S.O.S., page 18
“There’s a lot of crazy folks wanderin’ around the Seminole River,” Sally said. Then, laughing, she added, ”Y’all are lookin’ at one, right?”
“Oh, Sally,” Hattie said, smiling, and patting her. “You’re not crazy. Just… well…interesting.”
“In Yankee talk, she’s only eccentric,” Ryan said.
“And you should know, right?” Alex said. “You’re the Yankiest talkin’ son of a gun I ever met.”
More laughter. Then Sally said, “Come on and I’ll give y’all the cook’s tour.”
Sally took them around the areas she’d fixed up and the more they saw the more impressed they became. Over the years, she’d hauled in driftwood to rebuild the kitchen and various cabins, including the captain’s stateroom, where she’d even gone to the trouble of varnishing the bulkheads and deck.
Library shelves lined one wall, which she’d filled with castoff books, periodicals, and rolled up navigational charts. Maps of the Seminole River and torn out magazine pictures of local flora and fauna decorated the stateroom.
A wood-framed bed was bolted to one bulkhead. The bed was neatly made up with a sleeping bag covering a mattress Sally said was stuffed with Spanish moss.
A silver St. Christopher’s medal dangled from a peg just above the bed. Sally was clearly proud of the necklace and she lifted it off and passed it around for them to admire. The medallion was finely wrought, showing the saint carrying the Christ child.
“I ain’t superstitious,” Sally said. “But that there’s my lucky piece. Had it with since… well… forever. Someone special give it to me.”
“If it’s so all fired lucky,” Alex asked, “how come you’re not wearin’ it?”
Sally laughed. “’Cause it almost kilt me,” she said. “Got hung up in the bushes once and it near strangled me to death.”
She took the necklace back. Lifted it up reverently, gave it a kiss, then returned it to the peg. She turned her head a moment, swiping away a drop of moisture that had gathered at the tip of her beak-like nose. Then turned back.
“We made a deal, me and old St. Chris,” she said. “I just wear him at night when I’m in bed. Then in the morning I hang him up in the place of honor and ask his blessin’ for the day ahead.”
She shrugged. “’Pears to’ve worked so far,” she said.
Ryan looked around the marvelously restored stateroom. “I’m surprised nobody hauled all this away for salvage years ago,” he said.
“Guess they would, if they knew she was here,” Sally said. “This channel used to be a reg’lar route for paddle wheelers haulin’ folks down to places like Jove Beach. Whole families’d come, along with their belongin’s and livestock.
“But then, the story goes, old man Flagler was buildin’ his Celestial Railroad and he thought the paddle wheelers were too much competition. So, he bought out the competition and scuttled a couple of ’em to close off the channel. ’Fore ya knew it, Momma Nature steps in and turns ever’thin’ back to jungle again.”
Sally shrugged. “That’s what I hear tell, anyways. Don’t know if it’s true. Don’t care, neither. Makes a nice home for Sally in her old age and I don’t owe nothin’ to nobody to keep a roof over my head.”
She had an impressive galley, with pots and pans hanging from the walls, a marble countertop she said she’d cut to fit with a hacksaw, and an oven and a range fueled by propane.
They snacked on a fragrant tea, which she served with honey and thick slabs of hot buttered cornbread.
After they’d eaten their fill, Sally got out her corncob pipe, tamped in some tobacco and fired it up, making thick smoke rings.
When she looked good and relaxed, Ryan got up the nerve to pry. “How long have you lived here, Sally?” he asked.
She puffed on the pipe, reflecting, then said, “I’m not all that sure. Twenty years. Maybe more.” She waved the pipe at him. “I was a right mess when I come down to these parts.’
Glancing at Hattie, she added, “Ain’t ashamed to admit old Sally had a wicked problem with the hooch back then.”
More puffing, then: “Life didn’t seem worth livin’ in those bad old days. Never guess it lookin’ at me now, but I had me an actual family onc’t upon a time. Had me a good man. Some kids. Beautiful, they was. And then one of them went and had a kid of her own, so I had me a grandchile too.
