Duby's Doctor (37 page)

Stepney Austin lurched forward and opened his
mouth, only to find Cataline Simmons’s hand clapped across his
face. Cataline gestured with a sidewise tilt of his head to the
schooner across the harbor—the one flying the English flag—then
glared disapproval at Joe and the errant hat.

Joe grabbed the hat, stuffed the telltale
curls into it, and replaced it on her head.

Thibodeaux still did not look around. “Good
morning, Richard. So good of you to join us. Now get aloft and find
me that wreck.”

“Aye, sir!” said Joe and climbed for the top
of the mast. The other crewmen tackled their duties with renewed
relish. Cataline and Stepney exchanged a look. The wrecking fleet
departed, leaving behind the English schooner, with four young
stow-aways on board, across the harbor.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

On Pelican Shoal, near the edge of the Gulf
Stream’s warm current, the St. Gertrude, a 200-foot merchantman,
sat at an odd angle, jarring, creaking, and shuddering. Waves
whapped her sides and wind jangled her rigging. She had wedged her
keel firmly aground. A dozen anxious crewmen lined the St.
Gertrude’s rail, watching the Lady Alyce approach, trailed by other
wrecking sloops—though none within 300 yards of her.

It appeared that a young boy in floppy hat
and baggy clothes stood at the helm of the Lady Alyce. The
white-bearded, red-coated captain was an imposing figure as he
stepped into the bow and hailed the grounded merchantman. “Ahoy,
St. Gertrude!”

Aaron Matthews, a tall, well-built man in a
brocade jacket, returned a lusty shout from the bridge of the
merchantman. “Ahoy, yourself! Can we assist you?”

Thibodeaux smiled at the younger man’s
audacity. “Could you stand to lighten your load a bit?”

“Have you come to rob me, then?” replied
Matthews.

“Naw! Naw, no need for that. We’ll just bide
here ‘til the next tide breaks you up and take what’s left. Or, we
could pull you off, see you safe into Key West, and let the
admiralty court decide who gets what.”

The young captain of the St. Gertrude was
considering his options when his arm was taken by a beautiful woman
who came up behind him—an antebellum china doll, from the taffeta
hoop skirt to the shiny hair piled high on her head, showing off
her dainty dangling earrings. This was Lila Dauthier.

“You’re not seriously thinking of allowing
those ... those mooncussers to come aboard, are you, Aaron?” Lila
simpered.

“I was, yes.”

“But, sweetheart! Everyone knows they’re no
better than pirates. Vultures. They cause ships to wreck just so
they can loot them.”

Aaron fondled her earring and teased her with
a smile. “They may have played a trick or two in their time, Lila
my dove, but I can hardly blame them for this one, since I myself
was at the helm. Someone must have distracted me.”

Aaron had amused himself with Lila in the
past, and they had renewed their acquaintance aboard the St.
Gertrude in recent days, but in truth he found her shallow and
annoying, regardless of her obvious physical charms. He was enough
of a cad to use the ladies and discard them casually. He was enough
of a gentleman that his paramours never felt his disinterest, never
perceived him disrespectful. In every instance, his women felt he
had been prevented from continuing their pleasant liaison by
circumstances beyond his control. There was a war on,
naturally.

Aboard the Lady Alyce, Captain Thibodeaux
knew the other sloops were drawing closer, but his position as
master of this wreck was secure. He took in the situation with a
shrewd look and shouted to the stranded vessel, “St. Gertrude! Have
we permission to come aboard?”

Lila gave Aaron her most persuasive pleading
look, but his smile told her she had lost this argument.

“Very well,” she said. “I shall be in my
cabin—securing my valuables.”

Aaron watched her leave the bridge, her gait
calculated to keep his attention. Suddenly he was in an expansive
mood. He called over the rail, “Come aboard, my friends! Do your
worst!”

“On the contrary, sir,” Thibodeaux shouted.
“We shall, as always, do our best!”

