There was a reception committee waiting at Ben’s pier. The gathering of men looked more like a quorum of ravens perching there in the gray shadows, their long, black foul weather oilies snapping in the wind and rain like pinion feathers.
Lorton Dyze stood out in front of the group in the midst of Ben’s welded menagerie. As Miss Dotsy approached, Ben recognized more Island Councilmen. Men who worked the Chesapeake for their living. These silvered comrades might not be young, but they had strength in their backs, and a quiet manner when it came to important business after dark.
Wade Joyce was a big man who fussed over the engines of a very quick fiberglass deadrise. He had been known to volunteer the craft for after-hours hauling when needed, and when properly cut in for a share.
Sam Nuttle was a good man with a family to feed, and was not too particular about how food got on the table in tough times.
There was Tom Fox, who could see at night better than a bat. He was a wiry, smaller man as many Smith Islanders are. In a fight Ben knew Fox could eat nails and shit bullets.
Ephraim Teach was ready for rough work whenever it came along. He believed he was linked to the genealogical line of Blackbeard himself. For good or ill, that only encouraged him.
Sonny Wright knew the sunken planks and guts of every island around there better than most. It was rumored he wasn’t above baiting and trapping a duck in winter if the Chesapeake looked likely to freeze, and stores were short.
In a former life Art Bailey was bested by booze. He had since sworn off alcohol completely, and stuck to his promise. Nowadays he still had to blow off a head of steam, but he managed it in more socially acceptable ways. Though he’d never played golf in his life, in times of stress he would go down to the shore with a few rounded-off rocks and an old wooden golf club he found washed up there. Ben swore Bailey could knock those stones all the way to Baltimore when a temper was on him. Not just Ben, but the entire island knew when Bailey was in a mood. He would maniacally shout, “Fore!” in his high lonesome tenor before every swing. A nod to tradition and good golfing manners.
Reverend Avery Mosby was a man who followed the Lord on Sunday, and followed the water the other six days of the week. He never shied from a righteous clash. When all was said and done, most of his flock were desperately poor, and the church needed a new roof. He would help raise money any way he could.
All these good Methodist men, these stalwart brigands, waited stock-still on the shore. Ben looked at Ellis.
Ellis said, “Took them long enough to get onto us.”
Ben said, “Coming from you, that’s pretty interesting. I think they’ve been onto us, and this whole damn business, from the start.”
Ellis considered this. “You reckon?”
“I think Pap always saw this as a large-scale operation. He kept key players in the dark, probably ’til he could come back and marshal everyone up himself.”
Knocker Ellis cast a withering eye over the men on shore. “Don’t fancy getting in with that flock of swans.”
Ben said, “Anything else I should know before we land? Anything that could save our butts in the next ten minutes?”
“Right now, I’m not sure your pappy got all his bases covered.”
“I’d say you’re right, given that he’s dead.”
Ellis tossed mooring lines to the outstretched hands on the pier. Without a word, the lines were made fast. Old tires were hung on the pilings, and shock-absorbing spring lines were added to secure Miss Dotsy in the mounting weather.
Ben and Ellis handed the blanket-clad LuAnna up to three women who threaded out of nowhere between the Councilmen to help. Ben briefed them on her condition.
Mary Joyce, Wade’s wife, was a slip of a woman next to her massive husband. She was sharp, tough, and quick. She peeked under the dressing on LuAnna’s hip. “Oh my blessing! I got a chain stitch that could close the Grand Canyon. This poor girl’s gonna need it.”
Redheaded Kimba Mosby, the Reverend’s bride, feared God as she should, but God stepped gently around her, too. When provoked, everyone knew she caught like gas. Julie Nuttle was soft spoken, and resourceful. It was said she could feed an army out of a bare pantry with loaves, fishes, and hot goose pie. These island mothers gently whisked LuAnna into the saltbox.
Lorton Dyze turned to his tall confrere and said, “Wade. Ben says Miss Dotsy’s gearbox is shot.”
Wade nodded. “Shot? Sounds nuked. Have her straight in no time.”
As many hands helped Ben and Ellis out of Miss Dotsy, Wade jumped down into her cockpit with a big steel toolbox clamped under his arm.
Dyze said, “Let’s get these men indoors, dry, and fed, before we send them back out again.” He chuckled like he’d said something funny.
Inside, Mary Joyce brought Ben a change of clothes. She handed another set of clothes to Knocker Ellis. They were taken from his own home.
Mary said, “We took a liberty going to your place for these. Oh don’t look at me like that. Everybody knows about your spare key under that conch shell in your back garden. I do hope you’ll forgive us.”
Ellis smiled. “It’s all right, thanks. Just so you left my Hi-Fi and color TV.”
Mary did not smile. She returned upstairs to LuAnna.
Ben and Ellis changed into dry clothes. Julie Nuttle already had duck soup warming on the stove. The Councilmen remained standing in their long black oilies as if they wore the robes of an ancient order. Judicial vestments signifying a forgotten code. Dripping water all over the place.
Ben waited. The storm outside made the parlor seem all the more quiet.
He said, “Quite the headcount here, gentlemen.”
Lorton Dyze cleared his throat and said, “I asked you this morning: Who are ye, Ben?”
