From far away, the wind carries the scent of the sea. And something else: the sound of hammering. Big nails are being knocked into wood.
Lampie does not know this, but the sound is planks of wood being nailed over the lighthouse door. Augustus is inside and can no longer leave. Locked up with enough matches for seven years, which he has to use to light the lamp every night.
“With this leg?”
“That leg of yours is none of our concern, Waterman. And don’t forget to turn off the lamp every morning.”
“You don’t need to tell me that. I’ve been doing it for ten years.”
“You made your daughter do it – that’s not the same thing.” The sheriff chuckles at his own retort. His deputies laugh along with him and go on hammering.
“And what about my food? Am I supposed to eat matches?”
“We’ll make sure someone brings food every evening. But don’t expect anything special,” the sheriff says with a snort.
Augustus presses his face to the small hatch in the door. He can just about squeeze his nose through, but nothing else.
“And what about my daughter?”
He does not receive an answer.
“What about my daughter? What’s going to happen to her? Eh?” There is nothing Augustus can do, except for spit at the men through the hatch. Great gobs of hate. “Hey, I asked you a question!”
The last nail receives a final whack and the men quickly pack up their things. Pulling faces, they wipe off the spit. Then they head down the sea path and back to town.
Augustus swears at them as they go. “Answer me! When am I going to see my daughter again?”
The sheriff goes on walking. “You’re going to have to earn it first, Waterman!” he calls back over his shoulder. “And then we’ll see.”