The Sea is a Thief (25 page)

At the base of the bluff was a little wooden building, close by the shore.  A man emerged from it, dragging a skiff behind him, but carrying no gun.  He settled between the oars and shoved off, propelling himself onto the water.  She longed to see his face, but she could not; he leaned forward, back bent to the oars, moving out onto the marsh among the great gathering of birds.  When at last he was in the midst of the flock he stood and turned, raising his right arm and extending his hand in greeting to his daughter.

She cried out and turned to Beau and her mother, but they had vanished.  The ragged cloth lay crumpled on the ground.  She turned again and ran to her father, feet flying over the grass, skirts billowing, but her running carried her no closer; he drifted farther still, his skiff cutting a narrow wake in the calm water, birds surrounding him.  Their sounding grew louder.  To her ears it was a joyful sound, a chorus of pure welcome.  He took to the oars again, rowing effortlessly.  Seeing that she could not close the space between them, she stopped running and stood still so that she could see him for as long as possible.  As a cloud of ducks rose from the water and took flight, he raised his arm to her again.   For a single moment, she could see his face, as if through the lens of a telescope.  

He was smiling.

Then he was lost in the distance.

 

She heard her mother's voice very faintly, and thought she was calling from inside the house; when she turned to answer, the house was gone, and the long bench was gone with it.  Her mother called again, this time a little closer, but darkness enclosed her and she could not see, so she walked towards the sound of her mother's voice.  Then she was no longer walking, but lying on soft, mossy ground, and felt her mother's hand on her cheek.  She raised her arm to touch it and heard her name again, this time clearly and close by.

She opened her eyes.  

She was awake.  

Above her was her mother's face, and just beyond her, Beau; her mother took her in her arms and held her, sobbing, kissing her, giving thanks to God.  She raised her up in her bed.  Anna saw that she was in her kitchen and felt the warmth of the fire.  

Sam Dreher was gone.  

 

 

CHAPTER TWELVE

Remembrance

 

Anna Daisey fidgeted in her chair.  As many times as she had watched others examine her drawings, she was always uncomfortable, as though a schoolteacher were checking her spelling.  This gentleman seemed satisfied; he nodded his head as he eyed the sketch he was holding.  Finely-made gold eyeglasses perched on the bridge of his nose.  Anna liked the drawing as well.  Its subject was a black duck emerging from the shelter of a stand of reeds.  She was pleased with the way the reeds rose from the water as if actually growing, and with the contented expression in the eyes of the duck.  He laid the drawing gently on the table beside those he had already viewed, a dozen or more.  

His companion spoke. “Now, Mr. Breckenridge, I didn't steer you wrong coming to Chincoteague, did I?”  

“Certainly not, Captain Ochs,” Breckenridge replied. “I am most pleased to meet you personally, Miss Daisey, and to express our interest in your work.”  Anna smiled, flattered, but unsure of how to take the compliment.  To meet a man such as Henry Breckenridge was altogether new.  She had sent many drawings north to the cities with John Ochs, and with other captains in the oyster trade.  Some returned unsold, but when a drawing did find a buyer, the money the ship captains brought was a godsend to the Daisey household.  They brought her supplies as well, paper and drawing pencils, and paints.  The paper was beautiful, and the pencils and brushes a joy in her hands.  The sale of even a few drawings would cover the cost of it, and she could make many more.    

“Captain Ochs tells me that you have some watercolors, also?” Breckenridge asked with studied politeness.  His manner was formal.  He wore a well-tailored suit in a soft shade of grey; his shirt was snow white, its stiff collar impeccable.  His beard and mustache were closely and perfectly trimmed.  “I do, sir,” Anna replied, reaching for the canvas portfolio, one of several that her mother had sewn.  She untied its fastenings.  Breckenridge sat a little taller in his chair, leaning forward to watch the paintings emerge.  As Anna presented them to him, he laid them with care before his place at the table.  

