On a dock jutting out into the lake was a waiting vessel. Faustus called to the man coiling lines on the bow and introduced him to Byrne as Captain Abbott.
“All loaded with rigging and lunch for two as requested, Mr. Faustus,” the captain said, taking the older man’s elbow and guiding him onto the deck. Byrne waved off the offer of help and stepped down onto the gunwale and then to the deck boards while trying to lock his eyes onto Faustus’s. The fact that the old Mason had anticipated that Byrne would automatically agree to the fishing offer bothered him. But his irritation at being manipulated was soon overwhelmed by his fascination with this new enterprise.
After pushing off from the dock, Captain Abbott yanked on a line that unfurled a fabric sail. “Watch your head, boy!”
A heavy wooden beam swung by just as Byrne ducked and the sail filled with a woof. The forward movement underfoot almost felled him, but Byrne caught his balance and stood with his feet apart as the captain cleated the line and then skittered past him to gain control of the tiller handle. Byrne’s head and eyes swung in three directions trying to keep up with the mariner’s actions, the swing of the boat, and the relation with the land.
“Ha!” yelped Mr. Faustus. “That beam that nearly took your head off is called a boom, young Pinkerton. That’s the one to watch when Captain Abbott starts yelling ‘Coming about!’ or it will certainly boom you up side the noggin’.’”
“I see,” Byrne said, trying to be cynical but unable to keep a smile from starting at the corners of his mouth.
When Abbott yanked on yet another line and the boom pulled in, the boat heeled a bit to one side, Byrne moved to the other and sat on the raised gunwale, now looking ahead to see where they might be going and feeling the pleasant rush of wind in his ears. The only times he’d been on the water in New York was in a stolen rowboat on the East River with Danny or on the ferry to New Jersey. The wobbling rowboat and the crowded ferry were nothing like this. As the canvas stretched and the lines tightened he could feel the craft’s speed increase and took the chance of leaning out to watch the pointed bow slice through the lake, sending out the V-shaped lines of disturbed water. The lack of motor noise and the pure physical pull of the sail were intoxicating. It was almost what he imagined flying to be like.
Off to the northeast he could see the diminishing view of the upper floors of the Poinciana. For the next half hour Byrne remained quiet, studying the movements of the captain and inspecting the craft: the sturdy brass of the cleats and fittings, the polish of the teak decking and the weaving in the rope lines. He finally relaxed after deeming the whole operation seaworthy despite his lack of experience to tell him any different. While the captain continued to make small adjustments to the sail and tension of the lines, Mr. Faustus was now pulling out what Byrne assumed to be the fishing poles and equipment and what must be the bait they were to use in catching fish.
“Step on down here, Mr. Byrne, and let me show you what we’ve got,” Faustus said.
What he had were four long rods from six to eight feet in length. Faustus explained that they were made from split Tonkin bamboo and Calcutta reed. He picked one up at the base and wiggled it, causing the pliable fiber to bend and whip at the end.
“A little more give in the shaft than you’re used to,” Faustus said, without looking up. “But it gives you much more control of the fish once he’s got the hook in his mouth.”
Byrne said nothing. He knew Faustus had seen him use his telescoping rod to manage the crowd of farmers during the train ride. Even now the weapon was in the deep pocket of his pants.
“I’m sure you’ll get the feel of it,” Faustus said, handing one of the poles to Byrne.
It was light in his fingers. The base appeared to be made of maple and there were simple wire loops attached at equa-distant points along its length. He took his own turn flexing the pole, snapping its end and creating a whipping noise not unlike that which his own metal rod made when he was using it with a fury. Next Faustus brought out a box and removed two large brass reels about the size of a child’s head. Byrne could tell they were heavy by the strain that showed in the old man’s forearms and tendons when he lifted them and set them on the deck. He showed Byrne the iron gears and brass casings and the cork handle that spun the device. On an interior spool was wound some sort of linen line. Faustus pinched a loose end and pulled off a length of the line.
“Twenty-four threads spun together,” he said. “Maximum strength when it’s dry is about sixty-six pounds. But that won’t matter out here. We won’t be picking them up out the sea like some hangman. The idea is to hook them and then outguess them. Let them pull the line through the water until they wear out their hearts, but keep them from breaking free just the same.