“Had us a nice little bait shop up by Crescent Beach. Couple’a boats to rent out. Caught fish, and frogs and stuff to sell to the local restaurants and markets. We weren’t rich, but we weren’t poor neither. Sure, we had our problems. But we was right happy, ya know?” She nodded firmly. “Right happy.”
A long silence followed as Sally reflected on those long ago memories. Finally, Hattie got up nerve enough to ask, “What happened, Sally.”
Sally’s face darkened. “Spanish flu.” She practically spit out the words. Then, softer: “Took little Billy first. My grandchile. He was only four months old. Still on his momma’s tit, he was.”
She looked up at them, her face full of pain. “Preacher fellas say the Lord moves in mysterious ways. Well, I’d sure like to know what he was plannin’ when he snatched out the life of a chile only four months old. Then he took the rest. Kids first. Little Honor and Justin. Then my daughter, Rita Mae. Then my boy, Jimmy. Smart as a whip, my Jimmy was. And he could sing. Lordy, he could sing. Voice so sweet make the angels weep.”
Sally’s pipe went out. She fell silent, fussing with it. Sniffling and swiping at her eyes. Although Ryan never saw her leak a tear.
She started to speak again, but her voice was thick and hoarse. She coughed, clearing it.
“Then, it uh… took my darlin’ Richard,” she said. “A handsome man, he was. Big and strong. That’s prob’ly why it took so long for Ole Momma Flu to drag him down. And after she catched him, he just got weaker and weaker… ’til one day he weren’t here no more.”
“I’m so sorry, Sally,” Ryan rasped. He was close to tears. He looked at the others. Hattie was openly weeping, while Alex concentrated on cleaning his glasses.
“Well, I felt so danged sorry for myself it nearly kilt me,” Sally said. “I took to the hooch somethin’ fierce. Did some shameful things. Lost my home. My little business. Took to the rails, hoppin’ trains, lettin’ ’em take me wherever they pleased.
“Then one mornin’ I woke up in a boxcar and I looked out the open doors and I spied the Seminole River. Sun was shinin’. Fish was jumpin’. Birds was singin’. Everythin’ was all cheerful like.”
She puffed on her pipe. A little smile on her face as she reflected.
And she said, “I swear I hadn’t seen nuthin’ so purty since they ran me out of Crescent Beach.”
Ryan nodded, remembering his first view of the Seminole River through the windows of his comfortable berth aboard the Florida Special.
“Well sir, the train came to a bend and had to slow down so quicker’n frog after a skeeter, I grabbed my truck and jumped. Found a little clearin’ to sleep that night where the skeeters weren’t too bad. Caught some dinner and set up camp.
“Next day I gave the place the looksee and liked it so much I stayed on and made a new life for myself.”
She grinned. “May not look like it to some,” she said, “but it’s a right nice life for Old Sally. And I’m happy as I’ll ever be in my own skin.”
And with that, she took a big pull on her pipe and blew a series of fabulous smoke rings that drifted about the galley like victory signs.
A little later, after they insisted on helping her clean up, she showed them the way home.
They climbed the embankment, then turned and watched for a long while as she poled out of sight.
“What an amazing woman,” Ryan said after she vanished like a raggedy wraith as she poled into a mist.
“Can you imagine losing your whole family like that?” Hattie asked. “It’d drive me crazy too.”
“I read about the Spanish flu in one of the Professor’s books,” Alex said. “Killed hundreds of thousands of folks here in America. Twenty, thirty million all over the world. Book said it spread out of the wars in China, or maybe even here in America at training camps for soldiers who were going to fight in Europe. And then spread all over the planet because of World War One.”
“You always think people just die from guns and bombs and stuff during wartime,” Hattie said.
“Not when the whole world is fightin’,” Alex said.
“Just like now,” Hattie said.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “Just like now.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Wrestler
Ryan didn’t know if the bug that swept through Jove Beach the following week was related to the Spanish Flu, or if it had anything to do with a world at war. Whatever the affliction, it put Hattie and Alex out of action with the heaves and the runs, leaving Ryan by his lonesome the remainder of the week.
