THE GHOST SHIP

by Gerrie Ferris Finger

  “If that's the way you want it, and you won't tell me your secret, I'll have to accept it.”

  “Please, Ann, don't pry further.”

  “Do you know what will happen to Benjamin and Bates?”

  “They will die if they don't go along with the mutiny, and it's my guess that they won't. They are men of virtue.”

  She saw those two men of virtue in her mind and fought back tears of tragedy and rising anger, accepting that she could do nothing about their fate. Lawrence's hand closed over hers. She twined her fingers through his, and squeezed. She could endure the most unspeakable events if he were with her. She looked at his fine hands, squeezed again and felt the bones, the sinew.

  At dawn, she heard the makeshift anchor drop, rose from her bed, stood on the three-legged stool that rocked on a shortened leg, and saw a steamer alongside the schooner. Danes off-loaded rum from the Deering onto the steamer. It had a tarp over its name, but the tarp had slipped. The first initial was an H.

  The Danes came into the captain's quarters. She cracked the door between her stateroom and the cabin and watched them throw the captain's belongings haphazardly into a ditty box. The bosun came in, and ordered, “Don't forget the log, and his personal papers. Find the crew list. Pack those instruments.” Next, the Danes lowered the lifeboats into the sea and then threw the ditty boxes into the boats.

  She joined Lawrence up top, midships. He wore a different hat and a coat with epaulets on the shoulders. He looked like Admiral Lord Nelson.

  She said, “Fetching, my Lord. What's the significance?”

  “It's a fore-and-aft chapeau. For formal occasions.”

  “And is this a formal occasion?”

  “It is to be, I fear.

  Fear. She felt it snaking up her spine. She glanced at Lawrence. He stood straight, his jaw distinctively set, and his chin lifted as he gazed into his own thoughts. Whatever they were, no fear showed in the lines of his face. His bravery had an infectious quality. Her trepidation evaporated. His whole body hummed contentment, and he looked at her and touched her cheek with the back of his fingers. He glanced toward the southeast where lowering black clouds raced toward them.

  From below she heard a ruckus, and Lawrence grabbed her and pulled her into a shroud. Kneeling by Lawrence, she saw one Dane bring Bates up through the hatch, and then another bring Benjamin to the deck. The two prisoners were ordered to their knees and to put their hands on the boards. Two shots were fired at once. Bates and Benjamin collapsed. The Danes kicked them until they went overboard. Then they went to the masts and raised the sails.

  Try as she might, Ann couldn't avert her eyes from the slaughter. Then she saw Frederickson at the wheelhouse. He picked up a sledgehammer and crashed it into the binnacle and into the compass and the wheel. Going to the windlass, he weighed the makeshift anchor, and then smashed the chain from it and threw it into the ocean. Tossing the hammer down, he shouted, “She'll run aground on some Hatteras shoal. Abandon ship.” His eyes were wild and his laughter insane as he and the Danes scrambled down the ladder and into the lifeboats.

  Leaning against Lawrence, an arm linked into one of his, she watched the small boats draw alongside the steamer as the Deering drifted away. She said, “They're getting away with this horror, aren't they?”

  Lawrence patted her hand. “Not for all eternity.”

  The mutineers climbed up the steamer's ladder. When the last man scrambled aboard, the steamer's crew raised the lifeboats.

  “Ah,” Lawrence said, “the answer to what happened to the Deering's lifeboats.”

  Joy and fear warred inside her. “You have all your answers now, don't you, Lawrence?”

  “I know what happened to the Deering now, yes.”

  “You wear your chapeau in victory.”

  “I wear my chapeau for you. You must be brave.”

  The schooner picked up speed. Tears spilled from Ann’s eyes. In a matter of moments, the great ship ran before the wind with no one at the helm.

  Ann turned to Lawrence. “We have no anchor.”

  “That is true,” Lawrence said, putting both hands on her shoulders.

  “What's next then?”

  He leaned into her. “You heard the bosun. We're going to wreck on a Hatteras shoal. It will be Diamond Shoal.”

  “How come I already knew that?”

