The Bermuda Shipwreck

by Eric Murphy

  “What I don’t understand,” said Harley, “is why they’re looking for us. They’ve found the wreck, right? So why are they still interested in us? And how are we to prove we’re innocent in all of this?”

  “We keep looking for Wavelength. That way we can prove the boat was used for illegal wreck diving and that we had nothing to do with it,” was Will’s quick reply. He didn’t want to have to explain to Dr. Doan that Bennett wanted his letter back.

  “It’s a big island, full of marinas and places to moor a boat —” said Yeats before Will cut him off.

  “St. George. I have a feeling we’ll find something of interest in St. George.”

  Harley looked to Yeats for a comment. He shrugged. “As good as any place to look next.”

  Right after lunch, Yeats drove Will and Harley to the bus station in Hamilton. He had some business to take care of for the upcoming go-kart races that were scheduled for Sunday. Windy Farm was being paid to provide the bales of straw that would line the street and turns.

  When they turned off the lane from Windy Farm to the road into town, Will spotted two guys sitting on their scooters smoking cigarettes. What caught his eye was the red fringe on the top of their black helmets. Just like the one Drury wore.

  Chapter Twelve

  St. George

  Minié bullet: Invented in 1849 by a French officer called Minié, but Americans called it the “Minie” during its use in the Civil War. Unlike the musket ball, it was conically shaped and its bottom hollowed out. When gunpowder went off, the gasses expanded the bullet’s soft lead underbelly, snugging it to the gun’s barrel and harnessing more lethal force. Used with the new spirals in the barrel, called rifling, it was lethal.

  As the bus sped toward St. George, Will pulled the old letter from his backpack with care and handed it to Harley. “I told you I had followed Bennett to the archives. Well, when he went out to take a call, I grabbed this old letter he had.”

  “You took his letter?”

  “Well, it wasn’t to Bennett or from him. It was from a guy called Papineau Benoit in St. George, Bermuda to his wife Lily in Halifax and dated 1862. That’s during the Civil War,” he added, without telling her that his dream about the shooting and the fight on Penno’s Wharf had made the time reference pretty clear. “And this must be part of the letters they were talking about on Wavelength, remember?”

  “Okay, but why’s he so interested in this letter if they’ve got the wreck?”

  “I’m thinking that whatever they were looking for wasn’t on the wreck. Bennett must think that this letter or the other letters will tell them where it is. Papineau Benoit — P.B., same letters that were on that box we found and I think that box is in this photo.”

  Will showed Harley the old card with Papineau’s black and white photo on it as he leaned on a wooden box adorned with his initials. Will summarized the opening of the letter he had read where Papineau, recovering from the bullet that had broken his leg, had decided to resume command of his blockade-running boat:

  With my leg still in a splint and still limping, I sailed the Almira to Charleston to deliver our cargo of rifled weapons and Minié bullets, which, ironically is the kind of weapon that was used to break my leg. This not the old musket and ball your father and I used to hunt moose.

  At the mention of the Minié bullet, Will produced the one he’d taken from Papineau’s wooden box. He showed her the concave underbelly that flared out from the pressure of the exploding gunpowder and told her that with the new rifling in gun barrels the bullets were more effective. When she frowned, he explained how one could throw a conical football with a spiral farther and with more precision than a basketball or a soccer ball. Harley was athletic enough to understand. They read on.

  During this trip, I insisted we also carry salt with us. The North has captured or destroyed salt works and without it the South can’t butcher any cattle because the meat can’t be preserved, and the leather can’t be tanned for use in boots and belts for uniforms.

  I have seen families scrape salt from pickled meat, allow the brine to evaporate in the sun to harvest a few precious grains of salt. But what can they do, as time is against the South and they can’t wait for the sun to do its work as they would normally do? Soldiers’ limbs are amputated because, without salt to disinfect them, small cuts have become pestilent. There is little that is civil in this Civil War.

