Reaching the beach, he collapsed, gasping for breath, realizing he had swum at a level of excitement near to absolute panic at the thought of encountering a shark. As he lay there, part of his mind dwelt on trivia around him: like the few nearby blackened timbers, relics of an ancient wreck, poking disorderly in the sand like the charred embers of a beachcomber’s fire. When at last he could move, he arose and trudged over the soft sand into the shallow tidal basin and clumsily slogged through it to Portsmouth village.
A few houses around a tavern and a church represented the extent of the ghost town. Climbing to the cupola of one house and taking the binoculars from around his neck, he watched the activity at Shell Castle. In a little while it would be low tide—he did not relish going in deep water when he saw the black and blue discoloration of his right foot’s toes—and a man could walk in water ankle-deep and crunch damply at a place called Dry Sand Shoal for one and a quarter miles, then swim the remaining 400 yards across the deep Wallace channel to Shell Castle. Carrick said sharks were supposed never to attack at night, but Helmuth still felt apprehension.
Waiting for night to fall was a boring process which led to drowsiness. During one of his wakeful lapses, he gazed idly out at the ocean whose disturbed undulations now had a dirty gray color matching the sickly pallor of the eastern sky; somewheres out there a storm raged. He lifted his glasses and sleepily gazed at the crosswise beam timbers of a distant wreck on the beach, fantastically suggesting the bones of a whale. Washing up in the foaming surf, tumbling over and over until they came to rest at the high tide line, were storm uprooted seaweed, dead crabs, broken oyster shells, pebbles: debris vomited from the ocean’s stomach.
While in this curiously morbid mood, Helmuth’s imagination was stirred, then nagged at by the association of ideas that Blackbeard’s grave brought to the surface of his conscious mind. He considered the fact that variants of Blackbeard’s reported real name were “Teach,” “Tache,” and “Tatch.” And a vague presentiment grew as he compared the derivative similarity of “Thatcher,” the present name of the captain of the Rook.
Before his somnolent senses could warn him, the Rook came steaming from the southern stretch of ocean. Several deck hands were just hauling aboard with a grappling hook his foundered skiff. Now he would be safe from a search party as they certainly would consider he had drowned. Helmuth settled back to wait for the night.
* * * *
Picking the lock on the door of the ship chandlery was uneventful. Nor had he any problems in obtaining a rifle from the locked gun rack and a box of shells from the shelf. Starting a small fire was his next move. He slunk out and along the boardwalk, going for the next building where only fish were stored in barrels of brine. Someone on ship watch eventually saw the glow of the fire inside the ship chandlery and raised an alarm.
It took five minutes for most of the installation to tumble out. When they saw the fire they were momentarily panic-stricken, until Thatcher appeared and began bellowing orders, organizing a bucket brigade. Some tobacco must have been stored in that building, because as smoke billowed out there came a fragrant, aromatic odor as the baled leaf burned.
The second fire started, Helmuth bolted the building and raced for the third one. As he neared it he heard a pistol shot and knew he had been discovered. Smashing in the locked door with his foot, he got to the nearest window where he had an open field of fire in the direction of the conflagration. He saw two ship’s officers running towards his building and knocking out the glass. He directed a fusillade which caught them, one man jerking violently as the slugs hit him, the other pitching forward and dropping his weapon. As they crawled painfully back, moaning, Helmuth made no attempt to wound them further.
A small keg of black powder exploded fearfully in the ship chandlery, sending a shower of sparks and fiery embers skyward, which fell hissing all around into the water, upon the boardwalk and the buildings, and upon the steamer.
It was the falling sparks which ignited a number of small fires, some apparently on the canvas covered boats on the steamer’s davits, that prompted a mass retreat from the area of the two blazing buildings; clearly the steamer was in danger now, either from falling sparks, the increasing heat or future explosions, and Thatcher was about to move it from the present mooring.