One by one he inspected the watercolor images of Anna Daisey's world.  Willow ran alongside a young foal, the smaller horse straining its neck to match his pace.  His champagne coat glowed on the page.  A marsh hawk landed on the twisted limb of a tall pine, yellow talons extended wide, its hard eyes intent on its target.  The wings of the hawk were spread to their fullest, each primary feather rendered in white and black.  An oystercatcher strode along the sand, bright orange bill and stick-like legs angled towards the rough grey shell that would be its meal.  

Anna awaited Breckenridge's reaction, barely breathing.  These paintings were far more difficult for her.  She lacked confidence in her ability to use the paint correctly.  She spent hour upon hour discovering how the watercolors behaved, trying and re-trying to capture color, light and shadow. Finally she made paintings that satisfied her, but she was entirely unsure of how a man like Henry Breckenridge would react to them.  Captain Ochs had told her about his business in Philadelphia; he sold the work of real artists.  How fortunate it would be if her efforts met with his approval.

He laid down the last of the watercolors, removed his eyeglasses, and folded them into a pocket of his coat.  He took a short pencil and a small piece of paper from another pocket and began to make quick notes.  Anna glanced out the window of the dining room.  It was a lovely June day, the sky filled with layer upon layer of thick white clouds.  Breckenridge set down his pencil.  

“As we discussed, Miss Daisey, I will be meeting with many artists such as yourself...”

Artists!
 

“...as Captain Ochs has been kind enough to arrange several appointments in ports of call that he visits.”  

Ochs chimed in.  “Mr. Breckenridge asked me if he could come along on my next trip south,” he added.  “He's never seen the area.  Stays in Philadelphia far too much, if you ask me, don't you, Mr. Breckenridge?”  

“Probably so,” Breckenridge replied, smiling gamely. “The opportunity to meet the artist personally, and to observe for oneself the environment in which he—or she—works, can be invaluable.”  Anna listened, hardly daring to move.  “You may be aware, Miss Daisey, of the growing popularity of Mr. Audubon's folios?”  The name was not familiar, and she looked blankly at him.  “Forty years old now and continuing to gain wider acceptance both here and in England.  Very well-liked.  That has led to a certain increase in demand for subjects such as yours, ma'am; birds, and waterfowl in particular.”  He paused.  “I would not judge you to have mastered the watercolor at this point, Miss Daisey, but not every household demands the work of a master.  What you have created here should readily find a home at the right price.  Now, that being said,” he leaned forward, tapping on the sketches with his finger, “your ability to sketch is most remarkable.  It is your strength!  When you have developed your skill in painting to match it, then,” he sat back, “then we will have even more to discuss.  A sketch, you see, even as capable as these, simply cannot command the price of a painting.”

She could hardly believe what she was hearing.  

“I am prepared to offer you, for this lot you have presented here,” he held out the paper.  “Well…” he handed it to her silently, folding his hands and resting his arms on the table.  Anna read the carefully-penciled column of figures and then re-read it to be certain.  Surely her eyes deceived her.  Dollars.  More dollars than her mother had earned for her sewing since Easter.  She could feel the beating of her heart in her chest.  

Breckenridge was puzzled by her silence. “Do you find the amount acceptable?” he asked.  She smiled, not wanting to appear unseemly, though inside she was overwhelmed.  

“Yes, Mr. Breckenridge,” she replied.  “Yes, I do.  Will I be able to send you more in the future?”  

“Oh, yes, I should say so,” he answered. “In good time, of course.  The Henry Breckenridge Company is a large one, but even we have only so many customers for this sort of work.  Many more now, naturally, since the war has come to an end.  We are gradually returning to normal.  I believe our trade will continue to increase.”  He rose, reaching for the glossy beaver hat that rested on the chair beside him.  “It has been most pleasant to meet you, Miss Daisey, but I am told by Captain Ochs that we must sail presently.  Correct, Captain?”  

“Sir,” said Ochs, standing as well.  Anna rose as Breckenridge extended his hand.  She had felt so small as she sat across from him at the table, but now she saw that he was no taller than she; a little shorter, in fact.  

“I am pleased to have made your discovery before others did, Miss Daisey, and I hope that you may reward the Breckenridge Company with a measure of loyalty once you have travelled northward to meet other dealers in art.”  