  “We're tough sailors, Ann. We'll make out fine.” He drew her head onto his chest as the storm drafts filled the schooner's proud sails for the last time.

  BOOK TWO

  --

  CHAPTER ONE

  --

  Cape Hatteras Shore

  --

  “Ann?”

  Lawrence's voice seeped into her. Thank the lord. He was nearby. She found herself kicking water, inexorably moving toward the shore. It seemed ages since she spotted land and her foot touched the soft sand beneath the surf. The swells tugged, first pushing her body toward the shore, than pulling her out deeper into the green water at her waist.

  “Give me your hand,” Lawrence called. He was knee-deep in water, extending his arm. Smiling, reaching, she found the strength and propelled her body toward it. She could almost touch his hand. Now, with water barely above her knees, she could move faster. At the roiling surf she paused to pull the hat from her head. She clutched the outstretched hand. “Oh Lawrence, we made it.” She squeezed his hand. “You are right, we are tough sailors.”

  She heard his voice again. “The sea is treacherous, you could have fallen, gone under.”

  She blinked at the man, expecting to see a wet, congratulatory Lawrence, but the man who cocked his head at her wasn't Lawrence. He had dark blue, worried eyes. The last time she'd seen those eyes … She shook her head. It couldn't be him. She searched up and down the shoreline. There was no one on the beach. Only she and … His hand still held hers and was pulling her onto the dry sand. Once there, she gazed at the man with the frown on his face, and asked, “Did you see Lawrence? He was with me.”

  “Lawrence?”

  “Yes, yes, he was with me. He must have come ashore before me.”

  “You were the only one in the water.”

  Her body swayed. She ran her hand through her wet hair and narrowed her eyes at him. Yes, this man was that surly Rod from the bar last night. She should walk away, but he waited, expecting an explanation. “I – I washed up here with a man, his name is Lawrence.” She spun to the sea and pointed. “We ran aground on that shoal.” She shaded her forehead and squinted. She could just make out the shape of a ship in full sail.

  “When did you wash up?” His voice sounded like the rasp of a knife sharpener.

  “Just now. You must have seen Lawrence, too.”

  “I've been on this beach maybe five minutes, about the same as you. You've been standing here by yourself. You looked back once. You must have seen me. And then you ran into the sea.” He looked at her like she was the stupidest thing he'd ever seen. She glanced at her clothes. Touching the lapels of her cape, she found they'd dried already. Her shoes, those sensible brogues she'd put on at Macgregor's inn, were but damp. Her thought went to breakfast at MacGregor's and Rod's glare. That was a very long time ago. Or was it? What had Lawrence said about time? She looked at the shipwreck yards from where she stood with an unsmiling, rude man. When she'd stood by it with Lawrence, it had been half covered with surf, now the surf ebbed into its homing waters.

  Rod said, “I came down here to check turtle nests and saw you heading toward this wreck. I thought I'd apologize for last night and this morning. It's not your fault you said something that hit a nerve.”

  Looking at the bow of the shipwreck, she could only think of Lawrence. “I – okay, but …” She looked at Rod, at his striking face, his sapphire eyes.

  He said, “Did you hear what I said? I came to apologize for last night.”

  She contemplated him for a few seconds longer, hearing his voice, one rich and familiar. “That's very nice of you, but ….” Her thoughts fr
actured. She looked up at the gamboling seagulls – the brown loner amongst the gulls, like she'd seen before the lighthouse drew her attention. She heard her own voice sound faraway. “You see, I've been at sea for months. Only not in my time, in Lawrence's time.”

  His forehead puckered under dark auburn hair, gently tossed by the wind. “What are you talking about?”

  “This morning we saw that a ship had wrecked on Diamond Shoals. The Ghost Ship they called her. Lawrence and I set out to find out who scuttled her.”

  “Scuttled her? Her who?”

  “The Carroll A. Deering.”

  The man reacted as if she'd struck him. “What is this bullshit? “ His body twisted away in disgust.

  Her anger flared to match his. “Don't talk to me that way. I'm sorry if I've said anything that brought up old sores. I didn't mean to.” She took two steps up the beach. “I'm going to find Lawrence.” She started toward the lighthouse, which was not in sight now, but where it had been.

