Fortunately, by the time the clouds unloaded their cargo of water on us we’d made it to Brown’s home. Shoving the baggage under the thatched roof, we staggered with exhaustion inside, to the obvious amazement of his wife and children—they’d never had whites visit, much less stay the night. The gentlemen of my party were assigned to the sand floor of the back room. Cynda slept with Mrs. Brown on the cot in the lone bedroom. Captain Brown and the children slept in the “parlor.”
Through the night the dwelling was filled with the sound of hands slapping away bugs, for the windows had no cheesecloth for barriers. For the first two hours, rain cascaded off the edge of the thatch roof. A dozen leaks in the fronds hosed down among us to form puddles in the hard-packed floor. “Sorta dry” was an exaggeration, to say the least.
The Washington contingent said not a word about their hardship. Cynda, to her credit and my relief, accepted her fate without comment. Rork shook his head and grinned. He’d seen far worse.
I simply lay there, staring out at the staccato flashes, unable to sleep, wondering what I’d gotten into.
7
Lightning Strikes
Patricio Island
Pine Island Sound
Lower Gulf coast of Florida
Tuesday, 3 July 1888
The next day we made it to the island. The seven of us—our number now included a very sore and repentant Whidden—were grouped on the verandah of my simple bungalow. It sits atop the shell ridge centered along the narrowest part of Patricio Island. Everyone was quiet, not only from the exertions required to reach the island, but from the utter tranquility of the scene around us.
The sun, having lowered to about three fingers above the horizon, had shed its intensity and was now fading away through the orange phase. Next would be tomato red. Around the sun, the sky was transforming too. Gone was the deep blue, replaced by faint pastels of powdery pink and blue and wisps of even fainter green. This celestial canvas formed the backdrop for hundreds of birds who were returning to their island homes in the bay around us. Brown pelicans, gray ospreys, black cormorants, green ducks, pink roseate spoonbills, blue herons, white gulls.
The sky was a mass of movement, with a symphony of attending bird songs. It was as dynamic as the bay below, where the daily sea breeze formed a pattern of waves marching east, wrapping around islets and rearing up against the ebb tide. Two dolphins whooshed air from their blowholes fifty feet off our dock, while an otter rippled through the water after diving from a mangrove tree. The waters were dark now, no longer the jade green of high day.
Sunset is a magical time at these islands, even in the summer. The shadows of the gumbo limbo and coconut palms lengthen, the heat dissipates, and the moist sweet scent of jasmine flowers, swamp detritus, bananas and citrus, and fish roasting for dinner mingles and wafts everywhere.
Behind us, over the mainland, charcoal piles of clouds roiled like an angry phalanx about to descend on us. The daily thunderstorm approached, but it was still hours away from the coastal islands. We had time to relax.
The sun reddened. It wouldn’t be long. Each person had a small glass of my best, Matusalem rum from Cuba, sitting in front of them. Rork held a large conch shell and stood, facing the sun. The low hum of whispered conversation among my guests stopped. They knew something was about to happen.
Rork glanced at me, then announced, “Madam, an’ gentlemen, we have a bit o’ a tradition in these islands at sunset. When the sun’s down to a finger—ten minutes time—from touchin’ the horizon, all hands take a wee moment to appreciate God’s good work all ’round us, His daily display o’ beauty, an’ our blessin’s for bein’ here to enjoy it all.”
My friends’ faces glowed as they faced the last rays of the sun. As it settled onto the far horizon in the Gulf of Mexico, Rork sounded the time-honored three long wails from the conch shell. At the same time, islanders around the bay echoed the plaintive signal on their shells. I listened for them, each as different as the conch they blew. Nearby Useppa, Palmetto, Mondongo. Faint echoes from distant Captiva and Lacosta to the west. Bokeelia to the east. Reassuring sounds. Another day was done.
I proposed a toast, one I’d learned during pleasanter times in Cuba. “Health, wealth, and love—and all the time to enjoy them.”