Friday after school, where attendance was so sparse the classrooms echoed, he was poking around the island feeling sorry for himself when Verne hunted him down.
“What do you have planned for tonight, Ryan?” he asked.
Ryan shrugged. “Nothing much,” he mumbled.
Verne peered at him, amused. “Nothin’ much?” he said, “Or, nothin’ at all?”
Before he mumbled a less than spirited reply he caught the look of mischief on Verne’s face.
Perking up, he grinned. “Nothing at all—Sir!” he said.
“I’ve got posse duty tonight,” Verne said. “Since you don’t have school tomorrow, I was wondering if you’d like to tag along.”
“Would I?” Ryan said, almost shouting.
“Would that be a yes?”
“Yessir, that’s a yes!” Ryan said.
Later, just before dusk, Josh led out Big Red and Sheba. They were saddled and ready to go.
Sheba’s Tennessee breeding made her almost as tall as Big Red and Ryan was glad that Josh gave him a leg up, saving him the embarrassment of climbing a rail to get high enough to climb on.
Ryan was thrilled when he saw Josh pass up the shotgun, which Verne laid across his saddle. Then he handed him a .45 automatic, which Verne shoved into the wide belt that encompassed his ample waist. He was wearing dungarees stuffed into gator hide boots and his favorite Panama hat.
Verne caught Ryan big-eyeing the guns and smiled. “Remind me in a couple of weeks or so to give you shootin’ lessons,” he said. “It’s about time you learned.”
“Yessir,” Ryan said, with undisguised enthusiasm.
“You won’t forget, will you?” Verne teased.
“Nossir,” Ryan said, dead serious. “I won’t forget.”
In his world, learning to shoot was a major step in a boy’s advancement to manhood. Next up, a driver’s license, then 18, then the sky’s the limit.
Verne chuckled. Adjusted his eyepatch, settled his hat. He clucked his tongue and Big Red set off in that smooth, steady pace his breed was known for, with Ryan and Sheba close behind.
A gentle sea breeze was rustling the palm trees when Verne and Ryan rode out on the beach to join the other members of the posse. A cloud passed overhead as they emerged and at first all Ryan could see was the shadowy figures of the men and their mounts and the glow of their cigarettes.
“You gentlemen ready?” Verne asked.
“Dadburn right, we’re ready,” said a familiar voice. “Ain’t hardly had the dadburn time to eat my dadburn supper.”
The cloud scudded onward, revealing Jove Beach’s station master, George Donaldson. He was riding a bay mare whose best days were long past. He carried an old, but well cared for service revolver jammed into a well-oiled holster.
Verne smiled and patted his saddlebags. “No worries there, George,” he said. “Myrtle and Ada whipped up enough grub to feed an army.”
Another man came forward, riding a nervous, elegant animal that even Ryan, who had no experience with horseflesh, could see was a thoroughbred.
He wore an ostentatiously expensive riding outfit, with a little peaked-brim hat that looked like a helmet. He sported a gleaming pearl-handled pistol in a tooled leather shoulder holster, that he kept fingering as if it were a good luck charm.
The man gave Mr. Donaldson’s bay a scornful look. “Jesus Christ, George, when are you goin’ to get a decent mount?” he said. “Never keep up with the rest of us.
“Dadburn it! Watch what yer sayin’ about my Mary Belle. She might be gettin’ on in dadburn years, but she can hold her dadburn own.”
“Yeah, well if she can’t,” the man said, “I intend to complain to the sheriff that you’re holdin’ up the rest of us.”
“George never slowed us down before, Jim,” Verne said. “Don’t expect he’ll start in tonight.”
The man snorted. “Whatever you say, Verne,” the man said. “The sheriff put you in charge. I guess he had his reasons.”
From his attitude, Ryan could see that the man deeply resented Verne’s role as leader of the patrol and was having a hard time not showing his disdain. He also kept flashing envious looks at Big Red and Sheba.
He gave the man a closer look and his heart gave a bump when he recognized the sneering look. It matched that of his nemesis, Joe Collins. He had no doubt that the man he was looking at was none other than Joe’s father, Jim Collins. Sole owner and operator of Jove Beach’s Ford Dealership.