  As the bus rounded a corner, they came into view of a cluster of boats moored in a cove. Harley scanned it with the binoculars Yeats had lent them. She shook her head. Wavelength was not in this cove. They turned their attention back to the letter.

  While in Charleston I was shocked to see so many men with missing arms or legs, sometimes both, and frightened or dead eyes. They are in some ways victims of the war I feed with every cargo of weapons and munitions I bring over. Then I had a chance meeting with a barber, a free black called Joseph Rainey. I’d met the man six months ago in Bermuda when he was forced to work on a Confederate blockade runner. Despite being a free black man, he was coerced into digging fortifications around Charleston. He feared that things were about to get worse for him and his wife, Susan. I offered to take them to Bermuda.

  The night before we sailed from Charleston, I snuck them aboard. He passed as our long-serving steward while his wife, Susan, hid among the bales of cotton. When they proceeded to fumigate the bales and poke them through with a sharp rod to catch deserters, I produced Confederate agent John Tory Bourne’s business card and told them they’d have to answer to him if we missed the tide —the best time to make a run through the blockade. They relented and we made off. I’ve done at least one honorable thing during this war.

  We unloaded the Raineys and our cotton in St. George and headed back to Wilmington with a load of uniforms, belts, and boots as well as some of the new rifled cannons that spit death and destruction with such precision.

  We made it to Wilmington and awaited cotton bales to load out. We make all this money while the good people of Wilmington wither from want of basic food that we take for granted. These two warring halves must find a way to be whole again.

  As Harley interrupted their reading to search a new bay with the binoculars, Will watched two scooters pass them. The riders glanced up at the passengers on the bus. Like Drury, both had red tufts undulating from their black helmets. Will brought their focus back to the letter by tapping it where they’d left off.

  We were informed that the owner had sold Almira to the Confederate Navy. We felt abandoned. Then we hit the jackpot.

  I booked return passage on a blockade runner to Bermuda. We snuck past the blockaders on an outgoing tide, in the dead of night and during a storm. We were well clear of the coast when we saw two incoming ships tangle with the Union Navy. One boat was struck by cannon fire. As she drifted in flames, her crew abandoned her to scramble aboard the second boat and dash for the safety of Wilmington.

  As we passed the ship that was on fire, we figured she was salvageable; the storm had already dampened the fire on her deck. The Union Navy boats stopped firing upon her, probably because they hoped to return and claim her as a prize after pursuing the second fleeing boat.

  The six senior crewmembers from the Almira and I decided that we would instead claim her ourselves. The captain wouldn’t risk coming alongside. But he did sell us a longboat and slowed just enough to let us launch her. We rowed to the stricken vessel, put the fire out, and restarted one of the boilers before limping to Bermuda.

  She is a beauty, British built like so many of the newer generation of blockade runners. British textile mills may be suffering from a lack of cotton but their shipyards are working all out.

  Our new vessel is 175 feet in length, has twin boilers, twin Patch screws, telescoping funnels, and two masts that hinge backwards when needed to keep our silhouette off the horizon for as long as possible, especially when approaching the American coast where the North’s navy watches for us. She’s long, sleek, draws but 11 feet fully loa
ded and vents steam underwater to allow her to run silent.

  We have made the necessary repairs here in St. George and await a load from the new Confederate agent Major Walker before making once more for Wilmington. We have gone from hired crew to shared ownership. And, my dear Lily, my partners have agreed to rename her “H.M.S. Lily.”

  Captain. Peters’ steward is clamoring for my letter so I must close. With much affection to you and our son, from your faithful husband, P.B.

  Will looked up from the letter. “P.B. are the initials we found on the box on the wreck. And Drury said it was 175 feet long. I get the feeling that this blockade runner called Lily is the wreck we were forced to dive on.”

  They got off the bus and walked toward the town square past the beautiful St. Peter’s Church, whose long rise of white steps warned you that, beyond faith, you needed conviction and stamina to come to this place of worship. Will bobbed around cars and people, his eyes frantically darting.