  “Wait,” he commanded. “Lawrence who?”

  Without pausing, she looked toward the museum. “Curator.”

  He caught up with her and clasped her elbow. “What's this all about? Who told you my name? Was it Mrs. MacGregor, or Spence?”

  She jerked her arm away. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m asking, who told you my last name?”

  “I don't know your last name, and furthermore, I don't want to know your last name.”

  “My name is Lawrence Curator.”

  Stunned breathless, she searched his blue eyes. Her bewilderment deepened because there was something about him – but he definitely wasn't Lawrence. “No.”

  He hadn’t even blinked. “What in hell does that mean?”

  “You are not my Lawrence Curator.”

  “Thank God.”

  She looked up the beach where bird shadows fused into playful shapes. “You're playing with my mind. Why? Just because I inadvertently …”

  “Stop it. If you're searching for Lawrence Curator, you've found him.”

  Baffled, worn out, wanting Lawrence, she fought the swell of tears. Spinning away from his intense eyes, she looked for the lighthouse. It still wasn't there. Neither was the Coast Guard station with its turret and old-fashioned wooden desks inside. A glimpse toward the indifferent sea, and she knew that the ship wasn't aground on one of its shoals any longer.

  “What do you want with me?” Rod demanded. “Some stupid question about why we live in hurricane territory when we can be living it up in a highrise in Atlanta?”

  “What?”

  He put his hands in his parka pockets. “You write for a magazine, don't you?”

  “I'm a magazine editor.”

  “You want a quote from me?”

  “I want Lawrence.”

  “I am Lawrence.”

  “Your friend called you Rod. My Lawrence is years older than you are. They called him Commander.”

  His mouth curled with soft malice. “Cut out the bullcrap.”

  “We traveled back in time …”

  The disbelief on his face wrapped around her like a cloak of soot.

  Desperate to be believed, she rattled out, “Don't look at me like that. We investigated what happened to the Deering. We went to Rio. We sailed back to Barbados. The Danes put rum on board. The captain didn't know it. They killed him. They killed the first mate and the cook and the engineer. They boarded a steamer and left Lawrence and me to wreck on the shoal. It was a dreadful crash, but we held each other before we went into the sea.”

  When she'd finished, Rod's tan had faded to some sickly shade of beige, and he seemed to find it difficult to speak. Finally, he breathed out, “Are you deliberately baiting me?”

  “Baiting you? I don't know you. Why would I bait you?”

  “The man you're talking about sounds like my great-grandfather. I am named for him. Lawrence Rodrick Curator. I'm called Rod. My great-grandfather was a commander in the Navy. His ship went down in 1921 while he was investigating what happened to the Carroll A. Deering.”

  Her heart contracted like a knife had slashed into it. “Went down …”

  His blue eyes compressed into midnight circles. “All hands lost.”

  She struggled to keep her balance. “Lawrence? I knew …”

  His voice came at her like a whip. “What's in this for you? Why have you come down here? Are you writing a book? Is that it?”

  Her knees were about to give way. “A book?”

  “The Ghost Ship of Diamond Shoals is one of the great mysteries of the sea. But it's been written about before.” He laughed unkindly. “You want to be the first to write about it in the first person?”

  “It's not a story. It's not for a book. It happened.”

  “I won't let my great-grandfather be used as a prop by a con artist.”

  “I'm not …” A memory. Her hand went for her pocket. It was there – McLellan's scrimshaw knife. She held it out, defiant. “It's McLellan's knife. He threatened Captain Wormell with it in Barbados after Wormell had gotten him out of jail. The captain gave it to Lawrence, who gave it to me. See the initials CM on it?”

  He lifted the piece and turned it over twice. “McLellan was the first mate, but a lot of people have CM for initials. What other little props do you have to wave about to support this crazy story of yours?”

  “It's not a prop. It's not a story. It happened.”

  “It's a load of crap. Go write an historical account of the Deering, and be lucky if you make five grand off it.”

  Shock flowed through her like liquid nitroglycerin. “You're a bully.” Ann, you will not burst into tears like some melodramatic idiot.