Then he saw something else that may have motivated Thatcher’s decision to retreat: the approaching lights of a steam frigate. A hail and a muffled sentence about the fire echoed from the stranger. He heard Thatcher roar a curse but whether at the stranger or just in surprise he did not know. But a volley of shots rained desultorily from the steamer upon the steam frigate.
He heard Thatcher shout from the deck to his helmsman to “ram.” The mobility of the small ship saved her as she quickly turned aside but not soon enough to avoid the blow entirely. Without a single running light to betray her, the steamer vanished into the gloom.
“That damn fool tried to sink me.” The officer of the steam frigate came running up to Helmuth, who now stood in the open with his rifle. “What in tarnation is going on here?” he continued.
“You just had a brush with a pirate.”
“I’m Philip Hale, lieutenant, United States Navy. Who are you, sir?”
“An undercover Pinkerton detective on an investigation.”
“Are you Sean Helmuth, then?”
And when the detective nodded yes, the lieutenant asked for a summary of his experiences. As Helmuth explained how he came to be here, beginning with the burning of the Argus, Hale interrupted with “It was your bottle message that brought me to Cape Hatteras. I’ve been cruising around here better than a week trying to figure out the meaning of that message. Tonight I saw the signs of the fire from out at sea and came in to assist.”
“You must be the ‘shadow’ following up my late ship.”
“Yes. The Pegasus has a navy crew, all masquerading as merchant seamen.”
CHAPTER 6.
Knight’s Tour
Through his night glasses Hale found the pirate steamer. So as not to reveal his presence several miles astern, he banked his boilers to eliminate the glow and occasional crackling sparks flying from the stack, relying instead on a stiff breeze behind him for the motive power in his sails. He gave a terse order to two seamen who removed the canvas from an object in the bow, a 12-pounder bronze boat howitzer.
As the night wore slowly away, Helmuth, listening to the rhythmic beat of the overhead “walking beam,” was lulled into slumber.
Dawn broke, and the pirate then spotted his pursuer, for he put on a sudden surge of power and began to draw away. Hale fired up his boilers and aided by the still constant breeze in his sails he just managed to keep the steamer’s silhouette in sight. As the wind slackened and then revived, the hunted would vanish below the horizon and then reappear.
She disappeared again during a lull in the wind. But this time when it came up and the steam frigate rushed forward, no steamer was there.
Helmuth, remembering Cromwell’s explanation of nauscopy, peered fixedly at now one part of the horizon, then another, hoping he might perceive the slight thickening of the atmosphere that supposedly would indicate that a ship lay over the rim. But his attempts were failures because he had but an imperfect knowledge of the secret and no previous experience in trying it.
Hale stood at his side and said irritably, “We’re more than matching their speed yet they are gone. Why?”
“I guess I expected this. Once out of sight for an extended period of time, they had a chance for evasive action—they have a man aboard who has a curious talent, ‘nauscopy,’ and he could see your ship even under the horizon and tell their helmsman which way to steer to avoid you.”
“What in blazes is ‘nauscopy?’”
“The art of discovering ships, or land if on a ship, when below the horizon, by some obscure meteorological phenomenon they create in the atmosphere abov
e them. Come to think of it I’ve heard some years ago of Polynesian sailors who could predict a landfall even though no land could be seen, simply because they claimed a wispy cloud invariably hovered almost stationary above the unseen island.”
“It sounds like something out of a Jules Verne novel.”
“Well, I believe it can be explained theoretically. A thermal exists over an island and its vapor condenses in the colder strata around it. The radiant heat from a ship I think creates the same conditions.”
Reflecting a moment, Helmuth continued. “You’ve lost the steamer now but if you set a course for Charleston you’re sure to meet her.”
“Why are you so certain?”
“Partly because of the ‘Monitor Project’ document. You see, I think the target city mentioned therein will be Charleston.”
“Other than the fact that Thatcher is interested in three sunken ironclads in Charleston harbor, what proof have you?”