“Oh, you’ll see, my friend. It’s a glorious thing.”
The captain sniggered behind them, not in derision of the words but in a shared recognition of another man’s addiction. Byrne himself was surprised by the old Mason’s excitement and by the fact that every minute closer to the fishing grounds seemed to peel another year off his aged face.
Captain Abbott yanked in a length of what Byrne had now learned was the mainsail sheet line and hollered out a word of advice: “Hold onto somethin’ fellas, the inlet’s a bit choppy today.”
Byrne saw a rise and fall of ocean swells he’d never witnessed before. Ditches and troughs, was his instant thought. Mounds and hollows to split any axle. He held fast to the edge of the gunwale and felt the bow rise on the first wave and then braced himself as it plunged down into the following trough. He expected impact. But the boat’s bow knifed through the water and the landing was not nearly what he’d expected. The next forward plunge sent a spray of sea out either side of the bow like sheets of snow from a plow blade. By the fourth such rise and fall Byrne was studying the angles the captain was taking, admiring his expertise at controlling the boat’s pitch and roll with the tiller. By the sixth swell, he was humbled.
Within minutes they were through the inlet and onto the smoother, rolling ocean. Captain Abbott let out the boom and took a more southerly course. Faustus stepped up onto the gunwale with a hand-hold on one of the mast stays and stared out onto open water. Byrne followed suit on his side of the cockpit, worried now that he would miss another new experience. The sky was cloudless and blue, and the sea borrowed its color and then bent it into greens and turquoise depending on the depths.
“Your employer loves these waters and this coastline as much as anyone with an appreciation of such beauty,” Faustus said without turning. The statement took Byrne by surprise, but since there didn’t seem to be a question invoked, he let it stand without comment. Captain Abbott, on the other hand, responded with a derisive snort.
“Did you know that Mr. Flagler’s first forays into this part of Florida were by sailboat? No one who rides this sea could not miss its Edenic pull.”
Byrne let the old man’s words stand alone. There will be a point in them, he thought. Faustus, he’d already determined, was not a man without a point.
“But I fear Flagler’s island is not just a single jewel to delight his friends and rejuvenate their spirits for the business of business in the north,” Faustus continued, finally turning to look Byrne in the eye. “There will be trouble in that paradise, young Pinkerton. And in your position, it will be trouble you won’t be able to avoid.”
“I appreciate your concern, sir,” Byrne said, deciding whether he should rise to what he was already perceiving to be bait. “And from what I’ve heard on the street, trouble is already there.”
Faustus stepped back down onto the cockpit deck.
“I’m glad I did not underestimate your abilities at intelligence gathering. Would you be speaking of the death of a white man in the Negro quarters on the island?”
“There was talk of it on the street,” Byrne said.
“And did the speakers have any idea who the unfortunate fellow was or what his business might have been there?” Faustus said, carefully watching for reaction.
“I don’t recall any talk of business, no. Did you understand him to be a businessman?” Byrne asked, playing the game, giving what he could to get what he might.
Faustus moved on, but Byrne had seen a twinge of pain in the old man’s eyes.
“At this point in this virgin land everyone is in business. There are people buying, people selling. Be it the labor of their hands, the guile of their intellect, the dreams they lust after or the lust itself.”
“And your business, Mr. Faustus? What exactly is it that you do?” Byrne kept his tone as innocent as possible although he perceived he’d made a fine move in their little chess game.
Faustus sat on the starboard gunwale and began the process of attaching the reel to the heavy end of one of the poles.
“I’ve been involved in a wide variety of enterprise in life, my friend. I’ve used my hands as a shipwright in Biloxi, my intellect as a student of medicine in New Orleans, my tongue as a merchant of everything from ladies’ plumed hats in Savanah to gunpowder in Charleston.
“I served as a field surgeon in the Civil War and afterward worked as a surveyor of the broken land of the South.”
Faustus turned his face up to the sun with a look that showed neither pride nor regret.
“I have been blessed and cursed in the activities of commerce and men for many years, my young fisherman,” he said, handing Byrne the completed pole. “And either way, it can be a befuddling thing to see.