Ben looked the old man dead in the eyes. “I’m Benjamin Fallon Blackshaw. Son of Ida-Beth Lilah Orne, of Smith Island, and Richard Willem Blackshaw, a man of Tangier. I’m born to this island. She’s my home. I’ll either die here, or die fighting for her wherever I am. Is that the pledge you wanted to hear, Lorton? Or is there some damn secret handshake I should know about? Maybe with a gob of spit? Or chicken blood?”
Dyze looked at his fellow Councilmen. Grinned small. “It’s a start.” He continued, “Let’s get us all synchronatored here. There’s been some trouble. What can ye tell us?”
Ellis obviously was not happy about this line of questioning, subtle as it was. Right now, it was not clear to him whether Chalk’s open hostility, or a cozy chat with this mob of ofays was more dangerous.
Ben hedged. “Lorton, what trouble do you mean?”
Dyze got agitated. “That mess over to the Harrises’! That poor woman! Who knows where Hiram is? And here in your own house, your own dog beat down to death. That big flash out toward the No Point Light. We already got Ginger buried out back. Charlene’ll be more complicated, of course. I know ye take my meaning in full. Now quit being so damn coy.”
Ben said, “We have visitors here. They took LuAnna. We got her back and took the lighthouse down. Hiram’s dead.”
At this, the Councilmen swept off their sou’wester hats in slow dirge-time unison, uncovering bald heads and grey ones. Many pates were battlescarred like tough old stray dogs, but they were all bowed in grief.
Ben went on. “Ellis and I left the Palestrina there at No Point where they took her. If these bastards come around again, there’s a fair chance they’ll use her.”
Dyze smiled approval at Ben, “I like that. Good idea leaving them with something big we’d recognize from a distance so they can’t get all sneaky.” Dyze spoke louder to the assembly. “Y’all heard the man. Everybody knows what the Palestrina looks like. Anyone aboard her is a bad’n. Shoot accordingly.”
Ben said, “I left a man tied up at the Harrises’. He was party to what happened there.”
Sam Nuttle smiled wickedly. “You mean a fellow with a busted-out leg, and a whole wad of duct tape on his head?”
Ben said, “That’d be him.”
Nuttle shook his head. Clucked with mock sadness. “I can’t confirm or deny I have a clue who you mean. If I did know, I’d say any man who was up to the Harris place ain’t there n’mare. Nor could I say where he is at present, excepting he might or might not’ve mentioned going for a long swim. And in this flaw, too.”
Ephraim Teach chimed in, “And if there was such a man, and supposing he went for that long swim, didn’t he strap on his lucky engine block before he jumped over the side?”
Nuttle said, “I can’t confirm nor deny it, Ephraim, though it’s surely got a plausible ring.”
Okay, Ben got it. Tug Parnell was dead. There were bloody hands all around, but this did nothing to assuage Ben’s conscience.
He pushed for more answers. “So what’s happening, Lorton? You must know. You brought me Pap’s letter yourself this morning. He was coming back. Ellis knew, too.”
A few disconcerted Councilmen shifted their weight and glanced at Knocker Ellis on hearing this news.
Ben went on, “As for me, I didn’t have a clue about any of this until we found his boat sunk and Pap drowned sob-wet.”
The Councilmen raised their sou’westers over their hearts again in honor of another fallen comrade.
Dyze took in the bad news, and said, “Your pappy was a fine man, Ben. I’m sorry.”
This entire conversation was truly odd. Ben pressed, “You were in the loop too, Lorton, Weren’t you.” Not an inquiry. An accusation.
“Your father might have dropped me a line, yes. Said to keep my eyes peeled, but for what, he didn’t say. Just to be ready. All of us. Don’t take offense, Ben. Knowing old Dickie-Will, I’m sure he kept ye in the dark for your protection.”
Ben felt anger rise. “I keep hearing that. I did the same with LuAnna. You see where that got her.”
Dyze looked back and forth between Ben and Ellis. “That girl knows where she’s from. She’s no Miss Fairy Pants. Now, Ellis, what all did Dickie-Will say to ye?”
Ellis figured the truth would be safest, for the moment. “He wrote that he was coming home with something. Didn’t say what, but he made me his partner in it if I could help. I said I’d do it. I owed him my life. I’ve been helping my friend Ben, since my friend Richard Blackshaw is dead.”
“Did he come home with anything like he planned?” This from Art Bailey, the waterman golfer.
Ellis said, “I can neither confirm nor deny that, Art. Ask my new partner.”
Ben got up from his chair, and reached into the hidden compartment at the back of the closet. He removed the gold bar. It was wrapped in a terry cloth towel stained from LuAnna’s baking wild blueberry pies that summer. The men of the Council craned in for a better view.
Ben unswaddled the gold. The men muttered approval. There were a few rapacious growls, but Sonny Wright whooped with glee like a boy. The bullion was undeniably beautiful.
Ben said, “Gold. That’s it. At a seventeen hundred dollars an ounce, it’s worth six hundred ninety-three thousand dollars in a proper market.”
Rapturous faces all around. Dyze stretched out his hands, and come-hithered with his knob-jointed fingers. Ben rested the bar in the old man’s grasp. Dyze cooed like an old man holding his first squirming grandchild.
“How precious a thing.” Dyze studied the cheerful minter’s mark. “And lookee! It’s smiling at me.”
Ben said, “There’s one problem you should know about. A big one. We don’t have a lot of time to sort it out.”