“Maybe my logic appears hyperbolic to you, but I found that Thatcher’s mind works as if it were Blackbeard’s. So because Blackbeard threatened and blackmailed Charleston in 1717, so Thatcher feels a compulsion to repeat the venture. He assumed a name strangely similar to variants of ‘Teach,’ Blackbeard’s name. Thatcher effects a beard like the pirate’s; he even has a curious manner of speech that dates from Blackbeard’s time. His hideout is almost in the same spot as Blackbeard’s.”
“You make it sound as if Thatcher is a man possessed.”
Helmuth gave a sharp intake of breath. He remembered a rain cistern and a grave outside of a house once occupied by Thatcher, but thought better of mentioning the image.
“Thatcher is one thing,” said Helmuth, “but then there is his second mate who was familiar with minute details of Charleston harbor—like tiny Castle Pinckney.”
“Couldn’t he know that from an interest in locating the three sunken ironclads there?” Triumph flushed over Hale’s face. “Or as a military prisoner on it?”
“The ironclads were all sunk just at the mouth of the harbor, while little Castle Pinckney lies several miles in, almost a stone’s throw from the city’s streets.”
Lieutenant Hale pulled out a chart of Charleston harbor and found the shoal island they were talking of. “Your argument is still not convincing; anyone reading this harbor chart would be bound to see the island.” Hale mused a bit, then came out unexpectedly with another idea. “Since 1877 there’s been no secret quasi-military groups in the South, like the Ku Klux, the Invisible Empire, the Red Shirts and so on. But isn’t it possible that Thatcher, a Southerner, has as his end purpose to create one from both piracy and ransom money, and therefore he would discriminatingly attack a northern city?”
“In the file of the insurance agency retaining me were accounts of southern as well as northern ships disappearing, presumably after being robbed and burnt by Thatcher. And as for leading a secret military group, I think it is significant that he allowed only his officers to carry arms; in an army you generally try to give weapons to all your men…say that my belief in Charleston being the target city is a premonition, if you like.”
Doubt on his face, Hale turned to the helmsman and gave him course bearings for the port of Wilmington, South Carolina.
“We’ve got to go in,” he explained, “so I can telegraph Washington about Shell Castle, but also to request orders on what to do about this ‘Monitor Project’ situation.”
But as they had talked, Helmuth grew aware that a blond-haired, Swedish-looking seaman in the crew had loitered just too nonchalantly in their vicinity and possibly had taken in all their discussion.
Lieutenant Hale wrote down the following coded message:
To: Charles Porter, Rear Admiral, Dept, of the U.S. Navy, Wash., D.C.—
Sir, while on secret surveillance in vicinity of Hatteras Island, I did observe on Aug. 25 what appeared to be a shipboard fire inside Ocracoke Inlet. Stop. Upon entering the swash area, I saw burning buildings on place called Shell Castle. Stop. I hailed an unknown steamer casting off from the place and offered assistance. Stop.
Her captain for answer both deliberately rammed my vessel and poured a fusillade at me in passage. Stop. I took aboard Mr. Sean Helmuth, the detective whose bottle message we had found (see my last communication). Stop. I left a small armed party on Shell Castle installation. Stop. Request you land a marine company there. Stop. Owners of installation will be charged by me in admiralty as material witnesses regarding two indictments against that steamer captain: attempted murder and ship collision. Stop.
Mr. Helmuth has seized document ‘Monitor Project’ from installation which purportedly is plot to terrorize an unnamed coastal city at some future date to pay tribute or suffer naval shelling. Stop. He offers circumstantial evidence that city in question is Charleston and date is the very immediate future. Stop. He further states that a Captain Thatcher (the steamer captain of this installation) has already salvaged at least one ironclad for this reputed attack, and has or will have three more salvaged from Charleston harbor, where they were sunk in the last war. Stop. What are your orders anent this alleged plot? Stop.
Signed, Philip Hale, Lieut. Commander, Pegasus.
Within an hour a reply came back.