  “What are you so jumpy about, Will?” asked Harley with a touch of annoyance.

  “I’m looking for these guys I saw riding scooters. Their helmets are the same as the one Drury was wearing the other day.” But Harley’s dismissive headshake put an end to that explanation.

  They still didn’t know why Drury and Bennett hadn’t found its precious cargo on the wreck and they didn’t know where the other letters were and if they’d yield a clue.

  They ambled down to the harbor, waited for the horse pulling a carriage with tourists to clip-clop past them, the white fringe of tassels on its canvas top undulating with the carriage’s drowsy rocking motion. They crossed over to the Customs Building where they’d first landed to register Wavelength. This time, a big red tug with Pilot painted on its side was moored out front. From there they looked in both directions for Wavelength but saw nothing that even resembled her.

  Will made a point of suggesting they go toward Penno’s Wharf because he remembered that was where, in his dream, Papineau and Joseph had saved the man being beaten up by the Confederate sailors.

  They had no more luck from that vantage point, so they walked back through the square toward St. Peter’s Church. Will heard scooters revving their motors behind him and peeked over his shoulder just as the two riders with the red-crested black helmets came to a stop a block away.

  Desperate to get off the street and not willing to let Harley’s disbelief put them in jeopardy, Will grabbed her hand and yanked her inside the Bermuda National Trust Museum. Two towering chimneys painted white, while the rest of the building was a pale yellow, flanked the open wooden door.

  “What are you doing, Will?” said Harley, shaking her wrist free.

  “Hello and welcome to the Rogues and Runners Civil War Museum,” said the woman behind the counter as she put down her e-reader.

  “Uh, well, you know,” stammered Will to Harley, “I just thought we’d check out the Civil War Museum to see if there’s something here that confirms what we read in Papineau’s letter.” Will spoke in a low tone as he gestured to the Civil War memorabilia on the wall.

  Will looked at paintings of paddle-wheel boats on the walls and asked, “Can you tell me, please, if one of your paintings shows the blockade runner called Almira or Lily?”

  The woman behind the corner scrunched her eyes in thought before waving them over to the paintings in the far corner.

  The canvas she was staring at captured a busy port scene with smaller crafts sailing between a number of steam-powered boats at anchor. Three of them were paddle wheelers; the fourth had the twin funnels of the screw steamer.

  “That one,” she said, pointing to the far paddle wheeler, “is Almira, while this one here is Lily. This watercolor was painted by Edward James. This is him here,” she said, pointing to a figure in the corner of the painting. It was an image of a bearded, frail man with a straw hat, painting at an easel on the wharf — the painter Will had seen in his dream of the fight with Villiers Rougemont.

  “He liked to paint himself into his portraits,” said the guide with a smile that implied that she enjoyed James’s sense of humor.

  “Did he share a residence with a Mr. Allen?” asked Will, remembering that, in his dream, James had said to Mr. Allen that he’d “put the kettle on” when they got back home.

  “Oh, you know, I think he did for a time, what with accommodations being so in demand here during the war. I do know that Mr. Allen hired him to paint the blockade runners and sent the paintings to the US Navy so they could intercept them when they ran to Wilmington or some other southern port. Mr. Allen was an enterprising man. He would make a second copy and sell that painting to the blockade runner’s captain.”

  Will produced the card with Papineau Benoit’s faded, black and white photo. “Can you tell me if this was the Almira’s captain?” he asked, hoping to confirm his findings.

  “Oh, you have a carte de visite,” said the woman, peering at it.

  “A what?” asked Harley.

  “A carte de visite, a calling card. They were quite the rage during the Civil War. All of these men with money in their pockets were able to afford them. As to your question, I don’t have any record of who the Almira’s captains were. I say captains, because boats often had different captains as they retired, were let go, or their boats were sold to different owners who might favor a different captain.”

  “Tell me,” said Will as the woman returned to her position behind the counter, “was there a barber here, called Joseph, during the Civil War?”

