by Eric Murphy
Will shrugged and didn’t look her in the face.
“You hear about the horse who walked into the bar? The barman looked up and said, ‘Hey why the long face?’” she said, laughing at her own joke. Will didn’t even crack a smile.
“So what’s up, Will? Why the cold shoulder all of a sudden? What’s going on?”
“I might ask you the same thing.”
“Okay, I’m not following. Is this about Yeats? Are you upset that I’m — that we’re friends, or something?”
“You’re more than just ‘friends,’” Will said, raising his voice and leaning forward. “You don’t hold hands with friends like that. Why didn’t you tell me he was your boyfriend?”
Harley spun and leaned on the wall beside him.
“Well, to tell you the truth, I didn’t know what we were anymore. We were going out in high school last year in Halifax. But when we came close to losing the sail loft and your grandparents’ house, well, I told him that I wouldn’t have time for a boyfriend and that it was best we take a break so I didn’t hurt him. And besides, Will McCoy, I don’t think you tell me everything that’s going on in your life, now, do you? I think you’ve got some secrets that you keep to yourself, right?”
Harley didn’t wait for an answer. “And Yeats was pretty upset about my decision and the fact that I wasn’t willing to discuss it. So, I wasn’t sure he would be happy to see me. I didn’t even email him to ask if we could stay. I emailed his mom. Marianne said yes, right away. She said Yeats was keen to see me but I just wasn’t sure what to expect. Anyway, why does that bother you that I have a boyfriend? Are you afraid that I’m not going to hang around with you?”
“I’m not afraid of anything. I don’t like being lied to, is all.”
“Hey, Will, you’re my cousin. I’m crazy about you. Nobody’s going to take your place.”
Will sighed and slumped against the wall. Harley slid down beside him. “Hey, if it means that much to you, well, I just won’t be Yeats’s girlfriend. I mean it. I’ll just tell him that, you know —”
“No. Don’t do that. Don’t tell him that I’m being … Uh, look I don’t know what I’m being or why it upsets me to see you with him. But it does. Thing is, that’s my problem. I’ll have to deal with it. I think that with dad dying, Mom, Granny, and Granddad all being away, well, I don’t know. When you jumped into his arms I just felt like you were leaving me behind. Like my dad left.” He looked to the sky. “I guess that’s pretty lame, huh?”
“Nope. Not really. Nobody wants to feel abandoned. You listen to me now, Will McCoy. There’s no way I will ever abandon you. That clear, Mr. Worrywart?”
Will nodded.
“I want to hear you say it,” she said.
“Mr. Worrywart,” replied Will, unable to fight the grin pulling at the corner of his mouth. They pushed themselves upright and she clapped her arm around his shoulder, leaned her forehead against his, then headed inside Brown and Co. to get some things they hadn’t found in the lost and found bin. The two of them looked like members of a team in their matching blue Windy Farm uniforms.
Twenty minutes later they came out. Harley’s backpack was a lot fuller than when they’d gone in. She insisted they cross through Par-la-Ville Park, to a self-serve yogurt shop Dr. Doan had recommended. Inside, you pulled down on the big black handle to release the rope of frozen yogurt into your container. Will chose coconut and Harley got pineapple.
They went back into the park through the moon-gate where, Harley said, you had to stop under the archway to make a wish. Will thought about it for a moment. He wanted Yeats to disappear but decided to wish that Aubrey would be all right.
They walked past a pond full of big goldfish, which, considering their color, should probably be called red or orange fish. They sat on the edge and ate their frozen yogurt. After a couple of spoonfuls, Harley flicked an index finger to the public washrooms and excused herself.
Will took a deep breath of humid air and closed his eyes a moment, letting the cold yogurt melt on his tongue. He opened his eyes and stiffened. There, walking right past him, was Bennett. Will could have reached out and touched him.
Bennett looked deep in thought as he sucked on a cigarette and didn’t recognize Will in his sunglasses and Windy Farm baseball cap.