Everyone joined in, clinking glasses. I noticed Cynda studying me, like a doctor with a patient. Then Whidden declared the dinner he’d been preparing for two hours was ready. We sat at the table in my place. Crab cakes, fillets of grouper, coconut rice with seagrape jelly, followed by a simple orange and lime mash pie. Whidden may well be a hopeless drunk, but he’s also a damned good seaman and cook.
It had been a very long day, starting at dawn when I managed to convince the local Manatee County deputy sheriff that Whidden should be remanded to my custody. Then we had set sail on my very overloaded—seven people and a mountain of baggage—thirty-one-foot sloop in light winds down the Peace River, and south through the vast bay of Charlotte Harbor, finally arriving at Patricio Island at four in the afternoon.
Due to Cynda’s presence, our accommodation arrangements had been altered. Cynda was given the sole use of my bungalow, the three Washington guests and I were billeted in Rork’s bungalow, and Rork bunked in with Whidden at his tiny place on the north end of the island.
The next day we’d get under way early in Nancy Ann for Key West. There were no dissenters when Rork stood after dinner and announced he was tired and turning in. He and Whidden headed off, the Washington trio departed and collapsed into slumber next door, while Cynda and I remained to wash up the dishes. I look back now with hindsight, and realize that the others may have sensed something, may have allowed Cynda and me that time together. Rork has since denied it, but not too strenuously.
I have the luxury of cheesecloth covering for the windows of my bungalow, to guard against mosquitoes and no-see-ums in the summer. I also have netting over the bed. So do Rork’s and Whidden’s dwellings. The cloths and nets are lowered an hour before sunset.
Most of my islander neighbors aren’t as fortunate. They don’t have such devices and have to keep a smudge fire going inside their homes. It literally smokes out the bugs. That fills my lungs and is a condition I abhor, so I paid the money for the cheesecloth. It inhibits air flow, but that’s a minor annoyance compared to the alternative. In any event, the cheesecloth also provides some privacy, for one cannot see through it clearly enough to discern shapes or people.
By the light of an oil lamp, Cynda and I were putting away the dishes when snoring from next door punctuated the rumbling from the approaching storm, making us laugh. I felt the breeze pick up out of the east, straining the window cloths as it rushed through. “Time to batten down,” I told Cynda and walked out onto the verandah.
Just as I finished dashing around closing the heavy storm shutters, a bolt of lightning struck a mile away near Mondongo Island, the flash of white showing bent trees whipping around in the night and Cynda standing in the front doorway, watching me. The wind caught her dress, making it flutter around her.
She looked so free, her blond hair flowing away from her. For the tenth time that day I thought about how beautiful she was, but how sad her situation. Seconds later we were at the back door when the rain arrived, riding that wind, lashing the place and soaking that dress against her figure—showing the woman underneath. I tried not to stare, but Cynda saw me watching her. She smiled, as if to convey that she understood.
We staggered inside and I pushed the door closed, but it was too late. A gust opened the door and swept into the kitchen, blowing out the lamp. I felt electricity in the air, an acrid smell mixed with a tingling sensation, then an explosion of light burst around us as lightning hit the island. Cynda screamed and leaped to me, clinging tightly as a second burst discharged, instantaneously following the first. A double lightning strike, within a hundred feet of us. The momentary glare of white light lit up he
r face, inches from mine.
We were both sopping wet, and I could feel her body trembling, feel its warmth and softness as she molded to me. Suddenly it was dark again. I kissed her forehead, then began to caress her face, her smooth skin, soft hair. I meant it platonically at first, in friendship, protection. At least, I think I did. But then things changed.
Our lips found one another, gently at first, then hard, then even harder. I held her to me, not letting go, my years of heartache gone in the flash of that lightning. Our hands explored each other and I found myself letting go of inhibition, moaning in hunger for her. It had been so very long.
No words passed between us. I think neither of us trusted our ability to speak right then. We were lost to the world, insulated from outsiders by the unleashed rain and the dark and the torrent of sounds. I slowly pulled her toward the bedroom, murmuring something about getting out of wet clothes, the incongruity of it all briefly impressing itself on me. I was taking to bed a dangerous woman from my past, a woman I didn’t fully trust. And I didn’t care.
