Saving Sindia (Samantha Jamison Mystery Book 10)

by Peggy A. Edelheit

  “And the Sindia wreck itself? What became of it?”

  “It continued to sink deeper and deeper into the sand. After a beach replenishment project by the Army Core of Engineers, the entire hull and the rest of the valuable cargo was buried deep beneath the sand. Before that final project, the tiller post could still be seen protruding from the beach, at least until 1985. Then it, too, disappeared into the sand.”

  “What a story,” I said.

  “After 200,000 miles of voyages, it sailed no more.”

  “Fascinating,” I said.

  “That’s why so many history buffs are drawn to it.”

  “The allure of the mystery that was never solved.”

  Jake glanced about, startled to find that the boardwalk lights were already on. “I didn’t realize we were talking for so long. I guess the time got away from both of us.”

  I didn’t want him to stop talking. I was so curious about what he thought happened to the golden Buddha. I also had more questions regarding Evan and Cindy.

  Was there a Sindia link? Instinct told me yes.

  “You’ve suggested a plausible mystery,” I said.

  Jake just smiled. “A very compelling story that sort of consumes you once you begin telling and hearing it.”

  “There must be numerous parties still interested in those treasures, especially that golden Buddha, am I right?”

  Jake nodded. “Including me. It’s become an obsession with me. I know it’s out there somewhere.”

  I laughed. “Which now happens to include, yours truly, thank you very much.”

  “Good! It’s always better to have one more sleuth on board! I welcome you with open arms. Who knows? You might bring a different perspective to this whole thing.”

  I sat back, marveling at this mystery of the high seas that was literally in my back yard. I never would have contemplated ever being involved in such an historic epic and another tangled web of intrigue: a treasure linked to the cargo ship, Sindia, involving her legacy.

  “I’ll do more research on it and get back to you, okay?”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Jake, sounding glad that I was on board to help him solve this mystery of the sea.

  We said our goodbyes then both of us moved off in different direction to our homes.

  I had a lot to research further on my own.

  Chapter 36

  Making Connections

  When I returned home, the first thing I did was to go online. I lit a small votive candle to keep me company, a calming presence to counter Sindia’s winter storm mystery. I wanted to confirm for myself what Jake had told me. I might learn something more about Sindia’s shipwreck he might have overlooked.

  One site mentioned the Sindia had been the target of several aborted recovery attempts over the years. The latest one was in the 1990’s. Initially, only a third of the ship’s cargo was ever brought ashore. The other two thirds became buried in sand twenty feet under as the hull broke apart from the weight.

  I was disappointed I couldn’t find any more information about the event from the last surviving eyewitness, a crew member, David Jackson, who died in 1970 at the age of 90.

  That could have been a fascinating interview.

  I paused in my reading, my eyes veering back to that last recovery attempt. The name of the company was Sindia Expedition, Inc. Then I thought about a recent name I’d heard personally: P. Edwards Expedition, Inc.

  Could Pete’s interest here possibly be the Sindia?

  Was he lured by all those rumors of the Sindia’s cargo, calculating his odds of finding that golden Buddha himself?

  Might the others I’d met be tied to this shipwreck too?

  Not a corroborated fact, but maybe worth considering.

  But why would they be?

  The rest of the cargo was buried twenty feet under sand and there was no way to get to it now.

  Still, I should revisit that potential detail later.

  Cindy and Evan were a loose thread. At this point, her shark attack and her emotional baggage might be a part of this because there was too much that was left unsaid.

  I was disappointed by not being able to ask Jake about Cindy’s shark incident, because I’d been sidetracked by the Sindia mystery. I would ask him about her, though, the next time we met.

  I considered Andy and his wife, Carla, the woman on the bicycle, and the gardener: all of them loose ends.

  Money had to be a player. It’s always about the money.

  I wouldn’t have considered it until hearing Jake’s story. That might explain why I was approached in the first place and none of these incidents were chance meetings.

  And the common link involved me, my rental, or both.

  And that one likely link: Sindia’s rumored cargo.

  That still led me down a strange there’s-no-way-to-get-to-it path.

  I read on, fascinated by the legends and rumors.

  Some people had speculated Captain MacKenzie was drunk, thus explaining running Sindia aground. An experienced captain never would have allowed that to happen if he weren’t drunk (rumors). Another myth attributed the shipwreck to a curse from the golden Buddha smuggled from Shanghai that was supposedly on board.

  What was the curse? Not one site explained that.

  The Sindia was also supposed to have gold on board (rumor). According to the manifest, the Sindia carried materials and porcelain worth over $1.5 million in 1901 US dollars.

  Today’s value? So much more.

  The last retrieval attempt was in the 1990’s. The salvage company agreed to share with the state of New Jersey in recoveries. And from what I read, it became too dangerous for those divers and was finally abandoned. Soon after, the ship disappeared by sinking further below with two thirds of its valuable and mysterious cargo along with it.

  I turned to another website about the storm that night.