Bennett clutched a black briefcase and hurried across the park toward Queen Street where Will and Harley had locked their bikes. Will looked around for Harley but, not seeing her, took another scoop of his frozen yogurt, dipped his finger in it, and wrote “Bennett” on the stone he was sitting on. He added an arrow to indicate which direction he was heading in, put the containers down, and gave chase. If Bennett was going to go back to his boat, Will would find it so they could report it to the police. He hoped Harley wouldn’t be too panicked to find him gone.
Will let three scooters roar past as he stood by the old Perrot Post Office before crossing Queen to Reid Street.
Bennett had a funny walk. His short legs pumped his knees high in the air as if he’d spent a long time climbing stairs and he leaned forward like he was fighting a headwind. As he strode up the street he rocked the briefcase under his left arm and trailed the cigarette in his right like somebody used to hiding a bad habit.
His particular gait made it easy for Will to keep track. Bennett swung around to see if he was being followed. Will ducked in behind a woman pushing a big baby carriage, peered over her shoulder, then scooted back out in pursuit.
His quarry turned left on Parliament Street, which was lined with grand old buildings. The harbor was on the right. So, he wasn’t going back to the motorsailer. Perhaps Bennett was making a pit stop before going to the boat.
Bennett strode past a pale brown building that gave way to a more modern white building, recessed from the sidewalk. It had the uninviting name of Government Administration Building above the glass entrance.
Will mingled with people on the sidewalk till Bennett took the basement stairs. Inside, Will saw that it led to the archives. He tiptoed down as quietly as he could, taking little notice of the large black and white photo of Bermuda when it was serviced exclusively by horse and carriage.
The small archives section was busy. A professor was lecturing a dozen university students about looking up the cause of past deaths by searching the government books he was pointing to. Some of the students were in a glassed-in room reserved for rare documents, where Bennett had gone. Will stood taller and hoped he’d pass for a university student, a short one.
Bennett opened up his black satchel and pulled out an envelope. He reached over to a container and lifted cotton gloves, which he slipped on before taking a book down from the shelf and opening another that the archivist brought him. Bennett’s phone rang. He peeled off the gloves, pulled the phone from his pocket and scurried out past the receptionist and into the hallway, muttering, “Sorry, sorry.”
Will slipped into the glassed-in room, pulled on cotton gloves so he wouldn’t stand out and wove his way around the students to where Bennett had put down his satchel. Will looked at the book, an album of sorts with the title: Paintings by Edward James. The other book, the one the archivist brought him, was a death register for August of 1864.
It was opened at a listing starting August 2, 1864, which recorded the name of the deceased, his or her cause of death and the name of the witness. On that day, one Wilhelmina Coots, aged eighty-one, had died of “natural decay,” witness Alexander Coots, husband. A Zebulon Grey, aged eighteen, had died of yellow fever, witnessed by Sergeant Major Bowls, with the Regiment of Foot. Sergeant Major Bowls had also been witness to the death of Private Wilfred Wiles, also eighteen but from a “self-inflicted gunshot wound.” Bermuda back then wasn’t the paradise it was now.
Then Will found the entry for Papineau Benoit, aged thirty-nine, who had died of yellow fever, August 2, 1864 in Trotters’ Trail, witnessed by Dr. Luke Blackburn. Will’s hair stood on end. Papineau Benoit’s initials were P.B., the same as ones on the wooden box from
the wreck. And he had died during the Civil War. And just before they fled Wavelength, Bennett had said to Drury that Papineau’s letters told the truth.
Will copied those notes about Papineau Benoit from the death registry onto a piece of paper from a little box on the counter for that purpose. In the hallway, Bennett wagged his right index finger for emphasis as he talked on his phone.
Will noticed that the envelope looked old because it was flecked with imperfections and wasn’t bleached. It was addressed to “Lily Benoit on Hollis Street in Halifax, Nova Scotia.” The sender had also written, “Delivered by hand” in the bottom right-hand corner and initialed, “P.B.” Another chill ran down Will’s back. In his dream, the gauze-covered figure had held out an old fashioned envelope with the name H.M.S. Lily and the ink had run as if under water like the wreck.
