The Keeper's Present
Fulton Quick enjoyed his life as an assistant lightkeeper at Boston Light. In the years just prior to the Civil War, working as a lighthouse attendant was much safer than either whaling or serving on a merchant vessel. Of greater importance to Fulton, the lighthouse was only a short boat ride to Boston Harbor, where he could visit the woman he loved. Every Sunday afternoon, weather permitting, he trekked across the water to the city where he and Christina Holt would walk through Boston Common and enjoy what little time they could manage to be together.
One warm spring day, as the two of them strolled past a group of children playing with a ball, their conversation turned to the future.
"Someday I'd like to live in a house on Beacon Street," Christina said dreamily. "Wouldn't it be nice if our children could come to the Common to play?"
"It would be nice," Fulton concurred.
He did not think he would ever make enough money as an assistant lightkeeper to afford such a home, but he did not want to dampen his fiancée's high spirits.
"And we'll have to have a piano in the house!"
"Can you play?"
"A little. My uncle taught me how. He could play any song after hearing it; he didn't even need sheet music. I do, though. I have to see the notes on paper in order to play."
"That settles it!" the young Romeo declared, sharing his Juliet's playful optimism. "You shall have a piano—the grandest one money can buy."
"People will come from all over Boston to hear me play."
"And Boston light will dim its beam in appreciation of your talent."
Thus, the betrothed couple looked forward to the life ahead of them, blissfully unaware that their romance, like that of Shakespeare's star-crossed lovers, was doomed to end in tragedy.
One afternoon, some two months after Christina expressed her desire to live on Beacon Street, Fulton Quick raced across the Common to meet his intended for their usual Sunday afternoon stroll. This week, he was more anxious than usual to see her, for he had news of great importance to convey to her. When he at last spotted her near the frog pond, he waved and increased his speed.
"Why are you in such a rush?" his fiancée wondered.
While Fulton was a man in reasonably good physical condition, the exertion of running left him breathless.
"I have ... fantastic news," he informed her, his breathing labored. "I've been offered ... another post."
"Where?"
"A small island ... off the coast ... of Maine."
"Maine?" Christina echoed with displeasure. "I'll never get to see you."
Fulton swallowed and waited for his breathing to return to normal.
"You'll be coming with me—as my wife. My position will be that of head keeper, not assistant. That means I'll be making more money," he proudly announced.
The prospect of getting married pleased Christina, but the idea of moving to Maine did not.
"We'll live in the house at the light station," Fulton clarified. "We can then save our money, and, hopefully, we'll be able to afford that house you want on Beacon Street someday."
The girl's spirits lifted.
"I suppose we can make the best of it—temporarily."
"That's my girl!" Fulton said, putting his strong arms around Christina's tiny waist and lifting her off her feet. "Wait and see! We'll be the happiest couple in Maine. I promise."
Despite being in a public place, Fulton sealed his vow with a kiss.
"All we need is each other, darling," he stipulated optimistically but foolishly.
* * *
Fulton and Christina were married in late September and arrived at their new home while the last of autumn's leaves were still stubbornly clinging to the trees. Captain Esau Hollingshead was waiting for them at the wharf on the mainland to ferry them to the light station.
"I make regular deliveries to the island," the skipper told them. "Food, mail, gas for the light and whatnot."
Christina was crestfallen when she saw her new abode. Was there ever such a desolate place? She hadn't expected her new home to be so isolated. Except for the lighthouse and the attached red brick house, the island was deserted.
"It's like being on the moon," the young bride opined as she walked across the rocks toward the lightkeeper's quarters.
No wonder Fulton's superiors were willing to promote an assistant lightkeeper to a senior position so quickly.
She imagined it would be difficult to find a man willing to leave civilization to live on the tiny Maine island.
A thick fog seemed to perpetually hang above the light station. The couple would go for days without being able to glimpse the mainland. Adding to the murky atmosphere was the mournful sound of the foghorn. Not even the excitement and romance of being a newlywed could dispel the gloom.
The lamp atop the lighthouse afforded Fulton a respite from his growing melancholy. Work gave him a sense of purpose, so he took pleasure in climbing the stairs to clean the lens or fill the oil reservoirs. In his sanctuary at the top of the light tower, he found a quiet haven where he would faithfully polish the brass and clean the thick glass. Occasionally, he would walk out onto the gallery, stare off into the darkness and imagine the great ships that would safely pass by the guiding beacon in the night.
