Untitled chapter 1
THE WRECKERS
Also by Tim Robinson
A Tropical Frontier:
Pioneers and Settlers of Southeast Florida
(A comprehensive history)
A Tropical Frontier:
Tales of Old Florida
A Tropical Frontier:
The Homesteaders
A Tropical Frontier:
The Gladesman
A Tropical Frontier:
The Cow Hunters
AUTHOR’S NOTE: This is a work of fiction, however, several of the primary characters are based, in part, on actual settlers. In addition, many of the incidental and secondary characters were real, living, breathing people whose true stories are told in the history, “A Tropical Frontier, Pioneers and Settlers of Southeast Florida.”
THE WRECKERS
TIM ROBINSON
Copyright 2014 by Tim Robinson ©
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by an information storage and retrieval system – except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review to be printed in a magazine, newspaper, or on the Web – without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN-13: 978-1499209419
Printed and bound in the USA.
Cover design by Patrick Robinson
To “That danged kid,” my grandson, David.
Biscayne Bay
The Wreckers
Biscayne Bay, September 15, 1824
“Don’t move. I’ll get you some water. Charlie! This one’s still alive! Bring water! Hurry!!”
“Here, sis. Looks like an officer. How is he?”
Seventeen-year-old Elizabeth MacLeod was holding the man’s bruised and bleeding head in her lap.
“I don’t know,” she said as she raised the bottle to his swollen lips. “Drink this. Slowly.”
Elizabeth had never seen a wreck up close before. This was the first time since she had been living here that a ship had actually wrecked off their shore. Usually the men, her father and older brother, would go off wrecking and come back later, sometimes leaving her, her mother, and little brother at home alone for days at a time. She, of course, had never met any shipwrecked sailors, and she had not thought she was going to meet any today either – not alive, that is.
The man opened his eyes.
He stared at her, his eyes distant, as if he thought he might be dreaming.
He mumbled something indecipherable, then the word, “Mangroves.” He looked around. “Mangroves?” he said, as if confused. “The ship!!” he suddenly screamed, and he clutched at his head with both hands, “The hurricane!!” he cried. “Captain Wainright!”
“Sorry, mister,” Charlie answered bluntly. “Your ship is gone.”
The man tried to stand up, faltered, and fell to the ground, screaming in agony. He grabbed at his leg in a feeble attempt to ease the pain.
“We must search the beach!” he pleaded. “Someone may still be alive! Please! Help me!”
“We’re already lookin’, mister,” Charlie said. “If there’s anyone else, we’ll find ’em. You just need to lay down until we can get you out’a here. Sis, I’m goin’ for Pa.”
* * *
The man dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around. Although he was a seaman, he had never seen a shipwreck up close. He’d seen several through his spyglass, all of them old wrecks, usually a rotting hulk on the beach, half buried in the sand, or sometimes just a mast sticking out of the water. But this was different. Strewn along the entire shoreline as far as he could see were pieces of ship. It was obvious the entire vessel had broken up as the waves smashed it, over and over, onto the reef. Scattered amongst the crushed bits of ship was the cargo – thousands of feet of large timbers, mostly mahogany, and the battered bodies of men. His shipmates.
He was recalling everything now, the thoughts rushing over him like the waves of the previous night. The waves, he thought. Those damned, unceasing waves. Over the previous five years he had sailed through many storms on many oceans, but he had never experienced anything like this. It had been dark, the ocean whipped into a savage fury, the din of wind and wave merging and mingling to create monstrous, unnatural realities.
The captain had thought it a hurricane. They had done their best to stand offshore, to ride it out. He recalled seeing no panic amongst the crew. They had gone about their duties as best as they could, but he had clearly seen the fear in their eyes. The words of his father came to mind, “Will, the seafaring life is the most destitute of the fear of God.” Except, Will considered, when God brings His awful power to bear. A dark night and a wrathful sea, he now understood, brings out the believer in the saltiest of sailors. In his shipmates’ eyes, Will had seen that fear, and he remembered hoping his own eyes did not mirror theirs.
When Captain Wainright ordered the lifeboats away, Will had detected in him for the first time a look of something other than staid confidence. That had scared him more than anything. The ship had been pounding, smashing, against the reef. All about him roared the sickening sounds of rigging snapping and timbers cracking, like rifle shots, clearly rising above the din – but it had been the captain’s appearance that had frightened him the most.
As men tried to get the boats down and away, several had been crushed, falling into the sea – perhaps a merciful way to go, Will thought. But the boats had been their only chance, so he had continued to direct the men in getting the second boat down. They finally did it, but the ship was rolling so badly that every time they were in a position to board, another wave would rock the ship, crushing men’s arms, legs, and bodies, and sending others into the deadly foam. Suddenly, a tremendous wave broke over the stern, tossing Will into the sea.
When he surfaced, confused and in shock, he witnessed a sight he would never forget – an even greater wave crashing over the ship, literally snapping it in two. It was the last time he saw the St. George.
An instant later, that same wave loosed its wrath upon Will. He could do nothing but watch, helpless, as the magnificent beast rose from the deep. He had felt himself being sucked into the massive maw as it curled over his puny body, lifting him up before smashing him back down, then driven deep, so deep his ears popped. He was tossed and turned, whipped wildly about like a rag doll, and just when he felt it would never end, he managed to surface, clawing and grasping at the air, reaching for something, anything. The primal instinct for survival exploded in his brain.
He had tried for shore, aware that the wind and waves were already pushing him in that direction. Through the frenzied maelstrom he had swam, crying and praying as he did. He swam for what seemed forever, wave after wave crashing over him. Occasionally a monstrous swell, bigger than the rest, would rise up, dropping tons of water on him, sending him sprawling head over feet. During such moments his senses and perceptions became distended flashes of reality, randomly mixed with distant memories and familiar faces from his childhood. He had no idea which way was up, which way to swim for the surface, and each time he thought he could hold his breath no longer, he’d come up gasping for air just in time to see the ugly phosphorescence of another beast rising out of the darkness.
He was tired, his arms like lead, his lungs aflame. It would be so easy, he had thought, just to stop and take a deep breath of cold water; all his life he had heard that drowning was physically painless. But he kept swimming, desperately reaching out in the darkness for something to grab onto, following the waves to shore, however far that was. He didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up, his arms by now flailing like tattered windmills, barely keeping him afloat.
The waves kept coming, one after the other, an endless series of breakers crashing over him, driving him deep to the bottom. The bottom? Somewhere in his convoluted thinking, he had realized he must be getting close to shore.
Swimming with newfound strength, he discovered it helped if he rolled into a ball each time he felt another wave closing over him, then waited until it had passed before trying to surface. Yes! The waves were getting smaller, less fierce. It drove him to concentrate on every feeble stroke until at long last his feet touched bottom. He had tried to run, but only stumbled and fell as another wave smashed him face first into the hard sand and marl. Something, a timber, maybe a piece of ship, landed on his leg, snapping it like a toothpick. He screamed in pain as he clawed desperately at the sand, dragging his beaten body forward, up onto the beach and into the relative safety of the mangroves.
Now, staring into a bright, morning sun, Will remembered everything as he sagged helplessly into a young maiden’s arms.