Will pulled the letter out. The sender had identified himself in the upper, left-hand corner of the envelope as Papineau Benoit, of Duke of York Street, St. George, Bermuda. But what made Will jump was the card folded into the letter. It looked like a business card but it had a black and white photo of a man with a big neck and dark hair who rested his arm on a wooden box with the initials P.B. — the box they’d found on the wreck.
Bennett was finishing up his call. Will slipped the photo and letter back into its envelope, then into his backpack. He darted over to the far corner of the room and absorbed himself in an ancient Bermudian sign that warned against starting grass fires by throwing lit cigarette butts from the train.
As soon as Bennett walked past, Will glided sideways out of the closing glass door, slipped in behind the students listening to their professor, and walked calmly down the hallway so as not to attract attention. At the bottom of the stairs, he glanced back to see the panicked look on Bennett’s face as he realized his letter was missing.
Bennett sprang to question the receptionist, who pointed toward Will. As Bennett turned in his direction, Will shot up the stairs two at a time.
In the ground floor lobby he blurted, “Sorry,” to the couple he crashed through as though in a game of Red Rover. He sprinted back to Reid Street, rounded the corner, and spun around for a one-eyed peek back down Parliament Street. Bennett flew out of the building and looked around, throwing his hands up in frustration. He dialed his cell.
Chapter Ten
Papineau Benoit
Gombeys: Members of a dance troupe in the Afro-Caribbean tradition, brought to Bermuda by slaves. Prohibited from dancing, the slaves would wear masks and ornate costumes including, tall, peacock-feathered headdresses, and brightly colored tassels. They would then dance to loud music made with drums and trumpets, while carrying whips, axes and bows and arrows as part of a celebration still carried out today.
Will slowed his pace on Reid Street and turned into the front yard of the Rock Island Coffee Shop, between the white, un-gated gateposts. Through the window he saw a metal sign on the coffee shop wall. It was a painting of a woman with a 1950s hairstyle. The caption read, “I haven’t had my coffee yet. Don’t make me kill you.” Will didn’t want anybody to kill him, especially not Drury or Bennett. He sat at an empty table. The adrenaline from the chase had worn off. He was tired and his hands shook. He worried that Harley was panicking in the park, but he had to sit and catch his breath.
A green-yellow bird the size of a grackle landed on the branch of a nearby bush. Two others followed and they repeatedly called out what sounded like “Qu’est-ce qu’y dit?” — “What’s he say?” What does he say indeed, thought Will as he fished the letter out of his backpack. Why was Bennett doing research in the Bermuda Archives? Did this mean they hadn’t found what they were looking for on the wreck? What was so special about the letter that he panicked when Will took it?
Will pulled out the envelope with “Delivered by hand” written on it, and studied the card with the black and white photo of Papineau Benoit. If he had died of yellow fever, then did that mean he wasn’t the skeleton lying in the wreck with the bullet hole in his head?
The date at the top of the first page had faded with time, but he could make out “1862.” The letter was handwritten in a short, precise, cursive style. Will stared at Papineau’s photo taken over a hundred and fifty years ago, and wondered who this man was and who was Lily Benoit, to whom he was writing. Was she his wife or maybe his sister? For some reason it bothered Will to snoop in this man’s past, so he unfolded the letter with respect for its age and great curiosity about the sender and recipient.
My Dearest Lily.
Although in St. George less than an hour, I hasten to write this letter as my friend, Captain Peters, sails for Halifax presently and I dare not miss this opportunity to bring you up to speed as regards my peregrinations. He has promised to have this letter delivered to you personally, either at home or at the Halifax Hotel.
Will remembered his grandmother, a retired teacher and Scrabble wiz, using the word peregrination, which meant long travels and was derived from the well-traveled peregrine falcon. She had pointed to one flying by their seaside house in Nova Scotia. He missed his granny’s apple crisp. Will chased away a feeling of homesickness and focused on the letter.
We had a most unfortunate incident while on our most recent expedition. A US gunboat pursued us when I snuck the Almira up the Cape Fear River. A musket shot was fired, the bullet striking a metal collar on one of our spars. The ricochet broke my tibia. That was extremely lucky because he was shooting the new and lethal Minié bullet. A direct hit would likely have carried off my leg.