Christina, on the other hand, had no such refuge from the bleak isolation. After cleaning the house—a task she found necessary but by no means enjoyable—she had little to occupy her time. There was a collection of books in the attic, no doubt left behind by former lightkeepers, but she had no interest in reading them.
On those rare days when the late autumn sun penetrated the dense fog, Fulton and Christina ventured outside. However, the rocky terrain made walking difficult. It was by no means the park-like setting of Boston Common. Christina found these outdoor excursions particularly unpleasant, given the number of rats and snakes they encountered.
I absolutely hate it here, she admitted to herself not long after moving to Maine, although she never voiced her feelings to her husband. It's a means to an end, she tried to convince herself. When we're living on Beacon Street, I'll forget all about this ghastly place!
Alas, as autumn gave way to winter, her melancholy became worse. She could not bear the idea of spending Christmas away from her family, much less on the god-awful island.
"I want to return to Boston, if only for the holidays."
"I can't leave the light station," Fulton insisted. "I have no assistant to keep the light burning."
The look of disappointment on Christina's pretty face nearly broke her husband's heart.
"Why don't you go and spend the holidays with your family?" he unselfishly proposed, even though he had been looking forward to enjoying their first Christmas as man and wife together.
"You really wouldn't mind?" she asked, her face lighting up with joy.
"No. I'll miss you, but we'll have many more Christmases together. I promise."
"Oh, thank you!" the wife cried, and after kissing him with gratitude, immediately ran up to the bedroom to pack for her trip.
* * *
Christmas was a forlorn day for the lightkeeper. With his wife in Boston, he did not even have the comfort of a home-cooked meal. Without Christina to dispel the loneliness of the evenings, he spent long hours in the light tower, staring through the window at the ray of light that reflected on the moisture of the fog.
"There must be something at the other end of that light," he surmised, his own voice the only sound he could hear, except for the drone of the foghorn. "Perhaps a clipper ship returning from the Orient."
The possibility of his devoting countless hours to maintaining the lamp, only to have it send its beam to a barren ocean, would have been more than he could bear.
Weeks passed, yet by the end of January, Christina had not returned. The second week of February, Fulton heard a boat arriving from the mainland, and he raced across the rocks toward the small dock, twisting his ankle in his haste.
Captain Hollingshead hailed him.
"I have your supplies," he called, "and a letter from your wife."
Fulton's heart lurched. A letter? Was something wrong? Was Christina ill? He quickly ripped open the envelope. The news was not quite as bad as he had feared. His wife's sister was expecting a child in March, and Christina wanted to stay in Boston until after the birth.
"I can wait to return to the mainland until you write a reply," the skipper offered.
Then he took a bottle out of his cabin and showed it to the lightkeeper.
"Care for a little post-holiday cheer?"
The two men retired to the light station, where they enjoyed a glass of wine. Afterward, as the captain warmed himself in front of the fire, Fulton wrote a letter to his wife, reluctantly giving his blessing to her plans.
March passed, and Christina still did not return. Fulton was desolate, but he could not blame his wife. What kind of life was there for her on the remote island? If there was just something he could do to make her feel more at home. A baby? No. They were so far from a doctor on the island, and he did not want to put his wife's or the child's health in jeopardy. A pet, perhaps? He did not know if Christina even liked animals.
A smile suddenly crossed Fulton's handsome face. He knew what would make his wife happy. When Captain Hollingshead arrived for the next scheduled supply run, the lightkeeper had a special request for him.
* * *
By the end of June, Christina realized she could no longer delay her return. It had been six months since she last saw her husband, and he was impatient for her to come home. She looked forward to seeing Fulton again, albeit she hated being at the light station with no hope of leaving it in the foreseeable future. Like a woman under a death sentence, she boarded Captain Hollingshead's boat, her heart filled with dread.
"There's your husband, Mrs. Quick, waiting on the dock," the skipper shouted to his passenger, who remained below deck with her eyes tightly closed to shut out the sight of the ugly little island.
Unwilling to wait the few moments it would take to moor the boat, Fulton leaped aboard the vessel and ran to his wife. With not a look or word to the captain, he grasped Christina in his arms and kissed her passionately on the lips.
"I've missed you so much," he whispered, anxious to hear her echo his sentiments.
He waited several moments in vain, but his wife remained silent.
"Wait until you see the surprise I have for you. I just know you're going to love it."
Her eyes lit up.
"A surprise? Is it a letter saying you're being sent back to Boston?"
"No," he responded, his exuberance only slightly dampened.
Believing the couple was anxious to be alone after so long a separation, Captain Hollingshead unloaded the supplies and cast off.