  Because of the shifting sand, all attempts to transport the rest of the valuable cargo of silk, porcelain, fine china, and whatever else to safety were thwarted by the storm. To this day, they remained buried with the ship, Sindia. And because of this, it was considered to be a treasure wreck to this day, sinking deeper over the years.

  I read further. An additional site with more information.

  The Sindia had thousands of yards of canvas sails up when it first wrecked. After the wreck, people had woken in the morning to hear them blowing in the wind.

  I sat back, imagining the Sindia’s haunting last cry, telegraphed by her wind-blown and eventually tattered sails, which, over time, also sank below. Historians and many others were still dedicated to keeping Sindia’s history alive, along with her buried treasures, looking for answers.

  Before I closed down the last site, I read that another historian felt it was all a conspiracy. The plan was to recover the cargo under the cover of night before it was discovered by others. He backed his argument with numerous documents and paperwork that he painstakingly researched. Rockefeller had tugboat crews out there too quickly under cover of dark in the middle of the night in the mid-December in the middle of nowhere in New Jersey.

  Nothing middling about that tidbit. Just added intrigue.

  There was much to consider regarding this shipwreck mystery and why I and my rental were somehow involved.

  There had to be a lesson learned in there somewhere, but for the life of me, I couldn’t think of one at the moment. I was too exhausted, but would probably dream of the death of Sindia, its treasures, rumors, and legends all night long.

  About to close down my computer, I glanced up as a brilliant flash caught my eye.

  Chapter 37

  Another Viewpoint on Dying

  Lightning.

  Through the Palladian window top more bright flashes lit the distant sky. Then came the pitter-patter of rain, tapping the windows and glass sliders. Ignoring the turmoil brewing outside and what I’d just read online, I turned toward my candle: my muse, a calming presence.

  When I am work
ing late at night I usually have only one small light on and work by the glow of my laptop. It keeps me focused on what I’m reading and typing. This time my candle was more of a comforting gesture, a beacon of light keeping me company while I read the demise of the Sindia.

  But I was drowning in information overload, my eyes becoming unfocused, as I stared at that hypnotic flickering flame. Mesmerized, I found it difficult to tear my eyes away as my mind drifted back to a compelling memory that materialized involving flickering candles. I wasn’t sitting, but standing quietly at the foot of a single bed, gripping the knob at the end of a footboard, staring at flames...

  I reached for my journal and pen.

  My Journal

  It was dark in that bedroom. It was my parents’ room. I was very young and not sure what was going on. The depth of the gravity of what I was witnessing had me captivated, rooted in place. What surprised me was being included with the grownups. It had to be important.

  I remember I kept watching the adults in the room to give me guidance regarding this solemn scene. My father lay unmoving in the center of the bed, my mother and doctor on one side and a priest on the other. My mother was gripping her rosary in one hand and my father’s hand in the other, the doctor’s head bowed, while the priest held a black book, praying over my father. Somehow I knew to remain silent in awe of their sadness.

  It was the flickering flames that held me in place. They had been set inside a wooden cross that slid open to reveal the holders for them inside, the same cross that always hung over my parents bed. I always questioned its depth.

  Now I knew.

  It held two candles, a smaller cross, and a small bottle of holy water the priest removed and held. The two candles were set inside the holes to hold them upright, lit, and were now flickering, causing shadows to play across the walls with every movement my mother and the priest made.

  From a small child’s viewpoint this was perplexing. The impact of what I witnessed hadn’t sunk in until I was much older, understood, and was able to grasp death’s import and finally understood my parents wanting and needing me there with all the others.

  Just in case...

  I had witnessed the priest giving my father ‘Last Rites’ called the ‘Viaticum,’ the sacrament of dying. The priest offered the Eucharist (in the form of a wafer) for spiritual nourishment to my father. It began with confession or act of contrition. My father’s lips moving, repeating the apostle’s creed, a prayer. Communion was then offered by the priest, a small particle of the host considered sufficient enough. More prayers were said and my father whispered, “Amen.”

  I was a small child and had no clue as to the depth of what I was witnessing. All I knew was that they wanted me there to see my father in his last few moments in case he died, which they had all expected that night.

  He didn’t die. He defied them all and lived, but he was a changed man after that. My parents had been close before that night, but after that they were almost inseparable.

  Now, I prefer to think they are still holding hands even though they are no longer here. It gives me great comfort in knowing that after all this time, they still have each other.

  Lesson learned from the shipwreck and that deathbed?

  Life can turn on a dime.

  It’s more valuable than you think.

  Yes, far more than any treasure.

  That’s when I realized then how much I missed Clay.

  Chapter 38

  Making Sense Out Of Nonsense

  I woke up still contemplating the Sindia’s demise as I sipped my morning coffee, while rereading my journal and glancing in a southerly direction out at the Atlantic Ocean. Every pounce of those pummeling waves was another nail in Sindia’s coffin, keeping its secrets securely entombed from prying, thieving eyes.

