him, “finish the butchering and I’ll be back in a while to decide what we’ll eat now and what we’ll preserve for gifts. The skin will go to Sam Church, of course, so care for it well. There can be no flaws in this one.” Then Paroh invited me to his chickee to talk.

  When we stepped into his dwelling, the relief of the shade felt wonderful. A gentle breeze blew through the large hut, making it comfortable enough in the midday heat. Paroh scooped up a dipper of water from a bucket, and graciously offered it to me before quenching his own thirst. Usually, the chief would have taken a drink first, but the fact that he offered the dipper to me was a sign of respect. I gratefully accepted and drank the entire dipper. Though it wasn’t refreshing, it washed away the dry thickness in my mouth. The sun was still scorching hot, even in mid-October.

  “So, you single-handedly killed that gator, Paroh?” The chief simply smiled at me as he tamped tobacco down into the bowl of his pipe. “I’m impressed,” I said. “I don’t mean to lessen your great feat any, but was the alligator sick, or very old?”

  “Very hungry,” Paroh said between pulls on his pipe stem.

  “Why? There’s still fish and game here,” I pointed out.

  “He was blind in one eye,” Paroh said, sitting down in one of the two chairs and indicating for me to take the other. “Made it hard for him to hunt. So, I helped him. When he came in for the bait…well…that was the end of Ol’ Blind Benny.”

  “And you’re giving the gift of his hide to Sam Church,” I finished. “Rose told me you’re leaving.” I couldn’t keep the sadness out of my voice.

  “We are,” he said matter-of-factly.

  “I have some news for you that just might change your mind,” I said, praying it would.

  “Oh?” he said, sounding doubtful.

  “Owen Perry and the others who own the company that bought your land may not be able to drain it as planned,” I began, resting my forearms on my thighs and leaning in toward him, as if I were sharing a big secret. “They’re being investigated on some very serious charges. Nothing is going to happen while that’s going on, and if they’re found guilty, then they could be facing some lengthy prison time.”

  Paroh pulled the pipe from his mouth. “It won’t matter.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I said, sitting upright in my chair. “What do you mean, ‘it won’t matter’”?

  “Eliza, the white man is like ants on a grasshopper: What one doesn’t eat up another will. It doesn’t matter if one company doesn’t dredge here. Another will dredge over there. What affects one part of the land, affects the other. The dredging is corrupting the flow of the water north of us, so it’s affecting the hunting and fishing here. Why you think Ol’ Blind Benny had such trouble? He still had one good eye, and he outweighed all the others, but he was slower than many of the younger ones. Fish are dying or heading to other places, so food is harder to come by for a poor ol’ fellow like Benny. And when the animals don’t eat, we don’t eat. There’s good land with plenty for all to eat in Immokalee,” Paroh continued. “So, we go.”

  “Rose says you’re going within the week,” I said softly.

  “In four days,” Paroh confirmed. “We meet Sam Church and other tribal members at the halfway point between our camp and theirs.

  “I’m glad you came today,” he said, changing the subject and rising from his chair. “I want to give you something.”

  Paroh walked over to a small box sitting on the same table where he kept his pipe. Lifting the lid, he removed something, then walked back to me. I stood up as he did. Picking my hand up, he placed a beautiful simple gold locket and chain in my hand. In the center of it was an exquisite emerald.

  “You aren’t the only one to try to barter shipwrecked goods with us,” he said, his mischievous eyes sparkling. “This is very old and very good. It comes from one of three ships that was wrecked in an armada from Portugal.”

  “Oh, Paroh,” I whispered in awe as I examined the beautiful piece closely. It was oval, with the focal point being the magnificent solitaire emerald in the center. The gold was deep in color and heavy. “I certainly can’t take this from you. I thank you from my heart and soul, but someone in your family should have it.”

  “You are part of my family, Eliza. You’re a beloved enhesse—friend,” he translated, laying his hand against my cheek.

  Covering his hand with mine, I fought back tears as I looked at the proud Seminole chief standing before me. I’d grown to love and respect him in such a short amount of time.

  “Thank you, de
ar friend,” I said, grateful for his gift, but, more importantly, for his acceptance and love for me. “I shall wear it with pride, always.” I slipped the chain over my head. “May I ask one thing of you?”

  “Of course,” Paroh replied.

  “Would you allow my family and me to escort you and your people to meet the Immokalee tribe? It would be our honor to ride beside you as you begin your new journey. Also, if Aunt Ivy comes, Mama might be able to see her. And Papa has relatives in that camp, as well.”

  “We would be proud to have you with us,” Paroh said, smiling.

  “What time do we leave?” I asked.

  “One hour after sunrise.”

  “My family and I will be here. I must go now.” I kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you for this.” I looked down at the locket. “Your gift is great, and my heart thanks you.”

  I turned to leave and as I did, something blue caught my eye up on one of the beams. There, nailed to it, was a navy blue cap, identical to the one Owen always wore. I slowly turned toward Paroh, who was watching me with a small smile that turned up just one corner of his mouth.

  “Paroh, you didn’t happen to see Owen Perry, did you? He’s been missing for some days now, and no one can figure out where he’s gone.”

  “Lots of men come and go,” Paroh replied, shrugging. “They’re always around here looking at the land. Guess they’re trying to figure out what piece to chew up next. They don’t hear when you tell them the swamps hide many dangers. They go in, anyway. But this Owen, I don’t know if he was among them. I’ve never met him, so I wouldn’t know what he looks like.”

  “But Simon and Turtle would,” I said, squinting my eyes slightly.

  “And perhaps Ol’ Blind Benny would, too.” He smiled cryptically. “But we’ll never know for sure.”