Boots stamped on the front verandah.
“Cynda! Are ye all right? That last lightnin’ was a wee bit close. Are ye needin’ any help, m’lady?”
Rork. One helluva time for him to show up.
We disengaged in a panic, like youngsters caught by her father. She put a finger to my lips and went into the front room. I heard the door open and her say, “Oh Sean, you poor dear—you’re wet through and through. Thank you for coming over and checking on me, but I’m fine. It’s been years, but I remember Florida thunderstorms well, and I’m not frightened. Now, can I help you in any way? There might be a towel in here somewhere that you can use.”
“Nay, Cynda, me old carcass is used to bein’ wet. Keeps me humble! Well, I’ll be headin’ back to Whidden’s shack now. Jus’ checkin’ all the places after that close one.”
I heard Rork clomp off the verandah, back into the rain. The front door shut and seconds later Cynda jumped onto the bed, sprawling me backward with a giggle. Her drenched clothes were gone and she stretched naked alongside me. Pleasure wasn’t my focus right then, though. The interruption had started my mind working. Rork knew. And for some reason, that bothered me.
“He’s already checked the other bungalow and knows I’m here, Cynda.”
Unbuttoning my shirt she whispered, “Probably. And the three of us have known each other for over twenty years, through thick and thin. Sean Rork’ll not think less of you or begrudge you, Peter. You and I are both free people. This night belongs to us. Let it go.”
She was entirely right. And under her ministrations I did just that. Let go of mental reservations, moral teachings, and societal expectations—until our elemental lust reduced us to a state of stupor no storm could awaken.
Then, after what seemed impossibly like mere minutes, dawn arrived with the scent of jasmine floating on a fresh cool land breeze from the east. The sun rose bright in a cloudless sky, greeted by a flock of fish crows in the gumbo limbo tree outside.
I felt better than I had in years.
***
Cynda’s liberal approach about our state of affairs had influenced my own by the time everyone gathered for breakfast on my verandah. I didn’t care if they knew about us, or what they thought of it. As it was, no one said a word. Even Rork, who usually would pass a knowing glance to me, refrained from expression on the subject. I got the impression of general approval, an understanding that Cynda and I had endured personal tragedies of the most searing kind, and that they were all happy we were sharing affection.
In celebration of the day—it was July Fourth—the morning’s meal was done with special effort. Rork ran up our largest flag on the bamboo pole and announced in one of his strident foc’s’le bellows that breakfast was ready. It consisted of the standard island fare, but lots of it. Smoked mullet, grits with melted cheese, rum and orange juice—a fisherman’s repast.
Cynda, the new hostess of the place, and wearing a blue cotton dress, was positively beautiful in the morning light. Radiant would be a better descriptor, her manner bright and cheerful as she assisted Whidden in preparing and dishing out the food. I must admit, it felt wonderful to have a woman on the island again. To hear a lilting tone, see a graceful form, feel gentle touches. It made the old place seem civilized.
At the table, talk centered around the latest copy—five days old—of the Fort Myers Press. Whidden had a pile of them for us he got from the mail boat. It seemed that the newspaper had recently been sold to a temperance lady named Olive Stout, who was running the operation with her husband Frank. Rork thought that worrying, for the temperance people were trying to dry up the new county that had been formed the year prior, when the area of the coast around Fort Myers had seceded from Monroe County to the south. It was named Lee County, after the famous general, since three of the five newly installed county commissioners had served in the Confederate forces.
My guests opined on the issue of the temperance movement in the nation, with a unanimous verdict of disapproval. “Un-American,” said Rork, the Irishman. “Dull-witted,” suggested Corny. “Un-enforceable,” opined George. “Damned busybodies,” grumbled Dan. “Those temperance people are bored,” said Cynda with a sly wink at me. Whidden kept his mouth shut.