Thibodeaux gestured to his crewmen, who moved
to carry out his unspoken order. Joe, at the helm, worked the Lady
Alyce close alongside the St. Gertrude, where crewmen tied her
up.

While Joe concentrated on this maneuver,
Captain Thibodeaux took a seat near the helm, and lit his pipe. He
spoke for Joe’s ears alone.

“Richard never saw the day he could make six
knots through Dry Rocks in a wind like we had today. I don’t know
what shenanigans you two are about, Josephine Marie, but if you’re
fool enough to take Richard’s place, I’ll expect you to keep your
hat on and carry Richard’s share of the load. Is that clear?”

Joe swallowed hard. “Aye, aye, sir. Clear as
a bell.”

A trace of a smile showed behind Thibodeaux’s
beard and pipe as he rose to step away. “Your mama’ll kill you when
you get home, I reckon. Don’t suppose you’d tell me where Richard
has taken himself off to? Courting Caroline Lowe, maybe?”

“I don’t know exactly where he is this
minute,” Joe answered truthfully.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

Miles away, in the Gulf Stream, the English
schooner had left Key West harbor behind and was making excellent
headway under full sail toward the Bahamas. Aboard were four Conch
boys on their way to join the Confederate Army.

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

On the streets of Key West, a patrol of
Yankee soldiers made its way under the glaring mid-day sun toward
Tift’s Wharf. Something atop one of the houses on Duval Street
caught Sergeant Pfifer’s eye. “Shades of ‘Barbara Frietchie,’ she’s
at it again!” the sergeant cried. “Come on!”

A gray-haired lady and her plumpish daughter
sat on the wide front porch of the Lowe house, plying their
knitting needles. The sergeant and his men trooped through the
front gate, strode up the walk, climbed the porch steps, and
proceeded directly to the front door. A black house servant,
waiting inside the door, swung it open just before they could crash
into it. The ladies on the porch took no notice of the
procession.

“Mornin’, Miz Lowe. Miz Euphemie,” mumbled
the sergeant in passing.

On the Lowe house rooftop, feisty Caroline
Lowe stood next to an improvised flagpole wherefrom waved her
homemade Confederate flag. She watched the soldiers disappear
through the front door below her, headed her way. She began taking
down the flag with practiced speed.

The sergeant led his men, huffing and puffing
in their woolen blue jackets, up the interior stairs to the roof.
“Today’s the day, Miss Caroline,” he muttered. “Today we’ve got
you.”

Sergeant Pfifer and his men emerged onto the
widow’s walk to find Caroline waving to an admiring Bogy Sands, who
watched from the street below. No flag—and no place to hide a
flag—anywhere in sight.

The sergeant looked at Caroline’s long, full
skirt, but abandoned that idea for numerous reasons. He looked over
the widow’s walk railing on all four sides. Nothing. He looked at
empty-handed Bogy Sands in the street below. He gave up. He turned
back and growled at his men in frustration, “Search the house!”

The men piled back downstairs, mumbling. One
said, “We searched the house yesterday.”

“We’ll search it again today and every day
until we find that blasted pennant! Good day, Miss Caroline.”

The lady answered with a thick ‘Brilander
British accent, “Always a pleasure, Sergeant.”

~o~ ~o~ ~o~

It was nearly dusk in Key West harbor when
the wrecking fleet returned, crowding the anchorage. All around,
boats were made fast, and weary sailors headed homeward on
foot.

Joe left the Lady Alyce and was greeted on
shore by Joseph Porter. Together they turned and looked at the
empty mooring where the English schooner had been that morning.

“They made it, Joe!” said Porter. “They got
away clean.”

“Yeah,” she said. “Now comes the hard
part.”

“Fightin’ the Yankees!”

“Telling my mother.”

End of Sample Chapter

of

MUDSILLS & MOONCUSSERS

by

Iris Chacon