Will looked up, wondering how a man with a broken leg can think himself lucky. He ignored the sounds of traffic rumbling by on Reid Street. Suddenly he heard Bennett scream, “There he is! Stop, stop! It’s him, the McCoy kid! He’s got the letter! There, at the coffee shop.”
Will sprang to his feet to see Bennett on the back of a scooter, pointing at him. The scooter wobbled as the driver fought to keep his balance as Bennett shifted his body this way and that to keep Will in sight. The scooter smacked a truck’s bumper with a thump that made people on the sidewalk jump. The truck driver yelled down from his window as Bennett hopped off.
The scooter driver veered over to the curb, pulled it onto its center stand before swiveling to look at Will. He yanked his black helmet with the red fringe on top off his head. It was Drury, flashing a smile that held no kindness. Will’s jailer glanced at the truck bumper, waved the driver off, and sprinted in Will’s direction.
Will jammed the letter back into his backpack as he sprinted up the stairs and through the blue door, looking for a hiding place.
He burst into a large room full of comfortable seats that didn’t match. A half dozen people sat reading from newspapers, magazines, laptops, and tablets. Will looked up, but saw no place to hide.
He dashed into the room to the right, past two women busy making teas and coffees in a room full of the fragrance of baked pastries.
Will sprang out the back door and clattered down the stairs and across a patio and fled into a room through open double doors on the other side. A woman, surrounded by huge bags of coffee beans piled here and there, poured some into a large coffee bean roaster.
Will ran past her only to discover that the back room on the left was a dead end. He ran back outside to the big galvanized gate on the harbor side but it was locked. He could hear Drury’s footfalls in pursuit.
Will yanked off his blue Windy Farm baseball cap and tossed it through the bars. It helicoptered its way to the galvanized walkway that led down the side of a building and to a lane that sloped away to a harborside road.
Will charged back into the roasting room, hoisted a half-empty jute bag of coffee, plunked it on top of a full one, and crammed himself into the tight corner nook he’d just made, tucking his knees to his chest, hopefully out of Drury’s sight. But he wasn’t out of the woman’s view. She gave him a confused look.
Will jabbed his index finger in the direction of the sound of two people pounding down the stairs in pursuit
, then pressed it to his lips and gave her his most beseeching look. She turned so as not to give his position away.
A second later, Bennett ran into the room.
“Excuse me,” said the woman, wiping her hands on her long, coffee-stained apron. “This area is off limits to customers. Staff only, thank you.”
“Bennett, c’mere,” roared Drury from the patio.
Will scrunched himself forward and peeked through the window’s thin coat of coffee dust. Drury was pointing at Will’s Windy Farm hat lying on the walkway.
“He jumped the fence. I’m going to follow this way. You go back outside and circle around to see if you can spot him. Yell if ya do.”
Bennett turned around and clattered back up the steel stairs into the coffee shop. Drury pulled himself onto the galvanized railing. He yelped as his foot slipped and he almost fell twenty feet to the concrete pad below. He caught the railing and threw his leg over, then dragged himself around, scooping the Windy Farm hat as he dashed down the stairs leading to the alleyway.
The woman had been watching everything in the reflection on the roaster’s stainless steel casing. She turned and waved Will up.
“They’re gone. Take the passageway at the far end of the patio. The door will open to Reid Street. I’d go left, toward the park if I were you,” she said in a conspiratorial tone, nodding her support, having apparently decided that Will was the good guy.
Will let out a sigh of relief, pulled himself up, gave the roaster a wave of thanks, and bolted for the passageway to the street.
The blue door opened onto the same front patio where he’d been sitting a few minutes ago. From his backpack Will pulled Sherman’s old hoodie. Despite the temperature, he slipped it on to hide the blue T-shirt that would give him away.
He moved at a brisk pace past Drury’s scooter but forced himself not to run down Reid Street and draw attention. Will waited for the light to change at the corner. He sidled in front of a slow-moving man with a cane to have a look back — neither of his pursuers was in sight.