“Presently, I admit I’m in search of good men. Men with honesty and moral fiber in their souls. Men who believe in the goodness of others and are adept at bringing that quality out. Men who, instead of taking advantage for their own gain, recognize that gain can and should be shared.”
Ah, the pitch, Byrne thought.
“And have you met such men, Mr. Faustus?” he said.
“Oh, yes,” Faustus said. “But I have also been fooled by those with the look and intelligence and talent for such things, only to be disappointed.”
The old Mason was now looking into Byrne’s face as if it was familiar to him, as if he were speaking to Byrne himself in this obviously heartfelt sense of disappointment. Such accusation had no basis as far as Byrne’s actions were concerned, still he had a nagging sense of responsibility. It was Faustus who broke the spell.
“For now, young Pinkerton, let us lure the beasts from the deep and see what challenge they may afford us.”
Byrne shook off his apprehension and watched while the man opened the hatch of a wooden barrel lashed into one corner of the cockpit and came out with a small silver-sided fish, which he proceeded to carefully skewer with the finger-sized hook he’d tied to the linen line.
“First we’ll do a little trolling on our way to the stream, eh Captain Abbott?” Faustus said.
Abbott was a man whose eyes seemed nearly colorless and thus able to reflect the intense shimmering light off the water rather than absorb it. His skin was dark and seamed. His lips formed a taut line and were the color and consistency of red onion skin. Perhaps they would split and bleed if he used them to excess, Byrne thought. Maybe that’s why he so rarely spoke.
“As you will, sir,” he said, and although Byrne saw the man’s Adam’s apple move, his lips did not. Byrne thought instantly of a ventriloquist he’d seen in the Bowery.
Faustus baited his own hook and showed Byrne how simple it was to cast the fish into the bubbling wake behind them and let the line spin off his reel. He’d put a canvas glove on one hand and used his thumb to occasionally slow down the rate of the linen leaving. In less than five minutes the old man suddenly jerked the tip of the rod up, like Byrne might have done with his own baton, and then began to turn the handle of the spinning reel. Without hesitation, Capt. Abbott turned the boat into the wind to slow it. The boom swung to the middle of the cockpit and almost smashed into Byrne’s head. He was captivated by the sudden tightening of Faustus’ line and the deft way the old man reeled and then stopped, apparently feeling the direction of the pull on the other end and then reeling again. There was a small sweat and an obvious joy on Faustus’ face.
“It appears we’ve got ourselves a nice dolphin,” Faustus yelled over the popping of canvas as the sail went loose in the wind. “Grab that gaff over there so you can hook him when I bring him along the starboard side!”
Byrne searched in the direction Faustus had indicated but had no inkling what a “gaff” might be. Without taking his pale eyes off the battle, Captain Abbott reached out a leg, put his foot on a cork handled hook like Byrne had seen ice delivery men use to handle their blocks, and kicked it over to him. Byrne picked it up and thus armed stared back at the sea, following Faustus’ line into blue water. Minutes passed as Faustus coaxed and maneuvered, reeled and stopped. The flexible tip of the rod bent and swung like a willow in the wind. Finally Byrne saw a flash of silver light below, then the body of the fish, slowing in its struggle and soon he could see the dark circle of its eye.
“Alongside, son,” Faustus said, now pulling the defeated catch to starboard. “Hook her in the gills if you would.”
Byrne bent and reached overboard. He was talented with a piece of metal in his hand and gaffed the fish and pulled it up out of the water, surprised by its heft, forty pounds at least. He flopped it down into the foot of the cockpit and withdrew the gaff while Faustus pressed his polished shoe across its broad side.
“Comin’ about!” Capt. Abbott called out, and this time Byrne reacted to the words and ducked. He felt the jolt as wind filled the sail and the boat was again underway. Faustus bent to remove his hook from the fish’s mouth. “She’ll make a fine meal, this one,” he said.
Byrne continued watching the fish, its tail still waving as if it could propel itself to escape in the air as it had always done in water. But it was a different world up here and old defenses didn’t work. Finally Faustus grasped the dolphin and slid it into a shuttered bin filled with chopped ice.
“All right, Mr. Byrne. Time for your own lesson on the finest fishing grounds in the world.”