Anna felt lightheaded.  She could not imagine such a thing: to sail to the bustling cities, and see her drawings on display in shops.  Their hands parted.  

“When you are in Philadelphia it would be my pleasure to meet with you again.  In the meantime I am sure that Captain Ochs will continue to serve as go-between.”  The Captain nodded.  Breckenridge withdrew a slim leather wallet from his jacket and began to count out bills.  He paused.  “Did you wish to keep the portfolio, Miss Daisey?”

“My mother made it for me...” she began.  

He waved his hand. “No trouble whatsoever!” he said pleasantly, ending his counting and handing her the money.  “No doubt this hotel can supply us with some brown paper to protect them.  And with that we must take our leave.”  They headed for the lobby of the hotel, Ochs leading the way and holding the heavy door for Anna.

“Goodbye!” Breckenridge waved, and she was off, through the front doors and into the sunlight, the bills tucked into her sleeve, her empty portfolio weightless under her arm.  

 

Edmund Bagwell stood at the landing of the wharf not far from the Atlantic Hotel, arms folded across his chest.  He watched as Anna turned up the main street.  

“That's your sister, isn't it, Beau?” he asked.  Hearing no reply, he turned to see what occupied the young man.  “Is it giving you some difficulty?” He strode forward to inspect Beau's progress.  He was struggling with the ramrod as he loaded the howitzer that was in place just off the landing.  “I believe you've rammed it crooked again,” offered Bagwell.  “When the ball is halfway down, you've got to hold the ramrod as straight as you can, or the sabot will jam in the barrel.”   

Frustrated, Beau heaved his back into the wooden ramrod.  It sank home.  Once he was sure the ball was solidly in place, he withdrew it and returned it to its bracket on the mount of the gun.  Bagwell took the spyglass from his jacket and scanned the horizon for the third time.  Not a vessel was in sight; his warnings had done the job.  

“Light her off, Beau!” he trumpeted.  Beau ran a long brass wire down the vent to prepare the charge, following it with a length of fuse.  Setting it alight, both men ran to the shelter of the nearby warehouse.  In seconds the calm of the waterfront was shattered by a thunderous roar.  Dense clouds of white smoke blanketed the wharf as the distinctive odor of burning black powder wafted over the main street.  Bagwell and Beau scurried back to observe the path of the shell.  Its destination was the rotting remnant of the
Venus
, far across the harbor.  The shell whistled over the channel, then burst through the hull of the old wreck and buried itself in the mud.  

“Good work, man!” Bagwell crowed, extending his hand.  Beau looked pleased.  “She's as accurate as ever.  And your aim's improved.”  

“Thank you,” said Beau, not looking up.  The maintenance of the howitzer was Beau's personal responsibility.  Twice a year it was test-fired; today it had passed with flying colors. He was already cleaning the cannon, swabbing the bore with a wooden-handled wool mop.  

“Looks as though you'll be all right on your own here.”

“That I will,” answered Beau.  

“Well done,” said Bagwell. “Well done
, Captain.”
 

Beau appreciated the formal term of address.  On occasion, Edmund Bagwell tended to forget who was Captain of the militia.  As ragged a group as they were, Beau was still their commander.  He had volunteered for the post.  At their infrequent gatherings and exercises he had no problem giving orders, and the men did not hesitate to carry them out.  They had come to appreciate his leadership.  Each militiaman knew the details of Anna Daisey's rescue during the storm of '61, and each had to agree that he himself would likely have fallen short by comparison.  

The large bronze gun—six men had strained to lift it onto its mounting—was a legacy of Henry D. Sharpe, who ordered it removed from the
Louisiana
and installed at the Chincoteague wharf on the morning of his departure three and a half years earlier.  He left an ample supply of ammunition as well.  The howitzer was his pride and joy, along with the three larger guns that made up the chief armament of the ship.  Regrettably, the orders he held in December of 1861 had promised no further combat activity.  Little could be found for a coastal patrol vessel.  The Union Army had taken control of the entire Eastern shore of Maryland and Virginia late in 1861, declaring the whole area secure.  The fighting was elsewhere.  The rebels in the region, at least the two thousand or so who had revealed themselves, had been captured.  All was quiet.