“So, can we get goin’ then?” Mr. Collins pressed. “We’ve got twenty miles to cover tonight and I have to be at the lot early tomorrow. Got a shipment of new cars comin’ in. Might be the last until the war’s over.”
“Since you’re riding that magnificent animal, Jim,” Verne said, “why don’t you take the lead. Show the rest of us how it’s done.”
Mr. Collins snorted and gave his horse a hard kick with spurred heels. The poor animal was startled and reared back.
“Goddamn it!” Mr. Collins shouted, sawing on his reins. “Behave your fool self!”
Another spur and the horse set off in an awkward trot that sent its rider bouncing in the saddle like a jack in the box.
Mr. Donaldson snickered and from the way Mr. Collins hunched his shoulders Ryan could see that he’d heard.
“Ain’t he a dadburn piece of dadburned work,” he said, drawing laughter from the other men.
Obviously, the Jove Beach station master was the social equal of the local Ford dealer. Mr. Donaldson made smooching noises and said, “Let’s get goin’ Mary Belle. Dadburn time’s a dadburn wastin’!”
And off they went. Verne waved the others on, then he and Ryan fell in behind them.
Ryan could tell that the men were serious about their duties and kept their eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.
It was a moonless night. The only light on shore came from the Jove Beach lighthouse, and that had been dimmed to its lowest level by order of the Coast Guard. There were fears that at full beam it would pick out passing freighters, making them easy targets for prowling U-boats. The few seaside homes and buildings on this part of the wild Florida coast were blacked out for similar reasons.
The first few miles of the patrol were hectic. Collins kept running his horse up and down the column bossing everyone. Saying, “Close it up, there.” And, “Keep a sharp eye out, men.”
Then he’d charge off, whipping up sand so it got in everyone’s face, and driving his mount crazy with constantly changing demands.
He’d kick it up to full speed and tear along the beach, then pull up so hard that Ryan winced, thinking of the poor animal’s tender mouth.
Everything roused his suspicion. He’d see an object in the distance and hold up a hand as if to halt a cavalry column. Then he’d pull out his pistol and race along the water’s edge waving his gun until he came upon whatever had caught his attention. It was usually driftwood. Once it was a dead tarpon, a fish with a dorsal fin so like a shark’s that it had scared Ryan half to death—to Alex’s vast amusement—the first time he’d encountered one surf fishing..
Verne and the other men took it all in good humor for a time, laughing as Dadburn Donaldson cussed up a blue streak, “dadburning” this and “dadburning” that.
Then Collins spotted what turned out to be a gigantic sea turtle making its way to back to the ocean after digging a nest in the sand and laying its eggs.
Shouting, “Saboteurs!” he tore along the surf line, waving his pistol. He raced up to turtle—still not realizing what it was— shouting and pointing his gun at the beast as if to fire.
The turtle reacted in surprise, lifting its huge head and opening its jaws—scaring the bejesus out of the Collins’s horse.
Whinnying in fear, the animal reared up and the pistol went off, scaring the horse of the next man in line when the bullet struck the sand a few feet away.
Ryan heard Verne mutter, “That’s it. I’ve had enough.”
He gave Big Red his head and trotted along the beach until he reached Collins’s side.
To Ryan’s surprise, his own mount, Sheba, was there seconds later. He’d been so excited, and her gait was so smooth, that he hadn’t noticed how fast she was going.
“Hand it over, Collins,” he said, stabbing a thick finger the pistol.
Collins glared at him. “What are you talkin’ about?” he said.
“You know damned well what I’m talking about,” Verne said. “Give it here before you shoot one of us. You obviously have no respect for weapons. Now I know who your boy got his bad manners from, shooting up the countryside like he owned it.”
He snapped his fingers. “Now, give it here.”
Collins pulled the weapon back, like a caught-out kid, a spoiled look on his face that reminded Ryan mightily of his son, Joe.
“This here gun is mine,” he said. “Cost more than most of these crackers make in a month.”