To: Philip Hale, Lieut. Commander, Pegasus, Wilmington, S. C.—
Sir, am ordering U.S. S. Farragut to Shell Castle to hold it pending an admiralty court on your charges. Stop. ‘Monitor Project’ document in itself is too vague for U. S. Navy involvement at this time. Stop. Also the opposition political party would charge the federal administration now in power as acting through the Secretary of the Navy to attempt to re-establish military occupation forces in the south. Stop. We must tread softly lest we erroneously raise the spectre of another Reconstruction era. Stop. Therefore report any evidence you have to Charleston civil authorities, and let them make their own investigation. Stop. However in matter of national security ascertain if any salvage operations have been undertaken to raise the Monitor class warships lying at bottom of Charleston harbor. Stop. Beyond that take no precipitous action because of the political situation explained above. Stop.
Signed, Charles Porter, Rear Admiral, Wash., D. C.
At the same time that Hale sent his initial telegram, Helmuth also sent the following to the insurance company:
Sir, have found pirate base and it is now held by U. S. naval personnel. Stop. Pirates escaped. Stop. Will submit full account later. Stop. Seized pirate document they plan to blackmail some southern port under threat of destruction in the near future. Stop. Have reason to believe it is to be Charleston. Stop.
Signed, Sean Helmuth.
Almost at the same time that Hale got his reply, Helmuth likewise received the following:
Sir, compliments on your good fortune. Stop. As to Charleston, we are ship underwriters, not realtor insurers. Stop. Suggest you relate suspicions to Charleston’s political authorities. Stop. Besides we feel pirates now totally demoralized for good with loss of their base. Stop. Your services on this matter now terminated as of receipt of this telegram. Stop. Please submit full report and expenses at your earliest convenience. Stop.
Signed, Edward Parker, Maritime Underwriters, Co.
CHAPTER 7.
End Game
Waiting for the tide to rise so the Pegasus could float over the bar into Charleston harbor, Helmuth leisurely scanned both opposite shorelines, then viewed the rubble heap of famed Fort Sumter. A shout from the bow watch brought Hale out of the pilot house and forward. Excitedly the man explained he was certain he had just seen to the south a steamer towing an object like a Monitor class warship, and he pressed his glass into Hale’s hands for corroboration.
“Too much haze,” complained Hale. “If it is there, it’s hidden by the mists.” To Helmuth, he added, “If I try to find them now, your nauscopist will see that they elude me. Just the same I’ll station a pic
ket boat just inside the bar—anything that small certainly would not cause a meteorological effect on the air—and if they see anything they’ll fire a signal rocket.”
Two men were now put in a skiff over the side. As the Pegasus finally ventured over the bar they waved, then were lost in the low lying haze.
* * * *
“I’ve been expecting you two gentlemen,’” said Charleston’s mayor with veiled sarcasm. Hale and Helmuth glanced at each other dumbly. On landing they had proceeded to the post office where Helmuth mailed a bulky and mandatory report to the Pinkerton Agency; then tarried at a saloon over a quick whiskey.
Their short delay in arriving had allowed another to appear and depart from the mayor’s office ahead of them.
“As an officer in the United States Navy, I’ve been instructed to inform you…”
“I’m aware of the yarn: some mysterious Captain Thatcher is mustering a seagoing Ku Klux; and your friend believes this same Captain Thatcher is Blackbeard the pirate reincarnated. The fool-killer missed you two.”
Ignoring the insults—remembering his instructions to tread lightly—Hale inquired coolly, “Where’d you hear this?”
“One of your crew deserted and came here and told me.”
“I’ll bet it was that Swede,” muttered Helmuth.
* * * *
“How could his mind be so closed to reason?” asked Hale. Together with Midshipman Redpath he sat across the chart table from Helmuth. Through the port holes could be seen the streets of Charleston.
“Reconstruction may have ended years ago,” said Helmuth, “but these people are still bitter. And I can’t say I blame them, but Reconstruction evils and terror is another matter. You’re an officer in the federal navy and I’ve hired out to a northern detective agency. That’s enough for him to be suspicious of our motives right there.”
The Golden Age of Weird Fiction MEGAPACK™ Vol 2: George T. Wetzel Page 15