  He snorted. “I'm not the one making up tall sea tales. I'm defending my great-grandfather against a charlatan.”

  “I'm not a charlatan.” The very word sparked the fight back into her spirit. “You can bully me all you want. I aim to find the truth about Lawrence Curator.”

  He threw up his hands. “What? He didn't tell you his life's story on the way to Rio?”

  “It’s none of your business.”

  He was like a snake striking again. “He didn't tell you about his death either?”

  “He wasn’t dead.”

  “My great-grandfather would be over a hundred years old. Let's see he was born in 1880. He was forty-one when his ship got caught in a storm. You do the math.”

  She pictured Lawrence, his fine hands, real bones. She raised her chin. “He was alive.”

  “Men in my family are known to be vigorous until they're senile. But, believe me, my great-grandfather hasn't been hiding out in a cove waiting for you to come along and help him solve the mystery of the Carroll A. Deering.”

  She looked up at him, and then felt the familiar presence of Lawrence next to her. His words came to her from a melodious low voice riding across the sea. Yes, my dear, I was.

  She smiled at Rod, then grabbed the scrimshaw knife out of his hand.

  He scowled at the triumph that swelled her breasts and played on her lips.

  He shouted, “You're a mad woman. Go back where you came from – and keep my great-grandfather out of your lies.”

  --

  Ann watched Rod Curator tromp up the dunes and over the road until she could no longer see his dark red hair blowing against the western sky. Seagulls circled and squawked, and, in the blinking of her eyes, sunshine shot through the clouds turning the sky the color of a Peace rose. The sea swells flattened. Mother Nature, it seemed, waved her miraculous wand and calmed the waters. Ann’s heart was not calm, however, and she spoke aloud, “Lawrence? In the convergence of our times, you were alive, weren’t you?” She looked up at the glory of the sky. The pastel day, the undulating green of the sea, made living forever seem possible. Yet, she spoke to the unsettling thoughts of her doubt. Were you a ghost? The answer was a breezy whisper and the raucous cry of sea birds. She took a deep breath of salt air. “No,” she said aloud, remembering the bone and muscle of
his touch. “You most certainly were not a ghost.”

  Sun rays having banished the fog, and with the warming of the morning and the shoreline yards out, beach walkers drew to the shipwreck protruding from the wet sand. Ann couldn't bear watching the curious poke their feet at the precious relic. It's not the Deering, she told herself. But somewhere, someplace in this watery Golgatha, the Deering lay buried.

  Carrying her hat and cape, she walked up the shore for what seemed like miles, stopping to gaze out to sea, to sit on the cape and dream about Rio and Barbados and the beautiful schooner ahull in a gale. She went to the water's edge and scanned the shoals that she couldn't see but knew were there. She imagined Lawrence as he'd looked out to sea and told of shipwrecks. She saw again a small birthmark at his temple. He was real. No doubt about it. Hadn't he told her that time was relative, dimensional?

  She thought of Rod Curator. His face was a lot like Lawrence's, perhaps a younger Lawrence without the beard. Rod's hair and eye color were not the same, but there were a couple of female genes in between son and great grandson.

  She had several more days on this island and it seemed inevitable that she would run into Rod again. If he tried to avoid her, she would hunt him down and confront him. Rod Curator needed to come to grips with his great-grandfather's reality, and that he'd succeeded in his quest to finish his investigation of The Ghost Ship.

  Turning away from the sea, she wandered up the beach, anticipating the shadowy figure of a man – of Lawrence – approaching as he'd done – was it really only this morning?

  Onward. She headed toward the Cape Hatteras lighthouse. Okay, Lawrence, you tapped me for your quest, which you accomplished, so now you can't abandon me in mine, which, not so coincidentally, involves you.

  Striding north, she avoided walking in the water because it spooked her, as if she were walking on someone's grave. Lawrence's grave. “Nonsense,” she said aloud as if talking put the lie to the ghost. “Somewhere in time, he's alive.” Knowing that she was grinning, she looked over to see a woman stare at her then turn to dash into the water. Ann laughed out loud at the idea of the woman's thinking that to escape a madwoman she must run into the sea.