"Come on," Fulton urged after the boat left. "I can't wait until you see your gift."
Christina obediently followed her husband into the parlor, where she uttered a cry of happiness when she saw her husband's surprise.
"A piano!" she exclaimed, her face transformed with delight.
"I had it shipped all the way from Philadelphia. Captain Hollingshead and some of his friends helped me bring it inside the house."
After a brief kiss and hug to show her appreciation, Christina sat down on the bench and ran her delicate fingers over the ivory keys. She tried a few notes.
"Why don't you play something?"
She stood up and lifted the lid of the bench. There was a single sheet of music inside.
"'Für Elise' by Ludwig van Beethoven," she read.
After a few false starts and several wrong notes—it had been quite a while since she had the chance to play—Christina managed to make it through the song.
"When Captain Hollingshead comes back, I'll ask him to find me some more sheet music. Until then, it's Beethoven."
Fulton smiled. He did not care what song his wife played, just as long as she was back home where she belonged.
* * *
Had Fulton seen his reflection in the polished brass of the lighthouse lamp, he would not have recognized himself. A week's worth of beard was on his formerly clean-shaven face, and his blue eyes were dull and emotionless. His actions, as he cleaned the lamp, were mechanical, and he moved in time to the music that was drifting up from the parlor.
"Für Elise" came to an end, only to have Christina begin playing it again from the beginning. For three weeks, Fulton had heard the song played morning, noon and night. As though possessed, his wife remained at the keyboard, playing the same melody over and over again.
At one time, the lightkeeper had truly believed he and his wife would be happy as long as they had each other, but he had not counted on having to listen to Beethoven for days on end.
As the sun started to set, Fulton headed down the tower stairs. He knew there would be no supper waiting for him because his wife had not left the piano keyboard all day. He went to the kitchen and ate a cold piece of fish and a stale scrap of bread, all the while trying to shut out the strains of "Für Elise."
Finally, when his hunger pains abated, he walked into the parlor. Christina did not even stop playing long enough to acknowledge his presence.
"Please," he pleaded. "You've got to stop."
With her eyes fixed in a vacant gaze, she continued to play, as if she had not even heard him.
"When was the last time you ate anything or bathed? Hell, when did you get any sleep?"
Her fingers continued to move across the keyboard, and her lips remained firmly sealed.
"I CAN'T STAND IT ANYMORE!" Fulton screamed and slammed the wooden fall down over the keyboard, not caring if his wife's fingers were caught beneath.
Christina uttered no cry of pain, nor did she wince as her fingers were all but crushed when the heavy fall came down upon them. She was so divorced from reality that she continued to move her battered digits on top of the fall as though she were still playing the piano's keys.
For a moment, sanity returned to Fulton Quick.
"I'm sorry," he apologized and attempted to take his wife in his arms. "I shouldn't have done that. I didn't mean to hurt you."
Christina did not reply. In fact, she did not seem to be aware that he was in the room. Her bruised and bleeding fingers still struggled to play a silent melody.
"What's happened to you? What's happened to us?" Fulton sobbed.
His fleeting hold on reason slipped, and he descended into the depths of insanity when the strains of "Für Elise" began emanating from the closed piano keyboard.
* * *
"Wonderful dinner, my dear," Esau Hollingshead said as he rose from the dinner table.
His stomach full, he headed toward the living room where he intended to smoke his pipe while reading the latest news from Boston. He turned up the lamp; it was far too dark in the room for him to read—much darker than normal.
The skipper's eyes went to the bay window. Outside, all was black. Esau rose and hurriedly went to the closet to retrieve the waterproof coat he always wore aboard his boat.
"Where are you going?" his wife inquired.
"Something's wrong. The lamp's not lit. I'm going to get a couple of men from town and head out to the island."
The captain's wife went to the bay window and looked outside. There was no beacon from the lighthouse sending out a guiding radiance through the dark night.
"It's not like the keeper to forget to light the lamp," she said.
"No, it's not," the captain agreed.
"You be careful sailing out near those rocks in the dark," his wife cautioned.
"Don't worry about me, woman," Esau laughed and patted her face affectionately. "I know those waters like the back of my hand."
After stopping at the local tavern to recruit a sailor and a fisherman who were both sober enough to accompany him on his quest, Captain Hollingshead cast off and headed toward the small, isolated island, little knowing what he might find when he got there.
* * *
With lanterns held high to light the way, the captain and his two companions made their way over the slippery rocks toward the light station.