  But Sindia’s secrets were a hypnotic and compelling draw. I clearly understood the determination to retrieve the rest of the cargo by divers, expedition companies, and even the historians. Its potential treasures, wealth, and secrets were powerful magnets of attraction. Because if they were retrieved, it would finally put to rest and settle once and for all those speculative rumors and legends that had been floating around for decades: what the real cargo was.

  If water and I were chummier friends, and I was around back then, I probably would’ve been sorely tempted to give salvage a try to see for myself what was down there. But a tomb was a tomb and the sea was preserving it that way.

  A thought-provoking incident worked its way through with the words water and friends used in the same sentence. It was another event that hadn’t resurfaced in a long time. I reached for my journal and pen once again.

  My Journal

  That summer day was hot. My friend invited several of our friends plus me to hang around her pool to cool off. I would probably be the only one who wouldn’t be swimming even though I wore a bathing suit. None of them had known me when I was younger, and so had no knowledge of my bad ear infection incident, resulting in my aversion to water.

  My friends proved to be terrific swimmers, jumping, diving, and shoving each other into the water, young teens having fun in the scorching heat. Me? I sat on a lounge or dangled my feet waterside, enjoying watching them having fun, while joking around with them.

  We sipped coke, ate chips, while listening to the latest hits playing in the background. After a while they became curious why I wasn’t in the pool swimming with them. At first I was reluctant to admit I didn’t know how to swim. (To tell you the truth, it had been so long since I was in the water, I’d forgotten how to swim in the first place. My mind would probably blank, I’d panic, and drown. Water had become my enemy and I avoided it like the plague.)

  I used the excuse I didn’t want to get my long hair wet. They just shrugged and let it go. After a break with more snacks, refreshments, and music, once again they jumped in for a swim, trying to entice me into the pool to just try it. I politely refused, standing near the edge, while admiring and cheering them on as they jumped off the diving board and into the pool. I was a contented bystander.

  What I didn’t see was one of them sneak up behind and shove me into the deep end, placing me in the center of the pool in ten feet of water. I panicked and began yelling, flailing my arms, sputtering for help, that I couldn’t swim. At first they thought I was just joking because I didn’t want to get my hair wet and laughed. But when I began choking, coughing, and went under, they dove in and pulled me to safety over to the nearest chaise lounge.

  I was quickly wrapped in a towel, while apologies were offered over and over. They were clearly frightened over their prank to wet my hair and what it might have turned into. We were all teenagers, constantly testing and pushing the envelope in becoming independent and sometimes didn’t realize the consequences of our actions. I should have admitted the truth in the first place.

  I accepted their apologies, but the nail in that coffin of ever swimming again in water was permanently closed after that frightening incident. It’s funny how one simple sentence brought back that memory from so long ago...

  When I heard that familiar ring of the foyer doorbell, I closed my journal and got up from the high-top table. I’d given up speculating the odds on who might show up unannounced because I would have lost all bets.

  None of this was jelling, but I felt certain my knowledge of the Sindia and her history would play a major role. How, I wasn’t quite sure yet. I was going purely on instinct. And so far it hadn’t failed me completely on my other mysteries.

  I didn’t bother looking through the shirred curtains, just swung the door wide open after its last insistent ring.

  To say I was surprised at who stood before me would be an understatement. I was beyond all that at this point, or so I thought, which goes to show how my mysteries always caught me off guard when I least expected them to.

  “I came to apologize for my rude and bizarre behavior the other day,” said a contrite and fidgety Cindy, looking down at the floor as she spoke.
<
br />   I quickly rebounded. “There’s no need to apologize. I just wanted to help you, not scare you off like that.”

  She glanced up at those words and gave a hesitant half smile in return. “I realize that now. I’m afraid I wasn’t thinking straight. Evan made me see that afterward.”

  I laughed. “Trust me, my life is filled with just those moments. Won’t you come in?”

  “Well, maybe just for second,” she said, shyly.

  She was acting like a fickle bird, not comfortable with where she had landed, prepared to take flight at any moment. I knew she was trying hard to contain her anxiety by her lips thinning in determination, as her eyes darted around my foyer, right after stepping inside.

  I took another step back to remove any perceived threat.

  “Would you like to come up to the deck for a coffee?”

  “No, I can’t stay long. After talking to both Evan and Jake, I realized I shouldn’t have taken my anger out on you. It was unfair to assume everyone understood my pain.”

  She had said a mouthful, which stopped me cold. Then I realized it must have been hard to come here to apologize.

  “Again, don’t feel guilty over that incident. I just want to be your friend, that’s all. That’s what friends are for, to be there for each other, Cindy.”

  Her head snapped up, displeasure suddenly evident.

  Had that come off as phony and patronizing?

  “Oh, so you know my name!” she spat angrily, turning on a dime. She then stepped back. “I hate that name!”

  I stood there trying to make sense of her words.

  “Excuse me?” I said, totally confused by her behavior.

  “Call me Evan’s other half or anything else you like, but don’t call me that name. I hate it,” she said bitterly.