We then switched conversational targets to that of George Goode’s effort to land the tarpon and the search mission to the Bahamas. Whidden would stay behind with George, guide him in the island’s small rowing skiff to catch a large tarpon. He knew a place near Gasparilla Island that he swore would produce an eight-footer—probably the biggest in the area. Then he’d boat George over to Useppa Island where they’d flag down the coastal steamer for Punta Gorda. There, as soon as the fish was stuffed, he would board the train for the long journey north, back to Washington. Rork asked with deadpan innocence if George would require a separate seat and ticket for the fish, to which the scientist replied, “That depends on how big a fish Whidden finds me!”
I brought up the search. The rest of us would head south aboard the Nancy Ann for Key West, where Luke Saunders and the schooner were last known to be. After inquiring among my contacts at that island, we would determine the next step. It might be the Bimini Islands, or the Abacos, or Nassau.
By nine that morning, our baggage and gear was aboard. As usual, Rork and I had only a seabag each. Due to the nature of our endeavor, we’d included our personal weapons. Rork favored the standard Navy-issue Colt revolver and his new Winchester model 1887 five-round lever-action shotgun, which he had amputated slightly—his description—to a shorter barrel. I brought along my personal choices: the Merwin-Hulbert .44-caliber six-shot revolver with the “Skull Crusher” grip and my 1882 model Spencer pump-action shotgun. Two years earlier, I’d made an almost fatal error and not brought weapons with me on a trip. I vowed then not to repeat that omission in the future. One never knows in our line of work.
After we all waved farewell to George Goode and Whidden on the dock, Rork set the mains’l and jib and I steered the sloop south past Useppa Island, scene of so many memories for me. It was already hot, but the wind was steady from the east southeast, and Nancy Ann pounded through the short chop at six knots under all plain sail. Two hours later we passed York Island and close hauled for Point Ybel’s lighthouse on Sanibel Island.
Rork was on watch and steering, while the rest lounged on the windward deck, listening to me describe the places we passed—St. James-on-the-Gulf with its massive new tourist hotel and little fishing shacks, Tarpon Bay’s thatched huts, Point Ybel’s spindly lighthouse structure, Punta Rassa’s fishing lodge and telegraph station, Estero Island’s crescent-shaped beach. Cynda sat next to me, every now and then holding on to me when we hit a bigger wave. I think Rork began steering for them at one point, and I didn’t mind a bit.
By outward appearance it seemed a pleasure outing. I suppose to Dan and Corny it was, but below the gaiety I coul
d tell that Rork and Cynda sensed the enormity of what we were starting. We were well out to sea in the Gulf of Mexico, with no land in sight, when the sun set in fiery splendor that evening.
Cynda held my arm tightly as she gazed westward. “He’s waiting out there for us, somewhere.”
“We’ll find him, ” I reassured her.
Her body relaxed as she turned to me. “We have to. It’s up to us.”
In the tropics there is no prolonged twilight. Darkness descends quickly, transforming the sea into another space and form. That night was remarkably uncommon, and very special.
I can remember it so plainly, even now. There was no storm, unusual for that time of year, and our light-wind passage under the stars was magical, entrancing. In the moonless night the horizon disappeared. The stars glittered mirrorlike on the water, appearing so clear and so close, it was as if we were steering a course right up through them, able to reach out and touch them as we slid by. Cynda and I sat on the cabintop for hours, speaking in reverential whispers about the beauty of the world around us, of our lives’ loves, our dreams when young, our hopes deferred. It was a strangely mystical beginning, I thought at the time, for a voyage bound to a place that none of us could foresee.
In retrospect, I think it very wise that mortals are denied the ability to peer into the future and know what lies ahead. We just aren’t strong enough to cope with it.
Image 1
8
In Flagrante Delicto
Pinder’s Wharf
Caroline and William streets
Key West, Florida
Thursday, 5 July 1888
My crew couldn’t resist the temptation. Key West has been known for fifty years as one of the greatest liberty ports for sailors. During the war, that reputation soared to new heights. After the catastrophic fire of 1886, an event I knew painfully well, Key West rebuilt itself with a considerably more genteel view in mind, trying to alter its reputation. Gone was the long row of bawdy taverns on Front Street. There were still some “watering holes” though, and Rork knew them all.
Honor Bound Page 6