"Are you sure there's someone here?" the sailor asked. "Not only is the lamp not lit, but the house is as dark as a sinner's soul."
"Let's get the lamp lit first," Hollingshead instructed, "and then we'll worry about finding the keeper and his wife."
As the captain neared the white brick light tower, the beam of his lantern fell on an unidentified object lying on the jagged rocks that separated the base of the structure from the ocean.
"Over here," he hollered.
A giant wave temporarily obliterated the object from view, but when the water receded, the three men saw that the thing resting atop the outermost rock was a human cadaver.
"I think we found the lightkeeper," the fisherman pronounced grimly.
"Yes," the captain sighed, as he drew nearer to the body and recognized the battered corpse as belonging to Fulton Quick. "Let me go light the lamp, and we'll search for Mrs. Quick."
Once the lighthouse beam was glowing, the three men examined the surroundings.
"You think he fell off here?" the sailor asked, afraid to venture out onto the gallery.
"The railing doesn't look broken," Esau pointed out. "I'm no detective, but I'd say the keeper was either pushed off or else he jumped."
"That means he was either murdered or he committed suicide," the fisherman deduced.
"Maybe he came up here drunk and fell over the railing to his death, but I assume we'll have a better feel for what happened once we find his missus."
With the lighthouse lamp lit, the area surrounding the house was better illuminated, and the men could conclude before they opened the front door that they were not likely to find the lightkeeper's wife alive. On the walkway in front of the steps leading to the door was an axe, its blade and handle stained with blood.
Captain Hollingshead steeled himself and looked to the other two men for support.
"You want to go in there?" he asked, nodding his head toward the front door.
"Honestly, no," the sailor confessed, without fear of being thought a coward, and then he added with half-hearted optimism. "But I reckon we ought to. Maybe she's not dead; maybe she's only injured."
While not one of the three men honestly believed they would find Christina alive, they were nonetheless shocked and sickened by the sight of the dead woman's body. The unfortunate Mrs. Quick had literally been hacked to pieces.
What had begun with Fulton, in an insane rage, destroying the piano he had brought to the island as a gift, ended in the ghastly murder of the woman he loved. The wooden box of the instrument was reduced to kindling by repeated blows of the axe, and the black and white keys were scattered in a heap of piano wire and wood splinters. The only thing that did survive the carnage was a single page of sheet music. The title "Für Elise" was still visible in spite of the splotches of blood that had dripped down upon the paper.
"What a damned shame," the captain swore. "They seemed like such nice people."
"You think the husband did it?" the fisherman questioned Captain Hollingshead. "Did he kill her and then himself?"
"I think that's the way the law will see it. But in my mind, he didn't do it alone."
The other two men looked nervously at each other as though they feared a second killer might be hiding somewhere in the brick house.
"Who else do you think was involved?" the sailor prompted.
"Not who ... what. I think the island itself had a hand in the tragedy that took place here. It simply isn't natural for two young people to be living out here with nothing but a lighthouse and a piano for company. I think the isolation would drive just about any man—or woman—crazy."
"I guess we ought to get back to the mainland and report this to the police," the fisherman said.
The captain nodded his head.
"Shouldn't we cover her up?" the sailor asked. "It seems a pity to leave the poor woman like that."
"I don't think we ought to disturb anything," the captain argued. "The police would probably prefer it if everything was left just the way we found it."
The three men silently walked back to the dock and the waiting boat. Moments after the vessel began its westward journey to the mainland, the captain and his two companions heard what they believed was piano music coming from the light station.
"It's only the wind," the captain contended, firmly keeping his eyes on the land ahead of him.
* * *
After they investigated the matter, the local police ruled the two deaths a combination of murder and suicide, and the remains of the deceased keeper and his wife were returned to Boston for burial.
A series of men, both young and old, replaced Fulton Quick as lightkeeper on the island, but none stayed in the position for any great length of time. They simply could not handle the solitude. Eventually, the light was automated, thus eliminating the need for a keeper.
Given modern navigational technology, the lighthouse has little value except for contributing to the scenic charm of the rugged New England coast. Photographers and artists routinely capture its likeness on film and on canvas. Pictures of the lighthouse regularly appear on calendars, postcards and jigsaw puzzles.
Yet ships consistently avoid the island, not because of the jagged rocks that surround it but because of the eerie sound of "Für Elise" that can sometimes be heard above the doleful moan of the foghorn.
This story is based on events that supposedly happened at the Seguin Island lighthouse.
Playing the piano is by no means the only thing Salem does to drive me crazy!