  “You’re referring to Joseph Hayne Rainey,” she answered.

  “Did he shave and cut hair nearby?” Will asked.

  “Yes, at the Tucker House, just over there.” She flicked an index finger over her shoulder. “Unfortunately, it’s closed today.”

  “Really?” asked Will with genuine disappointment. “That’s a real shame. We’re doing some research on his time here in Bermuda, after he escaped North Carolina.”

  On the wall, Will saw a black and white photograph of the man Papineau and Joseph Rainey had rescued in his dream. The caption said he was US Consul Charles Maxwell Allen.

  “Mr. Rainey cut Consul Allen’s hair, didn’t he? That’s what our research revealed. That, uh, that is, uh, correct, isn’t it?” Will asked, fishing for more information. “And I believe Mr. Rainey helped save Consul Allen from a beating from some Confederate sailors, is that not right?”

  “Oh, well, I don’t know. It appears your research is a little more detailed than my knowledge. Confederate sailors here attacked him — Consul Allen, I mean — on a couple of occasions. That much we do know.”

  “And I believe his flagpole was cut down. That was on Penno’s Wharf, right?”

  “Well,” she answered, a bit flustered at Will’s knowledge, “nobody’s quite sure where Consul Allen had his office, but, yes, it’s believed it was on Penno’s Wharf. And yes, they did cut down his flagpole. What kind of research are you two doing? You seem quite young to be —”

  “It’s for my cousin Harley, here. She’s going into journalism at Dalhousie University.”

  “Really?” said the woman, smiling.

  “Oh, yes, I am going into journalism. And I love history and thought, you know, a little field research might help, with, uh —”

  “Her admission essay,” said Will, helping Harley out of a jam and ignoring the furious look she was giving him.

  “Well,” began the woman, “my niece is in second year there at Dalhousie University, studying law. I’ll tell you what. It’s quiet right now, so why don’t I put the “back in five minutes” note on the door and let you have a peek inside Tucker House? It’s so nice to see young people taking an interest in Bermudian history,” said the woman, picking up a set of keys and leading them out.

  “How much money would they make? Blockade runners, I mean,” asked Will, curious if that was what Bennett was looking for on the wreck of Lily.

  “Oh, well, every crew member had a different pay grade. The captain c
ould usually earn five thousand dollars a trip. The next best paid was the pilot because if captured, he would not be exchanged or allowed to go free if he was American. The pilot’s knowledge of, say the Cape Fear River made him too important to be released.”

  “And there were a lot of blockade runners doing this?” asked Harley as the woman locked the door behind them.

  “Oh yes, indeed. You see, the South was the fourth largest economy in the world at that time. She had cotton, a commodity everyone wanted. They were surprised the Brits didn’t side with them after hostilities started so they settled for running ships in with everything they needed. Most insisted on being paid in gold.”

  “So a ship that sank before it got to port might be loaded with the gold payment for the crew?” asked Will, giving Harley a knowing look.

  “Yes, I suppose so,” said the guide.

  They walked around the corner, past a plaque that read, Barber’s Alley.

  The woman nodded to the sign, saying, “This was named in honor of Joseph Rainey.” She unlocked the door, punched in the alarm code, and led them down to the right in what looked like the house’s kitchen.

  Coming down the stairs they passed a photo of Joseph Rainey with the same bushy sideburns Will had seen in his dream.

  “Um,” began Will, “he, Mr. Rainey, took reading and writing lessons here, didn’t he?” Will asked, remembering the notebook full of corrections that had lain on the table. He ignored Harley’s look questioning how he knew this.

  “Well, yes, yes, he did. He was a free black man from the Carolinas, but in the South, it was illegal to teach blacks to read or write. Mr. Rainey saw an opportunity here and seized it. Bermuda, like all British colonies, had abolished slavery on August 1, 1834. After the war, he returned to North Carolina and was eventually the first black man elected to the US Congress, his seat being in South Carolina,” said the woman, clasping her hands in front of her.